Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII.
To Jean Marcel it had been a happy moment—that of his exoneration by the hunters of Whale River. For weeks, with rage in his heart, he had silently borne the black looks of the Crees whom he could not avoid in going to his net and in crossing the post clearing to the trade house. For weeks his name had been a byword at the spring trade—Marcel, the man who had murdered his partners. But now the stain of infamy had been washed clean from an honored name. In his humble grave in the mission cemetery, André Marcel could now sleep in peace, for in the eyes of the small world of the east coast, his son had come scatheless through the long snows. No tale would now travel down the coast in the inspector’s canoe that another white man had turned murderer for the scanty food of his friends.
With his acquittal by the company and the Crees, his love for Julie Breton, more poignant from its very hopelessness, gave him no rest. As he struggled with renunciation, he brought himself to realize that, after all, it had been but presumption on his part to hope that this girl with her education of years in a Quebec convent, her acquaintance with the ways of the great world “outside,” should look upon a humble company hunter as a possible husband.
He had all along mistaken her kindness, her friendship, for something more which she had never felt! In comparison with Wallace, who Jean had heard Gillies say, might some day go to Winnipeg as assistant commissioner of the company, he was as nothing. Doomed by his inheritance and his training to a life beyond the pale of civilization, he could offer Julie Breton little but a love that knew no bounds, no frontiers; that would find no trail which led to her too long; no water too vast; no height too sheer to separate them, did she but call him.
So, in the hour of his triumph, the soul-sick Marcel went to one who never had failed him; who loved him with a singleness of heart but rarely paralleled by humankind; who, however humble his lot, would give him the worship accorded to no king—his dog.
Seated beside Fleur with her squealing children crawling over him, he circled her great neck with his arms and told his troubles to a hairy ear. She sought his hand with her tongue, her throat rumbling with content, for had she not there on the grass in the soft June sun, all her world—her puppies, and her God, Jean Marcel?
There, Julie Breton found them, man and dog, having in vain announced supper from the mission door, and led Marcel away, protesting. Never to Jean had she seemed so vibrant with life, never had the color bathed her dark face so exquisitely, nor the tumbled masses of her hair so allured him. But as he entered the mission he saw Inspector Wallace seated in conversation with the priest, and his heart went cold.
During the meal, served by a Cree woman, the admiring eyes of Wallace seldom left Julie’s face. He seemed annoyed at the presence of Marcel at the table. However, as the Frenchman rarely joined in the conversation and early excused himself, leaving Wallace a free field, the inspector’s temper at what might have seemed presumption in a company hunter, was unmarred.
June drifted into July and, to the surprise of Gillies and Whale River, the big company canoe still remained under its tarpaulin on the post landing. That the priest looked kindly on the possibility of such a brother-in-law was evident from his hospitality to Wallace. But what piqued the curiosity of Colin Gillies and McCain was whether Wallace, a Scotch Protestant, had as yet accepted the Catholic faith, for the Oblat, Père Breton, could not marry his sister to a man of another religious belief. However, deep in the spell of the charming Julie, Inspector Wallace stayed on after the trade was over, giving as his reason his desire to go south with the company steamer which shortly would be due.
Although to Jean she was the same merry Julie, each morning visiting the stockade to play with Fleur’s puppies, who now had their eyes well open and were beginning to find an uncertain balance, he avoided her, rarely seeing her except at meal time. Of the change in their relations he never spoke, but manlike he was hurt that she failed to take him to task for his moodiness. In the evening, now, she walked on the river shore with Wallace, and talked through the twilight when the sun lingered below the rim of the world in the west. Jean Marcel had gone out of her life. He ceased to mention the inspector’s name, and absented himself from meals when the Scotchman was expected.
Julie had said: “Jean, you are one of us, always welcome. Why do you stay away when M’sieu Wallace comes?” And he had answered: “You know why I stay away, Julie Breton.”
That was all.
One night when Jean returned late from his nets after a long paddle, having sought the exhaustion that would bring sleep and temporary respite from his grief, a canoe manned by three men drifted alongshore toward his beached canoe. Occupied with his thoughts, Marcel took ho notice of the craft. Removing from the boat the fish he had caught, he was about to lift and place it bottom up on the beach when the bow of the approaching birch bark suddenly swung sharply and jammed into the stern of his own.
