CHAPTER XXXVII
FOR LOVE OF A GIRL
Two days before Christmas the team of Jean Marcel, its harness bravewith colored worsted, meeting the snarls of hostile Cree curs with thelike threat of white fangs, jingled gaily past sleep-house and tepees,and drew up before the log trade-house at Whale River. Returning thegreeting of the Crees who hailed him, he threw open the slab-door of thebuilding.
"Bon jour, Jean, eet ees well dees Chreesmas you come." The grave faceof Jules Duroc checked the jest on Marcel's lips as he shook hisfriend's hand.
"You are sad, mon ami; what has happened to the merry Jules?" Jeanasked.
"Ah, Jean Marcel! Dere ees bad news for you at Whale River."
Across Marcel's brain flashed the memory of his dreams. Julie! Somethinghad happened to Julie Breton. His speeding heart shook him as an enginea boat. A vise on his throat smothered the questions he strove to ask.His lips twitched, but from them came no words, as his questioning eyesheld those of Jules.
"Yes, eet ees as you t'ink, Jean Marcel. She ees ver' seek."
Marcel's hands closed on Jules' arms as he demanded hoarsely:
"Mon Dieu! W'at ees eet, Jules? Tell me, w'at ees eet?"
"She has de bad arm. Cut de han' wid a knife."
Blood-poisoning, because of his medical ignorance, held less terror forMarcel than some strange fever, insidious and mysterious. He had fearedthat Julie Breton had a dread disease against which the crude skill ofthe north is helpless. So, as he hastened to the Mission where he foundMrs. Gillies installed as nurse, his hopes rose, for a wound in the handcould not be fatal.
From the anxious-eyed Pere Breton who met him at the door, Jean learnedthe story.
Ten days before, Julie had cut her hand with a knife while preparingfrozen fish for cooking. For days she had ignored the wound, when thehand, suddenly reddening, began to swell, causing much pain. Gillies andher brother had opened the inflamed wound, cleansing it with bichloride,but in spite of their efforts, the swelling had increased, advancing tothe elbow.
She was now running a high fever, suffering great pain and frequentlydelirious. They realized that the proper treatment was an opening of thelymphatic glands of forearm and elbow to reach the poison slowly workingupward, but did not dare attempt it. The priest told Marcel that in suchcases if the poison was not absorbed into the circulation or reached byoperation, it would extend to the arm-pit, then to the neck, with fataltermination.
Jean Marcel listened with head in hands to the despairing brother. Thenhe asked:
"Is there at Fort George or East Main, no one who could help her?"
"At Fort George, Monsieur Hunter who has been lately ordered there tothe Protestant church, is a medical missionary. We learned this to-daywhen the Christmas mail arrived. But they were five days coming fromFort George with their poor dogs. It will take you eight days to makethe round trip and even in a week it may be too late--too late----" Hefinished with a groan.
"Father, I will go and bring this missionary. I shall return before aweek."
"God speed you, my son! The mail team is worn out and we were sending ateam of the Crees, but they have no dogs like yours."
Mrs. Gillies led Marcel into Julie Breton's room and left them. On herwhite bed, with wayward masses of dusky hair tumbled on her pillow, layJulie Breton, moaning low in the delirium of high fever. On a pillow ather side lay her bandaged left arm. As Marcel looked long at the flushedface with its parted lips murmuring incoherently, the muscles of his jawflexed through the frost-blackened skin as he clenched his teeth at hishelplessness to aid her--this stricken girl for whom he would have givenhis life.
Then he knelt, and lifting the limp hand on the coverlet, pressed itlong to his lips, rose, and went out.
When Mrs. Gillies returned she found the right hand of Julie Bretonwet--and understood.
First feeding and loosing his dogs in the stockade Marcel hurried to thetrade-house. There he obtained from Jules five days' rations ofwhitefish for the dogs, and some pemmican, hard bread and tea.
"You t'ink you can mak' For' George een t'ree day?" Jules shook his headdoubtfully. "Eet nevaire been made een t'ree day, Jean."
"No one evair before on de East Coast travel as I travel, Jules," wasthe low reply.
Gillies, Pere Breton and McCain, talking earnestly, entered the room tooverhear Marcel's words.
"Welcome back, Jean; you are going to Fort George instead of Baptiste?"the factor asked, shaking Marcel's hand.
"Yes, M'sieu, my team ees stronger team dan Baptiste's."
"When do you start?"
"Een leetle tam; I jus' feed my dogs."
"Are they in good shape? They must be tired from the river trail."
"Dey will fly, M'sieu."
"Thank heaven for that, lad. We've got just one good dog left in themail team--the one you gave me. The rest are scrubs and they came into-day dead beat. Two of our Ungavas died in November."
"M'sieu," said Marcel quietly, "my dogs will make For' George een t'reedays."
"It's never been done, Jean, but I hope you will."
When Marcel brought his refreshed dogs to the trade-house an hour laterfor his rations, a silent group of men awaited him. As Fleur trotted up,ears pricked, mystified at being routed out and harnessed in the dark,after she had eaten and curled up for the night, they were eagerlyinspected by the factor.
"Why, the pups have grown inches since you left here in August, Jean.They're almost as big as Fleur, now," said Gillies, throwing the lightfrom his lantern on the team.
"Tiens! Dat two rear dog look lak' timber wolves," cried Jules, asColin and Angus turned their red-lidded, amber eyes lazily toward him,opening cavernous mouths in wide yawns, for they were still sleepy.Fleur, alive to the subdued tones of Jean Marcel and sensing somethingunusual, muzzled her master's hand for answer.
"What a team! What a team!" exclaimed McCain. "Never have the Huskiesbrought four such dogs here. They ought to walk away with a thousandpounds. Are they fast, Jean?"
"Dey can take a thousand all day, M'sieu. W'en you see me again, youwill know how fast dey are. A'voir!" Marcel gripped the hands of theothers, then turned to Pere Breton, the muscles of his dark face workingwith suffering.
"Father," he said, "if she should wake and can understand, tellher--tell her to wait--a little longer till Jean and Fleur return.If--if she--cannot wait for us--tell her that Fleur and Jean Marcel willfollow her--out to the sunset."
Then he turned, cracked his whip, hoarsely shouted: "Marche, Fleur!" anddisappeared with his dogs into the night.
The Whelps of the Wolf Page 38