The Whelps of the Wolf

by George P. Marsh

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE

  One hundred and fifty miles down the wind-harassed East Coast, was a manwho could save Julie Breton. The mind of Marcel held one thought only ashis hurrying dogs loped down the river trail to the Bay. Dark though itwas, for the stars were veiled, Fleur never faltered, keeping the trailby instinct and the feel of her feet.

  Reaching the Bay the trail swung south skirting the beach, often cuttinginland to avoid circling long points and shoulders of shore; at the Capeof the Winds--the midwinter vortex of unleashed Arctic blasts--making adeep cut to the sheltered valley of the Little Salmon. Marcel was toodog-wise to push his huskies as they swung south on the sea-ice, for nosled-dogs work well after eating.

  As the late moon slowly lifted, he shook his head, for it was a moon ofsnow. If only the weather held until he could bring his man from FortGeorge, but fate was against him. That he could average fifty miles aday going and coming, with the light sled, he was confident. He knewwhat hearts beat in those shaggy breasts in front--what stamina he hadnever put to the supreme test, lay in their massive frames. He knew thatFleur would set her sons a pace, at the call of Jean Marcel, that wouldeat the frozen miles to Fort George, as they had never before slid pasta dog-runner. But once a December norther struck down upon them on theirreturn, burying the trail in drift, with its shot-like drive in theteeth of man and dogs, it would kill their speed, as a cliff stops wind.

  He had intended to camp for a few hours, later in the night, to rest hisdogs, but the warning of the ringed moon flicked him with fear, as awhiplash stings a lagging husky. It meant in December, snow and wind. Hemust race that wind to the lee of Big Island, so he pushed on throughthe night over the frozen shell of the Bay, stopping only once to boiltea and rest his over-willing dogs.

  As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskieswith ice-hung lips and flews swung in from the trail skirting the leeshore of Big Island and the driver in belted caribou capote, a rim ofice from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire fromcedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican, andfeeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constanttoil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind.

  At noon he shook off the sleep which weighted his limbs, forced himselffrom his blankets, ate and pushed on. Although the air smelled of snow,and in the north, brooding, low-banked clouds hugged the Bay, snow andwind still held off.

  In early afternoon as the sun buried itself in the ice-fields, muffledrays lit the bald shoulders of the distant Cape of the Four Winds,seventy miles from his goal.

  "Haw, Fleur!" he called, and the lead-dog swung inland, to the left, onthe short-cut across the Cape.

  As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With theirsuperb vitality and staying power, they had travelled steadily throughthe night, after a half day on the river. Led by their tireless mother,each hour they had put five miles of snowy trail behind them. With theweather steady, Marcel had no doubt of when he would reach Whale River,for the weight of an extra man on the sled would be little felt on ahard trail and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snowand wind hanging over him, he travelled with a heavy heart.

  On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icytrail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that aDecember blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike downupon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night.Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by theiron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood oftimber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel topush on and on, responded with all her matchless stamina.

  At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, hethought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas indeed for Jean Marcel.Then he slept. The next afternoon as they passed Wastikun, the Isle ofGraves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on thedog-team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel,knowing what miles of drifts; what toil breaking trail to give footingto his team in the soft snow; what days of battling the drive of thewind whipping their faces with needle-pointed fury, awaited theirreturn, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might nowreach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had notwaited, but over weary, had gone out into the sunset.

  In the early evening, forty-eight hours out of Whale River, four whitewraiths of huskies with a ghost-like driver, turned in to thetrade-house at Fort George. The spent dogs lay down, dropping theirfrosted masks in the snow, the froth from their mouths rimming theirlips with ice.

  Sheeted in white from hood to moccasins, the _voyageur_ entered thetrade-house in a swirl of snow and called for the factor. A bearded manengaged in conversation with another white man, behind the tradecounter, rose at Jean's entrance.

  "I am from Whale River, M'sieu. My name is Jean Marcel. Here ees alettair from M'sieu Gillies." Marcel handed an oil-skin envelope toMcKenzie, the factor, who surveyed with curiosity the ice-crustedstranger with haggard eyes who came to Fort George on Christmas night.

  At the mention of Whale River, the man who had been in conversation withMcKenzie behind the counter, also rose to his feet. And Marcel, who hadnot seen his face, now recognized him. It was Inspector Wallace.

  "Too bad! Too bad!" muttered the factor, reading the note, "and we're infor a December blizzard."

  "What is it, McKenzie?" demanded Wallace, coming from behind the counterand reaching for Gillies' note.

  The narrowed eyes of Marcel watched the face of Wallace contract withpain as he read of the peril of the woman he loved.

  "Tell me what you know, Marcel!" Wallace demanded brokenly.

  Jean briefly explained Julie's desperate condition.

  "When did you leave Whale River?"

  "Two day ago."

  "What," cried McKenzie, "you came through in two days from Whale River?Lord, man! I never heard of such travelling. Your dogs must be marvels!"

  "I came in two day, M'sieu," repeated Marcel, "because she weel notleeve many day onless she have help."

