Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI.
When late in May the snow had left the open places reached by the sun and the ice had cleared the rivers Marcel was ready to make his first trip to the camp on the Ghost. Before the weather softened Jean had smoked the remainder of his meat, and now he faced a ten-mile portage with his outfit. Before the trails went bad he could have freighted on the sled sufficient food for his journey home but had preferred to face the break-up in his own camp near a fish lake and relay his meat over on his back in May. The memories of the winter aroused by the camp on the Ghost were too grim to attract him to the comfortable shack.
One morning at sunrise, after lashing a pack on Fleur’s broad back, he threw his tumpline over a bag of smoked meat and swinging it to his shoulders, started over the trail. In the middle of the forenoon he walked into the clearing on the Ghost and, pushing off the head strap of his line, dropped his load.
Glancing at the cache where he had left the body of Antoine Beaulieu lashed in canvas with the fur packs and rifles of the dead men, Marcel exclaimed in surprise:
“By gar! Dat ees strange t’ing!”
The scaffold was empty; the body of Antoine had been removed and not a vestige remained of the fur packs and outfits of Jean’s partners. Neither wolverenes, lynxes, nor bears, had they been able to overcome the fishhook barriers guarding the uprights, would have stripped the platform in such fashion. Searching the soft earth, he found the faint tracks of moccasins which the recent rain had not obliterated. But down on the river shore the mud really told the story. A canoe had landed there within a week, for in spite of the rain the deep impress of the feet of men carrying heavy loads still marked the beach. Since the ice went out some one who knew that the three men were wintering there, had traveled up the Ghost from the Whale. But why? They could not have been starving, for fish could then be had on the Whale for the setting of a net. Evidently they had buried Antoine and taken the fur packs, rifles and outfits of the two men to Whale River.
Marcel searched for a message, in the phonetic writing employed throughout the North—burned into a blazed tree or on a scrap of birch bark left in the shack—but found nothing. The cabin was as he had last seen it. They had thought him, also, dead somewhere in the bush and had left no word, or
Then the situation opened to him from the angle of view of the Cree visitors.
To them it would all simply amount to this: a camp on the verge of starvation, witnessed by the depleted cache; a dead man stabbed to the heart, with his rifle and outfit beside him; also, the rifle and personal belongings, easily identified by his relatives, of a second man, who, if he were still alive, would have had them in his possession; of the third man, who was to winter with them, no trace at the camp; in short, two men dead and the third possibly alive, if he had not starved out. And that third man was Jean Marcel. This was the grim tale which would be traveling down the river ahead of him to the spring trade.
Who killed Antoine Beaulieu and where is Piquet? These were the questions he would have to answer. This the factor and the kinsmen of his partners would demand of the third man—if he survived to reach the post. Yes, Whale River would anxiously await the return of Jean Marcel that spring. But would Whale River believe his story?
Of the people of the post he had no doubt. Julie, Père Breton, the factor, Angus, Jules, he could count on. They knew him—were his friends. But the Crees and half-breeds—would they believe that Joe Piquet had been the evil genius of the tragedy on the Ghost?—Joe Piquet, now dead and helpless to speak in his own defense. Would they believe in the innocence of the man who alone of the three partners had fought free of the long famine? Marcel’s knowledge of the Indian’s mental make-up told him that since the visit of the Crees to the camp his case was hopeless. They would readily believe that he had killed his partners for the remaining food and, not anticipating the coming of a canoe in the spring to the camp, had gone after caribou, planning. to secrete the body of Antoine with its evidence of violence-on his return.
Of those who had peopled the canoes starting for the upriver summer camps in July many a face would be absent when the Crees returned for this year’s trade. Famine surely had come to more than one camp of the red hunters that winter, and doubtless swift death in the night, also, among some of them who when caught by the rabbit plague and the absence of wintering caribou, like Piquet went mad with hunger. Disease, too, as a hawk strikes a ptarmigan, would have struck down many a helpless child and woman marooned in snow-drifted tepees in the silent places. Old age would have claimed its toll in the bitter January winds.
To the red hunters, starvation and tragic death wore familiar faces. In the wide North they were common enough. So, when in the spring, men loosed from the maw of the pitiless snows returned without comrade, wife, or child, seeking succor at the fur posts, with tales of death by starvation or disease, the absence of witnesses or evidence compelled the acceptance of their stories however suspicious the circumstances. Because there was no proof of guilt, and because, moreover, their tales were often true, there could be no punishment, except the covert condemnation of their fellows or the secret vengeance of kinsman or friend in the guise of a shot from the bush or knife thrust in the dark. He recalled the cases he knew or which he had heard discussed over many a camp fire, of men on the east coast, sole survivors of starvation camps, who would go to their graves privately branded as murderers by their fellows.
Grim tales told by his father returned to him; of the half-breed from Nichicun who, it was commonly believed, had eaten his partner; of Crees who had appeared in the spring at the posts without parents or wives and children, to tell conflicting stories of death through disease or starvation; of the Frenchman at Mistassini—still a valued servant of the company—who was known from Fort Albany to Whale River and from Rupert to the Peribonka, as the squaw man who saved himself on the Fading Waters by deserting his Montagnais girl wife. These and many more, through lack of any proof of guilt, had escaped the long arm of the government which, through the fur posts, reached to the uttermost valleys of the North.
And so it must have been with Jean Marcel, however suspicious his story, had he buried Antoine somewhere in the snow, as he had Piquet, instead of lashing the body on the cache with its telltale death wound. As it was he already saw himself, though innocent, condemned in the court of Cree opinion as the slayer of his friend.
Well, he swore to himself, they should believe his story at the post! For it was the truth. And if any man, white or red, openly doubted his innocence, he would have to answer to Jean Marcel. To be branded on the east coast as the assassin of his partners was a bitter draft for the palate of the proud Frenchman. For generations the Marcels had borne an honored name in the company’s service and for the last of them to be suspected of foul murder was disgrace unthinkable.
Of one thing he felt sure, as he hurried back over the trail to his camp. The situation brought about by the visit of the Crees demanded his presence at the post as soon after their arrival as his paddle could drive his canoe. From the appearance of the tracks on the beach they already had a good start and it would take two days for him to pack to the Ghost what meat and outfit he needed for the trip, besides his furs.