Old Maurice Delorme boasted the blood of many nations; his "bulldog"
grit came to him from an English sea-captain, a bluff, genial old tar
whom he could recall as being his "grand-daddy" sixty years ago; his
gay, rollicking love of laughter and song came to him through his half
French father; his love of wood and water lore, his endurance, his gift
of strategy, were his birthright directly from his Red Indian mother;
consequently there was but one place in the world where such a trinity
of nationalities could be fostered in one man, but one place where that
man could breathe and be happy, and that place was amid the struggling
heights and the yawning canyons of the Rocky Mountains.
Years before Canada had constructed her world-famous transcontinental
railroad, which now stretches its belt of steel from Atlantic to
Pacific, Maurice Delorme set out for the golden West, working his way
across the vast Canadian half of the American continent. He had done
everything for a living--that is, everything that was honorable, for his
British-French-Indian blood was the blood of honest forefathers, and he
prided himself that he could directly and bravely look into the eyes of
any man living; for, after all, does not dishonesty make the eyes shift
and the heart cowardly?
He had trapped for fur-bearing animals on the North Shores; he had
twice fought the rebels at the Red River; he had freighted many and
many a "prairie schooner" from the Assiniboine to the Saskatchewan; and
then, one glorious morning in July, when the hot yellow sun poured its
wealth of heat and light into the velvety plains of Alberta, Maurice
descried at the very edge of the western horizon a far-off speck of
shining white, apparently not larger than a single lump of sugar. As
day followed day, and he traversed mile upon mile, more sugar lumps were
visible; and, below their whiteness, the grayish distances grew into
mountain shapes. Then he realized that at last he beheld the inimitable
glory of the Rockies that swept in snow-tipped grandeur from south to
north.
Then followed the years when he, his wife and a little Maurice lived
in the fastnesses of those mighty ranges; when he learned to know and
follow the trail of the mountain goat; when the rugged passes grew
familiar to him as the little village where he had been born in Quebec;
when the countless forests of Douglas fir held no mysteries and no fears
for him; and, because he had learned these things, because he was brave
and courageous, because his life had been clean and honest, he was
selected to carry His Majesty's mails from a primitive "landing" on one
of the Kootenay Lakes to the great gold mines, forty miles into the
interior, and over one of the wildest, loneliest mountain trails in all
British Columbia.
Then it was that, once a month, when the mail came in by the tiny
steamer, Maurice Delorme would harness up his six tough little
mountain-climbing horses, put on his cartridge belt, tuck a formidable
revolver into his hip pocket and a good gun beneath the seat of the
wagon, toss in the bags of mail and the express packages, say a laughing
good-bye to Mrs. Delorme and little Maurice, and "hit the trail" for
the gold mines. How he hated to leave those two helpless ones alone in
the vast, uninhabited surroundings! But Mrs. Delorme had the fearless
courage and self-reliance of the women of the North, and little Maurice
was yearly growing, growing, growing. Now he was ten, now twelve, now
fourteen--a sturdy young mountaineer, with the sinews of an athlete, and
a store of learning, not from books, for he had never known a school,
but from the simple teaching of his parents and the unlimited knowledge
of woodcraft, of the habits of wild things, of mountain peaks, of
plants, of animals, insects and birds, and of the incessant hunt for
food that must always be when one lives beyond the pale of civilized
markets.
* * * * * * * *
And then one day, when little Maurice was about fifteen years old, his
father staggered into their pretty log home, bleeding, crushed and
dazed. The fate of the mountaineer had met him, for, during one of those
sudden tempests that sweep through the canyons, a wind-riven tree had
hurled its length down across the trail, its rotting heart and decaying
branches falling--providentially with broken force--sparing the
galloping horses and only injuring the driver--for how he escaped death
was beyond human explanation.
Little Maurice was then the man of the house. He helped his brave mother
dress the sufferer's wounds, he cared for the horses, he provided wood
and water, going about whistling softly to himself and trying to shut
his eyes to the fact that the food was growing less and less daily, and
that the mail day was drawing nearer and nearer. Of course the steamer
would bring flour and bacon and tea but it would also bring the mail and
express to be transported to the gold mines. His father would never be
well enough to drive the mails up that jagged mountain trail; and, worse
than that, his father must have fresh meat broth at once. Little Maurice
went into the sick-room, and standing beside the bed looked carefully
into the face of old Maurice. The eyes were feverish, the forehead
puckered with pain, the hands hot and growing thin. Then he turned
away, followed his mother outside, and, after a brief talk with her, he
reached up for his father's gun, took the stock of ammunition and dry
biscuits, whistled for his dog, and, a moment later, was swallowed up in
the forest.
