Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 4

That night Marcel camped at the river’s mouth and watched the gray waters of the great bay drown the sinking sun.

Somewhere, far down the bold east coast the Great Whale River emptied into the salt “Big Water” of the Crees. It would take about four days of hard paddling to make it, if the sea was flat and the wind light. But if he were wind-bound, as was likely heading south in the spring, it might take weeks. He had a hundred pounds of cured fish and could wait out the wind, but the thought of Julie, who by this time must have learned from his partners of his mad journey, made Jean anxious to reach the post. He preferred to be welcomed living than mourned as dead.

If only she cared for him as he loved her! Well, she should love him in time, when he had become a voyageur of the company, with a house at the post!

The second day out he was driven ashore under gray cliffs by a southwester and, wind-bound, spent the succeeding three days in overcoming the shyness of the hulking puppy, who, in the gentleness of the new master found swift solace for the loss of her shaggy kinsmen of the Husky camp. Already she had learned that the human hand could caress as well as wield a stick, and for the first time in her short existence was initiated into the mystery and delight of having her ears rubbed and back scratched by this master who did, not kick her out of the way when she sprawled in his path. And because of her beauty, and in memory of Fleur Marcel, the mother he had loved, he named her Fleur.

When the sea flattened out after the blow, Marcel launched his canoe, and, with his dog in the bow continued south, and at last turned in behind a long island paralleling the coast. For two days he traveled down the strait in the lee of this island and knew, when he passed out into open water and saw in the distance the familiar coast of the Whale River mouth, that he had traveled through the mystic Manitounuk—the Eskimos’ “Strait of the Spirit.” The following afternoon off Sable Point he entered the clear water of the Great Whale and once again, after ten months’ absence, saw on the bold shore in the distance, the roofs of Whale River.

There was a lump in his throat as he gazed at the distant fur post. That little settlement, with its log trade house and church of the Oblat Fathers, the last outpost of the great company on the bleak east coast, which for two centuries had defied the grim North, stood for all he held most dear—was home. In the church burial ground inclosed by a slab fence, three spruce crosses marked the graves of his father, mother, and brother. In the mission house, built by Cree converts, lived Julie Breton.

As the young flood swept him upstream he wondered if already he had been counted as lost by his friends at the post—for it was July; and he wondered whether the thoughts of Julie Breton still wandered north to the lad who had disappeared into the Ungava hills on a mad quest.

Nearing the post, he could now see the tepees of the Whale River Crees, dotting the high shores, and below, along the beach, the squat skin lodges of the Huskies, with their fish scaffolds and umiaks. The spring trade was on. Beaching his canoe at the company landing where he was welcomed as one returned from the dead by two post Crees, Marcel, leading his dog by a rawhide thong, sought the mission house.

At his knock the door was opened by a girl with dusky eyes and masses of black hair, who stared in amazement at him.

“Julie!” he cried.

The girl found her voice, while the blood flushed her olive skin.

“Jean Marcel! You have come back!” she exclaimed in French. “But Jean—we had great fear you might not return!” He was holding both her hands but, embarrassed, she did not meet his eager eyes seeking to read her thoughts. “Come in, M’sieu le Voyageur!” and she led him gayly into the mission. “Henri, Père Henri!” she called. “Jean Marcel has returned from the dead!”

“Jean, my son!” replied a deep voice and Père Breton in short order was vigorously embracing him.

“Father, your greeting is somewhat warmer than that of Julie,” laughed the happy youth, as the bearded priest surveyed him at arm’s length.

“Ah, she has spoken much of you, Jean, this spring. You will be the talk of Whale River; the Crees said you could not get through. And you got your dogs? We have only curs here, except those of the Huskies, and they are very dear.”

“The Huskies would not sell their dogs, father. They were bringing them to Whale River.”

Then Marcel, speaking in French as had Julie, sketched briefly to his wondering friends the history of his wanderings. As he finished the story of his escape from the camp with his puppy, Julie Breton’s dark eyes were wet with tears.

“Jean Marcel, why did you take such risks? You might have starved—they might have killed you!”

“I had to have the dogs, Julie. I must save my credit with the company. It was the only way.”

“Let me see your puppy! Where is she?” demanded the girl.

Jean led his friends outside the mission to where he had fastened his dog. The wild puppy shrank from the strangers, the hair bristling on her neck, as Julie impulsively thrust a hand toward the dog’s handsome head.

“Oh, but she is cross!” she exclaimed “What is her name?”

“Fleur.”

“Too nice a name for such an impolite dog!”

Jean stroked Fleur’s head as she crouched against his legs muttering her dislike of strangers. At his caress, her warm tongue sought his hand.

“There,” he said proudly, his white teeth flashing in a grin at Julie, “you see here is one who loves Jean Marcel.”