The afternoon sun was flooding the whole landscape with the golden glory of a burnished shield as Keith Steadman, the outcast, sat on a mountain ridge looking down upon the village of the fierce Quelchie Indians. His clothes were torn and tattered, his bronzed face and hands scratched and bleeding. Gaunt, footsore and hungry, he presented a forlorn figure, a mere speck on the mountain's brow.
Behind him Klassan lay, two hundred and fifty miles off. For ten days he had been on the trail, along the Kaslo River, then up an unnamed branch, through forests, over valleys and plains, and across a high mountain pass.
Though an outcast, driven from home in disgrace, and the light of her he loved so dearly, no shadow of a doubt crossed his mind concerning the Father's goodness. He pictured his flock, which he had tended with such care, scattered upon the many hills. He saw vice rampant at Klassan, the church closed, the school unattended, and the Indians exposed to every temptation. Nevertheless, he did not consume his strength in useless whining, or rail at the blow which had fallen. His soul was too large for that. He remembered the command his Master had given to His disciples long ago, "When they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another," and he felt it applied to him. Perhaps they had been too secure and too self-centred at Klassan. For years no storms had come to bend them, no wind of adversity to sift the chaff from the wheat, and no fire of trial to purge the gold from the dross. Now, all had come at once, and was it not for the best? "O Lord," he prayed, "in the sifting and testing process may there be many who will stand the trial, and come forth stronger and purer for the fire of affliction?"
As for himself, he could not doubt the leading of the Divine hand. He had been so much centred in his own flock, wrapped up in their welfare, that he had neglected the sheep in the wilderness, who knew not the name of Christ. He had been, like many an earnest pastor, too parochial, unable to look beyond the bounds of his one field of labour. He had forgotten that, though his work was of great value at Klassan, after all "the field is the world," and that Christ's command was to "go into the village over against you." He imagined that his presence was absolutely necessary in his own circumscribed sphere of labour, and overlooked the fact that "He that keepeth Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps."
But when he had stood before his accusers and judges on that stormy day in the saloon, and later bade farewell to Caribou Sol at the door of the mission house, a new purpose burned in his soul, which shone forth in his face, so that even his enemies marvelled when they saw the light. It was the Lord's will, he realized that clearly, and as He used evil men in days gone by for the furtherance of His mighty plans, were not these men now to be used as instruments in spreading abroad the Gospel light?
His mind naturally turned toward the Quelchie Indians, the most cruel and savage band in the North, the dread and terror of the whole land. Mothers hushed their children to rest by the one word "Quelchie," and nothing startled a camp more quickly than the mere mention of that dreaded name. To this tribe the message must be carried, and he was the one to go.
Thus, so near the object of his desire, and the end of the long trail, he rested for a while on the mountain's brow, and gazed down upon the village nestling beneath. He could see the smoke curling up from numerous lodges, and occasionally the cry of a child or the sharp bark of a dog fell upon his ears.
He drew forth the little locket, and gazed long and earnestly upon the face within. Through the time of trial, on the rough trail, and by the lonely camp fire at night, the thought of Constance had been as an inspiration. He longed to see her, to look into her eyes, and listen to her words as she told of her faith in him. He wondered what she was doing, and if she missed him much. He pictured her moving about the cabin, or sitting in her accustomed place by the window. Would he ever see her again? Into the new field ahead were dangers unknown, and what great changes might take place in a short time!
Thinking thus, he moved cautiously down the steep mountain side, where only the bighorn sheep could walk secure. He was on an old Indian trail which would lead him to the village. By that same pass the dreaded Quelchies had filed on various occasions to bring death and destruction to some unsuspecting bands of natives beyond. Now for the first time in the world's history it was being trodden by the weary foot of a messenger of peace.
The Quelchie village lay in a valley, surrounded by frowning mountains, well protected from the fierce northern winds. A small stream flowed hard by, frozen in winter, gently babbling in summer, and flooded in springtime from its own countless tributaries.
The Indians had recently returned from their various hunting grounds, and were enjoying life to the full in their wild, uncouth way when Keith entered the settlement. A lean, skulking cur gave the alarm, which was taken up by scores of his companions, who rushed upon the stranger, yelping and snarling in the most ferocious manner. From dozens of lodges men, women and children suddenly poured, and, beholding the cause of the disturbance, joined the dogs in their wild clamour. The rifle was wrenched from his hand by a large Indian, who was soon fighting with half a dozen more for the control of the prize. Everything that Keith possessed was stolen; his knapsack, in which he kept a few treasures; the cap was torn from his head, while rough hands laid hold upon the very clothes he wore. He was hustled and pushed first one way and then another. At times he stumbled and fell, though endeavouring to maintain as dignified a mien as possible.
