The Man of the Gap
“The gap” is a natural opening between the Yukon River region on the
east and the great mountains on the west. In fact, it is the one
door through which people pass, Indians and whites alike, on mining,
trading, or any other business. In former days native warriors passed
this way to wage war upon some distant tribe. It was a regular
Thermopylæe where a few men could hold an entire army at bay. Two
huge shoulders of rocks, devoid of any vegetation, oppose each other.
Through The Gap flows a little stream, draining a lake miles away.
By the side of this runs the trail, worn deep by the tread of many
feet, not only of human beings, but of moose, deer, bear, and other
animals of the north. Just within The Gap on the Eastward side is a
remarkable valley, several acres in extent, scooped, so it seems, out
of the mountains. This is completely sheltered from every wind which
blows, and had always formed a favorite camping-ground for Indians. It
is a most desirable place, for apart from the shelter it affords from
storms and enemies, mountain sheep and other game are abundant, while
the little stream and various lakes teem with fish, especially the King
Salmon.
It was, therefore, but natural that Charles Norris, a clergyman sent
out by a great English Missionary Society, should choose this spot as
the strategic point in his work among the Indians. For long years he
and his faithful wife laboured among the tribes of the wandering foot.
They won them from heathen ways, and the influence of the Medicine Men.
A log church was built, and in due time a school for the children. A
linguist of no mean ability, Mr. Norris learned the native tongue, and
gave the Indians hymns, prayers, and portions of Scripture in their
own language. It was a happy community, uncontaminated by any of the
degenerating influences of so-called civilisation. When the Indians
returned from the hills, the church and mission house were always
filled with earnest seekers after the truth, and the hearts of the
missionaries overflowed with thankfulness to Him who had wrought such
wonders through their humble efforts.
Often they would look upon the great mountains, and in their majesty
and surrounding strength they would see the encompassing arms of the
Almighty. To them The Gap Mission was what Jerusalem was to the people
of Hebrew days. Their eyes would kindle and their hearts thrill as they
dwelt upon the words of the ancient poet:
“As the mountains are about Jerusalem,
So the Lord is round about His people.”
Hardly a morning passed that Charles Norris did not stand at the door
of his house and say, either silently or aloud:
“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
From whence cometh my help.’”
It was a great day for the missionaries and Indians alike when the
first copies containing hymns, prayers, and portions of Scripture
reached them from England. Already there were leaders trained to
read, and these small books were carried by the natives to their
hunting-grounds. There night after night, where the two or three
gathered together, the leader would read the wonderful words contained
in the little manual. He would then repeat a number of prayers, and
all would join in singing some favourite hymn. To the missionaries it
seemed as if the Pentecostal fire had really come down upon those lost
sheep of the Rocky Mountains.
But alas! great changes ere long took place. This happy state of
affairs was not destined to endure. As the serpent entered the Garden
of Eden and destroyed its peaceful repose, so it was at The Gap. With
the discovery of gold, thousands of men poured into the country. They
traversed every trail, followed up every valley in their mad rush for
wealth. Although many of the newcomers were good men, who respected the
law of God and man, there were others, the scum of civilisation, who
polluted everything and place they touched. Little by little they led
away the Indians from their allegiance to what they had been taught.
For a time the natives resisted, but their thirst for hootch, and the
temptations the white men set before them, proved too strong. Sadly
Charles Norris and his wife saw their influence wane, and their work
of years brought to ruin. They pleaded, they prayed, but all in vain.
At last the day came when only two were left--an old leader, Tom, and
his faithful wife, Kate. Nothing could divert their loyalty to the
missionaries, and they, too, grieved over the defection of the members
of their tribe.
It was a trying time when the mission school had to be given up.
The children slipped away, one by one, a number of the girls being
led astray by white men. The loss of Zell affected them keenly. They
had hoped much from this girl, who was brighter than the others, and
possessed of nobler qualities. They had made much of her, and she was
to them almost like a daughter.
But the greatest blow of all to Charles Norris was when his wife
sickened and died. For a time he was completely bewildered. He laid her
to rest in the little Indian burying place nearby, and once again took
up his weary and lonely task. Nothing could induce him to leave his
post of duty. His Bishop came, pleaded, and reasoned with him, but to
no purpose.
