“Maintien le Droit”
It was evening, and Sergeant North and Constable Rolfe were travelling
fast. They had been on the way since early morning, and were anxious to
reach the next band of Indians, where they were planning to stay all
night. They were not following the regular police trail, but visiting
the various Indian camps instead, hoping in this manner to obtain some
word about Bill, the Slugger, and perhaps overtake him. They believed
that he could not travel far, judging from what they had heard about
the injury he had received. So far they had learned nothing, but
that did not discourage them. They had often followed after men and
overtaken them with far less to work upon. This undertaking appeared
easy in comparison with some they had experienced in the past.
Sergeant North was anxious to get through with the job as soon as
possible that he might hurry back to Marion. It was hard for him to
leave her at The Gap with the unconscious missionary. He wanted to
remain with her. But his duty was out in the hills, so nothing must
interfere with his loyalty to the Force. He had a reasonable excuse for
delaying a day or two, at the least. Some men who had come through such
hardships would have rested before venturing forth again. As he swung
on his way, up hill and down, with the constable close at his heels,
Marion was almost constantly in his mind. He thought of her standing
at the door of the mission house bidding them good-by. How beautiful
she looked then, although her eyes were misty, and her voice trembled
as she tried to be brave and smile a cheery farewell. He had stooped
and kissed her right before the constable, and he did not know that the
latter’s heart was strangely stirred. He, too, longed for someone to
care for him as Marion did for the sergeant. He envied North his good
fortune, but it was envy robbed of all sting and malice. But away from
The Gap his buoyant spirit once more gained the mastery, and he was
apparently as light-hearted as ever. He joked, sang snatches of songs,
and quoted poetry to his heart’s content. North, if he heard, paid no
attention to his companion, so completely wrapped up was he in his own
affairs.
The first night they encamped with the band of Indians who had given
Tom such a warm welcome. These natives had heard nothing about the
presence of any white man in the hills. They were enthusiastic over the
idea of returning to The Gap, and asked the police numerous questions
about the Gikhi. The visitors listened with much interest to the Indian
service that night, which was conducted by the oldest native present.
The constable’s face showed his approval, and his eyes sparkled with
animation. The sergeant, on the other hand, expressed no outward sign.
But he was doing considerable thinking, and his heart was stirred more
than usual. He made no comment then, but the next day while resting
and eating a cold lunch, he turned suddenly to his companion, who was
seated on a fallen log by his side.
“Say, Tom,” he began, “I’ve been thinking much to-day about that Indian
service last night.”
“Is that so? Going to put a stop to it, eh? You shouldn’t allow such
superstitious practices to be carried on. They might do harm to the
natives, you know.”
“No, I’m going to do nothing of the kind, Tom. And besides, I have not
the power. And I don’t want to stop them. I have been greatly impressed
of late by what I have seen, and am beginning to look at certain things
in a different light.”
“Experiencing a change of heart?” the constable asked, looking
quizzically at the sergeant. “Isn’t it coming to you rather late?”
“Not too late, I hope,” was the quiet reply. “I am afraid that my
judgment of things pertaining to religion has been too much biased, and
a one-sided affair. I have been going upon the idea that religion is
all right in theory, but of little use in daily life. I see now that I
was wrong.”
“What has led you to change your mind?”
“Oh, several things. The first, and perhaps the most important, was
the thought of that old missionary giving up his life on behalf of the
Indians, and standing bravely at his post of duty when deserted by
nearly all of his flock. Why, Tom, that man is a great hero, and yet
the world knows nothing about him. I could hardly keep back the tears
at something I saw upon his rough table. Marion saw it, too, and she
was deeply affected.”
“What was it, sergeant? It must have been something out of the ordinary
to move such a hardened being as you.”
“It was the last bit of writing, I believe, that he did. His Bible was
lying open on the table, with a sheet of paper right near, on which
were some words in the Indian language. I did not know what they were,
but Zell could read them, and what do you suppose they were?”
“I could never guess.”
“They were words of the Great Master Himself, and they have fairly
burned themselves into my mind and soul. I had often heard them before,
but thought little about them. But to see them there in that strange
language, written with a trembling hand, and with an old rusted pen,
stirred something within me which I can never forget.”
“What were they?” the constable asked, now deeply impressed by the
sergeant’s earnest tone.
“Wonderful words about love which the Master was imparting to his
disciples. ‘This is my commandment that ye love one another, as I have
loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his
life for his friends.’ Now, what do you think of that? The last words
penned by that old saint for his wandering flock. And he lived them,
too; that is what affected me so deeply. His love was so great that he
actually laid down his life for the Indians.”
The sergeant paused and looked off among the trees. The constable
watched him somewhat curiously, completely surprised at the change
which had come over his leader. He admired him, too, and longed to
tell him so. But before he could frame suitable words, the sergeant
continued:
“And think of the influence that missionary exerted over the natives.
They were wild savages when he first came among them, so I have been
told. He changed their entire manner of living, and until base white
men began to demoralize them they lived at peace and we had not the
slightest trouble with them. It was a sad day when those wretched
hootch peddlers began their diabolical work. I believe the natives want
to follow the teaching of their missionary, and are anxious to return
to The Gap. They are naturally religious by nature. Did you notice last
night how reverent and attentive they were during that simple service?”
