The Whelps of the Wolf

by George P. Marsh

  CHAPTER I

  THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO

  The solitudes of the East Coast had shaken off the grip of the longsnows. A thousand streams and rivers choked with snow water from bleakUngava hills plunged and foamed and raced into the west, seeking thesalt Hudson's Bay, the "Big Water" of the Crees. In the lakes thehoneycombed ice was daily fading under the strengthening sun. Already,here and there the buds of the willows reddened the river shores, whilethe southern slopes of sun-warmed ridges were softening with the palegreen of the young leaves of birch and poplar. Long since, the armies ofthe snowy geese had passed, bound for far Arctic islands; while marshesand muskeg were vocal with the raucous clamor of the nesting gray goose.In the air of the valleys hung the odor of wood mold and wet earth.

  And one day, with the spring, returned Jean Marcel from his camp on theGhost, the northernmost tributary of the Great Whale to the bald ridge,where, in March, he had seen the sun glitter on a broad expanse of levelsnow unbroken by trees, in the hills to the north. His eyes had notdeceived 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 barrenswhich rolled away endlessly into the north. Among these lay a large bodyof water partly free of ice. Into the northeast he could trace thedivide--even make out where a small feeder of the Ghost headed on theheight of land. And he now knew that he looked upon the dread valleys ofthe forbidden country of the Crees--the demon-haunted solitudes of theland of the Windigo, whose dim, blue hills guarded a region of mysteryand terror--a wilderness, peopled in the tales of the medicine men, withgiant eaters of human flesh and spirits of evil, for generations, tabooto the hunters of Whale River.

  There was no doubt of it. The large lake he saw was a headwater of theBig Salmon, the southern sources of which tradition placed in thebad-lands north of the Ghost. Once his canoe floated in this lake, hecould work into the main river and find the Esquimos on the coast.

  "Bien!" muttered the Frenchman, "I will go!"

  Two days later, back in camp on the Ghost, Marcel announced to hispartners, Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, his intention of returning tothe 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 theforbidden land aroused, while Antoine, speechless, stared wide-eyed.

  "Oui, nord of de divide, I see beeg lac. Eet ees Salmon water for sure.I portage cano' to dat lac and reach de coast by de riviere. You go widme an' get some dog?" Marcel smiled coolly into the sober faces of hisfriends.

  "Are you crazee, Jean Marcel?" protested Antoine. "De spirit have run degame an' feesh away. De Windigo eat you before you fin' de Salmon, 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. Inevaire hunt anoder long snow widout dogs."

  "Ah-hah! Dat ees good joke! You weel nevaire see de Husky," broke inPiquet. "W'en _Matchi-Manitou_ ees tru wid you, de raven an' wolf peekyour bones, w'ile Antoine an' Joe dance at de spreeng trade wid de Creegirl."

  Ignoring the dire prediction, Marcel continued: "Good dog are all goneat Whale Riviere Post from de maladie. De Husky have plenty dog. I meetdem on de coast before dey reach Whale Riviere an' want too much fur fordem. Maybe I starve; maybe I drown een de strong-water; maybe de Windigoget me; but I go."

  And he did.

  With a shrug of contempt for the tales of the medicine men, dramaticallyrehearsed with all the embellishment which the imagination of hissuperstitious partners could invent, the following day Marcel started.

  "Bo'-jo', Antoine!" he said, as he gripped his friend's hand. "I meetyou at Whale Riviere."

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

  "Bo'-jo', Jean, I nevaire see you again."

  "You are dead man, Jean," added Piquet; "we tell Julie Breton dat yourbones lie up dere." And the half-breed pointed north to the dim, bluehills of dread.

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

  It was a reckless venture--this attempt to reach the Bay through anunknown country. The demons of the Cree conjurors he did not fear, forhis father and his mother's father, who had journeyed, starved, andfeasted in trailless lands, from Labrador to the great Barren Grounds,had never seen one or heard the wailing of the Windigo in the night. Butwhat he did fear was the possibility of weeks of wandering in his searchfor the main stream, lost in a labyrinth of headwater lakes where gamemight be scarce and fish difficult to net. For his smoked meat wouldtake him but a short way, when his rifle and net would have to see himthrough.

  But the risk was worth taking. If he could reach the Esquimos on theirspring journey south to the post, before they learned of the scarcity ofdogs at Whale River, he could obtain huskies at a fair trade in fur. Anda dog-team was his heart's desire.

  Portaging over the divide to the large lake, now clear of ice, Marcelfollowed its winding outlet into the northwest. There were days when,baffled by a maze of water routes in a network of lakes, he despaired offinding the main stream. There were nights when he lay supperless by hisfire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the OblatMissionary at Whale River--nights when the forebodings of his partnersreturned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of theforest, or, across the valleys, drifted low wailing sobs, like thegrieving of a Cree mother for her dead child.

  But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old_coureurs-de-bois_. His parents, victims of the influenza which hadswept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of adauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly asthe roving wolverine and the lynx turned the night into what would havebeen a thing of horror to the superstitious breeds.

  When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found themain stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Esquimos. Twohundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June dayrounded the bend above a long white-water. The _voyageur_ ran therapids, rode the "boilers" at the foot of the last pitch and shot intodeep water again. But as he swung inshore to rid the craft of the sloppicked up in the churning "strong-water" behind him, Marcel's eyeswidened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His lastrapids had been run. He had reached his goal, for on the shore stood thesquat skin lodges of an Esquimo camp, and moving about on the beach, hesaw the shaggy objects of his quest.

  The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in theirlair shaped a wide smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade atWhale River, and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, apair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the chorus when thedogs pointed their noses at the new moon.