Three days later, he had run the strong-water of the Ghost to Conjuror's Falls, where he exchanged Beaulieu's canoe for his own, cached the previous fall, and continued on to the Whale until the moon set, when he camped.
Then next morning, long before the rising sun, reaching the smoking surface in his path, rolled the river mists back to fade on the ridges, Marcel, with Fleur in the bow, was well started on his three-hundred-mile journey. Travel as he might, he could not hope to overtake the canoe bearing the tale of the tragedy to Whale River; but each day when once the news had reached the post, the story, passed from mouth to mouth among the Crees, would gather size and distortion with Marcel not present to refute it. There was great need for speed, so he drove his canoe to the limit of his strength, running all rapids which skill and daring could outwit.
Different, far, from the home-coming he had pictured through the last weeks, would be his return to Whale River. True, there would have been no longJune days with Julie Breton, as in previous summers, no walks up the river shore when the low sun turned the Bay to burnished copper, and later, the twilight held deep into the night. If she were not already married her days would be too full to spare much time to her old friend Jean Marcel. But there would have been rest and ease, after the months of toil and famine—long talks with Jules and Angus, with worry behind him in the hills. Instead he was returning to his friends branded as a criminal by the evidence of the cache on the Ghost.
At times, when the magic of the young spring, in the air, the forest, the hills, for a space swept clean his troubled brain of dark memory, he dreamed that the water-thrushes in the river willows called to him: "Sweet, sweet, sweet, Julie Breton!" That yellow warblers and friendly chickadees, from the spruces of the shore, hailed him as one of the elect, for was he not also a lover? That the kingfishers which scurried ahead of his boat gossiped to him of hidden nests. Deeply, as he paddled, he inhaled the scent of the flowering forest world, the fragrance of the northern spring, while his birch-bark rode the choked current. And then, the stark realization that he had lost her, and the shadow of his new trouble, would bring him rough awakening.
Meeting no canoes of Cree hunters bound for thetrade, for it was yet early, in nine days Marcel turned into the post. He smiled bitterly as he saw in the clearing a handful of tepees. Around the evening fires they had doubtless already convicted Jean Marcel, alive or dead. Familiar with the half-breed weakness for exaggeration, he wondered in what form the story of the cache on the Ghost had been retailed at the trade-house. Well, he should soon know.
The howling of the post dogs announced his arrival, stirring Fleur after her long absence from the sight of her kind to a strenuous reply. Leaving his canoe on the beach Marcel went at once to the Mission, where the door was opened by the priest.
"Jean Marcel!" The bearded face of the Oblat lighted with pleasure as he opened his arms to the wanderer. "You are back, well and strong? The terrible famine did not reach you?" he asked in French.
Jean's deep-set eyes searched the priest's face for evidence of a change toward him but found the same frank, kindly look he had always known.
"Yes, Father, I beat the famine but I have bad news. Antoine is dead. He was——"
"Yes, I know," Père Breton hastily broke in. "They brought the word. It is terrible! And Piquet, is he dead also?"
"Yes, Father," Marcel said quietly. "Joe Piquetwas killed by Fleur, here, after he stabbed Antoine!"
"Juste Ciel!Killed by Fleur after he stabbed Antoine?" repeated the priest, staring at the husky.
"Yes, I wish to tell you all first, Father, before I go to the trade-house—and Julie?" Jean inquired, his voice vibrant with fear of what the answer might be.
"Put the dog in the stockade and I will call Julie."
Ah, then she was not married. Marcel breathed with relief.
"We have been very sad here, wondering whether you had starved—were alive," continued the priest. "The tale Piquet's uncle, Gaspard Lelac, and sons brought in day before yesterday made us think you also might have——"
"Did they say Antoine had been stabbed?" interrupted Marcel, for the priest had avoided mention of the cause of Beaulieu's death.
"They said they found his body." Père Henri still shunned the issue.
"Where?" demanded Marcel.
"Buried on the river shore!"
"They lie!" As Marcel had anticipated, the half-breeds had embellished the sufficiently damning evidence of the cache. He realized that he faced a battle with men who would not scruple tolie when the stark facts already looked badly enough.
"They never were truthful people, my son. We have hoped and prayed for your coming to clear up the mystery."
Jean put Fleur in the stockade and returned to the house. Julie Breton stood in the doorway.
