“REMEMBER JULES!”
IT was noon. The day was bright and warm, and as Jules rested on a snow
clump at the upper end of the Big Barren, he took off his muffler and
fur cap and mopped his broad forehead. The sky was an opal blue; not a
cloud to be seen anywhere above the horizon; the sun was comforting and
genial in its heat, and the crust melted fast.
As Jules’s eyes roamed over the dazzling space, he saw whole hillsides
split and sag deeply, the heavy melting snow sinking on the light, dry
powder underneath. His great, wide snow-shoes were on his feet, and the
fur tote-bag beside him bulged with pelts, for it had been a good
morning at the traps. He looked up sharply, keenly, as a faint, far-away
sound struck on his ever-listening ears—_Pop! pop! pop-pop!_ very
distant, but plainly discernible. Jules jumped to his feet and shaded
his eyes. Out of the snowy distance came a dozen black specks,
travelling swiftly over the country. “Caribou! Feefteen! Somme vone mak’
shooting là-bas!” Soon the frightened animals were close to him, their
heads thrown high, their little tails straight up, and their long legs
twinkling as the herd sped by with even, graceful trot. One staggered a
little, swayed, but kept on bravely with the rest. Jules’s sharp eyes
saw the flecks of blood on its hind quarter.
“By gar! Ah get dat caribou!” he said aloud.
He threw the bag hastily over his shoulders, and stuck the muffler in a
pocket; then, cap in hand, he left the clump and started off at great
speed after the fleeing animals, which were again specks on the horizon
beyond him.
Shortly afterward, from the white nothingness out of which the caribou
had come, a larger speck appeared, and travelled nearly as fast as they
had. It grew into a sledge and seven dogs, and on the sledge was a
trapper named Lavalle. “Mush—ei-i!” his voice sounded weakly in space.
As the outfit swung past the place where Jules had stopped, Lavalle
caught sight of the wide tracks on the soft crust. He checked his dogs
and tumbled from the sledge.
“C’est Verbaux,” he said to himself. “Les autres dey tol’ to me hees
shoe-marrk, an’ dat’s eet certainement.”
He examined the tracks at his feet carefully. They were wide and short,
and the toe-bar indentation was high on the front; the lacings were of
broad, thick bands, as the trail plainly showed, and the front of the
snow-shoe turned in slightly.
“Ah vould lak’ b’en to catch heem,” Lavalle said longingly, and walked
up on the snow clump, looking about. “He ees gon’ ’way; mais Tritou he
come aftaire me dam’ queeck, and to-mor’ ve go catch Verbaux,” he
muttered. Then seeing the single dot disappearing to the northward,
“Voilà mon woun’ caribou!” he cried, and, leaping down to the sledge,
hurried the dogs on and forgot about Jules.
The team raced ahead across the softening snow; the sledge-runners sank
in often with a scrunch, and Lavalle would lift the body up and then go
on. As they passed over a rise in the barren he looked forward
carefully, but saw nothing of the wounded caribou.
“He fall somme place not far,” he said to himself, and kept the dogs to
their work. The country was more level here for several miles, and when
the sledge approached the next hill he stopped the team at the foot of
it, and, rifle in hand, stole noiselessly up the side; then, dropping to
his hands and knees, crept on and peered over the top.
In the little gully on the other side lay a dead caribou, and bending
over it was a tall man who was rapidly stripping the skin from the
steaming body.
Lavalle ducked his head quickly at the unexpected sight in the gully,
and lay on the snow, thinking.
“Dat ees Verbaux, certainement. Ah get heem et le caribou, by gar! Dat
magnifique! Ah go leetle furdaire h’along, an’ mak’ good shoot.”
He slid down the hillside a few yards, then worked his way to the top
again, pushing the rifle slowly along the crust. Just below him, Jules
had finished the skinning, and was deftly unjointing the caribou’s
quarters. Lavalle shoved the rifle carefully in front of his eyes, took
aim between Verbaux’s broad shoulders, and pulled the trigger.
