THE MISSIONARY'S ALLY
On reaching the railroad camp, Kermode was engaged by the contractor to
haul in logs cut in a neighboring forest for constructional purposes. The
line ran into a wild valley, clinging to the rocks that formed one side
of it, with a torrent brawling hoarsely among the stones beneath. Above
rose vast slopes, streaked in some places with small firs, in others
ground to a smooth scarp by sliding snow. Farther back were glaciers and
a chain of glittering peaks.
The mouth of the valley had been laid out as the site of a future town,
but so far it was occupied by rows of tents and rude wooden shacks,
inhabited by the construction gangs. A large proportion of them were
orderly, well-conducted men: industrious immigrants who had seized the
first opportunity for getting work, small farmers attracted by high
wages, skilled artisans. There were, however, some of a rougher type; and
the undesirable element, was, as usual, well represented. On the whole,
the camp was sober, largely because no licenses had been issued, though
this did not prevent men who came up from other points from bringing
liquor in, and the authorities suspected another source of supply.
Kermode had little trouble with his work, which he found profitable, and
he rapidly made friends. Among them was a young Presbyterian missionary
whom he met for the first time on the hillside, engaged on a squared log
with a big jack-plane. He wore knee-boots and a threadbare suit of gray,
while his hat had suffered from exposure to the weather. Kermode stopped
his team near-by and the clergyman looked around.
"If you have a good eye, you might tell me whether this chamfer's running
true," he said.
"You want a bit off here." Kermode laid his finger on the spot. "Except
for that, it's good."
The clergyman sat down and pulled out a tobacco pouch.
"I'll attend to it presently, but I feel I'm entitled to a rest. Take a
smoke; you're not paid on time."
"I'm not sure it would matter if I were." Kermode's eyes twinkled as he
filled his pipe. "An idea of the kind you suggested doesn't go far in a
construction camp, unless, of course, a foreman happens to be about.
However, you made one rash statement, didn't you?"
"I'm afraid I make a good many," replied the clergyman good-humoredly.
"But you are right. It would be very rash to claim all that one was
entitled to; in other words, one's deserts. You're Mr. Kermode, I
believe; you must know my name is Ferguson."
Kermode bowed.
"What are you going to do with this log?" he asked.
"It's to be a door-post in the new church. I wonder if you would be
willing to haul it in?"
Kermode said that he would be glad to do so.
"You encourage me to go a little farther," Ferguson continued. "Building
a church is a costly proposition."
"So I should imagine; I can't speak from experience." Kermode was
generally liberal, and he took out some money. "I think you ought to let
me off with this, as I don't belong to your flock."
"It's a generous contribution; better than the excuse. There are, I may
remind you, many kinds of sheep, and the outward difference is often
marked. Since, you're from the old country, you can take the little
Cheviot and the ponderous Shropshire as examples. You see the drift of
this?"
"That they're all sheep. I've noticed, however, that they wear a good
many different brands."
"Ah, the pity of it! After all, a shepherd has his human weaknesses;
perhaps he's too fond of using his private mark or the stamp of his
guild."
"That," Kermode smiled, "is a handsome admission. Anyway, you have no
rival in shepherding the boys here; and taking us all round, we need it.
But can you raise building funds on the spot?"
"Oh, no! I went to Ontario this summer and spent a month begging from
people who have very little to spare. The response was generous--I've a
carload of shiplap lumber coming out; but you may understand how that
adds to one's responsibility."
"It's obvious. I suppose you know you're up against a strong opposition?"
"That's true, unfortunately." The clergyman looked thoughtful. "There's
one group, the Mitcham crowd, who would like to run me out. The fellow's
piling up money by smuggling in liquor; he and his friends are depraving
the camp. They must be stopped."
"It's a big thing for one man to undertake. It may wreck your mission."
Ferguson's eyes sparkled.
"The risk mustn't count. One can't shut one's eyes to what those fellows
are doing. But I want backers; will you give me your support?"
