The Whelps of the Wolf

by George P. Marsh

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  THE VOICE OF THE WINDIGO

  When the first flight of snowy geese, southward bound, flashed in anundulating white cloud over Whale River, the canoe of Jean Marcel wasloaded with supplies for a winter in the land of the Windigo. And inmemory of Antoine Beaulieu, he was taking with him as comrade andpartner the eighteen-year-old cousin of the dead man whose kinsmen hadhumbly made their amends for their stand against Marcel before thehearing. Young Michel Beaulieu, of stouter fibre than Antoine, had atlength overcome his scruples against entering the land of dread, throughhis admiration for Marcel's daring and his confidence in the man whosereputation since the hearing and the fight with the Lelacs had been nowfirmly established with the Whale River Crees. When Marcel hadrepeatedly assured the boy that he had neither seen the trail of _MatchiManito_, the devil, nor once heard the wailing of a giant Windigothrough all the long snows of the past winter in the Salmon country,Michel's pride at the offer had finally conquered his fears. So leavingthe puppy he had given Julie as the nucleus for a Mission dog-team, andpresenting Gillies with another, Marcel packed the three remainingchildren of Fleur whom he had named in honor of his three staunchfriends, Colin, Jules and Angus, into the canoe already deep withsupplies, and gripping the hands of those who had assembled on thebeach, eased the craft into the flood-tide.

  "Good-bye and good luck, Jean!" called Gillies.

  "De rabbit weel be few; net beeg cache of feesh before de freeze-up!"urged the practical Jules.

  "No fear, Jules. We ketch all de feesh en de lac," laughed Jean. Thenhis eyes sought Julie Breton's sober face as he said in French:

  "I will not come back for Christmas, Julie. The pups will not be oldenough for the trail."

  With the conviction that he was saying good-bye to Julie Bretonforever--that on his return in June, she would be far in the south withWallace, he pushed off as she called, "_Bon voyage, Jean! Dieu vousbenisse!_" (God bless you!)

  When the paddles of Jean and Michel drove the boat into the stream, thewhining Fleur, beholding her world moving away from her, plunged intothe river after the _voyageurs_.

  "Go back, Fleur!" ordered Jean sternly. "You travel de shore; de cano'ees too full wid de pup." So the protesting Fleur turned back to followthe shore. The puppies, yet too young and clumsy to keep abreast of thetide-driven canoe, on the broken beach of the river, had to befreighted.

  When the boat was well out in the flood, Marcel waved his cap with alast "A'voir!"

  Far up-stream, a half-hour later, rhythmic flashes, growing swiftlyfainter and fainter, until they faded from sight, marked for many a longmoon the last of Jean Marcel.

  * * * * *

  September waned, and the laggard rear-guard of the brant and Hutchinsgeese, riding the first stinging northers, passed south in the wake ofthe wavies. On the heels of September followed a week of mellow Octoberdays lulling the north into temporary forgetfulness of the menace of thebitter months to come. Then the unleashed winds from the Arcticfreighted with the first of the long snows beat down the coast and rivervalleys, locking the land with ice. But far in the Windigo-haunted hillsof the forbidden land of the Crees a man and a boy, snug in snow-bankedtepee, laughed as the winds whined through November nights and the snowmade deep in the timber, for their cache was heaped high with frozentrout, whitefish and caribou.

  With the coming of the snow, the puppies, young as they were, soonlearned that the life of a husky was not all mad pursuit of rabbit orwood-mouse and stalking of ptarmigan; not all rioting through the"bush," on the trail of some mysterious four-footed forest denizen; notalone the gulping of a supper of toothsome whitefish or trout, followedby a long nap curled in a cosy hole in the snow, gray noses thrust intobushy tails. Although their wolf-blood made them, at first, lessamenable than the average husky puppy to the discipline of collar andtraces, their great mother, through the force of her example as lead-dogand the swift punishment she meted out to any culprit, contributed asmuch as Jean's own efforts to the breaking of the puppies to harness.

  Jules, the largest, marked like his mother with slate-gray patches onhead and back was all dog; but the rogues, Colin and Angus, mottled withthe lighter gray of their sire, and with his rangier build, inheritedmuch of his wolf nature. Many a whipping from the long lash of plaitedcaribou hide, many a sharp nip from Fleur's white teeth, were requiredto teach the young wolves the manners of camp and trail; to bend theirwild wills to the habit of instant obedience to the voice of JeanMarcel. But Fleur was a conscientious mother and under her sterntutelage and the firm but kind treatment of Jean,--who loved to roughand wrestle the puppies in the dry snow, rolling them on their backs andholding them helpless in the grip of his sinewy hands--as the shaggyruffians grew in the wisdom of trace and trail, so in their wild naturesripened love for the master who fed and romped with them, meting outpunishment to him alone who had sinned.

  In search of black and silver foxes, whose pelts, worth in the world ofcities their weight in gold, are the chief inspiration of the redhunter's dreams, Jean had run his new trap-lines far in the valleys ofthe Salmon watershed. But to the increasing satisfaction of the stillworried Michel, the sole noises of the night which had yet met hisfearful ears, had been the scream of lynx, the occasional caterwaulingof wolverine and the hunting chorus of timber wolves. But darkness stillheld potential terror for the lad in whom, at his mother's knee, hadbeen instilled dread of the demon-infested bad-lands north of the Ghost,and he never camped alone.