Jules heard a dull explosion, and dropped instantly by the caribou
carcass; then, looking up slowly, he saw on the hilltop near by a man
writhing and rolling as if in agony. He watched several minutes: the
man’s contortions grew less; finally he lay spasmodically kicking.
“He try keel Jules,” said Verbaux, as he stood up and advanced warily
toward the prostrate figure. It was no sham, and Jules uttered an
exclamation of disgust at what he saw. Lavalle, in creeping along the
hillside, had unwittingly plugged the rifle-barrel heavily with wet
snow; and when, after taking aim at Jules, he had fired, the old barrel
had exploded, and the breech-block had “blown back” in his face. The
heavy bolt had torn away one cheek, and the raw flesh lay gaping on the
jaw-bone; Lavalle’s forehead was pierced and gashed in several places by
bits of the shell, and a jagged rip in the skull over the left temple
showed where a piece of metal had forced its way through the skin. The
gun itself lay a few feet off, dismantled and useless.
“Dat good so; you try keel me,” said Jules, thoughtfully, as he watched
the twitchings of the torn and distorted features. “Jules go now.”
He turned and left the hill and its repulsive occupant. He cut strips
from the caribou-hide, and with them fastened a quarter of meat on his
back, and another over his chest, to balance the weight; then, taking
the skin under his arm, he started off. When he had gone a little way he
stopped and looked back at the shape lying on the reddened snow. He
stood motionless for several minutes, then he threw off his load.
“Bah! Jules Verbaux, you got vone too beeg heart!” he said to himself
sarcastically, as he went back to the wounded man. He tore long pieces
from his own shirt, and skilfully laid the ragged flesh of the cheek in
its place, fastening it there with the cloth; the slit in the skull he
drew together with rough care, and pinned the flaps of loose skin with a
bit of wood which he sharpened and cleaned with his knife for the
purpose. Then he gently pricked out the steel pieces that he could see
embedded in Lavalle’s face. The semi-conscious man moved, and muttered
incoherently, “Ah go-in’ ke-e-el Ver-baux main-te-nant,” and he feebly
threw up his arms as though holding a gun. The flesh around the eyes was
so swollen that he could not open them, and he lay there whispering and
tossing.
“’Ow he comme so queeck, hein?” thought Jules to himself; then he took
Lavalle’s back trail and found the sledge; the dogs were asleep in a
warm mass. He straightened their harness and drove the team up to the
wounded man, picked him off the snow like a feather, and stretched him
carefully on the boards of the sledge, lashing him securely. The dogs
went on, Jules holding a trace so that the speed should not be too
great. At the bottom of the hill he gathered the quarters of meat and
the skin, and secured them on the sledge at Lavalle’s feet. Then “Mush!
Allez!” he shouted, and the team scampered on, he following swiftly,
controlling their speed by a long thong fastened to one of the
sledge-runners. Over hill and across flat they went, hour after hour,
till the forest-land was reached. Here Jules swerved the dogs to the
northeast, and kept on.
Lavalle became more conscious, and struggled against the thongs that
tied him fast; then he began to whimper, and the tears forced themselves
through the puffed eyelids and ran down over his ears. Jules paid no
attention, and they travelled on. The afternoon grew dark, a breeze
sprang up, and in a little while veils of mist unfolded themselves over
the barrens, and Jules pulled out his muffler, winding it round his neck
as he strode along. The mist became heavier and changed into a chill
rain that soaked rapidly through the wounded man’s clothes.
“Ah’m co-ol’, co-ol’!” he sobbed; and Jules took off his own caribou
jacket, and covered Lavalle with it, tucking the corners under the
lashings so that it should not be blown away.
The country sloped gradually upward, and at last the top of the long
rise was reached. Jules stopped the team and looked back. The bare,
rolling, white distances were blurred by the falling rain; the air was
damp and had a bitter edge of cold to it; overhead masses of grey scud
and blue-black clouds hurried past, and the wind yowled intermittently
across the hilltop. Nothing living was in sight. Lavalle muttered and
cried, and the dogs panted. Jules gazed long and thoroughly all over,
then he started the team again, turning sharply to the right.
