The Gateway of Hope
A world of smiling hope looked out of the man’s tired blue eyes. The
sky was brilliant, and flecked with fine-weather cloud. The air was
full of a warmth that was increasing with each passing day. The whole
world about him was bursting with renewed life. He felt that the battle
had been fought out. At long last the prospect of ultimate victory was
infinitely more than a vain hope.
His face and body were painfully thin. But the full ravages, induced
by the privations he had suffered during the desperate months of
winter, were largely concealed under a thick growth of grey beard and
whisker. His hair was long, with scarcely a streak of its original
colour remaining. And its white strands reached to the decayed collar
of a coat that would have ill-become the body of a “hoboe.” His nether
garments were worn and patched, and painfully soil-stained. But his
thin body was unbowed, and the spirit looking out of his eyes was
undismayed.
Near by his horse, in little better shape than himself, was hungrily
devouring the new-born shoots of sweet grass. Its long winter coat was
heavily matted and mud-discoloured. There were the disfiguring scars of
saddle-galls about its withers and under its forelegs. And its whole
condition was illuminating as to the part the wretched creature had
played in the desperate battle for existence which they had fought out
together.
Just behind the man, in a shelter of a pinewood bluff, stood a crazy
habitation. It was a patched ruin which must have been set up many
years ago by some other wanderer seeking hiding within the mountain
world. It was log-built and box-like, without windows or smoke-stack.
It was just a shelter against the storms of winter, with sufficient
space in its hovel-like interior to admit of accommodation for horse
as well as man. A small fire was spluttering before the doorway, and a
cooking-pot stood steaming over it.
The man had reached that condition of endurance when bodily comfort no
longer concerned him. The smiling sun, the warm rains that had swept
the snows of winter from the face of an earth that was lusting to
produce, the stirring life that was in full evidence about him--these
were the things which preoccupied him, to the exclusion of everything,
and afforded him an answer to the question that had dogged his every
thought for months.
Jim Pryse had christened his hiding-place the Valley of Hope. And, in
the weary months he had spent within its shelter, he had buoyed himself
by planning a dream world within its bosom--a whimsical, fantastic
world that satisfied a quiet sense of humour that never wholly deserted
him.
But this had been at a time when he knew not from day to day the fate
that was in store for him. This had been when storm and blizzard buried
the world about him feet deep in snow, when the depths below zero ate
into his bones, and such fire as he possessed was insufficient to thaw
the frost rime that whitened the whole interior of his quarters.
Now his dream had become a real, vital purpose to him. Now it was
altogether different. Now the great gateway of the valley stood wide
open in the brilliant spring sunlight, and revealed the wonder of the
world within. It was a glorious, fertile plain of sweet grass, that
reached so far out towards the warming south that its confines lay
beyond the reach of human eyes.
It was a radiant picture, alive with a busy, fussing, mating, feathered
concourse. It was dotted with woodland bluffs of spruce, and pine, and
poplar, and tamarack, and a wealth of undergrowth already bursting into
full leaf. There were wide pools of snow-water standing in the troughs
which lay between the rollers of new-born grass, a happy feeding and
playing ground for the swarming geese and mallard. Splitting it down
the centre, winding a crazy course over the line of least resistance,
a surging mountain torrent tore joyously at its muddied banks in a mad
desire to release its flooding waters. East and west the limits of the
valley were frowning with dark forest-belts that came down from the
mountain slopes. Southward the gateway revealed nothing but a broad,
sunlit highway.
The gateway itself was marked by two sheer cliffs, black with the
weathering of ages. Standing half a mile apart, and rising to immense
heights, they embraced between them a spread of dense forest, which,
in turn, concealed the cascading torrent whose source was the world
of eternal snow above. The meaning of the gateway was simple of
explanation. Beyond a doubt the great cliffs were all that remained of
a saddle of hill, linking twin mountains, which had ultimately yielded
to the fierce erosion to which the melting snows had subjected it.
Beyond the northern confines of the valley, somewhere behind a barrier
of lesser hills, one great snowy head reared itself to the clouds.
Similarly, to the south-west another stood up at a height that could
not have been less than twelve thousand feet. Then, to the east, there
were two others. They were monsters whose purpose was clearly that of
cradle posts for the valley they sheltered between them.
