The Whelps of the Wolf. George P. Marsh

spinning with a vicious slash which doubled the screaming Husky over a broken wrist. Turning, he saw his first victims making down the beach toward the tepees, while the uproar of the dogs was swiftly arousing the camp.

      Then, as his blood cooled and his judgment returned, the youth, who had suffered and dared much that he might have dogs for the next long snows, realized the height of his folly. They had baited him into furnishing them with an excuse for attacking him. Now even the faithful Kovik would be helpless against them. He would never see Whale River and Julie Breton again. Already the Huskies were emerging from their tepees, to hear the tale of his late antagonists. There was no time to lose before they rushed him.

      Bounding up the beach to Kovik's tepee for his rifle, he rapidly explained the situation to the Esquimo, while in his ears rang the shouts of the excited Huskies and the yelping of the dogs. Jean did not hope to escape alive from this bedlam, but of one thing he was sure, he would die like a Marcel, with a smoking gun in his hands.

      Urging Jean to get his fur-pack and smoked fish to his canoe at once, Kovik hurried down the shore to the knot of wildly excited Esquimos.

      With the aid of the grateful wife and son of Kovik, Marcel's canoe was swiftly loaded and his treasured puppy lashed in the bow. But the rush up the beach of an infuriated throng bent on his death, which Marcel stoically awaited beside a large boulder, was delayed. Not a hundred yards distant, the doughty Kovik, the center of an arguing mob, was fighting with all the wits he possessed for the man who had saved his son. For Marcel to attempt to escape by water would only have drawn the fire of the Huskies and nullified Kovik's efforts, and their kayaks, faster than any canoe, were below him. A break for the "bush," even if successful, in the end, meant starvation. So with extra cartridges between his teeth, and in his hands, Jean Marcel grimly fingered the trigger-guard of his rifle, as he waited at the boulder for the turn of the dice down the shore.

      Minutes, each one an eternity to the man at bay, passed. But Kovik still held his men, and Marcel clearly noted a change in the manner of the Huskies. The shouting had ceased. His friend was winning.

      Shortly, Kovik left the group and walked rapidly toward Marcel, followed at a distance by his people.

      "Dey keel you, but Kovik say you fr'en' wid spirit; he come down riv' an' eat Husky," explained the worried defender of Jean. "Kovik say you shoot wid spirit gun, all de Husky; so you go, queek!"

      The broad face of Kovik split in a grim smile as he gripped the hand of the relieved Marcel and pushed off his canoe. Thus, doubly, had the loyal Esquimo paid for the life of his son.

      With the emotions of a man suddenly reprieved from a sentence of death, Marcel poled his canoe out into the current. Behind him, the Esquimos had already joined Kovik on the shore, when, warned by a shout from his friend, Marcel instinctively ducked as a seal spear whistled over his head. Some doubter was testing the magic of the white demon.

      Seizing his paddle Jean swiftly crossed the river and secured his precious net. But he was not yet rid of his enemies. If the young men, conquering their fear of his friendship with demons, at once launched their kayaks, they could overhaul his loaded canoe. But once clear of the last tepees, with his pursuers behind him, he was confident that he could pick them off with his rifle as fast as they came up in their rocking craft.

      With all the power of his iron back and shoulders, Jean drove his canoe on the strong current; but Kovik had the Huskies in hand and they did not follow. Shortly he had passed the last lodge on the shore and the camp was soon in the distance. It seemed like a dream—his peril of the last hour; and now, a free man again, with his puppy in the bow, he was on his way to the coast and Julie Breton.

      Suddenly two rifles cracked in the rocks on the near beach. The paddle of Marcel dropped from his limp hands. Headlong he lurched to the floor of the canoe. Again the guns spat from the boulders. Two bullets whined over the birch-bark. But save for the yelping puppy in the bow, there was no movement in the canoe, as it slid, the cat's-paw of the current.

      Waving their arms in triumph at the collapse of the feared white man, whose magic had been impotent before their bullets, the Huskies hurried along shore after the canoe. Carried by breeze and current, with its whimpering puppy and silent human freight the craft grounded a half-mile below the ambush. On came the chattering pair of assassins, already quarrelling over the division of the outfit of the dead man—delirious with the sweetness of their vengeance for the rough handling the stricken one in the canoe had meted out to them but an hour before. The dog, although lashed to the bow thwart, had managed to crawl out of the boat and was struggling with the thongs which held her, when the Huskies came running up. Staring into the birch-bark, they turned to each other gray faces on which was written ghastly fear.

      The canoe was empty!

      The white man they had thought to find a bloodied heap, was, after all, a maker of magic—a friend of demons. Kovik had told the truth. They were lost!

      Palsied with dread, their feet frozen to the beach, the young ruffians awaited the swift vengeance of their enemy. And it came.

      Hard by, a rifle crashed in the boulders. With a scream, a Husky reeled backward with a shattered hand, as his gun, torn from his grasp by the impact of the bullet, rattled on the stones. A second shot, splintering the butt of his rifle, hurled the other to his knees. Then with a demonical yell, Marcel sprang from his ambush.

      Running like caribou jumped by barren-ground wolves, the panic-stricken Huskies fled from the place of horror, pursued by the ricochetting bullets of the white demon, until they disappeared up the shore.

      "A'voir, M'sieurs!" cried Marcel. "De nex' tam you ambush cano', don' let eet dref behin' de point." And shaking with laughter, turned to his yelping puppy, frenzied with excitement.

      "De Husky t'ink we not go to Whale Riviere, eh?" he said, stroking the trembling shoulders of the worrying dog. "But Jean and hees petite chienne, dey see Julie Breton jus' de same."

      Putting his puppy in the canoe, Marcel continued on down the river.

      When the shots from ambush whined past his face, Marcel had flattened to the floor of the craft, both for cover and to deceive the Huskies. The second shots convinced him that he had but two to deal with. Slitting the bark skin near the gunwale, that he might watch the shore without betraying the fact that he was conscious, and thereby draw their fire, while they were protected from his by the boulders, he learned that the craft was working toward the beach.

      His plan was swiftly made. Driven by the racing current, the canoe had already left the Esquimos, following the shore, in the rear. He would allow the craft to ground and hold his fire until they were on top of him. But the boat finally reached the beach at a point hidden from the pursuing Huskies. With a bound Marcel was out of the canoe and concealed among the rocks. Great as was the temptation to leave the men who had ambushed him in cold blood, shot upon the beach, a sinister warning to their fellows, the thought of Kovik's position at the camp forced him to content himself with disarming and sending them shrieking up the shore with his bullets worrying their heels.

      Often, during the day, as Marcel put mile after mile of the Salmon between himself and the camp at the rapids, the puppy cocked curious ears as the new master ceased paddling, to roar with laughter at the memory of two flying Esquimos.