The Frontiersman Part 27

through the dirty winder, out inter the storm, an' away to the Injun village beyond.

"'De ye hear me, d.a.m.n ye!' cried Pritchen, bringin' his fist down upon the table with a bang. 'Why don't ye answer? We can't fool here all day.'

"Then the parson turned and looked square into his eyes. He was very calm, an' he spoke so quiet an' solemn like:

"'Man,' says he, 'd'ye mean it? Fer Nellie's sake, an' the kids, won't ye have marcy. Ye know I didn't do them deeds, an' ye know, Bill Pritchen,' says he, movin' up close to the chairman, 'that ye yerself are the one that left that young chap out thar to die. Ye was his pardner. Ye stole his gold, that's what ye did.'

"The parson could go no further, fer the men set up sich a shoutin' an'

a laughin' that ye couldn't hear yerself speak.

"Then he gave them a look I'll never fergit, full of scorn and pity. I never thought a man could look that way. He straightened himself up, an' turned to the chairman.

"I'll go,' says he, 'I'll hit the trail. I'll leave ye. But remember, I'll come back when I git ready.'

"'Come back, if ye dare,' says Pritchen, an' the men hooted as the poor chap walked from the buildin' as proud as a lord.

"I follered 'im to his cabin, fer I was sore hit, an' stood with 'im as he was ready to leave. He had his rifle, snow-shoes, his medical case, an' a small pack of grub on his back. He wouldn't say much, not even whar he was goin'. He seemed like a man in a dream.

"'Sol,' says he, jist afore he started, 'I'm as innocent of them charges as the new-born babe.'

"'I know it,' says I, 'but what kin we do?'

"'Nothin',' says he. 'Nothin' now, but the Good Lord will bring to light the hidden things of darkness in His own way, never ye fear that, Sol.'

"Then he looked across to this cabin, an' remained very still fer a time.

"'Won't ye say good-bye?' says I.

"'I can't,' says he, with a groan. 'With this shadder over me, I can't face her; it's better not. But ye'll look after'm, Sol,' an' he lays his hand upon my shoulder.

"'Till death,' says I.

"'G.o.d bless ye, man,' says he, an' with that he was gone--gone out inter the night through the wild howlin' tempest."

For some time the three sat in silence, each wrapped in earnest thought. As Constance listened to the snow-laden wind beating against the window, she pictured Keith battling his way through the dreary night, or else crouching by a lonely camp fire. Her ideas of Christianity were undergoing a marked change. Formerly she had a.s.sociated religion with large churches, where well-dressed people attended, and the services were conducted by white-robed clergymen, a.s.sisted by high-cla.s.s music and well-trained choirs. She knew that the clergy, for the most part, were a devoted, hard-working cla.s.s, but the thought of connecting them with the heroic in life had never entered her head.

Once she had attended a Synod service, where the clergy marched in, two by two, singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Though she had been told that some of them were men broken down by strenuous toil in frontier work among the Indians and miners, she had experienced no thrill or quickening of the heart. Her heroes were of a different cla.s.s: soldiers, who fought and died for their country, or sailors, who braved the perils of the great deep. Of these she loved to read, while a missionary book, or a magazine telling of the n.o.ble deeds done, and lives given for the cause of Christ, was something not to be considered.

But her eyes had been opened, and she saw a man, a student of no mean order, who had given up his life to uplift a band of uncouth Indians in a lonely region, away from all the refinements of civilization, who knew nothing of ease or of popular applause. And the most wonderful of all was that he did not consider it a sacrifice, but simply a joy to be able to serve. Then to see this man, in his n.o.ble efforts to a.s.sist and cheer the miners, opposed, scoffed at, and driven out, perhaps to die, by the very ones he had tried to help, was strange to contemplate.

She had heard people laugh at missionaries and their efforts to benefit the natives. Now a longing entered her heart to go to those very people, and tell them what she had seen of the efforts of one man.

The report of a rifle startled her from her reverie. Then the sound of voices came faintly through the night.

Sol sprang to his feet, and rushed to the door.

"Stay here!" he cried. "I'll be back in a minute."

Presently he returned with a pained expression upon his face.

"I was afeared of it," he replied, in answer to Constance's inquiring look. "Them varmints are burnin' the mission house. Blow out the candle, an' come to the winder to see fer yerselves."

With the room in darkness, and the curtain drawn back, the three stood and watched the scene of destruction. The flames, fanned by the wind, were sending up huge forked tongues into the night, while anon a rifle shot or a shout would wing its way across the snow.

"G.o.d help us!" groaned Sol. "What will they do next? They don't realize what they're doin' to-night. They must be mad or they wouldn't burn the mission house, whar the Injuns keep their supplies. What will the natives do when they return? G.o.d help us then!"

"Amen," fervently responded Mr. Radhurst, as he returned wearily to his position on the couch.

