Wolf Breed

Jackson Gregory

Description

Prolific writer of classic Westerns Jackson Gregory strikes gold again in the edge-of-your-seat outdoor adventure Wolf Breed. With landscape descriptions so vivid you'll feel like you're there and plenty of play-by-play action, this gem will leave fans of the genre eminently satisfied.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 novembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775560470
• Langue: English

Extrait

WOLF BREED
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JACKSON GREGORY
 
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Wolf Breed First published in 1916 ISBN 978-1-77556-047-0 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Open House at Père Marquette's Chapter II - The Coming of No-Luck Drennen Chapter III - The Man Under the Cloak Chapter IV - The Luck of No-Luck Drennen Chapter V - The Way of the North Chapter VI - The Promise of a Rainbow Chapter VII - "A Princess Sent to Pack with Wolves!" Chapter VIII - Dust of Idols Chapter IX - "To the Girl I Am Going to Kiss to-Night!" Chapter X - Seekers After Gold Chapter XI - The Witchery of Ygerne Chapter XII - Mere Brute or Just Plain Man? Chapter XIII - Ygerne's Answer Chapter XIV - Drennen Makes a Discovery Chapter XV - The Tale of Le Beau Diable Chapter XVI - The Lost Golden Girl Pays an Old Debt Chapter XVII - The Passion of Ernestine Dumont Chapter XVIII - The Law and a Man's Desire Chapter XIX - The Long Trail Chapter XX - The Fires Which Purify Chapter XXI - Chance Heard in the Night Chapter XXII - The Path Down the Cliff Chapter XXIII - Château Bellaire Chapter XXIV - The Speaking of Guns Chapter XXV - The Belated Dawn
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To
JACKSON GREGORY, Jr.
Chapter I - Open House at Père Marquette's
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Mid June, and the eager spring had burst triumphant into the NorthWoods. The mountain tops, still white hostages of the retreatingwinter, fettered in frozen manacles, were alone in their reminiscenceof the implacable season. And even they made their joyous offerings tothe newborn springtime, pouring a thousand flashing cascades to leapdown the rocky sides and seek out the hidden nooks and valleys whereseeds were bursting and the thawed earth lay fruitful under warm, lushgrass. The birds were back from their southern voyaging, once more thesquirrels chattered in the open, noisily forgetful of the rigours ofwinter in the joy of green things growing, and in the clear blue archof the sky the sun wheeled gloriously through a long day. The air,always wine, was now a sparkling, bubbling, rare vintage champagne,dancing in the blood, making laughter in the heart and sweet tumult inthe brain. It was the season of long, golden days, of clear, silvernights, of budding life everywhere.
Because of three unmistakable signs did even the most sceptical of thehandful of hardy spirits at MacLeod's Settlement know that in truth thespring had come. They read the welcome tidings in the slipping of thesnows from the flinty fronts of Ironhead and Indian Peak a thousandfeet above the greening valley; in the riotous din of squirrels andbirds interwoven with the booming of frogs from the still ponds; andfinally in the announcement tacked upon the post-office door. The twoline scrawl in lead pencil did not state in so many words the sametidings which the blue birds were proclaiming from the thicket on thefar bank of the Little MacLeod; it merely announced that to-night PèreMarquette and his beloved wife, Mère Jeanne, were keeping open house.Every one in the Settlement knew what that meant, just as well as heunderstood the significance of the noises of the ice splitting upon theponds.
Once every year until now this was the fiftieth had such anannouncement appeared. Not always upon the door of the post-office,for when the announcements began there was no post-office in MacLeod'sSettlement. But annually at the chosen time set apart by the seasonand himself Père Marquette would appear upon the little narrow street,earlier than the earliest, cock his bright eye up at old Ironheadtowering high above him, rub his chin complacently, turn his headsidewise so that he might hearken to the thin voices of the wildcreatures, and then, his message tacked up, return to the private roombehind his store to kiss Mère Jeanne awake and inform her with gravejoy that their " jour de l'an " had come to them. Then, and with muchfrolicking and wine and music, would their new year begin.
"It is our anniversary, m'sieu' ," he would say with an air of vastconfidence to the first man he met upon the street. "To-night we keepopen house here." He would wave his hand toward the long, low logbuilding, clay chinked. "We will be proud of your presence and that ofyour frien's."
It had been remarked that the anniversary had come one year upon thetwenty-sixth of May, another year as late as the last of June. PèreMarquette had laughed softly and had shaken his head. "What matter?"he had demanded. "I, I marry myself with my beloved Mam'selle Jeannethe first fine day of spring. Voilà ."
