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, André 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 shore 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 shore. 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 shore. 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 space, there was much talk and shaking of heads; then he called to Jean to come ashore.
Grounding his canoe, Marcel gripped the hand of the grinning Kovik while the Huskies fell back eying them with mingled curiosity and fear.
"Husky say you bad spirit, Kovik say you son little chief, Whale River. W'ere you come?"
It was clear, now, why the Esquimos had not wiped him out. They had thought him a demon, for Esquimo tradition, as well as Cree, made the upper Salmon the abode of evil spirits.
"I look for hunteen ground, on de head of riviere," explained Jean, for the admission that he was in search of dogs would only defeat the purpose of his journey.
"Good dat Kovik come," returned the Esquimo. "Some say shoot you; some say you eat de bullet an' de Husky."
To this difference of opinion Marcel owed his life.
As Kovik finished his explanation, Jean laughed: "No, I camp wid no Windigo up riviere; but I starve."
At this gentle hint, Marcel was invited to join in the supper of boiled seal and goose which was waiting at the tepee. When Kovik had prevailed upon some of the older Esquimos to forget their fears and shake hands with the man who had appeared from the land of spirits, Jean stowed his outfit on the cache of the Husky, freed his canoe of water and placing it beside his packs, joined the family party. Shaking hands in turn with Kovik's grinning wife and children, who remembered him at Whale River, Marcel hungrily attacked the kettle, into which each dipped fingers and cup indiscriminately. Finishing, he passed a plug of Company nigger-head to his hosts and lit his own pipe.
"W'ere you' woman?" abruptly inquired the thick-set mother of many.
"No woman," replied Marcel, thinking of three spruce crosses in the Mission cemetery at Whale River.
"No woman, you? No dog?" pressed the curious wife of Kovik.
"No famile." And Jean told of the deaths of parents and younger brother, from the plague of the summer before. But he failed to mention the fact that most of the dogs at the post had been wiped out at the same time.
"Ah! Ah!" groaned the Huskies at the Frenchman's tale of the scourge which had swept the Hudson's Bay posts to the south.
"He good man—Marcel! He fr'en' of me!" lamented Kovik. Sucking his pipe, he gravely nodded again and again. Surely, he intimated, the Company had displeased the spirits of evil to have been so punished. Then he asked: "W'ere you dog?"
"On Whale Riviere," returned Jean grimly, referring to their bones; his eyes held by the great dogs sprawled about the beach. No such sled-dogs as these had he ever seen at the post, even with the Esquimos. But his grave face betrayed no sign of what was in his mind.
Massive of bone and frame, with coats unusually heavy, even for the far-famed Ungava breed, Jean noted the strength and size of these magnificent beasts as a horseman marks the points of a blooded colt. Somewhat apart from the other dogs of Kovik, tumbling and roughing each other, frolicked four clumsy puppies, while the mother, a great slate-gray and white animal, lay near, watching her progeny through eyes whose lower lids, edged with red, marked the wolf strain. While those slant eyes kept restless guard, to molest one of her leggy, yelping imps of Satan would have been the bearding of a hundred furies. The older dogs, evidently knowing the power in the snap of her white fangs, avoided the puppies.
One, in particular, Marcel noticed as they romped and roughed each other on the shore, or with a brave show of valor, noisily charged their recumbent mother, only to be sent about their business with the mild reprimand of a nip from her long fangs. Larger, and of sturdier build than her brothers, this puppy, in marking, was the counterpart of the mother, having the same slate-gray patches on head and back and wearing white socks. As he watched her bully her brothers, Jean resolved to buy that four-months'-old puppy.
As the northern twilight filled the river valley, the Huskies returned to the lodge, where Jean squeezed in between two younger members of the family whose characteristic aroma held sleep from the fatigued voyageur long enough for him to decide on a plan of action. Before he started to trade for dogs he must learn if the Esquimos knew that they were scarce at the fur-posts. If rumor of this relayed up the coast from Husky hunting party to hunting party, had reached them, he would be lucky to get even a puppy. They would send their spare dogs to the posts.
