"Mother!"
What more common and beautiful word than this, a mere symbol, the outward expression of the child heart within each of us. At any time it is full of deep meaning, but how greatly intensified when repeated by some suffering one in the dim morning hours, when "the casement slowly grows a glimmering square."
"Mother!"
Keith bent over the quiet form on the rude bunk. For hours he had anxiously awaited some sign of consciousness, and while the old man with the white hair slept on the floor, rolled up in his one blanket, he had kept watch.
"Mother, are you there?" and Joe's hand reached out into the air.
"Hush," soothed Keith. "You are safe, so go to sleep."
Joe opened his eyes and fixed them upon the missionary in a dreamy sort of a way, then closed them again, and soon passed off into a peaceful slumber.
Steadily the wounded man recovered under the careful treatment he received. The blankness, caused by the concussion, which at the first enwrapped his mind, rolled away as a dark cloud vanishes from the mountain's brow. Keith was much with him during the first few days. He knew the importance of keeping his mind filled with fresh, bright thoughts, and not allowing him to brood upon Pritchen and the terrible scene at the saloon. He told him stories of his experience among the Indians, and many of their quaint ways. At times Joe would laugh heartily at some amusing incident, and eagerly ask for more. Often Keith read to him a story from a book or an old magazine, and when it was finished they would discuss it together.
On such occasions, Sol Burke, the old man who owned the cabin, was always an earnest listener. He seldom spoke, but would lean forward, as if drinking in every word, and puff away steadily at his strong black pipe. "Caribou" Sol, the name by which he was generally known, was not the only one interested in these tales. Others drifted into the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would remain very still while the story continued. It was in their own cabins where they gave vent to their feelings.
"By gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the parson read to-day. It tickled me, it did, about that Trotty, and his daughter. Wasn't she a brick?"
"And did ye see Sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his arms?" asked another.
"No, what about him?"
"Why, he leaned right over, and even forgot his pipe. I never saw such a wistful look in any man's face."
"That's nothing. I guess we all looked pretty much that way."
One night when Joe was almost recovered, Keith walked back to his lonely cabin lost in thought. He had been reading, as usual, and the small shack had been crowded to its utmost capacity. For several days, as he watched the men, he had been wondering what he could do to make their lives a little brighter. He knew very well how cheerless were their cabins. Four square walls of rough-hewn logs, unrelieved by ornament or picture; a bunk, a sheet-iron camping stove, one or two three-legged stools, and a small table filled the room, dimly lighted by one feeble candle.
In addition to such dreary abodes were the long nights, the cheerless silence, with no one to care whether a man lived or died; no news from the great outside world, and one day dragging wearily to a close, only to be succeeded by another, and then another, through long dreary months. Sometimes the men would meet together, but the cabins were all much alike. Perdue's store was the only bright spot, and there the men wandered.
Keith thought of all this. What could he do? What right had he to be a missionary, a saviour of souls, if he had no line to let out, or boat to launch in the hour of need?
Reaching his cabin, he sat for some time at the small table where he carried on his writing and translational work. His few choice books looked down upon him from their rude shelves.
"Ah, old friends," he said, looking up at them, "if you could only comfort those men, as you have comforted me, what a help you would be now."
Then it was that the books spoke to him. They suggested an idea, which, flashing along the brain, flushed the thinker's cheek.
The dogs squatting around wondered what had come over their master. Yukon poked his nose into the listless hand, while Brisko, with pricked-up ears, awaited some word of greeting. Keith heeded them not, but sat long and quietly at the table working out his new plan.
"It will do!" he exclaimed at length. "Hey, Yukon, old boy! we'll beat Perdue and his bad whiskey yet, won't we? Now, let's off to bed."
Next morning bright and early the missionary made his way to a long low log building, standing by the side of the church, and not far from his own cabin. In this was a large stove, which was soon sending out its genial heat, and giving an air of comfort to the place. Keith looked round with much satisfaction.
"Just what we want," he said to himself. "The Indians will not need it until spring, and why should it remain here unused? A few more tables from that whip-sawn lumber, the benches repaired, and things will be quite presentable."
Then he set to work, and the manner in which he handled hammer, axe and saw proved him well skilled in such matters.
He had been working for some time when the door opened, and Joe Simkins entered. Simply greeting the missionary with "Hello!" he perched himself upon a small table and gazed around the room.
"Good morning," replied Keith, pausing in the act of nailing a leg to a rickety bench. "How's the neck?"
