As Keith bent over the prostrate man, he noticed how delicate were his hands, not cramped and hardened like the ordinary prospector's. He looked upon his face, white and worn, the face of an old man. What could such a person do in the rigorous north, where only the hardiest had any chance of existence? He was not asleep, but lying on the cot, moaning in a pitiful manner. His eyes wandered constantly about the room, but seemed to notice nothing.
"Miss Radhurst," said Keith. "I find what you surmised is only too true. Your father's arm is broken. It is not a serious fracture, however, only one of the bones, which can be quite easily re-set."
When at length the work was completed, Keith stepped back and viewed his patient.
"There," he said. "I think he will do now. We've done the best we could."
"Thank you. Oh, thank you," replied Constance. "You are very good."
"That's nothing, Miss Radhurst. I'm so glad I happened to be here to help your father. Now, you and Pete had better rest a while, as I wish to remain here for a time."
"Very well, laddie," returned the prospector. "I'll go home now." Then, turning to Constance, he continued: "Ye kin trust 'im, lassie. He'll bring yer dad through, if any one kin."
The old man chuckled as he waded through the snow to his own cabin. "They think I'll rest, do they? Waal, they don't know Pete Martin yit. Mebbe they'll see afore mornin', though."
"May I watch with you, Mr. Steadman?" Constance asked, when Pete had gone.
"Do you not need rest, Miss Radhurst? You must be tired after such an anxious day."
"No, no. I could not rest with my father moaning in that pitiful manner. He is very dear to me, and I must stay by his side for a while anyway."
"Connie, Connie," came from the sick man. "The paper, the paper; give me the paper! Don't let any one have it!"
"Yes, father dear," said Constance, gently stroking his forehead, and thin gray hair. "The paper is safe; no one shall get it, so do not worry."
The man, however, did not heed her remarks, but rambled on. "The gold! the gold! I see the gold! Look, Connie, see how it shines! We'll get it yet."
"Hush, hush, father dear." Constance's eyes were moist as she listened to his wandering words, and watched his wan face.
"Oh, Mr. Steadman," she said, "it is so hard to see him this way. He does not know me at all."
"Gold! The trail! I see the gold! Connie, Kenneth," moaned the sufferer.
"Your father seems to have some trouble pressing on his mind," said Keith. "He talks so much about the gold, the trail, and yet he does not look like a man who has roughed it in this country."
"My father never did any mining," Constance responded. "He knows nothing about it. Oh, Mr. Steadman," she continued, after a pause, "I want to speak to some one concerning this very matter. It is almost breaking my heart. You are a clergyman and a doctor, and I know I can trust you. May I speak?"
"I assure you, Miss Radhurst," Keith replied, "that I will not only listen to your story, but I shall consider it a great honour, as well, to be thus taken into your confidence."
But Constance did not begin at once. For a time she was silent, lost in thought. She made a fair picture, sitting on the rude bench, with her right arm resting upon the table, supporting her head.
The room was bare, painfully bare, destitute of the little comforts so precious to a woman's heart. The walls of rough-hewn logs were unrelieved by picture or knick-knack. The uneven floor was as scrupulously clean as a pair of small hands could make it. This was kitchen, sitting, dining, and Mr. Radhurst's sleeping room combined. A portion of the building was hidden by several dark blankets, and served as Constance's own private apartment.
"What a life for such a woman!" thought Keith, sitting on the opposite side of the table, watching the flickering light of the one small candle playing upon Constance's face and hair. He admired this woman, who was living so bravely amid such dreary surroundings. Yes, he more than admired, for a sense of pity stole into his heart at the thought of her position, alone with her helpless father.
"You asked about my father," Constance at length began, fixing her eyes upon the missionary. "No, he was never a miner. Several years ago he was a prosperous business man in Vancouver. Our home was a happy one, where I tried to fill the place of my dear mother, who had died several years before. But I wished to be a nurse, and so attended the public hospital in that city.
"At the end of my second year, I was placed in charge of a man who had been terribly exposed on the trail. We did what we could to save his life, but in vain. When he learned that he could not recover, he one day confided to me a strange secret.