In an hour the timber came in view, and in a few minutes they plunged
into its shadows. Soon a little clearing appeared, and in the centre of
it was a hut. It looked lonely and minute, nestling among the giant
spruce and pine. Jules halted the outfit at the door, and, gently
untying Lavalle, he carried him inside and laid him on some boughs; the
dogs he unharnessed and turned loose, and he took the meat, skin, and
other things from the sledge into his little home. With pine chips and
dry branches he built a fire on the tiny hearth; the slight smoke
drifted about the room for a moment, then, feeling the strength of the
draft through the round hole in the roof, it hurried out, as though glad
to be free.
“L’eau! Wat’!” the wounded man was articulating painfully, and Jules
filled a pannikin with snow, melted it over the flames, and held it to
Lavalle’s lips. The sick man could not open them enough to drink, and he
began to cry again. Jules took up a wind-cured pelt from a pile of
skins, twisted it into a stiff horn, and carefully forced the small end
between the bruised and cut lips, and poured in a thin stream of water.
Lavalle’s throat rose and fell as he swallowed, and he shook his head a
little when he had had enough. “Merci!” he whispered, and sank into
semi-consciousness again.
It was dark outside. The dogs were growling and snapping over the meat
Jules had thrown to them. The wind made the trees creak and groan, and
the rain had turned to snow. It was growing colder, and when Jules
opened the bark door a stinging blast whirled in, eddying the ashes
about the fire and causing the wounded man in the corner to shiver.
Verbaux cut some caribou steaks, and set them in a frying-pan on the
fire; he dropped a little tea in the pannikin, and built up the blaze;
then he sat near it and waited. The fire shone on his face ruddily, and
the flames leaped and danced by reflection in the gray eyes. The hut was
quiet, save for the crackling of the pine sticks and the raucous
breathing of Lavalle. Soon the steaks began sizzling, and the odour of
frying meat filled the little interior. Outside the wind had increased,
and it sirened now loud, now softly across the open hole overhead. Every
now and then Jules mechanically turned the meat, his eyes on the fire in
a curious set stare. Then he ate his supper slowly, decisively, sipping
the black tea and munching the heavy bread in great mouthfuls, his big
white teeth gleaming between the strong, healthy lips at each bite. When
he had finished he set the pan aside, leaving the pannikin with its
remnants of tea near the heat; he put more wood on the fire, and drew a
blanket up to it, filled his pipe, lighted it, and sat down, nursing his
knees in his hands, his head swaying to and fro. Lavalle’s breathing was
more quiet and regular, and the loudest sound in the hut was the thick
_puff-puff—puff-phooooo_—as Jules exhaled clouds of smoke.
The red light flickered strangely over the spotted bark walls, and the
shadow of Jules’s head grew and shrank as the sticks settled, flared up,
burned out, and settled again on the hearth. And still Jules sat there.
His pipe was out, and the dull black bowl gleamed fitfully in the
spasmodic light. The fire dimmed and dimmed; at last but a heap of
gleaming coals was left. Jules lay down slowly, folded the blanket about
him, and slept. The storm had come outside; the snow hurled itself
against the little hut and piled around it; the dogs had crept to the
lee side and were warmly huddled together; the sledge was a mound of
white; and the gale screamed and roared through the pine and spruce.
Daylight came, grew, and brightened everything. All was silent yet in
the bark shelter: one form, hideous, bloody, bandaged, in the corner;
the other, long, strong, and graceful in repose, slept in the fur
blanket before the cold hearth. Then it stirred, and Jules got up slowly
and looked at Lavalle. He was still asleep, and Jules felt his head.