"First class; all healed up. My! it feels good in here, for it's mighty cold outside."
"Better than Perdue's store?"
"Perdue's store be blowed! No more of that for me."
"So you don't intend to go there again?"
"Not much."
"But where will you spend your evenings?"
"Don't know; haven't many more to spend."
Keith looked up quickly. Joe had buried his face in his hands, and was huddled on the edge of the table. Going to his side, he placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Joe!"
No answer.
"Joe, you don't mean it, surely! What's the matter?"
"But what's the use of living, and dragging out a dog's existence in that wretched shack of mine, when in a second I can be free from all the trouble."
"Yes, Joe, you may free yourself from the trouble in this life, but is it manly to bring sorrow to others, and bow the heads of your dear ones?"
Joe looked up. "No one cares for me," he said, half-defiantly.
"No one? Think again. Didn't you tell me that your father and mother were living alone on a little farm back in Ontario, and that you, their youngest child, were the last to leave the old home?"
"Yes."
"Joe," Keith spoke quietly, but with intense earnestness, "they are poor and lonely. Day by day they toil long and hard. What comforts have they in life? They sit alone, side by side, during the winter evenings. They talk of you, think of you, pray for you, and wait some word from you. You, the youngest, the last upon which they bestowed their affection, are much in their thoughts. Isn't that a true picture?"
"My God, it's too true!" broke from the young man's lips.
"Well, then, which will you do, add more trouble to their lives, bow down their poor backs more than ever, and cause them to sit so still through the long evenings, and just wait from day to day for the Master to call; or will you win out here, bear the battle's brunt of gloom and despair, then in the spring make a strike, to go back home rich, to bring joy and comfort to your parents' declining years?"
For a time Joe did not speak. He was struggling hard, for the words were telling upon him. "I never thought of it in that way," he said, at length. "But you have cheered me up a bit, and if I can only stand this winter I think I can win out. It is very lonely in this camp, and a fellow gets so discouraged."
"How would this place do?" asked Keith. "How would you like to spend your evenings here?"
Joe's eyes opened in surprise. "Come here! for what?"
"To read, play games, sing, chat, smoke, and perhaps debate subjects with the rest of the men."
"To read! read what?" and Joe looked around in a puzzled manner.
"Books, magazines and papers, of course; what else would people read?"
"Say, parson, you're only joking, aren't you? Books, magazines, here in this desolate hole! over a thousand miles from anywhere! Why we've not had a letter or one word from the outside since last summer, and now you talk about books, magazines and papers!"
"Well, suppose such a thing did happen," laughed Keith at Joe's incredulity, "do you think the men would like it?"
"Like it? Well, I guess they'd like it. Some would, anyway, for they are hungry, starving for reading matter. Didn't you see the way they crowded into the cabin while you read to me? You should see the only book we have in camp. It's a cheap copy of 'David Copperfield,' which one of the boys got from a mission station over on the Mackenzie River side, when he came in by way of the Peel. You'd hardly know it was a book at all, with the covers off and the leaves all loose. I've read it through three times this winter already, and some of the boys have read it more than that."
A lump came into Keith's throat as he listened to this simple story, and laying down his hammer he seized his cap and mittens. "Come, Joe," he said, "I want to show you something."
Together they made their way to the store room, behind the mission house, which, when they had entered, Keith silently pointed to several piles of magazines and papers stacked in one corner. Joe's eyes bulged with amazement. He rubbed them, to make sure he was not dreaming.
"Gee-whiz!" he exclaimed. "Who'd have thought it!"
Then he began to examine the treasure. "'Illustrated London News!' well I'll be jiggered! 'Corn Hill,' 'The Century,' 'Leisure Hour,' 'The Canadian Magazine,' and lots more, whole stacks of them; my, what a treat! Say, parson, where did you get them?"
"They came with the mission supplies," was the response. "For years they have been gathering there, and not long ago I was tempted to have a big bonfire, and burn the oldest ones, as they were taking up so much room. But now I'm glad I didn't."
"So am I," assented Joe. "But say," he continued, looking round the room, "what's all that stuff for?"
"Oh, they're mission supplies for the Indians."
"And you sell the stuff?"
"Yes."
"Oh, then, that's what Pritchen and Perdue meant. I didn't understand them at the time."
"Why, what did they say?" asked Keith.
"They said a lot; told what a grafter you are, that you supply the Indians with all sorts of things, take their furs in return, and are making a fortune out of them, all under the cloak of religion."
"And did they say that?" The missionary's tone was one of astonishment, and an expression of pain crossed his face.