"He was a prospector, and had spent several years in the North along the Yukon Valley. One day he and a partner discovered a valuable ledge of gold far back from the river in an easterly direction. They filled their pockets with nuggets, and, as winter was fast approaching, and they had little food, they started for the coast. They had proceeded only a short distance when they were set upon by several Indians, who resented the intrusion of the white men into what they considered their rightful domain. One man was instantly killed, while the other escaped. After a terrible struggle he reached the coast, where a passing steamer took him on board, and landed him in Vancouver. Here he was at once taken to the hospital, and placed in my care.
"When the man had finished his story, he gave me a piece of paper, on which was sketched a rude map of the Yukon region, describing the exact spot where the gold was to be found. I will show you this paper; it is the one of which my father speaks.
"The next day the prospector died, and I laid the map away, and thought little of it at the time, being very busy with my work. When next I saw my father, I told him the whole story, and though he seemed interested, I little thought what an impression it would make upon his mind.
"A year later my father, suffered severe losses in his business, which caused him great worry. Then I found what an effect the prospector's story had made upon him. He had been thinking of it continually, and talked much with Kenneth, my only brother, about the matter. Both believed that the story was real, and that the gold was there, only waiting some one bold enough to go for it.
"When the financial trouble swept down upon us, my brother determined to start upon the quest, notwithstanding our entreaties to the contrary. He boarded a coast steamer for the North, and that was the last we heard of him.
"Oh, Mr. Steadman," and tears stood in her eyes, "you little know what he was to me. We were so much together, and after our mother's death I took charge of him almost entirely. He had a sweet disposition, and a lovable nature. Music was his passion, and often during the winter evenings, when we were all home, he would play by the hour upon the violin, his favorite instrument, which he carried away with him. Oh, if I can only find him! I am afraid something has happened to him in this wild country, for he was not used to roughing it. Suppose the poor boy should now be lying in some lonely cabin, sick and calling for me, or—I shudder to think of it—cold and still, with the snow his only covering."
During this recital a vivid scene passed before Keith's mind. He saw again the dreary Ibex cabin, the man huddled on the floor, and the grave in the snow. That he was Kenneth Radhurst, this woman's only brother, there could be no doubt. How could he tell her what he knew? Would it be right to add this intense sorrow to her present trouble? What should he do?
He arose suddenly, went to Mr. Radhurst's side, and watched him for a short time.
"Pardon me, Miss Radhurst," he said, turning toward her. "Your father is resting more comfortably. Please go on."
"After we had waited for some time," continued Constance, "and no word came from Kenneth, my father became very impatient. He wished to leave for the Yukon, not only to find my brother, but the gold mine as well.
"The lure of gold filled his mind, making him a changed man. Formerly he took an interest in many things, such as religion, politics, social matters, and was a great reader. All these he gradually relinquished, and he talked of nothing but gold, and how he would obtain it. At length he determined to follow up the quest himself. We did what we could to turn him from the idea, but the more his trusty friends reasoned, the more obdurate he became. Finding that nothing would change his mind, I decided to cast in my lot with his, go with him and take care of him as well as I could.
"We travelled by the way of St. Michael, and came to Klassan last Fall in a fur-trading steamer. There we built a little cabin, in which we intended to spend the winter. But the gold fever had still a terrible grip over my poor father. Just when we were quite comfortably settled, he had a dream, in which he saw men carrying away the gold he hoped to obtain. I really believe his mind was somewhat unbalanced, for nothing would do but that we must set out at once. We came this far, when, finding it impossible to proceed farther, we took refuge in this abandoned cabin. Here we have remained ever since, and but for the kindness of Old Pete, and several of his companions, I verily believe we should have frozen or starved.
"And you should have seen the considerate manner in which the kindness was always bestowed. Sometimes they would have too much moose-meat, fish, or grouse on hand, 'and would we take just a little to keep it from spoiling.' My father knows very little about hunting, but one day Pete took him into the woods after a moose. The animal was killed, and Pete would insist that my father had shot it, and, of course, he came in for a liberal portion of the game. I wish you knew what that man has done for us. He has——"
Constance was interrupted by a knock upon the door, and when it was opened they beheld the object of their conversation standing before them. He was carrying something in his hand, covered with a cloth, old and worn, but perfectly clean.
"Thar," he remarked, placing his load upon the table. "I knowed ye'd be hungry, laddie, after yer long mush, an' mebbe, lassie, ye'll have a snack, too."
Constance glanced at Keith, as much as to say, "Didn't I tell you so? It's Old Pete's way."
