The Whelps of the Wolf Part 22

THE FANGS OF THE HALF-BREEDS

One night when Jean returned late from his nets after a long paddle, seeking the exhaustion that would bring sleep and temporary respite from his grief, a canoe manned by three men drifted alongsh.o.r.e toward his beached canoe. Occupied with his thoughts, Marcel took no notice of the craft. Removing from the boat the fish he had caught, he was about to lift and place it bottom up on the beach when the bow of the approaching birch-bark suddenly swung sharply and jammed into the stern of his own.

With an exclamation of irritation at the clumsiness of the people in the offending canoe, Jean looked up to stare into the faces of the three Lelacs.

"You are good canoeman," he sneered, roughly pushing with his paddle the half-breeds' canoe from his own. That the act was intentional, he knew, but he was surprised that the Lelacs, convicted of theft, and on parole at the post awaiting the Company's decision as to their punishment, would dare to start trouble.

As Jean shoved off the Lelacs' canoe, the half-breeds, as if at a preconcerted signal, shouted loudly:

"W'at you do to us, Jean Marcel? Ough! Why you beat me wid de paddle? He try to keel us!"

The near beach was deserted, but the shouts in the still night were audible on the post clearing above. The uproar waked the sleeping huskies at the few remaining Esquimo tepees on the sh.o.r.e, whose howling quickly aroused the post dogs.

It was evident to Jean that his enemies had chosen their time and place.

Obeying scrupulously the orders of Gillies since the trial, Marcel had avoided the Lelacs, holding in check the just wrath which had prompted him to take personal vengeance upon his traducers. Now, instead, they had sought him, but from their actions, intended to make him seem the aggressor.

"Bon!" he muttered between his teeth. Life had little value to him now, he would give these thieves what they were after.

"You 'fraid to come on sh.o.r.e? You squeal lak' rabbit; you t'ief!" he taunted.

Continuing to shout that Marcel was attacking them, the Lelacs landed their canoe and the elder son, evidently drunk, lurched toward the man who waited.

"Rabbit, am I?" roared the frenzied half-breed, and struck savagely at Jean with his paddle. Dodging the blow, before the breed could recover his balance, the Frenchman lunged with his one hundred and seventy pounds behind his fist into Lelac's jaw, hurling him reeling into the water ten feet away. Then the two Lelacs reached him.

Gasping for breath, the younger brother fell backward, helpless from a kick in the pit of his stomach as the maddened Marcel grappled with the father. Over and over they rolled on the beach, Lelac, frenzied by drink, snarling with hate of the man he had tried to destroy, fighting like a trapped wolverine; the no less infuriated Marcel resolved now to rid Whale River forever of this vermin.

It was not long before the bands of steel cable which swathed the arms, shoulders and back of Jean Marcel overcame the delirious strength of the crazed half-breed, and Lelac was forced down and held on his back. Then like the jaws of a wolf-trap, the fingers of Marcel's right hand shut on the throat of the under man. The bloodshot eyes of Lelac bulged from their sockets. Blood filled the distorted face. The mouth gaped for air, barred by the vise on his throat. In a last feeble effort to free himself, a helpless hand clawed limply at Marcel's wrist--then he relaxed, unconscious, on the beach.

Getting to his feet, Jean looked for the others, to see the younger brother still nursing his stomach, when an oath sounded in his ears and, struck from the rear, a sharp twinge bit through his shoulder, as he stumbled forward.

Leaping away from a second lunge, and drawing his knife with his left hand, Marcel slashed wildly, driving before him the half-breed whom the water had revived. Then, as he fought to reach him, the shape of his retreating enemy slowly faded from Marcel's vision; his strength ebbed; the knife slipped from his fingers as darkness shut down upon him, and he reeled senseless to the stones.

With a snarl of triumph, Lelac, crouched on the defensive, sprang to the crumpled figure, a hand raised to drive home the knife-thrust, when something sang shrilly through the air. The upraised arm fell. With a groan, the half-breed pitched on his face, the slender shaft of a seal-spear quivering in his back.

Close by, a kayak silently slid to the sh.o.r.e and a squat Husky, his broad face knotted with fear, ran to the unconscious Marcel. Swiftly cutting the shirt from the Frenchman's back, he was staunching the flow of blood from the knife wound, when people from the post clearing, headed by Jules Duroc, reached the beach.

