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?"