When the cloth had been withdrawn a most appetizing repast was exposed to view. A prospector's gold-pan served as a tray, which contained a piece of tender moose-meat, nicely browned, some beans, a loaf of sourdough bread, and a pot of steaming tea. Pete did not tell that he had gone without bread and tea for weeks that he might have a little for the "Colonel" and Constance, whom he had intended to invite to his cabin for Christmas dinner. The bread he had made the day before, with a deep joy in his honest heart at the pleasure he imagined it would give the lonely ones.
"Now, lassie," he commanded, "bring on yer chiny, an' we'll have our Christmas dinner right now. It's early, I admit, but it can't be helped."
Constance gave a little laugh, but her eyes were filled with tears.
"My china," she replied, "will make but a poor showing beside your bountiful repast. However, we shall have the best the cabin affords, even if they are only iron plates and cups."
Keith was hungry, very hungry, and he did ample justice to the food. He let Constance and Pete do most of the talking, for he was busy with the various thoughts which surged through his mind. How different the outcome of it all from what he had expected. He chided himself over and over again for his lack of faith in the Master's leadings. In every step he could see the direct evidence of His over-ruling power. And, to crown it all, there was before him this sweet, patient woman, adorning the humble cabin with a true and gentle grace.
Old Pete and Keith walked back to the former's cabin together, and left Constance for a time alone with her father.
"One of the b'ys'll come," said Pete, "an' sit with yer dad, so ye kin git some sleep, fer ye need it mighty bad."
It was early dawn as the two plodded their way through the deep snow. The furious storm of the night had ceased, and a hush reigned over the land, as if in honour of the birth of the Great Prince of Peace. All around lay the virgin snow, unsullied as yet by its contact with earth, and untrodden save by the two night watchers.
"How like my life," thought Keith. "Last night, the storm howling and raging; this morning the stillness of God. Ah, I see it clearly," he unconsciously uttered aloud, following hard in Pete's footsteps.
"Hey? what d'ye see?" asked the prospector, suddenly stopping and looking at his companion.
Keith laughed. "Nothing outwardly," he replied. "I must have been dreaming and forgot myself."
"Umph!" returned the other, and continued on his way.
"An' what did ye see out yon, laddie?" queried Pete, when they at length reached the cabin.
Keith looked keenly at the old man, but only an expression of calmness, tinged with sadness, was depicted upon his rugged countenance.
"I saw much, Pete, very much."
"So did I, laddie. I saw it, too."
"And what didyousee, Pete?"
The prospector looked intently into the young man's face before replying.
"I saw," he said slowly, "a new trail bein' blazed out fer ye by the hand of the Almighty. Somethin' tells me, I dunno what it is, unless it was yer knocked out condition last night, an' yer rough appearance, that ye've been on a hard trail of late."
"I have, Pete, I have," assented Keith, resisting with difficulty the temptation to tell his companion all about his troubles.
"I knowed it, laddie. An' now ye've almost fergot the old trail with all its snags, because a new one lies afore ye. Ye'll find snags thar, too, remember, but it'll make all the difference in the warld when the shinin' light of a true woman lightens yer path."
"Pete!" exclaimed Keith. "I——"
"It reminds me of this cabin," continued the prospector, unheeding the interruption. "I come back to it, sometimes, tired an' discouraged. The place is cold and dismal, an' I feel that life isn't worth livin'. But when yon stove gits to wark, blazin' away like mad, purty soon things change, an' a new feelin' creeps over me. It's jist because somethin' warm an' cheerful has knocked out an' taken the place of t'other.
"Now, that's jist what that lassie over yon has done fer me. I've had a mighty bad season, an' felt like seven divils when I come back. Even the old stove couldn't cheer me up completely, an' things looked purty blue. Jist then that lassie an' her dad drifted inter this camp. We call 'im 'Colonel,' because of his white hair, long beard, an' noble bearin'. They was down to hard pan, if any one ever was, an' says I to meself, says I, 'Pete, ye've got to do somethin'!' So in the doin' that somethin', an' seein' the lassie's bright face an' sunny ways in the midst of her hardships, knocked my own trouble clean outer my head. She's a woman, through and through, if ever thar was one."
"She is," ejaculated Keith, looking meditatively at the stove.
"But come, laddie," said Pete, suddenly rising to his feet, "it's time ye was in bed. Ye'll need a good rest afore the b'ys come to church."
"What! a service?" asked Keith eagerly. "Will the men come? And do you think they will care for it?"