"Welcome home, Jean!" she cried in French, giving him both hands. "Why—you are not thin!" She looked wonderingly at his face. "We thought—you also—had starved." Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at the man already numbered with the dead.
Swept by conflicting emotions, Marcel swallowed hard. Were these sisterly tears of joy at his safe return or did she weep for the Jean Marcel she once knew, now dishonored?
"There, there!Ma petite!" consoled Père Henri, stroking the dark head. "We have Jean here again, safe; all will be well in time."
"Julie had you starved out in the 'bush,' Jean, when we heard their story," explained the priest.
But the puzzled youth wondered why Père Henri did not mention the charges that the half-breeds must have made on reaching Whale River.
Recovering her self-control Julie excused herself to prepare supper. Then before asking what the Lelacs had told the factor, Marcel related to thepriest the grim details of the winter on the Ghost; of the deaths of Antoine and Piquet, of his fortunate meeting with the returning caribou, and of his discovery, on his return to the old camp, of the visit of the Lelacs' canoe.
"Father, it looks bad for me. They found Antoine stabbed and Piquet's fur and outfit. I brought his rifle back to the camp and cached it with his stuff and Antoine's to bring it all down river in the spring to their people."
At this the heavy brows of the priest lifted in surprise. Marcel continued:
"The cache was empty. It was a starvation camp. Antoine was dead, and Piquet also, for his outfit was there. Seeing these things, what could anyone think? That the third man, Jean Marcel, did this and then went into the barrens for caribou. There he starved out, or else found meat and would return, when he could clear himself if able. Father, it was my wish to tell you my story before I heard the tale the Lelacs brought to the post. Then you could judge between us."
The priest leaned forward in his chair and rested his hands on Marcel's shoulders. His eyes sought those of the younger man which met his gaze unwaveringly. "Jean Marcel," he said, "I have known you since your father brought you to Whale River as a child. You have never lied to me. True,the circumstances are unfortunate; but you have told me the truth. We did not believe that you had killed your comrades; you would have starved first; nor did Gillies or McCain or Jules believe in the truth of the charge of the Lelacs. They are waiting to hear your story. Also, since hearing your side, I see why the Lelacs are anxious to have it believed at the trade-house that you were responsible for the deaths of these men. They are grinding an axe of their own. It is not alone because they are kin of Piquet that they wish to discredit and injure you."
"How do you mean, Father?" Marcel asked, curious as to the significance of the priest's last statement.
"I will tell you later, my son. You should report at the trade-house now. They are waiting for you."
Cheered with the knowledge that his old friends were still staunch, that the factor had waited for his return before expressing even an opinion, Marcel hurried to the trade-house.
Meeting no one as he passed the scattered tepees, he flung open the slab-door of the log-building and with head high, entered.
"Jean Marcel! By Gar, we hear you arrive!" roared the big Jules, rushing upon the youth with open arms. "You not starve out, eh?"
Then Gillies and McCain, wringing his hand, added their welcome. Surely, he thought, with choked emotion, these men had not turned against him because of the tales of Lelac.
"Jean, you had a hard winter with the rabbits gone," suggested Gillies. "You must have found the caribou this spring?"
"Yes, I find de caribou, M'sieu, but I travel far for dem; eet was hard time een Mars."
"And the dog, you didn't have to eat your dog, Jean?" asked McCain.
Marcel's face hardened.
"De dog and Jean, dey feast and dey starve togeder. I am no Cree dog-eater. Dat dog she save my life, one, two tam, dees winter, M'sieu."
Never had the thought of sacrificing Fleur as a last resort entered the mind of Marcel in the lean days on the barrens.
"Well, my lad," said Gillies heartily, "we are sure glad to have you back alive. We hear there was much starvation on the East Coast this year, with the rabbit plague and the scarcity of deer."
They also, Marcel saw, were waiting to hear his story before alluding to the charges of the half-breed kinsmen of Piquet.
"M'sieu Gillies," Jean began. "I weesh to tell you what happen on de Ghost. De Lelacs bring a tale to Whale Riviere dat ees not true."
"We have paid no attention to them, Jean, trusting you would show up and could explain it all then. I know you and I know the Lelacs. I was sorry to hear about Antoine and Piquet but I don't think you had any part in it, lad. Be sure of that!"
"T'anks, M'sieu." Then slowly and in great detail Marcel related to the three men, sitting with set faces, the gruesome history of the past winter. When he came to the night that Fleur had destroyed the crazed Piquet, the Hudson's Bay men turned to each other with exclamations of wonder and admiration.