"Yes, but that's only a part of the stories. They're stirring up the boys against you with all kinds of yarns."
"And what else did they say? Tell me, Joe."
The latter looked cautiously around, and in a low tone whispered something into Keith's ear, which caused him to start back as if from a blow.
"God help me!" he cried, placing his hands to his forehead. "Is it possible! Is it possible!"
"Yes, Pritchen told it over and over again, so I heard last night. Then he said that you killed the woman in a lonely place."
"Killed her! That I killed her?"
"Yes, and when he happened along and interfered, you struck at him with a knife, and made the terrible scar on his breast which he showed the boys."
"The brute! The brute!"
"You remember the night you pinned him over the bar, and were just going to smash his face when you saw the scar which startled you so much?"
"Yes, I remember it only too well."
"Well, he's making a mighty lot out of that, and the hard part is so many of the boys believe him."
"Joe," said Keith, "it's cold here," and he shivered. "Let us take some of these magazines in our arms and go back to the Indian school room. It's warm there, and I want to tell you something."
"Now, sit down," he said, when they had reached the place, "and listen to what I have to say, that you may know the truth.
"When I came here ten years ago the Indians were in a wretched condition of semi-starvation. They sold their skins to a fur-trading company, which sent a boat up stream for the very purpose. For valuable furs they received cheap, gaudy dress material, useless toys, and many other things they didn't need. They were being robbed right along. After a while I induced them to give up this ruinous barter, and deal with a more honest company, which agreed to send up a small steamer twice a year, in the Spring and Fall. Now the Indians have their own store, and keep those goods you saw on hand. I have never made a cent out of the business, for the natives get everything. Once a year they appoint one of their number to keep the store, and the lot has fallen time and again to Amos, who is paid by the Indians for his work.
"When a native brings in, say, a fox skin, he receives its value according to the previous year's rate. If he needs tea and sugar he is charged the same amount as was paid to the company—-not a cent more. When that fox skin is sold, if it brings more the Indian is credited with the amount, but, if less, it is deducted. We have a simple yet splendid system of accounts, which has taken years to perfect. At the end of the year every Indian is given a statement of how he stands, and so far there has been very little complaining.
"When an Indian does not wish to take up the full value of his furs in goods at one time, he is given a number of large beads, their standard of wealth, which he keeps on a stout string. Some of the natives have saved up quite an amount in this way, and in times of sickness, or during a bad hunting season, are not dependent on others.
"Then each Indian gives a portion of what he earns for the relief of the needy, sick, and the aged, besides contributing something every year to our Missionary Society. They are delighted with the whole plan, and, while I oversee the business, I get nothing. Any one who cares to do so may examine our system, and learn how straight it is. I know very well that Perdue longs to get control of this trade, and in fact did induce a number to buy from him. But that has been all stopped since my return, and so he is very spiteful. You may tell any one you like the whole truth, and how the Indians have been helped by the system."
"I shall," replied Joe, and the look upon his face revealed his sincerity.
"As to the next," continued Keith, "I shall be brief. No greater lie has ever been fabricated against a human being than that. Pritchen himself is the guilty one, and tries to shuffle the blame on me. Years ago he was a squaw-man, among a tribe away to the North of us. I visited that band, and one day on a lonely trail found that brute who had fatally injured his Indian wife, and her babe at the breast. Before she died, however, she left that scar upon him with the point of a keen knife. The woman told me all just before her death, and gave in my charge her only living child, a bright-eyed girl, who is now at Klassan, and remembers it all."
"What! the girl here?" asked Joe in surprise.
"Yes, and it is all that we can do to prevent her from avenging her mother's death."
"Does Pritchen know she's here?"
"No, I think not. But the girl has been following him like a shadow, and watching his every movement, without as yet doing anything more. She is rather strange of late, and we cannot understand her moods."
"But why does Pritchen fear you?"
"He knows me of old, and hates me for a number of reasons. But it's not me he fears, but the Indians. He's a bully and a coward, and has a great fear of death, with good reason, too. He is very shrewd, and knows if he lays hands on me the Indians will tear him to pieces."
"Do the Indians know about him, and the deed he committed?" asked Joe.
"Only the girl and Amos, the catechist. The former for some cause has never spoken to the rest, and I told the latter, but he is silent for the same reason that I am."
"What's that?"
