Among the Indians in Perdue's store none watched the proceedings more intently than Yukon Jennie, the orphan, whose home was in every camp, but with no certain abiding place. Wrapped in her old shawl, she crouched on the floor, taking no part in the rough-and-tumble fight. Her eyes were constantly fixed upon Pritchen with a strange fascination, which seemed never to waver. Once, when he sprang at Amos, she half started from her place, moved by some sudden impulse. But it was only for an instant, and then she shrank back to her former position.
When, however, the wild scene had ended, and the missionary had left the building, her whole being roused to activity. With the agility and stealthiness of a young tigress she glided from the room into the darkness without, and made straight for the Indian village. Reaching this, she wound her way among the various lodges till, stopping before one larger than the rest, she drew back the skin from the door and entered.
With no light to guide her she went at once to a corner of the room, and drew from a bundle of rags a small parcel. Unwrapping this, she brought forth a formidable looking knife, and with intense eagerness ran her small finger over the keen edge and sharp point. So satisfied was she at the result of this performance that a low chuckle of pleasure escaped her lips. Then, hastily concealing the weapon within the folds of her shawl, she left the lodge and started for the store.
"Ding, dong. Ding, dong. Ding, dong." The sharp sound spit the frosty air and stayed the feet of the little hurrying maid. She had never refused to obey its summons, which spoke to her like a living voice. To her childlike mind that dark thing hanging high aloft had a great meaning. It was the centre of an unseen world, and many were the strange and beautiful pictures she wove in her busy brain whenever the bell sounded out its message. But this night it was speaking directly to her in a warning sense. It seemed to understand her secret.
"Tell him. Tell him. Tell him," it was saying, over and over again.
She tried to go forward. She clutched the knife more firmly, and moved a few steps. She paused again, as a sudden thought came into her mind. Yes, she would listen to it. She would tell him first; after that there would be time.
Turning to the left, she started toward the church. The bell had ceased before she reached the building, and all was still. Pushing open the door, she entered and slipped quietly into her accustomed place in a back seat. The rows of bowed heads in front of her were unseen; the altar, with its little wooden cross, flanked by the Ten Commandments in the Indian tongue, did not interest her as on other occasions, neither did the small mission harmonium, the delight of the natives, which had cost such an effort to bring to Klassan. She saw none of these. Her attention was fixed upon the kneeling form of the missionary, repeating several of the prayers of the Church.
He was dressed just as he had come from the trail. Presently he arose and began to speak. He was calm, to all outward appearance, terribly calm, with not a hint of the seething furnace within.
"I am glad to be with you again," he told the Indians. "My heart has been yearning for you all, and I have many messages from the Gikhyi-Choh (the Bishop) of the Mackenzie River. His hair is white now, and his steps feeble, so he cannot make long journeys as of old, or else he would come to see you himself. Next year, before the ground is white with snow, and the wild geese have gone south, he hopes that another Gikhyi-Choh will come and live among us on this side of the mountains. When he comes he will cheer us, so we must be strong till then. Then the white men have arrived; some, but not all, are wolves, and we must beware of their fangs. They would like to tear us to pieces, to break up our mission, and to ruin our young men and women. But we must stand together, and the Great Father in Heaven will send His Holy Spirit to guide us. I have many things to say, but I cannot speak of them now. We will meet again and have a long talk."
The Indians understood their leader. They needed no other word, and, after the benediction had been pronounced, they filed silently out of the building.
Jennie alone remained, almost hidden from view in the dimly candle-lighted church. She watched the missionary with her small bright eyes, saw him place his hand wearily to his forehead, and then turn to the little harmonium.
At first his playing dragged; it lacked the true fire of life. He was like one creeping foot-sore and lone over a long and darksome trail, far down in the valley. But as he played gradually he ascended from the mists below up the mountain side. The air became clearer and filled him with a new vigor. As he reached the top, and the sun shone out, his spirit leaped within him and thrilled his whole being. The heart nerved the hand and the weak, dilatory playing ceased. Hopefulness and courage burst forth in every note. His face cleared. He looked up, and his countenance became transfigured with a glorious light.
For a time Jennie retained her position in the back of the church. She loved music dearly, and could not resist the temptation to remain very still and listen. But at length she left her place, glided up the aisle, and stood quite near the missionary. He did not notice her, so lost in thought was he. When, however, she reached out a thin, dusky hand and touched his arm, he gave a sudden start, and, turning quickly, looked upon the girl.
"Jennie!" he exclaimed. "You here! Why, I thought every one had gone!"
"All but me," she replied. "I waited to speak to you. It told me to come."
"It? And who is It?" asked Keith in a puzzled manner.
"The bell; it spoke to me, as I was going to the store, and said to tell you."
"What were you going to the store for, Jennie, and what were you to tell me?"