"That's a dog for you! She got his wind just in time!" muttered Gillies.
"Tiens! Dat Fleur she is lak de wolf," added Jules.
"You ask eef I eat her, M'sieu," Marcel turned on McCain grimly. "Could you eat de dog dat save your life?"
"No, by God! I'd starve first!" thundered the Scotchman.
"I love dat dog," said Jean quietly, and went on with his tale.
Breathless, they heard how he had pushed deeper and deeper beyond the hunting grounds of the Crees into the nameless barrens until he reached streams flowing northeast into Ungava Bay, and at last metthe returning caribou; how the great strength of Fleur beat the drag of the net, when he was slowly freezing in the lake; and then he came to his return to the Ghost.
In detail Marcel enumerated the articles belonging to Antoine and Piquet which he had placed on the stage of the cache beside Beaulieu's body when he left for the Salmon country and which had been taken by the Lelacs to Whale River.
"I lashed Antoine een hees shed-tent and put heem on de cache, for the wolverine and lynx would get heem een de snow." As Marcel talked McCain and Gillies exchanged significant looks.
"Um!" muttered the factor, when Jean had finished. "Something queer here!"
"What, M'sieu?" Marcel demanded.
"Why, Lelac says he found the body of Antoine buried under stones on the shore and that there was nothing on the cache except the empty grub bags."
"Dey say de fur and rifle was not dere?"
"Yes, nothing on the cache!"
"Den I must have de rifle and de fur; ees dat eet?"
"Yes, that's what they insinuate."
"Ah-hah!" Marcel scowled, thinking hard. "Dey say dey fin' noding, so do not turn over to you de rifle and fur-pack."
"Yes, they claim you must have hidden them as you hid the body."
"Den how do dey know Piquet ees dead too?" Marcel's dark features relaxed in a dry smile. It was not, then, solely the desire for vengeance on the murderer of their kin that had prompted the half-breeds to distort the facts.
"They say his extra clothes and his outfit were in the cabin, only his rifle and fur missing. Now, Jean," he continued, "I am perfectly satisfied with your story. I believe every word of it. I knew your father and I know you. The Marcels are not liars. But the Lelacs are going to make trouble over the evidence they found at your camp. Suspicion always points to the survivor in a starvation camp, and you know the circumstances are against you, my lad."
"M'sieu," Marcel protested. "Eef I keel Antoine, I would tak' heem into de bush and hide heem, I would not worry ovair de fox and wolverine."
"Of course you would have hidden the body somewhere. We appreciate that. But as they are trying to put this thing on you they ignore that side of it. What you admit they found,—Antoine's body with a stab wound, and Piquet's outfit, makes it look bad to people who don't know you as we do. They won't believe that the famine got Piquet inthe head. They'll say that's a tale you made up to get yourself off."
Marcel went hot with anger. His impulse was to seek the Lelacs and have it out, then and there. But he possessed the cool judgment of a long line of ancestors whose lives had often depended on their heads, so he choked back his rage.
"Now I don't want it carried down the coast that you killed your partners, Jean," went on Gillies. "Young as you are, you'll never live it down. And besides, there's no knowing what the government might do. I'll have to make a report, you know. So we've got to do some tall thinking between us before the hunters get in."
While the factor talked, the swift brain of Marcel had struck upon a plan to trap and discredit the Lelacs, but he wished to think it over, alone, before proposing it at the trade-house, so held his tongue. When he was ready he would ask the factor to hold a hearing. Then he could put some questions to his accusers that would make them squirm. One question he did ask before packing his fur and outfit from the beach up to the Mission.
"Have de Lelac traded dere fur, M'sieu?"
"No, we haven't started the trade yet."
"W'en dey trade dere fur weel you hold it from de oder fur, separate?"
"Why, yes, I'll do that for you, but you can't hope to identify skins, Jean."
A corner of Marcel's mouth curled in a quizzical smile. "Wait, M'sieu Gillies; I tell you later," and with a "Bon-soir!" he went out.
Although it would have been pure suicide for anyone to attempt to take Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury to his dog. So, refusing a room in the Mission House, he pitched his tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside him.
Here his staunch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector Wallace had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and although no one knew exactly what had transpired, whether he had as yet become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that the Scotchman would shortly remove the sole obstacle to his marriage to Julie Breton.
