The Whelps of the Wolf. George P. Marsh
flashes of silver marked the leaping vanguards of the salmon run, on their way to spring-fed streams at the river's head.
Seizing their salmon spears the Esquimos hurried up-stream to take their stands on rocks which the fish might pass. Having no spear Jean watched the younger Kovik wade through the strong current out to a rock within spearing reach of a deep chute of black water. Presently the crouching lad drove his spear into the flume at his feet and was struggling on the rock with a large salmon. Killing the fish with his knife, he threw it, with a cry of triumph, to the beach. Again he waited, muscles tense, his right arm drawn back for the lunge. Again, as a silvery shape darted up the chute, the boy struck with his spear. But so anxious was he to drive the lance home, that, missing the fish, his lunge carried him head-first into the swift water.
With a shout of warning to those above, Jean Marcel ran down the beach. His canoe was out of reach on the cache with the Husky's kayak, and the clumsy skin umiak of the family was useless for quick work. In his sealskin boots and clothes the lad would be carried to the foot of the rapids and drowned. Jean reached the "boilers" below the white-water before the body of the helpless Esquimo appeared. Plunging into the ice-cold river he swam out into the current below the tail of the chute, and when the half-drowned lad floundered to the surface, seized him by his heavy hair. As they were swept down-stream an eddy threw their bodies together, and in spite of Marcel's desperate efforts, the arms of the Husky closed on him in vise-like embrace. Strong as he was, the Frenchman could not break the grip, and they sank.
The voyageur rose to the surface fighting to free himself from the clinging Esquimo, but in vain; then his sinewy fingers found the throat of the half-conscious boy and taking a long breath, he again went down with his burden. When the two came up Marcel was free. With a grip on the long hair of the now senseless lad he made the shore, and dragging the Husky from the water, stretched exhausted on the beach.
Shaking with cold he lay panting beside the still body of the boy, when the terrified Esquimos reached them.
The welcome heat of a large fire soon thawed the chill from the bones of Marcel; but the anxious parents desperately rolled and pounded the Husky, starting his blood and ridding his stomach of water, before he finally regained his voice, begging them to cease.
With the boy out of danger they turned to his rescuer, and only by vigorous objection did Marcel escape the treatment administered the Husky. He would prefer drowning, he protested with a grimace, to the pounding they had given the boy.
"You lak' seal in de water," cried the relieved father with admiration, when he had lavished his thanks upon Jean; for the Esquimos, although passing their lives on or near the water, because of its low temperature, never learn to swim.
"My fader taught me to swim een shallow lak' by Fort George," explained the modest Frenchman.
"He die, eef you no sweem lak' seal," added the grateful mother, her round face oily with sweat from the vigorous rubbing of her son, now snoring peacefully by the fire.
Then the Huskies returned to their fishing, for precious time was being wasted. The boy's spear was found washed up on the beach and loaned to Jean, who labored the remainder of the day spearing salmon for his journey down the coast.
That evening, after supper, Jean sat on a stone in front of the tepee watching the active puppies. Inside the skin lodge the Esquimo and his wife conversed in low tones. Shortly they appeared and Kovik, grinning from long side-lock to side-lock, said:
"You good man! You trade dat dog?" He pointed at the large slate-gray puppy sprawled near them.
The dark features of Jean Marcel lighted with eagerness.
"I geeve two marten for de dog," he said, rising quickly.
The Husky turned to the woman, shaking his head.
Marcel's lip curled at the avarice of these people whose son he had so recently snatched from death.
Then Kovik, seemingly changing his mind, seized the puppy by the loose skin of her neck and dragged her, protesting vigorously, to Jean, while the mother dog came trotting up, ears erect, curious of what the master she feared was doing with her progeny.
"Dees you' dog!" said the Esquimo.
Marcel patted the back of the puppy, still in the grasp of her owner, while she muttered her wrath at the touch of the stranger. Although they owed him much, he thought, yet these Huskies wished to make him pay dearly for the dog. Still he was glad to get her, even at such a price. So he went to the cache, loosened the lashings of his fur-pack, and returned with two prime marten pelts, offering them to the Esquimo.
Again Kovik's round face was divided by a grin. The wrinkles radiated from the narrow eyes which snapped.
"You lak' seal in riv'—ketch boy. Tak' de dog—we no want skin." And shaking his head, the Husky pushed away the pelts.
Slowly the face of Marcel changed with surprise as he sensed the import of Kovik's words. They were making him a present of the dog.
"You—you geeve to me—dese puppy?" he stammered, staring into the grinning face of the Esquimo, delighted with the success of his little ruse.
Kovik nodded.
"T'anks, t'anks!" cried Jean, his eyes suspiciously moist as he wrung the Husky's hand, then seized that of the chuckling woman. "You are good people; I not forget de Kovik."
He had done these honest Esquimos a wrong. Now, after the fear of defeat, and the bitterness, the puppy he had coveted was his. He was not to return to Whale River empty handed, the laughing-stock of his partners. It had been indeed worth while, his plunge into the bad-lands, for in two years he would have the dog-team of his dreams. Some day this four-months-old puppy should make the fortune of Jean Marcel.
But little he realized, as he exulted in his good luck, how vital a part in his life, and in the life of Julie Breton, this wild puppy with the white socks was to play.
CHAPTER III
THE FRIEND OF DEMONS
When Marcel put his canoe into the water the following morning, to cross to his net, three young Esquimos, who had been loitering near Kovik's lodge, followed him to the beach, and as he left the shore, hurled at his back a torrent of Husky abuse.
What he had hoped to avoid had come. It would have been better to listen to Kovik's warning against delaying his departure and attempting to fish at the rapids after the salmon arrived. The use of the boy's spear, the day previous, had brought the feeling among the younger men to a head. They meant to drive him down river.
Removing the whitefish and small salmon, Jean lifted his net and stretching it to dry on the shore, recrossed the stream. On the beach awaiting his return were the Huskies. Clearly, they had decided that he was possessed of no supernatural powers and could now be bullied with impunity. As he did not wish to embroil his friend Kovik in his defense, when he had smoked his last catch he would leave. But the blood of the fighting Marcels was slowly coming to a boil. If these raw fish-eaters thought that they could frighten the grandson of the famous Étienne Lacasse, and the son of André Marcel, whose strength was a tradition on the East Coast, he could show them their mistake. Still, avoid trouble he must, for a fight would be suicide.
So ignoring the Huskies, who talked together in low tones, Marcel landed, cleaned some fish for the Koviks' kettle, and carried them up to the tepee where the family were still asleep. Returning, the hot blood rose to the bronzed face of the Frenchman at what he saw.
The three Esquimos were coolly feeding his fish to the dogs.
Reckless of the consequences, in the blind rage which choked him, Marcel reached the pilferers of his canoe before they realized that he was on them. Seizing one by his long hair, with a wrench he hurled the surprised Husky backward into the water and sent