He went steadily on through the dense forests, where the blasts of wind shrieked in the spruce, pine, and hemlock; down by frozen brooks, where the snow was banked in deep drifts; up over hills, where the full force of the storm struck him, hurling the biting frost in his face and eyes; across the big barrens, where he had to lean against the fierce gusts that swept everything from their path except him. On a rise of land he stopped, breathing hard from his fast pace. He looked back. Nothing but hurtling masses of white met his eyes. “Bon Dieu!” he groaned and faced his course again. The woollen muffler about his neck was damp with sweat, and his body was as if on fire; nature rebelled, the powerful legs weakened and trembled slightly, but his iron will overcame all and it forced the weary body on and on. He did not stop again, either for food or rest, but raced ahead as though escaping some awful fate. His face was blotched with the gray of the cold; the eyes shone with undimmed strength. “Allez! Allez!” Jules said to himself when he felt his strength lagging. The physical pain alleviated the agony of his mind, dulled it into semi-consciousness. All the next day he travelled ceaselessly; the shoe thongs wore their way through the heavy moccasins into the flesh, but Jules did not know it.
At last he crossed Petite Rivière la Biche, and went through the forests that surrounded his home. Staggering, he came into the little clearing, hungry, faint, exhausted body and soul, and stopped, leaning against a tree.
The camp had been destroyed. The walls were pulled down and the logs scattered about; ashes here and there showed how an attempt had been made to burn it, but had failed. Jules looked and scarcely understood; then a new vigour came to him, and he searched among the fallen logs, and found the child’s woollen cap crushed under the snow. He kissed it. “Marie! Marie!” he groaned, then the will overpowered the body again. “Non! Je suis content,” he whispered. There was no pemmican or food of any kind among the ruins. The gnawing pangs of hunger forced themselves on him; he held up his hand and looked at it; it shook strangely. “Verbaux, you do vat Ah say!” The will spoke aloud to the worn body. “Ah go maintenant to Poste Fond du Lac for somme t’ing to h’eat; dat ees l’autre compagnie; but mabbe dey not know Jules!” And he went on to the westward. The storm was dying away; the snow fell in smaller flakes and less thickly, but it lay deep on the ground, and Jules dragged his wide snow-shoes painfully along, stopping often. The strong face was drawn with pain, great shadows had grown about the eyes, and deep lines scarred the under lip and high forehead. The gray eyes themselves were undimmed, and the will master as always. He crossed one of his trap-lines and went along it, looking, hoping for something to satisfy the wild cravings of his stomach. In one trap he found a wolverine; he tore the throat open and sucked the cold, sluggish blood. “C’est—bon!” he said as he felt a little strength creeping over him. He cut off the haunches and chewed the red meat as he travelled on. At night he stopped and rested for the first time in three days. He lay down uncovered and slept in an instant. It was broad daylight when he hastened on. All day he travelled, his snow-shoes rising and falling ceaselessly, though his ankles were raw and bleeding. That night he saw the lights of the Hudson Bay Company’s post, Fond du Lac, before him. He watched them for an instant from a hill-barren. “Eef dey know Jules dere, alors—c’est—finis,” he said, and went on slowly to the post. The gate was closed; he listened, but heard only subdued voices within. Then he knocked heavily with his fist. Some one came across the yard and the gate swung open; a big Slave Indian looked at him.
“Has-sa-tch? [Your name?]” he inquired. “Le Chassè’,” answered Jules. “Facteur?” he continued. Silently the Indian closed the gate and led the way across to a big log building. He went in, Jules following. “Sa-ner,” the Indian said briefly to a tall white man, and turned away.
“Who air ye?” the factor asked.
“Canadien, Le Chassè’.”
“What do ye want?” The factor’s questions were sharp and curt.
“Somme t’ing to h’eat—am hongree,” Jules answered.
“Where did ye come from?”
“Poste Reliance.”