Close by, a kayak silently slid to the shore 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 cum fast een kayak to fight for heem; I too slow," and the Husky shook his head sadly.