"By Gar! Jean Marcel!" gasped Jules recognizing his friend. "He ees cut bad?"

The Husky shook his head. "He not kill."

Staring at the dead man transfixed by the spear and his unconscious father, Jules roared: "De t'ief, dey try _revanche_ on Jean Marcel!"

Stripping off his own shirt, Jules bandaged Marcel's shoulder. As he worked, one thing he told himself. Had they killed Marcel, the Lelacs would not have gone south for trial. Father and son would never have left the beach at Whale River alive.

Then he said to the gathering Crees, "Tak' dem!" pointing to the younger Lelac now shedding maudlin tears over his dead brother, and to the half-choked father, resuscitated by a rough immersion in the river from unfriendly hands. Seizing the pair, rapidly sobering and now fearful for their fate, the Crees kicked them up the cliff trail.

"Tiens!" exclaimed Jules to the Husky, finishing the bandaging. "Dey try keel Marcel but he lay out two w'en he get de cut?"

The Husky nodded, "A-hah! I hear holler an' dey run on heem. He put all down. One in water, he get up an' cut heem wid knife. He fall and, whish! I spear dat one."

"By Gar! You good man wid de seal-spear, John Kovik." And Jules wrung the Esquimo's hand.

"I c.u.m fast een kayak to fight for heem; I too slow," and the Husky shook his head sadly.

"Ah, you c.u.m jus' een time. You save hees life."

The Husky placed a hand on the thick hair of the senseless man, as he said, "He ketch boy, Salmon Rive'. He frien' of me!"

Jean Marcel's bread upon the waters had returned to him.

With the unconscious Marcel in his arms, Jules Duroc climbed the cliff, the grateful Kovik at his heels, to meet the inhabitants of Whale River on the clearing. The news of the fight on the beach had spread swiftly through the post and many and fierce were the threats made against the Lelacs as they were shut in a small shack and placed under guard.

In front of the trade-house, Gillies, followed by McCain and Wallace, met Jules with his burden.

"How did this happen, Jules? Is he badly hurt?" demanded the factor.

Jules explained briefly.

"Stabbed in the back? Too bad! Too bad! Take him to the Mission Hospital."

"Well, Gillies, this settles it! The Lelacs go south for trial, now, and they won't need you as a witness either," announced Wallace.

"Yes, we'll have to get rid of them," admitted the factor. "They were crazy to do this after what has happened. I should have shut them up.

Too bad Jean didn't use his knife instead of his hands on them!"

"Or his feet!" added McCain. "The Husky says he put one Lelac out of business with a kick and choked the old man unconscious, when the one who was knocked into the river stabbed him. He fought them with his bare hands. I take off my hat to Jean Marcel."

"Who started this affair, anyway?" asked Wallace. "The Lelacs, under a cloud here, couldn't have dared to."

Gillies turned on his chief.

"What do we care who started it? Haven't they tried to ruin Marcel? I ordered him to keep away from them, but didn't he have sufficient cause to start--anything?"

"The Crees say the Lelacs got drunk on sugar-beer and were waiting for Jean to get back from down river," broke in McCain, fearing a row between Gillies and the Inspector. "John Kovik, the Husky, saw them rush him, and John got there in time to throw his seal-spear at young Lelac, after he had stabbed Marcel from behind."

"Oh, that explains it; Marcel was defending himself," said the ruffled Inspector.

"Yes, and you will notice, Mr. Wallace," rasped Gillies, "that Marcel fought them with his hands, until he was cut, one man against three. If he had used his knife on the old man, he wouldn't have been hurt. Does that prove what we've told you about him?"

It was at this point that Julie Breton and her brother, late in hearing the news, reached Jules carrying his burden, whose bandages were now reddening with blood.

"Oh, Jules, is he badly hurt?" cried the girl, peering in the dusk at the ashen face of Marcel. Then she noticed the bandages, and putting her hands to her face, moaned: "Jean Marcel, what have they done to you; what have they done to you?"

"Eet bleed hard, Ma'm'selle," Jules said softly, "but eet ees onlee een de shouldair. Don' cry, Ma'm'selle Julie!"

Supporting the sobbing girl, Pere Breton ordered:

"Carry him to the Mission, Jules."