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THE WHELPS
OF THE WOLF
By GEORGE MARSH
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with The Penn Publishing Company
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT
1922 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
The Whelps of the Wolf
Made in the U. S. of A.
Contents
I. THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO 9
II. THE END OF THE TRAIL 16
III. THE FRIEND OF DEMONS 30
IV. HOME AND JULIE BRETON 38
V. THE MOON OF FLOWERS 44
VI. FOR LOVE OF A DOG 51
VII. THE LONG TRAIL TO THE SOUTH COAST 64
VIII. THE MEETING IN THE MARSHES 69
IX. IN THE TEETH OF THE WINDS 79
X. THE CAMP ON THE GHOST 88
XI. THE WARNING IN THE WIND 94
XII. THE WORK OF THE WHITE WOLVES 98
XIII. POOR FLEUR 103
XIV. THE MARK OF THE BREED 108
XV. FOR LOVE OF A MAN 111
XVI. THE STARVING MOON 119
XVII. THE TURN OF THE TIDE 131
XVIII. SPRING AND FLEUR 135
XIX. WHEN THE ICE GOES SOFT 145
XX. THE DEAD MAN TELLS HIS TALE 150
XXI. THE BLIND CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE 157
XXII. IN THE DEPTHS 170
XXIII. IN THE EYES OF THE CREES 175
XXIV. ON THE CLIFFS 181
XXV. INSPECTOR WALLACE TAKES CHARGE 188
XXVI. THE WHELPS OF THE WOLF 193
XXVII. THE TRAP IS SPRUNG 198
XXVIII. BITTER-SWEET 212
XXIX. THE FANGS OF THE HALF-BREEDS 216
XXX. CREE JUSTICE 224
XXXI. THE WAY OF A DOG 228
XXXII. FROM THE FAR FRONTIERS 234
XXXIII. RENUNCIATION 238
XXXIV. THE VOICE OF THE WINDIGO 243
XXXV. RAW WOUNDS 253
XXXVI. DREAMS 259
XXXVII. FOR LOVE OF A GIRL 264
XXXVIII. THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE 270
XXXIX. THE HATE OF THE LONG SNOWS 280
XL. "HE'S GOT HIS MAN!" 290
XLI. AS YE SOW 296
The Whelps of the Wolf
CHAPTER I
THE LAND OF THE WINDIGO
The solitudes of the East Coast had shaken off the grip of the long
snows. A thousand streams and rivers choked with snow water from bleak
Ungava hills plunged and foamed and raced into the west, seeking the
salt Hudson's Bay, the "Big Water" of the Crees. In the lakes the
honeycombed ice was daily fading under the strengthening sun. Already,
here and there the buds of the willows reddened the river shores, while
the southern slopes of sun-warmed ridges were softening with the pale
green of the young leaves of birch and poplar. Long since, the armies of
the snowy geese had passed, bound for far Arctic islands; while marshes
and muskeg were vocal with the raucous clamor of the nesting gray goose.
In the air of the valleys hung the odor of wood mold and wet earth.
And one day, with the spring, returned Jean Marcel from his camp on the
Ghost, the northernmost tributary of the Great Whale to the bald ridge,
where, in March, he had seen the sun glitter on a broad expanse of level
snow unbroken by trees, in the hills to the north. His eyes had not
deceived him. The lake was there.
From his commanding position on the bare brow of the isolated mountain,
he looked out on a wilderness of timbered valleys, and high barrens
which rolled away endlessly into the north. Among these lay a large body
of water partly free of ice. Into the northeast he could trace the
divide--even make out where a small feeder of the Ghost headed on the
height of land. And he now knew that he looked upon the dread valleys of
the forbidden country of the Crees--the demon-haunted solitudes of the
land of the Windigo, whose dim, blue hills guarded a region of mystery
and terror--a wilderness, peopled in the tales of the medicine men, with
giant eaters of human flesh and spirits of evil, for generations, taboo
to the hunters of Whale River.
There was no doubt of it. The large lake he saw was a headwater of the
Big Salmon, the southern sources of which tradition placed in the
bad-lands north of the Ghost. Once his canoe floated in this lake, he
could work into the main river and find the Esquimos on the coast.
"Bien!" muttered the Frenchman, "I will go!"
