CHAPTER XI
THE SHOT IN THE NIGHT
Pleasant though it was at Siwash Creek, Keith was anxious to return to Klassan as soon as possible. He was uneasy about the state of his dusky flock, and especially Yukon Jennie. Amos he knew could be trusted to do all in his power to keep the girl from her terrible design. But she was shrewd and hard to manage, so it was uncertain to tell what she would do. The desire to return, however, was tinged with apprehension. He knew that Pritchen and Perdue, with their followers, would use every effort in their power to hound him out of Klassan. There were others, he felt sure, who were more honourable. If the confidence of these could be won, he might be able to overcome the opposition.
Before starting, Keith visited his patient. He found the arm doing as well as could be expected, but the racking cough still continued the same.
"Miss Radhurst," he said, as he bent over her father. "I leave for Klassan this morning."
Constance looked up in surprise. "What! going away so soon?" she queried.
"Yes, duty calls me back to my flock. They are in danger from the miners down there, and I have been absent too long already."
"We shall miss you very much, Mr. Steadman. You have been the means of brightening us up, and helping my poor father. Life to me here is almost unbearable, and I wonder how you can stay in the North year after year. How lonely you must find it."
Keith turned and looked into her eyes. "Miss Radhurst," he replied, "they have been the happiest years of my life. Until the miners arrived at Klassan my work was one of continual joy and peace, even when I was struggling with the medicine men at the beginning of my ministry there."
"But I cannot understand," Constance rejoined, "how an educated man can be satisfied to remain in such a wilderness, away from all congenial surroundings. Does not the mind become——"
"Stagnant?" assisted Keith, noticing her hesitate over the word, and a flush cross her face.
"Yes, that is what I mean, though it may seem rather a harsh judgment."
"Some think so, but that is where they are mistaken. It is here we have room and time to think, and let our minds expand. It was my good Bishop of the Mackenzie River who once said that he was willing to devote a whole lifetime in the wilderness among the Indians, and also to the study of the Bible in the original language, which the bustle of life in London sadly interrupted. Now, during the last ten years I have studied the Indian dialect of this country, prepared a grammar, a lexicon, and have translated portions of the Scriptures, and also the entire Prayer Book, besides a number of hymns. These have been printed, and the natives carry them to their hunting grounds, and read them carefully."
"This is all new to me," said Constance. "I never thought of it in that way. But does not the bleakness of the land wear upon you, making you long for the sweet meadows and the fragrant flowers?"
"You must remember, Miss Radhurst, that it is not all winter here. We have beautiful summers, when the song birds return, and the flowers bloom on every hand. Then it is good to live in such a place, and, though I do miss the sweet meadows, yet there is much to compensate me for their loss. The forests are filled with a joyous life, where every creature, small and great, rejoices in being alive. Often those ancient words come to my mind, as I wander through the woods, watch the rushing streams, or gaze upon the lofty mountains, 'All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him, and magnify Him forever.' But," he continued, after a pause, "there is another field in which I have worked, and because I have done so I believe I shall be able to help your father."
"And what is that?" asked Constance eagerly.
"As a medical man, I have studied most carefully the simple remedies used by the Indians in their treatment of diseases. Though at first I found them mingled with superstition, and gross rites, yet I have discovered the beneficial properties contained in the common roots and herbs which surround us. It was Nathaniel Hawthorne, you remember, who said about old Roger Chillingworth that,
"'In his Indian captivity, he had gained much knowledge of the property of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating.'"
"I don't remember the words," Constance responded, "but I have read about that terrible man, Roger Chillingworth. It's in 'The Scarlet Letter,' is it not?"
"Yes, and the words appealed to me so strongly that years ago, when a student at college, I learned them by heart.
"Well, as I was saying, I have made several important additions to my stock of knowledge while among the Indians. But there is one medicine which is a great secret, into which I have never been admitted. Its preparation is known only to a few. There are certain traditions connected with it why the knowledge must not be divulged. It is formed of roots and herbs of some kind, and is used only on the rarest occasions. Twice I have seen the medicine administered, and each time with marvellous results. Now, your father needs some special treatment, for his symptoms are very similar to the man I saw cured. I think I have influence enough to obtain the remedy for him. Will you trust me?"
Constance gave a start, and a look of fear came into her face.
"Do you think my father is as bad as that?" she asked.
"Yes, I am afraid so, and it is important that you should leave this place, and go back to your comfortable cabin at Klassan. Pete will take you, and in two weeks' time I think your father will be able to stand the journey, if great care is used. Will you consent to this?"
For a while Constance did not answer, and Keith knew she was weighing everything most carefully, and struggling for self-control.
"Mr. Steadman," she calmly replied, holding out her hand, "I feel I can trust you, so please do whatever you think is best."