“Indeed I did,” the constable emphatically declared. “I was thinking of
what Longfellow said in his ‘Hiawatha’ about Indians. Did you ever hear
it?”
“Not that I know of. More poetry, I suppose.”
“Yes, but great poetry, and it expresses fully what was in my mind.
Longfellow says:
“‘That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings,
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God’s right hand in that darkness,
And are lifted up and strengthened.’
“Now, isn’t that beautiful? I could quote you a great deal more from
‘Hiawatha,’ though I advise you to read it yourself when you get a
chance. I can’t understand why you have not read it already.”
“For want of the proper poetic gift, I suppose, and because the
whole of my life has been lived in the open. But I like those words,
especially about feeble hands touching God’s hand in the darkness. I
guess that applies to me as well as to the Indians. But, there, we have
delayed here too long, so must get on our way.”
This conversation took place at midday, and all through the afternoon
the two men sped rapidly forward. They had little to impede their
march, for they carried only light packs, and their revolvers. They
could turn aside whenever they wished and obtain extra food from the
patrol-house.
When about a mile from the Indian encampment they were surprised at the
sight of a man just ahead, staggering along, and moaning as if in pain.
Coming closer they saw that he was a white man, known to them as Jerry,
a squaw-man, who lived in a small shack along the river. He stopped,
straightened somewhat up and exhibited much fear at the sight of the
policemen.
“What’s the matter with you?” the sergeant asked.
“The devils are after me!” was the gasping answer. “They’ll kill me!
For God’s sake, keep them back till I git out of this!”
“Who are after you?”
“The Injuns. They’ve gone crazy. Been wild all day. Me pardner is
killed, I guess.”
“Who’s that?”
“Bob Span,” the man replied, turning his head and looking fearfully
back. “They set upon us like wolves, an’ I jist managed to git away.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” the sergeant sternly asked.
“Trappin’, of course. Happened to stay last night with them Injuns, an’
was jist leavin’ when they set upon us. Don’t let ’em git me.”
The sergeant shot a swift glance toward the constable, and then laid a
strong hand upon the frightened man.
“You’ve been selling hootch to the Indians,” he charged.
“No, no!” the man denied. “I was jist trappin’. Let me go.”
“Quit your lying,” the sergeant ordered. “Do you think I’m fool enough
to believe what you say? You will go with us, and I warn you not to
make any trouble.”
“Where are ye goin’ to take me?” the man asked.
“Back from where you came, of course.”
“No, no; not there! The Injuns will kill me like they did me pardner.”
“Oh, we’ll attend to that. Come, we haven’t any time to lose.”
Seeing that the sergeant meant business and that further words would
be useless, Jerry did as he was ordered. He was well worn out through
fear and lack of sleep, so he tottered as he groped his way along. At
last the policemen were forced to help him, each taking an arm, and
thus they moved slowly along. At times Jerry wailed and sobbed. He
vowed that the Indians would kill him as soon as they saw him. Once he
dropped upon the snow and refused to go a step farther. It was only
when North threatened to leave him there, and let the Indians come and
deal with him, that he could be induced to go on. He was well aware
that his only hope now lay with these hardy guardians he had so often
eluded.
It was dark by the time the Indian encampment was reached, and there
all was excitement and wild talking. Men, women, and children sprang to
their feet as the policemen approached, dragging along their terrified
prisoner. The natives advanced threateningly toward Jerry, but a
stern warning from North caused them to hesitate and draw back. They
recognised the sergeant and the constable as men who would stand no
nonsense. They knew of them not only by report but through personal
experience in the towns and on the trails. They had always held them
in high regard and special awe, knowing that they and all the men of
the Force would carry out their duties to the letter. Now, however, it
was different. The natives were mad and half-crazed with bad hootch,
and they were ready to cast discretion to the winds. What could two
lone men do against an overwhelming number? This was the thought that
ran through the minds of several daring young natives. They had easily
disposed of the two hootch peddlers, and this made them venturesome and
impudent. They wished to show the rest of the Indians that they were
not afraid of the policemen.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, one of their number uttered a
few words in the native tongue, sprang forward, and laid hold upon
the cringing Jerry. He was followed by several of his companions, and
Jerry was being lifted off his feet when the sergeant took a hand.
Whipping out his revolver, he sternly ordered the Indians to drop their
burden. As they paid no heed, the next instant the revolver spoke, and
the right arm of the leader dropped to his side. With a yell of pain
and rage the man staggered back, leaving his companions to complete
the task. But they had no relish now for the undertaking, for the
sergeant was standing silently there with his finger slightly pressing
the trigger, and by his side was the constable, with drawn revolver,
ready to follow his leader’s example. Quickly the natives deposited the
terrified Jerry upon the ground and leaped back among the rest of the
Indians who were standing defiantly near.
