CHAPTER VIII
THE MEETING IN THE MARSHES
Two days later, after rounding Point Comfort, Marcel was crossing themud-flats of Gull Bay. At last the stalk was on, for somewhere in thevast marshes of the Hannah Bay coast, camped the men he had followedfour hundred miles to meet face to face and fight for his dog. Somewhereahead, through the gray mist, back in the juniper and alder scrub beyondthe wide reaches of tide-flats and goose-grass, was Fleur, a prisoner.
That night in camp at East Point, while he cleaned the action and boreof his rifle, the clatter of the geese in the muskeg behind the farlines of spruce edging the marshes, filled him with wonder. Never on thebold East Coast had he heard such a din of geese gathering for the longflight. At dawn, for it was windy, lines of gray Canadas passingoverhead bound out to the shoals, waked him with their clamor. The tidewas low, and he carried his canoe across the mud-flats through flocks ofplover, snipe and yellow-legs, feeding behind the ebb, while teal andblack-duck swarmed along the beaches.
As he poled his canoe south through the shoals, he recalled the taleshis father had told him of the marshes of Hannah Bay, the greatestbreeding ground of the gray goose and black duck in all the wide north.Everywhere along the bars and sand-spits the gray Canadas were idling,always with an erect, keen-eyed sentinel on guard. Farther out, whiteislands of snowy geese flashed in the sun, as here and there a "wavy"rose on the water to flap his black-tipped wings. Just in from theirArctic breeding-grounds, they were lingering for a month's feast ontoothsome south-coast goose-grass before seeking their winter home onthe great Gulf two thousand miles away.
Slowly throughout the morning Marcel travelled along the mud-flats baredfor miles by the retreating tide. At times the breeze carried to hisears the faint sound of firing, but there were goose-boats from Mooseand Rupert House on the coast, and it meant little. That night as thetide covered the marshes he ran up a channel of the Harricanaw deltaseeking a camp-ground on its higher shores.
Landing he was looking for drift-wood for his fire when suddenly hestopped.
"Ah! You have been here, my friends."
In the soft mud of the shore ran the clearly marked tracks of a man anddog. The footprints of the dog seemed large for Fleur, but Marcel hadnot seen her in six weeks and the puppy was growing fast.
"Fleur!" he said aloud, "will you remember Jean Marcel after all theseweeks with them?"
He had seen no smoke of a fire and the tracks were at least two daysold. His men were doubtless on the west shore of the bay where the waterfor miles inland to the spruce networked the marshes, and the rank grassgrew to the height of a man's head; but he would find them. The guns ofthe hunters would betray their whereabouts.
He drew a long breath of relief. At last he had reached the end of thetrail. He could now come to grips with his enemies. To the thief, thelaw of the north is ruthless, and ruthlessly Jean Marcel was prepared toexact, if need be, the last drop of the blood of these men in paymentfor this act. It was now his nerve and wit against theirs, with Fleur asthe stake. The blood of Andre Marcel and the _coureurs-de-bois_, whichstirred in his veins, was hot for the fight which the days would bring.
Before dawn Jean was taking advantage of the high tide, and when thefirst light streaked the east, was well on his way. As the sun liftedover the muskeg behind the bay he saw, hanging in the still air, thesmoke of a fire.
Quickly turning inshore, he ran his canoe up a waterway and into thelong grass. There he waited until the tide went out, listening to thefaint reports of the guns of the hunters. At noon, having eaten somecold goose and bannock, he took his rifle and started back over themarsh. Slowly he worked his way, keeping to the cover of the grass andalders, circling around the wide, open spaces, pock-marked withwater-holes and small ponds.
Knowing that the breeds would not take the dog with them to their blindsbut would tie her up, he planned to stalk the camp up-wind, in order notto alarm Fleur, who might betray his presence to his enemies if byaccident they were in camp, in the afternoon, when the geese weremoving. After that--well, he should see.
At last he lay within sight of the tent, which was pitched on a tongueof high ground running out into the rush-covered mud-flats. The camp wasdeserted. His eyes strained wistfully for the sight of the shaggy shapeof his puppy. Pain stabbed at his heart. She was not there. What couldit mean? Distant shots from the marsh to the west marked the absence ofat least one of the breeds. But where was Fleur?
Marcel was too "bush-wise" to take any chances. Still keeping to cover,he made his approach up-wind until he lay within a stone's throw of thetent, when a shift in the breeze warned a pair of keen nostrils thatsome living thing skulked not far off.
The heart of Jean Marcel leaped as the howl of Fleur betrayed hispresence, for huskies never bark. Grasping his rifle, he waited. Theuproar of the dog brought no response. The breeds were both away.Rising, he ran to the excited puppy lashed to a stake back of the tent.
"Fleur! _Ma petite chienne!_" Dropping his rifle, he approached his dogwith outstretched arms. With flattened ears, the puppy crouched,growling at the stranger, her mane bristling.
"Fleur! Don't you know me, pup?" continued Marcel in soothing tones,holding out his hand.
The puppy's ears went forward. She sniffed long at the hand that hadonce caressed her. Slowly the growl died in her throat.
"Fleur! Fleur! My poor puppy! Don't you remember Jean Marcel?"