"It's not what they care fer, laddie; but, what's yer dooty? It's Christmas Day, an' it'll remind us of old times. Some'll like it, an' some won't. But yer Orders, as fer as I kin understand, is 'to preach the Gospel,' an' here's an opportunity. They'll come, never ye fear that."
"I'll have to hold the service just as I am," said Keith apologetically. "I haven't my robes with me, and not even a decent suit of clothes."
"Don't ye worry about yer robes an' clothes. The uniform's all right on parade, an' starched collars, an' sich like, but the b'ys'll take it better if they see ye in yer rough togs. They'll feel yer one of themselves. I'll trim yer hair an' whiskers a bit, so ye won't look too savage, an' frighten 'em away."
Keith gave a little laugh. "What you say is quite true," he replied, "but it's been so long since I preached to white people that I'm afraid I'll make a mess of it. My addresses to the Indians have always been in their own language, and very simple."
"That's all right, laddie. Give us some of the old prayers from the Prayer Book, sich as 'Lighten Our Darkness,' ye can't beat them. Then about yer preachin': Give it to us red hot from the heart; that's what we want here. Trimmin's, an' fixin's, an' flowers, an' poetry, are all right, I suppose, fer some places, whar they live on sich things. But we want straight shot that'll reach the heart, and help us up the shinin' way. An' ye kin do it, lad; the stuff's thar, so let's have it. I'll round up the b'ys, an' they'll come."
And so it was settled that the service should be held. Keith then threw himself upon the rude bunk, and, wearied out, was soon fast asleep. Late in the day he awoke and made preparations for the evening. He visited his patient, and found him progressing as well as possible, though still possessing the vacant look in his face. Constance he did not see, as she was taking a much-needed rest, while one of the prospectors was watching by her father's side.
Early in the evening the men of Siwash Creek began to arrive at Pete's cabin. They drifted in, one by one, and sat around smoking and chatting. Some did not even remove their hats, and maintained an air of indifference and lofty superiority. They had not much use for such things, so they told themselves, but, as no other diversion offered, they might as well take in what was going on.
When Keith at length stood up to begin the service, about fifteen men were gathered round him. Before he could say a word, however, Pete came close to his side.
"Whar's the lassie?" he whispered. "She should be here."
Keith had noticed her absence, and wondered, for she had promised to be present.
"Perhaps she is watching her father," he replied. "That must be the reason why she is not here."
Pete at once crossed to where Alec McPherson was sitting. A short whispered conversation ensued, after which both men started for the door.
"Don't begin till I come back," said Pete, as he left the building.
Constance was sitting quietly near her father when the two prospectors arrived. She was thinking hard, and the small handkerchief which lay in her lap was moist with tears. It had been a strange, lonely Christmas Day for her. She remembered the old times when they were all together in their snug little home in Vancouver. What a contrast to her present dreary surroundings! Then, her father was so happy, and Kenneth, the life of the house, was at his best. How her father had changed in such a short time, and the poor boy, she wondered where and how he was spending his Christmas.
She was feeling weary, too, as she sat there, for the excitement of the past night was telling upon her. The flush had left her cheeks, leaving her pale and wan. She felt somewhat troubled about having confided her story to an almost entire stranger. Would her father have approved of such a thing? But then it had lifted a load from her mind; she had shared her burden with another, and it was not so hard to bear. Besides, she was sure she could trust that big, rough man, who looked at her with such sympathetic eyes.
"Ye'll come to sarvice, lassie, won't ye?" Pete asked, when Constance had opened the door.
"Y-yes," she answered half doubtfully, looking at her father. "I'd like to go, but I can't leave him here alone."
"I'll see to yer father, miss," replied Alec, "sae ye gang along."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. McPherson, but I'm half afraid to go, as I will be the only woman there."
"The greater reason fer ye to come, lassie," broke in Pete. "It isn't every day the b'ys have a woman among them, an' I think yer presence'll soften 'em up a bit, an' make'm think of their mothers, sisters, an' sweethearts. An' then, ye'll sing some, won't ye?" he continued in a pleading manner.
"Why, how do you know Icansing?" asked Constance, while some of the old colour rushed back to her cheeks.
