THE GRAVE IN THE SNOW
The sun of the short winter day was touching the mountain peaks, and
slowly stealing down their rugged sides, as Keith emerged from the
cabin bearing the cold body of the unknown man. He had a sacred task
to perform, and he would not leave the place till all was completed.
He had no winding sheet, no coffin in which to lay that silent form. A
deep hole dug in the snow with the point of a snow-shoe, was grave and
coffin combined, while the same soft, yielding snow spread tenderly
over the body was the only winding sheet.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." How weird and
strangely hollow sounded his voice in that lonely place, as he repeated
from memory some of the beautiful sentences of the Burial Service of
the Church of England. There were none to respond, none to weep, and
none to lay fresh flowers upon that snowy mound. There was one
mourner, however; the lean dog, silent and wistful, crouching near. At
times he glanced up into the speaker's face, as if trying to comprehend
the meaning of the words.
"Poor dumb brute," said Keith, when the prayers were over, "you are
faithful to the last. While this man was deserted, left here to die,
you did what you could to save him. For this, Brisko, old boy, you
shall have a home with me, or, I should say, an abiding place, for I
hardly know the meaning of the word home."
Before leaving the cabin, Keith had searched long and carefully for
some clue as to the dead man's identity. There was only the little
locket, which he felt might some day help to explain the matter.
Reluctantly he had unclosed the cold, stiff fingers from the slender
string, and fastened the trinket around his own neck as the best place
where it could be safely guarded.
When the body was well covered he sought for some way to mark the spot.
A stick would stand but a short time; something else must serve.
Presently an idea occurred to him. Near the grave a huge rock lifted
itself several feet into the air, with a side so smooth and
perpendicular that no snow could rest upon its surface. Going at once
to the cabin, he brought forth the dead man's camping axe, and with the
dull blade began to cut into the solid rock.
"Yes," he muttered to himself, "you shall have as solid and grand a
monument as the world can afford. The grave is not pretty, I admit,
and no hand will lay flowers over you. But this stone will not tumble
down till the finger of God touches it, and, I think," he added after a
pause, "with this mark upon it He'll let it stand till the Judgment
Day."
The mark was a large cross, not artistically done, but cut deep into
the hard surface to withstand the wear of years. Beneath this he
simply placed the two letters "K. R."
"Not too bad," he remarked, as he stepped back to view his handiwork.
"It's the best I can do with such a rough tool, and I think _she_ would
be pleased to know that something marks the spot where he is lying."
Then, a strong dual feeling came over him. He longed to track the dead
man's rascally partner, find him, and have the just punishment meted
out upon his head. Next, to meet the original of the picture, restore
the locket, and to tell the story of the death in the wilderness.
"What an appearance I would make," he mused, glancing at his rough
buck-skin clothes, coarse leggings, and moccasined feet, while his
right hand swept across his unkempt beard and long hair. "If she could
see me now she would think I had murdered her brother instead of
fighting hard to save his life."
Leaving the grave he returned to the cabin. Here he strapped his
slender outfit on the small sled, and with snow-shoes on his feet left
the place. He had advanced some distance when suddenly he remembered
the dog. He stopped and gave a sharp whistle. Then he called, but the
animal did not appear.
"Strange!" he thought. "What has happened to the brute? I must not
leave him here."
Retracing his steps, he searched the cabin. Not finding him, he went
to the grave, and there, lying on the snowy mound, he found the poor
brute. His grief was plainly evident, and, as he lifted his head in
response to Keith's call, sorrow, almost human, was depicted on his
face. Only after much coaxing was he induced to leave the spot,
abandon his old master, and cast in his lot with the new.
Together, at length, they set out upon the long trail; the man drawing
the sled, the dog walking dejectedly behind. It was a dreary march
over that desolate waste, as on and on they moved, two creeping specks.
Nowhere, except it be upon the heaving ocean, does one feel more deeply
his own insignificance than when alone in the great white North in
midwinter. No human voice to break the awful silence; no song of bird
or buzz of insect to fall upon the ear; thousands of miles from home,
in a roadless wilderness.
As the second day was drawing to a close, Keith's weary steps
quickened. He leaned eagerly forward, his strong, gaunt face filled
with expectancy. Creak! Creak! How loudly the snow-shoes sounded at
each swinging stride. The noise disturbed him. He stopped and
listened intently. Then a look of disappointment passed over his
countenance. His gaze swept the sky. The Northern Lights were
streaming across the heavens like huge pennons flung out into a strong
breeze. The unseen spirits of the North seemed to be marching and
countermarching in vast battalions through the Arctic night. Their
banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing, twisting,
curling, flashing forth in matchless beauty all the colours of the
rainbow. Yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and
greenish-white, chasing one another, vieing with one another as the
great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced.
Such scenes seldom failed to arouse in Keith the feeling of wonder and
awe, but on this night he hardly noticed the grand display. He was
watching the friendly stars as they tumbled out one by one. For long
years they had been his steady companions on many a toilsome journey,
and he read them like an open book. He saw the belted Orion swinging
in its accustomed place, and the Great Bear dipping close to the
horizon. It was seven o'clock, he felt sure of that, and yet that
sound did not come. He advanced for some distance, halted, and again
listened.
It was a cold night, and his breath pouring forth in clouds smote with
a hissing sound upon the frosty air. He heeded it not. His parka hood
was backward thrown to enable him to hear the better.
Presently dark forms loomed up out of the night, straight before him.
"I was afraid of it," he muttered. "The rumor I heard was only too
true, and they are here! May God help us!"
The objects which he beheld were log cabins, which he soon reached. No
lights shone from the buildings, and the place seemed deserted.
Passing among the houses he crossed an open space of ground, climbed a
hill, and approached a long, low structure. He opened the door and
entered. The place was in darkness, but quite warm. Soon he emerged,
and looked around much puzzled. The Indian camps lay stretched out
before him along the brink of the hill. These he visited one by one,
but no sound greeted him except the occasional snarl or bark of a dog.
What did it all mean? He placed his hand to his forehead, and tried to
think. Where were the miners? What had happened to the Indians? Why
was the place deserted?
As he stood before one of the lodges, uncertain what to do, a cry fell
upon his ear. Again it came, this time much lower. Keith peered
through the darkness. He hurried down the hill. He saw a faint
glimmer of light, and found it came from a log building directly before
him. The clamour of voices, cries of rage and confusion, could be
distinctly heard, as with fast beating heart he bounded forward. He
guessed the truth, and knew there was no time to lose. He reached the
door, and, scarcely waiting to lift the latch, he drove it open with
one push of his powerful shoulder, and gazed upon the scene within.