The long day slipped by; hour after hour Mrs. Delorme would go to the
door, shade her eyes with her hand, and look keenly up the mountain
slopes, with their wilderness of pines. Once she saw a faint, blue puff
of smoke, and her quick ear caught the sharp crack of a far-off rifle.
Then all was silent for hours. The warm September sun had dropped behind
the western peaks, and the canyons were purpling with oncoming twilight,
when two quick successive shots broke the evening stillness, and echoed
like a salute of twenty-one guns far down the valley. Mrs. Delorme ran
once again to the door. The shots could not have been five hundred yards
distant, for down through the firs came Royal, the magnificent hound,
whining and grinning and licking his mouth with delight, and, behind
him, Maurice, shouting that he had killed a deer, and was hungry enough
to eat half of it himself.
"And, mother," he cried, "I could have got the game at noon to-day,
but Royal and I have been hours and hours closing in on him, getting
him into the runway, so that, when I did drop him, it would be near
home, for I could never pack his carcass all that way. He must weigh
two hundred and fifty pounds. Oh, but he's a fat one. And here are some
mountain grouse Roy and I got. Daddy will have all the broth he can
drink, and you and old Roy here and I will have some venison steaks for
supper!"
So, breathless and proud and excited, Maurice chattered on, preparing
a huge knife to quarter the deer, the more easily to pack it home.
There was great rejoicing in the log shack that night. Old Maurice
swallowed his bowl of hot grouse soup with relish, and clasped his son's
hand with the firm grip one man gives to another. The anxious lines left
Mrs. Delorme's face, as she laughed and praised young Maurice's prowess
as a bread-winner. Royal stretched his long, lithe legs, yawning audibly
with weariness and content as he lay beside the stove sniffing the
appetizing smells of broiling steaks, knowing well his share would be
generous after his long and faithful hunt and obedience to his young
master. And so the little mountain home was well supplied with fresh
meat, hot soups, smoked venison hams and dried flitches, until the day
of fresh supplies, when the primitive steamer tooted its shrill whistle
far down the lake, and Mrs. Delorme, young Maurice and Royal all went
down to greet the first fellow-beings they had seen for a month, and to
receive and care for seven bags of His Majesty's mails, bound for the
distant gold mines.
"Why seven bags?" asked Mrs. Delorme of the captain. "We never get more
than six."
"The extra is a large consignment of registered mail, madam," he
replied. "Big money for the mines, they tell me. You want to keep an eye
on that extra bag. Old Maurice doesn't want to lose that."
Then he was told the story of the old driver's accident, and forthwith
climbed the steep trail from the landing to the shack to see how things
really were. He saw at a glance that Delorme would not be about for some
weeks to come; so, after an encouraging word and a kindly good-bye, the
captain turned, as he left the door, and, slapping young Maurice on the
shoulder in his bluff, hearty way, said:
"Well, kid, I guess you'll have to carry the mails this time. Start
good and early to-morrow. I'm a day late bringing them, as it is. The
managers of the mines are not the waiting sort, and there's money--money
that they need--in that extra bag. Better take a gun with you, boy, and
keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!"
"Yes, captain," answered young Maurice, very quietly. "I'll land the
mail at the mines all right."
And, a few minutes later, the departing whistle of the little steamer
was heard far down the lake, as night fell softly and silently on the
solitary little mountain home of the Delormes.
* * * * * * * *
In the grey dawn of the next morning Maurice was astir, his horses were
being well fed, his mail bags packed securely, his gun looked over
sharply. Then came the savory smells of bacon and toast for breakfast,
the hurried good-byes, the long, persistent whistle for Royal, the deer
hound, his constant chum in all things, then the whizzing crack of
the young driver's "blacksnake" whip, a bunching together of the four
horses' sturdy little hoofs, a spring forward, and the "mountain mail"
was away--away up the yawning canyon, where the peaks lifted on every
side, where the black forests crowded out the glorious sunrise, away up
the wild gorge, where human foot rarely fell and only the wild things
prowled from starlight to daylight the long years through; where the
trail wound up and up the steeps, losing itself in the clouds which hung
like great festoons of cobwebs half-high against the snow line. In all
that vast world Maurice drove on utterly alone, save for the pleasant
companionship of his four galloping horses and the cheering presence of
Royal, who panted at the rear wheels of the mail coach, and wagged his
tail in a frenzy of delight whenever his human friend spoke to him.