"Know? How could I help a-knowin'? Haven't I stood at my own cabin door, night after night, an' sometimes in the marnin', too, a-listenin' to yer singin', remindin' me of a sweet canary bird penned up in a gloomy cage. An' didn't one of the young fellers up yon freeze his toes one night sittin' on the stump of a tree when ye was warblin' 'Annie Laurie'? I ain't got much use fer them newcomers, but to-day bein' Christmas, I feel kinder warm towards'm, an' would like fer'm ter hear ye sing a bit. It 'ud do'm a mighty lot of good."
Constance laughed. She was feeling better already. "Well, I'll go then," she assented, "if you will promise to look after me."
"I'll see to that," responded Pete, delighted with his success. "I'll stand off any one, even the angel Gabriel himself, except one thing."
"And what's that?"
"It's love," solemnly answered the old man. "It's the cutest, wiriest thing a man kin run aginst. It's so mighty powerful that it'll make the strongest an' biggest chap as weak as a baby, an' the smallest woman as strong as a giant. I can't savvy it, nohow."
"I guess you will have no trouble about such an opponent to-night," laughed Constance, as she drew on her mittens.
"Mebbe not, lassie; but we'll see."
The service was short and the strangest that Constance had ever witnessed. Accustomed, as she was, to the familiar and dignified form of the Church of England, this appeared harsh, and at times almost ludicrous. Keith led off with the opening hymn of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," in a clear, strong, tenor voice, trusting to his memory for the words. He was followed by the others, those who knew the hymn giving him much assistance. There were a few, however, who persisted in swinging off on tunes of their own composition.
"Stop yer yelpin'," said a miner to one of these vagrant singers. "Yer spilin' the show."
But the other heeded not, and with head thrown back against the wall, and brawny chest expanded, almost drowned the rest of the voices by his marvellous roars.
"My, that's fine!" he ejaculated, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "I ain't heard such singing since I left the Caribou country."
"And no one else," contemptuously remarked his companion. "But say, duck yer head, the parson's prayin'."
Interested though Constance was in watching the miners, her attention was centred chiefly on the missionary. She hardly knew him at first, so much had he been transformed by Old Pete's scissors and razor. The long hair had been neatly trimmed, and the unkempt beard removed, exposing a face, almost youthful in appearance, but full of determination and strength of character. It was when the prayers had been said, the second hymn sung, and he had begun his address, that her interest became thoroughly aroused.
His subject was peace, and, after referring to the Great Prince of Peace, whose birth they were commemorating, he passed on to speak about the peace of life. As he described a vessel beating her way through a furious storm, while the cruel waves dealt her mighty sledge-hammer blows, she noticed how stern became his face, while a bright light gleamed in his eye. But as he spoke about the peace of the harbour, with the storm shut out, and the light of home shining clearly ahead, his features softened.
"He's livin' it fer sure," remarked Bill Towser, to a miner at his side, when Keith had finished.
"Y' bet," came the response.
"An' did ye notice the power on him when he told about that ship?"
"Yep."
"Well, I tell ye it moved me mighty. I allus said thar's more inside a man than lights an' liver, an' now I know it fer sure. Hello! what in blazes is this?" he continued, looking suddenly up. "A fiddle! well, I'll be blowed! an' the parson's tunin' up!"
"Ye'll sing it, lassie, won't ye?" whispered Pete to Constance, when Keith had played over the air of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."
"I'll help," she replied in an abstracted manner.
From the moment when Pete had brought forth the violin and handed it to Keith for the last hymn, she had not taken her eyes off of the instrument. It fascinated her, and brought back a flood of memory. She sang almost mechanically the first verse, and had begun the second.
"Mild He lays His glory by,Born that man no more may die,Born——"
Snap! went one of the strings, and the singing suddenly stopped. Keith moved close to the table and endeavored to repair the damage. As he did so the light fell upon a bright piece of metal. Constance saw it, and, with a cry, she rushed forward, and, stooping down, gazed earnestly at the small, letters engraved thereon. Then she looked around the room, as if seeking for some special person.
In her eyes was an expression which the men never forgot, and which formed the topic of conversation for nights afterward.
"When she looked at me with those beseeching eyes of hers," said one husky fellow, "I felt that I had done something wrong, and I wanted to drop right through the floor, that's what I did."
"Well, I tell you I didn't," replied the young chap whose feet had been frozen, "I just longed to be her brother, that was the way I felt."
"Wanted to be her brother!" ejaculated the other. "And what for? Ye didn't think those pretty arms would encircle yer scrawny neck, did ye, or her sweet lips touch yer rough face?"
