CARIBOU SOL
Another night had shut down over the great Yukon valley, a night of
wind and storm. It had been snowing since morning on this, the most
memorable day in the history of Klassan.
Caribou Sol stood in front of his cabin, looking out into the darkness.
He did not mind the driving wind, laden with snow, which beat against
him; in fact, he never noticed it. His face was marked with anguish as
he closed the door and moved slowly along the trail leading to the
Radhurst cabin. Up the hill he crept like a worn-out, weary man. He
breasted the tempest with his head bent forward, while his long white
beard was tossed across his breast like seaweed flung upon some
surf-beaten rock. Constance was sitting by the table with a look of
expectancy upon her face when Sol knocked at the door. Much had she
changed since the previous evening. Her old lightness of spirit was
gone, and a sadness weighed upon her soul. Tears glistened in her
eyes, and the rosy colour had fled her cheeks, leaving them very white.
Joe Simkins had brought the news early that morning, and all day long
the suspense had been terrible. Not for an instant did she or her
father believe that Keith was guilty. There was something wrong, they
felt sure of that. Constance longed to go to him, that he might know
that they had not deserted him at any rate, and at times she was
tempted to go to the trial, face the men, and give him a word of
encouragement.
She fancied him defending himself against the base charge with all the
determination of his manly nature. That he would fight hard, she had
no doubt, but she shuddered when she thought how little one man could
do against so many. She was surprised, too, to find what an interest
she took in his welfare, and how his trouble pierced her heart like a
sharp sword.
As the evening wore on, and the storm howled and raged outside, and no
one came near the cabin, the suspense became almost unbearable. Had
the worst happened, so that even Joe did not dare to come and break the
news? She had often heard how gold thieves were treated by enraged
miners, and she shivered as the idea came to her this night.
Mechanically, she picked up a book, a small copy of Keble's "Christian
Year," which Keith had left there. Opening it at random, her eyes
rested upon a verse for the twenty-third Sunday after Trinity, which
attracted her attention. Slowly she read:
"But first by many a stern and fiery blast
The world's rude furnace must our blood refine,
And many a blow of keenest woe be passed,
Till every pulse beat true to airs divine."
The book dropped upon her lap, and for some time she remained in silent
thought. "Perhaps that is meant for me," she meditated. "I have been
careless and indifferent to the higher things of life, living only for
to-day. Is the Great Master allowing these things to happen, the loss
of mother, brother, home, and now----"
She was startled by a knock upon the door, and she trembled as she laid
the book upon the table and crossed the room.
Caribou Sol grasped her hand in his own strong one, and looked
searchingly into her eyes.
"Bad storm," he panted, "an' a tough climb up yon hill. I ain't as
young as I uster be."
Then Constance noticed how haggard was his face, while his hair and
beard seemed whiter than when first she saw him. A feeling of dread
entered her heart.
"Tell me, oh, tell me!" she cried, "what has happened!"
"Ye've heard somethin', then, miss?" questioned the old man.
"Yes, Joe Simkins was here this morning and told us what took place
last night. But we have heard nothing about the trial."
Sol sat down upon a bench near where Mr. Radhurst was lying, and placed
his head in his hands.
"My God!" he groaned, "it was awful!"
"What's awful?" demanded Constance. "Tell us quick!"
"They've fired 'im!"
"What?"
"Fired the parson! Druve 'im from Klassan!"
"The brutes! The wretches!" and Constance stamped her small foot upon
the floor, while her hands clinched and her eyes glowed. "Are they men
or only beasts? Did no one stand up for him?"
"Only me an' Joe," replied the miner, looking with admiration upon the
spirited woman before him. "We done what we could. But they're
divils, miss, is them miners, when they're roused."
"Did he fight hard?"
"Fight? You should have seed 'im. I never seen anything like it. He
was a match fer 'em all, but it was no use. They got turned agin 'im,
an' 'ud listen to nothin'."
"What did he have to say about the gold being found in his cabin?"
asked Mr. Radhurst.
"He couldn't explain, sir. Nor could you nor me, if we'd had sich a
cowardly trick played upon us. He jist stated the matter in words that
rung with truth, any ninny could see that. But every wan on that
committee got so excited that they jist threw questions at 'im."
"'Whar is the key,' says Pritchen.
"'Why did ye git so scart when we axed ye to open the chist?' speaks up
Perdue. An' afore he could answer, some one else slung another at 'im.
It wasn't a trial, miss, it was jist a bunch of sarpents hissin' all
the time."
"And did Mr. Steadman seem frightened when they wanted to open the
chest?" queried Constance, in surprise.