The girl looked earnestly into his face. "I saw him!" she gasped. "He was there! He has been here for some time! See—" and she drew the keen knife from the folds of her shawl. "It is sharp, my mother's knife. What she tried to do I will finish. She only scarred his breast, and died for it; I will go deeper and reach his heart."
A cold chill passed through Keith's frame as he listened to these terrible words, and observed the passion which possessed her soul. He could hardly believe it possible that this was the same gentle Jennie, the apt scholar, of whom he had hoped so much. His mind went back to one fearful night, seven years before, when he first met her, and saved her. He saw again her dead mother, with her lifeless babe in her bosom, the result of the renegade squaw-man, the vile serpent in human guise, who now menaced his flock. Jennie was a child of eight, alone with the dead in that desolate place. He had brought her to Klassan, where she had lived ever since, cared for by the Indians. They loved the maiden, but could not always understand her, with that dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. Little did they realize the deep longing in her heart, or the fire which was smouldering there, only awaiting an opportunity to burst forth. At last the time had arrived, and she stood ready with flashing eyes to carry out her design.
"Jennie," said Keith, calming his voice as much as possible, "how long have you been thinking of this?"
"Ever since that night," she replied, "when I saw my poor mother and sister lying cold and dead. I said in my heart that some day I would meet him and kill him."
"And you told no one of what was in your heart, Jennie?"
"No. The Indians would only have laughed at me for thinking such a thing."
"But why did you come to me?"
"The bell told me to come, and I felt you would understand. He hates you and would like to kill you. I thought you would be glad if I killed him."
Keith placed his hand to his forehead, while a strange helplessness took possession of him. Was this, then, the result of years of prayerful instruction of the truths he had tried to instil into her childish mind? Turning to her he said:
"Jennie, Jennie. Do you know what you are saying? Do you know it is wrong to kill? It is murder. Do you know the sixth Commandment?" he continued, pointing to the right of the altar.
"Tinjih zhigotyin rsho," repeated the girl in a mechanical manner.
"Who said that, Jennie?"
"God."
"And do you think God will like it if you do not obey Him?"
"God will understand; He killed His own enemies."
"Jennie—!"
"Anyway, He doesn't mean me," hurried on the girl, when she saw the sorrow in her clergyman's face.
"Whom does He mean, then?"
"Men, only. He says so."
Well did Keith know that "Tinjih zhigtoyin rsho," to the Indian, was "Man, do not kill," but how often he had explained that tinjih, man, meant everybody, men, women, and children. But here was a child—a child in years, though a woman in thought—who through long brooding had absorbed only that which appealed to her own case. What was he to do?
"Christ said," he replied, after a pause, "that we are to forgive people who wrong us. He said 'yourenemies,' and that includes the man who killed your mother."
"But no one ever killed Christ's mother," answered the girl.
"No, not His mother, Jennie. But cruel men killed Him, drove nails through His hands and feet, and hung Him on the cross. But He forgave them, and asked His Father to do the same."
To these words she listened intently, and a gentler look came into her face. "I like Him," she said. "He was good to little children, and loved the birds and flowers."
A ray of hope shot into Keith's heart. Was he to win after all?
"Give me the knife, Jennie," and he stretched out his hand for the weapon.
But the girl drew back. "No, no!" she cried. "You will keep it. I want it."
"What, to-night?"
"Yes, to-night. I must kill him."
Keith arose. His face was stern. He had tried kindness in vain. The girl must be stopped by force from her mad design.
Jennie read his thoughts only too truly. She clutched the knife more firmly and, before a restraining hand could be laid upon her, she fled down the aisle and out into the cold, silent night.
As Keith stood gazing in surprise upon the retreating figure, there suddenly came to him the realization of the mischief this one child might do. He felt there was a strained feeling between the Indians and some of the miners; how deep he could not tell. Should Jennie commit this crime Pritchen's followers would be only too glad to wreak their revenge upon the few natives who were at Klassan. They would make the most of the deed, and no doubt draw with them the rest of the white men. Then when the absent Indians returned from their hunting grounds, and found what had been done, their rage would be fearful, and he shuddered to think of the dire consequences.
Though this portion of the North was British Territory, yet there was no one to enforce law and order. Every man was a law unto himself, and if it came to a contest of brute strength, it would be the survival of the fittest. He believed the religious truths he had instilled into the Indians' hearts and minds would have some influence, but when their savage nature was once fully aroused they might forget it all. He determined it should not reach such a crisis; the girl must be stopped at all cost.
Seizing his cap, he started down the aisle, and had almost reached the door, when it swung open and Amos, the catechist, entered. Most gladly did Keith welcome the native's arrival. Here was help in time of need. Quickly and briefly he told his story.