With head in hands, Jean Marcel listened to the news, none the less bitter because anticipated. The loyal Jules' crude attempt to console the brokenhearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat's-paw. Not only had he lost his heart's desire, but his name was now a byword at Whale River; the woman he held dear and his honor, bothgone. There was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt.
During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who, in his absence, had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for caribou on the barrens and in Fleur's rescue of her master from the lake.
For the delicacy of the girl in avoiding the tragedy which was plainly claiming his thoughts, he was deeply grateful. Clearly from the first, she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. But with what was evidently a forced gaiety, the girl sought, on the night of his return, to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future—of the trying days ahead.
"Come, Jean Marcel," she laughed, speaking to him, as always, in French, "are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not told me how you like this muslin gown." She pirouetted on her shapely moccasined feet challenging his approval. "Henri says I'm growing thin. Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie, the Montagnais cook at the Gillies'."
The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding eyes softened as they followed the trim figure in the simple muslin gown.It was a rare picture indeed for a man who had but just finished seven months in the "bush," half the time with the spectre of starvation haunting his heels—this girl with the dusky eyes and hair, the vivid memory of whose face he had carried with him into the nameless barrens. But she belonged to another and he, Jean Marcel, was branded as a murderer at Whale River, even if he escaped the law.
Presently, when Père Breton was called from the room to minister to a Cree convert, Julie became serious.
"Jean Marcel, I have much to say to you; but it is hard—to begin."
"I should think you would have little to say to Jean Marcel."
"Why, because some half-breeds have brought a story to Whale River which was not true?"
"Well, enough of it is true, Julie, to make the Indians believe, when they hear it, that Jean Marcel killed his partners to save himself from starvation."
"Not if Père Breton and Monsieur Gillies have any influence with the Crees. They will not allow them to believe such a cruel falsehood," protested Julie, vehemently.
Marcel smiled indulgently at the girl's ignorance of Cree psychology.
"The harm is already done," he said. "One man is found stabbed; also the outfit of another gone. The third man comes back. No matter what M'sieu Gillies and Père Henri tell them they will believe the man guilty who got out alive."
"They will not believe these Lelacs, when they are shown to be liars," she insisted, stamping her foot impatiently.
"They have lied about the rifle and fur only, Julie. They are telling the truth when they say they found Antoine and some of Piquet's outfit. The rest does not matter except to make me a thief as well as murderer."
"Oh, but it is all so unjust, so terrible to be accused like this when because of your good heart you wished to bury Antoine decently in the spring instead of leaving him in the snow where they would never have found him. It is too——" Julie Breton's voice broke with emotion. Through tears her dark eyes flashed in protest at the pass to which a blind fate had brought an innocent man.
Marcel was deeply touched by this revelation of the girl's loyalty; but her tears roused his heart to a wild beating. Unable to speak, he faced her, his dark features illumined with the gratitude and love he could not voice. For a space he sat fighting for the mastery of his emotions. Then he said huskily:
"Julie Breton, you give me great happiness—when you say you believe me—are still my friend."
"Oh, la, la! Nonsense!" she cried, dabbing with, a handkerchief at her wet eyes as she recovered her poise, "you are a boy, so foolish, Jean. Do you think that we, your friends who know you, will permit this thing? It is impossible!" And changed the subject, nor did she allow him to return to it.
Day by day the ebb-tide brought in the canoes of returning Crees. Gradually tepees filled the post clearing. And with the coming of the hunters from the three winds, was heard many a tale of famine in far valleys; of families blotted out; of little victims of starvation and disease; of the aged too frail to endure through the lean moons of the rabbit-plague until the return of the caribou, which had spelt life to those who waited.
Tragedy there had been, as in every winter of famine; but however sinister were the secrets which, that spring, many a mute valley held locked in its green forests, no rumors of such, except the tale of the murders on the Ghost, had reached Whale River. Pitiless desertion of the aged and the helpless, death by violence, doubtless, the starving moon had shone upon; but none had lived to tell the tale, none had seen the evidence, except those who had profited with their lives, and their lips were forever sealed. And so, as Marcel had foreseen, to the gathering families of Crees who themselves had but lately escaped the maw of the winter, the tale of the Lelacs, expanding as it travelled, found ready acceptance.
