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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Carry them out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest. "And then cover the blood with fresh snow." He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a near birch. "I feel weak dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me pull off some bark." A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore down a handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match.
The missioner's official voice brayed between them benevolently. Goodwin had a momentary sense that there was a sort of indecency in thus trumpeting forth the introduction; it should have been done solemnly, gracefully, like a ceremony. "Miss James," said the missioner noisily, "here's a friend that's visitin' us for the first time.
"Ye-es," she hesitated; "I expect I'll be coming to-morrow." "That's all right, then," said Goodwin cheerfully. "An' I'll be along, too." The elderly woman whom she had left at the missioner's summons was hovering patiently. Goodwin held out his hand. "Good night, Miss James," he said.
"He is on my trail," he said, "and tonight he is not very far away." The Missioner's hand rested in a comforting way on his arm.
After a moment, without taking his eyes from the Missioner's recumbent form, he reached to the pocket of his coat which he had flung on the bunk and drew out the picture of the Girl. He looked at it a long time, his heart growing warm, and the tense lines softening in his face. "It can't be," he whispered. "She is alive!"
And then, as he remained silent, with his lips on the velvety smoothness of her hair, she told him what Father John had already told him of her wild effort to overtake him in that night of storm when he had fled from the Missioner's cabin at Cragg's Ridge; and in turn he told her how Peter came to him in the break of the morning with the treasure which had saved him heart and soul, and how he had given that treasure into the keeping of Yellow Bird, on the shores of Wollaston.
We have everything we need." And then she saw only Father John, and put her arms closely about his neck, and with wide, tearless eyes looked into his face. "Father, you will come to us?" she whispered. "You promise that?" The Missioner's arms closed about her, and he bowed his face against her lips and cheek. "I pray God that it may be so," he said.
When he had seen Pastamoo off, he continued his journey toward the cabin, in the hope that Jan Thoreau's wife was either an Indian or a fool. He was too old a hand at his game to be taken in by the story that had been told to the Cree. Jan had not gone to the French missioner's. A murderer's trail would not be given away like that. Of course the wife knew.
His eyes were open to its beauty, but he did not see; a vision was rising before him, and his soul was breathing a prayer of gratitude to the Missioner's God, to the God of the totem-worshippers over the ranges, to the God of all things.
He sniffed danger near, menacing danger and sprang up with a snarling cry that brought the man over the fire to quick attention. In a flash Jan took the last leap, and his club crashed down upon the missioner's head. The man pitched over like a log, and with a shrill cry the boy was at his throat. "I am Jan Thoreau!" he shrieked. "I am Jan Thoreau Jan Thoreau come to keel you!"
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