"That's more than I can consistently promise. However, I'll look on and
see you get fair play. If the opposition hit below the belt, I may take a
hand in."
"Thanks," responded Ferguson, and Kermode went on with his team.
He was favorably impressed by the young missionary and kept the promise
he had made, though it now and then involved him in difficulties with his
comrades. The carload of lumber duly arrived, and with the help of men
who gave their labor after their hard day's work was done, the church was
raised by the light of flaring blast-lamps which the contractor allowed.
By day, Ferguson worked at it alone, and the building steadily grew into
shape; but as the weather got colder trouble broke out in camp. Men
engaged on the higher portions of the line were laid off by snow and
frost, and when the cost of their board ran on, their tempers got short.
There were dismissals, and as working hours diminished, the gangs were
driven harder. Friends began to quarrel over games of chance, and the
violence they displayed was often accounted for by indulgence in smuggled
liquor.
Ferguson, however, was making progress: gaining staunch adherents here,
tacit sympathizers there, though the opposition saw to it that several
had reason to regret their joining him. Kermode took no open part in the
struggle, but watched it interestedly.
At length, one nipping morning, he left his tent with a shiver before it
was light and busied himself about his horses with a lantern in their
rude branch and bark shelter. Winter was beginning in earnest, and a
bitter wind had raged all night, covering gorge and hillside deep with
snow, but this would make his hauling easier when he had broken out a
trail. He plowed through the snow in the darkness, and the threatening
dawn had broken when he came down the hillside with the ends of three or
four big logs trailing behind his jumper-sled. The shacks and tents were
white in the hollow, over which there floated a haze of thin, blue smoke;
the rapid creek that flowed past them showed in leaden-colored streaks
among the ice; and somber pines rose in harsh distinctness from the
hillside.
Then the half-covered frame of the church caught Kermode's eye. Something
was wrong with it. The skeleton tower looked out of the perpendicular;
and on his second glance its inclination seemed to have increased. The
snow, however, was clogging the front of his sled and he set to work to
scrape it off. While he was thus engaged there was a sharp, ripping
sound, and then a heavy crash, and swinging around he saw that the tower
had collapsed. Where it had stood lay a pile of broken timber, and planks
and beams were strewn about the snow.
Kermode urged his team downhill, and when a group of men came running up
to meet him, he recognized Ferguson some distance in front of them. The
man's face showed how heavy the blow had been.
"It looks bad; I'm very sorry," said Kermode when they reached the
wrecked building.
"I'm afraid we can't get things straight until spring and I don't know
how I'll raise the money then," declared Ferguson. "A good deal of the
lumber seems destroyed, and I've levied pretty heavily on every friend
I've got." Then he tried to assume a philosophic tone. "Well, I suppose
this is the result of impatience; there were spikes I didn't put in
because I couldn't wait for them and some tenons were badly cut. It blew
hard last night and there must have been a big weight of snow on the new
shingling."
"I don't think you're right," Kermode said dryly, and turned to a
bridge-carpenter who stood near-by. "What's your idea?"
"The thrust of what roof they'd got up wouldn't come on the beams that
gave," rejoined the man. "There's something here I don't catch on to."
"Just so," said Kermode. "Suppose you take a look at the king-posts and
stringers. We'll clear this fallen lumber out of the way, boys."
They set to work, and in an hour the sound and damaged timber had been
sorted into piles. Then, when the foundations were exposed, Kermode and
the carpenter examined a socket in which a broken piece of wood remained.
"This has been a blamed bad tenon," the mechanic remarked. "The shoulders
weren't butted home."
"I'm afraid that's true; I made it," Ferguson admitted; but Kermode,
laying his finger on the rent wood, looked up at his companion.
"For all that, should it have given way as it has done?"
"I'll tell you better when we find the beam it belonged to."
It took them some time; and then the carpenter turned to Ferguson.