As yet, Jean, chafing under the odium of his position at the post, had not faced his accusers. But the plan of his defense which had been decided on after a conference with Gillies and Père Breton, depended for its success on the trading of their fur by the Lelacs, and the uncle and cousins of Joe Piquet for some reason had traded no fur. So the proud Frenchman went his way among the hunters at Whale River with a high head and silent tongue.
Many of those who, the spring previous, had lauded his daring in entering the land of the Windigo and voyaging to the coast by the Big Salmon, now, at his appearance exchanged significant glances, avoiding the steady eyes of the man they had condemned without a hearing. Shawled women and girls, who formerly, at the trade, had cast approving glances at the wide-shouldered youth with the clean-cut features, now whispered pointedly as he passed and children often shrank from him in terror as from one defiled. But Marcel had been prepared for the effect of the tale of the Lelacs upon the mercurial red men, in the memories of many of whom still lurked the ghosts of deeds of their own whose ghastly details the ears of no man would ever hear.
Since his return he had not once met the Lelacsface to face. Always they had hastily avoided him when he appeared on the way to his canoe or the trade-house. Jean had been strictly ordered by Gillies under no circumstances to seek trouble with his accusers or their friends, so he ignored them. And their disinclination to encounter the son of the famous André Marcel had not gone unmarked by the keen eyes of more than one old hunter. Many a red man and half-breed, friends of the father, who respected the son, had frankly expressed to him their disbelief in the charges of the Lelacs, accepting his story which Gillies had published to the Crees, that Beaulieu had been stabbed by Joe Piquet while Marcel was absent and Piquet killed later by the dog. Strongly they had urged him to make the Lelacs eat their lies, promising their support; but Jean had explained that it was necessary to wait; later his day would come.
Occasionally when Marcel crossed the post clearing, pulsing with the varied life of the spring trade, to descend the cliff trail to his canoe, there marched by his side one whose name, also, was anathema with many of the Crees. That comrade was Fleur. The story of Piquet's death as told by Jean at the trade-house, though scouted by the Lelacs, had, nevertheless, left a deep impression; and the great dog, now called the "man-killer," who towered above the scrub huskies of the Indians as a mastiffover a poodle, was given a wide berth. But to avoid trouble with the Cree dogs, Jean kept Fleur for the most part in the Mission stockade. There Gillies and McCain and Jules had come to admire the bulk and bone of the husky they had last seen as a lumbering puppy, now in size and beauty far surpassing the Ungavas bought by the Company of the Esquimos. There, Crees, still friendly to Jean, lingered to gossip of the winter's hardships and stare in admiration at his dog. There, too, Julie romped with Fleur, grown somewhat dignified with the gravity of her approaching responsibilities. For, to the delight of Jean, Fleur was soon to present him with the dog-team of his dreams.
Then when the umiaks of the Esquimos began to arrive from the coast, packed with tousle-headed children and the priceless sled-dogs, taking Fleur, Jean sought out his old friend Kovik of the Big Salmon. As he approached the skin lodge on the beach, beside which the kin of Fleur were made fast to prevent promiscuous fighting with strange dogs, she answered their surly greeting with so stiff a mane, so fierce a show of fangs, that Jean pulled her away by her rawhide leash, lest her reputation suffer further by adding fratricide to her crimes.
Playmates of her puppyhood, mother who suckled her, she had forgotten utterly; vanished was all memory of her kin. She held but one allegiance, one love; the love approaching idolatry she bore the young master who had taken her in that far country from the strange men who beat her with clubs; who had brought her north again through wintry seas; who had companioned her through the long snows and in the dread days of the famine had shared with her his last meat. The center and sum of her existence was Jean Marcel. All other living things were as nothing.
"Kekway!" cried the squat pair of Huskies, delighted at the appearance of the man who had given them back their first born. "Kekway!" chuckled a half-dozen round-faced children, shaking Jean's hand in turn.
"Huh!" grunted the father, his eyes wide with wonder at the sight of Fleur, ears flat, muttering dire threats at her yelping brethren straining at their stakes, "dat good dog!"
"Oui, she good dog," agreed Jean. "Soon I have dog-team lak Husky!"
Shifting a critical eye from Fleur to his own dogs the Esquimo nodded.
"Ha! Ha! You ketch boy in water, you get bes' dog."
