gentlemen raised in the upper class. The Frenchman had short brown hair and a thick mustache. His keen eyes indicated he was an intelligent man. The Ojibwa woman beside him, Wenonah, was dark brown and homely with her black hair up in a bun. She wore a dress with a lacy collar. Zoé and her teenage sister, who were Métis like Tom, had lighter skin.
Tom said, “I sensed from Pendleton that there might be some bad blood between him and Lamothe.”
Hysmith said, “Pierre wanted the chief trader’s position at Fort Pendleton. He had worked his way up the company ranks, but Master Pendleton decided to do the job himself. Pierre was not happy being sent to manage the trappers here at Manitou Outpost. Not an easy task since the French trappers live like heathens.”
Tom set the frame back on the table and moved between the bed and dresser. The lantern flame reflected across an oval mirror. “What is this?” He stopped, seeing his fragmented reflection as he leaned inward. Someone had smashed the mirror. Beside it, scratches were etched into the wall—four lines then a slash, four lines then a slash—like someone had been keeping score in a card game. They added up to twenty-eight.
He looked at Hysmith. “What’s significant about these?”
“Trappers often etch lines in a tree to count off the days.”
The wind rattled the panes in the windows. Anika looked out at the approaching storm.“This valley has been hit by blizzards for over a month.”
“You think they were snowed in for twenty-eight days?” Tom asked.
Anika nodded. “If they ran out of food, they’d go out hunting. There are a few small cabins scattered out in the forest for hunting or a place of refuge if trappers get caught in a storm. They may have migrated south to one of those cabins.”
“How far?”
“A full day’s ride.”
“We’d never make that in this storm,” Hysmith said.
“I wasn’t suggesting we do,” said Tom. “I’d rather just get home before nightfall.”
Hysmith said, “Then you’re satisfied, I hope.”
“Not quite.” Tom left the room. “Let’s check the other bedchambers first.” They pressed farther down the hall. Each time Tom passed a window, he opened the curtains. The gray light outside pushed back the gloom, but not by much. He found more empty rooms, but no signs of the inhabitants.
32
Andre approached Father Jacques’ chapel near the back of the compound. It was a small, leaning shack. The paltry cross on the thatched roof looked as if it had been assembled with some scrap lumber and baling wire. The simple, rustic design seemed to fit Father Jacques Baptiste. A man from the impoverished side of Montréal, he had never been one for lavish décor.
Andre pushed open the door, entering the small nave. He half expected to find the missing colonists sitting in the three rows of pews. But they were empty. One of the side windows was broken, letting in the snow, which frosted the pews.
As he walked down the center aisle, a raven landed on the sill of the open window. Andre stopped. The black bird hopped onto the edge of a pew, cawing. Two more ravens flew in. They squawked as he passed. He shooed them. He hated those black-feathered scavengers. They watched him with beady eyes, opening their beaks. “I have nothing for you. Go away.”
At the altar Andre lit the votive candles. The fire offered some warmth and light to the cold, gray nave. Stepping up to the altar, he saw that the crucifix on the back wall was hanging upside down. He righted it and crossed himself. He entered a narrow room where Father Jacques worked when mass was not in service.
Andre went through his mentor’s cabinets.
Where is his case?
Even though Andre had been his apprentice going on three years now, Father Jacques was a secretive man and never shared what he wrote in his journals. His reports went directly to the Notre-Dame Basilica in Montréal. The archbishop read the diaries then forwarded them to the Vatican,
Tom said, “I sensed from Pendleton that there might be some bad blood between him and Lamothe.”
Hysmith said, “Pierre wanted the chief trader’s position at Fort Pendleton. He had worked his way up the company ranks, but Master Pendleton decided to do the job himself. Pierre was not happy being sent to manage the trappers here at Manitou Outpost. Not an easy task since the French trappers live like heathens.”
Tom set the frame back on the table and moved between the bed and dresser. The lantern flame reflected across an oval mirror. “What is this?” He stopped, seeing his fragmented reflection as he leaned inward. Someone had smashed the mirror. Beside it, scratches were etched into the wall—four lines then a slash, four lines then a slash—like someone had been keeping score in a card game. They added up to twenty-eight.
He looked at Hysmith. “What’s significant about these?”
“Trappers often etch lines in a tree to count off the days.”
The wind rattled the panes in the windows. Anika looked out at the approaching storm.“This valley has been hit by blizzards for over a month.”
“You think they were snowed in for twenty-eight days?” Tom asked.
Anika nodded. “If they ran out of food, they’d go out hunting. There are a few small cabins scattered out in the forest for hunting or a place of refuge if trappers get caught in a storm. They may have migrated south to one of those cabins.”
“How far?”
“A full day’s ride.”
“We’d never make that in this storm,” Hysmith said.
“I wasn’t suggesting we do,” said Tom. “I’d rather just get home before nightfall.”
Hysmith said, “Then you’re satisfied, I hope.”
“Not quite.” Tom left the room. “Let’s check the other bedchambers first.” They pressed farther down the hall. Each time Tom passed a window, he opened the curtains. The gray light outside pushed back the gloom, but not by much. He found more empty rooms, but no signs of the inhabitants.
32
Andre approached Father Jacques’ chapel near the back of the compound. It was a small, leaning shack. The paltry cross on the thatched roof looked as if it had been assembled with some scrap lumber and baling wire. The simple, rustic design seemed to fit Father Jacques Baptiste. A man from the impoverished side of Montréal, he had never been one for lavish décor.
Andre pushed open the door, entering the small nave. He half expected to find the missing colonists sitting in the three rows of pews. But they were empty. One of the side windows was broken, letting in the snow, which frosted the pews.
As he walked down the center aisle, a raven landed on the sill of the open window. Andre stopped. The black bird hopped onto the edge of a pew, cawing. Two more ravens flew in. They squawked as he passed. He shooed them. He hated those black-feathered scavengers. They watched him with beady eyes, opening their beaks. “I have nothing for you. Go away.”
At the altar Andre lit the votive candles. The fire offered some warmth and light to the cold, gray nave. Stepping up to the altar, he saw that the crucifix on the back wall was hanging upside down. He righted it and crossed himself. He entered a narrow room where Father Jacques worked when mass was not in service.
Andre went through his mentor’s cabinets.
Where is his case?
Even though Andre had been his apprentice going on three years now, Father Jacques was a secretive man and never shared what he wrote in his journals. His reports went directly to the Notre-Dame Basilica in Montréal. The archbishop read the diaries then forwarded them to the Vatican,
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