The Whelps of the Wolf Part 28

the factor asked, shaking Marcel's hand.

"Yes, M'sieu, my team ees stronger team dan Baptiste's."

"When do you start?"

"Een leetle tam; I jus' feed my dogs."

"Are they in good shape? They must be tired from the river trail."

"Dey will fly, M'sieu."

"Thank heaven for that, lad. We've got just one good dog left in the mail team--the one you gave me. The rest are scrubs and they came in to-day dead beat. Two of our Ungavas died in November."

"M'sieu," said Marcel quietly, "my dogs will make For' George een t'ree days."

"It's never been done, Jean, but I hope you will."

When Marcel brought his refreshed dogs to the trade-house an hour later for his rations, a silent group of men awaited him. As Fleur trotted up, ears p.r.i.c.ked, mystified at being routed out and harnessed in the dark, after she had eaten and curled up for the night, they were eagerly inspected by the factor.

"Why, the pups have grown inches since you left here in August, Jean.

They're almost as big as Fleur, now," said Gillies, throwing the light from his lantern on the team.

"Tiens! Dat two rear dog look lak' timber wolves," cried Jules, as Colin and Angus turned their red-lidded, amber eyes lazily toward him, opening cavernous mouths in wide yawns, for they were still sleepy.

Fleur, alive to the subdued tones of Jean Marcel and sensing something unusual, muzzled her master's hand for answer.

"What a team! What a team!" exclaimed McCain. "Never have the Huskies brought four such dogs here. They ought to walk away with a thousand pounds. Are they fast, Jean?"

"Dey can take a thousand all day, M'sieu. W'en you see me again, you will know how fast dey are. A'voir!" Marcel gripped the hands of the others, then turned to Pere Breton, the muscles of his dark face working with suffering.

"Father," he said, "if she should wake and can understand, tell her--tell her to wait--a little longer till Jean and Fleur return.

If--if she--cannot wait for us--tell her that Fleur and Jean Marcel will follow her--out to the sunset."

Then he turned, cracked his whip, hoa.r.s.ely shouted: "Marche, Fleur!" and disappeared with his dogs into the night.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE

One hundred and fifty miles down the wind-hara.s.sed East Coast, was a man who could save Julie Breton. The mind of Marcel held one thought only as his hurrying dogs loped down the river trail to the Bay. Dark though it was, for the stars were veiled, Fleur never faltered, keeping the trail by instinct and the feel of her feet.

Reaching the Bay the trail swung south skirting the beach, often cutting inland to avoid circling long points and shoulders of sh.o.r.e; at the Cape of the Winds--the midwinter vortex of unleashed Arctic blasts--making a deep cut to the sheltered valley of the Little Salmon. Marcel was too dog-wise to push his huskies as they swung south on the sea-ice, for no sled-dogs work well after eating.

As the late moon slowly lifted, he shook his head, for it was a moon of snow. If only the weather held until he could bring his man from Fort George, but fate was against him. That he could average fifty miles a day going and coming, with the light sled, he was confident. He knew what hearts beat in those s.h.a.ggy b.r.e.a.s.t.s in front--what stamina he had never put to the supreme test, lay in their ma.s.sive frames. He knew that Fleur would set her sons a pace, at the call of Jean Marcel, that would eat the frozen miles to Fort George, as they had never before slid past a dog-runner. But once a December norther struck down upon them on their return, burying the trail in drift, with its shot-like drive in the teeth 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 his dogs, but the warning of the ringed moon flicked him with fear, as a whiplash stings a lagging husky. It meant in December, snow and wind. He must race that wind to the lee of Big Island, so he pushed on through the night over the frozen sh.e.l.l of the Bay, stopping only once to boil tea and rest his over-willing dogs.

As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskies with ice-hung lips and flews swung in from the trail skirting the lee sh.o.r.e of Big Island and the driver in belted caribou capote, a rim of ice from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire from cedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican, and feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constant toil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind.

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

In early afternoon as the sun buried itself in the ice-fields, m.u.f.fled rays 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, on the short-cut across the Cape.

As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With their superb vitality and staying power, they had travelled steadily through the 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 the weather 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 a hard trail and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snow and wind hanging over him, he travelled with a heavy heart.

On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icy trail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that a December blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike down upon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night.

Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by the iron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood of timber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel to push on and on, responded with all her matchless stamina.

At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, he thought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas indeed for Jean Marcel.

Then he slept. The next afternoon as they pa.s.sed Wastikun, the Isle of Graves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on the dog-team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel, knowing what miles of drifts; what toil breaking trail to give footing to his team in the soft snow; what days of battling the drive of the wind whipping their faces with needle-pointed fury, awaited their return, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might now reach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had not waited, but over weary, had gone out into the sunset.

In the early evening, forty-eight hours out of Whale River, four white wraiths of huskies with a ghost-like driver, turned in to the trade-house at Fort George. The spent dogs lay down, dropping their frosted masks in the snow, the froth from their mouths r.i.m.m.i.n.g their lips with ice.

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

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

At the mention of Whale River, the man who had been in conversation with McKenzie behind the counter, also rose to his feet. And Marcel, who had not seen his face, now recognized him. It was Inspector Wallace.

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

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

The narrowed eyes of Marcel watched the face of Wallace contract with pain 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 not leeve many day onless she have help."

"Why, man, I can't believe it. It's never been done. When did you sleep?" 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 needed attention, then stopped to stare in wonder at Wallace, who had slumped into a chair, head in hands. For a moment the hunter looked at the inert Inspector; then his lip curled, his frost-blackened face reflecting his scorn, as he said: