Part 10 (1/2)

Shortly, fresh rabbit tracks became rare. After years of plenty, the days of lean hunting for lynx and fox had returned. The plague, which periodically sweeps the north, would bring starvation, as well, to many a tepee of the improvident children of the snows.

CHAPTER XIII

POOR FLEUR

As the weeks went by, the food cache at the camp on the Ghost steadily shrank. The nets under the ice and the set-lines were now bringing no fish. More and more Jean slept in his half-way camp ten miles north, for although the short rations he fed Fleur had been obtained solely by his own efforts, Joe and Antoine objected to the well-nourished look of the puppy while they grew thin and slowly weakened. But, for generations, the huskies have been accustomed to starvation, and if not slaving with the sleds, will for weeks show but slight effect from short rations.

Besides, Fleur had, from necessity and instinct, become a hunter, and many a ptarmigan and stray rabbit she picked up foraging for herself.

To increase the difficulty of hunting for food, January had brought blizzard after blizzard, piling deep with drifts the trails to their trap-lines, which they still visited regularly, for the starved lynxes were coming to the bait of the flesh of their kin in greater and greater numbers. Twice, seeking the return of the caribou, the desperate men travelled far into the barrens beaten by the withering January winds, returning with wind-burned, frost-blackened faces, for no man may face for long the needle-pointed scourge of the midwinter northers off the Straits.

Finally, in desperation, when the flour was gone, and the food cache held barely enough meat and fish for two weeks, Joe and Antoine insisted that, while they had food to carry them through, they make for the post.

”You can crawl into de post lak a starving Cree because you were too lazy to net feesh. I will stay in de bush with my dog,” was Jean's scornful reply.

But the situation was desperate. With two months remaining before the big thaw in April, when they could rely on plenty of fish, there seemed but one alternative, unless the caribou returned or the fish began to move. A few trout and an occasional rabbit and ptarmigan would not keep them alive until the ”break-up,” when the bear would leave their ”washes” and the caribou start north. Already with revolting stomachs they had begun to eat starved lynx. If only they could get beaver, but there were no beaver on the Ghost. It was clear that they must find game shortly or retreat to Whale River.

One night Jean reached his fish cache on his return from a three days'

hunt toward the Salmon waters. At last he had found beaver, and caching two at his tent, with his heart high with hope, was bringing the carca.s.ses of three more to his partners. As he approached the cache in the gathering dusk, to his surprise he found the fresh tracks of snow-shoes.

”Ah-hah!” he muttered, his mouth twisted in a grim smile, ”so dey rob de cache of Jean Marcel while he travel sixty mile to get dem beaver!”

The last of Fleur's pitiful little store of fish was gone. The cache was stripped.

Jean shook his head sadly. So he could no longer trust these men whose hunger had made them thieves, he mused. Well, he would break with them at once. ”Poor Fleur!” He patted the sniffing nose of his dog.

Bitter with the discovery, Marcel drove Fleur over the trail to the camp. Opening the slab-door he surprised the half-breeds gorging themselves from a steaming kettle of trout. But hunger had driven them past all sense of shame. Looking up sullenly, they waited for him to speak.

”Bon soir, my friends! I see you have had luck at de lines,” he surprised them with. ”I have three nice fat beaver for you.”

The hollow eyes of Joe and Antoine met in a questioning look. Then Piquet brazened it out.

”Beaver, eh? Dat soun' good, fat beaver!” and he smacked his thin lips greedily.

”W'ere you get beaver, Jean?” asked Antoine, now that the tension due to Jean's appearance had relaxed.

”W'ere I tell you I would fin' dem, nord, een de valley of de spirits,”

he laughed.

Marcel heaped a tin dish from the kettle, and slipping outside, fed Fleur.

”Here, Fleur!” he called, ”ees some of feesh dat Joe has boiled for you.

Wat, you lak' eet bettair raw? Well, Joe he lak' eet boiled.”

Returning, Jean ate heartily of the lake trout. When he had finished and lighted his pipe, he said: ”You weel fin' de beaver on de cache. I leeve een de morning for Salmon riviere country.”