In the confusion his buck-skin shirt was parted at the neck, and the locket exposed to view. Instantly a scramble ensued for the trinket. Then Keith's blood was aroused. They might lay hands upon anything else, but not upon that. Straightening himself up, he drove blow after blow at his dusky assailants with his clenched fist, knocking down two or three, and compelling the rest to fall back a few paces.
Seizing the opportunity which the lull in the storm afforded, he addressed a few words to them in the Tukudh tongue, which, although somewhat different from their own language, they were able to understand.
"Quelchies!" he shouted, above the din of the yelping dogs, "listen to what I have to say! I have a great message for your chief. Take me to him."
A yell of derision was the only response, and the savages were about to renew the onset when a strong, clear voice was heard commanding them to desist. The effect was magical, and looking around for the speaker, Keith beheld a stalwart Indian of more than ordinary height, with grace of movement and fine, intelligent face, advancing toward him.
In this man he thought he recognized his rescuer, one who had the power to save him from the surging horde.
"Great warrior!" he cried, addressing the stranger, "keep back the Indians! Take me to your chief. I have a message to deliver."
For a time the native maintained a dignified silence, though never for a moment did his eye leave the missionary's face. He seemed to be studying every line and expression of that bronzed countenance. The effect of this close scrutiny Keith could not tell, though he somehow felt that it meant life or death.
"Come," said the Indian at length. "Come with me."
That was all, and without a word Keith followed his deliverer, who strode on before, leaving the rest of the Indians quarrelling over the articles they had filched. He was conducted to a building rather larger than the others, composed entirely of logs. Within, several women were sitting on wolf and bear-skin rugs, who gazed with silent curiosity upon the pale-face stranger.
"Stay here," said the guide, motioning him to a place on one of the rugs. "I will be back soon."
The interior of the lodge was similar to many others Keith had seen, and interested him not. The women, he concluded, were the Indian's wives. He noticed that they were superior in appearance to the ones he had seen outside, and of a pleasing cast of countenance.
One of them was quite young, and good to look upon. Her long black hair parted in the middle exposed a noble forehead. She was busily engaged upon a pair of moccasins, weaving in a delicate pattern of bead-work. Occasionally she shot a glance at the stranger, and then Keith noted how bright were her eyes, while upon her face was an expression of sadness and weariness.
Presently his eye rested upon something which made him start. By the side of the young woman, and fastened to the wall, he beheld a prospector's pick and shovel. How had they come there? Had some poor, unfortunate man ventured into this camp, been slain by the Quelchies, while only these tools remained to tell the tale? He was about to break the silence, and question the woman, when the Indian returned and motioned him out of the building.
He was at once taken to a large lodge standing somewhat apart, which Keith concluded must belong to the chief. Nor was he mistaken, for he soon found himself in the presence of the aged patriarch of the Quelchie band. Squatting on the floor, surrounded by a motley group of women and children, he presented a weird spectacle. Coarse gray hair flowing down over his shoulders allowed only a portion of his withered, wrinkled face to be exposed to view. His eyes, more like holes in a piece of leather than anything else, peered straight at the visitor.
Keith involuntarily shuddered as he looked upon the pitiable object before him. This, then, was the man of whom he had heard so much. How often he had listened as the Tukudhs related tales of his fierce jealousy, insane rage, and inhuman cruelty, when thwarted by friend or foe. In days gone by he had heard men dilate in glowing terms of the free, beautiful life of the Indians in their wild, uncivilized condition. They had pictured them roaming the woods and mountains, skimming along grassy lakes or gliding down the rapid streams. But of the sterner, sadder side they knew nothing, and how he longed to show those very men the difference between Klassan, where the light of Christ had come, and this wretched Quelchie village in heathen darkness.
"Oh, Lord," he prayed, "help me, give me power to say the right word and to bring the Spirit into these miserable lives."
Advancing to the old chief, he bowed low, and detecting a faint sign of pleasure upon the dusky face, he felt somewhat encouraged.