The climb was so precipitous that it was hours before he could reach
the summit, and he was yet some miles from being half way when his
well-trained eye caught indications of coming disaster. A thousand
trivial things announced that a mountain storm was brewing; the clouds
trailed themselves into long, leaden ribbons, then swirled in circles
like whirlpools. The huge Douglas firs began to murmur, then whisper,
then growl. The sky grew thick and reddish, the gleaming, snow-clad
peaks disappeared.
Maurice took in the situation at once. With the instinct of a veteran
mail carrier, his first care was to roll his mail bags in a rubber
sheet, while the registered sack, doubly protected, he never allowed for
a moment to leave its station beneath his knees under the seat. These
simple precautions were barely completed before the storm was upon
him. A blinding flash set his horses on edge, their sensitive nerves
quivering in every flank. Maurice gathered the lines firmly, seized his
"blacksnake," and, with a low whistle, urged his animals, that bounded
forward, snorting with fear as a crack of thunder followed, booming down
the gorges with deafening echoes. In another moment the whole forest
seemed alive. The giant pines whipped and swayed together, their supple
tips bending and beaten with the fury of the tempest. Above the wild
voices of the hurricane came the frequent crash of falling timber;
but, through it all, the boy drove on without thought of himself or
of shelter, and through it all the splendid animals kept the trail,
responding as only the horse can respond to the touch of a guiding rein
or the sound of the mountaineer's whistle. But the end came for Maurice,
when, upon rounding an abrupt steep, his four animals reared in terror,
then seemed to crouch back upon their haunches. The rude log bridge they
should have dashed across was gone--in its place gaped a huge fissure,
its throat choked with wreckage of trestle and planking.
The unexpected halt nearly pitched Maurice from the wagon, but he
steadied first his nerve, then his hands, then his eyes. Why had the
bridge gone down, was his first thought. The storm was of far too brief
duration to have done the mischief. Then those keen young eyes of his
saw beyond the tempest and the ruined bridge. They saw about the useless
supports and wooden props fresh chips from a recent axe. In a second his
brain grasped the fact that the bridge had been cut away on purpose. His
thoughts flew forward--for what purpose was it destroyed? Like a dream
seemed to come the captain's voice in his ears: "Better take a gun with
you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!" And
he heard himself reply, "I'll land the mail at the mines all right."
"And I'll do it, too!" he said, aloud. Then, above the hoarse voices of
the storm, he heard a low, long, penetrating whistle. Quick as a flash
the boy realized his position. He snatched the registered mail bag from
between his knees. "Royal! Royal! Good dog!" he called, softly, and the
poor, wet, storm-beaten creature came instantly, reaching pathetically
toward his young master, his forefeet pawing the wagon wheels, his fine,
keen nose sniffing at the mail sack outheld by Maurice.
"Royal, you must watch!" said the boy. "Watch, Royal, watch!" Then,
with a strengthy fling of his arm, he hurled the precious bag of
registered mail over the rim of the precipice, far down into the canyon,
two hundred feet below. For an instant the dog stood rigid. Then, like
the needle to the north, he turned, held his sensitive head high in the
air for a moment, sniffed audibly and was gone. Then again came that
low, long whistle. The horses' ears went erect, and Maurice sat silent,
grasping the reins and peering ahead through the now lessening rain.
But, with all his young courage, his heart weakened when a voice spoke
directly behind him. It said:
"Who are you?"
He turned and faced three men, and, looking directly into the eyes of
the roughest-seeming one of the trio, he replied, quietly:
"I think you know who I am."
"Humph! Cool, I must say!" answered the first speaker. "Well, perhaps we
can warm you up a bit; but maybe you can save us some trouble by telling
us where old Delorme is."
"At home," said Maurice.
"And you've brought the mall in place of Delorme, I suppose? Well, so
much the better for us. I'll trouble you to hand me out that bag of
registered stuff."