"The Indians are very impulsive, and if they knew that this man had committed such a deed upon a helpless woman, and one of their own race, too, I might not be able to restrain them. They are also feeling sore over the contemptible trick Pritchen imposed upon them the day I returned, and it would take very little to cause a complete outburst. They never forget an injury or a kindness. As it is, they will spend so much time out in the hills talking about that trick that I'm afraid their hunting will suffer."
"But what are you going to do?" inquired Joe.
"Try to do my duty, and hold out till Spring. Then if he becomes too offensive, and I see our mission will suffer, I shall hold a Council of the leading Indians about the matter."
Joe leaned eagerly forward with an anxious look upon his face. "Say, parson, I wouldn't wait till Spring if I were in your shoes. You'll need their help before that."
"How do you know?"
"Pritchen will work through the miners. He'll not touch you himself, that is quite evident, but he'll cut at you in some other way. I've heard him talk; and you have no idea how he's poisoning the men's minds."
"Never fear," returned Keith. "We're in the Great Master's keeping, and He will look after us. But come, let us get something to eat. We have talked too long already, though it has been a comfort to unburden my mind. After our bite we must get this room ready for the men to-night."
"And I'll round up as many as I can," replied Joe, as they set out for the mission house.
Several days after the conversation in the school room, Pritchen was striding along the trail, which wound through the Indian village. Under his right arm he carried his long, narrow snow-shoes, while over his left shoulder was a small rifle, pendant from which were a few plump white ptarmigan. The trail ran close to the mission house, and, drawing near, the hunter observed the missionary by the door splitting fire wood.
For days Pritchen had steered clear of his hated opponent, and had not met him face to face since the shooting affray in the saloon. His anger, which burned like a fire in his heart, had become much intensified since then by the change affairs had taken. The Reading Room had proved a success, notwithstanding his jibes and sneers, and a goodly number of men were spending their evenings there who formerly haunted Perdue's place.
"D— him!" muttered Pritchen half aloud. "I don't want to have any words with the cur. I wish I had taken some other route."
Even then he was tempted to put on his snowshoes and cut off from the trail. On second thought, however, this was abandoned, as his purpose would be easily interpreted as the act of a coward.
With eyes straight forward he essayed to pass the house without noticing the missionary, when a deep growl close by arrested his attention, and caused him to glance quickly up. He stopped short and over his face spread a look of surprise and then fear.
The cause of this change of attitude was the half-wolf dog Brisko, who with his back to the door was growling in the most ferocious manner. His teeth gleamed white, his eyes glowed, and the hair on his back stood straight on end. Not since the terrible night of the fight with the wolves had Keith seen the brute so much aroused.
"What's the matter with the cur?" growled Pritchen, trying to conceal the apprehension he felt.
"I don't know," replied the missionary. "I never saw him greet any one in that way before. He seems to be much exercised now anyway."
Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. He loved dogs dearly, studied them most carefully, and had read much about their ways. Was there not some good reason for Brisko's aversion to this man? Had he seen him before? If so, where? Why that look of surprise and fear upon Pritchen's face? Could it be possible that this was the very one, the "Bill," whom that dying man in the Ibex cabin mentioned?
Lost in thought, he did not realize that he was staring hard at Pritchen, as if he could read his very soul. The latter noticed the look, surmised its meaning, and an ugly scowl passed over his face.
"What are you gazing at so mighty hard?" he blurted out.
"You," Keith calmly replied.
"Well, what do you see about me that's so interesting? I ain't much to look at."
"You were a minute ago when you first saw that dog. Why were you so surprised and startled?"
"Wouldn't anyone be startled to have a brute growl at him in that way?"
"And why did he growl? He never did so to anyone else since I've had him."
"How in h—do you suppose I know? Am I responsible for the moods of a d— mission house cur?"
"Perhaps he knows you, though, as well as I do."
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps he has reason to growl. Look," and Keith pointed to an ugly scar on the dog's side, over which the hair had not grown.
Pritchen did not reply, but stepped forward to obtain a better view, at which Brisko retreated, still showing his teeth.
"I'd growl too," went on Keith, "if I were a dog, and met the man who treated me that way, and left my master to die in the wilderness, though God knows, Bill, that I have more cause than Brisko to show my teeth when I think of what you have done to Nellie and the little ones."
At these words Pritchen threw off all semblance of pretension. A terrible oath leaped from his lips, and his face became livid with rage.
"You insinuating dog," he cried. "Speak out. What in h— do you mean?"