"Amos," he said in conclusion, "we must go at once, and do what we can to stop the girl."
"Gikhyi" (teacher), came the reply, "you are hungry and tired. Your cabin is warm, and some good moose-steak is ready. Do not worry any more to-night about Jennie. Leave the matter to me."
Keith's heart was touched by this simple expression of thoughtfulness. "God bless you," he said, grasping the native's hand. "I am tired, very tired. But do you think you can manage it alone?"
"I am never alone, Gikhyi," was all the answer he received, and as he looked into that honest face, and read the man's meaning, he felt rebuked for his own lack of faith.
"Very well, Amos; I leave it to you, but you will come to me in the morning, will you not?"
"Amos will come," was the brief answer, and at this they left the building.
Tired though he was, it was late ere Keith sought any rest. His mind was much troubled, and after his frugal repast he sat for a long time by the cheerful fire. Pritchen was the disturbing element, and he shivered as he thought of the man. He had not expected to find him here, working havoc among his flock. His wicked, leering face stood out clearly before him. How he had changed. What a monster he had become. If Nellie knew all. If she could see him now, what would she think? His mind reverted to a sweet, pure face, and eyes filled with tears. He heard again her parting words:
"Find him, Keith; he is somewhere in the North. Bring him back to me, and to the little ones."
And he had found him,—a degraded squaw-man—with the blood of an Indian woman, and a child, upon his hands. He had seen him then, only for an instant, but long enough to receive his fearful curses ere he fled from his sight to be swallowed up by the great, silent North. He had never told Nellie, for how could he; it would break her heart. Now the villain had returned, from whence he knew not, but with intent most sinister, he had no doubt. What was he to do?
"O God," he prayed, "help me; guide me in this time of trial."
When he awoke dim daylight was struggling in through the one frost and dust-covered window which the cabin afforded. It showed him Amos sitting quietly by the sheet-iron heater in the adjoining room, which was used as study, kitchen, dining and sitting room combined. The catechist was very still, with a far-away look upon his placid face.
"Good morning, Amos," said Keith, springing from his cot. "You are early; I didn't hear you come in."
"You slept well, Gikhyi," replied the native. "It is good."
"Amos," continued the missionary eagerly, as the scenes of the previous evening rushed through his mind, "what of last night? Did you find the girl?"
"All's well, Gikhyi."
"Thank God! Thank God! But tell me, Amos, what have you been doing?"
"I went to the store when I left you, but it was in darkness. There were voices within, which sounded like Perdue's and Pritchen's. Jennie I did not see; she was not there. I had been waiting only a short time when a man arrived with a dog team. I think he came from Siwash Creek. There's a small camp of white men there, and they come in at times for supplies. This man went into the store, and that was the last I saw of him."
"And you didn't see Jennie at all?" asked Keith in surprise.
"No, not there. When I had waited quite a while near the store, and nothing happened, I went to the Indian camps, and visited them in turn. At last I found Jennie, sitting in one of the lodges, while the rest were asleep. Upon her face was a strange look. She neither spoke to me, nor I to her. I cannot understand the girl."
"But you will watch her, Amos," said Keith. "She may do the deed when we are off our guard."
"Yes, I will go at once, Gikhyi. But I will come back soon, for I have much to tell you about what happened last night."
The catechist had been gone but a short time when a knock sounded upon the door.
"Come in," called out Keith, thinking it was an Indian who had come to see him.
To his surprise, however, a white man entered, who seemed to be in a great hurry.
"Are you Mr. Steadman?" he at once began.
"Yes," replied Keith. "What can I do for you?"
"You're a doctor, I understand."
"Yes."
"Well, then, you're wanted bad at Siwash Creek. Jim Blasco's knocked out. Gun bust, and tore away his arm. Jim's a devil, if ever there was one, but he's hard pinched now and squaking like a baby. His cabin's the first you'll come to, in a bunch of timber. Will you go?"
"Certainly," replied Keith. "But, say, when did this happen?"
"Night before last."
"And who brought word?"
"Dave Perkins, and he travelled like he—, oh, I beg your pardon, like the wind."
"And got in at midnight. Why didn't he come to me at once? I might have been on the way by this time."
The man gave a slight start, and looked up quickly into the missionary's face, but seeing no shadow of suspicion there, replied:
"We didn't know about it till this morning. You see, Dave was so tuckered out from cold and want of sleep that he had to warm up with a drink or two, and so forgot his business. He only woke a short time ago, and swore like a—a—trooper at Perdue and his whiskey. I guess he's swearing yet, for as soon as he'd coughed up his story I left to find you."
"I'll be off as soon as possible," said Keith, throwing a stick of wood into the stove, and reaching for the frying pan.
