when he lay supperless by his
fire thinking of Julie Breton, the black-eyed sister of the Oblat
Missionary at Whale River--nights when the forebodings of his partners
returned to mock him as a maniacal mewing broke the silence of the
forest, or, across the valleys, drifted low wailing sobs, like the
grieving of a Cree mother for her dead child.

But in the veins of Jean Marcel coursed the blood of old
_coureurs-de-bois_. His parents, victims of the influenza which had
swept the coast the year previous, had left him the heritage of a
dauntless spirit. Lost and starving though he was, he smiled grimly as
the roving wolverine and the lynx turned the night into what would have
been a thing of horror to the superstitious breeds.

When, gaunt from toil and the lack of food, Marcel finally found the
main stream and shot a bear, he knew he would reach the Esquimos. Two
hundred miles of racing river he rapidly put behind him and one June day
rounded the bend above a long white-water. The _voyageur_ ran the
rapids, rode the "boilers" at the foot of the last pitch and shot into
deep water again. But as he swung inshore to rid the craft of the slop
picked up in the churning "strong-water" behind him, Marcel's eyes
widened in surprise. He was nearer the sea than he had guessed. His last
rapids had been run. He had reached his goal, for on the shore stood the
squat skin lodges of an Esquimo camp, and moving about on the beach, he
saw the shaggy objects of his quest.

The lean face of the youth who had bearded the dreaded Windigo in their
lair shaped a wide smile. He, too, would dance at the spring trade at
Whale River, and lashed to stakes by his tent in the post clearing, a
pair of priceless Ungavas would add their howls to the chorus when the
dogs pointed their noses at the new moon.

CHAPTER II

THE END OF THE TRAIL

In his joy at his good luck, Marcel had momentarily forgotten the
ancient feud between the Esquimo and the Cree. Then he realized his
position. These rapids of the Salmon were an age-old fishing ground of
the Esquimos, who, with their dogs, are called "Huskies." No birch-bark
had ever run the broken waters behind him--no Indian hunted so far
north. If among these people there were any who traded at Whale River
where Cree and Esquimo met in amity, they would recognize the son of the
old Company head man, Andre Marcel, and welcome him. But should they
chance to be wild Huskies who did not come south to t