THE END OF THE TRAIL
In his joy at his good luck, Marcel had momentarily forgotten the
ancient feud between the Esquimo and the Cree. Then he realized his
position. These rapids of the Salmon were an age-old fishing ground of
the Esquimos, who, with their dogs, are called "Huskies." No birch-bark
had ever run the broken waters behind him--no Indian hunted so far
north. If among these people there were any who traded at Whale River
where Cree and Esquimo met in amity, they would recognize the son of the
old Company head man, Andre Marcel, and welcome him. But should they
chance to be wild Huskies who did not come south to the post, they would
mistake him for a Cree, and resenting his entering their territory,
attack him.
Drawing his rifle from its skin case, he placed it at his feet and poled
slowly toward the shore where a bedlam of howls from the dogs signalled
his approach. The clamor quickly emptied the lodges scattered along the
beach. A group of Huskies, armed with rifle and seal spear, now watched
the strange craft. So close was the canoe that only by a miracle could
Marcel hope to escape down-stream if they started shooting.
Alive to his danger, the Frenchman snubbed his boat, leaning on his
pole, while his anxious eyes searched for a familiar figure in the
skin-clad throng, who talked and gesticulated in evident excitement. But
among them he found no friendly face.
Was it for this he had slaved overland to the Salmon and starved through
the early spring--a miserable death; when he had won through to his
goal--when the yelps of the dogs he sought rang in his ears? Surely,
among these Huskies, there were some who traded at the post.
"Kekway!" he called, "I am white man from Whale River!"
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?"
It was clear, now, why the Esquimos had not wiped him out. They had
thought him a demon, for Esquimo tradition, as well as Cree, made the
upper Salmon the abode of evil spirits.
"I look for hunteen ground, on de head of riviere," explained Jean, for
the admission that he was in search of dogs would only defeat the
purpose of his journey.
"Good dat Kovik come," returned the Esquimo. "Some say shoot you; some
say you eat de bullet an' de Husky."
To this difference of opinion Marcel owed his life.
As Kovik finished his explanation, Jean laughed: "No, I camp wid no
Windigo up riviere; but I starve."
At this gentle hint, Marcel was invited to join in the supper of boiled
seal and goose which was waiting at the tepee. When Kovik had prevailed
upon some of the older Esquimos to forget their fears and shake hands
with the man who had appeared from the land of spirits, Jean stowed his
outfit on the cache of the Husky, freed his canoe of water and placing
it beside his packs, joined the family party. Shaking hands in turn with
Kovik's grinning wife and children, who remembered him at Whale River,
Marcel hungrily attacked the kettle, into which each dipped fingers and
cup indiscriminately. Finishing, he passed a plug of Company
nigger-head to his hosts and lit his own pipe.
"W'ere you' woman?" abruptly inquired the thick-set mother of many.
"No woman," replied Marcel, thinking of three spruce crosses in the
Mission cemetery at Whale River.
"No woman, you? No dog?" pressed the curious wife of Kovik.
"No famile." And Jean told of the deaths of parents and younger brother,
from the plague of the summer before. But he failed to mention the fact
that most of the dogs at the post had been wiped out at the same time.
"Ah! Ah!" groaned the Huskies at the Frenchman's tale of the scourge
which had swept the Hudson's Bay posts to the south.
"He good man--Marcel! He fr'en' of me!" lamented Kovik. Sucking his
pipe, he gravely nodded again and again. Surely, he intimated, the
Company had displeased the spirits of evil to have been so punished.
Then he asked: "W'ere you dog?"
"On Whale Riviere," returned Jean grimly, referring to their bones; his
eyes held by the great dogs sprawled about the beach. No such sled-dogs
as these had he ever seen at the post, even with the Esquimos. But his
grave face betrayed no sign of what was in his mind.
Massive of bone and frame, with coats unusually heavy, even for the
far-famed Ungava breed, Jean noted the strength and size of these
magnificent beasts as a horseman marks the points of a blooded colt.
Somewhat apart from the other dogs of Kovik, tumbling and roughing each
other, frolicked four clumsy puppies, while the mother, a great
slate-gray and white animal, lay near, watching her progeny through eyes
whose lower lids, edged with red, marked the wolf strain. While those
slant eyes kept restless guard, to molest one of her leggy, yelping imps
of Satan would have been the bearding of a hundred furies. The older
dogs, evidently knowing the power in the snap of her white fangs,
avoided the puppies.
