CHAPTER XXII
OLD PETE
When Old Pete left Klassan, and went back to Siwash Creek with Keith's dogs, he expected to return in a short time with a supply of moose-meat. But the game was scarce, and he was forced to go far afield before meeting the proud monarchs of the forest. It led him into a new region, where he spent some time in prospecting a ledge of rocks, which showed indications of gold-bearing ore. By the time he again reached his own cabin Spring was upon him, and the snow was rapidly disappearing from the ground.
One day he spent at Siwash Creek, packing up his meagre household belongings, and that evening Alec McPherson came to visit him. This sturdy son of the heather looked with surprise upon the dismantled room, and turned inquiringly to his companion.
"What, mon, are ye awa' sae soon!" he exclaimed. "I thought ye would stay wi' us noo."
Pete did not seem to hear this remark, but continued stuffing several articles of wearing apparel into an old canvas sack. When the last pair of socks had been carefully stowed away, and the bag deposited in one corner of the room, he suddenly asked:
"What's the news from Klassan, Alec?"
"Nothing, Pete. Since ye came from yon, we've had never a word. The big storm blocked the trail, an' atop o' that came the thaw, an' the water noo is a-spillin' owre the land."
"What! no word from the parson or the lassie?"
"None."
"Wall, then, Alec, I'm a-goin' down, as fast as them hounds'll take me. I'm anxious to hear some word."
"But ye won't strike the trail noo, mon, in its bad condeetion? Stay here till things settle doon a bit."
Seating himself upon a stool Pete began to whittle at a small plug of tobacco, and then deliberately filled an old blackened pipe before replying.
"Sit down, Alec," he demanded at length. "Thar's somethin' on me mind I want to tell ye. Ye've been a good friend to me, man, an' I kin never fergit it. We've trod the trails together fer years, but I'm a-thinkin' we'll do it no more."
"Tut, tut, mon, what's come owre ye? Haven't we fine prospects in sight anent the summer?"
"Ay, ay, Alec, it's true what ye say. But haven't we allus had fine prospects in sight? Tell me that. An' what have we got? I'll tell ye what we've got. We've got old age pilin' a-top of us; we've got stiff jints, an' rheumatiz a-plenty; an' we've got a cabin apiece. That's what we've got, Alec, a-trailin' after this devil gold. We're gittin' old, man, an' the things we should have we haven't got, I tell ye that plain."
"Why, Pete, I thought ye liked the life, sae grand an' free, wi' the great works o' Nature all around ye. Didn't ye often say ye could never live in harness, but wanted the wild always fer yer hame?"
"Sure, man, I know I said it, but I've been a-thinkin' different of late. Out in yon new region I've had strange thoughts, an' they overcome me. Thinks I to meself, I'm an old man without a home, an' no one to care for me whether I come or go. What's the use of me a-rustlin' fer a home-stake when there's never a one to share it with me? The wild life may be fine to read about in stories an' sich like, an' the young chaps may like it, but I want a home now; I want some one to care fer, an' to care fer me. What good is all the gold in the warld, Alec, when ye haven't a wife or kiddies to brighten yer cabin?"
"Ye're owre late thinkin' aboot sic things," said Alec rather dryly, puffing away at his pipe.
"I know it, man, I know it. But hearken. I've a son an' a daughter now in me old age, an' though they're neither kith nor kin of mine, they're very close to me, an' I love 'em. They've been good to me, an' I want to be near 'em. They're now at Klassan, so that's why I'm a-goin' thar."
"An' how lang will ye stay doon yon? Will ye no wark?"
"Make a livin', man? I'm not a-worrin' about that. All my life long the good Lord has provided fer me better than I desarved, an' if He cares fer the flowers an' the birds He'll not abandon an old man, never ye fear that. But thar'll be wark, Alec, an' these rough hands'll not be idle as long as life is in this carcase."
"May God bless ye, Pete!" and Alec stretched out his horny right hand. Then in the silence of that little cabin these two hardy prospectors joined hands, while their eyes filled with tears, at what they felt was at last the parting of the ways.
Some time before Pete reached Klassan the trail became so bad that it was impossible for the dogs to drag the sled with its load of meat and the prospector's small outfit. The only thing to do was to cache the supplies up between three trees, on a triangular scaffold made of fir poles.