The following morning, at the suggestion of Kovik, Marcel set his gill-net for whitefish on the opposite shore of the wide river, as the younger Esquimos showed unmistakably by their actions that his presence at the salmon fishing, soon to begin, was resented. But Jean needed food for his journey down the coast and for the dogs he hoped to buy, so ignored the dark looks cast at the mysterious white man, the friend of Kovik. But not until evening did he casually suggest to the Husky that he had more dogs than he could feed through the summer.
The broad face of Kovik widened in a mysterious smile as he asked: "You geeve black fox for dog?"
Marcel's hopes fell at the words. It was an unheard of price for a dog. The Husky knew.
Masking his chagrin, the Frenchman laughed in ridicule:
"I geeve otter for dog."
Kovik shook his head, his narrowed eyes wrinkling in amusement. "No husky W'ale Riv'—For' Geor'. Me trade husky W'ale Riv'."
It was useless to bargain further. The Husky knew the value of his dogs at the posts, and Jean could not afford to rob his fur-pack to get one. There was much that he needed at Whale River—and then there was Julie. It was necessary to increase his credit with the Company to pay for the home he would some day build for Julie and himself. So, when Kovik promptly refused a valuable cross-fox pelt for a dog, the disheartened boy gave it up.
But after the toil and lean days of the long trail he had taken to meet the Esquimos, he could not return to Whale River empty handed. He coveted the slate-gray and white puppy. Never had he seen a husky of her age with such bone—such promise as a sled dog. And her spirit—at four months she would bare her puppy fangs at an infringement of her rights by an old dog, as though she already wore the scars of many a brawl. Handsomer than her brothers, leader of the litter by virtue of a build more rugged, a stronger will, she was the favorite of Kovik's children. That they would object to parting with her; that the Husky would demand an exorbitant price he now knew; but he was determined to have the puppy. However, he resolved to wait until the following day, renew the bargaining for a grown dog, then suddenly make an offer for the puppy.
The next morning Jean Marcel again offered a high price for a dog, but the smiling Husky would not relent. Then Marcel, pointing at the female puppy, offered the pelt of a marten for her.
To Jean's surprise, the owner refused to part with any of the litter. They would be better than the adult dogs—these children of the slate-gray husky—he said, and he would sell but one or two, even at Whale River, where the Company needed dogs badly and would pay more than Marcel could offer.
It was a bitter moment for the lad who had swung his canoe inshore at the Husky camp with such high hopes. And he realized that it would be useless to turn north from the mouth of the Salmon in search of dogs. Now that they had learned of conditions at the fur-posts, no Esquimos bound south for the spring trade would sell a dog at a reasonable price.
As the disheartened Marcel watched with envious eyes the puppies, which he realized were beyond his means to obtain, the cries from the shore of the eldest son of his host aroused the camp. Above them, in the chutes at the foot of the white-water, flashes of silver marked the leaping vanguards of the salmon run, on their way to spring-fed streams at the river's head.
Seizing their salmon spears the Esquimos hurried up-stream to take their stands on rocks which the fish might pass. Having no spear Jean watched the younger Kovik wade through the strong current out to a rock within spearing reach of a deep chute of black water. Presently the crouching lad drove his spear into the flume at his feet and was struggling on the rock with a large salmon. Killing the fish with his knife, he threw it, with a cry of triumph, to the beach. Again he waited, muscles tense, his right arm drawn back for the lunge. Again, as a silvery shape darted up the chute, the boy struck with his spear. But so anxious was he to drive the lance home, that, missing the fish, his lunge carried him head-first into the swift water.
With a shout of warning to those above, Jean Marcel ran down the beach. His canoe was out of reach on the cache with the Husky's kayak, and the clumsy skin umiak of the family was useless for quick work. In his sealskin boots and clothes the lad would be carried to the foot of the rapids and drowned. Jean reached the "boilers" below the white-water before the body of the helpless Esquimo appeared. Plunging into the ice-cold river he swam out into the current below the tail of the chute, and when the half-drowned lad floundered to the surface, seized him by his heavy hair. As they were swept down-stream an eddy threw their bodies together, and in spite of Marcel's desperate efforts, the arms of the Husky closed on him in vise-like embrace. Strong as he was, the Frenchman could not break the grip, and they sank.