Seeing that for a time the rebels were quelled, the sergeant thrust
back his revolver into its holster, stepped forward, and drew back
Jerry to his side. His eyes then roamed deliberately over the silent
band before him. He was well aware that he had to use extreme caution
now, as the least mistake on his part might prove fatal. But his
experience with the Indians covered a number of years, so he was no
novice in dealing with them. Had he hesitated at the outset, and shown
the least sign of fear, the entire band would have been upon him and
the constable like howling wolves.
“Let us be friends,” he at length began. “We come here to help you and
not to fight. These men who carry hootch harm you. We want to do you
good, and save you from them. You could easily kill me and my companion
here. But it would be very bad for you. Other men would take our place,
and, if necessary, they would be followed by others as many as the
trees of the forest. You could not fight them. But we do not want to
fight. Let us talk this matter over, and be at peace with one another.”
Having finished, the sergeant moved forward, and sat down calmly near
the fire. The constable followed his example, and there the two waited
to see what would happen next. Although the Indians did not understand
all the words that were said, they grasped their meaning, and at once
began to talk to one another in the most animated manner. At length
they drew back, ranged themselves in a circle around the fire, some
standing, while others squatted upon the snow.
At last the leader arose and asked the sergeant why there were two
laws in the country, one for the Indians and another for the white
people. Why were not the Indians allowed the same liberty as their
white brothers? The land belonged to the Indians, as it had been handed
down to them from their fathers. Why could they not drink hootch if
they wanted to do so? They did not think that the white man’s laws were
fair. The strangers had come into their country, were killing their
game, and driving the natives farther and farther back into the hills.
Soon there would be no place left for them.
The sergeant was well aware of these old complaints, so he was not
surprised to hear them again. He was wise enough not to attempt to
answer them directly, as it would only involve him in a lengthy
argument, for which he was not at all inclined. He merely told the
Indians that what their leader said was only too true. But the Police
were in the country to protect them from bad white men, and to save
their young men and women. If they obeyed the laws it would be for
their good, and no harm would come to them. He then drew a picture of
their happy condition at The Gap when the missionary was their teacher,
guide, and friend.
“Were you not happier then?” he asked. “Were you not all like one big
family? But what has happened? Your teacher has been shot by a bad
white man, and he may be dead now. He gave up his life for the Indians,
and his every thought was for you. He was always praying that you might
come back to him again. Let us now forget all strife and think only of
him who is lying wounded in his house at The Gap. Suppose we have a
little service here, and pray to the Lord to spare the missionary. That
will do more good than quarrelling.”
This suggestion was carefully considered by the natives. Although he
did not know what was being said, yet the sergeant could tell that
several of the young men opposed the idea. But the will of the majority
prevailed, and it was not long ere many of the natives were holding in
their hands copies of the little manual which they had unearthed from
most unlikely places.
“The white man’s words are good,” the leader said, turning toward the
sergeant. “The Indians will pray for the Gikhi. Mebbe the Lord will not
let the Gikhi die.”
Then at a word the natives all dropped upon their knees while the
leader began to pray in the native tongue. At times all joined in, and
from their earnest tones it was quite evident that they meant what they
said.
Rising at length from their knees, they began to sing an old familiar
hymn. This ended, they sang another, and still another. Their
enthusiasm was now intense. It had been months since they had held such
a service, and their hearts were all deeply stirred. When at last they
paused to rest, some were anxious to start right away that very night
for The Gap, but others advised waiting until morning before beginning
the journey.
While they were discussing this, the other hootch peddler sneaked into
their midst and stood before the fire. He was shivering with cold and
his face was scarred and bleeding. The Indians made no attempt to
molest the miserable creature, but left him to the sergeant.
“Where have you been?” the latter asked.
“Out in the woods, freezin’,” was the gasping reply. “I would have died
if you hadn’t come along. Say, these Indians are devils.”
“Who made them devils?” the sergeant sternly asked. “You did,” he
continued, receiving no reply. “You and your partner brought in your
hootch-poison, and it’s a wonder they didn’t kill you.”
“They tried to. Oh, Lord! I thought it was all up with me.”
“It’s too bad it wasn’t for the sake of others. But the Indians won’t
harm you now, and you have that noble missionary at The Gap to thank
for it.”
“Why, where does he come in on this?” the man asked in surprise. “I
thought it was yer guns, an’ the hell-fear the Police have put into the
hearts of the Injuns.”
“Oh, that had something to do with it, I suppose. But unless these
Indians had been taught the difference between right and wrong, what
could two of us have done with this bunch? No, it was mainly due to the
teaching they received, and don’t you forget that. We’ve been on your
trail for some time, and would have caught you sooner or later. We’ve
got you now, and intend to hold on to you.”
With peace thus restored, the sergeant and the constable were able to
rest. The Indians supplied them liberally with food, and gave them a
comfortable place to sleep. They were tired out after their strenuous
exertions, but thankful for what had happened. As the sergeant lay upon
the robes spread over a wealth of fir boughs, he thought of Marion and
wondered how she was making out. He went to sleep with her in his mind
and heart, and did not hear the constable repeating one of his favorite
verses:
“‘God bless the man who first invented sleep,
So Sancho Panza said and so say I.
And bless him, also, that he didn’t keep
His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it, as the lucky fellow might--
A close monopoly by patent right.’”