It was all far-hidden by the secret approach up Three-Way Creek from
the east. It was all even deeper lost to the hill and forest country
of British Columbia, to the west. Devoid of any highway approach,
it suggested the hiding-place it had become. It was one of Nature’s
remotenesses completely disguised at the moment of furious labour when
the world was born.
Pryse bestirred himself. Food and drink were aflood in this home that
was his. And food and drink summed up his needs at the moment. He moved
out into the full sunlight, and the dripping soil oozed under his
ill-shod feet.
At his first movement his horse flung up its head. Its ears were
pricked with all the alertness of its well-being. Its eyes were full
and bright, for all its body was little better than skin and bone.
There was inquiry in the soft-gazing depths. To the man it almost
seemed as if they contained reproach.
“Don’t worry, old feller,” he said, as though speaking to a well-loved
companion whose comprehension was beyond question. “Get right on with
your feed. Eat it all. I’d like to see you so pot-bellied I couldn’t
get the cinchas around you right.”
He moved on till he stood close up to the animal. Then he laid a
caressing hand upon its attenuated neck.
“There’s no saddle to-day,” he went on. “Dan’s coming along, if he
doesn’t get held up by a wash-out. He’s bringing tobacco, and matches,
and tea, and a bunch of cartridges, so we can shoot up some of those
dandy mallards. Maybe he’s bringing us news, too. And if it’s good
news it’s liable to lead us to a place where there’s a bunch of oats
for you, and something that’ll likely help me to look more like a man.
We’ve waited and stuck it out, old feller, you and me. And I sort of
feel there’s a good time coming. I’ll just get right along and haul up
the lines in the creek, and see what sort of eat I’ll make.”
The horse rubbed its shaggy head against his thread-bare coat. No doubt
it meant nothing. Yet it almost seemed as if the creature understood
the feelings lying behind the smiling words. Pryse moved away.
He hurried out across the moist grass, and his step was light and
vigorous. At that moment the world looked good to him. He was hungry.
He was always hungry. And he knew from past experience, ever since the
thaw had come, that it would be only a question of how many fish his
night-lines had collected.
He reached the undergrowth at the river bank and disappeared within it.
And only the sound of breaking bush came back as he thrust his way. He
was gone for nearly half an hour. And when he reappeared, it was to be
greeted by the hail of a horseman waiting for him at the edge of the
woods that contained his winter home.
“Say, thanks be to the Holy Mackinaw this is going to be the last trip
I’m makin’ up Three-Way Creek,” the man bellowed across at him, in a
tone and accent that was unmistakably Irish. “I’ve beat it through
muskeg that had me right up to the cinchas. There’s enough flood water
by the way to drown a whole darn world, and the skitters are crazy for
good Irish blood. Say, boy, I come along to tell you you’re going to
get out right away.”
Jim Pryse hurried across to his visitor with his bunch of strung trout.
He looked up into eyes as blue as his own. The man was infinitely
bigger than himself. He was a weather-stained creature round about
forty, clad in the hard clothing of the prairie. And his big horse was
well fed and cared for.
Dan Quinlan swung out of the saddle, and began to unship a pair of
bulging saddle-bags.
Pryse watched him.
“Do you mean all that, Dan? About my going, I mean?” he asked, in a
voice that was not quite steady.
The Irishman answered him over his shoulder while he tugged at the
rawhide lashings.
“Mean it? Faith, I do that, man,” he said, in his big-voiced way.
Then, the saddle-bags released, he held them out. “Beat it, and
empty that truck right out. Ther’s soap there. But for the love of
St. Patrick I can’t get your need of it. There’s a razor, too. Maybe
it’s a shade better than a hay mower, which would seem to be just an
elegant proposition for that carpet hanging to your face. Ther’s tobac
an’ lucifers, a flask of Rye, and all the junk we folks reckon fits
our bellies better than hay. Just empty it right out, and bring that
flask of the stuff back. We’ll sit around awhile, so you ken roast them
measly trout and eat. And we ken yarn. I got things fixed the way you
asked and the police boys have quit your trail.”
