Breed of the Wolf

Front matter

By George Marsh

Supporting the sobbing girl, Pere Breton ordered: "Carry him to the Mission Jules."

(Frontispiece of the book, "The Whelps of the Wolf." By Frank E. Schoonover)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

THE solitudes of the east coast had shaken off the grip of the long snows. A thousand streams and rivers choked with snow water from bleak Ungava hills plunged and foamed and raced into the west, seeking the salt Hudson Bay, the “Big Water” of the Crees. In the lakes the honeycombed ice was daily fading under the strengthening sun. Already, here and there the buds of the willows reddened the river shores, while the southern slopes of sun-warmed ridges were softening with the pale green of the young leaves of birch and poplar. Long since the armies of the snowy geese had passed, bound for far arctic islands; while marshes and muskegs were vocal with the raucous clamor of the nesting gray goose.

And one day, with the spring, there returned Jean Marcel from his camp on the Ghost River, the northernmost tributary of the Great Whale—returned to the bald ridge where in March he had seen the sun glitter on a broad expanse of level snow unbroken by trees in the hills to the north. His eyes had not deceived him. The lake was there.

From his commanding position on the bare brow of the isolated mountain, he looked out on a wilderness of timbered valleys and high barrens which rolled away endlessly into the north. Among these lay a large body of water partly free of ice. Into the northeast he could trace the divide—even make out where a small feeder of the Ghost headed on the height of land. And he now knew that he looked upon the dread valleys of the forbidden country of the Crees—the demon-haunted solitudes of the land of the “Windigo,” whose dim, blue hills guarded a region of mystery and terror—a wilderness, peopled in the tales of the medicine man with giant eaters of human flesh and spirits of evil. For generations it had been taboo to the hunters of Whale River.

There was no doubt of it. The large lake he saw was a headwater of the Big Salmon River, the southern sources of which tradition placed in the Bad Lands north of the Ghost. Once his canoe floated in this lake, he could work into the main river and find the Eskimos on the coast.

“So!” muttered the Frenchman, “I go!”

Two days later, back in camp on the Ghost, Marcel announced to his partners, Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, his intention of returning to the bay by the Big Salmon.

“W’at you say, Jean? You go home tru de Windigo countree?” cried Piquet, his swart face blanched by the fear which the very mention of the forbidden land aroused, while Antoine, speechless, stared wide-eyed at Marcel.

“Oui, nord of de divide, I see beeg lak’. It ees Salmon water for sure. I portage cano’ to dat lak’ an’ reach de coast by de riviere. You go wid me an’ get some dog?” Marcel smiled coolly into the sober faces of his friends.

“Are you crazee, Jean Marcel?” protested Antoine. “De spirit have run de game an’ feesh away. De Windigo eat you before you fin’ de Salmon Riviere, an’ eef he not get you first, you starve.”

“Ver’ well, you go back by de Whale; I go by Salmon an’ meet de Husky. I nevaire hunt anoder long snow widout dogs.”

“Ah-hah! Dat ees good joke! You weel nevaire see de Husky,” broke in Piquet. “W’en Matchi-Manitou ees tru wid you, de raven an’ wolf peek your bones, w’ile Antoine an’ Joe dance at de spreeng trade wid de Cree girl.”

Ignoring the dire prediction, Marcel continued: “Good dog are all gone from de maladie, at Whale Riviere Post. De Husky have plenty dog. I meet dem on de coast before dey reach Whale Riviere an’ dey want too much fur for dem. Maybe I starve; maybe I drown in de strong water; maybe de Windigo get me; but I go”

And he did.

With a shrug of contempt for the tales of the medicine men, Marcel started the following day.

“Bo’-jo’, Antoine!” he said, as he gripped his friend’s hand. “I meet you at Whale Riviere.”

The face of Beaulieu only too patently reflected his thoughts as he shook his head.

“Bo’-jo’, Jean, I nevaire see you again.”

“You are dead man, Jean,” added Piquet. “We tell Julie Breton dat your bones lie up dere.” And the half-breed pointed north to the dim, blue hills of dread.