Two days later, back in camp on the Ghost, Marcel announced to his
partners, Antoine Beaulieu and Joe Piquet, his intention of returning to
the Bay by the Big Salmon.
"W'at you say, Jean; you go home tru de Windigo countree?" cried Piquet,
his swart face blanched by the fear which the very mention of the
forbidden land aroused, while Antoine, speechless, stared wide-eyed.
"Oui, nord of de divide, I see beeg lac. Eet ees Salmon water for sure.
I portage cano' to dat lac and reach de coast by de riviere. You go wid
me an' get some dog?" Marcel smiled coolly into the sober faces of his
friends.
"Are you crazee, Jean Marcel?" protested Antoine. "De spirit have run de
game an' feesh away. De Windigo eat you before you fin' de Salmon, an'
eef he not get you first, you starve."
"Ver' well, you go back by de Whale; I go by Salmon an' meet de Husky. I
nevaire hunt anoder long snow widout dogs."
"Ah-hah! Dat ees good joke! You weel nevaire see de Husky," broke in
Piquet. "W'en _Matchi-Manitou_ ees tru wid you, de raven an' wolf peek
your bones, w'ile Antoine an' Joe dance at de spreeng trade wid de Cree
girl."
Ignoring the dire prediction, Marcel continued: "Good dog are all gone
at Whale Riviere Post from de maladie. De Husky have plenty dog. I meet
dem on de coast before dey reach Whale Riviere an' want too much fur for
dem. Maybe I starve; maybe I drown een de strong-water; maybe de Windigo
get me; but I go."
And he did.
With a shrug of contempt for the tales of the medicine men, dramatically
rehearsed with all the embellishment which the imagination of his
superstitious partners could invent, the following day Marcel started.
"Bo'-jo', Antoine!" he said, as he gripped his friend's hand. "I meet
you at Whale Riviere."
The face of Beaulieu only too patently reflected his thoughts as he
shook his head.
"Bo'-jo', Jean, I nevaire see you again."
"You are dead man, Jean," added Piquet; "we tell Julie Breton dat your
bones lie up dere." And the half-breed pointed north to the dim, blue
hills of dread.
So with fur-pack and outfit, and as much smoked caribou as he dared
carry, Marcel poled his canoe up the Ghost, later to portage across the
divide into the trailless land where, in the memory of living man, the
feet of no hunter of the Hudson's Bay Company had strayed.
It was a reckless venture--this attempt to reach the Bay through an
unknown country. The demons of the Cree conjurors he did not fear, for
his father and his mother's father, who had journeyed, starved, and
feasted in trailless lands, from Labrador to the great Barren Grounds,
had never seen one or heard the wailing of the Windigo in the night. But
what he did fear was the possibility of weeks of wandering in his search
for the main stream, lost in a labyrinth of headwater lakes where game
might be scarce and fish difficult to net. For his smoked meat would
take him but a short way, when his rifle and net would have to see him
through.
But the risk was worth taking. If he could reach the Esquimos on their
spring journey south to the post, before they learned of the scarcity of
dogs at Whale River, he could obtain huskies at a fair trade in fur. And
a dog-team was his heart's desire.
Portaging over the divide to the large lake, now clear of ice, Marcel
followed its winding outlet into the northwest. There were days when,
baffled by a maze of water routes in a network of lakes, he despaired of
finding the main stream. There were nights when he lay supperless by his
fire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the Oblat
Missionary at Whale River--nights when the forebodings of his partners
returned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of the
forest, or, across the valleys, drifted low wailing sobs, like the
grieving of a Cree mother for her dead child.
But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old
_coureurs-de-bois_. His parents, victims of the influenza which had
swept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of a
dauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly as
the roving wolverine and the lynx turned the night into what would have
been a thing of horror to the superstitious breeds.
When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found the
main stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Esquimos. Two
hundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June day
rounded the bend above a long white-water. The _voyageur_ ran the
rapids, rode the "boilers" at the foot of the last pitch and shot into
deep water again. But as he swung inshore to rid the craft of the slop
picked up in the churning "strong-water" behind him, Marcel's eyes
widened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His last
rapids had been run. He had reached his goal, for on the shore stood the
squat skin lodges of an Esquimo camp, and moving about on the beach, he
saw the shaggy objects of his quest.
The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in their
lair shaped a wide smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade at
Whale River, and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, a
pair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the chorus when the
dogs pointed their noses at the new moon.