Late Spring: 1774 'The High Country',
west of Fort George on Lake Superior.

Dobson Tanner looked up from stirring the kettle at the strangers that had just arrived at the Hudson Bay Company's base camp. The form standing before him in the early morning light looked more wolf than man, especially since he was wearing the head of one for a hat. Ranging close behind him were three likewise creatures; all fierce eyed, grim faced, dressed in furs and bristling with weapons. Dobson glanced at his musket leaning against a tree on the other side of the fire and thought: 'Hell, it might as well be on the far side of the moon!'

"Hey, Cookie, where's boss-man Thompson at?!" the large wolfman demanded. His English was good, but the French accent was still there.

Dobson looked over at young Billy Simms, one of several guards Captain Thompson had posted to protect the camp from 'uninvited guests'. He sighed and turned back to the big man looming over him. "He's around somewhere. Who wants to know?"

The big wolfman bared his teeth and glanced at his pack just behind him. "Hear that, mes amis? Cookie here wants to know who I am?! Shall I tell the ignorant fool?!"

Without waiting for an answer, the large man thumped his massive chest. "I am Gaston Etienne LaBlanc! The biggest, meanest, toughest 'voyageur' in all Canada! I can drink more, fight longer and paddle further than any three men combined! I can also outdance, outsing and outshoot any other sonovabitch alive or dead!"

"Mighty interesting, friend," Dobson said with a grin. "But it seems to me that you forgot a couple of 'out-do's'.

"Qui? And what would they be, mon ami?!" the wolfman demanded.

Dobson's grin widened. "Out-talk and out-brag."

The charged silence stretched out between them as the snow continued to swirl about the camp. Young Billy Simms and several other trappers slowly moved up behind Dobson and suddenly it seemed that there were two packs of wolves glaring at each other across the wind blown fire.

"What's this then?!" a loud voice called out. "Dobson, what the Christ's going on here? Who the hell are these men?!

Dobson kept his eyes on the wolfman. "Not quite sure, Capt'n. Billy here brought them in—sort of. This big fella and me were just getting acquainted."

Captain Malachi Thompson stepped forward. Slightly less than average size, what Thompson lacked in stature he more than made up for with personality, temper and panache! Living in the High Country for over twenty years, he had taken a native wife and partially adopted her people's dress and manner. Until he opened his mouth, most mistook him for a Native.

"So, mister, suppose you tell me who the hell you are and what you bloody well want here in my camp?!"

The big man swathed in wolfskins dug inside a greasy shooting bag and produced an equally greasy letter. "That there is from one o' yer bossmen back in Montreal. It says that me n' my boys are now on the payroll!"

Thompson took the letter and stuffed it down the front of his once-white blanket-coat, to be read later in his tent when he had his glasses and better light. "On the payroll for what? Wolf hunters? 'Cause you sure as shit aint trappers!"

"No, mon ami, we are not! This country is cold enough without standing in an icy stream freezing my balls off setting traps! My friends and I are 'voyageurs'! We bring the supplies poor fools like you need to live through the cold winter! We then rest up, drink a little and then we take your furs back to Montreal, where we find a woman and stay warm and drunk till the spring thaw. Then , mon ami, we start all over again!"

Captain Thompson glanced over at Dobson and young Billy, saw they were both armed, then turned to face the big man dressed in wolfskins. "So, what the hell are you doing here?! Shouldn't you still be warm and drunk back in Montreal?

The big man's face stretched into something that might have been a grin. "Ahhhh, as your Shakespeare once said, 'There's the bloody rub'!"

Thompson's hand went to the large bore pistol thrust into the sash of his blanket coat. "Now just what the hell does that mean?!"

The big man's 'sort of smile' stretched even wider. Dobson, being a man who enjoys books more than brothels, answered the captain's question. "It's a quote from 'Hamlet'. It means 'there's the problem'."

"Then why the hell didn't he say that?!" Thompson growled. "And who the hell is this 'Hamlet' bastard?!"

"He's a character in a play," Dobson said.

"A 'character in a play'?" the captain repeated, his hand now firmly on the butt of his pistol. "Seems to me we got ourselves a real, live 'character' right here! All gussied out in wolfskins with a pack of rabid looking mongrels at his heel! Says he's a 'famous voyageur' but I don't see no goddamned big freight canoe out here in the woods!" The pistol came out of the sash and, though not yet cocked, was still a very tangible menace. The half dozen men behind the wolfman growled under their breath and reached for their own weapons.

"Hold on there just a damned minute!" Dodson said, stepping between the two men with his hands up and empty. "There's no need for hostilities here. Let's look at the damned letter and take things from there!"

Wolfman and the captain continued to glare at each other, but after several tense moments, Thompson saw the wisdom in Dobson's words and handed him the letter.

"Alright Dobson, we'll see what Frenchie here's letter has to say. But your eyes are better n' mine, so read the damn thing out loud! I'll just hold on to my pistol till you're done."

