DESPITE his oft reiterated vow that he would henceforth avoid the mission, Corporal Downey swung his canoe inshore upon his return upriver. He must see Father Giroux, he told himself (like one who cheats himself at "solitaire") - the good man would be glad to know that he had warned Luke Red Rock concerning future treatment of his wife; - that he approved of the way young Biggs was making a man of himself; - and most of all that the river would soon see the last of Henry Harder. . . . And, maybe she'll come and stand there the way she did before, with her arms reaching out to the sunset. . . .
Aloud, he spoke to Harder, who was sullenly paddling bow: "We'll stop over night at the mission. Save makin' camp." Had anyone suggested that Downey had killed time, in order that he might arrive just at sunset at the mission he had sworn to avoid, he would have frowned at the implication. Nevertheless, he had camped longer than his wont at noon, and not once during the afternoon had he urged his prisoner to greater effort with the paddle. In his heart, Downey knew these things to be true, and arraigned by his conscience, pleaded guilty boldly and unashamed.
At the top of the bank, they were greeted by Father Giroux, who had noted the approach of the canoe - "Back again so soon, my friend - and brought your man with you! I trust he gave you no trouble?"
"No, no - he's no fool - just the usual stuff. Claimed first he'd never seen Calgary, and then, that the squaw was just workin' for him - that he hadn't married her. But when he found out I had the goods on him, he came along without any trouble."
Harder interrupted with a snarl, addressing the priest: "It's your fault! You made me marry her. I'd never marry no squaw, or no other woman, without I was made to. I had enough of women 'fore I ever seen her! They can't do nothin' to me when I was forced into gettin' married."
"You did not tell me you were already married," retorted the mild voice of the priest, "else I should have taken the girl away, and left you with your sin."
"How did he force you?" asked Downey, knowing he would never hear the incident from the lips of Father Giroux.
There was hate in the man's eyes as he answered: "He dam' near choked me to death - that's how he done it! Look at him! He looks like an old man, an' he talks soft an' easy. He come in the store, an' he asks me is I an' the squaw married. 'Who wants to know?' I says. 'I do,' says he. 'Find out then, an' be dam' to you!' says 1, 'an' I don't need no priests nosin' round in my business.' 'I'm goin' to,' says he, an' then he begun follerin' me around, a-talkin', an' a-argerin', till I got mad. 'No,' I says, at last, When he'd dam' near drove me crazy with his talk. 'I ain't married to her! Now what the hell are you goin' to do about it?' I'd walked eight up to him an' stuck my fist under his nose. 'I'm a-goin' to make you marry her,' says he, an' 'fore I know'd what was happenin' he retch out an' had me by the throat. God - them long, skinny fingers! I kin feel 'em yet. They clamped down like steel claws. I tried to hit him - to smash him to hell - but I couldn't - an' then my lungs was a-bustin', an' they was a roarin' in my ears, an' my eyes an' tongue felt like they was a-bulgin' out of my head. I'd dropped by then, but he never let go his holt. I was a-dyin', I tell you - an' then he eased up - jest a little - jest so's I could pump a little air into me. 'Will you marry her now?' he says. 'No!' I tries to yell, but I didn't have wind enough to yell, an' it sounded a mile away. Then, he clamps down on me again. By God! I'll marry any one 'fore I'll git choked to death, so I agreed, an' when I could stand up, he pulls out his book, an' marries us."
I should not have choked you to death," explained a priest, softly. "But, had you not acceded to the demands of right, I should have choked you for a long, long time. 'It is mortal sin thus to live with a woman in open adultery, and is a bad example to others. I was thinking more of the girl than of --"
"Why'n hell didn't you choke her then?'
That would not have accomplished my purpose. Had you listened to entreaty, to argument, or had you the welfare of your eternal soul, and the soul of the girl, at heart, I should not have been forced to so extreme a measure."
"I don't believe in no soul!" growled the man. "An' if I did - to hell with it!"
"That, I am afraid, will be its ultimate destination, unless you hearken to the voice of the Master, and turn from your ways of sin -"
"I heard all that onct - an' onct is enough," snarled the man. "Mind yer own business!"
"I am minding my business, son, in the endeavor to salvage a sin-torn soul --"
"You shut up!" roared Harder, goaded to red rage by the words. He whirled upon Downey. "An' what's more, if you want to do so dam' much arrestin', arrest him! I'm agoin' to have him arrested fer attempted murder. It's agin' the law - more'n what I done. I know my rights!"
"You can lay your information before the proper authorities at the proper time," explained the officer, dryly. , "I make no doubt it will be given proper attention."
"But, come, Corporal," invited the good Father, ignoring the raging prisoner, "we shall eat and have time to watch the sunset from the little porch. Each evening I watch it as I smoke my pipe and think - of many things."
"Got some place where I can cache yon scum for the night, an' find him there in the morning? I've no time to be chasing him round the country, if he should try to pull out."
"There is a small room in the basement of the chapel that will hold him. A room well suited for meditation."
Seated on the porch, the two friends talked as the sun sank low. "And, now, my friend, that you have had your fling at the wilderness, shall you go back to your desk in the provinces?"
"A man goes where he's ordered to go," answered the officer, slowly. "If I'm to be consulted in the matter, I'll not be goin' back to the provinces."
"And your choice would be the - rivers? - the Arctic? - the Yukon? - or the country about the Bay?"
"Any one of them would be good," answered Downey, noncommittally. "They've established new posts way north of the coast."
"But - your choice would be?"
