The Wages of Sin
For a few minutes Tom was at a loss as to what he should do. Two forces
contended strongly within him. One clamored for revenge, the other
for mercy. Here before him was an unscrupulous enemy, the man who had
injured the half-breed girl, who had shot the Gikhi, and who, he was
certain, had committed that terrible murder near the C. D. Cut-off.
The spirit of his savage ancestors swept upon him, and for a while
seemed to have the complete mastery. His eyes glowed, and his body
trembled with intense excitement. He looked around for some weapon
of destruction, and seeing a small axe lying on the floor, he sprang
toward it, clutched it fiercely with both hands, and turned again
toward the bunk. He had the axe raised, and in another instant it
would have fallen, when with a great cry, he suddenly desisted, and
flung the weapon with his full strength against the opposite side of
the room. He then turned, rushed from the building, and stood outside,
trembling in every limb. His brain was in a tumult, but he was slowly
regaining his senses. The horror of the terrible deed he had almost
committed possessed his soul. It was not a dread of the Law which
affected him; in fact, he never thought of that. It was a greater Law
which said “Thou shalt do no murder.” There came to him the teaching
of the missionary, and the words of the Master which he had so often
read in the little manual, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse
you, do good to them that hate you.” That was the Law he had almost
broken in deed, and that he had broken it in spirit was a great grief
to the old man. He was only an Indian, wrinkled, bent, and gray, an
object of scorn to many white men had they seen him standing there.
But the action of that native was worthy of the highest honour. He had
met temptation in its most terrible form, and had almost fallen. But
he had resisted, and won a remarkable victory. He had crushed back the
spirit of revenge which was still strong upon him, and had submitted
himself to the spirit of the Great Master. But still his grief was
great. In his agony he dropped upon his knees in the snow, and lifted
his hands above his head in an attitude of supplication. No sound did
he utter, but his moving lips were more eloquent than many words. For a
few minutes he remained in this position, silent and alone. The trees
around him were the only witnesses to the humble worshipper mutely
asking forgiveness from the Great Spirit of the universe. And to him it
seemed that his request was granted, for a peace stole into his heart,
and a weight was suddenly lifted from his mind.
At length he rose to his feet, and looked around. His eyes, which a
short time ago had glowed with vengeance, now shone with the light of
joy. His weariness was forgotten, and even his hunger as he re-entered
the building to minister to the needs of the man lying upon the bunk.
As he approached, Bill lifted his head and raised his right hand.
“What are you doing here, you devil?” he demanded. “Why don’t you kill
me an’ git through with it?”
“Tom no keel Bill,” was the quiet reply. “Tom no all sam’ wolf now. Tom
Clistin.”
A bitter, sneering laugh came from the man in the bunk.
“You say you’re a Christian, eh?” he queried. “Well, ye acted jist like
one when ye started to brain me. Why didn’t ye finish the job?”
“Gikhi an’ good book tell no keel. Tom velly mad, heart bad when he see
Bill. Something here,” and he placed his hand to his breast, “tell Tom
to keel white man. Tom almos’ do it. Den somet’ing here say ‘no keel.’
Tom feel bad. Tom kneel in snow, pray, all sam’ Gikhi.”
Instead of admiring the native’s candid confession of strength, and the
influence of Christian teaching, Bill uttered a savage oath, told the
Indian that religion was all bosh, and that the missionary at The Gap
was a fraud and a hypocrite.
“The missionary is deceiving you,” he said. “There is no heaven an’ no
hell. Religion is only fer kids, women, an’ old fools like you. It is
not meant fer big strong men.”
“Gikhi good man,” Tom defended. “Gikhi come to Gap when Injuns all bad,
fight, keel. Gikhi show Injuns right trail. Gikhi tell Injuns ’bout
Great Spirit.”
“Yes, an’ what has all his teaching amounted to? Have not the Injuns
left him? They no longer listen to his teaching, but drink, gamble, an’
strut around the streets when they go to town. The women an’ girls go
with white men, live with them, an’ have babies. Why, I know of dozens
of kids who will never know who their fathers are, an’ their mothers
don’t know, either. Bah! what good has religion done?”
“’Ligion no do dat,” Tom again stoutly maintained, while his eyes
gleamed with indignation. “Bad white man mak’ Injun all sam’ crazee.
White man tote hootch, mak’ Injun drunk. Gikhi no do dat.”
Tom paused, stepped closer to the bunk, and looked keenly into Bill’s
face.
“Bill say ’ligion no good, eh?” he asked.
“That’s what I said,” was the reply. A groan of pain suddenly burst
from his lips, followed by blood-curdling oaths.
“Stop dat,” Tom sternly ordered.
The injured man looked up in surprise, and was somewhat awed by the
Indian’s manner.
“Why should I stop?” he asked. “I can swear an’ curse if I want to.
Religion means nothing to me. I’m not afraid of hell.”
“Bill no ’fraid of hell, eh? Bill no like pain. Bill cry all sam’
babee. Bill cry more bimeby, mebbe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tom leave Bill, mebbe. Tom go ’way. Bill no want Tom. Bill die, eh?”
It was not difficult for the white man to understand the meaning of
these words. He believed that the Indian meant what he said, and the
thought of being left there alone was terrible. He recalled the past
night of suffering and despair when he had writhed in agony of body
and mind. The swelling in his foot was most menacing, and was steadily
creeping upwards until his whole leg from foot to hip was badly
inflamed. He felt that there was nothing that could relieve him, but he
did not want to be alone. It was some consolation to have some one with
him, even though it was only an Indian.
“Don’t leave me,” he cried, reaching out his right hand as if to grasp
and hold the native. “Fer God’s sake, stay here an’ don’t let me die
alone!”
Tom’s eyes brightened as he turned them intently upon the pleading man
before him. This was more than he had expected.