One, in particular, Marcel noticed as they romped and roughed each other
on the shore, or with a brave show of valor, noisily charged their
recumbent mother, only to be sent about their business with the mild
reprimand of a nip from her long fangs. Larger, and of sturdier build
than her brothers, this puppy, in marking, was the counterpart of the
mother, having the same slate-gray patches on head and back and wearing
white socks. As he watched her bully her brothers, Jean resolved to buy
that four-months'-old puppy.
As the northern twilight filled the river valley, the Huskies returned
to the lodge, where Jean squeezed in between two younger members of the
family whose characteristic aroma held sleep from the fatigued
_voyageur_ long enough for him to decide on a plan of action. Before he
started to trade for dogs he must learn if the Esquimos knew that they
were scarce at the fur-posts. If rumor of this relayed up the coast from
Husky hunting party to hunting party, had reached them, he would be
lucky to get even a puppy. They would send their spare dogs to the
posts.
The following morning, at the suggestion of Kovik, Marcel set his
gill-net for whitefish on the opposite shore of the wide river, as the
younger Esquimos showed unmistakably by their actions that his presence
at the salmon fishing, soon to begin, was resented. But Jean needed food
for his journey down the coast and for the dogs he hoped to buy, so
ignored the dark looks cast at the mysterious white man, the friend of
Kovik. But not until evening did he casually suggest to the Husky that
he had more dogs than he could feed through the summer.
The broad face of Kovik widened in a mysterious smile as he asked: "You
geeve black fox for dog?"
Marcel's hopes fell at the words. It was an unheard of price for a dog.
The Husky knew.
Masking his chagrin, the Frenchman laughed in ridicule:
"I geeve otter for dog."
Kovik shook his head, his narrowed eyes wrinkling in amusement. "No
husky W'ale Riv'--For' Geor'. Me trade husky W'ale Riv'."
It was useless to bargain further. The Husky knew the value of his dogs
at the posts, and Jean could not afford to rob his fur-pack to get one.
There was much that he needed at Whale River--and then there was Julie.
It was necessary to increase his credit with the Company to pay for the
home he would some day build for Julie and himself. So, when Kovik
promptly refused a valuable cross-fox pelt for a dog, the disheartened
boy gave it up.
But after the toil and lean days of the long trail he had taken to meet
the Esquimos, he could not return to Whale River empty handed. He
coveted the slate-gray and white puppy. Never had he seen a husky of her
age with such bone--such promise as a sled dog. And her spirit--at four
months she would bare her puppy fangs at an infringement of her rights
by an old dog, as though she already wore the scars of many a brawl.
Handsomer than her brothers, leader of the litter by virtue of a build
more rugged, a stronger will, she was the favorite of Kovik's children.
That they would object to parting with her; that the Husky would demand
an exorbitant price he now knew; but he was determined to have the
puppy. However, he resolved to wait until the following day, renew the
bargaining for a grown dog, then suddenly make an offer for the puppy.
The next morning Jean Marcel again offered a high price for a dog, but
the smiling Husky would not relent. Then Marcel, pointing at the female
puppy, offered the pelt of a marten for her.
To Jean's surprise, the owner refused to part with any of the litter.
They would be better than the adult dogs--these children of the
slate-gray husky--he said, and he would sell but one or two, even at
Whale River, where the Company needed dogs badly and would pay more than
Marcel could offer.
It was a bitter moment for the lad who had swung his canoe inshore at
the Husky camp with such high hopes. And he realized that it would be
useless to turn north from the mouth of the Salmon in search of dogs.
Now that they had learned of conditions at the fur-posts, no Esquimos
bound south for the spring trade would sell a dog at a reasonable price.
As the disheartened Marcel watched with envious eyes the puppies, which
he realized were beyond his means to obtain, the cries from the shore of
the eldest son of his host aroused the camp. Above them, in the chutes
at the foot of the white-water, flashes of silver marked the leaping
vanguards of the salmon run, on their way to spring-fed streams at the
river's head.
Seizing their salmon spears the Esquimos hurried up-stream to take their
stands on rocks which the fish might pass. Having no spear Jean watched
the younger Kovik wade through the strong current out to a rock within
spearing reach of a deep chute of black water. Presently the crouching
lad drove his spear into the flume at his feet and was struggling on the
rock with a large salmon. Killing the fish with his knife, he threw it,
with a cry of triumph, to the beach. Again he waited, muscles tense, his
right arm drawn back for the lunge. Again, as a silvery shape darted up
the chute, the boy struck with his spear. But so anxious was he to drive
the lance home, that, missing the fish, his lunge carried him head-first
into the swift water.
With a shout of warning to those above, Jean Marcel ran down the beach.