"You know very well what I mean about her, that sweet-faced little woman, but you think I don't know about the other," and Keith looked him full in the eyes. "I tell you I do, and that you, Bill Pritchen, robbed young Kenneth Radhurst, your partner, and left him to die in the lonely Ibex cabin. Deny it if you can."
"I do deny it, and I ask you to prove it. You can't do it, and what's more, I'll make you eat your words, and a bitter dose they'll be, too."
Pritchen was making a bluff. His speech was fierce, but his courage was failing. A fear of this strong, calm man was creeping over him. How much did he know? What had he found out?
"Bill," said Keith quietly, "just a word more. For Nellie's sake I have borne with you for some time. You imposed a mean trick upon me, of which I have said nothing. You have tried to break up my mission work, and I have let you alone. Now I know that you are capable of the lowest degree of baseness, so I advise you to do one of two things while there is time."
"And what in h— is that?" came the surly response.
"Leave my Indians alone, or go away from this camp, and do not cross my path again."
"And what if I don't take your d— advice?"
"The answer is there," and the missionary waved his hand towards the Indian houses. "I hold the natives in leash. At a word from me they will pour in from the mountains, those cabins will swarm with life, and—oh, well, you know the rest. In the meantime touch me, and you will answer to them. As for that dastardly deed to a young partner, if the miners knew—and they will know if you don't do as I advise."
Pritchen waited to hear no more. With an oath upon his lips he sprang for the trail, leaving the missionary gazing after him with a troubled mind. Keith had thrust deep into the villain's heart. He had wounded him sore, but he felt no sense of elation, for he knew he was contending with a vile serpent in human guise.
Pritchen proceeded at a rapid pace through the Indian village, and down to the miners' cabins. He did not enter Perdue's store as was his wont, but made straight for his own log house beyond. A miserable, half-starved cur was lying at the door. Giving the animal a brutal kick, which sent it howling away, Pritchen entered the building. Throwing his snow-shoes into one corner and the rifle with the ptarmigan on a pile of rugs, he sat down upon a small stool. His small, swinish eyes blazed, his brutal features twitched, and his hands clinched together as he brooded over the interview.
"He warned me, d— him, he warned me! Me—me, Bill Pritchen, the lawless, who never took such words from any man which I have taken from him! But I'll fix him! I'll bring him down from his high horse. He's got the cinch on me now through those d— Injuns, but my time'll come. He told me to leave the camp, ha, ha!" Then he paused, and a light broke over his countenance. He sprang to his feet. "I've got it! I've got it!" he exclaimed. "He said he'd expose me; that the men should know. Oh, yes, they'll know, ha, ha! But I must see first what's happened to that kid. I'll leave the camp. Oh, yes, I'll take your advice, my fine fellow, but I'll come back, yes, I'll come back, and then beware!"
Early the next morning he left Klassan with a small pack on his back, snow-shoes on his feet, and a rifle under his arm. For five days the wilderness swallowed him up, and then he returned. It was night when he came back, with the swinging stride and elastic step of a man who has accomplished his purpose.
This time he did not go to his own cabin, but stopped at the store. He was in high fettle when he entered the building. He nodded pleasantly to the few men gathered at the table playing cards, and cracked a joke with Perdue as he tossed off a draught of hootch.
"Give us a snack, Jim," he said, setting down the cup. "I'm dead beat, and haven't had a mouthful since morning."
"Sure," returned the saloonkeeper. "There are some beans in the pan, and I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Where's your game, Bill?" asked one of the men, looking up from his cards.
"Out on the hill, where they'll stay for all I care."
"Why, I thought you were out hunting."
"So I was."
"And found nothing?"
"You're mistaken there, pard. I found more than I expected."
"What, gold?" asked several in chorus. "Been prospectin'?"
"No."
"A pretty squaw?"
"Ha, ha. No, not this time; they're too d— scarce."
"Well, what did you find, man? Don't be so mysterious."
"I found this," and Pritchen drew from beneath his buckskin jacket a small book, which had been kept in place by his leathern belt. "Look," he said, holding it up to view, "isn't that a find! 'Robert Browning's Selected Poems,' that's what it is."
"Oh, is that all," replied one in disgust. "Deal the cards, Tim, and let's have another game."
"No, it's not all by a d— sight," and Pritchen helped himself to another plateful of beans. "But then if you fellows don't want to hear the rest, it's all right; it'll keep."
"Come, Bill," coaxed Perdue, "never mind Missouri; all he thinks about is cards. Let's have yer yarn."
"Well, what would you think if you found a book like that miles from nowhere?" replied Pritchen, who was most anxious to tell his story.
