CHAPTER XIII
POOR FLEUR
As the weeks went by, the food cache at the camp on the Ghost steadilyshrank. The nets under the ice and the set-lines were now bringing nofish. More and more Jean slept in his half-way camp ten miles north, foralthough the short rations he fed Fleur had been obtained solely by hisown efforts, Joe and Antoine objected to the well-nourished look of thepuppy while they grew thin and slowly weakened. But, for generations,the huskies have been accustomed to starvation, and if not slaving withthe sleds, will for weeks show but slight effect from short rations.Besides, Fleur had, from necessity and instinct, become a hunter, andmany a ptarmigan and stray rabbit she picked up foraging for herself.
To increase the difficulty of hunting for food, January had broughtblizzard after blizzard, piling deep with drifts the trails to theirtrap-lines, which they still visited regularly, for the starved lynxeswere coming to the bait of the flesh of their kin in greater and greaternumbers. Twice, seeking the return of the caribou, the desperate mentravelled far into the barrens beaten by the withering January winds,returning with wind-burned, frost-blackened faces, for no man may facefor long the needle-pointed scourge of the midwinter northers off theStraits.
Finally, in desperation, when the flour was gone, and the food cacheheld barely enough meat and fish for two weeks, Joe and Antoine insistedthat, while they had food to carry them through, they make for the post.
"You can crawl into de post lak a starving Cree because you were toolazy to net feesh. I will stay in de bush with my dog," was Jean'sscornful reply.
But the situation was desperate. With two months remaining before thebig thaw in April, when they could rely on plenty of fish, there seemedbut one alternative, unless the caribou returned or the fish began tomove. A few trout and an occasional rabbit and ptarmigan would not keepthem alive until the "break-up," when the bear would leave their"washes" and the caribou start north. Already with revolting stomachsthey had begun to eat starved lynx. If only they could get beaver, butthere were no beaver on the Ghost. It was clear that they must find gameshortly or retreat to Whale River.
One night Jean reached his fish cache on his return from a three days'hunt toward the Salmon waters. At last he had found beaver, and cachingtwo at his tent, with his heart high with hope, was bringing thecarcasses of three more to his partners. As he approached the cache inthe gathering dusk, to his surprise he found the fresh tracks ofsnow-shoes.
"Ah-hah!" he muttered, his mouth twisted in a grim smile, "so dey rob decache of Jean Marcel while he travel sixty mile to get dem beaver!"
The last of Fleur's pitiful little store of fish was gone. The cache wasstripped.
Jean shook his head sadly. So he could no longer trust these men whosehunger had made them thieves, he mused. Well, he would break with themat once. "Poor Fleur!" He patted the sniffing nose of his dog.
Bitter with the discovery, Marcel drove Fleur over the trail to thecamp. Opening the slab-door he surprised the half-breeds gorgingthemselves from a steaming kettle of trout. But hunger had driven thempast all sense of shame. Looking up sullenly, they waited for him tospeak.
"Bon soir, my friends! I see you have had luck at de lines," hesurprised them with. "I have three nice fat beaver for you."
The hollow eyes of Joe and Antoine met in a questioning look. ThenPiquet brazened it out.
"Beaver, eh? Dat soun' good, fat beaver!" and he smacked his thin lipsgreedily.
"W'ere you get beaver, Jean?" asked Antoine, now that the tension due toJean's appearance had relaxed.
"W'ere I tell you I would fin' dem, nord, een de valley of de spirits,"he laughed.
Marcel heaped a tin dish from the kettle, and slipping outside, fedFleur.
"Here, Fleur!" he called, "ees some of feesh dat Joe has boiled for you.Wat, you lak' eet bettair raw? Well, Joe he lak' eet boiled."
Returning, Jean ate heartily of the lake trout. When he had finished andlighted his pipe, he said: "You weel fin' de beaver on de cache. I leeveeen de morning for Salmon riviere country."
"W'at, you goin' leave us, Jean?" cried Antoine visibly disturbed.
"Oui, I don't trap wid t'ief!" The cold eyes of Marcel bored into thoseof Beaulieu which wavered and fell. But Piquet accepted the challenge.
"W'at you t'ink, Jean Marcel, you geeve dose feesh to de dog w'en westarve?" he sullenly demanded. "We eat de dog, also, before we starve."
"You eat de dog, eh, Joe Piquet? Dat ees good joke. You 'av' to keel dedog and Jean Marcel first, my frien'," sneered Marcel. "I net feesh formy dog and you not help me but laugh; now you tak' dem from my dog.Bien! I am tru wid you both! I geeve you de beaver and bid you, bonjour, to-morrow!"
Antoine was worried, for he knew too well what the loss of Marcel wouldmean to them in the days to come. But the sullen Piquet in whom toil andstarvation were bringing to the surface traits common to the half-breed,treated Marcel's going with seeming indifference.
The Whelps of the Wolf Page 14