"You marked this tenon off before you cut it. Did you run the saw past
your line?"
"No," said Ferguson with a start; "that's certain. I dressed up to the
mark afterward with a chisel."
The carpenter looked at Kermode meaningly.
"Guess you're right. See here"--he indicated the broken stump--"there's a
saw-cut running well inside his mark. Now that tenon was a bit too small,
anyway, and when they'd notched her, she hadn't wood enough left to hold
up the weight."
There were exclamations from the others standing round in the snow, but
Kermode glanced at Ferguson. His face grew darkly red, but with an effort
he controlled his anger.
"Who can have done this thing?" he asked.
"There's no direct evidence to show, but I've my suspicions," Kermode
said. "It's dangerous to interfere with people's business, particularly
when it isn't quite legitimate. You must have known you ran a risk."
"Do you think I should have let that stop me?" Ferguson asked with
sparkling eyes.
"That's a matter of opinion," Kermode rejoined. "Perhaps you had better
wait and think the thing over when you cool off. I've some logs to haul
in."
He moved off with his team and went on with his work all day, but when
night came he attended, by special invitation, a meeting held in a tent
that flapped and strained in the boisterous wind. Half a dozen men were
present, steady and rather grim toilers with saw and shovel, and though
two or three had been born in Ontario, all were of Scottish extraction.
Their hard faces wore a singularly resolute expression when Kermode
entered.
"Boys," he said, "before we begin I'd better mention that taking a part
in a church assembly is a new thing to me."
One or two of them frowned at this: his levity was not in keeping with
the occasion.
"Ye're here, and we'll listen to your opinion, if ye hae one," said their
leader. "Jock is for raiding Mitcham's shack and firing him and the other
scoundrel out of camp."
"I see objections. Mitcham has a good many friends, and if he held you
off, you'd have made a row for nothing, besides compromising Mr.
Ferguson."
"There's reason in that," another remarked.
"Then," continued Kermode, "you can't connect Mitcham with the wrecking
of your church."
"I'm thinking the connection's plain enough for us. Weel, we ken----"
"Knowing a thing is not sufficient; you want proof, and if you go ahead
without it, you'll put yourselves in the wrong. This is not the time to
alienate popular sympathy."
"Weel," said the leader, "hae ye a plan?"
Kermode lighted his pipe and after a few moments answered thoughtfully:
"I hear that Mitcham, Long Bill, and Libby will take the trail to-morrow
with Bill's team and sled--he's laid off work because of the snow. They
were away three or four days once or twice before, and when they came
back a number of the boys got on a high-class jag and there was trouble
in camp. I dare say you can put the things together?"
"Sure," declared one who had not spoken yet. "Where do we butt in?"
"This is my suggestion--half a dozen picked men will meet Mitcham coming
home and seize the sled. If its load is what I suspect, somebody will
ride off for Sergeant Inglis on my horse, and you'll have a guard ready
to bring the sled to camp and hold the liquor until the police arrive.
I'm inclined to think you can leave the rest to them."
A harsh smile crept into the faces of the listeners, and their leader
nodded gravely.
"We cannot do better. It will work."
The plan was duly put into execution, and one bitter night Kermode and
several others plodded up a frozen creek. It had been snowing hard for
the last few hours and he could scarcely see his companions through the
driving flakes, while the wail of the wind in the pines above drowned the
soft sound of their footsteps. Kermode was tired and very cold, and could
not have explained clearly what had induced him to accompany the
expedition. Adventure, however, always appealed to him, and he was sorry
for Ferguson, who had, he thought, been very shabbily treated. Kermode
had a fellow-feeling for anybody in difficulties.
After a while the snow ceased and they could dimly see the dark pines
climbing the steep banks that shut them in. It was obvious that if
Mitcham's party had entered the deep hollow, they could not well get out
of it. The expedition had only to go on or wait until it met them; but
Kermode did not envy the man whose duty it would be to ride across the
open waste to the lonely post where Sergeant Inglis might be found.