“My place is here,” he had quietly replied. “The Indians may come back,
and when they do, I must be waiting to receive them. I have no other
home, and the interests of the outside world are nothing to me.”
And so he remained, living alone in his house, attended by Kate, the
Indian woman. She washed and cooked for him, and did what she could for
his welfare. His wants were few, his mind now being entirely occupied
with earnest prayers on behalf of his wandering flock, and preparing a
larger manual of worship for the natives.
“They may need it some day,” he had told his Bishop. “I have spent many
years in studying the language, and it may be a help to others when I
am gone. I feel sure that the Lord will not let all my work come to
naught.”
So great were his hope and faith, that every evening, both summer and
winter, he held the simple service in the log church. Exactly at seven
o’clock he would ring the little bell, which was fastened to a rude
frame near the door. When the sound had ceased he would look up the
valley, and listen intently for the music of hurrying feet which no
longer came as in the past. Only Tom and Kate would come, shuffling
along, to take their places near the chancel steps. The missionary
would then enter the little vestry, don his robes, and read the
service, never forgetting to pray for the absent ones.
One cold night after service the missionary returned to his lonely
house. Lighting a candle, he stirred up the fire in the sheet-iron
heater, and added a couple of sticks. He then sat down at the rough
deal table nearby which contained a number of books, several sheets
of paper, pen, and ink. His eyes rested upon his translation of
the beautiful benediction of St. Paul in his second letter to the
Church at Corinth. “Nyiwhet Kekwadhut Jesus Kreist vit chekoorzi ako
Vittekwichanchyo chettigwinidhun, ako Chunkyo Rsotitinyoo nichya sheg
Myiwhot tutthug zyunkoli. Amen.” Carefully he compared this with the
English, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and
the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all. Amen.” For some
time he sat there pondering over these words. He had no doubt about
their truth, but somehow it did seem as if they were not applicable to
him and his scattered flock. Grace had been strangely withheld of late,
love had grown cold, and the bond of fellowship broken. The enemies of
righteousness had triumphed, and truth had been trampled under foot.
He and his two faithful Indians were alone left to uphold the standard
of the Lord in that desolate wilderness. Was it really any use for him
to strive longer? Perhaps it might be better for him to go elsewhere.
Surely there was other work for him to do. Was he only wasting his
time by remaining at The Gap?
Suddenly there flashed into his mind the lament of the Lord, “I sought
for a man that should make up the hedge, and stand in the gap before
me for the land, and I found none.” These words startled him, and he
quickly turned to the twenty-second chapter of the prophet Ezekiel. He
read them with kindling eyes, and his heart beating a little faster.
Why had they come to him just then? Was it a message from on high? A
warning for him not to leave his post of duty? Did the Lord mean for
him to remain there? Was there something yet for him to do? Yes, he
would stay, and when the time came that a man was specially needed, he,
Charles Norris, would be found standing in The Gap. This resolve gave
him considerable comfort, so once more he picked up his pen and went on
with his work.
For perhaps an hour he sat there, lost in his self-imposed task of
translating the clear brief English words into the long, forbidding
ones of the native language. He was at length aroused by a loud knock
upon the door. He started, and looked around. At once the door opened
and a man entered, who stood gazing for a few seconds at the scene
before him.
“I want shelter for the night,” he roughly said. “An’ grub, too. I’m
starving.”
He then moved toward the stove, and the missionary noticed that he
limped painfully.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, rising from his seat and stepping forward.
The visitor was about to make a savage reply, when he suddenly stopped.
Something about the old man restrained him. He could not tell what it
was, but Bill, the Slugger, for once was abashed. He put up his right
hand as if to keep the missionary back. The latter interpreted this
motion as a sign of faintness.
“Come, come, sit right down here,” he said, drawing up a chair to the
fire. “I shall give you something to eat at once, and make you a cup of
strong tea.”
With a groan Bill slumped into the chair, and when food was brought,
he ate ravenously. He gulped down the tea, and handed back his cup for
more.
“Say, ye don’t happen to have somethin’ with a kick in it, do ye?” he
asked.
“You mean hootch, I suppose,” and a sad expression overspread the
missionary’s face. “No, I have no use for the stuff.”
“It’s good enough, though, when it has the right kick,” the visitor
mournfully replied.
“It had the wrong kick among my flock, and ruined my work here.”
“Did it? That’s too bad.” Bill was feeling in a better humour now.
