Wolf Breed | Page 3

same room stood a great,
sturdy homemade table, crippled in one leg, yet standing valiantly, like
an old soldier home from the wars. Mère Jeanne's own plump hands
had placed the best tablecloth upon it, and there, in its nest of field
flowers, was the great bowl which had been the most serviceable of the
handful of wedding gifts fifty years ago. Since the crisp sting had not
yet gone out of the air the high red tide in the bowl was steaming an
invitation which was irresistible.
Long before one o'clock all of the Settlement had arrived, each one had
had his bit of the heady punch, small glasses for the women, great
pewter mugs many times refilled for the men. The big bowl was
proverbially like the purse of Fortunatus in its scorn of emptiness. Mère

Jeanne ceremoniously replenished it time and again, carried brimming
cups to the fiddlers, and the merry music, having ceased just long
enough for the musicians to gulp down "Your health," went on more
inspiringly than before. Heavy booted feet, moving rythmically, made
the dance a thing to hear as well as see, deep throated laughter boomed
out incessantly, the lighter, fewer voices of women weaving in and out
of the clamour.
All afternoon men came in, now and then a woman with them. They
drank and ate, they smoked Père Marquette's tobacco from the jars set
about everywhere, they traded old news for new and new for old, they
speculated upon the coming thaws and trapping to be found down on
the Little MacLeod and up towards the Silver Lake country, they told
of the latest gold strike in the Black Bear hills and predicted fresh
strikes to be made before the thaw was ten days old. Many types of
men and women, some no doubt good, some bad no doubt, all mingling
freely.
At five o'clock Père Marquette cleared his voice, scrambled with rare
agility upon one of his own counters and made the expected
announcement:
"Ah, my frien's, you make us ver' happy, me an' Mamma Jeanne. We
wish our leetle house she was more big to-day, big like our heart, that
she can hold the whole worl'." He hugged his thin old arms to his breast
and smiled upon them. "Tonight, all night long, mes amis, you are
welcome. The doors of Père Marquette have forgot how to close up
to-night! But listen, one instant! Jus' across the road my warehouse she
is open. The violins have gone there. There you may dance, dance as
Mam'selle Jeanne an' I dance it is fifty year to-night. Dance all night
long. And while the yo'ng folk whose hearts are in their heels walse
yonder, here we older ones . . . Ah!" as sudden voices, cheering, cut
into his running words. "You have not forgot, eh?"
It was the signal for division. The few women who had children took
them home with them; the other women, young and old, following like
a holiday flotilla in the wake of Mère Jeanne, tacked through the muck
of the road to the warehouse; many of the younger and some few of the

older men followed them; and in the house of Père Marquette, in the
yellow light of a half dozen kerosene lamps and many tall candles, the
real affair of the evening began.
Great logs oozing molten pitch were burning noisily in the two rock
fireplaces, the red flames swept up into the blackened chimneys to
spread cheer within and to scatter sparks like little stars in the clear
night without, the punch bowl had at last been allowed to stand empty
not because men were through drinking but because stronger drink,
men's drink, had appeared in many bottles upon the shelves, a game of
poker was running in one corner of a room, a game of solo in another;
yonder, seen through an open door, six men were shaking dice and
wagering little and bigger sums recklessly; a little fellow with a
wooden leg and a terribly scarred face was drawing shrieking rag time
from an old and asthmatic accordion while four men, their big boots
clumping noisily upon the bare floor, danced like awkward trained
bears when the outer door, closed against the chill of the evening, was
flung open and a stranger to MacLeod's settlement stood a moment
framed against the outside night. A score of eyes, going to him swiftly,
studied him with unhidden curiosity.
CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF NO-LUCK DRENNEN
All sorts and conditions of men come to the North Woods; some
because they want to, some because they have to. Some because they
are drawn by the fine lure of adventure and the urge of the restless
spirit, some because they are driven by that bloodhound which is