THE WHITE TRAIL TO FORT GEORGE
One hundred and fifty miles down the wind-harassed East Coast, was a man
who could save Julie Breton. The mind of Marcel held one thought only as
his hurrying dogs loped down the river trail to the Bay. Dark though it
was, for the stars were veiled, Fleur never faltered, keeping the trail
by instinct and the feel of her feet.
Reaching the Bay the trail swung south skirting the beach, often cutting
inland to avoid circling long points and shoulders of shore; at the Cape
of the Winds--the midwinter vortex of unleashed Arctic blasts--making a
deep cut to the sheltered valley of the Little Salmon. Marcel was too
dog-wise to push his huskies as they swung south on the sea-ice, for no
sled-dogs work well after eating.
As the late moon slowly lifted, he shook his head, for it was a moon of
snow. If only the weather held until he could bring his man from Fort
George, but fate was against him. That he could average fifty miles a
day going and coming, with the light sled, he was confident. He knew
what hearts beat in those shaggy breasts in front--what stamina he had
never put to the supreme test, lay in their massive frames. He knew that
Fleur would set her sons a pace, at the call of Jean Marcel, that would
eat the frozen miles to Fort George, as they had never before slid past
a dog-runner. But once a December norther struck down upon them on their
return, burying the trail in drift, with its shot-like drive in the
teeth of man and dogs, it would kill their speed, as a cliff stops wind.
He had intended to camp for a few hours, later in the night, to rest his
dogs, but the warning of the ringed moon flicked him with fear, as a
whiplash stings a lagging husky. It meant in December, snow and wind. He
must race that wind to the lee of Big Island, so he pushed on through
the night over the frozen shell of the Bay, stopping only once to boil
tea and rest his over-willing dogs.
As day broke blue and bitter in the ashen east, a team of spent huskies
with ice-hung lips and flews swung in from the trail skirting the lee
shore of Big Island and the driver in belted caribou capote, a rim of
ice from his frozen breath circling his lean face, made a fire from
cedar kindlings brought on the sled, boiled tea and pemmican, and
feeding his dogs, lay down in his robes. In twelve hours of constant
toil the dogs of Marcel had put Whale River sixty white miles behind.
At noon he shook off the sleep which weighted his limbs, forced himself
from his blankets, ate and pushed on. Although the air smelled of snow,
and in the north, brooding, low-banked clouds hugged the Bay, snow and
wind still held off.
In early afternoon as the sun buried itself in the ice-fields, muffled
rays lit the bald shoulders of the distant Cape of the Four Winds,
seventy miles from his goal.
"Haw, Fleur!" he called, and the lead-dog swung inland, to the left, on
the short-cut across the Cape.
As yet the tough Ungavas had shown no signs of lagging. With their
superb vitality and staying power, they had travelled steadily through
the night, after a half day on the river. Led by their tireless mother,
each hour they had put five miles of snowy trail behind them. With the
weather steady, Marcel had no doubt of when he would reach Whale River,
for the weight of an extra man on the sled would be little felt on a
hard trail and he would run much himself. But with the menace of snow
and wind hanging over him, he travelled with a heavy heart.
On Christmas Eve, again a ringed moon rose as the dogs raced down an icy
trail into the valley of the Little Salmon. The conviction that a
December blizzard, long overdue, was making in the north to strike down
upon him, paralyzing his speed, drove him on through the night.
Reckless of himself, he was equally reckless of his dogs, led by the
iron Fleur. It was well that her still growing sons had the blood of
timber wolves in their veins, for Fleur, sensing the frenzy of Marcel to
push on and on, responded with all her matchless stamina.
At last they camped at the Point of the Caribou and ate. To-morrow, he
thought, would be Christmas. A Merry Christmas indeed for Jean Marcel.
Then he slept. The next afternoon as they passed Wastikun, the Isle of
Graves, the wind shifted to the northeast and the snow closed in on the
dog-team nearing its goal. The blizzard had come, and Jean Marcel,
knowing what miles of drifts; what toil breaking trail to give footing
to his team in the soft snow; what days of battling the drive of the
wind whipping their faces with needle-pointed fury, awaited their
return, groaned aloud. For it meant, battle as he would, he might now
reach Whale River too late; he might find that Julie Breton had not
waited, but over weary, had gone out into the sunset.
In the early evening, forty-eight hours out of Whale River, four white
wraiths of huskies with a ghost-like driver, turned in to the
trade-house at Fort George. The spent dogs lay down, dropping their
frosted masks in the snow, the froth from their mouths rimming their
lips with ice.
Sheeted in white from hood to moccasins, the _voyageur_ entered the
trade-house in a swirl of snow and called for the factor. A bearded man
engaged in conversation with another white man, behind the trade
counter, rose at Jean's entrance.
"I am from Whale River, M'sieu. My name is Jean Marcel. Here ees a
lettair from M'sieu Gillies." Marcel handed an oil-skin envelope to
McKenzie, the factor, who surveyed with curiosity the ice-crusted
stranger with haggard eyes who came to Fort George on Christmas night.
At the mention of Whale River, the man who had been in conversation with
McKenzie behind the counter, also rose to his feet. And Marcel, who had
not seen his face, now recognized him. It was Inspector Wallace.
"Too bad! Too bad!" muttered the factor, reading the note, "and we're in
for a December blizzard."
"What is it, McKenzie?" demanded Wallace, coming from behind the counter
and reaching for Gillies' note.