“Tom no leave Bill,” he replied. “Tom Clistin. Wan tam Tom no Clistin,
leave Bill to die, keel heem, mebbe. Now, Tom all sam’ Gikhi, good to
Bill.”
“Oh, shut up about yer religion,” the suffering man snapped. “I’m sick
of it. Git me something to eat. That’ll do me more good than all your
yangin’ about religion. Ye’ve gone daft over it.”
“Ah, ah, Tom geeve Bill grub,” was the quiet reply. “But Tom ask Bill
wan t’ing, eh?”
“Well, what is it? Out with it. I’m hungry.”
“Bill no say bad word. Bill no talk ’bout ’ligion. Bill keep still.”
This was more than Bill was inclined to do, so he gave expression to
his feeling in a string of oaths. Tom listened for only a few seconds,
when he suddenly turned, left the side of the bunk, and started for
the door. Seeing that he was about to leave, the injured man realised
his mistake, and yelled for him to come back. Tom hesitated before
complying with this request. He then slowly retraced his steps and once
again stood looking down upon the white man.
“Bill call, eh?” he simply asked.
“Yes, I did. Don’t go an’ I’ll hold my tongue, an’ say nuthin’ more
about religion. Hurry up an’ git me something to eat.”
“Good, good,” the Indian grunted. “Tom git grub now.”
Tom at once turned his attention to the stove. There was still some
fire in the battered sheet-iron heater, so he added a few dry sticks
lying near. He found that Bill had done some cooking, and examining
several cans near the stove he was pleased to learn that they contained
cooked rice and dried fruit, while part of a loaf of sourdough bread
was lying on a biscuit box close at hand. Tom warmed some of the rice,
cut a few slices of bread, which he spread with a liberal covering of
jam from a recently opened tin. These he carried to the white man, and
placed the plate upon the bunk.
“Eat,” he said, “Grub good, eh?”
“It’s nuthin’ but trash,” Bill growled as he took a little of the food.
“Lord! I wish I had a good swig of hootch. That would put new life into
me. But there’s not a drop anywhere in this hole.”
“Too much hootch in Injun camp,” Tom replied. “Bad white man mak’ Injun
all sam’ crazee. Tom hurt, see?” and he placed his hand to his face.
“Who did that?” Bill asked.
“Jeree, white man. Plenty hootch. Jeree mad; hit Tom.”
“Where was that?”
“Injun camp, off dere,” and Tom motioned south.
“Was there another white man with Jerry?”
“Ah, ah, no savvey name. Beeg, bad face, all sam’ wolf.”
“Where did they come from?”
“Me no savvey.”
This information excited Bill, and he became very impatient. Once he
scrambled out of the bunk, but so intense was the pain in his leg that
he groaned in agony.
“I must git away from here,” he cried when Tom urged him to lie down
again and be still. “This is too dangerous a place fer me. Git me my
snow-shoes, an’ put me up some grub. There’s a hard trail ahead, an’ I
must be off.”
In another minute, however, he was glad to be back again in the bunk.
He moaned, cursed, and lamented his hard luck. His eyes expressed a
nameless fear, and often he looked anxiously toward the door.
“Did you see the Police?” he at length asked. “Are they near?”
“Ah, ah; P’lice at Gap.”
“They are!” Bill suddenly raised himself on his right shoulder. “Are
they coming this way? Do they know where I am? Does anybody know?”
“Ah, ah, Tom savvey.”
“I know ye do, ye fool. But does anybody else?”
“Me no savvey. P’lice savvey much, eh?”
“They do,” was the savage reply. “They are devils.”
The short afternoon was rapidly wearing away as the wretched man tossed
and writhed in his hard bunk. He became consumed with a burning thirst,
and called continually for water. Tom was kept busy melting snow, and
then placing the water outside to cool. Cup after cup he carried to
the restless patient, who would seize it, drain it to the bottom, and
demand more.
When night shut down, Bill became delirious, and it was only with
difficulty that the native could keep him in the bunk. He talked and
shouted almost incessantly, and Tom was shocked at many of the things
he said. If formerly he had any doubt about this man being the one
who had committed that terrible deed at the C. D. Cut-Off, it was now
entirely removed. The man lived it all over again, as well as other
deeds of infamy. Time and time again he would start up and look wildly
around, his eyes dilated with fear.
“Keep back!” he would cry. “Let me go! Let me go! Don’t put me under
the ice! Bill Haines an’ his wife are there, an’ they’ll kill me, oh,
oh!”
He talked, too, about Tim, and how he knew too much. He raved about
Zell, the half-breed girl, and how he wanted her.
“I’ll git ye,” he shouted. “Tim won’t have ye. I’ll fix him.”
He then gave utterance to expressions which further revealed the
baseness of his nature, and which Tom found hard to endure.
Thus all through the long night the man tossed and raved. Tom was very
weary, and longed to sleep. But he did not dare to close his eyes. When
he was not forcing Bill back into the bunk, he squatted near the stove
and smoked his old blackened pipe. Although his body was tired, his
mind was very active. He wondered what he should do with the sick white
man. That it was his duty to stay by his side he was certain. But how
was he to get word to that outlying band of Indians? It was necessary
that they should be told of the condition of the Gikhi, that they might
have a chance to return with the other natives who had avowed their
loyalty. But he was helpless to do anything.
At times Tom went to the door, opened it and looked out. It was a cold
night, and the Northern Lights were making a wonderful display. The
stars, too, were exceptionally thick and bright. There was no moon, but
with such lights in the heavens the night was not dark. All was still,
save for the occasional snap of a frost-rent tree, or the distant howl
of a lone wolf.
Thus hour after hour Tom kept his weary watch, while the man in the
bunk tossed, fretted, and revealed his past life of shame.