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momentum carried it forward, toward the open water. Arthur managed to pull out his knife and severe the leads so the animals were freed, but the sleigh spun ahead, into the black hole. There was no way he would just stand by and watch his valuable cargo sink to the bottom, so he grabbed onto the toboggan. Suddenly he too was spinning, into the frigid water.
    The more he struggled to climb out, the more the ice kept breaking, shards as sharp as glass ripping at his now gloveless hands. He was more indignant than frightened. Surely he was too young to die! God obviously thought so too, because just as Arthur was sinking for the third time, Bibiane Ratt’s sled appeared.
    The half-breed crawled slowly, carefully on his stomach towards the open water, until he was able to grab Arthur by his upper arms and allow him to wiggle his body, stiff from cold, up onto more solid ice.
    “You and I, we surely are a team, Bibi,” Arthur had gasped.
    The near disaster taught them both a lesson – trading the tea kettles and steel traps which the Cree and Chipewayan hungered after for the furs the Indians caught was surely a safer way to make their fortune than trapping themselves. In 1913, Arthur decided to set up as a ‘free agent’, independent of the large companies. He chose Pelican Narrows as his home base because it was an important hub on the fur trading highway, with the Churchill River as its main artery.
    Bibiane had attended an industrial school run by Oblates long enough to learn basic arithmetic and to read and write. And from childhood, he’d trapped with his Cree family so knew the business from the ground up. All skills which Arthur realized would speed success. The half-breed was invited to supervise the construction of the main building, a warehouse, a fish house and Arthur’s lovely home. Bibiane did such an excellent job he was asked to stay on as manager of the Northern Lights Trading Post.
    Arthur knew there would be competition at Pelican Narrows. The Hudson’s Bay Company had been established there for years, but after he met milquetoast Russell Smith, he told Bibiane, “This will be a pushover. I’ll have them out of business in no time.” Except Arthur hadn’t reckoned on Russell’s formidable wife, Florence. He still doesn’t know why, but to this day the Cree, at least the older ones, insist on doing business with her and her alone. Somehow she’s mesmerized them, so that even the bigger advances Arthur offers doesn’t tempt them. He and Bibiane have had to search out trappers in the outlying districts, north of the Churchill River, and this has been a costly pain in the ass.
    Far into the bush they travel, the dog sleds loaded down with goods, visiting one camp after another, bargaining for the best skins. And twice a year, once with sleighs, and once with canoes, the pelts are hauled to the railhead at The Pas in Manitoba. There, the buyers from Montreal, Toronto, New York, St. Louis, Winnipeg gather to outsmart and outbid each other. If there is one thing Arthur is good at, it is haggling – he always gets the best price.
    The fur trade is his main livelihood, but there are lots of other ways to make money – transporting goods to remote communities, prospecting, government jobs – he’d been made a Justice of the Peace five years ago. Most lucrative is the booze which flows from the still Bibiane has set up in a shed in the bush. Who cares if it is illegal to sell alcohol to Indians? They’re human beings after all. Why shouldn’t they indulge now and then like everyone else?
    Arthur puts Pulcinella down on the table. ‘That’s how I could afford you, old chum. And all the other beautiful things in my life.”
    But it’s not all about his swelling bank account. He’s given a lot to this community of Pelican Narrows, not just through cash donations, although he’s pretty generous there. More, it’s his entrepreneurial spirit. He has no doubt that if this place has prospered, it’s