At such times old Joe would shrug his shoulders and say:
“Zee wolves, hey? Les Loups Galoups? Ever you heard of zee Loups
Galoups, mes enfants?”
“The galloping wolves?” said Tom, more for the sake of breaking the
silence than for any great curiosity he felt. “No, what are they?”
Old Joe looked mysterious.
“We do not lak to talk of zem,” he said. “Dey are not of zee earth,
comprenez vous? Dey are from above.”
He pointed upward at the heavens.
“Above?” repeated Tom, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Dat at night, when you hear dem rush tru zee air, howling and crying,
you know dat you hear noteeng dat is of dees eart’. Dey are what you
call zee ghosts, are zee Loups Galoups. Always before a pairson ees to
die you hear dem rush tru zee air ovair zee house.”
“What a queer notion!” laughed Tom, although Jack’s face was long and
serious. “Have you ever heard them?”
Joe Picquet’s face looked serious. Then he spoke slowly.
“Once, long time ago in Quebec Province, I hear zee Loups Galoups,” he
said slowly. “My wife was ver’ seeck. She sit up in zee bed one night
and call to me:
“‘Joe! Oh, Joe! allez vous ici!’
“I run queeck, and she hold oop her fingaire—so—and say to me:
“‘Leesten, Joe!’
“I leesten, an’ pretty soon I hear noise passing ovair zee house. Eet
sound lak zee galloping of someteengs tru zee air. Den I hear zee howl
of zee pack. Den I know dat I have hear zee Loups Galoups. Zee next day
my wife die, and I—I come away. I have nevaire been back. Dat long time
ago, when Joe Picquet, who is old, was yoong man, strong and full of
life. But old Joe nevaire forget zee Loups Galoups. Always when you hear
dem, dey mean death.”
Had the boys listened to such a fantastic bit of superstition in any
other surroundings, they would have laughed at it as ridiculous. But
hearing it as they did in that forlorn, man-forsaken waste, and told so
solemnly by the old trapper, it took a singular hold on their
imaginations. The Loups Galoups legend, which comes from old France, is
one of the most widely spread superstitions of the French Canadians. To
hear the Flying Wolves is to be certain that death or serious misfortune
is at hand.
Not long after Joe had concluded his story a large white Arctic hare
limped across their trail a few rods ahead. As it paused and gazed back
for an instant, Tom’s rifle jerked up to his shoulder, and the next
instant the hare lay kicking in the snow.
“Bon! Good shot, mon garçon!” cried old Joe. “To-night we have fine stew
for suppaire. Dat bettaire dan all zee time eat jerk meat.”
Darkness overtook them that night near to Otter Lake. They made camp in
an abandoned shanty of some gold-seeker or hunter on the banks of the
frozen river. It had once been quite a pretentious cabin, but had fallen
into disrepair. Among other of its unusual features was an open
fireplace set in a big chimney.
They did not light a fire in this, however, preferring to camp outside,
for the cabin was musty and damp and the floor had given way in many
places. Joe declared that it was certain to be infested with rats, and
they could see how the creatures had gnawed the timbers. Instead, they
established comfortable quarters outside the abandoned hut, and sat late
around the fire, talking over their strange quest and the ill fortune of
the snowstorm which had overtaken them.
It was just about as they were getting ready to turn in that Jack, who
was sitting nearest the hut, started and turned pale. He held up one
hand to command attention, and then he cried out:
“Gracious! Hark at that! What is it?”
What was it, indeed? Not the cry of the wolf pack, although that had
come closer. Nor did it resemble anything else earthly. It was a booming
sound like that produced by a giant bass fiddle and appeared to come
from the air.
Old Joe crossed himself as he heard it.
“Sacre!” the boys heard him exclaim.
Again came the booming sound. It appeared to fill the air, to come from
all directions. Mingled with it there burst suddenly on their ears a
series of appalling shrieks, which also seemed to come from above.
Startled beyond power of controlling themselves, the boys jumped to
their feet.
“It’s there! Up in the air!” cried Tom excitedly.
“But what can it——” began Jack, but he broke off suddenly. Into his
mind, as well as into his brother’s, and, to judge by his expression,
old Joe’s, there had burst simultaneously a sudden explanation.
The Flying Wolves!
At almost the same instant old Joe fell on his knees in the snow.
“Les Loups! Les Loups Galoups!” he burst out.
Jack’s teeth fairly chattered. But Tom grabbed him roughly by the
shoulder and shook him vigorously.
“Don’t be a chump!” he remonstrated. “Remember the last scare you had,
and how simply it was explained.”
Jack turned red and rallied his fears.
“Do you think it is the thief trying to scare us again?” he asked in
rather quavery tones.
“I don’t know. But, by hookey! I’ll find out and——”
Over their heads came a rush like the sweeping of a hundred wings. A big
white form flew downward, almost striking the old guide in the face.
With a howl he rolled over, scattering the ashes of the fire right and
left.
Jack also uttered a shout.
“Ow-ow! Did you see that?” he gasped.
“I did,” said Tom sternly, “and unless you also want to see stars you
had better dry up, Jack Dacre. There’s some excuse for old Joe, but none
for you.”
“Ber-ber-but these woods seem full of ghosts!” complained poor Jack.
“And cowards,” supplemented Tom dryly.
Old Joe got to his feet. A strong smell of scorching pervaded the camp.
Some coals, too, had lodged in his white whiskers, singeing those
venerable appendages. In spite of the scare he had got, Jack couldn’t
help laughing at the old man’s woebegone appearance.
“Oh, mes enfants!” wailed the old trapper, “les Loups Galoups have
passed ovair us!”
“Rot!” snapped Tom. “Your Loop of Glue was only an old white owl. As for
the other noises, I have a theory which I will prove in the morning. Now
let’s turn in.”