His canoe was out of reach on the cache with the Husky's kayak, and the
clumsy skin umiak of the family was useless for quick work. In his
sealskin boots and clothes the lad would be carried to the foot of the
rapids and drowned. Jean reached the "boilers" below the white-water
before the body of the helpless Esquimo appeared. Plunging into the
ice-cold river he swam out into the current below the tail of the
chute, and when the half-drowned lad floundered to the surface, seized
him by his heavy hair. As they were swept down-stream an eddy threw
their bodies together, and in spite of Marcel's desperate efforts, the
arms of the Husky closed on him in vise-like embrace. Strong as he was,
the Frenchman could not break the grip, and they sank.
The _voyageur_ rose to the surface fighting to free himself from the
clinging Esquimo, but in vain; then his sinewy fingers found the throat
of the half-conscious boy and taking a long breath, he again went down
with his burden. When the two came up Marcel was free. With a grip on
the long hair of the now senseless lad he made the shore, and dragging
the Husky from the water, stretched exhausted on the beach.
Shaking with cold he lay panting beside the still body of the boy, when
the terrified Esquimos reached them.
The welcome heat of a large fire soon thawed the chill from the bones of
Marcel; but the anxious parents desperately rolled and pounded the
Husky, starting his blood and ridding his stomach of water, before he
finally regained his voice, begging them to cease.
With the boy out of danger they turned to his rescuer, and only by
vigorous objection did Marcel escape the treatment administered the
Husky. He would prefer drowning, he protested with a grimace, to the
pounding they had given the boy.
"You lak' seal in de water," cried the relieved father with admiration,
when he had lavished his thanks upon Jean; for the Esquimos, although
passing their lives on or near the water, because of its low
temperature, never learn to swim.
"My fader taught me to swim een shallow lak' by Fort George," explained
the modest Frenchman.
"He die, eef you no sweem lak' seal," added the grateful mother, her
round face oily with sweat from the vigorous rubbing of her son, now
snoring peacefully by the fire.
Then the Huskies returned to their fishing, for precious time was being
wasted. The boy's spear was found washed up on the beach and loaned to
Jean, who labored the remainder of the day spearing salmon for his
journey down the coast.
That evening, after supper, Jean sat on a stone in front of the tepee
watching the active puppies. Inside the skin lodge the Esquimo and his
wife conversed in low tones. Shortly they appeared and Kovik, grinning
from long side-lock to side-lock, said:
"You good man! You trade dat dog?" He pointed at the large slate-gray
puppy sprawled near them.
The dark features of Jean Marcel lighted with eagerness.
"I geeve two marten for de dog," he said, rising quickly.
The Husky turned to the woman, shaking his head.
Marcel's lip curled at the avarice of these people whose son he had so
recently snatched from death.
Then Kovik, seemingly changing his mind, seized the puppy by the loose
skin of her neck and dragged her, protesting vigorously, to Jean, while
the mother dog came trotting up, ears erect, curious of what the master
she feared was doing with her progeny.
"Dees you' dog!" said the Esquimo.
Marcel patted the back of the puppy, still in the grasp of her owner,
while she muttered her wrath at the touch of the stranger. Although they
owed him much, he thought, yet these Huskies wished to make him pay
dearly for the dog. Still he was glad to get her, even at such a price.
So he went to the cache, loosened the lashings of his fur-pack, and
returned with two prime marten pelts, offering them to the Esquimo.
Again Kovik's round face was divided by a grin. The wrinkles radiated
from the narrow eyes which snapped.
"You lak' seal in riv'--ketch boy. Tak' de dog--we no want skin." And
shaking his head, the Husky pushed away the pelts.
Slowly the face of Marcel changed with surprise as he sensed the import
of Kovik's words. They were making him a present of the dog.
"You--you geeve to me--dese puppy?" he stammered, staring into the
grinning face of the Esquimo, delighted with the success of his little
ruse.
Kovik nodded.
"T'anks, t'anks!" cried Jean, his eyes suspiciously moist as he wrung
the Husky's hand, then seized that of the chuckling woman. "You are good
people; I not forget de Kovik."
He had done these honest Esquimos a wrong. Now, after the fear of
defeat, and the bitterness, the puppy he had coveted was his. He was not
to return to Whale River empty handed, the laughing-stock of his
partners. It had been indeed worth while, his plunge into the bad-lands,
for in two years he would have the dog-team of his dreams. Some day this
four-months-old puppy should make the fortune of Jean Marcel.
But little he realized, as he exulted in his good luck, how vital a part
in his life, and in the life of Julie Breton, this wild puppy with the
white socks was to play.