"Great Quelchie chief," he began, "I am a stranger in your midst. I have come a long way over a hard trail to bear to you a message from my own Chief, whom I have served from a child. May I speak?"
"The pale-face is welcome," came the reply. "The chief of the Quelchies will listen."
The missionary's heart thrilled with joy at this opportunity to say a word for his Master. He told about the Great Father in heaven, who so loved the world that He sent His only Son to live among men and to die on the cross that all might be saved. He described the cruel lives of the Tukudhs in times past, and what a change had taken place since they became Christians; of their church, school, books they had, the hymns they sang, and the happier lives they led. For a long time he spoke, the Indians listening with rapt attention. He forgot his hunger and weariness and the danger of his position as he pictured the glories of the Christ-life. He glowed with enthusiasm. His words burned with fire as he simply told
"The old, old storyOf unseen things above,Of Jesus and His glory,Of Jesus and His love."
Then he sang for them a hymn, one loved by his own flock at Klassan. It was a translation of "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," and he sang it with a full, rich voice and an intensity of expression.
All this time the stalwart Indian had stood quietly by the chief's side with his gaze fixed full upon the speaker's face. But no sign did he give to show that the words had any effect. When the address was ended, however, he turned to his chief and spoke a few brief words, bearing no connection, so Keith thought, to the burning message he had just delivered.
"The pale-face stranger is hungry," he said. "He has been a long time on the trail, and is weary. I will take him to my lodge."
The chief nodded his approval.
"Take him," he replied. "Give him food, and bring him to me to-morrow."
Once again within his guide's house, Keith was supplied with an abundance of food. Though not of the savouriest, and badly cooked, the meat tasted delicious after his long fast. Much refreshed, he turned to his host, who was observing him with a kindly expression.
"Tell me," he inquired, "why you are so kind to me. I am a stranger, and of a race hated by your people. Yet you have delivered me from the hands of the Indians, shelter me now in your lodge, and provide me with food. Is this the way you treat an enemy?"
A peculiar smile crossed the Indian's face as he listened to these words.
"I am Shrahegan," he replied, "and is there not a good reason why I should be kind to my pale-face brother?"
"What reason?" asked Keith in surprise.
"Does not my brother remember Shrahegan?"
"Remember you! Why, I never saw you before!"
Again the native smiled as he continued.
"Does not my brother remember eight snows ago when he shot the fierce grizzly in the pass beyond the mountains, and saved the life of an Indian boy?"
"Yes, oh, yes, I remember that day very well," and Keith thought of the fine bear-skin rug in the Radhurst cabin. "But what has that to do with your kindness to me?"
"Shrahegan was that boy," came the startling response, "and Shrahegan never forgets."
"What! you that boy? I can't believe it!" and Keith looked at the Indian in amazement.
"You may not believe it, but it is true. Shrahegan saw you then, and once again at Klassan."
"At Klassan!"
"Yes, at Klassan."
"But what were you doing there?"
"Ah, Shrahegan went as a spy. The Quelchies wished to attack the Tukudhs; kill the men, and steal their women. He crossed the mountain, and crept upon the village at night. He looked through a window into a big building, and heard the Indians sing just like you sang to-day. Then he saw there the man who had saved his life, dressed all in white, talking to the people, though he could not hear what was said. Then Shrahegan crept softly away back to his own people, and told the chief his story."
"And that was why you spared me," said Keith in astonishment.
"Yes. Shrahegan saw there the man who saved the old chief's son, and Shrahegan never forgets a kindness."
"What! are you the chief's son?"
"Yes."
"And what would have happened if I had not saved your life, or if you had not recognized me?"
"You would have been put to death. No paleface ever entered the Quelchie camp and lived to tell about it."
"So other white men have come here, then, and you cruelly killed them?"
"They came to steal our land, and to find out what you call gold."
"Ah, now I see. That is why you have the prospector's pick and shovel there. You killed the man and kept these."
"Yes, there were two men, but one got away, and the Quelchies could not catch him."
At once there flashed into Keith's mind the story Constance had told him of the prospector who had died in the Vancouver Hospital, and the map he had entrusted to her. He had seen the sketch and it corresponded exactly with this locality. Was it the place, he wondered, where Pritchen and Kenneth had been?
"Tell me," he said, "how many pale-face men have entered this valley and went back again?"