"Now, Yukon, old boy," he continued, when the man had gone, "there's stiff work ahead. But you've been there before, and know the way, so I want you to strike such a gait that it will make Don and Hector think there's a fox ahead for sure. Brisko we'll leave with Amos to get some flesh on his staring ribs."
The dog pricked up his ears, wagged his tail, and gave a joyful bark. "Very well, master," he seemed to say, "you can depend upon me. I've never failed you yet."
In less than an hour Keith stood girt for his long run. His face glowed with enthusiasm; his mission was one of mercy, and it thrilled his whole being. The dogs stood before the cabin shaking their bells, impatient to be away. A parting word to Amos, a crack of the whip in the frosty air, and the three noble brutes bounded forward out upon the trail, which wound through the village, past Perdue's store, and into the great lone beyond.
Pritchen was leaning over the bar when Keith sped by. "Bells!" he cried, rushing to the small window. "There he goes, boys; see him!"
Instantly a scramble ensued for a glance at the rapidly disappearing team, and then shouts of laughter shook the building.
"A drink to the fool's success!" shouted Pritchen in high glee. "Say, Sam, you're a corker. You've missed your calling. You should be on the stage."
"Did he bite quick?" chimed in Perdue.
"Ha, ha, he bit like a d— sucker. But there's one thing I can't savvy."
"What's that?"
"He knew when Perkins arrived, and asked me why he didn't go to him at once."
"The devil!" ejaculated Pritchen, setting down his half-drained cup. "How in h— did he know that?"
"Who shaid Perkins?" broke in a watery-eyed individual, staggering up to the group. "Here he-hic-ish. Watcher want, eh?"
"It's all right, Dave," laughed Pritchen. "Come and have a drink. You held the trump card this time without any doubt."
"Don't care'f I do," assented the man. "I-hic-alish holds trumps."
While the men laughed, drank, and swore in the saloon, Keith was speeding far out upon the long trail. The dogs were in excellent form, and enjoyed the exhilarating exercise with their beloved master. The moon was full, and only a short pause was made at night for rest and refreshment.
On the second day from Klassan the weather changed. The air became milder, and a dull grey sky lowered overhead. In the afternoon the wind began to blow, and ere long man and dogs were flecked with particles of driving snow. The mountain tops were hidden from view, and the storm rolled along their sides like the smoke of a thousand cannon. It burst from the funnel-like pass to their left, swept across the valley, and struck the travellers full abeam.
Hector, the wheel dog, howled and nipped Don's heels, whose teeth gleamed white at the insult. But Yukon uttered never a sound. He gave one lightning glance at his master, straightened himself out in the harness, and nosed his way through the storm. For an hour they thus proceeded, the trail becoming more difficult all the time. At length it was entirely obliterated, and nothing remained to guide them in their onward march. The wind raved and tore round them; the snow curled and encircled their bodies like a huge winding sheet, half blinding them as they staggered on. No friendly forest was near to give them shelter. The region through which they were passing was a vast, desolate tract of burnt land. The dead trees, stripped of every vestige of foliage, stood out gaunt and weird. The wind rushed howling through their naked branches, and the driving snow seemed like the packed lances of a million unseen horsemen in a mad charge.
At length the dogs stopped and, squatting in the snow, looked beseechingly into their master's face. The small sled dragged heavily, even with its light load of blankets and provisions.
"Come, Yukon, old boy, cheer up," encouraged Keith, going to the leader's side, and patting him affectionately on the head. "I'll give you a hand. We must get out of this."
Again they pushed forward, the man assisting the dogs by means of a small rope attached to the sled. But night—an awful night—now closed down, adding its horror to the situation. A sense of helplessness shot into Keith's heart, and stayed his steps. He dropped the rope, tore away the harness from the crouching brutes, and turned them loose. Seizing the sled, he stood it on end in the snow, and taking with him only his small medicine case, began once more his hard fight. But he found it much harder now. His feet left the trail, and he sank deep into the snow. Back he scrambled, and groped onward like a blind man, searching with his feet for the hard bottom. Again and again he missed the track until at last he stopped in despair. What was he to do? Was he to perish miserably there in that blinding storm? The wind was piercing, chilling him to the bone, and he shivered.
Presently Yukon, who had been following close at his master's heels, pricked up his ears, sniffed the air, and, bounding forward, took the lead. This action aroused Keith. He believed a human habitation was near, and that the dog had scented the smoke afar off. Neither was he mistaken, for soon they reached green timber, which broke somewhat the violence of the storm.
Pushing their way through the trees for several hundred yards, a faint glimmer of light pierced the darkness straight ahead.
"Thank God!" murmured Keith, as he waded wearily up to the small log building, and rapped on the rude door. "This must be the place; the first on the trail, so I was told."
