GOD'S GENTLEMEN
The storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the
snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against Peter
Martin's snug log cabin. It did its best, however, to find an
entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door
and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow
could gain admittance.
It was Christmas Eve, and for that reason six men were gathered
together at "Old Pete's," as he was commonly called. They had
travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in
their own quiet way. They were prospectors, the pathfinders of the
country, the advance guard of civilization. Calm, temperate, sons of
Anak in size and strength, they were noble friends but stern enemies.
For long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions
never before trodden by the foot of white man. Across rugged
mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were
ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid
lakes, or crooked Indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log
hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of
heaven.
Once in the year these six men drifted together, at the Christmas
season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. But
on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. The miners had
arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. They resented this
intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. Though most
of the newcomers had gathered at Klassan, some had drifted to Siwash
Creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pass
the long winter. At these men Pete and his companions looked somewhat
askance, for they felt they were not of their class. There was one,
however, old "Colonel" Radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he
was different from the rest, so they thought.
Pete Martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. The pieces
he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon
skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. It had taken him
many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of
his own fond fancy. Alec McPherson, a sturdy son of the heather, was
his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checkers,
these two hardy friends faced each other over the rough table.
"Check!" said Pete, after the game had continued for over an hour.
Alec ran his fingers through his long hair, and shuffled uneasily on
his stool before making his move.
"Check!" again calmly remarked Pete, and a triumphant light gleamed in
his eye.
"You've the cinch on me this time for sure, mon," exclaimed Alec, as he
struggled to free himself from the clever trap.
"Mate!" once more ejaculated Pete, swinging up his queen, and
completely surrounding his opponent's king.
"Noo for anither," said Alec. "I'm no willin' to stop yet."
But Pete pushed back the chess board, and began to place the men into
the box. One by one he lifted them tenderly from the table, and when
the last had been safely deposited, he rose to his feet, and standing
with his back to the fire, faced his companions. This was his favorite
attitude when he wished to express himself most freely. He glanced
around the room with a feeling of pride, as a commanding officer might
look upon a little squad he was about to lead into action.
"B'ys," he began, cutting a chew from a plug of tobacco, "d'yez know
what night this is?"
The men looked up, but said nothing. There was no need for any reply.
They knew him well. It was only Pete's manner of beginning something
he wished to say. On this occasion, however, they detected a new note
in his voice, and a yearning, far-away expression in his eyes, as he
stood before them.
"It's Christmas Eve," he continued, rolling the wad of tobacco in his
cheek, "an' this is the seventh we've met together. Somehow I feel
it'll be the last, fer mighty changes are about to take place.
There'll be so many of them green-eyed gold grabbers in here that our
job'll be gone. They'll snook into every corner, an' what'll be left
fer us? I ain't as young as I uster be, and mebbe--oh, well, it's no
use lookin' too fer ahead, but any way I'd like this Christmas Eve to
be sorter special, jist to remind me of old times.
"Sixty an' five years, remember, have rolled over this gray head of
mine, an' the older I git, the stronger some things come back. When I
think of the time when my father an' mother, God bless 'em, uster take
me with'm to the leetle parish church way back in New Brunswick, a lump
comes inter my throat, an' a feelin' creeps over me that I can't jist
describe. I'd give all I possess to be thar agin, lads, dressed in my
leetle white frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin'
in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so I uster think, with the
choir. But it was Christmas Day I liked best of all, fer then the
church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so
hearty, an' everybody was so happy. Then, some special friends allus
come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'.
Ah, no, I can't fergit sich days, an'----"
Suddenly Pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "Fergive me,
lads," he cried; "fergive me! I didn't mean t'bother yeze with all
this nonsense, I wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got
away with me."
There was no need of an apology in that room. The fire in the old
sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames
roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of
holes. Pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing
was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. They were reticent
men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were
few. But Pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and
visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open,
fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces,
floated before their minds. To one, at least, arose the picture of a
little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his
joys and sorrows. Forty years had passed since he first rejoiced in
that dream--forty years, and now she was a grandmother. But to Pete
she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure,
and charm of youth.
Presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the
cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table.
"Hello! what's that?" questioned Andy Dickson, between the deliberate
puffs of his pipe.
But Pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old
blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin.
"Look at that, lads. Ain't she a beauty?" and Pete ran his fingers
over the smooth surface.
"Where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of
the others.
"Oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear."
"Sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their
pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in anticipation of a
good yarn.
"Waal, it's this way," Pete began. "Last Fall, I was wanderin' away to
the east, through that God-forsaken region known as 'Dead Man's Land.'