"Only this many," and Shrahegan held up three fingers. "The man I told you about, and two when the geese went South. The Quelchies did not know they were here till too late to catch them."
"Shrahegan," and Keith looked earnestly at the Indian, "will you show me where that gold lies? Will you take me to the place?"
A stern expression came into the native's face, and Keith feared he had gone too far. It was only a fleeting shadow, however, which was instantly dispelled.
"Yes, Shrahegan will take his pale-face brother to the gold," was the brief reply. "But come, rest now. It is late."
That night as Keith lay wrapped up in a large wolf-skin robe, he thought much of the stirring scenes which had happened during the day. He saw most plainly the guidance of the Father's hand, and His great over-ruling power. "Because the Saviour bore His cross," he said to himself, "endured agony and shame, a great light has sprung up throughout the world. So God grant, that from my cross a light may come forth to lighten this tribe, sunk so long in the weary darkness of superstition and sin."
While the old chief, and the Indians about him, were quietly listening to the missionary's message, and drinking in every word, there was one person present who was consumed with a bitter hatred. This was the Medicine Man, who, sitting on the ground, never once took his eyes off the face of the speaker.
Crafty, base, and devoid of any spark of humanity, he was the terror of the whole band. Believing himself to be in league with the unseen powers around him, he exercised over the ignorant and superstitious people all the influence of his fearful craft. An octopus in human guise, he reached out, gripped his victim, and held him in his merciless grasp. His pretensions at curing the sick by wild juggling; his sleight-of-hand work; foretelling of future events, and conjuring in order to drive away evil spirits, were all parts of his method of work.
His greed was beyond description, and he acted according to the price paid. In times of sickness, women would take their beads to the "doctor's" tent, silently throw them at his feet, and then return. If the amount satisfied the conjuror, he would go to the sick man's side, when incantations took place. If the sick person recovered he would acknowledge all the praise; but, if otherwise, he declared that some rival opposed him, who had been better paid. His jealousy was a constantly burning fire, and woe sooner or later fell upon the man, woman, or child unfortunate enough to incur his anger. So when he beheld a rival in the stranger, the pale-face who boldly told of changes which had taken place at Klassan, where he knew the Medicine Men had been put to confusion, he determined to bestir himself.
For two or three days he watched the effect the new teaching had upon the Quelchies. He listened to the earnest discussions in the various camps, as every detail was carefully considered. He was a silent observer of all that took place, and insinuated himself into any company where he was likely to further his designs. What he learned was sufficient to cause him much unrest, and he realized that some sudden and startling coup was necessary to remove his rival, and to re-establish his own influence.
He hated the old chief for allowing the missionary the freedom of the camp, and he hated the people for listening so readily to the words of a stranger.
Fortune wonderfully favoured him, for on the very day that Keith and Shrahegan left for the gold-bearing creek the old chief's youngest and most beloved son became seriously ill. The Medicine Man was immediately called to the side of the sufferer, who, dressed in his hideous costume, began at once his strange incantations.
Those in the lodge watched almost breathlessly his wild contortions, anxious to catch any word which might fall from his lips.
"An evil spirit is in the camp," he muttered at length. "It has cast its spell over the chief's son, and he will die. Other children will die, too, unless the spirit is driven out."
A long pause followed this startling announcement, and the listeners bent eagerly forward to catch the name of the one who was causing the trouble.
They were forced to wait for some time, however, before the crafty rogue was ready to satisfy their curiosity. Then "pale-face stranger" fell upon their ears, causing them to look quickly at one another.
The conjurer thrilled with joy as he noticed the effect of his words, and saw the Indians quietly leave the lodge to spread the news to those without. The old spell had still its influence, and he gave a low chuckle of delight.
Knowing nothing of what was taking place at the Quelchie camp, Keith returned with Shrahegan after two days' absence. It was only natural that he should feel much elated over the success of his visit. He had been more than human if his heart had not beat fast when he looked upon the gold gleaming from the bed rock, exposed to view, along the steep banks of the creek. Here were virgin riches untold, which for ages had been awaiting the coming of the miners.
He glanced around upon the splendid scenery; the long, deep gulches; the banks lined with trees, among which the squirrels scolded, and the early birds warbled. He thought how peaceful it all seemed, with the little brook babbling and sparkling below him.
Then there came to his mind the change which would take place when this vast wealth became generally known; the mad rush of gold seekers; the mushroom mining town, with all its greed and wickedness.
