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Updated: June 24, 2025
He must have been almost in the line of that bullet, for Rogers had been facing him squarely and the bullet had struck Rogers fairly in the back of the head. Or again, people had said that Rogers had possessed some sort of mysterious hold over Rafe Gadbeau, and that Gadbeau did his bidding unwillingly, under a pressure of fear.
Then the Bishop told of the coming of Rafe Gadbeau and how the man had died with the Sacrament. They nodded their heads in silence. There was nothing to be said. They knew who the man was. He had done wickedly. But the good God had stretched out the wing of His great Church over him at the last. Why say more? God was good. No?
The other girl reached out into the crowd and plucked at the sleeve of a tall, beak-nosed man. The man was evidently flattered by Ruth's request, and wanted her to dance with him immediately. "No," said Ruth, "I do not know how to dance your dances, and we'd only break up the sets if I tried to learn now. We've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gadbeau, so, of course, I wanted to know you.
Who had been hurt by his thought, his wish, to kill a man? Had it hurt the man, Samuel Rogers? No. He was none the worse of it. Had it hurt Rafe Gadbeau? No. He did not enter into this at all. Had it hurt Jeffrey Whiting, himself? Not till yesterday; and not in the way meant. Whom, then? And if it had hurt nobody, then then why all this ? Jeffrey Whiting rose from his chair as though to go.
You got Rafe Gadbeau and the others to knock me on the head and put me out of the way, so that you could spread your lies about me. And you'd have won out, too, if it hadn't been for this brave girl here. "Now, Rogers, you liar," he shouted louder, "I dare you, dare you, to tell these people here that I or any of our people have sold you a foot of land. I dare you!"
Rogers would have argued, but Rafe Gadbeau pulled him away. Gadbeau knew that crowd. They were a crowd of Frenchmen, volatile and full of potential fury. They were already cheering the brave girl. In a few minutes they would be hunting the life of the man who had lied to them and nearly ruined them.
He had a right to kill him. But he knew that he was losing at every angle of the fight. For the conviction answered not a word to any of these things. It merely fastened itself upon his spirit and stuck to the original indictment: "As guilty as Rafe Gadbeau."
She had been to put the first flowers of the Spring on the grave of Rafe Gadbeau, where Father Ponfret had blessed the ground for him and they had laid him, there under the sunny side of the Gaunt Rocks that had given him his last breathing space that he might die in peace. They had put him here, for there was no way in that time to carry him to the little cemetery in French Village.
Rogers, whom the railroad had first used as an agent and afterwards as an instrument, was now gone a broken tool. Rafe Gadbeau, who had been Rogers' assistant, was gone another broken tool. The fire had been used for its purpose. The fire was a thing of the past. Jeffrey Whiting had been put out of the way definitely, the railroad had hoped. He was now free again to make difficulties.
A delusion that could lift Rafe Gadbeau out of the misery of his guilt, that carried the souls of millions of guilty people through all the world up out of the depths of their crimes to a confidence of relief and freedom! Then the soul of Jeffrey Whiting went down into the abyss of despairing loneliness. It trod the dark ways in which there was no guidance.
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