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Updated: May 21, 2025
I would have killed him myself, for he had made Rafe Gadbeau do many things that he would not have done. He made my love a murderer. I went to keep Rafe Gadbeau from the setting of the fire. But I would have killed that man myself with the gun if I could. So I hated him. When I saw him fall, I clapped my hands in glee. See, Mon Pere, I am guilty.
He was as guilty as Rafe Gadbeau. Provocation? Yes, he had had provocation, bitter, blinding provocation. But so had Rafe Gadbeau: and he had never thought of Rafe Gadbeau as anything but guilty of murder. He turned on his heel and walked down the Run with swift, swinging strides, fighting this conviction that was settling upon him.
Captain Rafe and the boys were out, hauling their sea-traps, and Vesty had been doing the washing that they were wont to do for themselves; the mother, like her own, being dead. The room was nice as I had never seen it before, and Vesty was putting some pitiful little ornaments to rights at the cabinet-organ end.
In the red sandstone courthouse of Racquette County the District Attorney of the county was opening the case for the State against Jeffrey Whiting, charged with the murder of Samuel Rogers, who had died by the hand of Rafe Gadbeau that grim morning on the side of Bald Mountain.
"He'd rather pick up a bug any day and put it through a cross-examination, than smash it under the sole of his boot." "I don't think bugs were made to smash," Tom said stoutly. "Whew! What in thunder were they made for?" demanded the mocking Rafe. "I don't think God Almighty made things alive just for us to make 'em dead," said Tom, clumsily, and blushing a deep red. Rafe laughed again.
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.
Old riverman that he was, Uncle Henry was pretty sure of what was about to happen. The huge log came tearing on, butt first, a wave of troubled water split by its on-rush. Turner was watching the person bringing him the axe, and never once threw a glance over his shoulder. Suddenly Nan cried out and seized Uncle Henry's arm. "Look! Oh, Uncle! It's Rafe!" she gasped, pointing.
Rafe, reckless and harebrained as he was, flew over the logs as sure-footed as a goat. Nan felt faint. Her cousin's peril seemed far greater to her than that of the foreman. A step might plunge Rafe into the foaming stream! When a log rolled under him she cried out under her breath and clamped her teeth down on to her lower lip until the blood almost came. "He'll be killed!
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.
A remembrance, that the 21st day of May we communed with Iohn Rafe, and he thought it best to goe Northeast, and iudged himselfe 25 leagues Eastward to the Isle de Flores, and in 39 degrees and a halfe. Item, in 40 degrees the compasse did varie 15 degrees in the whole. Item, in 30 degrees and a halfe, the compasse is varied 5 degrees to the West.
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