E-text prepared by Al Haines
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 18964-h.htm or 18964-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/9/6/18964/18964-h/18964-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/9/6/18964/18964-h.zip)
WOLF BREED
by
JACKSON GREGORY
Author of
The Short Cut, Etc.
With Frontispiece in Color by Frank Tenney Johnson
[Frontispiece: SHE STOOD UPON A MONSTER BEAR SKIN. UPON THE RUG,
STREWN ABOUT HER CARELESSLY, THEIR BRIGHT DISCS ADANCE WITH REFLECTED
LIGHT, A THOUSAND MINTED GOLD PIECES CAUGHT THE GLINT OF THE LOW SUN.]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1916,
By Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
TO
JACKSON GREGORY, Jr.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I OPEN HOUSE AT PÈRE MARQUETTE'S
II THE COMING OF NO-LUCK DRENNEN
III THE MAN UNDER THE CLOAK
IV THE LUCK OF NO-LUCK DRENNEN
V THE WAY OF THE NORTH
VI THE PROMISE OF A RAINBOW
VII "A PRINCESS, SENT TO PACK WITH WOLVES!"
VIII DUST OF IDOLS
IX "TO THE GIRL I AM GOING TO KISS TONIGHT!"
X SEEKERS AFTER GOLD
XI THE WITCHERY OF YGERNE
XII MERE BRUTE . . . OR JUST PLAIN MAN?
XIII YGERNE'S ANSWER
XIV DRENNEN MAKES A DISCOVERY
XV THE TALE OF _le Beau Diable_
XVI THE LOST GOLDEN GIRL PAYS AN OLD DEBT
XVII THE PASSION OF ERNESTINE DUMONT
XVIII THE LAW AND A MAN'S DESIRE
XIX THE LONG TRAIL
XX THE FIRES WHICH PURIFY
XXI CHANCE HEARD IN THE NIGHT
XXII THE PATH DOWN THE CLIFF
XXIII CHÂTEAU BELLAIRE
XXIV THE SPEAKING OF GUNS
XXV THE BELATED DAWN
WOLF BREED
CHAPTER I
OPEN HOUSE AT PÈRE MARQUETTE'S
Mid June, and the eager spring had burst triumphant into the North
Woods. The mountain tops, still white hostages of the retreating
winter, fettered in frozen manacles, were alone in their reminiscence
of the implacable season. And even they made their joyous offerings to
the newborn springtime, pouring a thousand flashing cascades to leap
down the rocky sides and seek out the hidden nooks and valleys where
seeds were bursting and the thawed earth lay fruitful under warm, lush
grass. The birds were back from their southern voyaging, once more the
squirrels chattered in the open, noisily forgetful of the rigours of
winter in the joy of green things growing, and in the clear blue arch
of the sky the sun wheeled gloriously through a long day. The air,
always wine, was now a sparkling, bubbling, rare vintage champagne,
dancing in the blood, making laughter in the heart and sweet tumult in
the brain. It was the season of long, golden days, of clear, silver
nights, of budding life everywhere.
Because of three unmistakable signs did even the most sceptical of the
handful of hardy spirits at MacLeod's Settlement know that in truth the
spring had come. They read the welcome tidings in the slipping of the
snows from the flinty fronts of Ironhead and Indian Peak a thousand
feet above the greening valley; in the riotous din of squirrels and
birds interwoven with the booming of frogs from the still ponds; and
finally in the announcement tacked upon the post-office door. The two
line scrawl in lead pencil did not state in so many words the same
tidings which the blue birds were proclaiming from the thicket on the
far bank of the Little MacLeod; it merely announced that to-night Père
Marquette and his beloved wife, Mère Jeanne, were keeping open house.
Every one in the Settlement knew what that meant, just as well as he
understood the significance of the noises of the ice splitting upon the
ponds.