So with fur pack and outfit, and as much smoked caribou as he dared carry, Marcel poled his canoe up the Ghost, later to portage across the divide into the trailless land where, in the memory of living man, the feet of no hunter of the Hudson’s Bay Company had strayed.

It was a reckless venture—this attempt to reach the bay through an unknown country. The demons of the Cree conjurers he did not fear, for his father and his mother’s father, who had journeyed, starved, and feasted in trailless lands, from Labrador to the great Barren Grounds, had never seen one or heard the wailing of the Windigo in the night. What he did fear was the possibility of weeks of wandering in his search for the main stream, lost in a labyrinth of headwater lakes where game might be scarce and fish difficult to net. His smoked meat would take him but a short way. Then his rifle and net would have to see him through.

But the risk was worth taking. If he could reach the Eskimos on their spring journey south to the post, before they learned of the scarcity of dogs at Whale River, he could obtain huskies at a fair trade in fur. And a dog team was his heart’s desire.

Portaging over the divide to the large lake, Marcel followed its winding outlet into the northwest. There were days when, baffled by a maze of water routes in a network of lakes, he despaired of finding the main stream. There were nights when he lay supperless by his fire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the Oblat missionary at Whale River—nights when the forebodings of his partners returned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of the forest, or there drifted across the valleys low wailing sobs like the grieving of a Cree mother for her dead child.

But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old “runners of the woods.” His parents, victims of the influenza which had swept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of a dauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly as the mating wolverene and the lynx turned the night into what would have been a thing of horror to the superstitious breeds.

When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found the main stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Eskimos. Two hundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June day rounded the bend above a long white water. He ran the rapids, rode the “boilers” at the foot of the last pitch, and shot into deep water again. But as he swung inshore to rid the craft of the slop picked up in the churning “strong water” behind him, Marcel’s eyes widened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His last rapids had been run. He had reached his goal. On the shore stood the squat skin lodges of an Eskimo camp, and moving about on the beach, he saw the shaggy objects of his quest.

The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in their lair took on a smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade at Whale River—and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, a pair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the general chorus when the dogs pointed their noses at the new moon.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

In his joy at his good luck, Marcel had momentarily forgotten the ancient feud between the Eskimo and the Cree. Then he realized his position. These rapids of the Salmon were an age-old fishing ground of the Husky. No birch bark had ever run the broken waters behind him—no Indian hunted so far north. If among these people there were any who traded at Whale River where Cree and Eskimo met in amity, they would recognize the son of the old Hudson’s Bay Company head man, André Marcel, and welcome him. But should they chance to be wild Huskies who did not come south to the post, they would mistake him for a Cree and, resenting his entering their territory, attack him.

Drawing his loaded rifle from its skin case, he placed it at his feet and poled his canoe slowly toward the shore where a bedlam of howls from the dogs signaled his approach. The clamor quickly emptied the lodges scattered along the beach. A group of Huskies now watched the progress of the strange craft, every man armed with rifle or seal spear. The canoe was so close that only by a miracle could Marcel hope to escape down stream if they started shooting.

The Frenchman snubbed his boat, leaning on his pole while his anxious eyes searched for a familiar figure in the skin-clad throng which talked and gesticulated excitedly. But among them he found no friendly face.

“Kekway!” he called. “I am white man from Whale Riviere!”

His muscles tensely set, he watched for a hostile movement from the Huskies silenced by his shout. No answer was returned from the shore. His hopes died. They were wild Eskimos and would show no mercy to the supposed Cree invader of their hereditary fishing ground.

Yet the hostility which the Frenchman awaited was delayed. Not a gun in the whispering throng on the beach was raised; not a word in Eskimo addressed the stranger. Mystified, Marcel called again, this time in post Husky:

“I am a white man, from the fort at Whale River. Is there one among you who trades there?”

The tension of the sullen group seemed to relax. Pointing to a thickset figure striding up the beach, a Husky shouted:

“There is one who goes to Whale River!”