The Esquimo had not erred in his judgment of puppies. He had indeed given the man who had cheated the Big Salmon of his son the best of the litter. At sixteen months, Fleur stood incheshigher at the shoulder and weighed twenty pounds more than her brothers. Truly, with the speed and stamina of their sire, the timber wolf, coupled with Fleur's courage and power, these puppies, whose advent he awaited, should make a dog-team unrivalled on the East Coast.
"Cree up dere," continued the Esquimo, pointing toward the post clearing, "say de dog keel man."
Marcel nodded gravely. "Oui, man try kill me, she kill heem."
"Huh! De ol' dog keel bad Husky, on Kogaluk one tam."
Fleur indeed had come from a fighting strain—dogs that would battle to the death or toil in the traces until they crumpled on the snow, for those they loved or to whom they owed allegiance.
Marcel was walking on the high river shore above the post with Julie Breton and Fleur. Like a floor below them the surface of the Great Whale moved without ripple in the still June afternoon. Out over the Bay the sun hung in a veil of haze. Back at the post, even the huskies were quiet, lured into sleep by the softness of the air. It was such a day as Jean Marcel had dreamed of more than a year before, in January, back in the barrens, when powdery snow crystals danced in the air as the lifting sun-dogs turned white wastes of rolling tundra into a shimmering sea. He was again with Julie on the cliffs, but there was no joy in his heart.
"The Lelacs have traded their fur," he said, breaking a long silence; "the hearing will take place soon, now."
"Yes, I know, you were with Monsieur Gillies and Henri very late last night," she replied, watching the antics of an inquisitive Canada jay in an adjacent birch.
"Yes, we had some work to do. The Lelacs will not like what we have to tell them."
"I knew that you would be able to show the Crees what bad people these Lelacs are."
"Yes, Julie, we shall prove them liars and thieves; but the stain on the name of Jean Marcel will remain. I cannot deny that Antoine was killed; the Crees will not believe my story."
"Nonsense, Jean," she burst out, "you must make them believe you!"
"Julie," he said, ignoring her words, "since my return I have wanted to tell you—that I wish you all happiness,"—he swallowed hard at the lump in his throat,—"I have heard that you leave Whale River soon."
At the words the girl flushed but turned a level gaze on the man, who looked at the dim, blue shapes of the White Bear Hills far on the southern horizon.
"You have not heard the truth," she said. "Monsieur Wallace has done me the honor to ask me to marry him, but Monsieur Wallace is still a Protestant."
The words from Julie's own lips stung Marcel like the lash of a whip, but his face masked his emotion.
Then she went on:
"I wanted to talk to you last summer, for you are my dear friend, but you were here for so short a while and we had but a word when you left."Then the girl burst out impulsively, "Ah, Jean; don't look that way! Won't you ever forgive me? I am—so sorry, Jean. But—you are a boy. It could never be that way. Why, you are as a brother."
Marcel's eyes still rested on the silhouetted hills to the south. He made no answer.
"Won't you forget, Jean, and remain a friend—a brother?"
He turned his sombre eyes to the girl.
"Yes, I shall always be your friend—your brother, Julie," he said. "But I shall always love you—I can't help that. And there is nothing to forgive. I hoped—once—that you might—love Jean Marcel; but now—it is over. God bless you, Julie!"
As he finished, Julie Breton's eyes were wet. Again Marcel gazed long into the south but with unseeing eyes. The girl was the first to break the silence.
"Jean," she said, returning to the charges of the Lelacs, "you must not brood over what the Crees are saying. What matters it that the ignorant Indians, some of whom, if the truth were known, have eaten their own flesh and blood in starvation camps, do not believe you. For shame! You are a brave man, Jean Marcel. Show your courage at Whale River as you have shown it elsewhere."
Sadly Marcel shook his head. "They will speak of me now, from Fort George to Mistassini, as the man who killed his partners." And in spite of Julie Breton's words of cheer he refused to see his case in any other light.
They had turned and were approaching the post when the practised eye of Marcel caught the far flash of paddles toward the river mouth. For a space he watched the rhythmic gleams of light from dripping blades leaving the water in unison, which alone marked the approaching canoe on the flat river. Then he said:
"There are four or six paddles. It must be a big Company boat from Fort George. I wonder what they come for during the trade."
