The Frontiersman Part 7

CHAPTER VII

G.o.d'S GENTLEMEN

The storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against Peter Martin's snug log cabin. It did its best, however, to find an entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow could gain admittance.

It was Christmas Eve, and for that reason six men were gathered together at "Old Pete's," as he was commonly called. They had travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in their own quiet way. They were prospectors, the pathfinders of the country, the advance guard of civilization. Calm, temperate, sons of Anak in size and strength, they were n.o.ble friends but stern enemies.

For long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions never before trodden by the foot of white man. Across rugged mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid lakes, or crooked Indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of heaven.

Once in the year these six men drifted together, at the Christmas season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. But on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. The miners had arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. They resented this intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. Though most of the newcomers had gathered at Kla.s.san, some had drifted to Siwash Creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pa.s.s the long winter. At these men Pete and his companions looked somewhat askance, for they felt they were not of their cla.s.s. There was one, however, old "Colonel" Radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he was different from the rest, so they thought.

Pete Martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. The pieces he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. It had taken him many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of his own fond fancy. Alec McPherson, a st.u.r.dy son of the heather, was his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checkers, these two hardy friends faced each other over the rough table.

"Check!" said Pete, after the game had continued for over an hour.

Alec ran his fingers through his long hair, and shuffled uneasily on his stool before making his move.

"Check!" again calmly remarked Pete, and a triumphant light gleamed in his eye.

"You've the cinch on me this time for sure, mon," exclaimed Alec, as he struggled to free himself from the clever trap.

"Mate!" once more e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pete, swinging up his queen, and completely surrounding his opponent's king.

"Noo for anither," said Alec. "I'm no willin' to stop yet."

But Pete pushed back the chess board, and began to place the men into the box. One by one he lifted them tenderly from the table, and when the last had been safely deposited, he rose to his feet, and standing with his back to the fire, faced his companions. This was his favorite att.i.tude when he wished to express himself most freely. He glanced around the room with a feeling of pride, as a commanding officer might look upon a little squad he was about to lead into action.

"B'ys," he began, cutting a chew from a plug of tobacco, "d'yez know what night this is?"

The men looked up, but said nothing. There was no need for any reply.

They knew him well. It was only Pete's manner of beginning something he wished to say. On this occasion, however, they detected a new note in his voice, and a yearning, far-away expression in his eyes, as he stood before them.

"It's Christmas Eve," he continued, rolling the wad of tobacco in his cheek, "an' this is the seventh we've met together. Somehow I feel it'll be the last, fer mighty changes are about to take place.

There'll be so many of them green-eyed gold grabbers in here that our job'll be gone. They'll snook into every corner, an' what'll be left fer us? I ain't as young as I uster be, and mebbe--oh, well, it's no use lookin' too fer ahead, but any way I'd like this Christmas Eve to be sorter special, jist to remind me of old times.

"Sixty an' five years, remember, have rolled over this gray head of mine, an' the older I git, the stronger some things come back. When I think of the time when my father an' mother, G.o.d bless 'em, uster take me with'm to the leetle parish church way back in New Brunswick, a lump comes inter my throat, an' a feelin' creeps over me that I can't jist describe. I'd give all I possess to be thar agin, lads, dressed in my leetle white frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin'

in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so I uster think, with the choir. But it was Christmas Day I liked best of all, fer then the church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so hearty, an' everybody was so happy. Then, some special friends allus come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'.

Ah, no, I can't fergit sich days, an'----"

Suddenly Pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "Fergive me, lads," he cried; "fergive me! I didn't mean t'bother yeze with all this nonsense, I wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got away with me."

There was no need of an apology in that room. The fire in the old sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of holes. Pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. They were reticent men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were few. But Pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open, fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces, floated before their minds. To one, at least, arose the picture of a little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his joys and sorrows. Forty years had pa.s.sed since he first rejoiced in that dream--forty years, and now she was a grandmother. But to Pete she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure, and charm of youth.

Presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table.

"h.e.l.lo! what's that?" questioned Andy d.i.c.kson, between the deliberate puffs of his pipe.

But Pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin.

"Look at that, lads. Ain't she a beauty?" and Pete ran his fingers over the smooth surface.

"Where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of the others.

"Oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear."

"Sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in antic.i.p.ation of a good yarn.

"Waal, it's this way," Pete began. "Last Fall, I was wanderin' away to the east, through that G.o.d-forsaken region known as 'Dead Man's Land.'

Travellin' along an Injun trail, I hit upon two men, with four dogs packin' their loads. One was quite young, an' as fine a chap as I've seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most wretched brute. How they got together, Heaven only knows, but thar they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. They was on a kinder wild-goose chase, so I l'arned. Some fool had been thar before, found gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket.

"I saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' I hated to leave the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer I'd taken a fancy to the kid. The mornin' I come away he accompanied me fer some distance.

When we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. Thar was tears in his eyes when he gave it to me.

"'Take it,' says he, 'I can't keep it. Bill kicks up sich a fuss, an'

claims that he packs all the stuff, while I tote the fiddle. Ye'll be good to it, I'm sure, so good-bye.'

"With that, he was off, an' I never sot eyes on 'im agin. But thar I was with that thing on me hands. What did I want with a fiddle? My fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though I've not a bad ear fer music, when it comes to that. Then, I had a long mush to make, an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. At first I thought I'd throw the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me.

So I brung her along, an' thar she is. Ain't she a beauty? It'll be somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few tunes."

Silence reigned for a s.p.a.ce after Pete had finished his story. The violin was pa.s.sed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up and strike bow to the strings.

"What! kin no one play?" exclaimed Pete in surprise, when the instrument had gone the round. "Why, I have looked forward to this occasion fer some time."

"I guess we're like yersel', Pete," replied Alec McPherson, "men of action. Our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o'

cat-gut."

"Right yer are, man," a.s.sented Pete. "But I'm mighty disappinted, nevertheless, fer I did want ter hear an old tune or two."

At this, Tim Craven, a full six-footer in his stockings, stretched out a huge, hairy hand.

"Give her to me, Pete," he said. "Once I could play a little, and maybe a few of the old tunes'll float back again. I use to manage a few jigs," he continued, as he tightened up the strings, "such as 'The Fisher's Hornpipe,' and 'Auld Lang Syne,' but I'm afraid I'm all out of practice."

Then began such a sawing and sc.r.a.ping as the little cabin had never before heard. Had the violin been animate it would have shivered itself to pieces in a short time. A choir master, or an orchestra leader would have been driven almost insane at such an exhibition. But Tim's companions never winced. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and tapped the floor with their great rough boots as the various jigs were reeled off.

At length the musician stopped; his supply was exhausted, and he laid the violin upon the table.

"It's all I know," he remarked, reaching for his pipe.

"Give them to us again," said Alec. "You've done fine."

"Don't ye know a leetle Christmas song, Tim?" asked Pete, with a disappointed look in his face.

"I'm afraid not. They're all I know."

"What! not one? not one leetle song, jist fer old times' sake?"

Tim ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "There is one," he said, "I used to know, but it's so long since I've heard it, that I've clean forgotten the tune. It's something about 'Angels singing,' and 'New-born King,' but I guess----"

"I know it! I know it!" broke in Pete eagerly. "I'll whistle the air, fer I've sung it out on the hills, to cheer me up a bit. It goes this way, see?"