“Bon!” he said to himself, and went outside. The snow was still falling,
and he waded through the drifts that had come during the night to his
wood-heap; then with an armful of sticks he went back, arranged the
morning fire, and lighted it. The wounded man woke, and in his blindness
mumbled, “Tritou, eet ees you, hein?”
Jules started violently, then he answered in a gruff voice, “Oui.”
“Tritou,” went on the other in a thick tone, “Ah tr-y to keel Verbaux
yest’da-y; ma-is Ah don’ know eef Ah do heet when Ah was woun’. You
kno-w, he-in?”
A long pause, then Jules decided. “Oui,” he answered again, still more
gruffly.
“Ah ’m please’. Le facteur he gee-ef to me two hond’ed dollaires, hein?”
“Oui,” Jules answered for the third time.
The tea was ready, and he went over to Lavalle, and using the skin horn
again, poured the warm liquid down his throat.
“C’est b-on; me-rci;” and he became comatose again.
All that day Jules stayed in the camp; he fed the dogs and watched them
fight and snarl over their rations; he gave Lavalle some tea three
times, and he cut bits of meat very fine, softened them in warm water,
and pushed them between the helpless lips. The throat swallowed, and
Lavalle was strengthened. In the evening Jules unbound the terrible
wounds, washed them with tepid water in which he had steeped some
pine-bark, and then tied them up again with fresh strips from his
shirts.
And thus day after day passed; Lavalle growing stronger with each
twenty-four hours. His face was still in a frightful condition, and the
eyes remained puffed and unopened. Jules rarely spoke, and the hurt man
begged petulantly to be talked to; but Verbaux kept silent, or answered
in monosyllables, and then gruffly, rudely. In the daytime he would take
the dogs and go off through the forest, coming back at night with his
furs, sometimes with many, sometimes with only a few skins.
Three weeks came and went, and Jules still fed and cared for Lavalle.
One night, as Jules sat thinking, thinking, before the fire, the other
man spoke. “Ha, Tritou! Ah can see de flame at las’!” Verbaux sprang to
his feet, and scattered the blaze with swift kicks.
“Vat you do dat for? Ah van’ see,” Lavalle said crossly.
“Sl’ip—dormir,” answered Jules, hoarsely, and the other said no more.
Before daylight the next morning Jules deftly wound a bandage securely
over Lavalle’s now seeing eyes.
“Tritou, vat you do?” he asked with fear and anger. Without answering,
Jules tied Lavalle’s ankles and wrists, and carried him out to the
sledge, lashed him to it, and harnessed the dogs, while Lavalle cursed
and raved. They started off in the gray darkness of dawn, and travelled
all that day and all night across the wilderness. The following evening
they stopped, and Jules fed the blindfolded man as usual; then wrapped
him in a blanket, still bound hand and foot, curled up himself, and
slept. They were off again at dawn, and on and on till noon; then Jules
halted the team, lifted Lavalle, and steadied him on his feet.
“Ah feex you, Tritou! Dam’ fine vay to breeng me to la poste! Vell,
Tritou, you got ze head h’of Verbaux for to geef le facteur?” asked he.
“Oui,” answered Jules. He cut the wrist and ankle bindings, and with a
quick turn of his knife severed the bandage over Lavalle’s forehead. It
was dim in the forest, and the other rubbed his eyes gently.
“Trit—” he began; then his half-opened eyes cringed, and an awful fear
came into them, as they saw the tall, gaunt figure with wide snow-shoes.
“Oh! Oh, Dieu! Grâce!” he cried wildly, and shrieked in his terror; he
tried to run, but Jules caught his arm in a powerful grip.
“Leesten to moi, Lavalle! You try keel moi, Jules Verbaux. Ah sauf you’
laife for sak’ du bon Dieu; tak’ you’ dog’, go to la poste! Here de vay!
An’—rememb’ Jules Verbaux! Allez!” He stood like a statue, pointing to
the westward along the blazed trail.
Slowly and haltingly Lavalle crept to the sledge, crawled on it, and
screamed, “Mush!” to the dogs; and they raced away among the trees.
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