Before leaving the place he staked his claim, and broke off several fine pieces of gold as specimens. For the first time the prospector's fever possessed him, and all the way back to the village he could think of little but his great discovery. This, however, was suddenly dispelled when he entered the camp and beheld the storm which was about to fall upon his head.
"The Indians are much excited," said Shrahegan, who soon found out all about the matter. "I hardly know what to do."
"Where is the sick boy?" asked Keith. "I should like to see him."
"In the chief's lodge. Come, I will take you to him."
The youth was lying upon several rugs on the floor, breathing hard. He was only a stripling, but noted for his rare skill in the chase and endurance on the trail.
The Medicine Man was by his side, holding the conjurer's rattle in his hand. He paused in his hideous, mournful noise when he beheld his hated rival enter the building.
This time the old chief gave no sign of welcome, but sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chin, and head bent forward in token of grief.
"Pale-face brought evil upon my boy," he said fiercely, when Shrahegan addressed him. "If he die the stranger must answer for it."
This Keith well knew, and unless something was done at once, not even Shrahegan's protection could save him from the angry Indians incited by the conjurer.
"Great chief," he said, advancing to the bowed figure, "cannot the Medicine Man cure your son?"
"No," came the fierce response.
"Does he say he will die?"
"Yes, he will die."
"Well, then, great chief, will you let me examine the youth, I am a doctor, too, and perhaps I can do something to help your son."
Before an answer could be given, the Medicine Man leaped before the missionary and in wild rage gave vent to his fury. He danced, screamed, and denounced the pale-face stranger in the most violent terms.
For a time this was permitted, and then into Shrahegan's face came a look of determination. With one grip of his powerful hand he seized the conjurer by the arm, shook him like a rat, and sent him tumbling out of the lodge.
The Indians within the room looked aghast at such a move, and half expected the house to collapse, or something terrible to happen. It was a thing unknown for any one to meddle with the "doctor," and of this Shrahegan was well aware. But it seemed to disturb him not in the least. He turned quietly to the missionary.
"Examine the sick boy," he said. "Shrahegan gives you permission to look at his brother."
"Is it the will of the great chief of the Quelchies?" asked Keith, turning towards the old man.
Receiving only a nod in reply, he at once stepped to the side of the prostrate lad, and made a careful examination of his condition.
"He is very sick," he quietly remarked.
"What is the matter?" asked Shrahegan anxiously.
"A high fever."
"Not an evil spirit?"
"The only evil spirit," continued Keith, "is the one who has increased the fever by vile medicine and terrible noise."
"What, the Medicine Man?"
"Yes. He soon would have made an end of your brother."
A fierce look came into Shrahegan's face, and he made a move as if to leave the building. Keith laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder.
"Stay," he said. "Don't do anything rash. I want your help. We must remove the lad to a quiet lodge, and I shall try to undo the harm which has been done. It is the only way to save his life."
Shrahegan looked intently into the missionary's face, as if to fathom the depth and strength of his mind.
"Does my pale-face brother know?" he asked, "the risk he is running? Does he know that the wrath of the Medicine Man is upon him? that the Indians are very angry, and, if the boy die, the pale-face will die too?"
"I know it all," replied Keith. "I am not afraid of the Medicine Man. There stands with me One greater than he, who will help me. He is my Master, my Great Chief, Jesus, whom I serve."
"And the pale-face is not afraid?" repeated Shrahegan in surprise.
"Why should I be afraid? What good will it do? It will not cure your brother, and I know Shrahegan will help me."
"Shrahegan will help; he will do all he can. But remember, the Indians are much excited, and, if the boy die, Shrahegan can do but little to help his pale-face brother."
"And if the boy gets better?" queried Keith, "what will your people think?"
"Pale-face will be safe," came the evasive reply.
"Good. Now we must get busy."
By this time the condition of the sick lad was very serious, and Keith knew that whatever was done had to be done quickly and wisely. Therefore as soon as the youth was removed to another lodge, he brought forth his little medical companion, which Shrahegan had rescued from the Indians, made a careful selection, and rapidly prepared the medicine which he thought best to administer.
But before laying a hand upon the patient he fell upon his knees and poured out his soul to the Giver of Life for help and strength in the time of trial.
Then the fight began, a fight not only for the life of one person, but for the souls of all those around him, sunk in the darkness of vice and superstition.
