The Fourth Watch Part 38

"Yes, darling," he replied. "I do understand. Come near, Stephen, my son,"

and as the young man approached, he joined their hands, and bade them to kneel before him. Then stretching out his hand over the bowed heads, and in a voice trembling with emotion, he gave them his benediction. "May the Lord bless you and keep you," he said. "May the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, and keep you true to Him and to each other unto your lives' end."

Sitting by Mr. Westmore's side that evening, Stephen told the story he had recently related to Nellie. Parson John sat straight upright in his chair, and his eyes never once left Stephen's face.

"And do you tell me!" he cried, when the latter ceased, "that Dan is injured--lying unconscious?"

"He was when Tony left."

"Poor dear boy! and he did it all for me!" murmured the parson. "What a sacrifice to make of his bright young life I I must go to him, Nellie, at once! In the morning! Poor Dan! Poor Dan!"

Thus the three sat for some time talking of the accident and planning for the journey. Not once did Mr. Westmore speak about the recovery of the gold, but that night in the quietness of his own room he poured out his soul, in a great, fervent prayer of thankfulness to the Father above, and also he sought His aid on behalf of a little wounded lad lying on a bed of pain in a farm-house miles away.

Chapter x.x.x

Beneath the Surface

Across the mouth of Big Creek stream a long double boom cradled the large "R & P" drive. The last log had shot safely down the crooked brook and rested calmly by the side of its companions. There were thousands of them there, scarred and battered by rock and flood; worthy veterans were they, this hardy army of the forest, reposing now after their fierce, mad charge.

The work of the drivers was done, and the last peevy had been tossed with a resounding thud among its companions. A score of men were they who for months had been confined to the lonely life of the woods, and who for days had often been face to face with death. Naturally their eyes turned towards the river some distance away. There on its bank nestled the little town, and there, too, stood the Flood Gate Tavern, the most notorious place in the whole countryside. How often during the winter evenings had they talked of the many wild scenes which had been enacted there, and of the wages of months squandered in a night. Though they talked about the place and cursed it, yet, like moths singed by the candle's flame, they had returned spring after spring to the Hood Gate Tavern to spend the wages needed at home. Their money, too, was awaiting them there in the Company's office. But now they hesitated. Never before had such a thing been known. Formerly there was a rush to the town when the last log had come in.

It was evening as the men stood there, and the sun was hanging low far in the west. The yearning for the tavern was strong--it called, it appealed to them. But another power was holding these rugged drivers in check.

Their hearts had been much stirred these last few days, although not one acknowledged it. A little helpless, suffering child was unconsciously restraining the brute nature within them. He was holding them in leash, binding them by strange, invisible cords. In silence they ate their supper in the rafting house near by.

"Boys," said Jake Purdy as the men sat outside smoking. "I'm goin' down town to see if there's any mail. Any of ye comin'?"

It was all that was needed, and at once every man responded. Down the road they marched, their great boots making a heavy thud as they moved along.

Into the post office they tramped, and stood around while the few letters were doled out. For Jake, there was one, written by a child's trembling hand. Eagerly he opened it, and, as he read, his face underwent a remarkable change. The rugged lines softened, and when he turned to the men waiting for him, there was no gruffness in his voice.

"'Spose we git our money, lads, an' hike back," he remarked.

"Ay, ay," was the response, but in several hearts there was a keen longing to remain.

Right in front of the Company's office stood the Flood Gate Tavern. The proprietor had been expecting the drivers and was well stocked up. He saw them coming into town and watched them enter the office for their money.

"They'll be here soon, Joe," he said to his a.s.sistant, "an' mind ye don't let an opportunity slip. Them bottles must go tonight. I know there'll be lively times about here. Them d--n temperance workers are dead set agin us, an' it looks as if they'd make trouble. But we'll win out tonight, and they can go to ----. Say, here they come. Now for the time--an' money. Oh, they're jist achin' to give me their wages. They won't forgit old Ned, that's sure. Ha, ha!" and the saloon-keeper rubbed his hands with glee.

The drivers were outside the office now, and were casting furtive glances across the way. Big Jake saw the looks and knew the longing which dwelt in their hearts. He drew forth his pipe, stuck his little finger deliberately into the bowl to see how much tobacco it contained.

"Boys," he began, "have yez anything on fer the night?"

"No," came the somewhat surly response, "unless we go over there."

"Don't go," said Jake. "We've spent too much there in past years. Let's save our money fer them wot needs it at home. Let me tell ye somethin'.

Comin' down the road from the boom to-night I felt like seven devils. I was jist longin' to git into that saloon an' have a big drink. But as luck 'ud have it I went into the post office first, an' found this here letter.

