True friendship never changes, never grows weary of serving, never dies.
I have in my mind two men I once knew in Colorado, Barney Kennedy and
Fred Gordon—“Little Fred Gordon.” Kennedy was a big, robust son of the
Emerald Isle, standing six feet in his shoes, and strong as an ox; Gordon
a puny little fellow, born in Iowa, and weighing scarcely 140 pounds.
I expected everything of Kennedy, but Gordon was only a little, common
place man who would not attract attention.
When the gold excitement in Alaska was raging in 1897 these two men left
home together, for they had been both friends and companions for many
long years, and struck out for the promised land in hopes of finding the
delusive metal. But hunting gold in Alaska is full of danger, privations
and hardships, and before the first year had passed away these two
friends found themselves 200 miles from a doctor, and Kennedy dying of
scurvy. The giant was helpless, and dependent on his little friend.
Gordon tried to get some one to assist him in taking his sick friend back
to Skagway, but these men had come out to dig for gold, and had no time
to waste on dying men who were strangers to them.
But Gordon’s friendship was of the true sort—the kind that never fails,
and only dies with the possessor. He started out alone to drag his friend
200 long, weary, horrible, soul-depressing miles through the trackless
snow to a physician.
Think of such an undertaking, for friendship’s sake—to drag a 200-pound
man on a sledge, with provisions enough to feed them for fifteen days.
Kennedy was unable to stand alone, and was awed by his comrade’s bravery
and daring courage. Could he succeed? The sick man was frightened at the
gloomy prospect. Two hundred miles over the virgin snow, and dragging
three times his weight on a clumsy sled. All day trudging along, and at
night camping on the dreary waste of unfriendly ice and snow. How far it
seemed back to civilization and a warm room. How cold the moon and the
stars appeared away up in the blue sky. God was supposed to be up there,
too, but he seemed to be farther away than the remotest star on these
lonely nights. But the undaunted Gordon refused to give up. His optimism
never failed. He must reach civilization and a physician, for Kennedy’s
sake.
One hundred miles are successfully, though painfully trudged over; then
twenty added—140 traversed, when one night Gordon camped to await the
morning. Weary and worn out with many days of exertion, he slept soundly,
dreaming of home and friends, wife and children. When he awoke the
stillness of the frozen north seemed more depressing than ever before.
There were many weary miles to travel yet; but he got up with resolutions
as strong as ever. He prepared the morning meal before he attempted to
wake Kennedy. But Kennedy would never awaken again.
Gordon was shocked and heart-broken on making the awful discovery. His
big-hearted Irish friend was beyond the aid of an earthly physician.
Perhaps it was the loneliness and the utter helplessness of the big man
that took away his courage and caused him to give up and die; for he had
seemed very much depressed before Gordon went to sleep that night.
But Gordon’s friendship did not die, and for four wearisome days he
tugged at the sledge dragging the dead body of his friend over the
crunching snow, too true a friend to desert an old companion even after
death had robbed the body of all that was loving and lovable, and the
generous Irish heart was silenced forever.
Who but Gordon could picture those last days and lonely nights, when he
labored so hard at his task, and camped alone on the dreary snow at the
side of his friend. He must sleep close to the body at night to prevent
the hungry wolves from devouring all that was left of his friend.
Alone with the dead and the awful dreariness and bitter cold, and the
realization that the trip had been a failure. Friendship had done all
that friend could do for the living, and all that friend could do for the
dead. The town was reached and Kennedy given decent burial, and Gordon
returned to the States.
Little Fred Gordon. To look at him one would never dream of such
friendship and courage. When I knew him he was keeping a feed store at
the corner of Fifth and Main streets, Grand Junction, Colorado, with no
thought of that awful experience in the land of delusive gold.