THE GOLD IN BOREALIS
The men to whom the bar-keep told the story of Jim and his start into
the mountains smiled again. The light in their eyes was half of
affection and half of concern. They could not believe the shiftless
old miner would long remain away in the snow and wind, where more than
simple resolution was required to keep a man afoot. They would see him
back before the darkness settled on the world, perhaps with something
in his hand by way of a weed, if not precisely the "Injun" thing he
sought.
But the darkness came and Jim was not at hand. The night and the snow
seemed swirling down together in the gorge, from every lofty uprise of
the hills. It was not so cold as the previous storm, yet it stung with
its biting force.
At six o'clock the blacksmith called at the Dennihans', in some
anxiety. Doc himself threw open the door, in response to the knock.
How small and quiet he appeared, here at home!
"No, he 'ain't showed up," he said of Jim. "I don't know when he'll
come."
Webber reported to the boys.
"Well, mebbe he's gone, after all," said Field.
"He looked kind of funny 'round the eyes when he started," Bone
informed them. "I hope he'll git his stuff," and they wandered down
the street again.
At eight o'clock the bar-keep returned once more to Miss Doc's.
No Jim was there. The sick little foundling was feebly calling in his
baby way for "Bruvver Jim."
The fever had him in its furnace. Restlessly, but now more weakly
weaving, the tiny bit of a man continued as ever to cling to his doll,
which he held to his breast with all that remained of his strength. It
seemed as if his tired baby brain was somehow aware that Jim was gone,
for he begged to have him back in a sweet little way of entreaty,
infinitely sad.
"Bruvver Jim?" he would say, in his questioning little voice--"Bruvver
Jim?" And at last he added, "Bruvver Jim--do--yike--'ittle Nu--thans."
At this Miss Doc felt her heart give a stroke of pain, for something
that was almost divination of things desolate in the little fellow's
short years of babyhood was granted to her woman's understanding.
"Bruvver Jim will come," she said, as she knelt beside the bed. "He'll
come back home to the baby."
But nine o'clock and ten went by, and only the storm outside came down
from the hills to the house.
Hour after hour the lamp was burning in the window as a beacon for the
traveller; hour after hour Miss Dennihan watched the fever and the
weary little fellow in its toils. At half-past ten the blacksmith, the
carpenter, and Kew came, Tintoretto, the pup, coldly trembling, at
their heels. Jim was not yet back, and the rough men made no
concealment of their worry.
"Not home?" said Webber. "Out in the hills--in this?"
"You don't s'pose mebbe he's lost?" inquired the carpenter.
"No, Jim knows his mountains," replied the smith, "but any man could
fall and break his leg or somethin'."
"I wisht he'd come," said Miss Doc. "I wisht that he was home."
The three men waited near the house for half an hour more, but in vain.
It was then within an hour of midnight. Slowly, at last, they turned
away, but had gone no more than half a dozen rods when they met the
bar-keep, Doc Dennihan, Lufkins the teamster, and four other men of the
camp, who were coming to see if Jim had yet returned.
"I thought he mebbe hadn't come," said Bone, when Webber gave his
report, "but Parky's goin' to try to jump his claim at twelve o'clock,
and we ain't goin' fer to stand it! Come on down to my saloon fer
extry guns and ammunition. We're soon goin' up on the hill to hold the
ledge fer Jim and the poor little kid."
With ominous coupling of the gambler's name with rough and emphatic
language, the ten men marched in a body down the street.
The wind was howling, a door of some deserted shed was dully,
incessantly slamming.
Helplessly Miss Dennihan sat by the bed whereon the tiny pilgrim lay,
now absolutely motionless. The fever had come to its final stage. Dry
of skin, burning through and through, his little mouth parched despite
the touch of cooling water on his lips, the wee mite of a man without a
name, without a home, or a mother, or a single one of the baby things
that make the little folks so joyous, had ceased to struggle, and
ceased at last to call for "Bruvver Jim."
Then, at a quarter-past eleven, the outside door was suddenly thrown
open, and in there staggered Jim, a haggard, wild-eyed being, ghastly
white, utterly exhausted, and holding in his hand a wretched, scrawny
branch of the mountain shrub he had gone to seek.