"I only f-felt sorry for her, and wanted to comfort her," stammered the youth, blushing to the roots of his hair, at which a hearty laugh ensued at his expense.
But Constance had no thought of the pretty picture she made. It was only of Kenneth she was thinking.
"Oh, Pete!" she cried, "tell me what it all means!"
"What's wrong, lassie?" he replied, somewhat embarassed by her searching look.
"The violin! It's my brother's! I gave it to him for a Christmas present two years ago. See, here are his initials upon this small silver plate," and she held the violin up close to his eyes.
"Waal, waal, so it is as ye say. Who'd a thought it?"
"But where is he? Do you know? Oh, please tell me!"
"I don't know much meself," and Pete scratched his head. "I met the chap who owned that fiddle last Fall, on the trail way yon East. He give it to me 'cause 'twas too heavy fer 'im to carry, so I 'jist brought her along, an' thar she be. Ye may keep her, lassie, if ye like."
Constance made no reply to these words, but grasped the violin firmly in her hands, while a look of hope shone in her eyes, Then she realized her position, and what a strange scene she was making before these men. The blood rushed to her face.
"Please take me home," she said to Pete, "I wish to be alone."
During this brief scene Keith was undergoing an agony of soul. How he longed to rush forward, clasp those little hands in his own, and speak words of comfort. But he had no comfort to give, he could only bring deep sorrow if he told what he knew. Should he speak? Would it be right? Whenever the question arose, he crushed it back. No, not now; some other time. And so he watched her leave the building without one word of farewell, and as the door closed behind her a sense of loneliness swept over him, which even the presence of the miners could not dispel.
"Pete," he asked that night, as the two sat alone in the cabin, "did Miss Radhurst question you much about her brother?"
"Question me? question me?" replied the prospector. "She drained me like a force pump."
"And did you tell her all?"
"No, why do ye ask, laddie?" and Pete looked at him in surprise.
"Did you tell her about her brother's cruel partner?"
This time Pete was more than surprised. He stared at his companion in amazement. "What d'ye mean?" he demanded. "What d'ye know about the matter?"
"Keep cool, Pete. I know more than you think. Listen, and I will tell you something."
"My God!" burst from the old man's lips, when Keith had told him the story of the death in the Ibex cabin, and had shown him the little locket. "It will kill her!"
"Now, that's the point, Pete. Is it right for us to tell her? She has enough trouble at the present time with her father, and this new sorrow will, I am afraid, break her down completely.
"Right, laddie, right ye are," groaned Pete. "But what are we to do?"
"I've been thinking of that," went on Keith. "Mr. Radhurst's condition is very serious, and he must have special and regular treatment. I can't stay here, as there is trouble at Klassan, so I must leave to-morrow."
"What; so soon?" exclaimed Pete.
"Yes, it is necessary."
"But what about the 'Colonel'?"
"He must go to Klassan. Will you take him? He has a good cabin there, I understand, and a fair supply of provisions, so he and his daughter will be quite comfortable."
Pete ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "I'd take'm, laddie, an' be glad of the job, but I ain't got no team. An' besides, is the "Colonel" able to stand the jant?"
"In two weeks I think it might be tried. You see, Miss Radhurst is a trained nurse, and she can look after his arm very well. As for a team, you need not worry about that, for I'll send an Indian back with my own dogs. I know it will mean a risk to move the patient so far, but if he stays here I am afraid he will die."
Pete stretched out his rough hand toward the missionary. "Put it thar, laddie," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "ye're all gold."
Thus in the silence of the little cabin these two hardy frontiersmen clasped hands. Outside, the world lay cold and dismal, but in their honest hearts reigned a great peace—"the peace of God which passeth understanding."
Pleasant though it was at Siwash Creek, Keith was anxious to return to Klassan as soon as possible. He was uneasy about the state of his dusky flock, and especially Yukon Jennie. Amos he knew could be trusted to do all in his power to keep the girl from her terrible design. But she was shrewd and hard to manage, so it was uncertain to tell what she would do. The desire to return, however, was tinged with apprehension. He knew that Pritchen and Perdue, with their followers, would use every effort in their power to hound him out of Klassan. There were others, he felt sure, who were more honourable. If the confidence of these could be won, he might be able to overcome the opposition.
Before starting, Keith visited his patient. He found the arm doing as well as could be expected, but the racking cough still continued the same.