Keith took her hand in his own strong one, and held it for an instant, as he looked into her brave face. Neither spoke for a time, but into each heart crept a joy, like a pure, fresh, dew-touched flower, tucked away in some hidden dell, with only the eye of God resting upon it.
An hour later Keith drew away from Siwash Creek for his long run to Klassan. The dogs bounded merrily over the snow, shaking their little bells, glad of the race in the keen, frosty air. Keith could hardly believe it possible that such a short time before he had plodded over that same trail, weary and sick at heart. A new life now possessed him, and he sang snatches of old songs and hymns, cheered the dogs, and at times laughed aloud at the mere joy of living.
But the travelling was hard, and the second day had closed before the lights of Klassan gleamed in the distance. The dogs were tired as they drew near the village, with their master trudging wearily behind, urging them on with words of encouragement. The trail ran close by Perdue's store, and the animals, hearing voices within, paused before the door, while the leader cast a backward glance at the missionary. The only answer he received to his appealing look was the command to "mush on," for Keith had no intention of halting there. He had advanced but a few yards, however, when the report of a revolver fell upon his ears, then a cry of pain, and a confused noise within the building. Suddenly the door was flung open, and a number of men rushed out, and stood huddled together in a little group, talking in the most excited manner.
Feeling sure that something was wrong, Keith left his dogs and retraced his steps to where the men were gathered.
"It's hard luck for the kid," he heard one say. "He was a sharp 'un, and we'll miss him."
"My God! it's a bad rap, that," replied another. "But he pulled his gun first, when he thought Bill was cheating, though he was too late, and there he lies."
"D'ye think it'll fix 'im?" asked another.
"Fix him, man! Did ye see the hole bored into him, and the blood spoutin' out? Wouldn't that fix any one?"
Keith waited to hear no more, but quickly turned and entered the building. A pathetic sight met his view. Lying on the floor was a young man surrounded by several miners, who were vainly trying to staunch a stream of blood which was oozing from the fallen man's neck.
Keith grasped the situation in an instant. He saw that something more had to be done, and that at once.
"Boys," he said, moving near, "that man will soon bleed to death if you don't do more than that."
"What in h— do you know about it?" came a surly response, and, glancing quickly around, Keith looked into the scowling face of Pritchen, with his revolver still in his hand. He was standing in a defiant attitude, with his back to the wall, as if expecting an attack for the deed he had committed. But there was nothing for him to fear, as the youth, Joe Simkins, one of his own gang, had pulled his gun first. It was only an act of self-defence, and this the miners well knew.
It was a certain relief to Keith to see Pritchen standing there, and to know that Jennie had not carried out her design. But he had little time to think about it now. Stern work was on hand, and must be attended to without delay.
"I know this much," Keith replied, looking Pritchen straight in the eyes, "that if something isn't done for this man, and done at once, you will have another life to answer for at the Judgment Day, and it is not a poor, helpless Indian woman this time, either."
Stung to the quick by these words, spoken so deliberately by the man he bitterly hated, with an oath, Pritchen grasped his revolver more firmly than ever. His face was livid with rage, and his teeth ground together. Just when the miners expected to see another dead or wounded man in their midst, the weapon was suddenly dropped into its case, and, without a word, Pritchen left the building.
Silence reigned for a short time in the room, and the men looked at one another, and then at Keith. Twice now had they seen him and Pritchen meet, and each time there had been a scene, and blood narrowly averted. What power the missionary had over the boasting bully, they could not understand, and sought for an explanation of the mystery through many a long evening's conversation in the seclusion of their own cabins.
"Boys," said Keith, breaking the brief silence, "I am a medical man, as well as a missionary, so if you will lift this poor fellow on to the table, perhaps I can do something for him."
Without a word they obeyed, and stood quietly by as he examined the wound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood.
"Close call, that," they heard him say. "Concussion. The ball's in here yet; it must come out."
Presently he turned and looked toward Perdue. "Haven't you a private corner somewhere for this chap?" he asked.
The saloonkeeper's face was surly. "I don't want him here," he replied. "It's not my funeral. Why should I be bothered with him?"
Keith stared at him in amazement. He could hardly believe it possible that any one could be so hardened to human suffering. Before he could speak, an old man, with white hair and shaggy beard, stepped up to Perdue.
"You brute!" he roared. "You desarve to be strung up to the nearest tree. Ye're jist like most of yer set; ye strip us of our chink, and manhood, and when we've nothin' left ye fire us out. I've a son somewhar, God bless'm, and fer his sake this poor chap'll come to my cabin. B'ys, if y'll bear him tenderly, I'll lead the way. Will that do, sir?" he concluded, turning to the missionary.
"Just the thing," replied Keith, "and while you carry him, I'll slip over to my cabin for my instruments and bandages."