The voyageur rose to the surface fighting to free himself from the clinging Esquimo, but in vain; then his sinewy fingers found the throat of the half-conscious boy and taking a long breath, he again went down with his burden. When the two came up Marcel was free. With a grip on the long hair of the now senseless lad he made the shore, and dragging the Husky from the water, stretched exhausted on the beach.
Shaking with cold he lay panting beside the still body of the boy, when the terrified Esquimos reached them.
The welcome heat of a large fire soon thawed the chill from the bones of Marcel; but the anxious parents desperately rolled and pounded the Husky, starting his blood and ridding his stomach of water, before he finally regained his voice, begging them to cease.
With the boy out of danger they turned to his rescuer, and only by vigorous objection did Marcel escape the treatment administered the Husky. He would prefer drowning, he protested with a grimace, to the pounding they had given the boy.
"You lak' seal in de water," cried the relieved father with admiration, when he had lavished his thanks upon Jean; for the Esquimos, although passing their lives on or near the water, because of its low temperature, never learn to swim.
"My fader taught me to swim een shallow lak' by Fort George," explained the modest Frenchman.
"He die, eef you no sweem lak' seal," added the grateful mother, her round face oily with sweat from the vigorous rubbing of her son, now snoring peacefully by the fire.
Then the Huskies returned to their fishing, for precious time was being wasted. The boy's spear was found washed up on the beach and loaned to Jean, who labored the remainder of the day spearing salmon for his journey down the coast.
That evening, after supper, Jean sat on a stone in front of the tepee watching the active puppies. Inside the skin lodge the Esquimo and his wife conversed in low tones. Shortly they appeared and Kovik, grinning from long side-lock to side-lock, said:
"You good man! You trade dat dog?" He pointed at the large slate-gray puppy sprawled near them.
The dark features of Jean Marcel lighted with eagerness.
"I geeve two marten for de dog," he said, rising quickly.
The Husky turned to the woman, shaking his head.
Marcel's lip curled at the avarice of these people whose son he had so recently snatched from death.
Then Kovik, seemingly changing his mind, seized the puppy by the loose skin of her neck and dragged her, protesting vigorously, to Jean, while the mother dog came trotting up, ears erect, curious of what the master she feared was doing with her progeny.
"Dees you' dog!" said the Esquimo.
Marcel patted the back of the puppy, still in the grasp of her owner, while she muttered her wrath at the touch of the stranger. Although they owed him much, he thought, yet these Huskies wished to make him pay dearly for the dog. Still he was glad to get her, even at such a price. So he went to the cache, loosened the lashings of his fur-pack, and returned with two prime marten pelts, offering them to the Esquimo.
Again Kovik's round face was divided by a grin. The wrinkles radiated from the narrow eyes which snapped.
"You lak' seal in riv'—ketch boy. Tak' de dog—we no want skin." And shaking his head, the Husky pushed away the pelts.
Slowly the face of Marcel changed with surprise as he sensed the import of Kovik's words. They were making him a present of the dog.
"You—you geeve to me—dese puppy?" he stammered, staring into the grinning face of the Esquimo, delighted with the success of his little ruse.
Kovik nodded.
"T'anks, t'anks!" cried Jean, his eyes suspiciously moist as he wrung the Husky's hand, then seized that of the chuckling woman. "You are good people; I not forget de Kovik."
He had done these honest Esquimos a wrong. Now, after the fear of defeat, and the bitterness, the puppy he had coveted was his. He was not to return to Whale River empty handed, the laughing-stock of his partners. It had been indeed worth while, his plunge into the bad-lands, for in two years he would have the dog-team of his dreams. Some day this four-months-old puppy should make the fortune of Jean Marcel.
But little he realized, as he exulted in his good luck, how vital a part in his life, and in the life of Julie Breton, this wild puppy with the white socks was to play.