“Father Lacombe is a noted missionary. He could hardly find the leisure
to come here, and if he had been thinking of doing so I should have
heard. It certainly is possible for him to have come from Three Points
by river and portage, then by lake, and so over the flats; but in
that case the patrol would have seen him and reported. Repeat your
statement, Carey.”
“It is said that the priest was paddled along the shore by Indians, who
also packed his things on from the beach. No one saw him on the route.
He arrived yesterday, and has a tent in West Hanafin; but he has not
been seen to-day. I am told he is unwell after his journey. The Indians
declare he is Father Lacombe, of Three Points--”
“Their word goes for nothing. Because I have not succeeded in finding
Redpath’s hiding-place, he has come out into the open again, and defies
me. I’ll teach him his last lesson to-night.”
Hanafin pulled his fur-lined cloak about him with angry movements, and
we three left headquarters, and made towards the western annex.
“Redpath would never have taken that name,” I began, when Hanafin, who
was decidedly out of temper, took me up sharply.
“If it had been Father Jones, or Father Anybody, I might have suspected
nothing. The blind is obvious. Redpath knows he has me to deal with. He
thinks he will be safe under the name which I must regard as the most
unlikely for him to select.”
We came up and saw the solitary tent, glowing with a light inside.
Outside an Indian was chopping wood. We were quite away from the noise
and rush of Front Street. A big shadow was moving inside the tent.
It stopped, and suddenly settled down to half its former height. The
Commissioner went to the Indian, and summarily dismissed him on some
mission. Then he and I approached the tent-flap, and Carey followed. I
whispered:
“Shall we cut the ropes?”
“I mark my game before I shoot,” said Hanafin, and he put out his hand
to the tent-flap.
Then I noticed that this was one of the tents made with a window--that
is, a detachable piece of canvas about five feet above ground, which
could be lowered to enable the occupant to see out; the hole was
covered with a piece of fine gauze to keep out the mosquitos. I drew my
companion’s attention to this, and we went up silently, and together
looked into the tent.
The priest was upon his knees, his face buried in his hands.
Hanafin’s face seemed to tighten, and his lips twitched.
A lamp hung from the tent-pole. The priest knelt before a box, upon
which were arranged a few books, and in the centre a curious device of
wood and ivory.
“What is that?” I whispered.
“They call it a crucifix,” came the answer, which told me nothing.
We expected to see the face of a villain, the loose face and flabby
skin, the cold eyes and the smooth smile of Redpath. It was a firm face
that we saw when the head came up and the hands lowered and clasped
each other, a kind, even a noble face; and the eyes, when they opened,
were deep and grey. It was a face that I could have gazed at for a
long time, because I had seen nothing like it before, but Hanafin was
pulling my arm.
“Come away,” he whispered hoarsely.
I watched lingeringly, and the priest, raising his right hand, touched
his wide forehead, and then traced his long fingers down and across his
chest. My untaught mind awoke and responded to the act, and began to
seek in its ignorance for more knowledge.
The strong-minded Commissioner was positively trembling.
“Heaven be thanked that I did not cut those ropes! My reputation would
have gone for ever.”
“Who is he?” I said, the glamour of the scene impressed upon my
struggling mind.
“He is the Reverend Gabriel Lacombe, who, I believe, could be a
cardinal if he chose, but who prefers to serve in the solitude
reclaiming Indians. The great Lacombe, who has refused an
archbishopric! And I was going to jump upon him for a murderer! Carey,
not a word, if you desire mentioning!”