Once every year until now this was the fiftieth had such an
announcement appeared. Not always upon the door of the post-office,
for when the announcements began there was no post-office in MacLeod's
Settlement. But annually at the chosen time set apart by the season
and himself Père Marquette would appear upon the little narrow street,
earlier than the earliest, cock his bright eye up at old Ironhead
towering high above him, rub his chin complacently, turn his head
sidewise so that he might hearken to the thin voices of the wild
creatures, and then, his message tacked up, return to the private room
behind his store to kiss Mère Jeanne awake and inform her with grave
joy that their "_jour de l'an_" had come to them. Then, and with much
frolicking and wine and music, would their new year begin.
"It is our anniversary, _m'sieu'_," he would say with an air of vast
confidence to the first man he met upon the street. "To-night we keep
open house here." He would wave his hand toward the long, low log
building, clay chinked. "We will be proud of your presence and that of
your frien's."
It had been remarked that the anniversary had come one year upon the
twenty-sixth of May, another year as late as the last of June. Père
Marquette had laughed softly and had shaken his head. "What matter?"
he had demanded. "I, I marry myself with my beloved Mam'selle Jeanne
the first fine day of spring. _Voilà_."
The central door of the Marquette house, broadest and heaviest and most
conspicuous both from its position in the middle of its valiant line of
brothers, had been closed and barred since last night. It gave
entrance to the store; here behind his long counter, peering over boxes
neatly piled or between great heaps of bacon and tobacco and men's
clothing, Père Marquette looked out upon the world some three hundred
and sixty-four days of the ordinary year. But upon the first day of
spring it was closed and locked until noon. If a man needed plug cut
for his pipe, why then let him borrow from his friend or steal from his
enemy; it was no concern of Père Marquette. If a woman required flour
for her baking let her do without; it would serve her right for having
failed to remember the great day. . . . Then at high noon, not
measured by any ticking clock in the Settlement, the matter being
decided by Père Marquette and the sun alone, the middle door was flung
open. The old man, dressed in his best black suit, his newest skull
cap set like a crown upon his head, stood at one side of the entrance,
gravely courteous, his black eyes twinkling, twin withered roses in his
old cheeks. Mère Jeanne, silver buckles on her shoes, her ample form
surrounded almost but not quite by a great white, stiff-starched apron,
a bouquet of flowers in one hand, took her place at the other side.
And then the guests began to arrive.
You could list the men, women, children and four footed live stock of
MacLeod's Settlement upon a printed page and still have room left for a
brief biography of each. They all came, all dressed in their best
holiday raiment, all happy and eager for the celebration. From far
down the Little MacLeod river men trod the slushy trails, rough fellows
for the most part and silent, but with a tongue in each head to propose
a toast to host and hostess. From over the ridge, from French Valley,
from as far east as St. Croix and as far west as Dunvegan's Post, the
guests trooped in. Miners, trappers, little stock men; scions of old
French families with grand names, descendants of younger English sons
with riotous blood, Americans who had crossed the border with much
haste and scant baggage; many men whom the world had outlawed and whom
the North Woods had accepted as empire builders; men of pure blood
knocking elbows with swarthy "breeds," oddly alike in the matters of
keenly alert eyes and magnificent bodies.
As they filed through the Frenchman's door they entered not the store
at all but what was Père Marquette's idea of a drawing room. The long
counters and shelves were there, but the barrels of pickled meat, the
piles of soap and tinned meats, the bags of flour, the stacks of men's
clothing, all this had been whisked away and out of sight as though by
magic. A strip of new red oilcloth upon one counter, a strip of blue
upon another, transformed both into auxiliary seats. Benches, recently
brought in from the rear storeroom by Père Marquette's man, Jules, and
freshly dusted by him, lined the walls. Even Mère Jeanne's bedroom had
been robbed of chairs; boxes dressed gaily in gingham or perchance even
flaunting remnants of chintz, were amply good enough for the boys and
girls.
"My frien', you do me the honour," said Père Marquette over and over as
some stranger upon whom his quick black eyes had never rested until now
accepted his hand and entered to be again welcomed by Mère Jeanne.