A noise of some one moving within fell upon his ear, followed by a fumbling sound as of a bar being removed. Then the door was cautiously opened, and a big grizzly head was thrust out. Keith started back at the wild appearance, and the terrible look in the man's eyes. He had seen such eyes before in mad-houses.
"Does Jim Blasco live here?" he stammered.
"Does he? Does he?" came the deep, jerky reply. "And what if he does?"
"H-h-ow is he?" Keith could not help it. An indescribable chill was creeping over him, and his teeth chattered.
"Doesn't he look well?" roared the giant, as he flung the door wide open. "Watch'er want of 'im?"
"They told me you were hurt; the gun burst, and tore away your arm."
"Who told you that?"
"The men at Klassan."
"And who are you, anyway?"
"A medical man, and a missionary."
The man started, and his eyes, terrible before, now fairly blazed in their sockets. Torrents of oaths poured from his lips, and he sprang back into the cabin towards a rifle which was standing in a corner.
No longer did Keith hesitate. He realized his danger, and turning fled from the building out again into the night, whither he knew not, any place was better than near that raving demon with those terrible eyes. Breathless and exhausted, he at length paused and listened, but nothing could he hear except the wind howling in the tree-tops overhead. The truth now flashed upon him. He had been deceived, tricked, the object of a huge joke. It hardly seemed possible that men with any spark of feeling would do such a thing. For an instant a fierce rage took possession of his soul. He clenched his mittened hands, his teeth ground together, and the blood surged tumultuously through his body.
"O God!" he cried, "punish them. Strike them down, or give me strength to do it!"
He paused. His lifted hand dropped to his side, and a change passed over his face. What was that he saw standing there in the storm? A form, thorn-crowned, with bleeding hands, and pierced side. The lips moved. "Father, forgive them," he heard Him say, "they know not what they do."
The scene was so vivid, and the words so clear, that Keith fell upon his knees in the snow, unheeding the curious dogs squatting near.
"Father, forgiveme!" he cried, lifting his hands to heaven. "Forgive me, Thy ambassador, for my wicked words. I was——"
What was that? Music, the strains of a violin. He listened intently. He recognized the refrain.
"Hark! the herald angels singGlory to the new-born King,Peace on earth, and mercy mild,God and sinners reconciled."
Keith staggered to his feet, and peered through the darkness, but could see nothing. He followed the sound, and ere long a square building loomed up in the distance. Toward this he feebly made his way, tottering like a drunken man, and at times beating the air with his hands for support.
The storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against Peter Martin's snug log cabin. It did its best, however, to find an entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow could gain admittance.
It was Christmas Eve, and for that reason six men were gathered together at "Old Pete's," as he was commonly called. They had travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in their own quiet way. They were prospectors, the pathfinders of the country, the advance guard of civilization. Calm, temperate, sons of Anak in size and strength, they were noble friends but stern enemies. For long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions never before trodden by the foot of white man. Across rugged mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid lakes, or crooked Indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of heaven.
Once in the year these six men drifted together, at the Christmas season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. But on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. The miners had arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. They resented this intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. Though most of the newcomers had gathered at Klassan, some had drifted to Siwash Creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pass the long winter. At these men Pete and his companions looked somewhat askance, for they felt they were not of their class. There was one, however, old "Colonel" Radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he was different from the rest, so they thought.
Pete Martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. The pieces he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. It had taken him many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of his own fond fancy. Alec McPherson, a sturdy son of the heather, was his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checkers, these two hardy friends faced each other over the rough table.
"Check!" said Pete, after the game had continued for over an hour.
Alec ran his fingers through his long hair, and shuffled uneasily on his stool before making his move.
"Check!" again calmly remarked Pete, and a triumphant light gleamed in his eye.
"You've the cinch on me this time for sure, mon," exclaimed Alec, as he struggled to free himself from the clever trap.
"Mate!" once more ejaculated Pete, swinging up his queen, and completely surrounding his opponent's king.
"Noo for anither," said Alec. "I'm no willin' to stop yet."
But Pete pushed back the chess board, and began to place the men into the box. One by one he lifted them tenderly from the table, and when the last had been safely deposited, he rose to his feet, and standing with his back to the fire, faced his companions. This was his favorite attitude when he wished to express himself most freely. He glanced around the room with a feeling of pride, as a commanding officer might look upon a little squad he was about to lead into action.
"B'ys," he began, cutting a chew from a plug of tobacco, "d'yez know what night this is?"
The men looked up, but said nothing. There was no need for any reply. They knew him well. It was only Pete's manner of beginning something he wished to say. On this occasion, however, they detected a new note in his voice, and a yearning, far-away expression in his eyes, as he stood before them.
