Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 30

One hundred and fifty miles down the wind-harassed east coast, was a man who could save Julie Breton, and the mind of Marcel held that one thought only as his dogs loped down the river trail to the bay.

Dark though it was, for the stars were veiled, Fleur never faltered, keeping the trail by instinct and the feel of her feet.

Reaching the bay the trail swung south, skirting the beach, often cutting inland to avoid circling long points and shoulders of shore. Marcel was too dogwise to push his huskies as they swung south on the sea ice, for no sled dogs work well after eating.

As the late moon slowly lifted, he shook his head, for it was a moon of snow. If only the weather held until he could bring his man from Fort George! That he could average fifty miles a day going and coming, with the light sled, he was confident. He knew what hearts beat in those shaggy breasts in front and what stamina never yet put to the supreme test lay in their massive frames. He knew that Fleur would set her sons a pace, at the call of Jean Marcel, that would eat the frozen miles to Fort George, as they had never before slid past a dog runner. But once a December norther struck down upon them on their return, burying the trail in drift, with its shotlike drive in the teeth of man and dogs, it would kill their speed, as a cliff stops wind. And then, what would become of Julie Breton—waiting helpless through the long days for his return?

He had intended to camp for a few hours later in the night, to rest his dogs, but the warning of the ringed moon flicked him with fear, as a whiplash stings a lagging husky. It meant, in December, snow and wind. He must race that wind to the lee of Big Island, so he pushed on through the night over the frozen shell of the bay, stopping only once to boil tea and rest his ever-willing dogs.

As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskies with ice-hung lips and chops swung in from the trail skirting the lee shore of Big Island, and their driver in belted caribou capote, a rim of hoar frost from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire from cedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican and, feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constant toil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind.

At noon he shook off the sleep which weighted his limbs, forced himself from his blankets, ate and pushed on. Although the air smelled of snow, and in the north brooding, low-banked clouds hugged the bay, snow and wind still held off. In early afternoon, as the sun buried itself in the ice fields, muffled rays lit the bald shoulders of the distant Cape of the Four Winds, seventy miles from his goal.

“Haw, Fleur!” he called, and the lead dog swung inland to the left, on the short cut across the cape.

As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With their superb vitality and staying power, they had traveled steadily through the night. Led by their tireless mother, each hour they had put five miles of snowy trail behind them. With the weather steady, Marcel had no doubt of when he would get back to Whale River, for the weight of an extra man on the sled would be little felt on a hard trail, and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snow and wind hanging over him, he traveled with a heavy heart.

On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icy trail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that a December blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike down upon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night. Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by the iron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood of timber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel to push on and on, responded with all her matchless endurance.

At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, he thought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas, indeed, for Jean Marcel. Then he slept.

The afternoon of Christmas Day, as they passed Wastikun, the Isle of Graves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on the dog team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel, knowing what miles of drifts, what toil in breaking the trail to give footing to his team in the soft snow, and what days of battling the drive of the wind, awaited their return, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might now reach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had not waited, but overweary, had gone out into the sunset.

In the early evening, forty-eight hours from Whale River, one hundred and fifty miles up the coast, four white wraiths of huskies with a ghostlike driver, turned in to the trade house at Fort George. The spent dogs lay down, dropping their frosted masks in the snow, the froth from their mouths rimming their lips with ice.

Sheeted in white from hood to moccasins, the voyageur entered the trade house in a swirl of snow and called for the factor. A bearded man engaged in conversation with another white man, behind the trade counter, rose at Jean’s entrance.

“I am from Whale Riviere, m’sieu. My name ees Jean Marcel. Here ees a lettair from M’sieu Gillies.” Marcel handed an oilskin envelope to McKenzie, the factor, who surveyed with curiosity the ice-crusted stranger with haggard eyes who came to Fort George on Christmas night.

At the mention of Whale River, the man who had been in conversation with McKenzie behind the counter also rose to his feet. And Marcel, who had not seen his face, now recognized him. It was Inspector Wallace.

“Too bad! Too bad!” muttered the factor, reading the note, “and we’re in for a December blizzard.”

“What is it, McKenzie?” demanded Wallace, coming from behind the counter and reaching for Gillies’ note.

The narrowed eyes of Marcel watched the face of Wallace contract with pain as he read of the peril of the woman he loved.

“Tell me what you know, Marcel!” Wallace demanded brokenly.

Jean briefly explained Julie’s desperate condition.

“When did you leave Whale River?”

“Two day ago.”

“What,” cried McKenzie, “you came through in two days from Whale River? Lord, man! I never heard of such traveling. Your dogs must be marvels! ”

“I came in two day, m’sieu,” repeated Marcel, “because she weel not leeve many day onless she have help.”