Marcel expelled the air from his lungs with relief. One wrong move, and a hail of lead would have emptied his canoe. Then to his joy he recognized the man who approached.

“Kovik!” he shouted. “It ees Jean Marcel from Whale Riviere!”

The Husky waved his hand to Marcel, then turned to his comrades. For a space there was much talk and shaking of heads; then he called to Jean to come ashore.

Grounding his canoe, Marcel gripped the hand of the grinning Kovik while the other Huskies fell back, eying them with mingled curiosity and fear.

“Husky say you bad spirit. Kovik say you are son of little chief at Whale River. W’ere you come?”

It was clear, now, why the Eskimos had not wiped him out. They had thought him a demon, for Eskimo tradition, as well as Cree, made the upper Salmon the abode of evil spirits.

“I look for huntin’ ground, on de head of riviere,” said Jean.

“Good dat Kovik come,” returned the Eskimo. “Some say shoot you; some say you eat de bullet an’ de Husky.”

Jean laughed: “No, I camp wid no Windigo up riviere; but I starve.”

At this gentle hint, Marcel was invited to join in the supper of boiled seal and goose which was waiting at the tepee. When Kovik had prevailed upon some of the older Eskimos to forget their fears and shake hands with the man who had appeared from the land of spirits, Jean stowed his outfit on the cache of the Husky, freed his canoe of water and, placing it beside his packs, joined the family party. Shaking hands in turn with Kovik’s grinning wife and children, who remembered him at Whale River, Marcel hungrily attacked the kettle, into which each dipped fingers and cup indiscriminately. Finishing, he passed a plug of company niggerhead to his hosts and lit his own pipe.

“W’ere you’ woman?” abruptly inquired the thickset mother of many.

“No woman,” replied Marcel, thinking of three spruce crosses in the mission cemetery at Whale River.

“No woman, you? No huskee?” pressed the curious wife of Kovik.

“No famile.” And Jean told of the deaths of parents and younger brother, from the plague of the summer before. But he failed to mention the fact that most of the dogs at the post had been wiped out at the same time.

“He good man—Marcel! He fr’en’ of me!” lamented Kovik. Sucking his pipe, he gravely nodded again and again. Surely, he intimated, the Hudson’s Bay Company had displeased the spirits of evil, to have been so punished. Then he asked: “W’ere you dog?”

“On Whale Riviere,” returned Jean grimly—referring to their bones.

His eyes were on the great dogs sprawled about the beach. He had seen no such sled dogs as these at the post, not even with the Eskimos. But his grave face betrayed no sign of what was in his mind.

Massive of bone and frame, with coats unusually heavy, even for the far-famed Ungava breed, Jean noted the strength and size of these magnificent beasts as a horse man marks the points of a blooded colt. Somewhat apart from the other dogs of Kovik, tumbling and roughing each other, frolicked four clumsy puppies, while the mother, a great slate-gray and white animal, lay near, watching her progeny through eyes whose lower lids, edged with red, marked the wolf strain. While those slant eyes kept restless guard, to molest one of her leggy, yelping imps of Satan would have been the bearding of a hundred furies.

One puppy, in particular, Marcel noticed as they romped and roughed each other on the shore, or with a brave show of valor, noisily charged their recumbent mother, only to be sent about their business with the mild reprimand of a nip from her long fangs. Larger, and of sturdier build than her brothers, this puppy, in marking, was the counterpart of the mother, having the same slate-gray patches on head and back and wearing white socks. As he watched her bully her brothers, Jean resolved to buy that four-months-old puppy.

As the Northern twilight filled the river valley, the Huskies returned to the lodge, where Jean squeezed in between the younger members of the family whose characteristic aroma held sleep from him long enough for him to decide on a plan of action. Before he started to trade for huskies he must learn if the Eskimos knew that dogs were scarce at the fur posts. If rumor of this, relayed up the coast, had reached them, he would be lucky to get even a puppy. They would send their spare dogs to the posts.

