CHAPTER VI 



OUT WITH SOUSI BEAULIEU 



It's a fine thing to get started, however late in the day, 

 and though it was 3.20 p. m. before everything was 

 ready, we gladly set out — Sousi, Major Jarvis, and my- 

 self — all mounted, the native leading a pack-horse with 

 provisions. 



And now we had a chance to study our guide. A 

 man's real history begins, of course, about twenty 

 years before he is born. In the middle of the last 

 century was a notorious old ruffian named Beaulieu. 

 Montreal was too slow for him, so he invaded the 

 north-west with a chosen crew of congenial spirits. 

 His history can be got from any old resident of the 

 north-west. I should not like to write it as it was 

 told to me. 



His alleged offspring are everywhere in the country, 

 and most travellers on their return from this region, 

 sound a note of warning: "Look out for every one of 

 the name of Beaulieu. They are a queer lot." And now 

 we had committed ourselves and our fortunes into the 

 hands of Beaulieu's second or twenty-second son — I 

 could not make sure which. He is a typical half-breed, 

 of medium height, thin, swarthy, and very active, 

 although he must be far past 60. Just how far is not 



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