Again the puzzled dog drew deep whiffs through her black nostrils. Backin her brain memory was at work. Slowly the soothing tones of the voiceof Marcel stirred the ghosts of other days; vague hints, blurred by thecruelty of weeks, of a time when the hand of a master caressed her anddid not strike, when a voice called to her as this voice--then anothersniff, and she knew. With a whimper her warm tongue licked his hand, andJean Marcel had his puppy in his arms. Mad with joy, the yelping huskystrained at her rawhide bonds as her anxious master examined a greatlump on her head, and her ribs, ridged with welts from kick and blow.
"So they tied her up and beat her, my Fleur? Well, she not leave JeanMarcel again. Were he go, Fleur go!"
Suddenly in his ears were hissed the words:
"W'at you do wid dat dog?" And a fierce blow on the back of the headhurled the kneeling Marcel flat on his face.
For a space he lay stunned, his numbed senses blurred beyond thought oraction. Then, as his dazed brain cleared, the realization that life hungon his presence of mind, for he would receive no mercy from the thieves,held him limp on the ground as though unconscious.
Snarling curses at the crumpled body of his victim, the half-breed wasbusy with the joining of some rawhide thongs. Then Jean's dizzinessfaded. Cautiously he raised an eyelid. The breed was bending over himwith a looped thong. Not a muscle moved as the Frenchman waited. Nearerleaned the thief. He reached to slip the looped rawhide over one ofMarcel's outstretched hands, when, with a lunge from the ground, thearms of the latter clamped on his legs like a sprung trap. With awrench, the surprised thief was thrown heavily.
Cat-like, the hunter was on his man, bearing him down. And then began abattle in which quarter was neither asked nor given. Heavier but slowerthan the younger man, the thief vainly sought to reach Marcel's throat,for the Frenchman's arms, having the under grip, blocked the half-breedfrom Jean's knife and his own. Over and over they rolled, lockedtogether; so evenly matched in strength that neither could free a hand.Near them yelped Fleur, frantic with excitement, plunging at her stake.
Then the close report of a gun sounded in Marcel's startled ears. Agreat fear swept him. The absent thief was working back to camp. It wasa matter of minutes. Was it to this that he had toiled down the coast insearch of his dog--a grave in the Harricanaw mud? And the face of JulieBreton flashed across his vision.
Desperate with the knowledge that he must win quickly, if at all, hestrained until the fingers of his left hand reached the haft of thebreed's knife. But a twinge shot through his shoulder like the stab ofsteel, as the teeth of his enemy cru
nched into his flesh, and he losthis grip. Maddened by pain, Marcel wrenched his right arm free and hadhis own knife before the fingers of the thief closed on his wrist,holding the blade in the sheath. Then began a duel of sheer strength.For a time the straining arms lifted and pushed, at a dead lock. Withveins swelling on neck and forehead, Marcel fought to unsheath hisknife; but the half-breed's arm was iron, did not give. Again a gun wasfired--still nearer the camp.
With help at hand, the thief, safe so long as he held his grip, snarledin triumph in the ear of his trapped enemy. But his peril only increasedthe Frenchman's strength. The fighting blood of the Marcels boiled inhis veins. With a fierce heave of the shoulders the hand gripping theknife moved upward. The arm of the thief gave way, only to straighten.Then with a wrench that would not be denied, Jean tore the blade fromthe sheath.
Frantically now, the breed, white with sudden fear, fought the sinewywrist, advancing inexorably, on its grim mission. In short jerks, Marcelhunched the knife toward its goal. As he weakened, the knotted featuresof the one who felt death creeping to him, inch by inch, went gray. Thehand fighting Marcel's wrist dripped with sweat. Panting hoarsely, likea beast at bay, the thief twisted and writhed from the pitiless steel.Then in his ears rang the voice of the approaching hunter.
With a cry of despair, the doomed half-breed called to the man who hadcome too late. Already the knuckles of Marcel were high on his ribs.With a final wrench, the blade was lunged home.
The cry was smothered in a cough. The man who had beaten his last puppygasped, quivered convulsively; then lay still.
Bathed in sweat, shaking from the strain and exertion of the longbattle, Marcel got stiffly to his feet and seized his rifle. Again thecamp was hailed from the marsh. It was evident that the goose-hunter hadnot sensed the cry of his partner or he would not have betrayed hisposition. Doubtless he was poling up a reed-masked waterway with a loadof geese.
Jean smiled grimly, for the thief would have only his shotgun loadedwith fine shot, for large shot is not used for geese in the north.Hurriedly searching the tent, he found a rifle which he threw into therushes; then loosed Fleur.
The half-breed was in his power, but he wanted no prisoner. To stay andbeat this man as Fleur had been beaten would have been sweet, but ofblood he had had enough. For an instant his eyes rested on the ghastlyevidence of his visit, awaiting the return of the hunter; then he tookFleur and started across the marsh for his canoe.
To the dead man, who, to the theft of Fleur would have lightly added thedeath of her master, Marcel gave no thought. As for the other, when hefound his dead partner, fear of an ambush would prevent him fromfollowing their trail.
Reaching his canoe, Jean divided a goose with Fleur and, when it becamedark, started for East Point. That the half-breed's partner mightattempt to follow him and seek revenge, he had no doubt, but with theshotgun alone, for Jean had taken the only rifle at their camp, thethief's sole chance would be to stalk Marcel while he slept. However, asthe sea was flat and the tide ebbing, Marcel was confident that daylightwould find him well up the coast toward Point Comfort.
The Whelps of the Wolf Page 9