The Whelps of the Wolf.

by George Marsh.

CHAPTER I

THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO

The solitudes of the East Coast had shaken off the grip of the long snows. A thousand streams and rivers choked with snow water from bleak Ungava hills plunged and foamed and raced into the west, seeking the salt Hudson's Bay, the "Big Water" of the Crees. In the lakes the honeycombed ice was daily fading under the strengthening sun. Already, here and there the buds of the willows reddened the river sh.o.r.es, while the southern slopes of sun-warmed ridges were softening with the pale green of the young leaves of birch and poplar. Long since, the armies of the snowy geese had pa.s.sed, bound for far Arctic islands; while marshes and muskeg were vocal with the raucous clamor of the nesting gray goose.

In the air of the valleys hung the odor of wood mold and wet earth.

And one day, with the spring, returned Jean Marcel from his camp on the Ghost, the northernmost tributary of the Great Whale to the bald ridge, where, in March, he had seen the sun glitter on a broad expanse of level snow unbroken by trees, in the hills to the north. His eyes had not deceived him. The lake was there.

From his commanding position on the bare brow of the isolated mountain, he looked out on a wilderness of timbered valleys, and high barrens which rolled away endlessly into the north. Among these lay a large body of water partly free of ice. Into the northeast he could trace the divide--even make out where a small feeder of the Ghost headed on the height of land. And he now knew that he looked upon the dread valleys of the forbidden country of the Crees--the demon-haunted solitudes of the land of the Windigo, whose dim, blue hills guarded a region of mystery and terror--a wilderness, peopled in the tales of the medicine men, with giant eaters of human flesh and spirits of evil, for generations, taboo to the hunters of Whale River.

There was no doubt of it. The large lake he saw was a headwater of the Big Salmon, the southern sources of which tradition placed in the bad-lands north of the Ghost. Once his canoe floated in this lake, he could work into the main river and find the Esquimos on the coast.

"Bien!" muttered the Frenchman, "I will go!"

Two days later, back in camp on the Ghost, Marcel announced to his partners, Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, his intention of returning to the Bay by the Big Salmon.

"W'at you say, Jean; you go home tru de Windigo countree?" cried Piquet, his swart face blanched by the fear which the very mention of the forbidden land aroused, while Antoine, speechless, stared wide-eyed.

"Oui, nord of de divide, I see beeg lac. Eet ees Salmon water for sure.

I portage cano' to dat lac and reach de coast by de riviere. You go wid me an' get some dog?" Marcel smiled coolly into the sober faces of his friends.

"Are you crazee, Jean Marcel?" protested Antoine. "De spirit have run de game an' feesh away. De Windigo eat you before you fin' de Salmon, an'

eef he not get you first, you starve."

"Ver' well, you go back by de Whale; I go by Salmon an' meet de Husky. I nevaire hunt anoder long snow widout dogs."

"Ah-hah! Dat ees good joke! You weel nevaire see de Husky," broke in Piquet. "W'en _Matchi-Manitou_ ees tru wid you, de raven an' wolf peek your bones, w'ile Antoine an' Joe dance at de spreeng trade wid de Cree girl."

Ignoring the dire prediction, Marcel continued: "Good dog are all gone at Whale Riviere Post from de maladie. De Husky have plenty dog. I meet dem on de coast before dey reach Whale Riviere an' want too much fur for dem. Maybe I starve; maybe I drown een de strong-water; maybe de Windigo get me; but I go."

And he did.

With a shrug of contempt for the tales of the medicine men, dramatically rehea.r.s.ed with all the embellishment which the imagination of his superst.i.tious partners could invent, the following day Marcel started.

"Bo'-jo', Antoine!" he said, as he gripped his friend's hand. "I meet you at Whale Riviere."

The face of Beaulieu only too patently reflected his thoughts as he shook his head.

"Bo'-jo', Jean, I nevaire see you again."

"You are dead man, Jean," added Piquet; "we tell Julie Breton dat your bones lie up dere." And the half-breed pointed north to the dim, blue hills of dread.

So with fur-pack and outfit, and as much smoked caribou as he dared carry, Marcel poled his canoe up the Ghost, later to portage across the divide into the trailless land where, in the memory of living man, the feet of no hunter of the Hudson's Bay Company had strayed.

It was a reckless venture--this attempt to reach the Bay through an unknown country. The demons of the Cree conjurors he did not fear, for his father and his mother's father, who had journeyed, starved, and feasted in trailless lands, from Labrador to the great Barren Grounds, had never seen one or heard the wailing of the Windigo in the night. But what he did fear was the possibility of weeks of wandering in his search for the main stream, lost in a labyrinth of headwater lakes where game might be scarce and fish difficult to net. For his smoked meat would take him but a short way, when his rifle and net would have to see him through.