The following morning, at the suggestion of Kovik, Marcel set his gill net for whitefish on the opposite shore of the wide river, as the younger Eskimos showed unmistakably by their actions that his presence at the salmon fishing, soon to begin, was resented. But Jean needed food for his journey down the coast and for the dogs he hoped to buy, so ignored the dark looks cast at him. But not until evening did he casually suggest to Kovik that he, Kovik, had more dogs than he could feed through the summer. The broad face of Kovik widened in a mysterious smile.

“You geeve black fox for dog?” he asked.

Marcel’s hopes fell at the words. It was an unheard-of price for a dog. The Husky knew of the scarcity. But masking his chagrin, the Frenchman laughed in ridicule:

“I geeve otter for dog.”

Kovik shook his head, his narrowed eyes wrinkling in amusement: “No dogs at Whale Riv’—or Fort Geor’. Me trade dogs at Whale Riv’.”

It was useless to bargain further. The Husky knew the value of his dogs at the posts, and Jean could not afford to rob his fur pack to get one. There was much that he needed at Whale River. And then there was Julie. It was necessary to increase his credit with the company to pay for the home he would some day build for Julie and himself. So, when Kovik promptly refused a valuable cross-fox pelt for a dog, the disheartened boy gave it up.

But he still coveted the slate-gray and white puppy. Never had he seen a husky of her age with such bone—such promise as a sled dog. And her spirit—at four months she would bare her puppy fangs at an infringment of her rights by an old dog, as though she already wore the scars of many a brawl. Handsomer than her brothers, leader of the litter through a build more rugged, a stronger will.

The next morning, by way of strategic approach, Jean Marcel again offered a high price for a grown dog. But the smiling Kovik would not relent. Then Marcel suddenly pointing at the female puppy, offered the pelt of a marten for her. To Jean’s surprise, the owner refused to part with any of the litter. They would be better than the adult dogs, these children of the slate-gray husky, he said. It was a bitter moment for the lad who had swung his canoe inshore at the Husky camp with such high hopes. And he realized that it would be useless to turn north from the mouth of the Salmon in search of dogs. Now that they had learned of conditions at the fur posts, no Eskimos bound south for the spring trade would sell a dog at a reasonable price.

As Marcel watched with envious eyes the puppies which he realized were beyond his means to obtain, the cries of the eldest son of his host aroused the camp. Above them, in the chutes at the foot of the white water, flashes of silver marked the leaping vanguards of the salmon run, on their way to spring-fed streams at the river’s head. Seizing their salmon spears the Eskimos hurried upstream to take their stands on rocks which the fish might pass.

Having no spear Jean watched the thick set son of Kovik wade through the strong current out to a rock within spearing reach of a deep chute of black water. Presently the crouching lad drove his spear into the flume at his feet and was struggling on the rock With a large salmon. Killing the fish with his knife, he threw it, with a cry of triumph, to the beach. Again he waited, muscles tense, his right arm drawn back for the lunge. Again, as a silvery shape darted up the chute, the boy struck with his spear. But so anxious was he to drive the lance home, that, missing the fish, his lunge carried him headfirst into the swift water.

With a shout of warning to those above, Jean Marcel ran down the beach. His canoe was out of reach on the cache with the Husky’s kayak and the clumsy skin umiak of the family was useless for quick work. In his sealskin boots and clothes the lad would be carried to the foot of the rapids and drowned. Jean reached the “boilers” below the white water before the body of the help less Eskimo appeared. Plunging into the ice-cold river, he swam out into the current below the tail of the chute, and when the half-drowned lad floundered to the surface, seized him by his heavy hair. As they were swept downstream, an eddy threw their bodies together, and in spite of Marcel’s desperate efforts, the arms of the Husky closed on him. Strong as he was, the Frenchman could not break the grip, and they sank.

Marcel rose to the surface fighting to free himself from the clinging Eskimo; his sinewy fingers found the throat of the half-conscious boy and taking a long breath, he again went down with his burden. When the two came up Marcel was free. With a grip on the long hair of the now senseless lad he made the shore, dragging the Husky from the water.