With an exclamation of irritation at the clumsiness of the people in the offending canoe, Jean looked up to stare into the faces of the three Lelacs.
“You are good canoemen,” he sneered, roughly pushing with his paddle the half-breeds’ canoe from his own. That the act was intentional, he knew, but he was surprised that the Lelacs, convicted of theft, and on parole at the post awaiting the company’s decision as to their punishment, would dare to start trouble.
As Jean shoved off the Lelacs’ canoe, the half-breeds, as if at a preconcerted signal, shouted loudly:
“W’at you do to us, Jean Marcel? Ough! Why you beat me wid de paddle? He try to keel us!”
The near beach was deserted, but the shouts in the still night were audible on the post clearing above. The uproar waked the sleeping huskies at the few remaining Eskimo tepees on the shore, whose howling quickly aroused the post dogs.
It was evident to Jean that his enemies had chosen their time and place. Obeying scrupulously the orders of Gillies since the trial, Marcel had avoided the Lelacs, holding in check the just wrath which had prompted him to take personal vengeance upon his traducers. Now, instead, they had sought him, and from their actions intended to make him seem the aggressor.
“Good!” he muttered between his teeth. Life had little value to him now, he would give these thieves what they were after. “You ’fraid to come on shore? You squeal lak’ rabbit; you t’ief!” he taunted.
Continuing to shout that Marcel was attacking them, the Lelacs landed their canoe and the elder son, evidently drunk, lurched toward the man who waited.
“Rabbit, am I?” roared the frenzied half-breed, and struck savagely at Jean with his paddle. Dodging the blow, before the breed could recover his balance the Frenchman lunged with his one hundred and seventy pounds behind his fist into Lelac’s jaw, hurling him reeling into the water ten feet away. Then the two Lelacs reached him.
Gasping for breath, the younger brother fell backward helpless from a kick in the pit of his stomach as the maddened Marcel grappled with the father. Over and over they rolled on the beach, Lelac, frenzied by drink, snarling with hate of the man he had tried to destroy, fighting like a trapped wolverene, and the no less infuriated Marcel resolved now to rid Whale River forever of this vermin.
It was not long before the bands of steel cable which swathed the arms, shoulders and back of Jean Marcel overcame the delirious strength of the crazed half-breed, and Lelac was forced down and held on his back. Then like the jaws of a wolf trap, the fingers of Marcel’s right hand shut on the throat of the under man. The bloodshot eyes of Lelac bulged from their sockets. Blood filled the distorted face. The mouth gaped for air barred by the vise on the throat. In a last feeble effort to free himself, a helpless hand clawed limply at Marcel’s wrist—then he relaxed, unconscious, on the beach.
Getting to his feet, Jean looked for the others, to see the younger brother still nursing his stomach, when an oath sounded in his ears and, struck from the rear, a sharp twinge bit through his shoulder.
Leaping away from a second lunge, and drawing his knife with his left hand, Marcel slashed wildly at the half-breed whom the water had revived, driving him before him. Then, as he fought to reach him, the shape of his retreating enemy slowly faded from his vision; his strength ebbed; the knife slipped from his fingers as darkness shut down upon him, and he reeled senseless to the stones.
With a snarl of triumph, the elder of the brothers, crouched on the defensive, sprang to the crumpled figure, a hand raised to drive home the knife thrust, when something sang shrilly through the air. The lifted arm fell. With a groan, the half-breed pitched on his face, the slender shaft of a seal spear quivering in his back.
Close by, a kayak silently slid to the shore and a squat Husky, his broad face knotted with fear, ran to the unconscious Marcel. Swiftly cutting the shirt from the Frenchman’s back, he was stanching the flow of blood from the knife wound, when people from the post clearing headed by Jules Duroc reached the beach.
“By gar! Jean Marcel!” gasped Jules, recognizing his friend. “He ees cut bad?”
The Husky shook his head. “He not kill!”
Staring at the dead man transfixed by the spear and his unconscious father, Jules roared: “De t’ief, dey try revange on Jean Marcel!”
