The amazed Michel stared at the white demon in the fox trap with open mouth. "I t'ink—dat h'owl—de Windigo for sure," he stuttered.
"I nevaire hear de h'owl cry dat way myself, Michel, but I know dat Fleur and my gun mak' any Windigo een dees countree look whiter dan dat bird. W'en we come near dees place I expect somet'ing een dat fox trap."
And strangely, through the remaining moons of the long snows, the sleep of the lad was not again disturbed by the wailing of Windigos seeking to devour a young half-breed Cree by the name of Michel Beaulieu.
CHAPTER XXXV
RAW WOUNDS
June once again found Marcel paddling into Whale River. The sight of the high-roofed Mission, where, in the past, he had known so much of joy and pain, quickened his stroke. He wondered whether she had gone away with Wallace at Christmas, or whether there would be a wedding when the trade was over and the steamer would take them to East Main. Avoiding the Mission until he had learned from Jules what he so longed to know, Marcel went up to the trade-house where he found Gillies and McCain. Too proud to speak of what was nearest his heart, he told his friends of his winter in the Salmon country. It had paid him well, his long portage from the Ghost, the previous September, to the untrapped valleys to the north. When, unlashing his fur-pack, he tossed on the counter three glossy black-fox pelts and six skins of soft silver-gray, alone worth well over a thousand dollars, even at the low prices of the far north, the eyes of Gillies and Angus McCain bulged in amazement. Cross fox, shading from the black of the back and shoulder to rich mahogany, followed; dark sheeny marten—the Hudson's Bay sable of commerce—and thick gray pelts of the fisher. Otter, lynx and mink made up the balance of the fur.
"Great Scott! the Salmon headwaters must be alive with fur!" exclaimed Gillies examining the skins, "and most of them are prime."
"Dere ees much fur een dat country," laughed Jean, "eef de Windigo don' ketch you, eh, Michel?"