do, and went calmly on his way, “keeping the boys in line.” But he began
to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he
could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness
on the part of the boys to “line up” at the word, but there was no
corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the “same old
party.” There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part
of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been
several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm
for all “Mexico” represented. They “lined up” still, but beyond this
they did not go.
The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the
attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the
polls. “It's that cursed doctor!” he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member
for the district. “He's been working a deep game. Of course, his
brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we
know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm
afraid of him.”
“Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing,” said McKenty.
“How?”
“Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without
grease.” McKenty spoke out of considerable experience.
“That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of
another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys
all round.”
“I've heard about it,” said McKenty. “I guess the Government could take
a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too.”
“That's all right,” replied the editor. “Might do some good. But you
can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs
altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one
doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere.
He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can
get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says.”
McKenty thought deeply for some moments. “Well,” he said, finally,
“something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage
to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?”
“'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. “There's
the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be
strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be
after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The
best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No,
sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.”
“Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of
loosening up people.”
“But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work
here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's
some religion in it.”
McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.
“I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The doctor's got it
hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I
was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair
curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting
in question.
“Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,'
pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much.
You've simply got to get after him.”
This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for,
looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he
perceived “Mexico” sauntering down the other side of the street.
“There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! 'Mexico'!” he
called, and “Mexico” came slouching across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't
he?” said the editor. “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!”
“Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the editor and then to
McKenty.
“How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most ingratiating
manner.
“How?”
“How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know.”
“Comin' on soon?”
“Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be
ready, though.”
“Can't be too soon,” said “Mexico.”
“How is that?”
“Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion,” with a glance at
the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. “People beginnin' to go
to meetin' in this country.”
“I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty,
facetiously.
“Mexico” turned his eyes slowly upon the Member.
“Anything to say agin it?”
“Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's
got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip.”
“Who says?”
“Oh, I hear it everywhere.”
“Guess it must be right, then,” replied “Mexico,” grimly.
“And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to
the mourners' bench.”
“Do, eh?”
“Look here, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone,
“you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you,
are you?”
“Don't know about that.”
“You don't?”
“No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm
working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my
way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess.
Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon.”
“Well, do you imagine the doctor has?”
“Mexico” paused, then said thoughtfully, “Blanked if I can git on to his
game!”
“Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You
don't really think he has your interest at heart?”
“Can't quite tell.” “Mexico” wore a vexed and thoughtful air. “Wish I
could. If I thought so I'd--”
“What?”
“Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!” There was a sudden
gleam from under “Mexico's” heavy brows and a ring in his usually
drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. “There ain't
too many of that kind raound.”
“What do you think of that?” inquired the editor, as “Mexico” sauntered
out of the door.
“Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it
ought to be enforced.”
“That means war,” said the editor.
“Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd
give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country.”
But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the
country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should
so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his
work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to
the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of
the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines
opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both
labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive
ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of
miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long
campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors
were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so
urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were
concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The
miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched
conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous
objection.
How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor,
a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on
the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where
it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his
return from Scotland.
“We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before,”
grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret.
“It's the universal law,” replied Dick. “Some men must die for their
nation. It's been the way from the first.”
“But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work
yourself to death as you are doing?” said Margaret, anxiously. “You know
you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came
back.”
Barney only smiled. “That would be no great matter,” he said, lightly.
“But there is no fear of me,” he added. “I don't pine for an early
death, you know. I've got a lot to live for.”
There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave
in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return,
and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and
speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light
and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and
Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's
mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so.
Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and
tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had
gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend.
“It would be easier for me not to speak of her,” he had said on his
return, “but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to
talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy.”
And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till
at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only
deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory
of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of
each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney.
It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of
his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's
story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months,
combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even
in the most radiant moments of her life.
“There is only place for gratitude,” he said, one evening, to them. “Why
should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or
to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from
pain, and her last evening so full of joy?”
It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps
to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he
went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in
him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady,
but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the
words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender.
The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm
possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to
give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical
well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and
spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had
initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not
to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element
and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the
success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as
ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do,
they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As
“Mexico” said, they “couldn't get onto his game.” And none of them was
more completely puzzled than was “Mexico” himself, but none more fully
acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new
spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same
time, however, “Mexico” could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and
then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when
“Mexico” would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself
up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who
lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and “Mexico” was
kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious
to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil
and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it
difficult for “Mexico” to accept it as being sincere.
“What's his game?” he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery
deepened. “What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?”
One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve
miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had
been falling heavily all day. “Mexico” received him with a wrathful
affection.
“What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?” “Mexico” asked
him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had
come to notice the doctor disliked. “I can't get onto you. It's all just
d--, that is, cursed foolishness!”
“Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll
tell you. Now listen,” said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before
“Mexico's” fire. “I've been wanting to tell you this for some time.”
He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always
formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story
of the two debtors. “Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last
spring?” “Mexico” nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. “I had a
big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time,
and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long
enough to pay back what I owe.” Then he told “Mexico” in a low, reverent
tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going.
“That's why,” he said, when he concluded his tale. “That was a great
thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps!
they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night
like this. And don't you think that's good enough?”
Then “Mexico” turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the
sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale.
After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:
“You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want.”