"Oh, Jim! Jim!" cried Miss Doc, and, running forward, she threw her
arm around his waist to keep him up, for she thought he must fall at
every step,
"He's--alive?" he asked her, hoarsely. "He's alive? I only asked to
have him wait! Hot water!--get the stuff in water--quick!" and he
thrust the branch into her hand.
Beside the bed, on his great, rough knees, he fairly fell, crooning
incoherently, and by a mighty effort keeping his stiff, cold hands from
the tiny form.
Miss Doc had kept a plate of biscuit warm in the stove. One of these
and a piece of meat she gave to the man, bidding him eat it for the
warmth his body required.
"Fix the shrub in the water," he begged.
"It's nearly ready now," she answered. "Take a bite to eat."
Then, presently, she came again to his side. "I've got the stuff," she
said, awed by the look of anguish on the miner's face, and into his
hands she placed a steaming pitcher, a cup, and a spoon, after which
she threw across his shoulders a warm, thick blanket, dry and
comforting.
Already the shrub had formed a dark, pungent liquor of the water poured
upon it. Turning out a cupful in his haste, old Jim flowed the
scalding stuff across his hands. It burned, but he felt no pain. The
spoonful that he dipped from the cup he placed to his own cold lips, to
test. He blew upon it as a mother might, and tried it again.
Then tenderly he fed the tea through the dry little lips. Dully the
tiny man's unseeing eyes were fixed on his face.
"Take it, for old Bruvver Jim," the man gently coaxed, and spoonful
after spoonful, touched every time to his own mouth first, to try its
heat, he urged upon the little patient.
Then Miss Doc did a singular thing. She put on a shawl and, abruptly
leaving the house, ran with all her might down the street, through the
snow, to Bone's saloon. For the very first time in her life she
entered this detested place, a blazing light of joy in her eyes. Six
of the men, about to join the four already gone to the hill above,
where Jim had found the gold, were about to leave for the claim.
"He's come!" cried Miss Doc. "He's home--and got the weed! I thought
you boys would like to know!"
Then backing out, with a singular smile upon her face, she hastened to
return to her home with all the speed the snow would permit.
Alone in the house with the silent little pilgrim, who seemed beyond
all human aid, the gray old miner knew not what he should do. The
shrub tea was failing, it seemed to him. The sight of the drooping
child was too much to be borne. The man threw back his head as he
knelt there on the floor, and his stiffened arms were appealingly
uplifted in prayer.
"God Almighty," he said, in his broken voice of entreaty, "don't take
this little boy away from me! Let him stay. Let him stay with me and
the boys. You've got so many little youngsters there. For Christ's
sake, let me have this one!"
When Miss Doc came quietly in, old Jim had not apparently moved. He
was once more dipping the pungent liquor from the cup and murmuring
words of endearment and coaxing, to the all-unhearing little patient.
The eager woman took off her shawl and stood behind him, watching
intently.
"Oh, Jim!" she said, from time to time--"oh, Jim!"
With a new supply of boiling water, constantly heated on her stove, she
kept the steaming concoction fresh and hot.
Midnight came. The New Year was blown across those mighty peaks in
storm and fury. Presently out of the howling gale came the sound of
half a dozen shots, and then of a fusillade. But Jim, if he heard
them, did not guess the all they meant to him.
For an hour he had only moved his hands to take the pitcher, or to put
it down, or to feed the drink to the tiny foundling, still so
motionless and dull with the fever.
One o'clock was finally gone, and two, and three. Jim and the yearning
Miss Doc still battled on, like two united parents.
Then at last the miner made a half-stifled sound in his throat.
"You--can go and git a rest," he said, brokenly. "The sweat has come."
All night the wind and the storm continued. All through the long, long
darkness, the bitter cold and snow were searching through the hills.
But when, at last, the morning broke, there on the slope, where old
Jim's claim was staked, stood ten grim figures, white with snow, and
scattered here and there around the ledge of gold. They were Bone and
Webber, Keno and Field, Doc Dennihan, the carpenter, the teamster, and
other rough but faithful men who had guarded the claim against invasion
in the night.