Stripping off his own shirt, Jules bandaged Marcel’s shoulder. As he worked, one thing he told himself. Had they killed Marcel, the Lelacs would not have gone south for trial. Father and son would never have left the beach at Whale River alive.
Then he said to the gathering Crees, “Tak’ dem!” pointing to the younger Lelac now shedding maudlin tears over his dead brother, and to the half-choked father, resuscitated by a rough immersion in the river from unfriendly hands. Seizing the pair, rapidly sobering and now fearful for their fate, the Crees kicked them up the cliff trail.
“Tiens!” exclaimed Jules to the Husky, finishing the bandaging. “Dey try keel Marcel, but he lay out two w’en he get de cut?”
The Husky nodded, “Ah-hah! I hear holler an’ dey run on heem. He put all down. One in water, he get up an’ cut heem wid knife. He fall and, whish! I spear dat one.”
“By gar! You good man wid de seal spear, John Kovik.” And Jules wrung the Eskimo’s hand.
“I cum fast in kayak to fight for heem; I too slow,” and the Husky shook his head sadly.
“Ah, you come jus’ in tam. You save hees life.”
The Husky placed a hand on the thick hair of the senseless man, as he said, “He ketch boy, Salmon Rive’. He fr’en’ of me!”
Again, Jean Marcel’s bread upon the waters had returned to him.
With the unconscious Marcel in his arms, Jules Duroc climbed the cliff, the grateful Kovik at his heels, to meet the inhabitants of Whale River on the clearing. The news of the fight on the beach had spread swiftly through the post and many and fierce were the threats made against the Lelacs as they were shut in a small shack and placed under guard.
In front of the trade house, Gillies, followed by McCain and Wallace, met Jules with his burden.
“How did this happen, Jules? Is he badly hurt?” demanded the factor. Jules explained briefly.
“Stabbed in the back? Too bad! Too bad! Take him to the mission hospital.”
“Well, Gillies, this settles it! The Lelacs go south for trial, now, and they won’t need you as a witness either,” announced Wallace.
“Yes, we’ll have to get rid of them,” admitted the factor. “They were crazy to do this after what has happened. I should have shut them up. Too bad Jean didn’t use his knife instead of his hands on them!”
“Or his feet!” added McCain. “The Husky says he put one Lelac out of business with a kick and choked the old man unconscious, when the one who was knocked into the river stabbed him. He fought them with his bare hands. I take off my hat to Jean Marcel.”
“Who started this affair, anyway?” asked Wallace. “The Lelacs, under a cloud here, couldn’t have dared to.”
Gillies turned on his chief.
“What do we care who started it? Haven’t they tried to ruin Marcel? I ordered him to keep away from them, but didn’t he have sufficient cause to start—anything?”
“The Crees say the Lelacs got drunk on sugar beer and were waiting for Jean to get back from downriver,” broke in McCain, fearing a row between Gillies and the inspector. “John Kovik, the Husky, saw them rush him, and John got there in time to throw his seal spear at young Lelac, after he had stabbed Marcel from behind.”
“Oh, that explains it; Marcel was defending himself,” said the ruffled inspector.
“Yes, and you will notice, Mr. Wallace,” rasped Gillies, “that Marcel fought them with his hands, until he was cut, one man against three. If he had used his knife on the old man, he wouldn’t have been hurt. Does that prove what we’ve told you about him?”
It was at this point that Julie Breton and her brother, late in hearing the news, reached Jules carrying his burden, whose bandages were now reddening with blood.
“Oh, Jules, is he badly hurt?” cried the girl, peering in the dusk at the ashen face of Marcel. Then she noticed the bandages and, putting her hands to her face, moaned: “Jean Marcel, what have they done to you; what have they done to you?”
“It bleed hard, mamselle,” Jules said softly, “but it ees onlee in de shouldair. Don’ cry, Mamselle Julie!”
Supporting the sobbing girl, Père Breton ordered: “Carry him to the mission, Jules.”
“Yes, father!”
And Jean Marcel returned again to a room in the mission.
Tenderly rough hands bathed and dressed the knife wound. Through the night Père Breton sat by his patient, who moaned and tossed in delirium which the fever brought.