778 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 21, 1912 
He thought hard for five minutes, until the 
trembling little woman could stand it no longer. 
“Father,” she cried in agony, “is there noth¬ 
ing we can do?” 
The good priest’s eyes filled with tears in 
spite of himself. He stroked her head and said: 
“Go home now, my daughter, and hope for the 
best. I will go to Wildcat as fast as I can, and—” 
“You, Father!” exclaimed the young woman. 
“In this storm!” The priest smiled. “Never 
fear, I am not so tender as you may think, and 
besides the good God will put strength into me. 
Go to Raoul Lamotte, and tell him to place a 
notice on the church door that I had to take 
the sacraments to a distant place, and let as 
many know about it as possible, so that not too 
many will make the journey to evening service 
for nothing. Now go, my dear daughter, and 
pray that I may arrange everything in good time. 
Pray for Pierre, and for me; yes, and pray for 
Dominique, too; pray hard for Dominique. He 
needs it most.” And he pushed her out of the 
house. 
“Now,” he murmured to himself, “to save 
a life. Who knows? Perhaps, with the help of 
Him who was born this blessed day, a soul!” 
Ten minutes later there was nothing left in 
the outward appearance of this man that was 
priestly, except the strong, ascetic and yet kindly 
face that had now taken on an expression of 
grim resolution. Dressed in a mackinaw coat, 
and high larrigans over homespun trousers, he 
paused a moment in front of the hatrack, but 
finally set on his head a light coonskin cap which 
he suddenly remembered was much like the one 
that Pierre wore in cold weather. The priest’s 
last act was to pack a small rucksack with some 
lunch and a light blanket, in the middle of which 
he wrapped a good-sized flask, filled with the 
best of Jamaica rum. Then, with a hurried look 
at his watch, he turned the key in the outside 
door, and set his face to the biting northeast 
wind that bore the icy greetings of the frozen 
Labrador. 
The winter sun, though bright, was getting 
low as Father Leroy paused on the shore of a 
little lake in the deep woods and stooped to 
pick up a tiny bunch of dark hair which he ex¬ 
amined carefully. “Otter!” he murmured to him¬ 
self. “Pierre is having luck. He knocked that 
out of the beast in killing it.” He had come for 
the first time on the trail of the trapper, but he 
noticed that there appeared to be but one track, 
half covered by the snow, and of much larger 
footsteps than his own, or of Pierre’s, since 
Pierre's and his were of a size. “Dominique!” 
muttered the priest. Had the would-be assassin 
arrived before Pierre and robbed the trap ? A 
careful scrutiny of the surface of the snow dis¬ 
pelled the idea, for there, almost obliterated it 
is true, but still apparent, was a second trail that 
told its own tale. “Fool that I am!” said the 
priest. “There’s the trap set again. Dominique 
wouldn't have troubled to do that. He’s fol¬ 
lowing Pierre—that’s bad.” 
As he pushed on, led by Dominique’s trail, 
his reasoning proved to be correct, for the second 
track became slightly though steadily plainer, and 
led from trap to trap, all reset, in several of 
which fur had evidently been found. It was 
plain that Pierre was having grand good luck 
on this round, and that, at this rate, he would 
arrive at Wildcat with a rich booty. At the 
fourth trap the plunder had evidently got so 
burdensome that he had stopped to skin the 
otter, the freezing carcass lying on the trail. 
“Dominique will not only satisfy his re¬ 
venge,” murmured Father Leroy, “but his cu¬ 
pidity, too.” The priest sat down on a log to 
reflect, and also to rest, for though he had led 
a clean and wholesome life and was sturdy of 
hack and limb, such a tramp as this was a 
strenuous task for a man on the wrong side of 
fifty, who was not used to cruising the winter 
woods. “This will never do,” he thought. “At 
this rate I shall arrive long after the murderer 
has done his work and escaped with his booty.” 