"'Tis queer, when ye come to think of it," soliloquized Perdue with a characteristic nod of the head. "It's very much out of the ordinary, I should say."
"And suppose you were out hunting," went on Pritchen, "and, reaching the Ibex cabin late at night, found the place looking as if hell had been let loose, and this book lying on the floor, what would you think? You'd wonder a d— lot, wouldn't you?"
"Sure," assented Perdue.
"And suppose in the morning, being somewhat suspicious, you nosed around a bit outside, and found a steep rock with two letters and a cross cut upon it, you would wonder some more, wouldn't you?"
"Y'bet," broke in Missouri, who had forgotten his cards in the story.
"Then when you saw wolf tracks on every hand, the snow all dug up at the foot of the rock, torn pieces of clothes lying around, and other things too terrible to mention, you would feel very sick, wouldn't you?"
"My God, yes!" exclaimed the men. "Did you find all that, and where?"
"And what would you think," continued Pritchen, thoroughly enjoying the sensation he was causing, "if the man responsible for it all came to Klassan and never said a word about it to any one?"
"That it looked mighty suspicious," replied Perdue. "But is there any one here who knows about the matter?"
"Maybe this'll tell the tale," and Pritchen opened the book he was holding in his hand. "See, look for yourselves; there's something to think over."
"Read it, Bill; let's have it, quick."
Holding the volume to the flickering candle light, Pritchen read the following, written in a firm hand:
"Keith Steadman,"First Prize for proficiency in English Literature."Collegiate School,"Windsor, N. S."Christmas, 18—."
"What, is that the parson?" asked Tim.
"Certainly, who else would it be?" replied Perdue.
Silence followed these words, and the men looked at one another. Pritchen, noticing this, was vexed and puzzled.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out.
"I don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded Missouri. "You can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death."
"But the book."
"Oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's all."
"But the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?"
"Any man might have done that. And if the parson did find a sick man in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the snow, and put up some marks. It's all quite natural."
"But why didn't he say something about it when he came to Klassan?"
"Blamed if I know. Maybe he had some reason. Anyway it doesn't prove anything."
"I didn't say it did," snapped Pritchen, who was feeling sore at this man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. His elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. They were known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and took only a passing interest in the events around them. They were seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. He had noticed that only these were in the store with Perdue, but had not given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. Now he wondered what had become of his own gang. He knew he could make an impression upon them.
"Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to Perdue.
"Over at the Reading Room," replied the latter. "There's a big time on there to-night."
"What's up?" and Pritchen's face darkened as various thoughts flashed through his mind.
"Ye needn't worry," Perdue hastened to explain. "The boys are all right. They're only after a little fun. Ye see, there's a debate on, and that's why they're there."
"A debate! On what?"
"Ye'd never guess, Bill. It's a h— of a subject. 'Which has caused more misery in the world, war or whiskey?' that's what it is."
"Ha, ha," laughed Pritchen. "They're after you, Jim. Ain't you going to hold up your end of the game?"
"Not much. The boys'll do that all right without me."
"And they mean business?"
"Who, the boys?"
"Yes."
"Sure, and I'm to give drinks all around when they're through, as my part of the fun. Ye'd better go along."
"But I'll be too late."
"Not a bit of it. Some of the preliminaries, such as the prayers and hymns, will be over, but you'll be in time fer the fun; they'll be in no hurry."
"Good. I'll go. Take care of my gear, will you, till I come back."
With this Pritchen left the saloon and made his way over to the Indian village.
The debate was well advanced when Pritchen entered the building. The rough benches were all filled, so he stood with his back to the door among several who were in a similar situation. The chairman of the meeting, Caribou Sol, was sitting at the farther end of the room before a small table. At his left sat Keith, by the side of the mission harmonium, which had been brought over from the church for this special occasion. A portion of the room behind the chairman was hidden by a bright coloured curtain. This was a source of wonder to the audience, and aroused in their minds various conjectures.
"That's where they keep the goat," said one talkative fellow. "Don't you see his horns?"
"No, but I hear him blat outside," replied another, at which a general laugh ensued.
"But really," continued the other, undisturbed by the merriment at his expense, "thereissomething behind that curtain. Joe, the kid, knows all about it, but he's as tight as a clam. He said the parson put it up at the last moment like greased lightning."
"Maybe he keeps his thunder there," laughed another. "I understand he's dead set against whiskey, and has some hot bolts to hand out to-night. But say, here he comes, looking mighty pleased about something."
