“More than that,” said Toma.
“We’ll arrive there tomorrow forenoon sometime,” exulted the doctor.
That night, so elated were they, that they could hardly sleep. Dick and Sandy lay awake until a late hour, talking and planning. On the following morning, they rose early to waken the camp. Breakfast was hurried through, and they were on the trail nearly an hour before sunrise.
It was eleven o’clock by Dick’s watch, when they entered the mission village, their eyes feasting on the row of snow-roofed cabins that fronted the winding, narrow street.
Here and there, a face appeared at a window. Now and again, some incurious form opened a door and watched them go by. But no one was abroad on the single narrow street. Had it not been for the sight of smoke, circling upward from mud chimneys, one might have thought that the village was practically deserted. There hovered about it an atmosphere of loneliness. There was something ominous about it, too, something eerie and unnatural. Dick felt somehow as if he were proceeding through a village of the dead. This feeling was accentuated by the sight of many red flags, draped over windows, hanging from doors—mute tokens of a terrible visitation.
It was a mournful little party that drew up in front of the small but picturesque Catholic Church at the far end of the winding street. They stood there as if in doubt and perplexity, looking at each other, no one volunteering to be the first to move or make a suggestion. Finally, Dick called to Dr. Brady and the two strode across to a more or less pretentious two-storey dwelling, immediately beyond the church.
A little man, dressed in the flowing robes of a monk, answered Dick’s timorous knock. The priest started in surprise as he perceived who his visitors were, then his face brightened and, with a friendly gesture, he motioned them within.
“Ah!” he said, a slight but unmistakable catch in his voice. “White men! How do you do. You honor me, monsieurs. May I not bid you welcome?”
“Inspector Cameron of the mounted police sent us here to help you,” explained Dick. “This gentleman here,” indicating Dr. Brady, “is an Edmonton physician. I am Dick Kent.”
The priest nodded understandingly and led the way to a small but nicely furnished room, standing aside as his visitors entered. At one end of the room, a spruce log burned brightly in the mud fireplace. There were several comfortable chairs and a large bookcase, filled with row upon row of books. Near the bookcase was a desk, fitted with drawers, and on its smooth, highly-polished surface were papers, ink, and a small bronze statue of the Christ.