Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1912. 
VOL. LXXIX.—No. 25 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
Christmas Day at Wildcat 
By EDWARD BRECK 
I T had snowed hard since morning, but just as 
good Father Leroy elevated the host in the 
little chapel at St. Ignace, it ceased, and the 
sun broke through the unpainted window and 
deluged in refulgent light the high altar with its 
gleaming silver, glorified the crude picture of 
Our Lady above it, and touched with fire, as 
from heaven, the host itself as it was held aloft 
in the adoring hands of the kindly-faced priest, 
even as the Grail itself shone wondrously in the 
uplifted hands of Parsifal. Not a soul in the 
assembly, which was composed of French-Cana- 
dians, Irish immigrants and Scottish highlanders, 
but felt the inspiration of the divine in his heart 
of hearts; and they filed out and made their 
difficult way to their several homes through the 
foot of snow that had fallen, to enjoy their 
Christmas dinners with cleansed consciences and 
appetites sharpened by the stiff exercise in the 
bitter cold air, for it was the increasing cold 
that had stopped the snowfall. Father Leroy 
had retired to the vestry, and was in the act of 
putting off his priestly vestments, when a timid 
knock was heard at the outside door. 
“Who is there?” 
“It is me, Father ; I want to see you,” came 
a low, trembling voice. 
“At this time, my child! Is it then so press¬ 
ing?” 
“Yes, yes, Father! I must see you!” 
“Very well, very well, my daughter. Just 
a moment and you shall come in.” The priest 
hastened his disrobing, and soon opened the 
outer door and let in a young woman of sweet 
face, who was evidently in great trouble. 
“O Father !” she gasped. “Pierre, my Pierre 1” 
“What is it, my daughter? Is your husband 
ill?” 
“No, no! He’s gone to Wildcat, to his 
cabin, you know, to look after his traps.” 
“What! He did not wait to attend church 
on Christmas Day!” 
“He was at early mass, and we had our 
dinner yesterday, you know, because my brother 
Gabriel was there, and he promised Mr. Allen to 
send in that bunch of fur. We had to pay so 
much, you know, for my little Jean’s illness, and 
money is pretty scarce.” 
“Yes, yes, I did see him at early mass. 
Well, go on, Gervaise.” 
“O, Father Leroy, that bad Dominique Pilon 
he’s after my man. He’s followed him in the 
woods. You know he swore he’d shoot Pierre 
ever since they caught him snaring that moose 
and put him in jail. It wasn't Pierre’s fault. 
He was deputy and had to go with the sheriff 
and the head warden when they heard about it, 
but Dominique he never believed anything but 
Pierre told on him. And he says Pierre took 
his best trapping grounds and stole that big otter 
from one of his traps. O, Father, he is a bad 
man! You know he killed a man once up near 
Quebec, and had to run away. O, what shall 
I do?” And the poor little woman broke into 
hysterical sobs. 
“Are you sure he’s gone after Pierre?” 
“Yes, yes. His friend, Tony the Injun, he 
came and told me he was afraid, and said I'd 
better not let Pierre go. Dominique took all 
his money with him and his rifle, and Tony says 
if he gets Pierre he'll never come back here any 
more.” 
“Why did Tony let him go?” 
“I don’t know. Tony says he is afraid of 
Dominique, and Tony has gone away himself to 
Trois Rivieres.” 
“Hm! Who is there else?” murmured the 
priest He well knew the utterly bad, desperate 
character of Dominique Pilon, as well as the 
bitter feud between him and the trapper and 
deputy game warden, Pierre Durand. Many 
threats that Dominique had lately made had come 
to his ears, and he judged the situation to be 
quite as critical as Gervaise feared. But for the 
life of him he could think of nobody living near 
by to whom he could entrust the task of follow¬ 
ing the would-be assassin into the woods, for it 
required someone who was not only a good 
woodsman, but who knew the long difficult way 
to Wildcat Lake in the newly fallen deep snow. 
Finally he asked, “When did Pierre go?” 
“About nine, sir, and Dominique he started 
about ten. He hurried and got all his things 
together as soon as he saw Pierre was leaving.” 
The priest thought it over. Pierre would not 
go straight to his Wildcat Lake camp, but would 
likely look at a number of traps on the way, 
especially as it promised to snow hard at that 
time, and he would wish to get to them before 
they were too deeply covered. And Dominique 
would reason just as he, the priest, did, and take 
it easy, knowing that he was sure to get to Wild¬ 
cat before Pierre if he went straight. Dominique 
would wait at the camp, or more likely, some¬ 
where on the trail near it, shoot down the man 
who, he had got into his brooding head, was 
the author of all his ills and run away, probably 
to a totally different part of the country, or even 
south to some big place where he could get work 
in a factory for the rest of the winter. Father 
Leroy shook his head. It was late, very late. 
Dominique had a start of two hours and more. 
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE (SITTING), AUTHOR OF “TENT DWELLERS” AND EDWARD BRECK, AUTHOR OF 
“WAY OF THE WOODS.” 