Shaking with cold he was lying panting beside the still body of the boy when the terrified Eskimos reached them.

The welcome heat of a large fire soon thawed the chill from the bones of Marcel, but the anxious parents of the young Husky desperately rolled and pounded him, starting his blood and ridding his stomach of water, before he finally regained his voice, begging them to cease. With the boy out-of danger they turned to his rescuer, and only by vigorous objection did Marcel escape the treatment administered the Husky.

“You lak’ seal in de water,” cried the relieved father with admiration, when he had lavished his thanks upon Jean; for the Eskimos, although passing their lives on or near the water, because of its low temperature, never learn to swim.

“My fader taught me to swim in shallow lak’ by Fort George,” explained the Frenchman.

“He die—eef you no sweem lak’ seal,” added the grateful mother, her round face oily with sweat from the vigorous rubbing of her son, now snoring peacefully by the fire.

Then the Huskies returned to their fishing, for precious time was being wasted. The boy’s spear was found washed up on the beach and loaned to Jean, who labored the remainder of the day spearing salmon for his journey down the coast.

That evening, after supper, he sat on a stone in front of the tepee watching the active puppies. Inside the skin lodge the, Eskimo and his wife conversed in low tones. Shortly they appeared and Kovik, grinning from long side lock to side lock, said:

“You good man! You trade dat dog?” He pointed at the large slate-gray puppy sprawled near them.

The dark features of Jean Marcel lighted with eagerness.

“I geeve two marten for de dog,” he said, rising quickly.

The Husky turned to the woman, shaking his head. Then, seemingly changing his mind, Kovik seized the puppy by the loose skin of her neck and dragged her, protesting vigorously, to Jean, while the mother dog came trotting up, ears erect, curious as to what he was doing with her progeny.

“Dees you’ dog!” said the Eskimo.

Marcel patted the back of the puppy, still in the grasp of her owner, while she muttered her wrath at the touch of the stranger. Although evidently these Huskies wished to make him pay dearly for the dog, he was glad to get her, even at such a price. He went to the cache, loosened the lashings of his fur pack, and returned with two prime marten pelts, offering them to the Eskimo. Again Kovik’s broad face was divided by a grin.

“You lak’ seal in riv’—ketch de boy. Take dog—no want skin!” The Husky pushed the pelts away.

Marcel’s eyes widened in surprise as he stammered: “You—you geeve to me—dat puppy?”

Kovik nodded, grinning with delight at the success of his little ruse. But the young Frenchman’s eyes were suspiciously moist as he wrung the Eskimo’s hand. Now, after all, he was not to return empty-handed to Whale River, the laughingstock of his partners. It had been worth his while—this plunge into the Bad Lands. Now, in two years he should have the dog team of his dreams. Some day this four months’ old puppy should make the fortune of Jean Marcel.

He could not know how much more vital a part than that in his life—and in the life of Julie Breton—this wild puppy with the white socks was to play.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

When Marcel put his canoe into the water the following morning, to cross to his net, three young Eskimos who had been loitering near Kovik’s lodge followed him to the beach and, as he left the shore, hurled at his back a torrent of Husky abuse.

It would have been better to listen to Kovik’s warning against delaying his departure and attempting to fish at the rapids after the salmon arrived. The use of the boy’s spear, the day previous, had brought the feeling among the younger men to a head. They meant to drive him downriver.

Removing the whitefish and small salmon, Jean lifted his net and, stretching it to dry on the shore, recrossed the river. On the beach awaiting his return were the Huskies. Clearly, they had decided that he was possessed of no supernatural powers and could now be bullied with impunity. As he did not wish to embroil his friend Kovik in his defense, he had decided that when he had smoked his last catch he would leave. Nevertheless, the blood of the fighting Marcels was slowly coming to a boil. If these raw fish eaters thought that they could frighten the grandson of the famous Etienne Lacasse, or the son of André Marcel, he could, if necessary, show them their mistake.

