Gillies took the telescope and looked for a long space. Suddenly to those who watched him, waiting for his report, his hand visibly shook. Turning to Jules, he bellowed:
"Jules, you travel like all hell for that dog-team! God only knows how they got here alive, but there's only one lead-dog on this coast that reaches to a man's middle. That team crawling in out there is Jean Marcel's—God bless him!—and he's got his man!"
With a roar Jules leaped on the sled and lashed the team headlong down the cliff trail to the ice. Madly they raced down-river under the spur of the rawhide goad.
"Run to the Mission, someone, and tell Père Breton that Jean Marcel is back!" continued Gillies. At the words, willing feet started with the message.
The eyes of Colin Gillies were blurred as he watched through the glass the slow approach of those who had but lately fought free from the maw of the pitiless snows. Now he could recognize the massive lead-dog, limping at a slow walk, her great head down. Behind her swayed the crippled whelps of the wolf, tails brushing the ice, tongues lolling as they swung their lowered heads from side to side, battling through the last mile on stiffened legs, giving their last ounce at the call of their gaunt master who reeled behind them. Far in the rear a tall figure barely moved along the trail.
At the yelp of Jules' approaching team the dogs of Marcel pricked drooping ears. Stopping them, Jean waited for Hunter.
"Dey sen' team. Eet ees ovair, M'sieu! We mak' Whale Riviere een t'ree day and half, but she—she may not be dere."
Too tired to speak, Hunter slumped on the sled. With a yell, Jules reached Marcel and gathered him into his arms.
"By Gar, Jean! You crazee fool; you stop for noding! Tiens! I damn glad to see you, Jean Marcel!"
The fearful Marcel gasped out the question, "Julie! Ees she dere? Does she leeve?"