CHAPTER XX

THE OLD CHIEF'S MESSENGER

The morning of the trial Yukon Jennie stood in the chief's lodge, girded for a long journey. She was clad in a soft buckskin suit, the skirt of which reached but a short distance below her knees. Her leggings were of a bright scarlet material, and her feet encased in a pair of moccasins of her own handiwork. On her head was a hood of gray, so capacious that only a small portion of her face was exposed to view. Around her waist was a leathern belt, pendant from which were a small hatchet, a sheath knife, and a drinking cup. Altogether, she presented a picturesque figure, standing there awaiting the old man's pleasure.

On her face was a look of determination, mingled with a high resolve, for was she not about to undertake a task of supreme importance, fraught with hardships and dangers, for the sake of her tribe? She was only a girl--a waif--and in the eyes of the great hunters counted for little. They fed, housed, and clothed her, but never considered her as of any real importance.

After leaving the mission house the night before, she had searched for Keith in order to deliver Constance's message. Failing in this, she had gone to the saloon, hoping to find him there. Hearing the talking within, she feared to enter, and waited for some time outside in the bleak darkness. At length wearying of this, she returned to the chief's lodge, and sat quietly in one corner, apparently lost in thought. After a while she again sallied forth, and had advanced but a short distance when the Vigilance Committee hurried from the mission house and started down the hill. Keeping at a safe distance, she followed them to the saloon, heard the rough, angry words, and saw violent hands laid upon Keith. She paused only for an instant, and then with the speed of a deer, sped back to the lodge and told the chief what she had witnessed. No comment was made as Jennie related her story, but all through the night the aged man sat and brooded in deep silence. Early in the morning he aroused the maiden, and in a few brief words ordered her to prepare for a long journey.

"You must go," he said in the native tongue, "swift as the wind, straight as the wild goose, and carry this to Amos."

As he spoke he took from his neck four strings of beads fastened securely together, and handed them to the maiden.

"Guard them well," he commanded, "and come back soon."

Jennie's eyes sparkled with delight as she seized the necklace in her hand. Never before had she seen the old man part with his treasure.

It was the symbol of his office as chief of his tribe, and well did Jennie know the meaning when it was entrusted to any one else. She had heard of it being done once before. Long years ago, so it was said around the camp fire, had the chief sent the beads by a trusty courier over leagues and leagues of mountain, forest and plain to summon the natives to hurl back a marauding band of Indians.

With the beads about her neck, and a small blanket and some food on her back, Jennie bade the chief good-bye, and sped away from the lodge out upon the long trail. All day long she fought her way through the blinding storm with the unerring instinct of a wild animal. The region was familiar to her, though every trace of a path had been obliterated.

No living thing met her gaze, as hour after hour she plodded on. When night shut down she sought shelter in a thicket of fir trees, lighted a fire, ate her scanty meal, and, wrapping her small blanket around her body, was soon fast asleep.

Towards morning the wind dropped to rest, the snow ceased falling, and the bright moon smiled forth from banks of drifting clouds. A shy rabbit, hopping around in search of a meal from some tender cotton-wood bark, started back at the sight of the curious bundle lying in the snow; while some distance off a black fox sniffed the air and turned warily away.

Early in the morning Jennie was up and on again. On the fourth day, footsore and weary, she dragged her tired body towards the nearest camp. The sun had gone down and darkness had spread over the land.

There were only a few Indians here, the rest having gone farther afield. It was the hour of prayer, and, according to their usual custom, they were all gathered into the largest camp.

It was a quaint structure, this rude abode, which served as the little sanctuary in the wild. It had the appearance of a log house cut in two, and pulled apart, leaving a clear pa.s.sage of about four feet right through the building. In this s.p.a.ce a glowing fire of large logs was sending out its generous heat, while the smoke ascended through the opening above. On either side of the fire the Indians were gathered, reclining on blankets, wolf and bear skins, placed over a liberal supply of fir boughs.

Amos, the catechist, was reading the lesson for the day when Jennie glided into the lodge. His n.o.ble face was full of earnestness as he rolled forth the long words in the rythmical Takudh language, pausing occasionally to explain some pa.s.sage to the intent listeners.

Though all present had noticed Jennie's entrance, no sign of recognition was made as she quietly settled down in their midst, and listened to the reader. With impa.s.sive faces, and a stoicism worthy of the ancient Grecians, they bowed their heads while Amos repeated several of the prayers of the Church, and then led in the singing of "Nearer, My G.o.d, to Thee," one of their favourite hymns. Intensely fond of music, their voices rang out sweet and clear upon the night air. Old and young joined in the hymn, a translation made years before by that prince of pioneer missionaries, the venerable Archdeacon McDonald, who did such a great work at Fort Yukon in the early sixties.

"Ndo nyet nyakkwun Ttia Ndo nyet nyakkwun, Kwizyik nit.i.tae, Gusels.h.i.t chi.

Tthui sih chilig telya Ndo nyet nyakkwun Ttia, Ndo nyet nyakkwun."[1]

Not until the hymn had been sung, and the beautiful "Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ" said, did the Indians turn their attention to Jennie.

Then all reserve was thrown off, and they surrounded her, plying question after question as to the cause of her visit. To none of these, however, did the maiden reply, but unfastening the buckskin jacket, she drew forth the necklace, and, without a word, handed it to Amos.