Resting, however, was out of the question. They must move to keep from
freezing, and though the snow began again, they plodded on, with heads
lowered to meet the blast that drove the stinging flakes into their
faces.
At length the leader stopped and raised his hand. Standing still, they
heard a muffled sound that might have been made by the fall of hoofs
ahead, and they hastily turned toward a clump of spruce. The trees
concealed them and the sound grew nearer, until they could see the dim
shapes of men and horses moving through the driving flakes. Then they
left cover and spread out across the creek. The team stopped and an angry
voice came out of the snow:
"What's this? What do you want?"
"Yon sled and its load," the leader concisely replied.
"Stand clear!" cried the voice. "Go right ahead, Bill!"
A man sprang forward and seized the near horse's head.
"Stop where you are!" he cried. "We're not looking for trouble, but we
want the sled!"
Two others ran out from behind the horses, but the leader of the
expedition raised his hand.
"It's six to three, Mitcham, and that's long odds. Ye'll get sled and
team when ye claim them in camp. Lift a fist and ye'll give the boys the
excuse they're wearying for. I'll ask nothing better."
Mitcham turned to his companions.
"They've got us, boys. Leave them to it," he said.
"Lead the horses, Kermode," directed one of the party, and the team moved
on again while the leader, walking beside the sled, hastily examined its
load. Several small cases lay beneath a tarpaulin.
What became of Mitcham and his friends did not appear, for they were left
behind in the snow; but the night grew wilder and the cold more biting.
For minutes together they could see nothing through the cloud of flakes
that drove furiously past them; it was hard to urge the tired horses
forward through the deeper drifts and all were thankful when they came to
reaches which the savage wind had swept almost clear. They could not,
however, leave the creek without their knowing it, and they had a fringe
of willows, into which they stumbled now and then, as guide. When, at
length, the gorge opened out, there was a high ridge to be crossed, and
they had cause to remember the ascent. The route led up through belts of
brush and between scattered pines, and leaving it inadvertently every now
and then, they got entangled among the scrub. Two of them plodded at the
stumbling horses' heads, four pushed the sled, and at the top of every
steeper slope every one stopped and gasped for breath. It was now near
dawn and they had marched all night after a day of heavy toil.
The ascent made, they went down the hill at an awkward run, the horses
slipping with the sled pressing on them, colliding with small trees,
smashing through matted brush, until they heard a hail. It was answered
and another body of men appeared and escorted them into camp. Drowsy
voices called to them and here and there a man looked out as they passed
the lines of shacks and tents, but no word was spoken until they reached
their leader's cabin. The cases were carried in and while two of the
company took the horses away the others were given hot coffee and
afterward sat down to wait for morning. It was very cold and icy draughts
crept in, but they were undisturbed until daybreak, when there was a cry
outside:
"Here's Mitcham wanting to talk to you!"
A weary man, white with snow, entered and looked eagerly round the shack.
"I've come for those cases," he said, pointing to the pile.
"What right have you to them?" Kermode inquired.
"What right?" cried the other. "They're my property; I bought them!"
Kermode smiled.
"You hear that; you'll remember it, boys."
Mitcham's face grew dark as he saw the trap he had fallen into.
"Anyhow, I want them," he muttered. "You won't be wise to keep them."
"Now see here," said one of the party. "We have a dozen men round this
shack, and if there's trouble, we have only to call for more. Every boy
knows what to do. Strikes me it wouldn't pay you to bring your hobos
along."
Mitcham looked at the others and saw that they were resolute. His enemies
were masters of the situation. Bluster and threats would not serve him;
but it was Kermode's amusement which caused him the most uneasiness.
"Well," he said, "keep them while you can. You're going to be sorry for
this!"
