He heard her wailing, Indian fashion, behind him—forced his mount to a fast gallop—faster, faster, to drown that dreadful sound in the rush of wind.
Weak tears blinded him.
So he left her.
IV
Before another day had passed over Fort Walsh, Hector had pondered the situation regarding Moon and come to certain conclusions. First of all, he must obviously see no more of the girl. Secondly, he must do something to repair the damage he had innocently caused. Here he ran into a stone wall. How was he to influence Moon without seeing her himself? In whom could he confide his difficulties, knowing that they would meet with sympathy? Was there anyone he knew with the necessary authority among the Indians, whose words carried weight and whom they loved and trusted?
A battering-ram appeared suddenly from nowhere and smashed the barrier down.
His man was Father Duval.
Father Duval and his work were equally well known to every man in the Police or out. None could say how long he had been in the North-West but only that he seemed as much a part of the country, as strong and staunch and vital and even as eternal as the Rockies. He had made one at the first Christmas celebration of the Force at Fort Macleod six years before and at that time was alleged to have already passed the greater part of his life as a missionary among the tribes in the district. His influence with the Indians, converts and otherwise, was illimitable. They regarded him as their spiritual and temporal parent and went to him for counsel in every predicament. His face was as familiar to them as those of their greatest chiefs, his black-robed figure as common to their camps as a travois or a teepee. The Police recognized him as a useful medium for dealing with the Indians in matters requiring great diplomacy. He was the cheerful, tireless go-between for white man and red, the friend of every Indian, settler and Mounted Policeman.
Father Duval was obviously the man.
As soon as Hector could get away he sought the priest out, riding over to the mission.