"You make mamma and me ver' happy."
Let the frontier push out as far and as fast as it pleases, the violin
always goes with it. Men march the more intrepidly to the scraping of
the skilful bow. There were two fiddles already going in the next
room; Père Marquette had seen to that. And in the same room stood a
great, sturdy homemade table, crippled in one leg, yet standing
valiantly, like an old soldier home from the wars. Mère Jeanne's own
plump hands had placed the best tablecloth upon it, and there, in its
nest of field flowers, was the great bowl which had been the most
serviceable of the handful of wedding gifts fifty years ago. Since the
crisp sting had not yet gone out of the air the high red tide in the
bowl was steaming an invitation which was irresistible.
Long before one o'clock all of the Settlement had arrived, each one had
had his bit of the heady punch, small glasses for the women, great
pewter mugs many times refilled for the men. The big bowl was
proverbially like the purse of Fortunatus in its scorn of emptiness.
Mère Jeanne ceremoniously replenished it time and again, carried
brimming cups to the fiddlers, and the merry music, having ceased just
long enough for the musicians to gulp down "Your health," went on more
inspiringly than before. Heavy booted feet, moving rythmically, made
the dance a thing to hear as well as see, deep throated laughter boomed
out incessantly, the lighter, fewer voices of women weaving in and out
of the clamour.
All afternoon men came in, now and then a woman with them. They drank
and ate, they smoked Père Marquette's tobacco from the jars set about
everywhere, they traded old news for new and new for old, they
speculated upon the coming thaws and trapping to be found down on the
Little MacLeod and up towards the Silver Lake country, they told of the
latest gold strike in the Black Bear hills and predicted fresh strikes
to be made before the thaw was ten days old. Many types of men and
women, some no doubt good, some bad no doubt, all mingling freely.
At five o'clock Père Marquette cleared his voice, scrambled with rare
agility upon one of his own counters and made the expected announcement:
"Ah, my frien's, you make us ver' happy, me an' Mamma Jeanne. We wish
our leetle house she was more big to-day, big like our heart, that she
can hold the whole worl'." He hugged his thin old arms to his breast
and smiled upon them. "Tonight, all night long, _mes amis_, you are
welcome. The doors of Père Marquette have forgot how to close up
to-night! But listen, one instant! Jus' across the road my warehouse
she is open. The violins have gone there. There you may dance, dance
as Mam'selle Jeanne an' I dance it is fifty year to-night. Dance all
night long. And while the yo'ng folk whose hearts are in their heels
walse yonder, here we older ones . . . Ah!" as sudden voices,
cheering, cut into his running words. "You have not forgot, eh?"
It was the signal for division. The few women who had children took
them home with them; the other women, young and old, following like a
holiday flotilla in the wake of Mère Jeanne, tacked through the muck of
the road to the warehouse; many of the younger and some few of the
older men followed them; and in the house of Père Marquette, in the
yellow light of a half dozen kerosene lamps and many tall candles, the
real affair of the evening began.
Great logs oozing molten pitch were burning noisily in the two rock
fireplaces, the red flames swept up into the blackened chimneys to
spread cheer within and to scatter sparks like little stars in the
clear night without, the punch bowl had at last been allowed to stand
empty not because men were through drinking but because stronger drink,
men's drink, had appeared in many bottles upon the shelves, a game of
poker was running in one corner of a room, a game of solo in another;
yonder, seen through an open door, six men were shaking dice and
wagering little and bigger sums recklessly; a little fellow with a
wooden leg and a terribly scarred face was drawing shrieking rag time
from an old and asthmatic accordion while four men, their big boots
clumping noisily upon the bare floor, danced like awkward trained bears
when the outer door, closed against the chill of the evening, was flung
open and a stranger to MacLeod's settlement stood a moment framed
against the outside night. A score of eyes, going to him swiftly,
studied him with unhidden curiosity.