He went out and several of the men broke into a laugh. They had, however,
a problem to face later, when they received a sharp message from the
foreman demanding their immediate return to work. All were willing to
lose a day's pay, but the prompt dismissal which would follow
disobedience was a more serious matter.
"The trouble is that if we leave the shack without a guard, Mitcham will
steal his liquor back," declared one.
"I think I had better see Mr. Morgan," Kermode suggested, and they let
him go.
The young engineer he interviewed listened with a thoughtful air to the
request that several of the workmen should be given a day's leave.
"It would be awkward to let these fellows quit," the engineer protested.
"If you would tell the foreman to send the boys I'll mention ahead up the
track, so they couldn't get back before evening, and give two of us a day
off, it would get over the difficulty."
When he heard the names the engineer looked hard at Kermode.
"Has this request any connection with the collapse of Mr. Ferguson's
church?"
"It has, indirectly. I'm sorry I can't give you an explanation."
"Try to understand how I'm situated. I may have my sympathies, but I
can't be a partizan; my business is to see you do your work. Suppose I do
as you suggest, will it make any trouble in the camp? I want a straight
answer."
"No," said Kermode. "I give you my word that what we mean to do will lead
to quietness and good order."
"Then I'll have the boys you mentioned sent up the track; they're a crowd
I've had my eye on. One of your friends and you can lie off."
Kermode thanked him and went back to the shack, where he kept watch with
the leader of the Presbyterians until two police troopers rode up late in
the afternoon. They opened the cases and heard Kermode's story.
"You declare the man Mitcham claimed this liquor as his property?"
Sergeant Inglis asked.
"He said he'd bought it. We're ready to swear to that, and we can give
you the names of several more who heard him."
"I'll take them down. Where's Mitcham?"
They told him and he closed his notebook.
"You may be sent for from Edmonton later. Don't let these cases out of
your sight until Private Cooper calls for them."
He went out and came back later with the trooper and a teamster they had
hired, who loaded the cases on a sled. Sergeant Inglis, however, sat
still in his saddle, with a watchful eye on Mitcham and another man who
stood, handcuffed, at his horse's side. When the police had ridden off
with their prisoners, Morgan, the engineer, sent for Kermode.
"I've seen the sergeant and he gave me an outline of the affair," he
said. "It was cleverly thought out--I suppose the idea was yours?"
"I can't deny it," returned Kermode modestly.
"Well," said the other, "see that your friends and you begin work as
usual to-morrow."
During the next two weeks Ferguson made some progress in repairing the
damage to his church. He found several helpers, now that his strongest
opponent had been removed. The weather, however, grew more severe and as
the frost interfered with operations, men were freely dismissed. One day
Morgan and the contractor's clerk sat talking in the latter's office.
"I'll have to cut out two or three teams," he said. "I don't know whom I
ought to fire."
"Kermode," Morgan advised promptly.
The clerk looked surprised.
"Foreman reports him as a pretty good teamster. He strikes me as smart
and capable," he objected.
"He is. In fact, that's the trouble. I like the man, but you had better
get rid of him."
"You're giving me a curious reason."
Morgan smiled.
"I expect our plans for the winter may lead to some trouble with the
boys; such work as we can carry on is going to be severe. Now do you
think it prudent to provide them with a highly intelligent leader?"
"Guess you're right," the clerk agreed. "He'll have to go, though I'm
sorry to part with him."
"I'll send him to another job nearer the coast," said Morgan.
The next day Kermode was informed of this decision and took it
good-humoredly. Before leaving the camp he spent an evening with
Ferguson, who expressed keen regret at his departure.
"I have an idea that I may have got you into trouble, and it hurts me,"
the minister said.
Kermode laughed in a reassuring manner.
"It's likely that you're wrong; but I'm not the first man who has found a
righteous cause unprofitable."
"That," Ferguson returned gravely, "is in one sense very true."
They sat up late, talking; and the next morning Kermode found means of
sending Foster's horses back, and then resumed his journey.