The missionary at Fort Anne of the H. B. C. was violently in earnest.
Before he piously followed the latest and most amply endowed batch of
settlers, who had in turn preceded the new railway to the Fort, the word
scandal had no place in the vocabulary of the citizens. The H. B. C. had
never imported it into the Chinook language, the common meeting-ground of
all the tribes of the North; and the British men and native-born, who
made the Fort their home, or place of sojourn, had never found need for
its use. Justice was so quickly distributed, men were so open in their
conduct, good and bad, that none looked askance, nor put their actions in
ambush, nor studied innuendo. But this was not according to the new
dispensation--that is, the dispensation which shrewdly followed the
settlers, who as shrewdly preceded the railway. And, the dispensation
and the missionary were known also as the Reverend Ezra Badgley, who, on
his own declaration, in times past had "a call" to preach, and in the far
East had served as local preacher, then probationer, then went on
circuit, and now was missionary in a district of which the choice did
credit to his astuteness, and gave room for his piety and for his holy
rage against the Philistines. He loved a word for righteous mouthing,
and in a moment of inspiration pagan and scandal came to him. Upon these
two words he stamped, through them he perspired mightily, and with them
he clenched his stubby fingers--such fingers as dug trenches, or snatched
lewdly at soft flesh, in days of barbarian battle. To him all men were
Pagans who loved not the sound of his voice, nor wrestled with him in
prayer before the Lord, nor fed him with rich food, nor gave him much
strong green tea to drink. But these men were of opaque stuff, and were
not dismayed, and they called him St. Anthony, and with a prophetic and
deadly patience waited. The time came when the missionary shook his
denouncing finger mostly at Pretty Pierre, who carefully nursed his
silent wrath until the occasion should arrive for a delicate revenge
which hath its hour with every man, if, hating, he knows how to bide the
will of Fate.
The hour came. A girl had been found dying on the roadside beyond the
Fort by the drunken doctor of the place and Pierre. Pierre was with her
when she died.
"An' who's to bury her, the poor colleen?" said Shon McGann afterwards.