"I heerd so."
"But why?"
"On account of the picter."
"The picture?"
"Yes. Tim Slater, he was thar, ye know, says 'twas an uncommon fine
'un, lyin' right atop the chist."
"But why should the picture frighten him?"
"He wasn't altogether frightened, miss. Ye can't frighten 'im. He
only got a little white around the gills, so Tim says. Ye see, 'twas a
woman's picter, all fixed up on that kind of paper them artist chaps
use, an' done with a pencil. 'Twas mighty fine, so Tim says, an' I
guess he knows."
Constance made no reply to these words. "A picture!" she mused, "and a
woman's!" Anxious though she was to hear more about the trial, her
thoughts wandered. She longed with womanly curiosity to know about
that picture. Was it a young face, pretty, and whether the missionary
had explained whose it was? Something, however, restrained her. She
did not dare to ask, lest she should betray the note of eagerness in
her voice, and she was sure her face would flush even if she mentioned
it.
"But it wasn't the only charge they brung agin the parson," continued
Sol. "They raked up all sorts of stuff. It was certainly wonnerful."
"What else did they say?" questioned Mr. Radhurst.
"They said, or at least Pritchen did, that he killed an Injun woman
some years back."
"What!"
"Yes, that's what he said. But, my, you should have seed the parson
then. He was jist like a tager, an' I never heerd a man say sich
cuttin' things in all my life. He jist went fer Pritchen an' opened up
a page in his history which 'ud make ye creep. He told sartin an'
clear that the villain himself was the one who killed the woman. An',
says he:
"'Thar's a gal in this town who was thar as a wee child. She seed it
all. She seen her mother killed afore her very eyes. Bring her here,'
says he, 'an' she'll tell yez what a liar this man is.'"
"And what did they do?" asked Constance almost breathlessly.
"Jist laughed at 'im."
"The brutes!"
"'Bring her!' he cries; 'she's in Klassan. If yez are men, ye'll do
what's fair. Her name is Yukon Jennie, an' she'll tell yez all."
"This appeal kinder touched some of 'em, an' they axed fer the gal,
though I saw that Pritchen was mighty oneasy. So we waited till the
gal was fetched."
"Did she come?" and Constance leaned eagerly forward, as the old man
paused.
"No, miss. They couldn't find hair nor hide of her. She'd skipped
out."
"Oh!"
"Yes, cut an' run. Ye should have seed the look on the parson's face
when he heerd that; it was terrible. An' ye could have heered the men
hoot an' laugh clean up here, if ye'd been listenin'."
"But where did she go?" asked Mr. Radhurst. "The girl was here until
quite late yesterday afternoon."
"That's what the men couldn't find out. The old chief was mighty
surly, too, an' wouldn't tell nothin'. But thar was one thing I did
notice," he continued. "While the rest was hootin' an' shoutin', a
scart look come over Pritchen's face when he heered that the girl had
skipped, an' that the chief was cranky. He seemed feered of somethin',
an' I can't make out jist what it is."
"Were those the only charges, Mr. Burke?" questioned Constance, anxious
to hear more.
"No, thar's another I'm comin' to now, an' a mighty nasty one, at that."
Constance's face became still paler, and her lips quivered as she heard
these ominous words. Was there no end to these terrible things?
"They say that the other poke found in the chist has a mighty
suspicious look about it."
"In what way?"
"Waal, ye see, thar was two letters on the poke, which seemed to pint
to somethin' bad. Pritchen was out huntin' mountain sheep a short time
ago, so he says, in the Ibex Valley. While thar he stayed in an old
log shanty, an' the place was all upsot lookin', so he says, as if a
terrible fight had taken place. Then he finds a book layin' on the
floor with the parson's name inside."
"What book was it?" asked Constance eagerly.
"I'm not sure that I kin remember the full name," and the old man
scratched his head in a puzzled manner. "But it's a book of poetry
written by a chap by the name of Brown or Black, I jist can't tell
which. I never heered of 'im afore, 'ave you?"
But Constance did not reply. She was thinking of what Keith had told
her about his copy of Browning. He had lost it somewhere on the trail,
but he had told her nothing about the cabin. What did it all mean?
"But that wasn't all, miss. Thinkin' somethin' was wrong, Pritchen
hunted around fer a time, an' found whar a man had been buried, but the
wolves hadn't left much, only torn clothes. The chap had been put into
the snow, while a cross an' two letters had been cut in the rock above.
The suspicious thing is, that them letters an' the ones on the poke
found in the chist are jist the same."
"Very strange," remarked Mr. Radhurst. "Do you remember the letters?"