Ignoring the Huskies, Marcel landed, cleaned some fish for Kovik’s kettle, and carried them up to the tepee where the family were still asleep. When he returned, the hot blood rose to his bronzed face at what he saw. The three Eskimos were coolly feeding his fish to the dogs.

In the blind rage which choked him, Marcel reached the pilferers of his canoe before they realized that he was on them. Seizing one by his long hair, he wrenched the surprised Husky backward into the water and sent a second reeling to the stony beach with a blow in the face. The third, retreating from the fury of the attack of the maddened white man, drew his skinning knife; but seizing his paddle, Marcel sent the knife spinning with a vicious slash which doubled the screaming Husky over a broken wrist. Turning, he saw his first victims making down the beach toward the tepees, while the uproar of the dogs was swiftly arousing the camp.

As his blood cooled, the youth, who had suffered and dared much that he might have dogs for the next long snows, realized his folly. They had baited him into furnishing them with an excuse for attacking him.

He would never see Whale River and Julie Breton again. Now, even the faithful Kovik would be helpless against them. Already the Huskies were emerging from their tepees to hear the tale of his late antagonists. He had no time to lose before they would be rushing him.

Bounding up the beach to Kovik’s tepee for his rifle, he rapidly explained the situation to the Eskimo. Jean did not hope to escape alive, but of one thing he was sure—he would die like a Marcel with a gun in his hands.

Urging Jean to get his fur pack and smoked fish to his canoe at once, Kovik hurried down the shore to the knot of wildly excited Eskimos. Meanwhile, with the aid of Kovik’s grateful wife and son, Marcel’s canoe was swiftly loaded and his treasured puppy lashed in the bow.

The rush up the beach of an infuriated throng bent on his death was delayed. Not a hundred yards distant, the doughty Kovik, the center of an arguing mob, was fighting with all the wits he possessed for the man who had saved his son. For Marcel to attempt to escape by water would only have drawn the fire of the Huskies and nullified Kovik’s efforts. Besides, their kayaks, faster than any canoe, were below him. A break for the “bush,” even if successful, meant starvation in the end. So with extra cartridges between his teeth and in his hands, Jean Marcel grimly fingered the trigger guard of his rifle, as he waited beside a bowlder for the turn of the dice.

Kovik still held his men, and Marcel clearly noted a change in the manner of the Huskies. The shouting had ceased. Shortly, Kovik left the group and walked rapidly toward Marcel, followed at a distance by his people.

“Dey keel you, but Kovik say you fr’en’ wid spirit who would come downriv’ an’ eat Husky,” explained the worried defender of Jean. “Kovik say you shoot wid spirit gun all de Husky. Now you go—queek!” Kovik gripped the hand of the relieved Marcel and pushed off his canoe.

With the emotions of a man suddenly reprieved from a sentence of death, Marcel poled his canoe out into the current. The Eskimos had joined Kovik on the shore behind him, when, warned by a shout from his friend, Marcel instinctively ducked, as a seal spear whistled over his head. Some doubter was testing the magic of the white man.

Seizing his paddle, Jean rapidly crossed the river and secured his precious net; but he was not yet rid of his enemies. If the young men, conquering their fear of his friendship with demons, at once launched their kayaks they could overhaul his loaded canoe. Once clear of the last tepees on the shore, though, and with his pursuers behind him, he was confident that he could pick them off with his rifle as they came up in their rocking craft.

With all his power Jean drove his canoe with the swift current. Kovik had the Huskies in hand and they did not follow, and shortly he had passed the last lodge on the shore and the camp was far behind him. It seemed like a dream—his peril of the last half hour. But now, with his puppy in the bow, he was safe on his way to the coast.

Suddenly Marcel was wrenched from his dream by stark reality as two rifle shots cracked on the near shore. Dropping his paddle, he lurched forward in the canoe. Again the rifles spat from the bowlders on the beach. Two bullets whined over the birch bark. But except for the yelping puppy in the bow, there was no movement in the canoe as it slid along the cat’s-paw of the current.