Dobson broke the plain blob of red wax that sealed the letter, opened it and held it up to catch the weak sunlight filtering through the swirling snow.

'To Captain Malachi Thompson:

March 5th, 1774, Montreal

This here letter is to introduce Etienne LaBlanc & his group.

They are experienced voyageurs hired by the HBC to escort this year's shipment of furs back to Montreal. Kindly hand all furs over to them immediately & they will bring them safely back here to Montreal. You can trust LaBlanc for he is a man of his word.

Director General.

Alexander MacTavish

Dobson shrugged and handed the letter back to Thompson, "Seems kind o' strange to me, cap'n, but there it is. Looks like LaBlanc here is tellin' the truth."

"Mais oui, mon ami!" the grinning wolfman beamed."As the letter says, you can trust Etienne LaBlanc! So, captain, if you will tell your men to prepare the furs, my men and I will take them back to our canoe."

"Not so goddamned fast, LaBlanc!", Thompson said, cocking his pistol and pointing it directly at the big man. "I've known the Director General for years and this is not his signature. Also there is no HBC seal on the letter to make it official, so I'm not giving you a bloody thing!"

He then told Dobson and the others to draw their weapons, disarm LaBlanc and his three men and send them on their way. LaBlanc, with Thompson's large bore pistol pointed at his belly, could do little but stand and glare as Dobson and the others did as they were told.

"You are making a big mistake, captain," LaBlanc growled.

"It's you, LaBlanc, that made the mistake," Thompson replied as the weapons were piled up on the ground. "Alex MacTavish and I have been writing each other for years. I know his handwriting when I see it, and that aint it."

LaBlanc shrugged and showed something close to a smile. "Well, captain, it was worth a try, no? It has worked before with others, but you were just too smart for us."

"Sounds like a confession to me, LaBlank," Thompson grinned back. "What do you say, Dobson? Should we hang these bastards and be done with it?!"

"I think you should shoot him, cap'n," Dobson replied. "Then send the others on their way. Let them spread the word not to trifle with the HBC."

Thompson barked out a laugh. "You hear that, LaBlanc? And Dobson here is a real 'educated man'— just like you claim to be. He reads books; knows who the hell Hamlet is. If he says that I should shoot you, I'm inclined to go along with him!"

LaBlanc's fake 'smile' twisted into something less pleasant. "Now that would be a serious mistake, captain."

"Oh?" Thompson inquired. "And why is that?"

"Because, 'mon ami', the dozen men I have hidden in the woods would open fire on you."

Thompson frowned and he raised his pistol and pointed it at LaBlanc's head. "I say you're bluffing— but even if you aren't, you'll still be dead."

The big man suddenly stepped forward and to the right, knocking Thompson's pistol aside with his left hand. The weapon discharged and the ball flew well wide of its intended mark. LaBlanc then pivoted left and slammed his massive right fist into Thompson's left ear, dropping the smaller man like a sack of potatoes.

"Down!" the wolfman then bellowed, dropping to the ground. Two of his three men did the same. The slower third one was caught in the tremendous fusillade that exploded from the trees not fifty feet away.

The noise of the dozen muskets going off in a concentrated volley was deafening. Flames from the muzzles lit up the shadows as smoke and lead balls the size of a thumbnail filled the early morning air.

Along with the slower, third member of LaBlanc's group, Captain Thompson, young Billy Simms and six other HBC men in camp were killed outright. The only survivor was Dobson Hobbs who had been hit high in his left shoulder. Luckily the bullet hadn't broken any bone, but Dobson still could die from loss of blood, infection, exposure—or from the wrath of Etienne LaBlanc, who now rose up before him.

After nudging Thompson's dead body with his boot, LaBlanc turned to the only survivor. "Ah, the man who reads Hamlet! The man that suggested that the captain shoot me as an example to others not to—how did you put it? Ah yes—not to 'trifle' with the HBC. How very poetic." LaBlanc then bent down, drew Dobson's own belt knife and brandished it in front of his face. "Well, you see how quickly the worm turns, eh, Monsieur Shakespeare? Now it is your captain and friends that are dead and you are the only one still alive—for now."

He then moved the knife to Dobson's throat. "Perhaps I will kill you with your own blade ? Or perhaps I will just take an ear? Or an eye? Something to remind you of this in the years to come—if, that is, you don't die here of your wounds."

LaBlanc then stood up and tossed the knife on the ground. "I hope, mon ami, that you do not—for I want you to live. I want you to tell everyone you meet that it does not pay to 'trifle' with Etienne LaBlanc!"

The big man then laughed and turned to greet his fellow voyageurs who were moving through the camp taking whatever caught their eye. "Go on, my brothers! Help yourself to whatever you like! But save the drink for later! We have to load the furs and be off downriver for home. I want to be back in Montreal before the rivers start to freeze!"

Before losing consciousness Dobson Hobbs swore to himself that if he somehow managed to live through this, he would one day meet up again with Etienne LaBlanc—and on that day one of them would most certainly die."