"Yes, there were jist two, 'K. R.'"
At these words, Constance started and rose to her feet. Trembling
violently, she approached the miner. Once she put out her hand as if
for support.
"Tell me," she said in a hoarse whisper, "if you know anything more?"
Sol looked at her in amazement.
"I didn't know ye'd feel so bad, or I'd not told ye," he replied,
mistaking the cause of her agitation. "But thar isn't much more to be
said. The parson told in plain words how he'd found a sick man in the
Ibex cabin, an' cared fer 'im as well as he could. When he died he
buried 'im in the snow, an' put them marks on the rock, but about the
poke, he had never seed it afore."
"Did he tell the man's name?" asked Constance.
"No."
"No! And why not?"
"He wouldn't tell, an' that was the hardest thing agin him. Then some
one axed 'im why he didn't report the matter when he reached Klassan,
an' at that the parson lit out:
"'Tell,' says he. 'What chance had I to tell with all yez agin me,
ruinin' my Injun flock, an' playin' that mean trick upon me in sendin'
me to Siwash Crik? De yez think I'd care to tell ye?'"
"What trick?" asked Mr. Radhurst.
"What! ye never heered?"
"No, not a word."
"No? Waal, now, that's queer. It's been the talk of the camp ever
since. They made out that Jim Blasco, that divil out yon, was wounded,
an' a doctor was wanted mighty bad. So they got the parson to go, an'
sich a laughin' an' shoutin' they made over it all at his expense. I
didn't think so much about it then, but now it jist fairly makes me
bile."
"Why, Mr. Steadman never said a word to us about it when he came to
Siwash Creek," said Constance in surprise.
"Ay, is that so, miss? Waal, it's jist like 'im. Some 'ud have
blabbed the whole thing, an' made a big story outer it. But not 'im.
He's too much of a man fer that. He doesn't tell everything he knows,
an' I reckon he has some good reason fer not tellin' that chap's name
that died out in the Ibex cabin."
Constance arose, and, going to her own little curtained apartment,
brought forth a small picture.
"Mr. Burke," she said, "you have met quite a number of men in this
district, did you ever see any one who looked like that?"
Sol took the picture in his hand and gazed upon it for a time. Then he
held it up close to the light for a better inspection.
"Fine chap, that, miss. Is he a relation of yourn?"
"It's my brother, Kenneth, and his initials are just the same as the
ones on the rock and the poke."
"Ye don't say so, waal! But, miss, fer God's sake, what's the matter?"
and the old man dropped the picture and stared at the young woman.
And good reason was there for his surprise, for upon Constance's face
was stamped a look of horror, and her eyes were fastened upon the small
window near at hand.
"A face! A face! I saw it there!" she gasped, "looking into the room.
Oh, it was awful!" and she dropped upon a bench out of sheer weakness.
An ugly look came into Sol's face, as he rose to his feet, while his
hand instinctively sought his hip pocket, and rested upon the butt of a
revolver concealed there.
"We're watched," he whispered. "Them divils are wild to-night. Some
are havin' a drunken spree, an' it's hard to tell what they'll do afore
mornin'. My old carcase ain't wuth much, but some of them'll be wuth
less if they come meddlin' around here. I guess, though, we'd better
draw that curtain, an' shet out all pryin' eyes. Thar, that's better.
Now don't be frightened, miss. Nothin'll harm ye as long as this old
gun holds true, an' she ain't failed me yit, though she's seen some
hightly ugly times."
"Thank you," replied Mr. Radhurst, who had remained still through the
excitement. "You are very good, but I don't think any harm will come
to us. Perhaps some one was passing and happened to glance in at the
window. Sit down, please, and tell us some more about the trial, for I
am anxious to hear all."
"It may be as ye say, sir. I only hope so," and Sol resumed his seat.
"Thar ain't much more to tell about that fuss. I saw at once when the
trial began that it was all up with the parson, an' that they intended
to condemn him, but I didn't think it'd take so long. They jist played
with 'im like a cat plays with a mouse. But at last it was ended, an'
Pritchen, who was chairman, stood up, an', said he:
"'We give ye yer chice; hit the trail in two hours, or stay here an'
take yer dose from us.'
"I kin see the parson standin' thar now with a wonnerful look on his
face. He didn't seem to hear the chairman's word, fer he was gazin'
through the dirty winder, out inter the storm, an' away to the Injun
village beyond.
"'De ye hear me, damn ye!' cried Pritchen, bringin' his fist down upon
the table with a bang. 'Why don't ye answer? We can't fool here all
day.'