“Why, man, I can’t believe it. It’s never been done. When did you sleep?” The factor called to a company Indian who entered the room, “Albert, take care of his dogs and feed them.”

“Dey are wild, m’sieu. I weel go wid heem.”

Marcel started to go out with the Indian, for his huskies sorely needed attention, then stopped to stare in wonder at Wallace, who had slumped into a chair, head in hands. For a moment the hunter looked at the inert inspector; then his lip curled, his frost-blackened face reflecting his scorn.

“W’ere ees dees missionary, m’sieu?” he said. “We mus’ start in a few hour, w’en my dogs have rest.”

“What! Start in the teeth of this? Listen to it!”

The pounding of wind and shotlike snow on the trade-house windows steadily increased in fury.

The muscles of Marcel’s face stiffened into stone as he grimly insisted:

“We mus’ start to-night!”

“You are crazy, man; you need sleep,” protested McKenzie. “I know it’s a life-and-death matter. But you wouldn’t help that girl at Whale River, by losing the trail to-night and freezing. I’ll see Hunter at once, but I can’t allow him to go to his death. If the blow eases by morning; he can start.”

Marcel turned, waiting for Wallace, who was nervously pacing the floor, to speak. Then, with a shrug, he said:

“M’sieu Wallace weel wish to start tonight? I have de bes’ lead dog on dees coast. She weel not lose de trail.”

“What do you mean—Monsieur Wallace?” blurted the factor. Wallace raised a face on which agony and indecision were plainly written. But it was Jean Marcel who answered, with all the scorn of his tortured heart.

“She ees de fiancée—of M’sieu Wallace.”

“Oh, I—I didn’t—understand!” stumbled the embarrassed McKenzie, reddening to his eyes. “But—I can’t advise you to start to-night, Mr. Wallace.”

The factor went to the door. As he lifted the heavy latch the power of the wind, in spite of his bulk, hurled him backward. The door crashed against the log wall, while the room was filled with driving snow.

“You see what it’s like, Wallace! No dog team would have a chance on this coast to-night—not a chance.”

“Yes,” agreed Wallace, avoiding Marcel’s eyes. Then he went on, “You understand, McKenzie, I’m knocked clean off my feet by this news. But—we’ll want to start by morning at least—sooner, if the dogs are rested—that is, of course, if it’s possible.”

Deliberately ignoring the man who had thus bared his soul, Marcel drew the factor to one side.

“Mon Dieu, m’sieu!” he pleaded in low tones. “She weel not leeve. Onless we start at once, we shall be too late. Tak’ me to de doctor.”

The agonized face of the hunter softened McKenzie.

“Well, all right, if Hunter will go and Mr. Wallace insists. But it’s madness. I’ll go over to the mission now and talk to the doctor.”

When Jean had seen to the feeding of his tired dogs whom he left asleep in a shack, he hurried through the driving snow with the company Indian to the Protestant mission house where he found McKenzie alone with the missionary. As he entered the lighted room, the Reverend Hunter, a tall, athletic-looking man of thirty, welcomed him, bidding him remove his capote and moccasins and thaw out at the hot box stove.

“Mr. McKenzie has shown me Gillies’ message, Marcel. Now tell me all you know about the case,” said the missionary.

Briefly Marcel described the condition of Julie Breton—Gillies’ crude attempt at surgery; the advance toward the shoulder of the swelling and inflammation, with the increasing fever.

“M’sieu,” he cried in desperation when he had finished, “I have at Whale River credit for t’ree t’ousand dollar. It ees all”

Hunter’s lifted hand checked him.

“Marcel, first I am a preacher of the Gospel; also, I am a doctor of medicine. I came into the North to minister to the bodies as well as to the souls of its people. Don’t speak of money. This case demands that we start at once. Have you good dogs?”

Troubled and mystified by the attitude of Wallace, McKenzie broke in, “He’s surely got the best dogs on this coast—made a record trip down. But, Mr. Hunter, I’ll not agree to your starting in this hell outside. You must wait until daylight. The inspector has decided that it would be impossible to keep the trail.”

“I came here to aid those in extremis,” replied the missionary. “I’ll take the risk. It’s a matter of days and we may be too late as it is.”

“T’anks, m’sieu! Her brother, Père Breton, weel not forget your kindness; and I—I weel nevair forget.” The eyes of Marcel glowed with gratitude.

“Then it’s understood that you start at daylight, if the wind won’t blow you off the ice. I’ll see you then.” And McKenzie, looking hard at Marcel and Hunter, went out.

When the factor had closed the door Jean turned to Doctor Hunter.

“Thees man who marries her in June ees afraid to go. Weel Mr. Hunter start wid me—at midnight?”

The big missionary gripped Marcel’s hand as he said with a smile, “I didn’t promise McKenzie I would not go. At midnight, then.”