The Frontiersman Part 2

THE GRAVE IN THE SNOW

The sun of the short winter day was touching the mountain peaks, and slowly stealing down their rugged sides, as Keith emerged from the cabin bearing the cold body of the unknown man. He had a sacred task to perform, and he would not leave the place till all was completed.

He had no winding sheet, no coffin in which to lay that silent form. A deep hole dug in the snow with the point of a snow-shoe, was grave and coffin combined, while the same soft, yielding snow spread tenderly over the body was the only winding sheet.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." How weird and strangely hollow sounded his voice in that lonely place, as he repeated from memory some of the beautiful sentences of the Burial Service of the Church of England. There were none to respond, none to weep, and none to lay fresh flowers upon that snowy mound. There was one mourner, however; the lean dog, silent and wistful, crouching near. At times he glanced up into the speaker's face, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of the words.

"Poor dumb brute," said Keith, when the prayers were over, "you are faithful to the last. While this man was deserted, left here to die, you did what you could to save him. For this, Brisko, old boy, you shall have a home with me, or, I should say, an abiding place, for I hardly know the meaning of the word home."

Before leaving the cabin, Keith had searched long and carefully for some clue as to the dead man's ident.i.ty. There was only the little locket, which he felt might some day help to explain the matter.

Reluctantly he had unclosed the cold, stiff fingers from the slender string, and fastened the trinket around his own neck as the best place where it could be safely guarded.

When the body was well covered he sought for some way to mark the spot.

A stick would stand but a short time; something else must serve.

Presently an idea occurred to him. Near the grave a huge rock lifted itself several feet into the air, with a side so smooth and perpendicular that no snow could rest upon its surface. Going at once to the cabin, he brought forth the dead man's camping axe, and with the dull blade began to cut into the solid rock.

"Yes," he muttered to himself, "you shall have as solid and grand a monument as the world can afford. The grave is not pretty, I admit, and no hand will lay flowers over you. But this stone will not tumble down till the finger of G.o.d touches it, and, I think," he added after a pause, "with this mark upon it He'll let it stand till the Judgment Day."

The mark was a large cross, not artistically done, but cut deep into the hard surface to withstand the wear of years. Beneath this he simply placed the two letters "K. R."

"Not too bad," he remarked, as he stepped back to view his handiwork.

"It's the best I can do with such a rough tool, and I think _she_ would be pleased to know that something marks the spot where he is lying."

Then, a strong dual feeling came over him. He longed to track the dead man's rascally partner, find him, and have the just punishment meted out upon his head. Next, to meet the original of the picture, restore the locket, and to tell the story of the death in the wilderness.

"What an appearance I would make," he mused, glancing at his rough buck-skin clothes, coa.r.s.e leggings, and moccasined feet, while his right hand swept across his unkempt beard and long hair. "If she could see me now she would think I had murdered her brother instead of fighting hard to save his life."

Leaving the grave he returned to the cabin. Here he strapped his slender outfit on the small sled, and with snow-shoes on his feet left the place. He had advanced some distance when suddenly he remembered the dog. He stopped and gave a sharp whistle. Then he called, but the animal did not appear.

"Strange!" he thought. "What has happened to the brute? I must not leave him here."

Retracing his steps, he searched the cabin. Not finding him, he went to the grave, and there, lying on the snowy mound, he found the poor brute. His grief was plainly evident, and, as he lifted his head in response to Keith's call, sorrow, almost human, was depicted on his face. Only after much coaxing was he induced to leave the spot, abandon his old master, and cast in his lot with the new.

Together, at length, they set out upon the long trail; the man drawing the sled, the dog walking dejectedly behind. It was a dreary march over that desolate waste, as on and on they moved, two creeping specks.

Nowhere, except it be upon the heaving ocean, does one feel more deeply his own insignificance than when alone in the great white North in midwinter. No human voice to break the awful silence; no song of bird or buzz of insect to fall upon the ear; thousands of miles from home, in a roadless wilderness.

As the second day was drawing to a close, Keith's weary steps quickened. He leaned eagerly forward, his strong, gaunt face filled with expectancy. Creak! Creak! How loudly the snow-shoes sounded at each swinging stride. The noise disturbed him. He stopped and listened intently. Then a look of disappointment pa.s.sed over his countenance. His gaze swept the sky. The Northern Lights were streaming across the heavens like huge pennons flung out into a strong breeze. The unseen spirits of the North seemed to be marching and countermarching in vast battalions through the Arctic night. Their banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing, twisting, curling, flas.h.i.+ng forth in matchless beauty all the colours of the rainbow. Yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and greenish-white, chasing one another, vieing with one another as the great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced.

Such scenes seldom failed to arouse in Keith the feeling of wonder and awe, but on this night he hardly noticed the grand display. He was watching the friendly stars as they tumbled out one by one. For long years they had been his steady companions on many a toilsome journey, and he read them like an open book. He saw the belted Orion swinging in its accustomed place, and the Great Bear dipping close to the horizon. It was seven o'clock, he felt sure of that, and yet that sound did not come. He advanced for some distance, halted, and again listened.

It was a cold night, and his breath pouring forth in clouds smote with a hissing sound upon the frosty air. He heeded it not. His parka hood was backward thrown to enable him to hear the better.

Presently dark forms loomed up out of the night, straight before him.

"I was afraid of it," he muttered. "The rumor I heard was only too true, and they are here! May G.o.d help us!"

The objects which he beheld were log cabins, which he soon reached. No lights shone from the buildings, and the place seemed deserted.