At first the debate was conducted in a formal and orderly manner. The leaders in carefully prepared speeches opened up the subject, and received hearty applause. Gradually the men thawed out, the speaking became general, and in some cases regular harangues ensued, punctured by witty remarks from the listeners.
One of these had the floor when Pritchen arrived. He had been talking for some time about the evils of whiskey and the misery it caused to so many people.
"Think of the homes it has ruined," he was saying; "the young lives it has blighted; the prisons it is filling; the——"
"What about the snakes, Mickie?" came a voice from the audience.
"Sure, you're right there. I don't intind to leave the snakes out. And say, Dave Groggan, did yer grandfather ever tell ye where the sarpents wint to whin Saint Patrick drove thim out of ould Ireland?"
"Into the sea, of course."
"Ay, ay; into the sea, sure enough, the sea of Irish and all ither kinds of whiskey."
"Did ye ever see them, Mickey?"
"See thim? Haven't I seen thim, and if you drink enough of the stuff ye'll see thim too."
The laugh which followed this remark was silenced by the chairman rising to his feet. He rose slowly, and stood for a time with his hands upon the table. He was a man to be noticed in any company, with his tall, gigantic figure, thin gray hair, and long white beard. His faded eyes looked calmly over the heads of the men before him while waiting for the noise to subside.
"B'ys," he began, "I ain't used to makin' speeches, but I must say a few words to-night. Ye've talked about the miseries of war an' whiskey. Ye've brought forth facts an' figures a-plenty, but ye don't seem to be in earnest."
"What are ye giving us, Sol?" spoke up one.
"Ye may think what ye like, but if you'd been through the furnace as I have ye'd not make so many jokes about whiskey. Ye'd speak from yer hearts, an' then ye'd be in earnest, never fear. Look at me, b'ys, the oldest man here, an' when I heered one young chap boast that to drink moderately was no harm, I trembled fer 'im. I thought so too once, an' I said so to Annie, my wife, God bless her. I can't make a long speech in eloquent words, but I jist want to show yez a page from an old man's life."
"What, a sermon?" asked one of Pritchen's gang, who was getting restless and anxious for something exciting to happen.
"Mebbe a few sarmons wouldn't hurt ye," and Sol fixed his eye sternly upon the young man.
"As I was a-sayin'," he continued, "I want to tell yez somethin'. When I was fust married me an' Annie were as happy as any couple in—oh, well, ye'd better not know whar. We had a fine farm, snug house, and good-sized barns, with kind neighbours a-plenty. By the time our two little uns were born we had laid by a neat sum of money.
"'It's fer Danny an' Chrissie, to eddicate 'em,' says Annie. An' oh, b'ys, I remember the last time she laid any away. I had come back from town, whar I had sold my load of produce, an' I handed her what money I had. She looked at it an' then at me kinder scared like.
"'Sol,' says she, 'is this all? An' what's the matter with ye? Ye've been drinkin'!'
"'Only a few drops with the b'ys, Annie,' says I, but I didn't tell her it had been a-goin' on fer some time.
"'Don't ye do it any more, Sol,' says she. 'Remember the little uns, an''—then her voice kinder quavered, 'the habit may grow upon ye.'
"I laughed at her—yes, I laughed then, but oh, God, b'ys!" and the old man leaned over the table with a look of agony in his face, "I ain't laughed since! Would any of yez laugh if ye'd left a wife like Annie, an' such sweet wee uns fer the devil whiskey? If it had lost ye yer farm, home, respect of all, and drove ye away a drunken sot?
"After a while a bit of my manhood returned. I swore I would make good agin, an' with that resolve I worked in a lumber camp. With feverish energy I swung the axe an' handled the peevie till my name was known fer miles around. My wages I did not spend, as did most of the men, in gamblin' an' drinkin', an' at last I went to town to send the money to my wife. Then, may God forgive me, I fell. But what could I do, with rum shops starin' at me from every corner, doggin' my very steps, allus allurin' me, an' the men coaxin' me on all sides?"
"I'll take jist one glass," says I, "an' no more.
"But that was enough, an' when I sobered up my money was all gone."
"And brains too," jeered some one from the back of the room.
"Ah, yer wrong there," calmly replied Sol. "I didn't have any to lose or I wouldn't have acted the way I did.
"I fled from the place. I wandered, ever wandered, God knows whar. I struck minin' camps, worked like a slave, an' spent my wages to satisfy the devil within me. But once I let up. A young chap, the parson of Big Glen, reached out a hand an' gave me a lift. He stuck to me through thick an' thin. He made me feel I was a man, till down I went agin, an' I ain't seen 'im since.