As Jean and Julie Breton entered the post clearing the great red flag of the Company, carrying the white letters H. B. C., was broken out at the flagpole in honor of the approaching visitors. The canoe, now but a short way below the post, was receiving the undivided attention of Esquimos, Crees and howling huskies crowding the shore. The boat was not a freighter for she rode high. No one but an officer of the Company travelled light with six paddles. It was an event at Whale River, and Indians and white men awaited the arrival of the big Peterborough with unconcealed interest.
"It must be Inspector Wallace," said Jean.
With a face radiant with joy in the unexpected arrival of Wallace, Julie Breton hastened to the high shore, while Marcel turned slowly back to the Mission stockade where his dog awaited him at the gate.
As the canoe neared the beach the swartvoyageurs, conscious of their Cree and Esquimo audience, put on a brave burst of speed. At each lunge of the narrow Cree blades, swung in unison with a straight arm, the craft buried its nose, pushing out a wide ripple. On they came spurred by the shouts from the shore, then at the order of the man in the bow, the crew raised their paddles and bow and stern men deftly swung the boat in to the Whale River landing amid the cheers of the Indians.
"How ar' yuh, Gillies?" said Wallace, stepping from the canoe; and, looking past the factor to a woman's figure on the high shore, waved his cap.
"Well, well, Mr. Wallace; we hardly expected to see you at Whale River so early," answered Gillies, drily, smiling at the eagerness of Wallace. "Anything happened to the steamer?"
"Oh, no! The steamer is all right. She'll be here on time. I thought I'd run up the coast during the trade this year."
Gillies winked surreptitiously at McCain. It was most peculiar for the Inspector of the EastCoast to arrive before the accounts of the spring trade were made up.
"How has the famine affected the fur with you, Gillies?" asked Wallace, as they proceeded up the cliff trail to the post clearing. "The Fort George and East Main people were hit pretty hard, a number of families wiped out."
"Yes, I expected as much," said Gillies. "A few of our people were starved out or died of disease. Nine, all told, have been reported, four of them old and feeble. It was a tough winter with both the rabbits and the caribou gone; we have done only fairly well with the trade, considering."
"What's this I hear about a murder by one of your Frenchmen?" Wallace suddenly demanded. "We met a canoe at the mouth of the river and heard that the bodies of two half-breeds who had met foul play were found this spring and that you have the third man here now?"
"That's pure Indian talk, Mr. Wallace," Gillies protested forcibly. "I will give you the details later. A half-breed killed one of his partners and attempted to kill the other, Jean Marcel, the son of André Marcel; you remember André, our old head man. You saw Jean here last summer. He is one of our best men. In fact, I'm going to take him on here at the post, although he's only a boy. He's too valuable to keep in the bush."
"Oh, yes! I remember him; friend of Father Breton. But we've got to put a stop to this promiscuous murder, Gillies. There's too much of this thing on the Bay, this killing and desertion in famine years, and no one punished for lack of evidence."
"But this was no murder, Mr. Wallace," Gillies answered hotly. "You'll hear the story to-night from Marcel's lips, if you like. We have some pretty strong evidence against his accusers, also. This is a tale started by the relatives of one of the men to cover their own thieving."
"Well, Gillies, your man may be innocent, but I want to catch one of these hunters who come into the posts with a tale of starvation as excuse for the disappearance of their partners or family. When the grub goes they desert, or do away with their people, and get off on their own story. I'd like to get some evidence against one of them. The government has sent pretty stiff orders to Moose for us to investigate these cases, and where we have proof, send the accused 'outside' for trial."
"When you've talked to him, Mr. Wallace, I think you'll agree that he tells a straight story and that these Lelacs are lying."
"I hope so," answered Wallace, and started for the Mission, where Julie Breton awaited him.
That night when Inspector Wallace had heard the story of the murders on the Ghost, he sent for Jean Marcel, to whom it was quite evident, on reporting at the trade-house, that the relations between the former and Gillies had recently become somewhat strained. The face of the Inspector was noticeably red and Gillies' heavy brows contracted over eyes blazing with wrath.
"Sit down!" said the Inspector as Marcel reported. "Now, Marcel," Wallace began, severely, "this case looks pretty bad for you. You go into the bush in the fall with two partners, and the body of one is found with a knife wound, together with the effects of the other, in the spring."
"Yes, M'sieu!" assented Jean.
"You say Piquet killed Beaulieu and was killed by your dog when he attacked you. All right! But suppose when you began to starve you had killed Beaulieu and Piquet to get the remaining grub, how would that, if it had happened, have changed the evidence at the camp?"