An' who is it from, d'ye think? From me own little sick la.s.sie at home.

Look at the writin', boys. Ain't it fine? An' what a letter it is. She says she's waitin' fer me, an' counts the days until I come. Listen to these words: 'Don't go near the saloon, papa. Come straight home, an'

bring the money to pay fer the farm. I pray fer you every day, papa, an' I pray fer all the men on the drive, and fer that poor little boy who got hurt.' Ain't them great words, boys?"

"Ay, ay," came the reply, and into several hearts throbbed a desire to be stronger men, and a few brushed their sleeves across their eyes.

"But that ain't all," Jake continued. "She says that little boy wot got hurt belongs to an old man--a parson--an' his beautiful daughter, who have been good to her. They didn't know where the little boy was, but when they found out they was all upsot, an' left in a hurry, but stopped in to say good-bye to my little Doris. That was two days ago, and they must be up there at Big Sam's now. Boys, let me tell ye this: Anyone who is good to my little sick la.s.s is good to me, an' Jake Purdy isn't a man to fergit; yez know that. Now I have a suggestion to make. Instead of spendin' our hard-earned money with that old wretch, Ned, let's go up in a body to the house an' inquire fer the sick lad. We can't do nuthin', I know, but mebbe it'll please the old man an' his daughter to know that we ain't fergotten the brave little boy. An' come to think further it's no mor'n our duty.

That lad saved one of us from death, an' the one that was saved, saved me.

Boys, ye can do as yez like, but I'm goin' anyway."

There was no hesitation now among these men. With one accord they turned their backs upon the village, and struck along the road leading out into the country. Old Ned, the saloon-keeper, watched them in amazement. Never before had they done such a thing. What would become of all the whisky in those bottles standing on the shelves?

"The idiots!" he yelled. "What's the matter with 'em?"

Bareheaded he rushed out into the street and lifted up his voice.

"Hi! hi!" he shouted.

The drivers paused and looked around.

"Wait!" panted Ned running up to where they were standing.

"What's wrong, old man?" questioned one.

"Wrong! What's wrong with you? Why are ye leavin' without droppin' in to see me? Surely ye ain't goin' to go away without a friendly call?"

"Look here, Ned," replied Jake, acting as spokesman for the others, "we've made too many friendly calls at your place fer our own good. This year we're goin' to cut it out. So go home an' don't interfere."

Had the saloon-keeper been less excited he would have noticed the warning note in Jake's voice, and the sombre looks of the rest. They were in no mood for interruption at the present time. But Ned was blind to all this.

"Ye fools!" he roared, stamping on the ground in his rage. "Will ye let all that good stuff spile down yonder? Surely ye ain't gone an' jined the temperance gang, an' took the pledge?"

Fiercely Jake turned upon him.

"Ned," and his voice was laden with meaning, "will ye go home an' leave us alone?"

"No, h----if I will, unless ye all come back with me."

Jake's eyes turned suddenly to the right. They rested upon a pond of dirty water several feet deep lying there. Like a flash he reached out and caught the saloon-keeper in both hands, lifted him clear of the ground, carried him wriggling and cursing to the edge, and tossed him in like a ball. With a splash and a yell Ned went under, came up puffing and blowing, and dashing the water from his eyes and ears. A shout of derision went up from the drivers.

"Go home now, Ned," they cried. "You've soaked us fer years with yer stuff, an' you've got soaked now. Good-bye."

With that they continued on their way, leaving the victim to scramble out of the pond and make his way home, beaten and crestfallen.

Along the road the drivers marched, then up the hill leading to Big Sam's abode. It was dim twilight as they stood before the house. The evening was balmy, and the front door stood partly open. For a minute they hesitated, and a whispered conversation ensued.

"You go in, Jake. You've got a tongue fer sich things," suggested his companions.

But before a reply could be made there floated out upon the air a sweet voice singing an old familiar hymn. Instinctively every driver pulled off his rough hat, and bowed his s.h.a.ggy head. It was a woman's voice they heard, low and tender. There was a pleading note in the singer's voice--the cry of a soul for help in trouble.

Little did Nellie realize as she sat by Dan's side this evening, and sang, that she had such attentive listeners. The past two days had been a time of much anxiety. When first she and her father had arrived, Dan did not know them. He was lying upon the bed, his little curly head resting upon the pillow as white as his own white face. Would he ever come out of that stupor? they asked each other time and time again as they sat and watched him. Often he talked, calling aloud for help, and pleading for someone to hurry. Now it was of Tony and again Nellie and Parson John. Occasionally he mentioned his father, and asked why he was so long in coming. The doctor stood by the bedside with an anxious face.