The man ceased speaking, his hand on the rim of the front wheel.
"I have no registered stuff," the boy answered, truthfully. "Just six
common mail bags. Do you wish them? As I am only one boy against three
men, I suppose there is not much use resisting." Maurice's lip curled in
a half sneer, and his eyes never left the big bully's face.
"A lie won't work this time, young fellow!" the man threatened. "Boys,
go through that wagon! go over every inch of it now; you'll find the
stuff all right."
The other two men emptied the entire load into the trail, then turned
and stared at their leader.
"This is a bluff! Rip open those bags!" he growled. And the next moment
the contents of the six bags were sprawling in the mud. They contained
nothing but ordinary letters and newspapers.
"Sold!" blurted out the man. "We might have known that any yarn
'Saturday Jim' told us would be a lie. He couldn't give a man a straight
tip to save his life! Come on, boys! There's nothing doing this trip!"
And, swinging about, he turned up an unbroken trail that opened on some
hidden pass to the "front." His two pals followed at his heels,
muttering sullenly over their ill success.
"No," said Maurice to himself. "You're quite right, gentlemen! There's
nothing doing this trip!" But, aloud, he only spoke gently to his
wearied horses as he unhitched and secured them to the rear of the
wagon, gathered the scattered mail, and then scanned the sky narrowly.
The storm was over, but the firs still thrashed their tops in the wind,
the clouds still trailed and circled about the mountain summit. For a
full hour Maurice sat quietly and thought things. What was to be done?
The bridge was gone, the registered mail at the bottom of the canyon,
and the day growing shorter every moment. Only one course lay before
him. (He would not consider, even for a second, that any way lay open
to him behind.) He must get that mail to the mines, or he could never
look his father in the face again. He walked cautiously to the brink of
the precipice and looked over. It was very steep. Nothing was visible
but broken rock, boulders and bracken. No sign of either Royal or the
mail bag; but he knew that somewhere, far below, the dog was keeping
watch; that his four wise, steady feet had unerringly taken him where
his animal instinct had dictated; and Maurice argued that, where his
four feet could go, his two could follow. He must recover the bag,
select his fleetest horse, and ride bareback on to the mines.
The descent was a long, rough, dangerous business, but Maurice had
learned many a climbing trick from the habits of the mountain goat, and
at last he stood at the canyon's bottom, a tired, lonely but courageous
bit of boyhood, ready to suffer and dare anything so long as he could
prove himself worthy of the trust that his father had placed in his
strong young hands.
He stood for a moment, awed by the wonder of the granite walls that rose
like a vast fortress, towering above him, silent and motionless. Then he
gave one clear whistle, then listened. Almost within stone's throw came
the response the half-sad, wholly eager whine of a dog. Maurice was
beside him in a twinkling, patting and hugging the beautiful animal, who
lay, with shining eyes and wagging tail, his forepaws resting on the
coarse canvas which bore, woven redly into its warp and woof, the two
words: "Canada Mail."
What a meeting it was! Boy and dog, each with a worthy trust, worthily
kept. But it was one, two, three hours before Maurice, footsore,
exhausted, and with bleeding fingers, followed by Royal, panting and
thirsty, regained the trail where the horses stood, ready for the onward
gallop, three of them failing to understand why they were to be left in
the lonely forest, while the fourth was quickly bridled, packed with the
mail sacks and Maurice, and told to "be careful now!" as he picked his
way down and around the bridgeless gorge and "hit the trail" on the
opposite side.
It was very late that night when the men at the mines heard the even
gallop of an approaching horse. Many of the miners had gone to bed
grumbling and threatening when no mail had arrived and no wages were
paid. The manager and his assistants were still up, however, perplexed
and worried that, for the first time, old Maurice Delorme had failed to
reach the camp with the company's money bags. But up the rough makeshift
of a road came those galloping hoofs, halting before the primitive
post office, while the crowd gathered and welcomed a strange trio. The
manager himself lifted poor, stiff, tired "Little" Maurice from the
back of an equally stiff, tired mountain pony, while a hot, hungry
hound whined about, trying to tell the whole story in his wonderful dog
fashion; but, when they did hear the real story from Maurice, there was
a momentary silence, then a rough old miner fairly shouted, "Well, by
the Great Horn Spoon, he's old Maurice Delorme's son all right!" Then
came--cheers!