A light footstep sounded, and the priest's question went unheeded, as the form of a girl appeared at the corner of the porch, her eyes on the glowing western sky. The eyes of Corporal Downey no longer turned to the merely inanimate glory of the sunset, and his heart pounded riotously.
"Marie!" At the voice of the priest, the girl faced them, and, seeing Downey, smiled with the quick, naive pleasure of a child. "Come, draw a chair beside us. This is. Corporal Downey of the police." And, as the girl stepped lithely to the screen door, the good Father wondered again whether the heightened glow upon the young cheeks were but the trick of evening sunlight. He turned to the officer:
"Downey, this is Marie Molaire. She is our best pupil. Her father is Pierre Molaire, a trapper, whose cabin is on Eaglenest Lake, beyond the Birch Mountains."
"Oh! but he isn't a trapper - really!" The blue-black eyes were laughing, as the smile deepened on the red lips. It was with a stab of poignant pain that Downey looked into those eyes, - so like . . . other eyes. And then the low, rich voice; "He is - I don't know what you would call him. He searches for gold - but it's not the gold that he wants. It's - life. Oh! I cannot explain. It's adventure. He has always sought for adventure. Why, sometimes we would not see him for years, - my mother and I. But he always sent us his pay. It is not money he wants, - nor gold. Oh! sometimes I think he's just never grown-up, - and then sometimes I think that I really don't know him at all, even now, - when he is all I have. But oh! I love him! He is so good, an so kind, and so patient always - and always he laughs. If you could but know him --"
Corporal Downey's lips were smiling into the laughing eyes, as he interrupted: "I do know him."
"You know my father - you know him! And isn't it then as I said? Don't you like him? But, where - how --?"
Downey's face became grave; he cleared his throat slightly, and avoided the eyes of the good Father Giroux, who watched the two in silence from behind the screen of blue tobacco smoke. "I swung up the Moose, after I left here. Kind of gettin' acquainted with the country again. Long time since I've been through here. A man's got to keep acquainted with the country, isn't that true, Father?"
"Yes," replied the old priest, with a quizzical smile, "it is what makes for efficiency, Marie."
"And, of course, you came out on Eaglenest Lake, and found our cabin!"
"Yes - of course - that is - yes, it's a fine cabin." It was the first time in the long years of their acquaintance that Father Giroux had found Corporal Downey floundering among his words, and only stern pressure of his lips on his pipe-stem stifled the good man's chuckle.
"Do you like it? We think it's a nice cabin, too. It is our home. We built it with our own hands. And you found him there - my father?"
"Yes 'I found him. Not when I first got there, but he soon came. An' nothing would do but I must stop over night."
"And you like him?" She leaned forward, with confident expectation in the answer, and Downey's unruly heart leaped again.
"Aye - very much. As you say, he is one who loves life for the sake of living. He has travelled far, an' has seen much; - an' by the twinkle in his eye, the smile on his lips, an' the laugh in his voice, he has taken his joy of life. His love for, adventure we talked about."
"Yes." A wistful look crept into the great deep eyes, "And, yet - always he seems searching for more adventure - searching for something he has never found. Always, there is something beyond --"
"'Never have I seen Carcassonne."' The priest's quotation broke in upon the girl; and she was quick to answer:
"Oh! but Father, it is not like that! We lived near Carcassonne - but a very few kilometers. He has seen Carcassonne many times. But, there is nothing in Carcassonne!"
"Aye - nothing!"
Both gazed questioningly into the imperturbable face of the priest, and, at that moment, a voice called from the direction of the dormitory.
"Oh! I must go! That is Sister Agatha, - she wants me. It is time to put the dear little babies to bed." She extended her hand to Corporal Downey, who stood beside her - a handsome figure, thought the priest, - this officer with his clean-cut features, and the touch of dying sunlight on his greying hair. "Good-bye," she said, simply. "I hope I shall see you again - many times."
As her slim, strong fingers closed about his own, the man grew tense, as he resisted his great desire to draw her to him. Then - "Good-bye," his voice sounded gruff to his own ears. "I, too, hope so. But, I'm afraid it's not to be."
The hand was slowly withdrawn from his, and the girl regarded him gravely: "No? You are going away again - far?"
"A man never knows. There's times he would do one thing - but must do another."
"I suppose that is true," she answered, and Father Giroux noted that not only was the smile gone from the red lips, but that the blue-black eyes were unnaturally sombre. "Shall we not hope that they do not send you away too far? But, now I must run, or those little ones will be crying for their Marie. Don't you love little babies?"
Downey cleared his throat harshly: "Why - yes - sure I do - I suppose - that is - I - I - never saw much of them - except papooses - they always look kind of - of - nice." And then she was gone.
On the porch was a silence as crimson faded to rose, and rose to grey twilight. Downey's match scratched harshly, and the flare of it lighted his features, throwing into relief the muscles of a tightly clenched jaw. The match went out, and in the further silence, and the deepening twilight, the good priest pondered.
At last, he spoke: "You have not answered my question. Your choice - would it be the rivers?"
"Aye - it would be the rivers. But there's a reason it should be far from the rivers."
The reply was in a tone of quiet conviction. "A man's decision should be based, not alone upon that which, deep within himself, he believes fitting, but also upon the welfare of others."
"Maybe, it was about the welfare of - others I was thinkin'."
"If an old man's advice be worth his words, I would say your place is on the rivers. Who of all the men on the force know the country from the Landing to the Arctic as you know it? If my memory serves me, it was on the rivers you made your first patrol."
"It touched upon the rivers. It was out of Prince Albert. Aye - you might say it was on the rivers I made my first patrol - and, God knows, it would be upon the rivers I should like to make my last."