The central door of the Marquette house, broadest and heaviest and mostconspicuous both from its position in the middle of its valiant line ofbrothers, had been closed and barred since last night. It gaveentrance to the store; here behind his long counter, peering over boxesneatly piled or between great heaps of bacon and tobacco and men'sclothing, Père Marquette looked out upon the world some three hundredand sixty-four days of the ordinary year. But upon the first day ofspring it was closed and locked until noon. If a man needed plug cutfor his pipe, why then let him borrow from his friend or steal from hisenemy; it was no concern of Père Marquette. If a woman required flourfor her baking let her do without; it would serve her right for havingfailed to remember the great day. . . . Then at high noon, notmeasured by any ticking clock in the Settlement, the matter beingdecided by Père Marquette and the sun alone, the middle door was flungopen. The old man, dressed in his best black suit, his newest skullcap set like a crown upon his head, stood at one side of the entrance,gravely courteous, his black eyes twinkling, twin withered roses in hisold cheeks. Mère Jeanne, silver buckles on her shoes, her ample formsurrounded almost but not quite by a great white, stiff-starched apron,a bouquet of flowers in one hand, took her place at the other side.And then the guests began to arrive.
You could list the men, women, children and four footed live stock ofMacLeod's Settlement upon a printed page and still have room left for abrief biography of each. They all came, all dressed in their bestholiday raiment, all happy and eager for the celebration. From fardown the Little MacLeod river men trod the slushy trails, rough fellowsfor the most part and silent, but with a tongue in each head to proposea toast to host and hostess. From over the ridge, from French Valley,from as far east as St. Croix and as far west as Dunvegan's Post, theguests trooped in. Miners, trappers, little stock men; scions of oldFrench families with grand names, descendants of younger English sonswith riotous blood, Americans who had crossed the border with muchhaste and scant baggage; many men whom the world had outlawed and whomthe North Woods had accepted as empire builders; men of pure bloodknocking elbows with swarthy "breeds," oddly alike in the matters ofkeenly alert eyes and magnificent bodies.
As they filed through the Frenchman's door they entered not the storeat all but what was Père Marquette's idea of a drawing room. The longcounters and shelves were there, but the barrels of pickled meat, thepiles of soap and tinned meats, the bags of flour, the stacks of men'sclothing, all this had been whisked away and out of sight as though bymagic. A strip of new red oilcloth upon one counter, a strip of blueupon another, transformed both into auxiliary seats. Benches, recentlybrought in from the rear storeroom by Père Marquette's man, Jules, andfreshly dusted by him, lined the walls. Even Mère Jeanne's bedroom hadbeen robbed of chairs; boxes dressed gaily in gingham or perchance evenflaunting remnants of chintz, were amply good enough for the boys andgirls.
"My frien', you do me the honour," said Père Marquette over and over assome stranger upon whom his quick black eyes had never rested until nowaccepted his hand and entered to be again welcomed by Mère Jeanne."You make mamma and me ver' happy."
Let the frontier push out as far and as fast as it pleases, the violinalways goes with it. Men march the more intrepidly to the scraping ofthe skilful bow. There were two fiddles already going in the nextroom; Père Marquette had seen to that. And in the same room stood agreat, sturdy homemade table, crippled in one leg, yet standingvaliantly, like an old soldier home from the wars. Mère Jeanne's ownplump hands had placed the best tablecloth upon it, and there, in itsnest of field flowers, was the great bowl which had been the mostserviceable of the handful of wedding gifts fifty years ago. Since thecrisp sting had not yet gone out of the air the high red tide in thebowl was steaming an invitation which was irresistible.
Long before one o'clock all of the Settlement had arrived, each one hadhad his bit of the heady punch, small glasses for the women, greatpewter mugs many times refilled for the men. The big bowl wasproverbially like the purse of Fortunatus in its scorn of emptiness.Mère Jeanne ceremoniously replenished it time and again, carriedbrimming cups to the fiddlers, and the merry music, having ceased justlong enough for the musicians to gulp down "Your health," went on moreinspiringly than before. Heavy booted feet, moving rythmically, madethe dance a thing to hear as well as see, deep throated laughter boomedout incessantly, the lighter, fewer voices of women weaving in and outof the clamour.
All afternoon men came in, now and then a woman with them. They drankand ate, they smoked Père Mar