Travellin' along an Injun trail, I hit upon two men, with four dogs
packin' their loads. One was quite young, an' as fine a chap as I've
seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most
wretched brute. How they got together, Heaven only knows, but thar
they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. They was on a kinder
wild-goose chase, so I l'arned. Some fool had been thar before, found
gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket.
"I saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' I hated to leave
the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer I'd taken a fancy to the
kid. The mornin' I come away he accompanied me fer some distance.
When we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very
fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. Thar was tears in his eyes when
he gave it to me.
"'Take it,' says he, 'I can't keep it. Bill kicks up sich a fuss, an'
claims that he packs all the stuff, while I tote the fiddle. Ye'll be
good to it, I'm sure, so good-bye.'
"With that, he was off, an' I never sot eyes on 'im agin. But thar I
was with that thing on me hands. What did I want with a fiddle? My
fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though I've not a bad
ear fer music, when it comes to that. Then, I had a long mush to make,
an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. At first I thought I'd throw
the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his
eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me.
So I brung her along, an' thar she is. Ain't she a beauty? It'll be
somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few
tunes."
Silence reigned for a space after Pete had finished his story. The
violin was passed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up
and strike bow to the strings.
"What! kin no one play?" exclaimed Pete in surprise, when the
instrument had gone the round. "Why, I have looked forward to this
occasion fer some time."
"I guess we're like yersel', Pete," replied Alec McPherson, "men of
action. Our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing
wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o'
cat-gut."
"Right yer are, man," assented Pete. "But I'm mighty disappinted,
nevertheless, fer I did want ter hear an old tune or two."
At this, Tim Craven, a full six-footer in his stockings, stretched out
a huge, hairy hand.
"Give her to me, Pete," he said. "Once I could play a little, and
maybe a few of the old tunes'll float back again. I use to manage a
few jigs," he continued, as he tightened up the strings, "such as 'The
Fisher's Hornpipe,' and 'Auld Lang Syne,' but I'm afraid I'm all out of
practice."
Then began such a sawing and scraping as the little cabin had never
before heard. Had the violin been animate it would have shivered
itself to pieces in a short time. A choir master, or an orchestra
leader would have been driven almost insane at such an exhibition. But
Tim's companions never winced. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy
it thoroughly, and tapped the floor with their great rough boots as the
various jigs were reeled off.
At length the musician stopped; his supply was exhausted, and he laid
the violin upon the table.
"It's all I know," he remarked, reaching for his pipe.
"Give them to us again," said Alec. "You've done fine."
"Don't ye know a leetle Christmas song, Tim?" asked Pete, with a
disappointed look in his face.
"I'm afraid not. They're all I know."
"What! not one? not one leetle song, jist fer old times' sake?"
Tim ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "There
is one," he said, "I used to know, but it's so long since I've heard
it, that I've clean forgotten the tune. It's something about 'Angels
singing,' and 'New-born King,' but I guess----"
"I know it! I know it!" broke in Pete eagerly. "I'll whistle the air,
fer I've sung it out on the hills, to cheer me up a bit. It goes this
way, see?"
Tim listened, began to hum the tune softly to himself, and then reached
for the violin.
"No, ye ain't got it yit, Tim; try agin," and Pete whistled it over
once more.
After several efforts Tim finally rasped out the air of "Hark, the
Angels Sing."
"That's her," exclaimed Pete with delight. "Now ye've got her, go
ahead."
Once more Tim steered his way through the piece, and was about to begin
the third time, when a peculiar noise sounded outside.
"Hark! what's that?" cried one of the men.
"Wind," replied another. "It's a bad night."
"That's no wund, I tell ye that," said Alec, and, suiting the action to
the word, he arose, crossed the room, and threw open the door.
A whirling gust immediately swept into the building, and threatened to
extinguish the three candles which were performing noble duty.
"Hello! What----"
Alec's exclamation of wonder was interrupted by a snow-covered figure
staggering full against him, and then falling heavily upon the floor.
Instantly every man sprang to his feet. It was enough to know that a
stranger was in their midst, and needed assistance.
Scarf and cap were removed, the parka torn off, and hands, arms and
legs freely rubbed. Presently Pete caught a full view of the prostrate
man's face. Pie leaned down close for a better view.
"B'ys!" he shouted, straightening himself up; "it's 'im! it's 'im. My
God, it's 'im!"
"And whose him?" replied Alec, thinking Pete had taken leave of his
senses.
"Why, the parson at Klassan; the man I've told yez so much about; the
chap that saved my life in Hell's Canyon five years ago. Quick, let's
lift 'im to yon bunk!"