Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 32

Whale River was astir. Before the trade house groups of Crees critically inspected the dogs of Baptiste Laval, who fretted and yelped, eagerly waiting the “Marche!” which would send them off on the river trail. Inside, the grave-faced Gillies gave big Jules his parting instructions.

“He never started home in that blizzard, Jules; McKenzie wouldn’t allow the missionary to take such a chance. But Jean surely left yesterday morning and with fresh dogs he’ll come through in four days, even with a heavy trail. You ought to meet him this side the cape.”

“Yes, m’sieu. But I t’ink he travel more fas’ dan dat. I see heem to-morrow, maybe.”

“No, he never started that last day of the blow. It would have been suicide. Poor lad! He must have been half crazy, with her on his mind.”

“How ees she dis noon, m’sieu?”

“The fever holds about the same—no worse; but she must be operated on very soon. The poison is extending. If you meet them at the cape you ought to get the doctor here a day ahead of Jean, with his tired dogs.”

Surrounded by the Crees who were wishing them luck on their trip to meet and relay Marcel home, Baptiste had cracked his dog whip for the start when an Indian with arms raised to attract attention was seen running from the shore across the clearing.

“Whoa!” shouted Jules, and Baptiste checked his dogs.

“What does he say?” called Angus McCain. “A dog team downriver? Do you hear that, Gillies?”

“Husky,” replied the factor dryly. “Couldn’t possibly be Marcel!”

“No, he couldn’t have come through that norther,” agreed McCain.

“What’s that he says, Jules?” demanded Gillies.

Jules Duroc, hands and shoulders in motion, was talking excitedly to the Cree who had joined the group by the sled. Turning suddenly, he ran back to the factor.

“Felix say dat a team crawl up de riviere trail lak1 dey ver’ tired. He watch dem long tam.”

“That’s queer. But it’s some Husky—can’t be Marcel. Why, good Lord, man! He hasn’t been away six days.”

Angus disappeared, to return with an old brass-bound telescope and hurried to the river shore with Jules, followed by the scoffing Gillies. To the naked eye, a black spot was discernible on the river ice.

“There are two men following a team,” announced Angus, the glass at his eye. “They’re barely moving. Now they’ve stopped; the dogs must be played out. The driver’s trying to get them up! Now he’s got them going!”

Gillies took the telescope and looked for a long space. Suddenly to those who watched him, waiting for his report, his hand visibly shook. Turning to Jules, he bellowed:

“Jules, you travel like all hell for that dog team! God only knows how they got here alive, but there’s only one lead dog on this coast that reaches to a man’s middle. That team crawling in out there is Jean Marcel’s—God bless him!—and he’s got his man!”

With a roar Jules leaped on the sled and lashed the team headlong down the cliff trail to the ice and they madly raced downriver under the spur of the rawhide goad.

“Run to the mission, some one, and tell Père Breton that Jean Marcel is back!” continued Gillies. At the words, willing feet started with the message.

The eyes of Colin Gillies were blurred as he watched through the glass the slow approach of those who had but lately fought free from the maw of the pitiless snows. Now he could recognize the massive lead dog, limping at a slow walk, her great head down. Behind her swayed the crippled whelps of the wolf, tails brushing the ice, tongues lolling as they swung their lowered heads from side to side, battling through the last mile on stiffened legs, giving their last ounce at the call of their gaunt master who reeled behind them. Far in the rear a tall figure barely moved along the trail.

At the yelp of Jules’ approaching team the dogs of Marcel pricked drooping ears. Stopping them, Jean waited for Hunter.

“Dey sen’ team. It ees ovair, m’sieu! We mak’ Whale Riviere from Fort George in t’ree day and half, but she—she may not be dere.”

Too tired to speak, Hunter slumped on the sled. With a yell, Jules reached Marcel and gathered him into his arms.

“By gar, Jean! You crazee fool; you stop for noding! Tiens! I damn glad to see you, Jean Marcel!”

The fearful Marcel gasped out the question. “Julie! Ees she dere? Does she leeve?”

“Yes, my fr’en’, she ees alive. You save her life.”

Staggering to his lead dog the overjoyed man threw himself beside her on the trail where she sprawled panting.

“We ’ave save her,” he cried. “Julie—has waited for Jean and Fleur.”

Taking the missionary on his sled, Jules tried to force Marcel to ride as well, but the voyageur threw him off.

“No, no!” he cried. “We weel feenish on our feet—Fleur, de wolf, and Jean Marcel.”

So back to the post Jules raced with Hunter. A cheering mob of Indians met dogs and master on the river ice and carried Marcel, protesting, up the cliff trail, where Gillies and Angus were waiting.

“I reach Fort George de night of second day, but de drif’ and wind at de cape” He was checked by a hug from the blubbering McCain as Colin Gillies, with eyes suspiciously moist, welcomed him home.

“You’ve saved her, Jean,” said the factor; “now you must sleep.” With hands raised in wonder he turned to the group. “Shades of André Marcel! Two days to Fort George! It will never be done again.” Then they took the swaying Marcel—asleep on his feet—and his dogs, away to a long, warm rest.

But the Crees sat late that night smoking much company plug as they shook their heads over the feat of the son of André Marcel, who feared neither Windigo nor blizzard. And later the tale traveled down to the southern posts and out to Fort Churchill on the west coast, and from there on to the Great Slave and the Peace, of how the mad Marcel had driven his flying wolves one hundred and fifty miles in two sleeps, and returned without rest in three, in the teeth of a Hudson Bay norther.

And hearing it, old runners of the trails shook their heads in disbelief, saying it was not in dogs or men to do such a thing. They did not know the love and despair in the heart of Jean Marcel which spurred him to his goal, and they did not fathom the blind devotion of his great lead dog, who, with her matchless endurance and that of her sons, had made it possible.