For hours he stayed by the side of the sufferer, Shrahegan only keeping watch with him. Seldom they spoke, and then only in a whisper. The day and the night passed, but still Keith remained at his post, much of the time on his knees. Shrahegan brought him food, but he ate very little, there was too much at stake to think of bodily wants.
Throughout the camp the smouldering fire of excitement was intense, ready to burst forth at any instant. During the day perpetual watch was kept upon the little lodge, and at night anxious ears were strained to catch the faintest sound. The old chief remained in his own house, silent and bowed with grief. His wives sat almost motionless by his side, not daring to address their imperious master. The Medicine Man prowled like a wolf from place to place, the very incarnation of jealousy, fear and rage.
On the morning of the third day Shrahegan emerged from the silent lodge. He was surrounded by an eager, persistent crowd of natives, who demanded information concerning the patient. To these he said nothing, but going at once to the old chief, led the feeble, tottering man to his son's side. Keith, weary and haggard, arose as the two entered. He saw the look of surprise and delight upon the chief's face, when he beheld his son lying before him on the road to recovery.
"Great chief," said Keith, "see, your son is better. Soon he will walk again."
"Is the evil spirit gone?" came the eager query.
"All gone. You have nothing to fear."
"Was the Medicine Man here? Did he help?"
"No," replied Shrahegan contemptuously. "He would have killed the boy, and now he is outside, raging in his fury and jealousy. This is the Medicine Man," and he pointed to Keith, "the doctor who has done the good work."
"Give not the credit to me," answered the missionary, "but to the Great Medicine Man, the Doctor of souls, Jesus, my Master. He has wrought this cure. I had but little to do with it."
Saying this, he moved wearily from the lodge, to seek food and rest, leaving the feeble chief and the noble Shrahegan alone with the patient.
When Keith stood before Shrahegan's lodge, the second day after the recovery of the sick youth, the spirit of conquest for Christ's sake possessed his entire being. Once it was only Klassan; then the village over against him; now, the whole northland, with its numerous tribes of the wandering foot.
Then the thought of his helplessness swept upon him. What was he to do? Only one man to carry on the great work. He must have help, men to man the field. If the miners at Klassan would not endure him, some one else must be stationed there, while he worked among the Quelchies, or in some other place. Two or three men he must have, and that as soon as possible. To write for them would take too long, with the uncertainty of their coming. No, that plan would not do; he must go himself.
He, therefore, determined to return to Klassan. The Indians would protect him while there, and when the ice ran out of the Yukon, either to drift down to St. Michael in an open boat, or await the arrival of the first steamer. He would go to Eastern Canada, lay the matter before the Mission Board, and appeal for help. Then, if the men could not be supplied, he would go from place to place, searching, ever searching, till he obtained the ones he required. He would have able men or none at all, he was set upon that.
He was aware of the feeling which prevails in the minds of some that anyone will do for the mission field. But he knew from long experience that on the frontier—the ragged edge of civilization—where life is wild and strenuous, only strong men could succeed; men sound in limb, keen in intellect, and thoroughly consecrated to the Master's cause.
Next, the money question confronted him. Suppose he got the right men, where would he obtain the necessary funds for their maintenance? It meant a big expense to provide passages for three or four men, and support them in a land where living was so dear. The Missionary Society, he knew, was able to do but little, and this would be the strongest barrier to his plan. He might appeal for help in the various towns and cities, but such aid would only be ephemeral. What was he to do?
In his perplexity he began to pace up and down before the lodge, and unconsciously thrust his hands into the pockets of his buck-skin jacket, as was his wont when in troubled thought. As he did so he touched the nuggets of gold which had lain there since his return from the rich creek. He drew them forth, gazed upon them, and at once a light clear and strong burst full upon his mind. For a while he seemed dazed by the immensity of the idea, and he stood looking upon the shining specimens in his hand, thinking it must be nothing but a dream.