"Thar, laddies," said Pete, when the task was finished, "it's safe at any rate, an'll keep till we kin come fer it."
With a small pack on his back and rifle in his hand, he pushed forward, with the dogs bounding along by his side, glad of the freedom from harness. Night had shut down over the land when at length the lights of Klassan came into view.
"We'll soon be thar, b'ys," encouraged the old man, "an' I reckon yer master'll be mighty glad to see us. Mebbe he'll have some supper ready, though it is late, an' we won't be sorry, hey, Yukon?" and he gave the faithful brute an affectionate pat on the head.
Into the village he strode, past the store, the miners' cabins, and up the trail toward the Indian encampment. He had just reached the forks of the road when a heart-rending cry for help split the air. Pete paused in amazement, while with a roar Brisko bounded forward. It was a woman's voice, he was sure of that, and his heart beat fast when he realized that there was only one white woman in the place. With Pete to think was to act, and springing up the trail with huge strides, he soon reached the spot where the prostrate woman lay. He saw the dark figure on the ground and heard the crashing of the bushes through which Pritchen was struggling, at the same time beating off the furious onset of the dog.
Pete lost not an instant, but drawing forth his match case, made of two cartridge shells fitted closely together, he struck a light, and as it flashed upon Constance's face so still and white, a deep groan escaped his lips.
"My God," he cried, looking wildly around. "Whar is the villain who has done this?"
Throwing aside his pack he stooped down, and lifting up the inanimate form in his strong arms, carried her up the hill as tenderly as a mother would bear her little child.
"Poor lassie! Poor lassie!" he crooned. "What has happened? Who could frighten sich a sweet lamb? But never mind, Pete is here, an' he'll look inter this bizness later."
When Constance opened her eyes she found herself lying in her own home, with her father and old Pete standing anxiously by the couch. She tried to rise, but, feeling rather unsteady, was glad to lie down again.
"What has happened?" she asked, "or have I been dreaming? Where is that terrible man?"
"Hush, darling," replied her father soothingly. "Lie still and rest awhile, and you will soon be strong."
"Ye've been dreamin', lassie," said Pete, delighted to know that Constance was recovering. "Ye've had bad visions, an' so fergot yer supper. It's all ready, an' yer dad's been waitin' fer ye to wake up fer some time."
Constance found it very pleasant to be there, weak though she was, listening to the old man's words, and to feel so secure.
"Please tell me how I got here," she asked, looking up at the prospector. "I think you had much to do with my rescue."
"Tut, tut, lassie, never ye mind that now. Drink this hot tea, an' eat this cracker, then we'll tell ye all about it."
While Constance obeyed this injunction, her father and Pete ate their supper at the little table near by. The latter was hungry, very hungry, as it had been hours since he had tasted any food. He asked no question, and seemed to be the most free-from-care fellow in the world. In his quaint way he told stories of his frontier life, till Constance found herself alternately weeping and laughing at his tales of pathos and humour. But if any one could have looked below the mere surface of words, he would have seen how anxious Pete was to hear the whole story of the night, and how the missionary was getting along. Not, however, till the colour had been somewhat restored to Constance's cheeks, the dishes cleared away, and the men seated by the couch, was the tale of adventure related. Then followed the account of Keith's troubles, his trial, and expulsion. Mr. Radhurst told of the latter, as Constance found herself unequal to the task so painful was the memory of it all.
Pete sat on the stool drinking in every word, with his eyes fixed full upon the face of the narrator. At times his huge frame trembled with emotion, and a groan escaped his lips. It was only when Mr. Radhurst had finished that he leaped to his feet and gave vent to his pent-up feelings.
"Oh, God!" he cried, shaking his fist in the direction of the saloon. "Let me live long enough, to punish that villain, that devil!—what's his name, did ye say?"
"Pritchen, Bill Pritchen," replied Mr. Radhurst.
"Bill Pritchen, ye scoundrel, ye'll answer fer this, an' to Pete Martin at that!"
He was about to say more when he suddenly stopped, and a look of remorse crossed his face, as he saw Constance lying on the couch so very still. He seemed to read reproach and wonder in her clear eyes.