Jim Pryse made no reply. He offered no word of thanks. But the thing
shining in his sunken eyes was all sufficient for the Irishman. He took
the saddle-bags from his benefactor and obeyed him implicitly. When he
returned with them empty, and bearing a pannikin and the flask of Rye,
he indicated a large log beside the spluttering fire.
“Will you sit, Dan?”
Pryse’s invitation was quiet in contrast with the other’s larger
manner. And the Irishman turned abruptly from his contemplation of the
flood of snow-water teeming with legions of wild-fowl.
“Sure, boy,” he said. Then he indicated the scene with a broad gesture
of an out-flung arm. “Can you beat it? Get a look. Ther’s millions of
’em. Gee! This would be one hell of a swell place to fix a homestead.”
“That’s what I’ve decided to do.”
Pryse smiled as the other swung round and stared at him. Then he sat
down on the log, and Dan Quinlan took up his position beside him.
Pryse poured out a tot of the Rye and offered it to his benefactor. But
the man thrust it aside.
“Get to it yourself, boy,” he said, with a rough laugh. “I take a deal
too much of that belly-wash. It’s a curse on me. You’re needing it.
I guess you’re needing it bad. Drink up, boy, and set the rest aside.
One’s all you need now to set life into your tired grey head. Two would
set you crazy. And you don’t need any craziness just now. What d’you
mean about that--homestead?”
Pryse drank down the raw Rye, and the scorch of the spirit made him
gasp. Then he carefully re-corked the bottle, and set it on the ground
beside him, and sat gazing into the fire. Dan Quinlan lit his pipe, and
diving into a pocket, produced a second. He held it out.
“It’s a new one,” he said. “I went right into Hartspool for it. Smoke.”
Pryse accepted the thoughtful present, and the warming spirit
brightened his eyes.
“Say,” he ejaculated, with sudden urgency, “I’m going to talk a whole
long piece, Dan. Will you listen while I roast these trout over the
fire? It’s all I’ve got to offer you for feed. There’s a big bunch
of them, and they’ve just come out of the creek. Will you share? And
I’ll boil up some of the tea you’ve brought me. And there’s the sugar.
I haven’t tasted sugar for days. Not since I finished the last you
brought me.”
Dan nodded his rough head.
“I ken mostly eat anything. Get on with that talk.”
“Did you hear from my sister?”
“Sure. I got this registered mail when I went into Hartspool.”
The Irishman held out a bulging envelope.
Pryse set his fish to roast on the hot ashes and took the mail. He
looked at it. Then he looked into the eyes of the man who had passed it
to him.
“You haven’t opened it and--it’s addressed to you.”
Dan laughed.
“It ain’t a way I have looking into other folk’s affairs,” he said.
“That’s from your sister in answer to the letter I put through for
you. That bunch is for you. It’s not for me.”
“Yes. I know that. But--say, Dan Quinlan, you’re a big feller and a
swell friend. Why?” Pryse shook his head. “Because your heart’s mostly
as big as your fool body. There are things to life I can’t get a grip
on. Here are you, living away up in the hills with no one near you for
twenty-five miles. You got a poor sort of ranch homestead, and a bunch
of stock that couldn’t hand you more than a bare existence. Why? Are
you a hunter? Do you just love the crazy hills, with their storms, and
snow, and cold? No. It’s not that. And I’m not going to ask things.
I’m just going to say it’s a God’s mercy for me that you do live that
way. If it hadn’t been that I fell into your place last fall, by a
chance I can’t ever account for, I shouldn’t be alive and talking now.
You’ve done for me what no ordinary fellow--but just one other, I know
of--would have done for me. You showed me Three-Way Creek and found
me this hiding-place when the Police got smelling around. And you’ve
handed me feed and things at intervals ever since, like the ravens did
for that boy in the Bible. You’ve done that for me I can never repay
you for. And you’ve done it on my own story, without ever a question.
And now you’ve completed your good work by getting me in touch with my
sister.”
“Best get on with it, hadn’t you?”
The Irishman’s grinning eyes were full of beaming good-nature. But he
had not come there to listen to any expression of gratitude.
Pryse tore open the envelope. He drew out a roll of money folded inside
a long letter. Dan Quinlan stared. The outer bill he could see was for
one hundred dollars. And inside it there looked to be at least fifty
more of a similar denomination. But the other gave the money no heed.