"Miss Radhurst," he said, as he bent over her father. "I leave for Klassan this morning."
Constance looked up in surprise. "What! going away so soon?" she queried.
"Yes, duty calls me back to my flock. They are in danger from the miners down there, and I have been absent too long already."
"We shall miss you very much, Mr. Steadman. You have been the means of brightening us up, and helping my poor father. Life to me here is almost unbearable, and I wonder how you can stay in the North year after year. How lonely you must find it."
Keith turned and looked into her eyes. "Miss Radhurst," he replied, "they have been the happiest years of my life. Until the miners arrived at Klassan my work was one of continual joy and peace, even when I was struggling with the medicine men at the beginning of my ministry there."
"But I cannot understand," Constance rejoined, "how an educated man can be satisfied to remain in such a wilderness, away from all congenial surroundings. Does not the mind become——"
"Stagnant?" assisted Keith, noticing her hesitate over the word, and a flush cross her face.
"Yes, that is what I mean, though it may seem rather a harsh judgment."
"Some think so, but that is where they are mistaken. It is here we have room and time to think, and let our minds expand. It was my good Bishop of the Mackenzie River who once said that he was willing to devote a whole lifetime in the wilderness among the Indians, and also to the study of the Bible in the original language, which the bustle of life in London sadly interrupted. Now, during the last ten years I have studied the Indian dialect of this country, prepared a grammar, a lexicon, and have translated portions of the Scriptures, and also the entire Prayer Book, besides a number of hymns. These have been printed, and the natives carry them to their hunting grounds, and read them carefully."
"This is all new to me," said Constance. "I never thought of it in that way. But does not the bleakness of the land wear upon you, making you long for the sweet meadows and the fragrant flowers?"
"You must remember, Miss Radhurst, that it is not all winter here. We have beautiful summers, when the song birds return, and the flowers bloom on every hand. Then it is good to live in such a place, and, though I do miss the sweet meadows, yet there is much to compensate me for their loss. The forests are filled with a joyous life, where every creature, small and great, rejoices in being alive. Often those ancient words come to my mind, as I wander through the woods, watch the rushing streams, or gaze upon the lofty mountains, 'All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him, and magnify Him forever.' But," he continued, after a pause, "there is another field in which I have worked, and because I have done so I believe I shall be able to help your father."
"And what is that?" asked Constance eagerly.
"As a medical man, I have studied most carefully the simple remedies used by the Indians in their treatment of diseases. Though at first I found them mingled with superstition, and gross rites, yet I have discovered the beneficial properties contained in the common roots and herbs which surround us. It was Nathaniel Hawthorne, you remember, who said about old Roger Chillingworth that,
"'In his Indian captivity, he had gained much knowledge of the property of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating.'"
"I don't remember the words," Constance responded, "but I have read about that terrible man, Roger Chillingworth. It's in 'The Scarlet Letter,' is it not?"
"Yes, and the words appealed to me so strongly that years ago, when a student at college, I learned them by heart.
"Well, as I was saying, I have made several important additions to my stock of knowledge while among the Indians. But there is one medicine which is a great secret, into which I have never been admitted. Its preparation is known only to a few. There are certain traditions connected with it why the knowledge must not be divulged. It is formed of roots and herbs of some kind, and is used only on the rarest occasions. Twice I have seen the medicine administered, and each time with marvellous results. Now, your father needs some special treatment, for his symptoms are very similar to the man I saw cured. I think I have influence enough to obtain the remedy for him. Will you trust me?"
Constance gave a start, and a look of fear came into her face.
"Do you think my father is as bad as that?" she asked.
"Yes, I am afraid so, and it is important that you should leave this place, and go back to your comfortable cabin at Klassan. Pete will take you, and in two weeks' time I think your father will be able to stand the journey, if great care is used. Will you consent to this?"
For a while Constance did not answer, and Keith knew she was weighing everything most carefully, and struggling for self-control.
"Mr. Steadman," she calmly replied, holding out her hand, "I feel I can trust you, so please do whatever you think is best."
Keith took her hand in his own strong one, and held it for an instant, as he looked into her brave face. Neither spoke for a time, but into each heart crept a joy, like a pure, fresh, dew-touched flower, tucked away in some hidden dell, with only the eye of God resting upon it.