"Fergive me, lassie!" he cried. "I didn't mean to frighten ye. But I do feel bad, thar's no mistake."
"Don't mind me, Pete," said Constance, "for I am rather unstrung this evening. But there is one thing which has been worrying me much, and I would like to speak about it now."
"Go ahead, then," and Pete once more resumed his seat.
"Father told you the story of that man dying out in the Ibex cabin, and that the letters on the rock are the same as on the empty poke which was found in that chest. It's a wonder Mr. Steadman didn't say something about it."
"He did, lassie. He did."
"Not to us."
"No, not to you; but he told it to me."
"Who was the man, then, oh, please tell us!" and Constance rose to a sitting posture in her eagerness.
"Lassie," and Pete spoke very slowly, "I don't mind tellin' ye now; mebbe it's best ye should know. That chap was yer brother!"
If the prospector expected an outburst of lamentation at this announcement he was much disappointed. Startling though it was, father and daughter uttered not a word, but sat very still. The news was not altogether unexpected, for often had they discussed the matter when alone, and had reached the conclusion that it could be none other than Kenneth who had died in the cabin. And yet, mingled with this idea, there was the faint hope that they might be mistaken, and that their loved one some day would be given back to them. But now the last slender thread was snapped to which they had clung so long.
For a while Constance sat motionless on the couch, looking into Pete's face. But she saw him not, for her mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting far away to other days. She did not notice when Mr. Radhurst left his seat and came close to her side. But when he put his arms tenderly around her, and drew her close to him, she awoke from her reverie. Then when she saw the pained look on her father's face, and the tears which were stealing down his faded cheeks, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like a child.
For some time no one spoke, and Old Pete sat silently by, a sympathetic witness of the little scene. "It will do the lassie good," he said to himself. "If them tears hadn't come I'd be a-feered, jist as I would of a biler without any safety valve."
After awhile Constance dried her eyes and, turning to Pete, apologized for her emotion.
"But then, I know, you understand. Kenneth was so dear to us—and to think that we shall never see him again!"
"Don't say that, lassie. As ye are a Christian woman ye must believe that ye'll meet yer brother agin, when them pearly gates are opened. I was jist a-thinkin' how once I uster laugh at the idea of a future life. Says I to meself, an' to others, 'This life is enough fer me, so I'll have a good time now.' But as I growed older I began to see, an' it all come gradual like, that this life is only a trail after all. Now, ye see, we have nothin' but trails here, an' purty tough ones at that. By an' by thar'll be roads, an' then when them cities git built thar'll be paved streets. Then when us old pioneers walk on them fine, level highways we'll think of the time when only trails ran here, an' we'll be mighty proud to tell others that we've roughed it a bit. So, lassie, when mushin' over a hard trail, I says to meself that it's jist like life. Some day thar'll be the Holy City we read about, whar the streets are paved with gold, an' if we are to enjoy them thar we must be willin' fust to tramp the trails down here awhile. I know that larned men would laugh at this idea of mine, but I tell ye it's been a heap of comfort to me in my lonely life. But the parson'll tell ye all about it some day better'n I kin."
"So you think he will come back again?" asked Constance eagerly.
"Come back? Certainly he'll come back. He ain't made of sugar an' water. He'll not desart his flock long fer a pack of wicked fools. He knows the good Lord's with 'im, an'll not let his wark be ruined. I reckon that even now he's a-doin' his Master's will somewhar out on them mountains."
"I wonder much why he didn't tell us about Kenneth's death. Was there a reason?"
"Thar was, lassie. Ye was in a big trouble when he fust met ye, an' he kept it from yez both fer fear it would be too much to bear. He did it fer kindness sake, an' wished to wait till things settled down a bit."
"Are you sure that was his reason?"
"Sartin. Didn't he tell me so when we talked the matter over together?"
Constance sat for some time in deep thought, while Pete and her father talked on. Keith would come back. There was comfort, nay, more, there was joy, in the hope, and then she would thank him for his thoughtfulness.
Suddenly a wild cry fell upon their ears—a cry of sorrow and rage, which paled their cheeks and caused them to look at one another with apprehension.
"The Injuns! The Injuns have come!" cried Pete, rushing to the door. "My God, I feered it!"