The Frontiersman Part 14

"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 p.r.i.c.ked-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 "h.e.l.lo!" 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 cla.s.s; 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 G.o.d, 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. "'Ill.u.s.trated 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?"