  "Why, man, I can't believe it. It's never been done. When did yousleep?" The factor called to a Company Indian who entered the room,"Albert, take care of his dogs and feed them."

  "Dey are wild, M'sieu. I weel go wid heem."

  Marcel started to go out with the Indian, for his huskies sorely neededattention, then stopped to stare in wonder at Wallace, who had slumpedinto a chair, head in hands. For a moment the hunter looked at the inertInspector; then his lip curled, his frost-blackened face reflecting hisscorn, as he said:

  "W'ere ees dees missionary, M'sieu? We mus' start een a few hours, w'enmy dogs have rest."

  "What, start in the teeth of this? Listen to it!" The drumming of windand shot-like snow on the trade-house windows steadily increased infury.

  The muscles of Marcel's face stiffened into stone as he grimly insisted:

  "We mus' start to-night."

  "You are crazy, man; you need sleep," protested McKenzie. "I know it's alife and death matter. But you wouldn't help that girl at Whale River bylosing the trail to-night and freezing. I'll see Hunter at once, but Ican't allow him to go to his death. If the blow eases by morning, he canstart."

  Again Marcel turned, waiting for Wallace, who nervously paced the floor,to speak. Then with a shrug he said:

  "M'sieu Wallace weel wish to start to-night? I have de bes' lead-dog ondees coast. She weel not lose de trail."

  "What do you mean--Monsieur Wallace?" blurted the factor. Wallace raiseda face on which agony and indecision were plainly written. But it wasJean Marcel who answered, with all the scorn of his tortured heart.

  "_She ees de fiancee--of M'sieu Wallace._"

  "Oh, I--I didn't--understand!" stumbled the embarrassed McKenzie,reddening to his eyes. "But--I can't advise you to start to-night, Mr.Wallace."

  The factor went to t
he door. As he lifted the heavy latch, in spite ofhis bulk the power of the wind hurled him backward. The door crashedagainst the log-wall, while the room was filled with driving snow.

  "You see what it's like, Wallace! No dog-team would have a chance onthis coast to-night--not a chance."

  "Yes," agreed Wallace, avoiding Marcel's eyes. Then he went on, "Youunderstand, McKenzie, I'm knocked clean off my feet by this news.But--we'll want to start, at least, by morning--sooner, if the dogs arerested--that is, of course, if it's possible."

  Deliberately ignoring the man who had thus bared his soul, Marcel drewthe factor to one side.

  "Mon Dieu, M'sieu!" he pleaded in low tones. "She weel not leeve. Onlesswe start at once, we shall be too late. Tak' me to de doctor!"

  The agonized face of the hunter softened McKenzie.

  "Well, all right, if Hunter will go and Mr. Wallace insists, but it'smadness. I'll go over to the Mission now and talk to the doctor."

  When Jean had seen to the feeding of his tired dogs whom he left asleepin a shack, he hurried through the driving snow with the Company Indianto the Protestant Mission House, where he found McKenzie alone with themissionary.

  As he entered the lighted room, the Reverend Hunter, a tall,athletic-looking man of thirty, welcomed him, bidding him remove hiscapote and moccasins and thaw out at the hot box-stove.

  "Mr. McKenzie has shown me Gillies' message, Marcel. Now tell me all youknow about the case," said the missionary.

  Briefly Marcel described the condition of Julie Breton--Gillies' crudeattempt at surgery; the advance toward the shoulder of the swelling andinflammation, with the increasing fever.

  When he had finished he cried in desperation:

  "M'sieu, I have at Whale River credit for t'ree t'ousand dollar. Eet eesall----"

  Hunter's lifted hand checked him.

  "Marcel, first I am a preacher of the gospel; also, I am a doctor ofmedicine. I came into the north to minister to the bodies as well as tothe souls of its people. Do not speak of money. This case demands thatwe start at once. Have you good dogs?"

  The drawn face of Marcel lighted with gratitude.

  Troubled and mystified by the attitude of Wallace, McKenzie broke in,"He's surely got the best dogs on this coast--made a record trip down.But, Mr. Hunter, I'll not agree to your starting in this hell outside.You must wait until daylight. The Inspector has decided that it would beimpossible to keep the trail."

  "I came here to aid those _in extremis_," replied the missionary. "Iwill take the risk to save this girl. It's a matter of days and we maybe too late as it is."

  "T'anks, M'sieu, her brother, Pere Breton, weel not forget yourkindness; and I--I weel nevaire forget." The eyes of Marcel glowed withgratitude.

  "Then it's understood that you start at daylight, if the wind won't blowyou off the ice. I'll see you then." And McKenzie, looking hard atMarcel and Hunter, went out.

  When the factor had closed the door, Jean turned to Dr. Hunter.

  "Thees man who marries her een June, ees afraid to go. Weel Mr. Hunterstart wid me at midnight?"

  The big missionary gripped Marcel's hand as he said with a smile, "I didnot promise McKenzie I would not go. At midnight we start for WhaleRiver."