  January came with its withering winds, burning and cracking the faces ofthe hunters following their trap-lines; swirling with fine snow, whichstruck like shot, and stung like the lash of whips. Often when facingthe drive of a blizzard even the hardy Fleur, wrinkling her nose withpain, would stop and turn her back on the needle-pointed barrage. Attimes when the fierce cold, freezing all moisture from the atmosphere,filled the air with powdery crystals of ice, the true sun, flanked bysun-dogs in a ringed halo, lifted above the shimmering barrens,dazzlingly bright.

  One night when Jean and Michel, camped in the timber at the end of thefarthest line of fox traps, had turned into their robes before a hotfire, in front of which in a snow hole they had stretched a shed tentboth as windbreak and heat-reflector, a low wail, more sob than cry ofnight prowler, drifted up the valley.

  "You hear dat?" whispered Michel.

  The hairy throat of Fleur, burrowed in the snow close to the tent,rumbled like distant thunder.

  Marcel, already fast drifting into sleep, muttered crossly:

  "Eet ees de Windigo come to eat you, Michel."

  Again upon the hushed valley under star-encrusted heavens where theborealis flickered and pulsed and streamed in fantastic traceries offire, broke a wailing sob.

  With a cry Michel sat up turning a face gray with fear to the man besidehim. Again Fleur growled, her lifted nose sniffing the freezing air, tosend her awakened puppies into a chorus of snarls and yelps.

  Raised on an elbow, Marcel sleepily asked:

  "What de trouble, Michel? You and Fleur hear de Windigo?"

  "Listen!" insisted the boy. "I nevaire hear dat soun' before."

  Silencing the dog, Jean pushed back his hood to free his ears, smilinginto the blanched face of the wild-eyed boy beside him.

  Shortly the noiseless night was marred by a sobbing moan, as if somestricken creature writhed under the torture of mangled flesh.

  Marcel knew that neither wolf, lynx, nor wolverine--the "Injun-devil" ofthe superstitious--was responsible for the sound. What could it be? hequeried. No furred prowler of the night, and he knew the varied voicesof them all, had such a muffled cry. Puzzled and curious he left hisrabbit-skin robes and stood with the terrified Michel beside the fire.In an uproar, the dogs ran into the "bush" with manes bristling andbared fangs, to hurl the husky challenge down the valley at theinvisible menace.

  "Eet ees de Windigo! Dey tell me at Whale Riviere not to come een deescountree! De Windigo an' Matchi Manito ees loose here
," whimpered Michelthrough chattering teeth.

  Jean Marcel did not know what it was that made night horrible with itsmoaning but he intended to learn at once. The lungs behind that noisecould be pierced by rifle bullet and the cold steel of his knife. Therewas not a creature in the north with which Fleur would not readilybattle. He would soon learn if the hide of a Windigo was tough enough toturn the knife-like fangs of Fleur, and the bullets of his 30-30.

  Seizing Michel by the shoulders he shook the boy roughly.

  "I tell you, Michel, de devil dat mak' dat soun' travel on four feet.You tie up de pup an' wait here. Fleur an' I go an' breeng back heesskin."

  But the panic-stricken Michel would not be left alone, and when he hadfastened the excited puppies, with shaking hands he drew his rifle fromits skin case and joined Marcel.

  Holding with difficulty on her rawhide leash the aroused Fleur leapingahead in the soft footing, Marcel snow-shoed through the timber in thedirection from which the sound had come.

  After travelling some time they stopped to listen.

  From somewhere ahead, seemingly but a few hundred yards down the valley,floated the eerie sobbing. Michel's gun slipped to the snow from hispalsied hands.

  Turning, Jean gripped the boy's arm.

  "Why you come? You no good to shoot. De Windigo eat you w'ile you huntfor your gun."

  Picking up the rifle, the boy threw off the mittens fastened to hissleeve by thongs, and gritting his teeth, followed Marcel and Fleur.

  Shortly they stopped again to listen. Straight ahead through the sprucethe moaning rose and fell. Fleur, frantic to reach the mysterious enemy,plunged forward dragging Marcel, followed by the quaking boy who heldhis cocked rifle in readiness for the rush of beast or devil. Passingthrough scrub, a small clearing opened up before them. Checking Fleur,Marcel peered through the dim light of the forest into the opening litby the stars, when the clearing echoed with the uncanny sound.

  Marcel's keen eyes strained across the star-lit snow into the murkbeyond, as Michel gasped in his ears:

  "By Gar! I see noding dere! Eet ees de Windigo for sure!"

  But the Frenchman was staring fixedly at a clump of spruce on theopposite edge of the opening. As the unearthly sobbing rose again intothe night, he loosed the maddened dog and followed.

  They were close to the spruce, when a great gray shape suddenly rosefrom the snow directly in their path. For an instant a pair of palewings flapped wildly in their faces. Then a squawk of terror wassmothered as the fangs of Fleur struck at the feathered shape of a hugesnowy owl. A wrench of the dog's powerful neck, and the ghostly hunterof the northern nights had made his last patrol, victim of his owncuriosity.

  With a loud laugh Jean turned to the dazed Michel:

  "Tak' good look at de Windigo, Michel. My fox trap hold heem fas' w'ilehe seeng to de star."

  The amazed Michel stared at the white demon in the fox trap with openmouth. "I t'ink--dat h'owl--de Windigo for sure," he stuttered.

  "I nevaire hear de h'owl cry dat way myself, Michel, but I know datFleur and my gun mak' any Windigo een dees countree look whiter dan datbird. W'en we come near dees place I expect somet'ing een dat fox trap."

  And strangely, through the remaining moons of the long snows, the sleepof the lad was not again disturbed by the wailing of Windigos seeking todevour a young half-breed Cree by the name of Michel Beaulieu.