Pierre And His People | Page 4

was wrong, when he
said that the tales "seemed not to be salient." Things that are not
"salient" do not endure. It is twenty years since 'Pierre and His People'
was produced--and it still endures. For this I cannot but be deeply
grateful. In any case, what 'Pierre' did was to open up a field which had
not been opened before, but which other authors have exploited since
with success and distinction. 'Pierre' was the pioneer of the Far North in
fiction; that much may be said; and for the rest, Time is the test, and
Time will have its way with me as with the rest.

NOTE
It is possible that a Note on the country portrayed in these stories may
be in keeping. Until 1870, the Hudson's Bay Company--first granted its
charter by King Charles II--practically ruled that vast region stretching
from the fiftieth parallel of latitude to the Arctic Ocean--a handful of
adventurous men entrenched in forts and posts, yet trading with, and
mostly peacefully conquering, many savage tribes. Once the sole
master of the North, the H. B. C. (as it is familiarly called) is
reverenced by the Indians and half-breeds as much as, if not more than,
the Government established at Ottawa. It has had its forts within the
Arctic Circle; it has successfully exploited a country larger than the
United States. The Red River Valley, the Saskatchewan Valley, and
British Columbia, are now belted by a great railway, and given to the
plough; but in the far north life is much the same as it was a hundred
years ago. There the trapper, clerk, trader, and factor are cast in the

mould of another century, though possessing the acuter energies of this.
The 'voyageur' and 'courier de bois' still exist, though, generally, under
less picturesque names.
The bare story of the hardy and wonderful career of the adventurers
trading in Hudson's Bay,--of whom Prince Rupert was once
chiefest,--and the life of the prairies, may be found in histories and
books of travel; but their romances, the near narratives of individual
lives, have waited the telling. In this book I have tried to feel my way
towards the heart of that life--worthy of being loved by all British men,
for it has given honest graves to gallant fellows of our breeding.
Imperfectly, of course, I have done it; but there is much more to be
told.
When I started Pretty Pierre on his travels, I did not know--nor did he
--how far or wide his adventurers and experiences would run. They
have, however, extended from Quebec in the east to British Columbia
in the west, and from the Cypress Hills in the south to the Coppermine
River in the north. With a less adventurous man we had had fewer
happenings. His faults were not of his race, that is, French and
Indian,--nor were his virtues; they belong to all peoples. But the
expression of these is affected by the country itself. Pierre passes
through this series of stories, connecting them, as he himself connects
two races, and here and there links the past of the Hudson's Bay
Company with more modern life and Canadian energy pushing
northward. Here is something of romance "pure and simple," but also
traditions and character, which are the single property of this austere
but not cheerless heritage of our race.
All of the tales have appeared in magazines and journals--namely, 'The
National Observer', 'Macmillan's', 'The National Review', and 'The
English Illustrated'; and 'The Independent of New York'. By the
courtesy of the proprietors of these I am permitted to republish.
G. P.
HARPENDEN, HERTFORDSHIRE, July, 1892.

BOOK 1.
THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS GOD'S GARRISON A
HAZARD OF THE NORTH

THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS
"He's too ha'sh," said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the creaking
door of the store after a vanishing figure, and turned to the big iron
stove with outstretched hands; hands that were cold both summer and
winter. He was of lean and frigid make.
"Sergeant Fones is too ha'sh," he repeated, as he pulled out the damper
and cleared away the ashes with the iron poker.
Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette smoke into the
air, tilted his chair back, and said: "I do not know what you mean by
'ha'sh,' but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than one devil made
sometime in the North West." He laughed softly.
"That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre," said a voice from
behind a pile of woollen goods and buffalo skins in the centre of the
floor. The owner of the voice then walked to the window. He scratched
some frost from the pane and looked out to where the trooper in
dog-skin coat, gauntlets