"It is God's doing," he said to himself. "He never places his servants in a great battle without providing weapons for the conflict. I doubted about the money, the means to carry on the work, and here it is at hand, gold in abundance. And why should it not be used for the furtherance of the Kingdom? It is virgin gold, untainted by the touch of greedy men. If it is considered right to use the money which flows into the mission exchequer from many doubtful sources, why should not this be used? Why should missionaries who are in the field hesitate to stake their claims when a new mine is discovered, and use the gold to carry on their work? It has not been done in the past. They have stood aside, watched the crowd arrive, who wallowed in the wealth, erected saloons to further their evil designs, and work havoc among the natives of the land. Then, after watching this, the missionaries have begged the crumbs which fell from these rich men's vile tables to combat the very evil they had introduced. Why should Satan's minions be provided with fine saloons and dance-halls in a new mining camp, while Christ's ambassadors must use a miserable tent or log shack? No, no! it must not be so here! I will bring in honest men to stake their claims as I have done. We will use the gold to erect a temple to God, a hospital, a fine recreation room, library, and other things for the welfare of the place. Then if the saloons do come, and the baser element, we will be prepared to contest the ground inch by inch, and fight a glorious battle for the right.
"And aside from the work for the white men, why should not this gold be used for the uplifting of the natives? The land is theirs, and in a sense the gold is theirs, and how much better to use it for their own good than to beg it from those unwilling to contribute?"
When Keith was once fairly settled upon any line of action it was not his nature to delay long the doing of it. He thought of the Quelchies he would leave behind for a while, and this caused him a certain degree of sorrow. He had become attached to these uncouth natives during his short sojourn among them. The little children, sturdy and bright, were much in need of a teacher, while the older ones had listened earnestly to his message.
After his successful victory over the Medicine Man the old friendly feeling returned, and though the conjurer's wrath burned fiercely, he did not dare to oppose the missionary any longer. He had observed no change in the Indians' manner of living. There had been no outward sign of acceptance of the truths he had taught. But in this he was not surprised. He had planted the seed into their hearts and minds, and was content to leave the increase to the Master of Life.
When the time came for him to say farewell the old chief reached out his thin, scrawny hand.
"Pale-face come again soon, eh?"
"Yes, as soon as I can," replied Keith. "Will the great chief give me welcome?"
"The chief of the Quelchies will welcome the brave pale-face teacher. Come again soon."
"God helping me, I will."
"Ah, good," and the old man's wrinkled face broke into a weary smile.
For some distance on the trail Keith was accompanied by Shrahegan. This noble Indian seemed so different from the rest of his people that the missionary often longed to question him concerning the reason.
"Shrahegan," he said, as they moved on their way, "you told me once the cause of your kindness to me, but why are you different from your people? You are much nobler, have deeper thoughts, and are opposed to the Medicine Man."
The Indian paused and looked earnestly into his companion's face. An eager look shone in his eye as he slowly replied.
"Shrahegan has a strange fire here," and he placed his right hand upon his breast. "Once a black bear, wolf and fox all lived here, but now they have gone, and only the fire burns all the time."
"What fire?" questioned Keith, looking wonderingly at the fine figure before him.
In reply, Shrahegan stretched out his arm and pointed toward the East, where the grand peaks of the Rocky Mountains, snow-capped and sun-crowned, were standing out clear and distinct.
"There," he said, "beyond the mountains, the land of the rising sun, where the great river flows to the home of the lights which dance in the heavens—there the fire began to burn."
"What, the Mackenzie River District?"
"Ah, ah. Shrahegan saw much there, and learned many things. He saw the big canoe, breathing smoke as black as night, flying up the river, and heard men tell of the wonderful things in the land of the pale-face. Ah, Shrahegan found much."
"And you long to see the strange things?" asked Keith.
"Ah, the fire has been here ever since. Shrahegan thinks much. His feet walk in the ways of the Quelchies, but his heart is over there. And what have my people done?" he continued almost fiercely. "They make no change; they know nothing. They live like the moose, the bear, the wolf, and the fox. They eat, sleep, talk, fight, and die, but do nothing. As we are to-day, our fathers were the same before us, and so will our children be. And what has the Medicine Man done? Nothing. He says he knows much, but he is wrong. Shrahegan feels the fire. He hears a strange voice which gives him no rest."
It was truly a marvellous spectacle to see this giant savage, travailing in the throes of a new birth. It reminded Keith of a picture which often came to his mind, of the beginning of civilization among his own rude ancestors. All around was a dreary land, wind-swept and cold, over which men, women and children were crawling, fighting and dying. In the midst of this pathetic scene one man had lifted his head and was listening as if to a voice from the far-off sea, while in his dull, stupid eye the gleam of a new light could be dimly discerned. The light of God was breaking, which at last burst forth into such marvellous glory.