He guessed rightly that the trapping line led 
round through a well-known chain of small lakes 
and ponds to a slight height of land, on the 
other side of which was Wildcat Brook, a con¬ 
siderable stream that flowed south again into 
Wildcat Lake. Dominique might at any time 
have abandoned his dogging of his rival, and 
turned off on a short cut to the cabin, there to 
await the coming of his certain victim. On the 
other hand the priest had reason to believe that 
the halfbreed would stick to his quarry, not 
being sure where the latter would pass the night, 
for he had other shacks in outlying sections of 
the woods. In any case the priest made up his 
mind that he must get to the cabin first, and then 
in case no one had yet been there, work back 
up the Wildcat stream until he met Pierre; for 
he argued that, as long as Pierre made his way, 
even indirectly in the direction of the Wildcat 
cabin, Dominique would postpone his murderous 
deed, since it would be easiest for him to escape 
out of the country by going down the Lasouche 
stream that flowed out of Wildcat, and event¬ 
ually led to the settlements below. Father Leroy 
therefore consulted his compass, and then started 
straight across country in the direction of Wild¬ 
cat Lake. 
It was not long before the good man had 
reason to regret this course, for it is one thing 
to follow a trail, even a rough one, through the 
winter woods, and another to plunge in any 
given direction straight through the country, 
negotiating windfalls, half-frozen brooks, thick 
copses of scrub spruce, with many a pitfall in 
the treacherous snow. Time and time again he 
was obliged to stop and rest, and it is very cer¬ 
tain that nothing but the immineuce of danger 
to his friend would have kept him to his plan. 
Although as a matter of fact hardly an hour 
was consumed in this hard scramble, he almost 
despaired of arriving in time. All the greater 
was his joy when upon emerging, lame and ex¬ 
hausted, upon the little clearing on the shores 
of Wildcat Lake, where stood the comfortable 
cabin of Pierre Durand, he saw no sign of life 
about it, and no trail in the snow leading to it, 
and in his heart he sent up a prayer of thanks¬ 
giving that he had arrived in time. Quickly he 
entered the cabin and started a fire in the big 
stone fireplace, and then fetched a kettle of 
water from the little stream that flowed into 
the lake by the cabin. He hung it over the flames 
and sat down to warm himself and wait for 
the coming of Pierre. But suddenly it occurred 
to him that his thanksgiving was premature, for 
how did he know whether Pierre would not be 
overtaken by the murderous Dominique before 
he reached the cabin. The terrible idea brought 
him to his feet in consternation, and he was 
struggling in very agony to make up his mind 
whether or not he should rush forth once more 
and try to reach Pierre before Dominique, when 
to his great joy he saw through the door, which 
he had left ajar, the sinewy figure of Pierre 
striding toward him across the clearing with a 
heavy bundle of fur on his back. As the trapper 
caught sight of the open door and the smoke 
curling from the chimney above, he stopped 
short in astonishment, but recovered himself in 
a moment and strode into the cabin. 
Good Father Leroy was so overcome with 
fatigue, as well as emotion, that he could scarce¬ 
ly stammer a word. 
“Thank God you have come, my dear son!” 
he finally managed to gasp out, and without say¬ 
ing more, he closed the door and bolted it on 
the inside. Meanwhile Pierre was extremely 
mystified, not only by Father Leroy’s actions, 
but by the very fact that the old priest, who 
Pierre knew had celebrated the mass that very 
noon should be found here in this far-off cabin 
in the woods and on such a day. Father Leroy 
was too excited for the moment to explain his 
appearance. He had but one thought—to save 
his young friend. Without further ado he 
dragged Pierre away from the window and made 
him sit down upon a settle in the far corner of 
the cabin. Then he asked: “Have you candles, 
my son ?” 
“Yes, Father,’’ replied the wondering Pierre. 
“Up there on the shelf.” 
The priest placed two candles upon the rough 
(Continued on page 798.) 
