"HE'S GOT HIS MAN!"
Whale River was astir. Before the trade-house groups of Crees critically
inspected the dogs of Baptiste Laval, who fretted and yelped, eagerly
waiting the "_Marche!_" which would send them off on the river trail.
Inside, the grave-faced Gillies gave big Jules his parting instructions.
"He never started home in that blizzard, Jules; McKenzie wouldn't allow
the missionary to take such a chance. But Jean surely left yesterday
morning and with fresh dogs he'll come through in four days, even with a
heavy trail. You ought to meet him this side the Cape."
"Yes, M'sieu. But I t'ink he travel more fas' dan dat. I see heem
to-morrow, maybe."
"No, he never started that last day of the blow. It would have been
suicide. Poor lad! he must have been half crazy, with her on his mind."
"How ees she dis noon, M'sieu?"
"The fever holds about the same--no worse; but she must be operated on
very soon. The poison is extending. If you meet them at the Cape you
ought to get the doctor here a day ahead of Jean, with his tired dogs."
Surrounded by the Crees who were wishing them luck on their trip to meet
and relay Marcel home, Baptiste had cracked his dog-whip with a loud,
"_Marche!_" when an Indian with arms raised to attract attention came
running from the shore across the clearing.
"Whoa!" shouted Jules, and Baptiste checked his dogs.
"What does he say?" called Angus McCain. "A dog-team down river? Do you
hear that, Gillies?"
"Husky," replied the factor drily. "Couldn't possibly be Marcel!"
"No, he couldn't have come through that norther," agreed McCain.
"What's that he says, Jules?" demanded Gillies.
Jules Duroc, hands and shoulders in motion, was talking excitedly to the
Cree who had joined the group by the sled. Turning suddenly, he ran back
to the factor.
"Felix say dat a team crawl up de riviere trail lak' dey ver' tired. He
watch dem long tam."
"That's queer, but it's some Husky--can't be Marcel. Why, good Lord,
man! he hasn't been away six days."
Angus disappeared, to return with an old brass-bound telescope and
hurried to the river shore with Jules, followed by the scoffing
Gillies. To the naked eye, a black spot was discernible on the river
ice.
"There are two men following a team," announced Angus, the glass at his
eye. "They're barely moving. Now they've stopped; the dogs must be
played out. The driver's trying to get them up! Now he's got them
going!"
Gillies took the telescope and looked for a long space. Suddenly to
those who watched him, waiting for his report, his hand visibly shook.
Turning to Jules, he bellowed:
"Jules, you travel like all hell for that dog-team! God only knows how
they got here alive, but there's only one lead-dog on this coast that
reaches to a man's middle. That team crawling in out there is Jean
Marcel's--God bless him!--_and he's got his man!_"
With a roar Jules leaped on the sled and lashed the team headlong down
the cliff trail to the ice. Madly they raced down-river under the spur
of the rawhide goad.
"Run to the Mission, someone, and tell Pere Breton that Jean Marcel is
back!" continued Gillies. At the words, willing feet started with the
message.
The eyes of Colin Gillies were blurred as he watched through the glass
the slow approach of those who had but lately fought free from the maw
of the pitiless snows. Now he could recognize the massive lead-dog,
limping at a slow walk, her great head down. Behind her swayed the
crippled whelps of the wolf, tails brushing the ice, tongues lolling as
they swung their lowered heads from side to side, battling through the
last mile on stiffened legs, giving their last ounce at the call of
their gaunt master who reeled behind them. Far in the rear a tall figure
barely moved along the trail.
At the yelp of Jules' approaching team the dogs of Marcel pricked
drooping ears. Stopping them, Jean waited for Hunter.
"Dey sen' team. Eet ees ovair, M'sieu! We mak' Whale Riviere een t'ree
day and half, but she--she may not be dere."
Too tired to speak, Hunter slumped on the sled. With a yell, Jules
reached Marcel and gathered him into his arms.
"By Gar, Jean! You crazee fool; you stop for noding! Tiens! I damn glad
to see you, Jean Marcel!"
The fearful Marcel gasped out the question, "Julie! Ees she dere? Does
she leeve?"
"Oui, mon ami; she ees alive. You save her life."
Staggering to his lead-dog the overjoyed man threw himself beside her on
the trail where she sprawled panting.
"We 'ave save her," he cried. "Julie--has waited for Jean and Fleur."
Taking the missionary on his sled, Jules tried to force Marcel to ride
as well, but the _voyageur_ threw him off.
"No, no!" he cried. "We weel feenish on our feet--Fleur, de wolf and
Jean Marcel."
So back to the post Jules raced with Hunter. A cheering mob of Indians
met dogs and master on the river ice and carried Marcel, protesting, up
the cliff trail, where Gillies and Angus were waiting.
"I reach For' George de night of second day, but de dreef and wind at de
Cape----" He was checked by a hug from the blubbering McCain as Colin
Gillies, with eyes blurred by tears, welcomed him home.
"You have saved her, Jean," said the factor, "now you must sleep." With
hands raised in wonder he turned to the group. "Shades of Andre Marcel!
Two days to Fort George! It will never be done again." Then they took
the swaying Marcel, asleep on his feet, and his dogs, away to a long,
warm rest.
But the Crees sat late that night smoking much Company plug as they
shook their heads over the feat of the son of Andre Marcel who feared
neither Windigo nor blizzard. And later, the tale travelled down to the
southern posts and out to Fort Churchill on the west coast and from
there on to the Great Slave and the Peace, of how the mad Marcel had
driven his flying wolves one hundred and fifty miles in two sleeps, and
returned, without rest, in three, in the teeth of a Hudson's Bay
norther. And hearing it, old runners of the trails shook their heads in
disbelief, saying it was not in dogs or men to do such a thing; but they
did not know the love and despair in the heart of Jean Marcel which
spurred him to his goal, nor did they fathom the blind devotion of his
great lead-dog, who, with her matchless endurance and that of her sons,
had made it possible.