Pa.s.sing among the houses he crossed an open s.p.a.ce of ground, climbed a hill, and approached a long, low structure. He opened the door and entered. The place was in darkness, but quite warm. Soon he emerged, and looked around much puzzled. The Indian camps lay stretched out before him along the brink of the hill. These he visited one by one, but no sound greeted him except the occasional snarl or bark of a dog.

What did it all mean? He placed his hand to his forehead, and tried to think. Where were the miners? What had happened to the Indians? Why was the place deserted?

As he stood before one of the lodges, uncertain what to do, a cry fell upon his ear. Again it came, this time much lower. Keith peered through the darkness. He hurried down the hill. He saw a faint glimmer of light, and found it came from a log building directly before him. The clamour of voices, cries of rage and confusion, could be distinctly heard, as with fast beating heart he bounded forward. He guessed the truth, and knew there was no time to lose. He reached the door, and, scarcely waiting to lift the latch, he drove it open with one push of his powerful shoulder, and gazed upon the scene within.

CHAPTER IV

"WHERE IS MY FLOCK?"

For long years the Indian village of Kla.s.san had lain snugly ensconsed between the sheltering arms of two towering mountains. Once, beyond the memory of the oldest native, the lodges had stood close to the small river Kaslo, which poured its icy waters into the mighty Yukon.

But one mild spring night an ice jam in a deep, narrow gorge, pressed by the tremendous weight of water, gave way, and, rus.h.i.+ng down, carried destruction to the little Indian town, and to a number of the inhabitants. Since then the village stood further back at a higher elevation, secure from the devastating floods which occurred at frequent intervals. Here the Indians were living their wild life, sunk in degradation and superst.i.tion, when found by Keith Steadman, medical missionary from Eastern Canada. At the command of his veteran Bishop of the Mackenzie River, he had forced his way over the Rocky Mountains, sought out these wandering sheep of the wilderness, and for ten long years lived in their midst.

It was uphill work to root out old ideas, to plant new seeds, and to overcome the jealousy of the Medicine Men. Often his life was in great danger, but in the end he conquered and won the confidence of the natives.

With his own hands he a.s.sisted in erecting a log church and school room, decorating the interior of the former with beautiful designs and mottoes, much to the Indians' delight. In addition, there was the little bell, which arrived some years later, and swung in the small belfry, constructed of four long poles, by the side of the church.

Since then its sweet tones had called the natives together at the appointed hour of seven. No matter how busily engaged they might be, all work was suspended, and they hastened to the sanctuary to offer up their devotions to the Great Father on high. At times Keith, returning from visits to outlying bands of Indians, hearing the sound of the bell some distance off, would know that all was well at the village.

During the summer of his tenth year at Kla.s.san, he was summoned to the Mackenzie River, to attend a Conference of missionaries which was to be held there. It was a long journey, and he dreaded to leave his post for such a length of time. Before departing, however, he called the band together, committed them to care of the trusty native catechist, Amos, and received their promises of true allegiance.

Keith had been absent but a few weeks, when a crowd of miners struck Kla.s.san. Prospectors had been roaming the land for years, and at length made several good discoveries along the Kaslo.

The white men came, fifty strong, from the Lower Yukon, built their cabins at Kla.s.san close to the river, and began operations. The work of mining progressed rapidly, and much gold was secured. During the long winter evenings little could be done, so the men gathered at Jim Perdue's place, which was store and saloon combined, to gamble and to drink bad whiskey.

The latter was a strange concoction, manufactured on the spot, to take the place of the limited supply of whiskey which had been brought in from the outside. It was known generally as "hootch," though some called it "Forty-rod whiskey," from its supposed power of killing at that distance. It was formed of a large quant.i.ty of sugar of mola.s.ses, with a small percentage of dried fruit for flavouring, while ordinary sourdough was used for fermentation. When ready for use it was poured into an empty kerosene tin, and served hot or cold according to the taste of the customer.

This nearness of the miners was a severe test of the Indians' loyalty.

At first they kept much aloof from the newcomers, and remained firm to their absent teacher and pastor. But at length several weakened and were enticed into the saloon, where ere-long they were imitating the pernicious ways of the white men. Most of them, however, held their ground, especially the older ones, who stood faithfully by Amos in the time of trial.

The catechist was much grieved to see the young men drifting into such evil habits. He pleaded earnestly with them and induced a number to leave for their winter hunting grounds. But with others he had no influence; he had lost his control entirely.

Every night, however, at the appointed hour the mission bell rang out its full, clear summons, and the faithful few never failed to meet together in the little church. Then Amos would read the prayers in the rhythmical Indian dialect, and give a brief address of exhortation.

One night, before closing his remarks, he said to them, "To-morrow, I go to visit my traps, and to track a moose which I know is near. I may be a little late in getting back, so I ask Paul Nitsi to build the fire, ring the bell, and have everything ready when I come."

This was received with nods of approval, and after a few more words they separated.

That same night a very different scene was being enacted in Perdue's store. Cards and drinks formed the order of the evening.

"Ding, dong. Ding, dong. Ding, dong," sounded out the little bell.

"D--n that bell!" cried Bill Pritchen, a stranger, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang. "I wonder you men stand it."

"How can we stop it?" asked Tim Murphy, cutting a wad from a plug of tobacco.

"Stop it? Why, I'd stop it d--n soon," returned Pritchen.

"Anyway, what good would it do?" continued Tim, who was fond of an argument. "The Indians are quiet and honest, mind their own affairs, and enjoy their little service."