"One day, after a drunken spree, an old paper from my own town somehow drifted into my hands. Here is a piece of it. Look," and Sol held up a small note book, with a clipping pasted on the inside. "See the headin':
'Died in the Poor House!'
"It was my Annie! the trimmest lass an' best wife a man ever had. An' what did it, b'ys? I ask yez that. What did it? Whiskey, that's what did it, an' ye'll joke about it, an' say it doesn't hurt to take a drop now an' then."
"He's a weak fool who can't," spoke up Pritchen. He was not satisfied at the silence which followed when Sol finished, and the impression he had made upon the men.
"Weak fool! Weak fool, did ye say?" returned Sol. "But mebbe yer right when I come to think of it. An' I guess thar are many more of us who are weak fools, too, fer what do we do? Walk right into a saloon an' see writin' there plainer than on the walls of Bill Shazzar's palace, which doesn't need a Dann'l to tell its meanin', either."
"I never saw any writing on saloons," sneered Pritchen. "You've had the D. T.'s, old man, that was the trouble with you. What you thought was writing was nothing but snakes."
"Ye see, b'ys," continued Sol, ignoring Pritchen's thrust, "the words, 'Homes Ruined Here,' 'Disease, Insanity, an' Murder Found Here,' 'This Way to the Poor House an' the Grave.' That's what we see, an' yit we walk right in an' buy with them words a-starin' us in the face."
"You're a d— fool and a liar," shouted Pritchen, at which his men set up a roar, delighted to know that something was about to happen.
Caribou Sol started; the colour fled from his face, and with one bound he leaped forward, scrambled over the seats, and confronted the man who had dared to use such insulting words.
"Take 'em back!" he cried. "Take back them words, or by heavens I'll pin ye to the wall!"
Pritchen was taken by surprise, it was easy to see that. He had reckoned on a disturbance, but had not expected the sudden action of Caribou Sol. Inwardly he cursed his men for their slowness in stirring up the meeting. He wished to remain in the background in order to further his future designs. But with this towering form confronting him matters assumed a different aspect. He shrunk back from those blazing eyes, but only for an instant. It would not do to show any sign of weakening in the presence of the miners.
"To h— with you!" he cried. "Do you think I'm a dog? I mean all I give, and I give more than words."
Quick as lightning his hand slipped to his hip pocket, a revolver flashed for an instant in sight, and then whirled through the room to strike heavily against the opposite wall, while Pritchen staggered back, and sank heavily to the floor, felled like an ox by one blow of Caribou Sol's clenched fist.
Instantly an uproar arose. Pritchen's followers with a cry of rage surged forward and bore down upon the gray-haired giant, while the rest of the men sprang to his assistance.
So quickly had everything taken place that Keith stood dumbfounded. He had noticed the presence of Pritchen and his gang, and felt rather uneasy as to their purpose in attending. But as time passed and nothing happened he hoped that the debate would end quietly. Now, instead of peace, a general fight was on. Blows were being exchanged, cries and curses were ringing through the room. It must be stopped. He leaped over the benches and besought the assailants to desist, but his voice was drowned in the general clamour.
"Oh, God," he mentally prayed, "help me, tell me what to do to stop these brutes!"
And even then his prayer was answered. The commotion gradually subsided. The men, some with faces scratched and bleeding, were staring in one direction as if they saw a ghost. Keith looked, too, and instead of a ghost he beheld the trembling form of Constance Radhurst.
In the moment of excitement he had forgotten her, and when he saw her standing there on the rude platform before the curtain, in the presence of those rough men, he was tempted to rush up and lead her gently away. A groan almost escaped his lips. What a different ending to the debate from the one he had expected. It had been planned that Constance should appear, but only as a pleasant surprise, to sing some old songs when the debate was over. He had taken a step or two towards the platform, when in a clear, rich voice Constance began to sing:
"Come, sing once more to-night, my lads,Come, sing some old refrain,Of love, of home, of childhood days,And live them o'er again.
Chorus:
"We've drifted far away, ye ken,From home and kith and kin,Fling open wide your hearts to-night,And let the old times in.
"Put strife aside, and banish care,And sink them out of sight,Oh, comrades of the weary trail,Be brothers for to-night!
Chorus.
"And then let fall whate'er betide,The trail be steep and long,We'll quicker step and keener fight,Cheered by some old, sweet song."
Chorus.