“An’ so ye lost ’em all, eh?”
“All but two; old Tom and his wife.”
“Religion doesn’t take much hold on Injuns, so I’ve heard. Ye’ll give
up yer job now, I s’pose. Much in it, eh?”
“In what way?”
“Oh, in money. D’ye git much fer hangin’ out here? It’s a wonder ye
don’t leave.”
“All I have in this world is here,” was the quiet reply. “My total
earthly possessions are under this roof, and out among the trees, a
short distance from the building.”
“What! a cache?”
“No--my wife’s grave.”
This unexpected reply startled Bill, and he gasped, knowing not what
to say. His movement caused him to groan with pain, and only with
difficulty he smothered an angry oath.
“Is there anything I can do for your leg?” the missionary asked. “I am
quite a doctor, so might be able to help you.”
“Yes, it’s bad,” Bill acknowledged. “Hurt it on the trail. Look.” When
the left bare leg was exposed, Norris beheld a nasty swelling, just
above the ankle.
“It looks like a sprain,” the missionary remarked, examining it
closely. “Hot applications and iodine will give you relief.”
The visitor made no comment but let the missionary wait upon him. Hot
cloths were then applied, after which the swollen part was well painted
with iodine.
“There, I guess that will do for the present,” Norris said, as he rose
from his knees, corked the bottle and placed it upon a shelf.
“A rest will do you good. You may sleep in that little room over there.
You will find it quite warm.”
“I’d rather sit here fer a while,” Bill replied. “Ye don’t mind if I
smoke, do ye?”
“Not in the least. The Indians always smoked when they came to see me.
Have you any tobacco?”
“No, I haven’t. Say, ye don’t happen to have any, do ye?”
“Yes, there is part of a plug which old Tom left the other day. He
won’t mind you having it.”
Bill eagerly seized the tobacco, quickly whittled off several slices,
and filled his blackened pipe. With a sigh of contentment, he leaned
back in the chair.
“My! that’s good,” he said. “I’ve been sufferin’ fer days fer a smoke.”
“Well, enjoy yourself, then, while I do some work,” Norris replied. “We
can talk later.”
Seated once more at the table, the missionary was soon engrossed in
his work. The visitor watched him curiously as he sent big wreathes
of smoke into the air. And truly it was a scene worthy of a great
artist--the venerable, white-haired man, with the long flowing beard,
noble forehead, and eyes expressive of sympathy and devotion. The
lighted candle, and the humble surroundings seemed to enhance the face
and form of the man, bestowing upon him a patriarchal dignity, and the
glorifying of the commonplace.
Of all this, however, the silent man near the stove thought nothing.
His mind was dwelling upon more material things, such as the amount of
money the missionary might have on his person or concealed about the
house, and whether it would be worth the trouble and the risk to knock
him on the head in order to find out. He wondered if he would fight
if ordered to produce anything of value. He believed that he could
handle him all right, and that he would easily submit when threatened
by a revolver. But of the old man’s eyes he was not so sure. There was
something about them that made him afraid, and awed even his reckless
and villainous nature. No respect for the self-denying and gentle man
of God entered his calloused heart. And gratitude for favors received,
which even the dumb brutes possess, was to him a thing unknown.
At length the missionary laid down his pen and looked over at his
visitor.
“You must be very tired,” he said. “It is my bedtime, so if you will
excuse me, I shall retire. Make yourself perfectly at home here, and if
you need any help in the night with your ankle, call me. But, as is
always my custom, I shall have a few prayers.”
At once the old man kneeled down and offered up his humble petitions.
He prayed especially for the wandering flock, not forgetting to ask a
blessing upon the stranger under his roof. Thanking God for all His
past mercies, and committing himself and his visitor to the Divine
protection, he rose from his knees and picked up his candle.
When the missionary began to pray, a cynical and a mocking expression
overspread Bill’s face. With unbent head he watched the “daft old
man,” as he considered him. But as the praying continued, some chord
of memory was touched, and for the first time in years he recalled the
little prayer he had learned at his mother’s knees. It was merely a
passing emotion, however, but it brought a softer expression into his
eyes.
“Are there any Injuns near here?” he asked, as the missionary was about
to leave the room.
“Yes, several bands are out in the hills, so I understand.”
“Where?”
“Due west, straight up the valley. Good night, and may you rest well.”