THE SHINING TRAIL
When morning dawned it was a dreary sight which met the eyes of the
tired watchers gathered about the smouldering embers of the fire upon
the high bank. The waters had subsided, leaving masses of ice, trees,
rocks and mud strewn around in every direction. Of the miners' cabins
nothing remained; they had been swept out into the river.
Looking down upon the scene of desolation, the men realized the
helplessness of their position; without cabins, food or blankets
matters seemed serious enough. Most of them said nothing, but sat or
stood watching the river flowing sullenly by. A few, however, broke
into loud complaints. Of these Perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most
incessant in his lamentations.
"Only think," he wailed, "I've lost everything, saved nothing. My
supplies and money are all gone."
"An' yer pizened whiskey, why don't ye say," replied Caribou Sol,
turning fiercely upon him. "What are ye howlin' fer, anyway? Why
can't ye stan' up an' take yer dose like a man, instid of whinin' like
a baby?"
"Chuck him into the river, Sol," called out one of the men. "That will
cool him off."
"No, I'll not soil me hands with the likes of 'im; I've other things to
do," and Sol turned on his heel and started for the Indian camp.
He had almost reached the place when he saw the missionary emerging
from the old chief's lodge, and with him was Amos, the catechist.
"Good morning, Mr. Burke," said Keith, extending his hand. "I'm afraid
you have had a bad night of it."
"None the best, sir," came the reply. "But, say, how's Pete?"
"Bad, very bad," and a pained expression came into Keith's face.
"Any chance of gittin' better, de'ye think?"
"I'm afraid not. He is wounded internally. He was badly jammed by the
ice."
"An' how did you come through without gittin' pinched?"
"I cannot tell. It was all like a terrible dream. The water swept me
off my feet, and when I thought it was all up with me, Pete seized me
in his strong arms. A block of ice caught us and drove us to the
shore, crushing Pete as it did so. Oh, it was fearful! We were face
to face with death."
"An' Bill went down?"
"That was Pritchen, was it?"
"Yes."
"What were you doing to him?"
"Stretchin' his neck."
"I thought so. Did he confess?"
"Yes, coughed up everything."
"Poor chap!"
"It sarved 'im right. He was a bad egg."
"But he was not always bad."
"Ye don't say so! What changed 'im into sich a divil?"
"Drink, gambling and evil companions."
"It seems, sir, that ye knowed 'im afore he struck the North."
"Know him! I should say I did know him! He was my only sister's
husband. Oh, Nellie, Nellie! How can I ever tell you all! But how
about the men?" he suddenly asked, wishing to change the subject, which
was becoming most painful.
"What, the b'ys down yon?"
"Yes."
"In a bad way. Nothin' left."
"And they've no food?"
"Not a scrap."
"Well, look here, Mr. Burke. There's the school room which the men can
use until they get new cabins built. They will have to do their
cooking outside, but there is a stove in the place which will keep them
warm at night. I have just seen the old chief, and the Indians will
loan what blankets they can spare until the steamer arrives."
Sol's eyes opened wide with amazement. "De'ye mean it?" he asked. "I
know ye'ud do what ye could to help us out, but I didn't think them
Injuns 'ud ever fergit what was done to 'em."
"Yes, I mean every word I say. And what's more, the Indians are
willing to give what food they can to the miners. They have a fair
supply of dried fish and moose-meat, which will help some."
In reply Sol stretched out a huge hand. "Put it thar!" he said, and
tears stood in his eyes. "I can't say any more, but I'll tell the
b'ys, an' they'll thank ye."
When Keith returned to the Radhurst cabin he met Constance just outside
the door.
"Oh, I am so glad you have come back!" she said. "Pete is awake and
calling for you."
"How long did he sleep?" questioned Keith.
"Only a short time after you left. I am afraid he is failing fast."
A faint smile passed over the old man's face as they entered the room
where he was lying. It was Constance's room, which she had gladly
given up to the patient.
"Laddie, laddie!" he said. "I'm so glad to see ye. I knowed ye'd come
back."
"How are you feeling now, Pete?" asked Keith, as he grasped the hand
which was extended in welcome.
"Not very well. I've a bad pain in my chist, but I'm a-thinkin' it'll
go away soon."
"We will do all we can to help you, Pete, never forget that."
"I don't mean that, laddie, fer an army of doctors couldn't help me
now. I guess it's only the good Lord who will give me any relief."
"Pete, Pete, don't say that!" cried Constance. "We can't spare you
yet. What will we do without you?"
"It's the good Lord's will, lassie, an' though I'd like to stay wid yez
a while longer, still when He calls I must be a-goin'. An' yit I
wonner," he continued after a pause, "what He wants the likes of me up
yon fer anyway."
"He wants you, perhaps," replied Keith softly, "for the same reason
that we want you here, because He loves you."
"Loves me! Loves me! What is thar in me to love? an' what have I ever
done that He should love me?"
"'I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat,'" quoted Constance, "'I was
thirsty and ye gave me drink, I was a stranger and ye took me in.'
That is what you did to us at Siwash Creek, and I am sure Christ won't
forget that."
"Oh, that's nothin', lassie. I jist done it 'cause I couldn't see yez
suffer, that's all."
"I think it very much. And didn't Christ say that a cup of cold water
given in His name will not lose its reward?"
"'In His name!' Ah, lassie, that's jist whar the stick comes. I
didn't think much about 'Im when I was a-doin' them things. Thar
wasn't the burnin' love in my heart for 'Im that I should have had, an'
it's never been very strong in my heart at any time."
"I think the Master will judge differently," said Keith. "Did He not
say, 'That greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his
life for his friends?' Isn't that what you did for me last night?"
