Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 5

As the grim fastnesses reaching away to the north and east and south in limitless, ice-locked solitude, had wakened to the magic touch of spring, so had the little post at Whale River quickened with life at the advent of June with the spring trade. For weeks, before the return of Marcel, the canoes of the Crees had been coming in daily from winter trapping grounds in far valleys. Around the tepees which dotted the post clearing like mushrooms groups of dark-skinned women, heads wrapped in gaudy shawls, laughed and gossiped, while the shrill voices of romping children filled the air, for the lean moons of the long snows had passed and the soft days returned.

Swart hunters from Lake d’Iberville, half-breed Crees from the Whispering Hills and the Little Whale watershed, belted with colored company sashes, wearing beaded leggings and moccasins, smoked and talked of the trade with wild voyageurs from Lake Bienville, the Lakes of the Winds, and the Starving River headwaters in the caribou barrens. From a hundred unmapped valleys they had journeyed to the bay to trade their fox and lynx, their mink and fisher and marten, for the goods of the company.

Below, along the beach, Huskies from Richmond Gulf and the north coast, from the White Bear and the Sleeping Islands, who had brought ivory of the walrus, pelts of the white fox, seal, and polar bear, and sealskin boots, which only their women possess the art of making waterproof, were camped in low skin tepees, their priceless dogs tied up and under constant guard. But while the camp of the Eskimos was a bedlam of noisy Huskies, the quarters of the Crees in the post clearing, formerly overrun by brawling sled dogs, was now a place of peace. The plague of the previous summer had left the Indians but a scattering of curs.

Carrying his fur pack and outfit to the mission, Marcel sought the trade house. Passing the tepees of the Crees, he was forced to stop and receive the congratulations of the admiring hunters on his safe return from his longue traverse through the land of demons, which had been the gossip of the post since the arrival of Joe and Antoine.

When his partners appeared, to stare in amazement at the man they had announced as dead, Jean made them wince as he gripped their hands.

“Bo’-jo’, Joe! Bo’-jo’, Antoine!” he laughed. “You see de Windigo foun’ Jean Marcel too tough to eat! He ees good fr’en’ to me now.”

“I nevaire t’ink to see you alive at Whale Riviere, Jean Marcel!” cried the delighted Antoine.

“Did you get de dog?” asked the practical Piquet.

“Onlee one leetle pup; de Husky would not trade.”

As he entered the door of the long trade house he was seized by a giant company man.

“By gar! Jean Marcel!” cried Jules Duroc, his swart face lighting with joy as he crushed the wanderer in a bear hug. “We t’ink you sure starve out in de bush! You fin’ de Beeg Salmon headwater? You see de Windigo?”

“Oui, I fin’ de riviere for sure, Jules; but de Windigo he scared of me. I tell heem Jean Marcel ees fr’en’ of Jules Duroc.”

The laughter in the doorway drew the attention of two men descending the ladder from the fur loft.

“Well, as I live, Jean Marcel!” It was Colin Gillies the factor, and he wrung the hand of the son of his old head man until Marcel grimaced with pain.

“We were about giving you up, Jean,” added Angus McCain, the clerk, seizing Jean’s free hand.

“Bonjour, M’sieu Gillies! Bonjour, Angus! Dey say I leeve my bones on de Beeg Salmon; de Husky shoot at me; but—I am here!”

Seated with his three friends, Marcel told of his struggle to reach the Salmon, his meeting with the Eskimos and escape with his dog.

“I’m glad you didn’t kill that pair of Eskimos, Jean, much as they deserved it. It would have made trouble later.”

“Good old Kovik! We won’t forget him,” added McCain.

“No, that we will not,” agreed Gillies. “He thought a lot of your father, Jean.”

“Well,” said Jean proudly, “I weel have good dog team in two year. Dat pup, she ees wort’ all de work an’ trouble to get her.”

“You’re lucky,” said Gillies. “It’s mighty hard on our hunters not to have good dogs.”

The days at the mission with Père Breton and Julie raced by—hours of unalloyed happiness for Jean after ten months in the bush. Not a day passed that did not find him romping with the great puppy who had learned to gaze at her tall master through slant eyes eloquent with love. Each morning when he visited the mission fish nets and his own, the puppy rode in the bow of the canoe. Each afternoon, often accompanied by Julie Breton, they went for a run up the river shore.

When he heard that Kovik had arrived, Jean brought Fleur down to the shore, only to find the family absent from their lodge. To Marcel’s amazement, his puppy at first failed to recognize her brothers, who, yelping madly, rushed her in a mass.

With flattened ears and mane stiffened on neck and back their doughty sister met them halfway. Bowling one over, she shouldered, another to the ground, where she threatened him with a fierce display of teeth. And not until their worried mother, made fast to a stake, had recognized her lost daughter and lured her within reach of her tongue, did the nose of Jean’s puppy reveal to her the identity of her kin. Then there was a mad frolic in which she bullied and roughed her brothers as in the forgotten days.

When Kovik appeared in his umiak with his squat wife and family, there was a general handshaking.

“How you leeve my fr’en’ on de Salmon, Kovik?”

The Husky shook his head soberly.

“Kovik have troub’ wid young men you shoot. Dey say Kovik bad spirit, too. You not hurt?”

“Dey miss me, an’ I drif’ down riviere an’ ambush dem. I could keel dem easy, but it mak’ it bad for you. Here ees tabac for you, an’ tea an’ sugar for de woman. I tell M’sieu Gillies what you do for Jean Marcel.”

When Jean had distributed his gifts, Fleur came trotting up, but, to his delight, refused to allow Kovik to touch her.

“Huh! Dat you’ dog?” chuckled the Husky.

“Oui, she ees my dog, now,” laughed Jean.