An hour later Keith drew away from Siwash Creek for his long run to Klassan. The dogs bounded merrily over the snow, shaking their little bells, glad of the race in the keen, frosty air. Keith could hardly believe it possible that such a short time before he had plodded over that same trail, weary and sick at heart. A new life now possessed him, and he sang snatches of old songs and hymns, cheered the dogs, and at times laughed aloud at the mere joy of living.
But the travelling was hard, and the second day had closed before the lights of Klassan gleamed in the distance. The dogs were tired as they drew near the village, with their master trudging wearily behind, urging them on with words of encouragement. The trail ran close by Perdue's store, and the animals, hearing voices within, paused before the door, while the leader cast a backward glance at the missionary. The only answer he received to his appealing look was the command to "mush on," for Keith had no intention of halting there. He had advanced but a few yards, however, when the report of a revolver fell upon his ears, then a cry of pain, and a confused noise within the building. Suddenly the door was flung open, and a number of men rushed out, and stood huddled together in a little group, talking in the most excited manner.
Feeling sure that something was wrong, Keith left his dogs and retraced his steps to where the men were gathered.
"It's hard luck for the kid," he heard one say. "He was a sharp 'un, and we'll miss him."
"My God! it's a bad rap, that," replied another. "But he pulled his gun first, when he thought Bill was cheating, though he was too late, and there he lies."
"D'ye think it'll fix 'im?" asked another.
"Fix him, man! Did ye see the hole bored into him, and the blood spoutin' out? Wouldn't that fix any one?"
Keith waited to hear no more, but quickly turned and entered the building. A pathetic sight met his view. Lying on the floor was a young man surrounded by several miners, who were vainly trying to staunch a stream of blood which was oozing from the fallen man's neck.
Keith grasped the situation in an instant. He saw that something more had to be done, and that at once.
"Boys," he said, moving near, "that man will soon bleed to death if you don't do more than that."
"What in h— do you know about it?" came a surly response, and, glancing quickly around, Keith looked into the scowling face of Pritchen, with his revolver still in his hand. He was standing in a defiant attitude, with his back to the wall, as if expecting an attack for the deed he had committed. But there was nothing for him to fear, as the youth, Joe Simkins, one of his own gang, had pulled his gun first. It was only an act of self-defence, and this the miners well knew.
It was a certain relief to Keith to see Pritchen standing there, and to know that Jennie had not carried out her design. But he had little time to think about it now. Stern work was on hand, and must be attended to without delay.
"I know this much," Keith replied, looking Pritchen straight in the eyes, "that if something isn't done for this man, and done at once, you will have another life to answer for at the Judgment Day, and it is not a poor, helpless Indian woman this time, either."
Stung to the quick by these words, spoken so deliberately by the man he bitterly hated, with an oath, Pritchen grasped his revolver more firmly than ever. His face was livid with rage, and his teeth ground together. Just when the miners expected to see another dead or wounded man in their midst, the weapon was suddenly dropped into its case, and, without a word, Pritchen left the building.
Silence reigned for a short time in the room, and the men looked at one another, and then at Keith. Twice now had they seen him and Pritchen meet, and each time there had been a scene, and blood narrowly averted. What power the missionary had over the boasting bully, they could not understand, and sought for an explanation of the mystery through many a long evening's conversation in the seclusion of their own cabins.
"Boys," said Keith, breaking the brief silence, "I am a medical man, as well as a missionary, so if you will lift this poor fellow on to the table, perhaps I can do something for him."
Without a word they obeyed, and stood quietly by as he examined the wound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood.
"Close call, that," they heard him say. "Concussion. The ball's in here yet; it must come out."
Presently he turned and looked toward Perdue. "Haven't you a private corner somewhere for this chap?" he asked.
The saloonkeeper's face was surly. "I don't want him here," he replied. "It's not my funeral. Why should I be bothered with him?"
Keith stared at him in amazement. He could hardly believe it possible that any one could be so hardened to human suffering. Before he could speak, an old man, with white hair and shaggy beard, stepped up to Perdue.
"You brute!" he roared. "You desarve to be strung up to the nearest tree. Ye're jist like most of yer set; ye strip us of our chink, and manhood, and when we've nothin' left ye fire us out. I've a son somewhar, God bless'm, and fer his sake this poor chap'll come to my cabin. B'ys, if y'll bear him tenderly, I'll lead the way. Will that do, sir?" he concluded, turning to the missionary.
"Just the thing," replied Keith, "and while you carry him, I'll slip over to my cabin for my instruments and bandages."