"It's Christmas Eve," he continued, rolling the wad of tobacco in his cheek, "an' this is the seventh we've met together. Somehow I feel it'll be the last, fer mighty changes are about to take place. There'll be so many of them green-eyed gold grabbers in here that our job'll be gone. They'll snook into every corner, an' what'll be left fer us? I ain't as young as I uster be, and mebbe—oh, well, it's no use lookin' too fer ahead, but any way I'd like this Christmas Eve to be sorter special, jist to remind me of old times.
"Sixty an' five years, remember, have rolled over this gray head of mine, an' the older I git, the stronger some things come back. When I think of the time when my father an' mother, God bless 'em, uster take me with'm to the leetle parish church way back in New Brunswick, a lump comes inter my throat, an' a feelin' creeps over me that I can't jist describe. I'd give all I possess to be thar agin, lads, dressed in my leetle white frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin' in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so I uster think, with the choir. But it was Christmas Day I liked best of all, fer then the church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so hearty, an' everybody was so happy. Then, some special friends allus come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'. Ah, no, I can't fergit sich days, an'——"
Suddenly Pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "Fergive me, lads," he cried; "fergive me! I didn't mean t'bother yeze with all this nonsense, I wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got away with me."
There was no need of an apology in that room. The fire in the old sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of holes. Pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. They were reticent men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were few. But Pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open, fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces, floated before their minds. To one, at least, arose the picture of a little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his joys and sorrows. Forty years had passed since he first rejoiced in that dream—forty years, and now she was a grandmother. But to Pete she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure, and charm of youth.
Presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table.
"Hello! what's that?" questioned Andy Dickson, between the deliberate puffs of his pipe.
But Pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin.
"Look at that, lads. Ain't she a beauty?" and Pete ran his fingers over the smooth surface.
"Where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of the others.
"Oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear."
"Sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in anticipation of a good yarn.
"Waal, it's this way," Pete began. "Last Fall, I was wanderin' away to the east, through that God-forsaken region known as 'Dead Man's Land.' Travellin' along an Injun trail, I hit upon two men, with four dogs packin' their loads. One was quite young, an' as fine a chap as I've seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most wretched brute. How they got together, Heaven only knows, but thar they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. They was on a kinder wild-goose chase, so I l'arned. Some fool had been thar before, found gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket.
"I saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' I hated to leave the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer I'd taken a fancy to the kid. The mornin' I come away he accompanied me fer some distance. When we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. Thar was tears in his eyes when he gave it to me.
"'Take it,' says he, 'I can't keep it. Bill kicks up sich a fuss, an' claims that he packs all the stuff, while I tote the fiddle. Ye'll be good to it, I'm sure, so good-bye.'
"With that, he was off, an' I never sot eyes on 'im agin. But thar I was with that thing on me hands. What did I want with a fiddle? My fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though I've not a bad ear fer music, when it comes to that. Then, I had a long mush to make, an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. At first I thought I'd throw the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me. So I brung her along, an' thar she is. Ain't she a beauty? It'll be somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few tunes."
Silence reigned for a space after Pete had finished his story. The violin was passed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up and strike bow to the strings.
"What! kin no one play?" exclaimed Pete in surprise, when the instrument had gone the round. "Why, I have looked forward to this occasion fer some time."
"I guess we're like yersel', Pete," replied Alec McPherson, "men of action. Our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o' cat-gut."
"Right yer are, man," assented Pete. "But I'm mighty disappinted, nevertheless, fer I did want ter hear an old tune or two."
At this, Tim Craven, a full six-footer in his stockings, stretched out a huge, hairy hand.
"Give her to me, Pete," he said. "Once I could play a little, and maybe a few of the old tunes'll float back again. I use to manage a few jigs," he continued, as he tightened up the strings, "such as 'The Fisher's Hornpipe,' and 'Auld Lang Syne,' but I'm afraid I'm all out of practice."
Then began such a sawing and scraping as the little cabin had never before heard. Had the violin been animate it would have shivered itself to pieces in a short time. A choir master, or an orchestra leader would have been driven almost insane at such an exhibition. But Tim's companions never winced. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and tapped the floor with their great rough boots as the various jigs were reeled off.
At length the musician stopped; his supply was exhausted, and he laid the violin upon the table.
"It's all I know," he remarked, reaching for his pipe.
"Give them to us again," said Alec. "You've done fine."
"Don't ye know a leetle Christmas song, Tim?" asked Pete, with a disappointed look in his face.
"I'm afraid not. They're all I know."
"What! not one? not one leetle song, jist fer old times' sake?"
Tim ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "There is one," he said, "I used to know, but it's so long since I've heard it, that I've clean forgotten the tune. It's something about 'Angels singing,' and 'New-born King,' but I guess——"
"I know it! I know it!" broke in Pete eagerly. "I'll whistle the air, fer I've sung it out on the hills, to cheer me up a bit. It goes this way, see?"