“'Mexico,'” replied the doctor, “you know I don't preach at you. I
haven't, have I?”
“Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't.”
“Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my
friend.” He put out his hand, which “Mexico” gripped and held fast.
“But,” continued the doctor, “I want to say that He wants you more than
I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend.”
“Say, Doc,” said “Mexico,” drawing back a little from him, “I guess not.
That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight.
It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It
would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off.
But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that
mountain there.”
“The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'” said the doctor,
quietly. “He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,'
it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!”
“You're right there,” said “Mexico,” emphatically. Then, as if a sudden
suspicion flashed in upon him, “Say, you're not talkin' religion to me,
are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet.”
“Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a
good thing and I want my friend to have it.”
When the doctor was departing next morning “Mexico” stopped him at the
door. “I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of
yours for a spell?”
The doctor took it out of his bag. “It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can
bank on it.”
The book proved of absorbing interest to “Mexico.” He read it openly in
the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book
and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable
comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read
became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor.
The book did its work with “Mexico,” as it does with all who give it
place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling
in “Mexico's” mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His
discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of
poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay.
For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction.
The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued
that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss
without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined
that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his
friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that
week the doctor failed to appear, and “Mexico” grew increasingly
uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness
not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined
to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged
“Mexico” into deepest gloom.
“If he's took to bed,” he said, “there ain't much hope, I guess, for
they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off.”
But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the
doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He
had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and
that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he
would be on his feet again.
“If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month,” groaned
Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed.
“There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him,” replied Margaret,
“but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton,” and here she
smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, “you will help, I
am sure.”
“Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him
there.”
“Yes, a month at the very least,” cried Dick.
But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he
would be fit again.
“It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical
Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway,” said Dr. Cotton, “and I
think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen.”
“Ah,” replied Margaret, “that is because you haven't known your patient
long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey.”
And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day,
when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had
apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the
flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in
his hand.
“It's fer the doctor,” said Ben, “an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico'
had got shot and--”
Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's
voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two
words had caught Barney's ear, “Mexico” and “shot.”
“Let me have the wire,” he said quietly, when Margaret came in.
“I intended to give it to you, Barney,” she replied as quietly. “You
will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best.”
Barney opened the telegram and read, “'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found.
Wants doctor to come if possible.”
“Dr. Cotton is not in?” inquired Barney.
“He is gone up the Big Horn.”
“We can't possibly get him to-night,” replied Barney.
Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew
that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost.
“Take my temperature, Margaret.” It was nine-nine and one-fifth. “That's
not bad,” said Barney. “Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life.
Yes, and more.”
Margaret turned slightly pale. “You know best, Barney,” she said, “but
it may be your life, you know.”
“Yes,” he replied gravely. “I take that chance. But I think I ought to
take it, don't you?” But Margaret refused to speak. “What do you think,
Margaret?” he asked.
“Oh, Barney!” she cried, with passionate protest, “why should you give
your life for him?”
“Why?” he repeated slowly. “There was One who gave His life for me.
Besides,” he added, after a pause, “there's a fair chance that I can get
through.”
She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. “No, Barney, there's
almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!”
The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely,
earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the
crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She
buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head,
stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent.
Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he
said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, “You expect me to do right,
Margaret.”
A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of
renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained
it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes
looked into his bravely while she answered simply, “You will do what is
right, Barney.”
Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in.
“Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'”
A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently
reached “Mexico,” and he would not have his friend risk his life for
him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a
light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.
When he entered the sick man's room “Mexico” glanced into his face.
“Good Lord, Doctor!” he cried, “you shouldn't have come! You're worse
than me!”
“All right, 'Mexico,'” replied the doctor cheerfully. “I had to come,
you know. We can't go back on our friends.”
“Mexico” kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began
to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. “I know
now,” he said hoarsely, “why He let 'em kill Him.”
“Why?”
“Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?”
“You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?”
“You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed.”
The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty
wound and dangerous, but in half an hour “Mexico” was resting quietly.
Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning,
conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well
knew indicated a very serious condition. When “Mexico” woke the doctor
examined him carefully.
“You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet
and obey orders.”
“Mexico's” hand grasped him. “Doc,” he said anxiously, “you look awful
bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be terrible sick.”
“I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I
couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm glad I
came.”
“Mexico's” fierce black eyes softened. “Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I
had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know now. And I want
to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out.” He waved
his hand toward the bar.
“'Mexico,'” said Barney earnestly, “that's great! That's the best news
I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick.” He took the gambler's
hand in his. “Good-bye, 'Mexico.'” His voice was earnest, almost solemn.
“You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll
never go back on a friend.”
“Mexico” reached out and held him with both hands. “Git out,” he said to
the attendant. “Doc,” his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew
the doctor down to him, “there ain't nobody here, is there?” he asked,
with a glance round the room.
“No, 'Mexico,' no one.”
“Doc,” he began again, his strong frame shaking, “I can't say it. It's
all in here till it hurts. You're--you're like Him, I think. You make me
think o' Him.”
Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about
his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. “God
bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word,” he said. “Goodbye, my friend.”
They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's
eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through
the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every
moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave
welcoming smile.
“Dr. Cotton has returned,” she announced. “And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is
here, Barney.”
He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. “That
was right, Margaret. And Dick?”