But the risk was worth taking. If he could reach the Esquimos on their spring journey south to the post, before they learned of the scarcity of dogs at Whale River, he could obtain huskies at a fair trade in fur. And a dog-team was his heart's desire.

Portaging over the divide to the large lake, now clear of ice, Marcel followed its winding outlet into the northwest. There were days when, baffled by a maze of water routes in a network of lakes, he despaired of finding the main stream. There were nights when he lay supperless by his fire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the Oblat Missionary at Whale River--nights when the forebodings of his partners returned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of the forest, or, across the valleys, drifted low wailing sobs, like the grieving of a Cree mother for her dead child.

But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old _coureurs-de-bois_. His parents, victims of the influenza which had swept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of a dauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly as the roving wolverine and the lynx turned the night into what would have been a thing of horror to the superst.i.tious breeds.

When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found the main stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Esquimos. Two hundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June day rounded the bend above a long white-water. The _voyageur_ ran the rapids, rode the "boilers" at the foot of the last pitch and shot into deep water again. But as he swung insh.o.r.e to rid the craft of the slop picked up in the churning "strong-water" behind him, Marcel's eyes widened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His last rapids had been run. He had reached his goal, for on the sh.o.r.e stood the squat skin lodges of an Esquimo camp, and moving about on the beach, he saw the s.h.a.ggy objects of his quest.

The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in their lair shaped a wide smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade at Whale River, and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, a pair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the chorus when the dogs pointed their noses at the new moon.

CHAPTER II

THE END OF THE TRAIL

In his joy at his good luck, Marcel had momentarily forgotten the ancient feud between the Esquimo and the Cree. Then he realized his position. These rapids of the Salmon were an age-old fishing ground of the Esquimos, who, with their dogs, are called "Huskies." No birch-bark had ever run the broken waters behind him--no Indian hunted so far north. If among these people there were any who traded at Whale River where Cree and Esquimo met in amity, they would recognize the son of the old Company head man, Andre Marcel, and welcome him. But should they chance to be wild Huskies who did not come south to the post, they would mistake him for a Cree, and resenting his entering their territory, attack him.

Drawing his rifle from its skin case, he placed it at his feet and poled slowly toward the sh.o.r.e where a bedlam of howls from the dogs signalled his approach. The clamor quickly emptied the lodges scattered along the beach. A group of Huskies, armed with rifle and seal spear, now watched the strange craft. So close was the canoe that only by a miracle could Marcel hope to escape down-stream if they started shooting.

Alive to his danger, the Frenchman snubbed his boat, leaning on his pole, while his anxious eyes searched for a familiar figure in the skin-clad throng, who talked and gesticulated in evident excitement. But among them he found no friendly face.

Was it for this he had slaved overland to the Salmon and starved through the early spring--a miserable death; when he had won through to his goal--when the yelps of the dogs he sought rang in his ears? Surely, among these Huskies, there were some who traded at the post.

"Kekway!" he called, "I am white man from Whale River!"

The muscles of Jean Marcel set, tense as wire cables, as he watched for a hostile movement from the Huskies, silenced by his shout. Seemingly surprised by his action, no answer was returned from the sh.o.r.e. Slowly his hopes died. They were wild Esquimos and would show no mercy to the supposed Cree invader of their hereditary fishing ground.

But still the movement which the Frenchman's roving eyes awaited, was delayed. Not a gun in the whispering throng on the beach was raised; not a word in Esquimo addressed to the stranger. Mystified, desperate from the strain of the suspense, Marcel called again, this time in post Husky:

"I am white man, from the fort at Whale River. Is there one among you who trades there?"

At the words, the tension of the sullen group seemed to relax. Pointing to a thick-set figure striding up the beach, a Husky shouted:

"There is one who goes to Whale River!"

The _voyageur_ expelled the air from his lungs with relief. Too long, with pounding heart, he had steeled himself to face erect, swift death from the near sh.o.r.e. A wrong move, and a hail of lead would have emptied his canoe. Then to his joy he recognized the man who approached.

"Kovik!" he shouted. "Eet ees Jean Marcel from Whale Riviere!"

The Husky waved his hand to Marcel, joined his comrades, and, for a s.p.a.ce, there was much talk and shaking of heads; then he called to Jean to come ash.o.r.e.

Grounding his canoe, Marcel gripped the hand of the grinning Kovik while the Huskies fell back eying them with mingled curiosity and fear.