"Shrahegan," said Keith, when the Indian had finished, and stood looking away toward the East, "what do you want? What will give you rest?"
"To see. To know," came the slow, thoughtful reply.
"For yourself only?"
"No, no! For my people, too. Shrahegan wants them to have the fire, and to see other things."
"And do you want a teacher?"
"Ah, Shrahegan wants the pale-face teacher to live among his people, to help them. And will he come?" he questioned, looking deep into the missionary's eyes.
"Yes, he will come, or send another better," came the reply. "And while he is away Shrahegan will not forget?"
"Shrahegan will not forget. How can he when he has seen the light and felt the fire?"
When once alone, Keith's steps quickened. The King's business required haste and he must not delay. After crossing the mountain he reached the unnamed river flowing free and strong before him. Here was an opportunity which a frontiersman could not afford to overlook. The stream would speed him on his way to Klassan.
With some difficulty he fashioned a small raft from the dead, broken trees on the bank, and entrusting himself to this with a prayer for guidance, was soon sweeping down with the current.
Day after day he moved onward, past islands, bars, and jutting points, guiding the craft by means of a long, stout pole by many a dangerous place. Just when he expected that one day more would bring him to Klassan, he found that the speed of the current was decreasing to a considerable extent. Then he was surprised to find the ice drifting slowly in various places. The farther he advanced the slower became his progress, until at length he found the river entirely blocked with the floating mass. There was nothing to do but to abandon the craft which had done him such good service, and travel on foot along an Indian trail which wound its devious way through the wilderness.
He had hoped to reach Klassan early in the afternoon, but in this he was disappointed, and night had shut down when at last he paused to rest atop the hill looking down upon the village.
It was not for rest alone that he halted and seated himself upon a jutting rock. It was to collect his thoughts, which were in a perturbed condition. How would he be received at Klassan? he wondered, and what had happened since his departure? Then he was so near to her. What was she doing down there in the darkness? Moving, perhaps, about the little cabin. Was she thinking of him, the wanderer, the outcast, with the stain upon his name? He shivered, not from apprehension alone, but from the chill, mist-laden wind rolling and roaring up the valley.
He rose to his feet and advanced a few paces, when a strange sound away to the right startled him and stayed his steps. He peered ahead through the darkness. He strained his ears and listened like a hunted creature. Presently the truth flashed upon him, terrible, intense. It was the ice-jam! It had given way and was sweeping down with irresistible force upon the village below! Would the miners know of it? Would they flee to the high banks? And what of her? Was she safe?
He threw aside his rifle and leaped forward like a greyhound. Down, down, through the darkness he sped, over rocks, beating the bushes aside, falling and stumbling, but ever on, with clothes torn, hands and face scratched and bleeding. He heeded not the wounds, he never felt them, for the awful roar of the onrushing waters was in his ears. Would he never reach the place! How the trail had lengthened, and the obstacles, how many there were! What was that? Ah, a cabin. Thank God, she was safe! He reached the door. He stumbled. He fell. He regained his feet. He beat upon the wood with his hands. He saw a light, felt a warm rush of air, and heard a cry of astonishment.
"Run, run!" he shouted. "The water! It's coming! The jam has burst! For God's sake, save yourselves!"
That was all, all he had time for, then out into the night, and down the trail straight to the miners' cabins. He reached the forks of the road. He sped past, and then suddenly stopped. A cry, a noise, fell upon his ears. There, yes, to the right. He rushed on. He saw dim forms of people, and into their midst he sprang like a wildcat after its prey.
He hardly knew what he said. He comprehended not the meaning of what they were doing. He only heard a yell of fright as a wild, hurried scramble for the high banks ensued, while something fell with a dull thud almost at his very feet.
He was about to follow the miners and Indians in their flight, when a groan arrested his steps. He looked down. It was a man, helpless and bound. What did it mean? What was that crowd doing there in the darkness? The thoughts surged like lightning through his brain. He reeled and almost fell. But the roar above nerved him. He called for help, but only the waters sent back their terrible response. Desperate, determined, he seized the prostrate man in his arms and staggered with him toward the bank. Would he reach it? Would his strength hold out? Yes. No. O God, help him! for the cruel waters had reached him! They thrust out their long, icy tongues, they swept him off his feet and hurled him forward, still grasping in his arms the body of the helpless man.