DREAMS
Christmas was but a week distant. For the first time in years Jean
Marcel possessed a dog-team, and through the long December nights he had
come to a decision to talk to Julie Breton once more, as in the old
days, before she left Whale River forever.
Led by Fleur, Colin, Angus and Jules, now grown to huge huskies, already
abreast of their mother in height and bulk of bone, and showing the wolf
strain in their rangy gait and in red lower-lids of their amber eyes,
were jingling down the river trail to the festivities at the post. For,
from Fort Chimo, west across the wide north, to Rampart House, Christmas
and New Years are kept. From far and wide come dog-teams of the red
hunters down the frozen river trails for the feasting and merrymaking at
the fur-posts. Two weeks, "fourteen sleeps" on the trail, going and
coming, is not held by many a hardy hunter and his family too high a
price to pay for a few short days of trading and gossip and dancing.
There are many who trap too far from the posts and in country too
inaccessible to make the journey possible, but throughout the white
desolation of the fur lands the spirit of Christmas is strong and yearly
the frozen valleys echo to the tinkling of the bells of dog-teams and
the laughter of the children of the snows.
Over the beaten river trail, ice-hardened by the passage of many sleds
preceding them, romped Fleur and her sons, toying with the weight of the
two men and the food bags on the sled. At times, Jean and Michel ran
behind the team to stretch their legs and start their chilled blood, for
it was forty below zero. But to the dogs, travelling without wind at
forty below on a beaten trail, was sheer delight. Often, on the high
barrens of the Salmon they had slept soundly in their snow holes at
minus sixty.
As Jean watched his great lead-dog, her thick coat of slate-gray and
white glossy with superb vitality, set a pace for her rangy sons which
sent the white miles sliding swiftly past, his heart sang.
Good all day for a thousand pounds, they were, on a broken trail, and
since November he had in vain sought the limit of their staying power.
Not yet the equals of their mother in pulling strength, at eighteen
months their wolf-blood had already given the puppies her stamina. What
a team to bring the Christmas mails up the coast from East Main! he
thought, idly whirling the whip of plaited caribou hide which had never
flecked the ears of Fleur, but which he sometimes needed when the
excitable Colin or Angus scented game and, puppy-like, started to bolt.
No dogs on the coast could take the trail from these sons of Fleur. No
dog-team he had ever seen could break-out and trot away with a thousand
pounds. That winter they had done it with a load of caribou meat on the
barrens. Yes, next year he would accept Gillies' offer and put Fleur and
her sons on the winter-mail--Fleur, and the team she had given him; his
Fleur, whom he had followed and fought for: who had in turn battled for
his life.
"Marche, Fleur!" he called, his eyes bright with his thoughts.
The lead-dog leaped from a swinging trot into a long lope, straightening
the traces, followed by the team keen for a run. Away they raced in the
good going of the hard trail. Then, in early afternoon when the sun hung
low in the dim west, the men turned into the thick timber of the shores,
where, sheltered from the wind, they shovelled out a camp ground with
their snow-shoes and built a roaring fire while the puppies, ravenous
for their supper, yelped and fretted until Jean threw them the frozen
fish which they caught in the air and bolted.
Before Jean and Michel had boiled their tea and caribou stew, four
shaggy shapes with noses in tails were asleep in the snow, indifferent
to the sting of the strengthening cold which made the spruces around
them snap, and split the river ice with the boom of cannon.
Wrapped in his fur robe before the fire, Marcel lay wondering if he
should find Julie Breton still at Whale River.
Hours later, waking with a groan, Marcel sat upright in his blankets.
Near him the tired Michel snored peacefully. Throwing a circle of light
on the surrounding spruce, huge embers of the fire still burned. The
moon was dead, a veil of haze masking the dim stars. It was bitter cold.
Half out of his covering, the startled _voyageur_ shivered, but it was
not from the bite of the air. It was the stark poignancy of the dream
from which he had escaped, that left him cold.
He had stood by the big chute of the Conjuror's Falls on the Ghost,
known as the "Chute of Death," and as he gazed into the boiling
maelstrom of white-water, the blanched face of Julie Breton had looked
up at him, her lips moving in hopeless appeal, as she was swept from
sight.
Into the roaring flume he had plunged headlong, frenziedly seeking her,
as he vainly fought down through the gorge, buffeted and mauled by the
churning water, but though he hunted the length of the river below,
never found her.
Again, he was travelling with Fleur and the team in a blizzard, when out
of the smother of snow before him beckoned the wraith of Julie
Breton--always just ahead, always beckoning to him. Pushing his dogs to
their utmost he never drew nearer, never reached the wistful face he
loved, luring him through the curtain of snow.
Marcel freshened the fire and lighted his pipe. It was long before he
threw off the grip of his dreams and slept.