Tim listened, began to hum the tune softly to himself, and then reached for the violin.
"No, ye ain't got it yit, Tim; try agin," and Pete whistled it over once more.
After several efforts Tim finally rasped out the air of "Hark, the Angels Sing."
"That's her," exclaimed Pete with delight. "Now ye've got her, go ahead."
Once more Tim steered his way through the piece, and was about to begin the third time, when a peculiar noise sounded outside.
"Hark! what's that?" cried one of the men.
"Wind," replied another. "It's a bad night."
"That's no wund, I tell ye that," said Alec, and, suiting the action to the word, he arose, crossed the room, and threw open the door.
A whirling gust immediately swept into the building, and threatened to extinguish the three candles which were performing noble duty.
"Hello! What——"
Alec's exclamation of wonder was interrupted by a snow-covered figure staggering full against him, and then falling heavily upon the floor.
Instantly every man sprang to his feet. It was enough to know that a stranger was in their midst, and needed assistance.
Scarf and cap were removed, the parka torn off, and hands, arms and legs freely rubbed. Presently Pete caught a full view of the prostrate man's face. Pie leaned down close for a better view.
"B'ys!" he shouted, straightening himself up; "it's 'im! it's 'im. My God, it's 'im!"
"And whose him?" replied Alec, thinking Pete had taken leave of his senses.
"Why, the parson at Klassan; the man I've told yez so much about; the chap that saved my life in Hell's Canyon five years ago. Quick, let's lift 'im to yon bunk!"
When Keith opened his eyes, it was to see Old Pete, with an anxious expression upon his face, sitting by his side. He looked at him somewhat puzzled, but soon the recollection of his terrible experience came to his mind.
"Why, Pete," he exclaimed, "I didn't know you were here."
"Ye didn't, laddie?" replied the prospector, delighted to see his patient recover so quickly, "an' whar did ye think I'd be?"
"Out on the trail, of course, where you generally are."
"Ha, ha! Ye thought that, did ye, an' yer a parson! Waal, waal, I didn't think it."
"Didn't think what? I don't understand you."
"Ye don't?" and Pete stroked his long, white beard meditatively. "But, laddie, what would I be out on the trail fer, when the good Lord wanted me here to help a friend in need? Tell me that. Didn't He send you, laddie, to save me from Hell's Canyon five years ago? Ye talk about them angels in the Good Book a-comin' down to arth, but I guess the Lord uses us sometimes."
"You've been my good angel to-night, anyway," replied Keith feebly.
"A queer angel, laddie," and Pete glanced at his coarse clothes, "though, I guess, He doesn't mind how a feller looks on the outside, so long's his heart's right. But, thar, I've talked too much already, an' fergot my dooty."
Crossing the room, Pete soon produced a small can, which had been heating for some time upon the rickety stove.
"Here, drink this; it'll narve ye up a bit. It won't hurt ye, fer it's only some moose-meat soup."
"Thar now, ye'll feel better," he remarked, when Keith had finished the savory broth. "When ye've had a good sleep ye'll be all right. The rest of the b'ys have gone, so the cabin'll be quiet."
"Thank you," replied Keith; "you're kind. Idofeel sleepy, but there is just one thing I want to ask you about now."
"Fire away, then."
"Who is that man living down the trail?"
"What, Jim Blasco?" and Pete's face suddenly clouded.
"Yes."
"Oh, he's bughouse."
"What, crazy?"
"Yes, an' worse than crazy; he's devilish."
"He's terrible!" and Keith shivered.
"Did ye run agin 'im, laddie?"
"Yes."
"I thought mebbe ye had, an' he's death on parsons, too."
"Why, what does he have against us?"
"Laddie," and Pete laid his hand upon Keith's arm, "his heart's bad, an' he hates what's good. Ye see sich fellers everywhar. They talk mighty big about social rights, the welfare of the country, an' the improvement of mankind in gineral. But I take notice that sich chaps, as a rule, put stumblin' blocks in the way of progress. They shun a church as if it was a pest house, an' pass on to the saloon, or places worse'n that. They see a parson comin' down the street, an' they cross to t'other side, as if he had smallpox. Oh, I've seen 'em, I've lived among 'em, an' know their actions. Didn't I see several sich curs strike a fine mission settlement a few years ago? It was as quiet an' decent a place as ye'd wish to see, but afore them wolves left, it was hell, yes, laddie, it was hell. An' ye should have heard the stories they told about the missionary; they were awful. They broke his heart, that's what they did.