"De bodee of Antoine on de cache," replied Jean coolly, "proves to any smart man dat I did not keelheem. Eef I keel heem I would geeve de bodee to de lynx and wolverines out in de snow. Den I would say he died of de famine, lak de Cree do, and no one could deny it."
Marcel's narrowed eyes bored into those of the Inspector. He tried to forget that before him sat the man who had taken from him all he held dear, this man who now had it in his power to dishonor him as well—send him south for trial among strangers.
"Well, the Lelacs say you did hide the body. But suppose you left it on the cache. You were safe. Why should anyone come to your camp and see it? You were two days' travel up the Ghost from Whale River. They surprised you while you were away hunting."
With a look of disgust but retaining his self-control, Jean answered: "Eet was a ver' hard winter. De Cree were starve' and knew we camp up de Ghost. Dey might come tru de bush for grub any tam. Eef I keel heem would I wait till spring to hide him under stones, as Lelac say?"
"Um!" The face of Inspector Wallace assumed a judicial expression. "The circumstantial evidence is against you. Of course, you have something in your favor, but if I were on a jury I'd have to convict you," Wallace said with an air of finality.
"One moment, Mr. Wallace," growled Gillies."How about the previous reputation of Marcel and the character of the whole Lelac tribe? Hasn't that got any weight with you? I believe this boy because I've always found him honest and straight, as his father was. We thought a lot of his father on this coast. I don't believe the Lelacs because they always were liars. But you've missed the real point of the whole matter."
"What do you mean? The case is clear as a bell to me, Gillies." The Inspector colored, frowning on the stiff-necked factor.
"Why, putting the previous reputation, here, of Marcel aside, if he had killed Beaulieu, would he have told us that Beaulieu was stabbed? Clearly not! He would have said that Antoine died of starvation and was not stabbed, for as soon as he heard they had not turned in the fur, he knew he had the Lelacs in his power and could prove them thieves and liars, and we all would have believed him. The story of the Lelacs as to the man having been murdered would not have held water a minute after the hearing proves them thieves.
"Furthermore, he knew they could not prove their tale by the body of Beaulieu, either, left to rot on the shore there in the spring freshets. There would be no evidence for a canoe from the post to find." The Scotchman rose and pounded the slab table as he drove home his final point.
"Why, Jean Marcel had it in his power, if he had been guilty, to have walked out of this trouble by simply giving the Lelacs the lie. But what did he do? He told his tale to Père Breton, here, before he learned what the Lelacs had said.
"He freely admitted that Beaulieu had been stabbed when he might have denied it and got off scot free. Does that look like a guilty man? Answer me that!" thundered Gillies to his superior officer.
The force of Gillies' argument was not lost on the unreceptive Wallace.
The stone-hard features of Marcel reflected no emotion but deep in his heart smoldered a hatred of this Inspector of the Company, who, not satisfied with taking Julie Breton from him, now flouted his honor as a Marcel and a man.
"Well?" demanded Gillies, impatiently, his frank glance holding the pale eyes of Wallace.
"Yes, what you say, Gillies, has its weight, no doubt. If he had wanted to avoid this thing, he might have done it, when he learned that the Lelacs had held the fur. Still, I'll think it over. It may be best to send him 'outside' to be tried, as a warning to these people. I can't seem to swallow that tale of the dog killing Piquet, however. Sounds fishy to me!"
"Have you seen the dog?" demanded Gillies.
"No!"
"Well, when you see her, you won't doubt it. She's the most powerful husky I've ever seen—weighs a hundred and forty pounds. She's got a litter due soon."
"Oh, I'd like to take a pup or two back with me."
"Well, you'll have to see Marcel about that," chuckled Gillies. "Her pups are worth a black fox skin. We'll have this hearing to-morrow, then, if it's agreeable to you, Mr. Wallace. When you see the Lelacs you may understand why we believe so strongly in Marcel."
As Wallace went out, Gillies drew Jean aside.
"I have little faith in Inspector Wallace, Jean. He would send you south for trial if he could find sufficient reason for it."
"M'sieu Gillies, Jean Marcel will never go south to be tried by strange men for the thing he did not do."
"What do you mean, my son? You would not make yourself an outlaw? It would be better to go."
"I shall not go, M'sieu." And Colin Gillies believed in his heart that Marcel spoke the truth.