The narrowed eyes of Marcel watched the face of Wallace contract with
pain as he read of the peril of the woman he loved.
"Tell me what you know, Marcel!" Wallace demanded brokenly.
Jean briefly explained Julie's desperate condition.
"When did you leave Whale River?"
"Two day ago."
"What," cried McKenzie, "you came through in two days from Whale River?
Lord, man! I never heard of such travelling. Your dogs must be marvels!"
"I came in two day, M'sieu," repeated Marcel, "because she weel not
leeve many day onless she have help."
"Why, man, I can't believe it. It's never been done. When did you
sleep?" The factor called to a Company Indian who entered the room,
"Albert, take care of his dogs and feed them."
"Dey are wild, M'sieu. I weel go wid heem."
Marcel started to go out with the Indian, for his huskies sorely needed
attention, then stopped to stare in wonder at Wallace, who had slumped
into a chair, head in hands. For a moment the hunter looked at the inert
Inspector; then his lip curled, his frost-blackened face reflecting his
scorn, as he said:
"W'ere ees dees missionary, M'sieu? We mus' start een a few hours, w'en
my dogs have rest."
"What, start in the teeth of this? Listen to it!" The drumming of wind
and shot-like snow on the trade-house windows steadily increased in
fury.
The muscles of Marcel's face stiffened into stone as he grimly insisted:
"We mus' start to-night."
"You are crazy, man; you need sleep," protested McKenzie. "I know it's a
life and death matter. But you wouldn't help that girl at Whale River by
losing the trail to-night and freezing. I'll see Hunter at once, but I
can't allow him to go to his death. If the blow eases by morning, he can
start."
Again Marcel turned, waiting for Wallace, who nervously paced the floor,
to speak. Then with a shrug he said:
"M'sieu Wallace weel wish to start to-night? I have de bes' lead-dog on
dees coast. She weel not lose de trail."
"What do you mean--Monsieur Wallace?" blurted the factor. Wallace raised
a face on which agony and indecision were plainly written. But it was
Jean Marcel who answered, with all the scorn of his tortured heart.
"_She ees de fiancee--of M'sieu Wallace._"
"Oh, I--I didn't--understand!" stumbled the embarrassed McKenzie,
reddening to his eyes. "But--I can't advise you to start to-night, Mr.
Wallace."
The factor went to the door. As he lifted the heavy latch, in spite of
his bulk the power of the wind hurled him backward. The door crashed
against the log-wall, while the room was filled with driving snow.
"You see what it's like, Wallace! No dog-team would have a chance on
this coast to-night--not a chance."
"Yes," agreed Wallace, avoiding Marcel's eyes. Then he went on, "You
understand, McKenzie, I'm knocked clean off my feet by this news.
But--we'll want to start, at least, by morning--sooner, if the dogs are
rested--that is, of course, if it's possible."
Deliberately ignoring the man who had thus bared his soul, Marcel drew
the factor to one side.
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu!" he pleaded in low tones. "She weel not leeve. Onless
we start at once, we shall be too late. Tak' me to de doctor!"
The agonized face of the hunter softened McKenzie.
"Well, all right, if Hunter will go and Mr. Wallace insists, but it's
madness. I'll go over to the Mission now and talk to the doctor."
When Jean had seen to the feeding of his tired dogs whom he left asleep
in a shack, he hurried through the driving snow with the Company Indian
to the Protestant Mission House, where he found McKenzie alone with the
missionary.
As he entered the lighted room, the Reverend Hunter, a tall,
athletic-looking man of thirty, welcomed him, bidding him remove his
capote and moccasins and thaw out at the hot box-stove.
"Mr. McKenzie has shown me Gillies' message, Marcel. Now tell me all you
know about the case," said the missionary.
Briefly Marcel described the condition of Julie Breton--Gillies' crude
attempt at surgery; the advance toward the shoulder of the swelling and
inflammation, with the increasing fever.
When he had finished he cried in desperation:
"M'sieu, I have at Whale River credit for t'ree t'ousand dollar. Eet ees
all----"
Hunter's lifted hand checked him.
"Marcel, first I am a preacher of the gospel; also, I am a doctor of
medicine. I came into the north to minister to the bodies as well as to
the souls of its people. Do not speak of money. This case demands that
we start at once. Have you good dogs?"
The drawn face of Marcel lighted with gratitude.
Troubled and mystified by the attitude of Wallace, McKenzie broke in,
"He's surely got the best dogs on this coast--made a record trip down.
But, Mr. Hunter, I'll not agree to your starting in this hell outside.
You must wait until daylight. The Inspector has decided that it would be
impossible to keep the trail."
"I came here to aid those _in extremis_," replied the missionary. "I
will take the risk to save this girl. It's a matter of days and we may
be too late as it is."
"T'anks, M'sieu, her brother, Pere Breton, weel not forget your
kindness; and I--I weel nevaire forget." The eyes of Marcel glowed with
gratitude.
"Then it's understood that you start at daylight, if the wind won't blow
you off the ice. I'll see you then." And McKenzie, looking hard at
Marcel and Hunter, went out.
When the factor had closed the door, Jean turned to Dr. Hunter.
"Thees man who marries her een June, ees afraid to go. Weel Mr. Hunter
start wid me at midnight?"
The big missionary gripped Marcel's hand as he said with a smile, "I did
not promise McKenzie I would not go. At midnight we start for Whale
River."