"Now, Jim Blasco's one of them curs. I knowed 'im years ago, when he was fust married. He had as sweet a lassie fer wife as ever breathed, an' he treated her like a dog, her an' the kids. The parson thar interfered, an' saved her from that devil, so that's why Jim hates parsons. When the town got after 'im, he cut an' run. He came north, an' last Fall struck this camp, half crazy. He raves an' talks about parsons most of the time. He says that they're a meddlin' lot. He cusses 'em like mad, an' I've seen 'im in sich a rage that I thought he'd have an athletic fit. I guess he'll be taken outside when the river opens, fer he ain't safe, nohow."
Keith's face flushed with anger as he listened to these words. He thought of the man who had visited him that morning at Klassan and told him the base lie. He and the rest knew about Blasco, and yet they sent him to his very door over that long trail. He glanced at Pete, and noted his strong, noble face. Here was a man, he well knew, who would avenge the insult he had received. With his five hardy companions he would march to Klassan, face Pritchen and his gang, though they were ten to one. He felt how just it would be, and for the welfare of his dusky flock that those scoffing miners should be brought to task.
There was a certain degree of pleasure in this idea as he lay on the comfortable cot, and listened to the fire roaring in the room, and the wind howling outside. Gradually he slipped away from the little cabin into the airy land of dreams.
He was again on the trail, fighting with the furious storm, and calling to the dogs. Then a mountain, sheer and steep, lifted itself across his path. He tried to scale it, but his hands slipped, and he fell back, bruised and bleeding. Through the storm he heard mocking voices, jeering and laughing at his futile efforts to advance. He saw Pritchen in the form of a huge serpent, leering forth at him from the darkness, while Perdue, Tim Murphy, and others he could not distinguish, were grinning in the background. A horrible feeling of helplessness possessed him, and the more he struggled the weaker he became. The darkness deepened, and the mountain was falling upon him. He tried to escape, but could not move. He gave a cry for help, and suddenly a light burst through the gloom. He looked, and behold a woman, beautiful in form and feature, moved swiftly toward him. He recognized the face—the face in the locket, but sweeter than ever. With a smile, she reached out her hand, lifted him out of the terrible pit, and placed him in the broad sunlight. The storm had passed, the mountain was nowhere in sight, and the jeering voices had ceased. All around were green meadows, fragrant flowers and sparkling streams. In the midst of this splendid scene stood the woman, still smiling upon him. In his joy and ecstacy he reached out his hand to touch her, but in an instant she vanished from his sight. He strove to follow, when the sound of voices fell upon his ears, and caused him to awake with a start.
He rubbed his eyes, as he looked around the cabin to be sure that he was not dreaming, for there before him, talking with old Pete, was the very woman he had seen in his dream, and whose picture was in the locket.
She was beautiful, he could see that at once. The hood which covered her head could not hold in thrall the entire wealth of her dark-brown hair. Some tresses had escaped, and the wind had tossed them across her cheeks and brow. She was thinly clad for such a night. Her dress of dark-blue serge, and a shawl over her shoulders, were little protection in that furious storm, while her hands, he noticed, were bare.
All this Keith intuitively beheld, for he was endeavoring to grasp the drift of the conversation, in order to solve the problem of her mysterious presence. She was speaking, but he could only catch the word "father" now and then. Presently Pete jerked his thumb toward the bunk, and in a louder voice, said:
"I wish yon lad was awake, fer he's a doctor, an' understands sich things. But he's been knocked out mighty bad in this storm, an' I hate to distarb 'im."
At this Keith rolled out of the bunk, and stood before the two. "Pardon me," he said, "but I have just awakened, and would like to do anything in my power to help you."
At the sudden appearance of the tall, unkempt figure, the woman gave a start of surprise. Keith, noticing this, felt somewhat abashed, when he realized how he must look. But it was not fear or disgust which caused the woman to start. It was the picturesque figure he presented by the dim candle light.
"What a subject for a sketch," she thought. "I wish I had my pencil and paper."
"Lassie—Miss Radhurst, I mean," Pete began, "this is my old friend, Keith Steadman, an' he'll fix up yer dad if any man kin."
At once the woman held out her hand to the missionary. As he grasped it, he noticed how small it was, and rough, too. It evidently knew hard work. Holding it for an instant, and looking into her eyes, he felt like saying:
"I know you, Miss Radhurst. I have known you for days, and your face has been so often in my mind."
"Oh, Mr. Steadman," she said, trembling with excitement, "I am so glad you are here. My poor father has been strange all day. To-night he got up, opened the cabin door, and fell down the steps. With great difficulty, I managed to get him back into the room, where he now lies moaning as if in great pain. I fear his arm is broken. Will you come over to see him?"
"Certainly, I shall go at once," and Keith started for his cap and medicinal companion. "And, Pete, you'll come too?" he continued. "You may be needed."
"Lead on, pard," returned the old man. "I'll stand by, never ye fear that." To himself, however, he said: "Thar's more'n colors here, I kin see that at a glance, an' when two gold veins meet thar's sure to be rich diggin'."