"Did He say them words, laddie; are ye sure?" and the old man looked
his eagerness.
"Yes, that's just what He said. I will read them to you," and Keith
opened his Bible and read the beautiful scene, recorded by St. John, of
the true vine and the branches.
For a while Pete remained very still, with his eyes closed, to all
appearance asleep.
"Laddie," he suddenly remarked, "them words are very comfortin', but
thar 're others which make me feel bad in that same good Book."
"What! in here?"
"Yes, whar the Master tells us about the journey food. I don't
recollect the exact words, but He says if we don't eat His flesh and
drink His blood we have no life in us. Now, them are purty straight
words, an' I've often thought about 'em. I took the Communion once,
jist after my Confirmation, an' a most solemn an' elevatin' sarvice it
was. But I ain't took it since. I ain't been worthy."
"But you shall have it now if you wish," said Keith eagerly.
"But de'ye think I'm worthy, laddie?"
"That's not the question, Pete. I doubt if any of us are really worthy
of the blessings we receive, and if we waited until we were worthy to
follow His command about the Communion we would never take it at all.
If we waited until we were well before obeying the doctor's orders,
what good would they do? Now, Christ is the Doctor of souls, the Great
Physician, and He has given us this blessed food to strengthen,
comfort, and to give us more and fuller life. What He wants to see in
us is an earnest desire, a true, living faith."
"I do want it, laddie," said Pete eagerly. "It is His command, an' He
said, 'Do this in remembrance of Me,' didn't He? I ain't fergot them
words, an' when I meet 'Im up yon, mebbe He'll ax me about it, an' what
kin I say if I haven't obeyed 'Im. So if ye don't mind, an' it ain't
too much trouble, mebbe ye'd give it to me now."
It did not take Keith long to bring the Communion vessels from the
church, and when the fair linen cloth had been spread upon the little
table, the bread and wine made ready in the small silver chalice and
paten, and the missionary robed in his white surplice and stole, the
short, beautiful service began.
Pete followed earnestly every word, and at times a low "Amen" escaped
his lips.
"Lassie," he said, turning to Constance when the benediction had been
given, "won't ye sing a leetle?"
"Yes," came the reply, "what would you like?"
"Thar's a hymn me mother uster sing very often, an' it's mighty fine.
It begins this way, 'Jeeroosalem, the golden.' I've sung it meself out
on the hills."
"I know it," replied Constance, and in a low, sweet voice she sang the
familiar words with eyes filled with tears.
"Go on, lassie, don't stop," said Pete, when the first verse was ended.
Verse after verse was accordingly sung, and when at last the amen fell
from her lips, she glanced at the old man and found that he had fallen
asleep.
"It is well," said Keith gently. "We will leave him now for a time."
When Pete again awoke the day was far spent, and the sun was swinging
low in the west. He opened his eyes, and looked around in a dazed
manner, when, meeting Constance's anxious eyes fixed upon him, a smile
flitted across his face.
"I had a wonnerful dream, lassie. I saw me father an' mother very
plain. They was a-holdin' out their hands to me, jist like they uster
do when I was a leetle lad. They looked so happy, an' they was
a-smilin' at me. All around them thar was flowers, an' beautiful
trees, in which the birds were a-singin'. A leetle brook flowed right
by, an' I could hear it ripplin' an' makin' music, like the leetle
stream which ran through the medder near my old home. I heard children
a-playin' an' laughin' by the brook, an' among the flowers. Oh, it was
wonnerful! When I tried to go somethin' held me back. I struggled so
hard that at last I woke, an' it all went away."
Again he fell into a sleep, not a peaceful one as before, but troubled.
He tossed much, and often unintelligible words escaped his lips. When
he next awoke Constance and Keith were sitting near, watching him
attentively. He did not notice them, however, for he was off on the
trail, following up the golden lure.
"Alec, man," he said, "are ye thar? It's gittin' dark, an' the trail's
rough. Lower this pack from me back, man; it's too heavy, I can't
stan' it. Whar's me blanket, Alec? It's cold to-night. Throw some
sticks on the fire. Thar, that's better ... We ain't got much further
to go, Alec; jist across yon range, down the valley, an' up t'other
side ... Ah, thar's the gold! I knowed it was thar! I've been
a-follerin' it all me life ... Look, man, see how it shines! Gold!
Gold! Thank God, I've struck it at last!"
He looked around the room, and his eyes fell upon the anxious watchers.
"Whar am I, lad?" he asked. "I thought I was on the trail an' had made
a rich strike."
"You are here, safe in this cabin," replied Keith, "so don't worry."
"What's the time, laddie?"
"Almost midnight."
"Ah, I didn't think it was so late. But I know it can't be long now,
fer I'm slippin' away fast."
Then he looked at Constance and noticed the tears in her eyes.
"Don't cry, lassie. I'm only an old man, an' ain't wuth the fuss."
He was soon away again, this time a child, back in his old home.
"Mother, are ye thar? Bring the light, mother, an' hold me hand while
I say me prayers."
He fumbled over the blanket, as if expecting the loving pressure as of
old. At once Constance bent over him and took his cold, rough hand in
her own. He grasped it firmly, while a look of contentment stole into
his face.
"Now, kiss me, mother. I'm very tired, an' want to go to sleep."
Gently as a mother Constance stooped low, and as her lips touched his
bronzed forehead he started suddenly up.
"The trail! The shinin' trail!" he cried. "How bright it is! an' ...
oh, I see..."
The little clock in the room struck midnight, and the watchers looked
at each other in silence.
"It's all over," said Constance, gently withdrawing her hand. "The
long trail is ended."
"And thank God," Keith replied, "that it's of no earthly mine the gold
he's struck to-night."