"Then the parson turned and looked square into his eyes. He was very
calm, an' he spoke so quiet an' solemn like:
"'Man,' says he, 'd'ye mean it? Fer Nellie's sake, an' the kids, won't
ye have marcy. Ye know I didn't do them deeds, an' ye know, Bill
Pritchen,' says he, movin' up close to the chairman, 'that ye yerself
are the one that left that young chap out thar to die. Ye was his
pardner. Ye stole his gold, that's what ye did.'
"The parson could go no further, fer the men set up sich a shoutin' an'
a laughin' that ye couldn't hear yerself speak.
"Then he gave them a look I'll never fergit, full of scorn and pity. I
never thought a man could look that way. He straightened himself up,
an' turned to the chairman.
"I'll go,' says he, 'I'll hit the trail. I'll leave ye. But remember,
I'll come back when I git ready.'
"'Come back, if ye dare,' says Pritchen, an' the men hooted as the poor
chap walked from the buildin' as proud as a lord.
"I follered 'im to his cabin, fer I was sore hit, an' stood with 'im as
he was ready to leave. He had his rifle, snow-shoes, his medical case,
an' a small pack of grub on his back. He wouldn't say much, not even
whar he was goin'. He seemed like a man in a dream.
"'Sol,' says he, jist afore he started, 'I'm as innocent of them
charges as the new-born babe.'
"'I know it,' says I, 'but what kin we do?'
"'Nothin',' says he. 'Nothin' now, but the Good Lord will bring to
light the hidden things of darkness in His own way, never ye fear that,
Sol.'
"Then he looked across to this cabin, an' remained very still fer a
time.
"'Won't ye say good-bye?' says I.
"'I can't,' says he, with a groan. 'With this shadder over me, I can't
face her; it's better not. But ye'll look after'm, Sol,' an' he lays
his hand upon my shoulder.
"'Till death,' says I.
"'God bless ye, man,' says he, an' with that he was gone--gone out
inter the night through the wild howlin' tempest."
For some time the three sat in silence, each wrapped in earnest
thought. As Constance listened to the snow-laden wind beating against
the window, she pictured Keith battling his way through the dreary
night, or else crouching by a lonely camp fire. Her ideas of
Christianity were undergoing a marked change. Formerly she had
associated religion with large churches, where well-dressed people
attended, and the services were conducted by white-robed clergymen,
assisted by high-class music and well-trained choirs. She knew that
the clergy, for the most part, were a devoted, hard-working class, but
the thought of connecting them with the heroic in life had never
entered her head.
Once she had attended a Synod service, where the clergy marched in, two
by two, singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Though she had been told
that some of them were men broken down by strenuous toil in frontier
work among the Indians and miners, she had experienced no thrill or
quickening of the heart. Her heroes were of a different class:
soldiers, who fought and died for their country, or sailors, who braved
the perils of the great deep. Of these she loved to read, while a
missionary book, or a magazine telling of the noble deeds done, and
lives given for the cause of Christ, was something not to be considered.
But her eyes had been opened, and she saw a man, a student of no mean
order, who had given up his life to uplift a band of uncouth Indians in
a lonely region, away from all the refinements of civilization, who
knew nothing of ease or of popular applause. And the most wonderful of
all was that he did not consider it a sacrifice, but simply a joy to be
able to serve. Then to see this man, in his noble efforts to assist
and cheer the miners, opposed, scoffed at, and driven out, perhaps to
die, by the very ones he had tried to help, was strange to contemplate.
She had heard people laugh at missionaries and their efforts to benefit
the natives. Now a longing entered her heart to go to those very
people, and tell them what she had seen of the efforts of one man.
The report of a rifle startled her from her reverie. Then the sound of
voices came faintly through the night.
Sol sprang to his feet, and rushed to the door.
"Stay here!" he cried. "I'll be back in a minute."
Presently he returned with a pained expression upon his face.
"I was afeared of it," he replied, in answer to Constance's inquiring
look. "Them varmints are burnin' the mission house. Blow out the
candle, an' come to the winder to see fer yerselves."
With the room in darkness, and the curtain drawn back, the three stood
and watched the scene of destruction. The flames, fanned by the wind,
were sending up huge forked tongues into the night, while anon a rifle
shot or a shout would wing its way across the snow.
"God help us!" groaned Sol. "What will they do next? They don't
realize what they're doin' to-night. They must be mad or they wouldn't
burn the mission house, whar the Injuns keep their supplies. What will
the natives do when they return? God help us then!"
"Amen," fervently responded Mr. Radhurst, as he returned wearily to his
position on the couch.