THE TURN OF THE TIDE
Before dawn, a cold nose nuzzling his face buried in his robe, waked
Marcel.
"Fleur, hungry? Eet ees better to sleep w'en dere ees no breakfast," he
protested.
The warm tongue sought the face of the drowsy man, and the dog, not to
be put off, thrust her nose roughly into his robe, whimpering as she
pulled at his capote.
"Poor Fleur!" he muttered. "No more meat for de pup! Lie down! Jean ees
ver' tired."
But the dog, bent on arousing the master, grew only the more insistent.
Seizing an arm in her jaws, she dragged Marcel from his rabbit-skin
blankets.
As he sat upright, wide awake, Fleur sniffed long at the frosty air,
then dashed yelping into the dusk up the trail toward the barren.
Turning, she ran back to camp, whining excitedly.
"Tiens! W'at you smell, Fleur?" cried Marcel tearing his rifle with
shaking hands from its skin case and cramming cartridges into a pocket.
Could it be, he wondered, could it be the deer at last? No, only a
starving wolf or lynx, prowling near the camp, likely. But still he
would go! The love of life was yet strong in Jean Marcel now that a
gleam of hope warmed his heart.
Slipping his toes into the thongs of his snow-shoes, he made Fleur fast
to a tree, and started. He was so weak from lack of food that often he
was forced to stop in the climb, shaken by his hammering heart. At last,
exhausted, he dragged himself to the shoulder of the barren and on
unsteady legs moved along the edge of the scrub, his eyes straining to
pierce the wall of dusk which shut the plateau from his sight. But the
shadows still blanketed the barren; so testing the light wind, that he
might move directly out toward the game when the light grew stronger, he
sat down to save his strength for the stalk. Only too clearly, his
weakness warned him that it was his last hunt. By another day, even
though he managed the climb, his trembling hands would prevent the
lining of his sights on game.
As opal and rose faintly streaked the east, the teeth of the hunter,
waiting to read the fate daylight would disclose, chattered in the
stinging air. But a space now, and he would know whether he were to
creep back to his blankets and wait for stark despair to steady the hand
which would bring swift release for Fleur and himself, or whether meat,
food, life, were scraping with round-toed hooves the snow from the
caribou moss out there in the dim dawn.
Daylight filtered over the floor of snow to meet Marcel lying at the top
of a rise out on the barren, waiting. As the light at length opened up
the treeless miles, a sob shook the lean frame of the hunter. Tears
welled in the deep-set eyes to course down and freeze upon his face, for
there, on the snow before him, were the _blue-gray shapes of caribou_.
Three deer were feeding almost within range while farther out, gray
patches, moving on the snow, marked other bands. At last the spring
migration had reached him, and barely in time. He would see Whale River
again when June came north. And Fleur, fretting back there in camp at
his absence, after the lean days would revel and grow gigantic on deer
meat.
Painfully Marcel crawled within easy range of the nearest caribou. As he
attempted to line his sights in order to hit two with the first shot, as
he had often done, the waving of his gun barrel in his trembling hands
swept him cold with fear. The exertion of crawling to his position had
cruelly shaken his nerves. So he rested.
Then he carefully took aim. As he fired, his heart skipped a beat, for
he thought he had missed. But to his joy a caribou bounded from the
snow, ran a few feet and fell, while another, stopping to scent the air
before circling up-wind, gave him a second shot. The deer was badly hit
and the next shot brought it down.
The tension of the crisis passed, the shattered nerves relaxed, and for
a space the starving hunter lay limp in the snow. But warned by his
rapidly numbing fingers, he forced himself to his feet and went to the
deer. Out on the barren beyond the sound of his rifle scattered bands of
caribou were feeding. Meat to take them through the big "break-up" of
April was at hand. The lean face of Jean Marcel twisted into a grim
smile.
_He had beaten the long snows._
Stopping only to take the tongues and a piece of haunch, Marcel returned
to his hungry dog. Frantic with the faint scent of caribou brought by
the breeze off the barren, the famished Fleur chafed and fretted for his
return.
"Here, Fleur, see what Jean Marcel got for you!"
The husky, maddened by the scent of the blood-red meat, plunged at her
leash, her jaws dripping with slaver. Throwing her a chunk of frozen
haunch which she bolted greedily, Marcel filled his kettle with snow and
putting in a tongue and strips of steak to boil, lay down by his fire.