He was hungrily devouring the contents of the letter. Dan stooped and
turned the roasting fish, amazed at the thing he had beheld.
Pryse looked up from his letter.
“Let’s eat, and I’ll fix the tea. I can talk as we eat.”
It was that talk Dan wanted to hear. Pryse passed into the hut, and
returned with the limits of his household utensils--one plate of
enameled iron. He knocked the ashes from the roasted fish, and piled
them on the plate. Then he set the pot to boil, and threw a small
handful of tea into it. Then he sat on the log again, and Dan possessed
himself of a fish.
“You don’t know me, Dan, except the police are yearning to set me to
hard labour,” Pryse began, while he ate the hot fish he, too, had
picked up in his fingers. “You know what for, but that’s all. The thing
you don’t know is I’m a pretty rich man as gold goes. My sister’s got
charge of my stuff, and she’s living down in New York. She’s sent me
the stuff I need to make my getaway. You’ve given me the news the
Police have quit my trail. And so, with the summer coming, and maybe
your further help, the way lies open for me. That all looks pretty good
to me after the thing I’ve gone through. But I want to tell you I’ve
fixed it to come right back again.”
“To set up that--homestead?”
The Irishman’s eyes were no longer grinning.
“That’s it, Dan. And I want you to help me. I want you to be partners
in it with me. Oh, it’s going to be a crazy proposition. It’s crazy
enough to suit an Irishman like you. It’s going to be a homestead like
you’ve never heard of before. And the notion of it got right into my
mind from the moment I christened this queer stretch of Nature the
‘Valley of Hope.’ It’s been that way for me, and I want to make it that
way for others. Don’t get the notion I’m crazy. I’m not, boy. First one
great fellow, and now you, have taught me something I can never forget.
You folks have taught me there’s no feller so down and out there isn’t
a shadow of hope for him somewhere in this tough old world. Well, my
notion is, with you a partner, to collect that hope, and hand it to
the folks needing it. Are you on, if I tell you about it? You’ll be my
partner? I’ll find the stuff and organise. And you’ll come in on my
profits without taking a chance.”
The Irishman guffawed loudly. But it was a laugh intended to disguise
the feelings the other had stirred in his emotional heart.
“Sounds a swell proposition for me,” he said. “I’d like it a deal
better for some of the chances lying around. But get to it, boy,” he
went on, helping himself to another of the trout. “Ladle it out. Hand
me the whole darn fancy, an’, short of murder, I haven’t a scruple.
If ther’s a fight to it I’ll be glad. You see, it’s only when I’m up
against things I can keep off the liquor. Give me something to help me
dodge the liquor, and I’ll call down all the saints to bless the day,
or night, you blew into my shack in a snowstorm.”
The two men sat on talking while the sun rose higher, and the stirring
flies and mosquitoes advanced to the attack. They talked and ate, and
drank tea with sugar, discussing all the details of a proposition that
looked to be wild enough to satisfy even so reckless a creature as Dan
Quinlan.
And Dan fell headlong for the whole thing. He questioned closely. He
argued points all along the line. And Pryse realised something of
the extent of the latent ability he possessed. But in the end full
agreement was arrived at between them. And when the time came for Dan’s
departure, and his horse was saddled, and he was ready to lift his huge
body into its seat, a great change had been wrought in their relations.
For Pryse, Dan Quinlan had suddenly become a shrewd, long-headed
creature, with a great capacity and foresight; and for Dan, Pryse was
no longer a fugitive from justice, but a creature of infinite sympathy,
whom he asked nothing better than to serve and support.
Dan leaned down from his saddle and gripped the lean hand held out to
him.
“Say boy, I want to tell you something,” he cried, with one of his
boisterous laughs. “You got me plumb in the vitals with this thing.
Same as if you’d pushed a gun there. You can count me for it body and
soul.”
Pryse smiled up in response.
“So long, Dan,” he said. “A week of this grass’ll see my poor old plug
fit, and I’ll be down along by your shanty. Get those things in train I
told you about. You can’t ever tell. This thing has come out of my own
selfish need. It looks like I’ll be more glad of it than--anybody else.
You see, I was condemned to five years’ hard labour. And until those
years of penitentiary have been served they’re always hanging over me.
So long. May the saints of your queer old country bless you.”