"What night?" asked Wayland, quietly.
"Oh, 'twas a hot night, Wayland, my boy; an' hot for more reasons than one. Th' tin horns an' the plugs an' the toots had come up t' our construction camp, an' of a Monday mornin' after Sunday's spree, y' cud count fifty dead navvies, Chinks an' Japs an' dagoes, washed down th' river after gamblers' fights an' chucked up in the sands o' Kickin' Horse! Well, a lot o' big fellows o' th' railway company had come thro' that day on the first train. There was Strathcona, who was plain Donald Smith in them days, an' Van Horn, who was manager, an' Ross, who was contractor! A'd been workin' m' crews on the high span bridge, there,—y' don't know,—well no matter, 'tis the highest in the Rockies an' dangerous from a curve! A didn't want that train load o' directors to risk crossin': wasn't safe! M' crew hadn't one main girder placed; but Ross was a headstrong dour man; an' Smith—Smith wud a' sent a train thro' Hell in them days to prove that railway could be built. Full lickety smash their train came onto that bridge o' mine off the sharp curve: the dagoes went yellow as cheese wi' fear, th' Chinks chattered in their jaws, an' the Japs: well the Japs hung on to the girder an' the cranes. A saw th' bridge heave an' swerve, an' th' girder went smashin' to th' bottom o' yon creek bed so far below y' could scarcely see the water; Ross was ridin' wi' th' engineer. Ross kept his head, ordered them to throw throttle open. All that saved that train load o' directors was th' train got across before th' weight smashed thro'; way a quick skater can cross thin ice. Man alive, but A was mad, riskin' m' crew o' two hundred workmen for a train load o' rash directors! Th' train stopped! A dashed up! Ross opened out, his throttle was full open: so was mine; an' th' steam an' smoke escapin' from yon big mogul,—well, Wayland, them was my unregenerate days! A may as well confess, Wayland, A gave him back all he'd given with sulphur thrown in extra; till Donald Smith poked his head out o' th' private car callin', 'Go on, Ross! Go on, what are you delayin' for?' Well, then, three of us contractors and th' company doctor was summoned to th' coast next week. We were all so mad at the fool rashness, we had our resignations in our pockets. They had our pay checks ready; but when they saw all four of us had our resignations written, well, everybody took a cool breath; an' A think mebbee th' wise little man o' that private car sent across something to help us wash away bitter memories! Anyway, 'twas a hot night, Wayland! Y' couldn't drink one of the four under th' table; an' we had cashed our checks at the pay car! A was playin' wi' th' doctor for partner! Mebbee, it was that little night cap from the private car, mebbee, well, in an hour or two, three month's wages for four men was in the middle o' that table; an' mebbee th' loafers in that saloon didn't sit up! Mebbee, somebody from that private car didn't saunter in t' look us four fools over! Wayland man, we won it all, th' doctor an' me! Th' other two wanted to play on their watches, they wud a' pawned th' clothes off their backs; but we wouldn't let them! We gave 'em back enough to grub stake 'em back to their job! Then some one says, th' vera words: A can hear them yet, 'Let's go across an' hear those damned evangelists: there's a white faced whiskers, an' a little clean shaved jumpin' jack skippin' all over the backs o' the church seats pretendin' he's Henry Ward Beecher an' sayin' in a fog horn voice, 'I like that.' Let's go an' raise Hell.
"Wayland, man, we went across! 'Twas all true, there was the white faced fat man; an' there was the little clean chopped chap jumpin' all over the backs o' th' seats; an' there was a lot o' snivellin' Saints in Israel, women that cry an' sissie men that get converted an' converted at every meetin'! Man, Wayland, A'd like to dump th' job lot o' such folks out in a cesspool! They do religion more harm than the Devil! They're about as like what fightin' Christians ought to be as a spit wad's like a bullet! Well, we went in with a whoop; but God wasn't out for the sissies that night, Wayland: he was out with a gun for red blood men! He got us, Wayland! That's all! 'Twasn't the poor puny preachers, perhaps 'twas th' music: th' fat one cud sing, but when we came out the doctor was cryin'; poor fellow he killed himself in D. T.'s later; an' A was all plugged up wi' cold in m' head blowin' m' nose! 'Boys,' says I, 'here's where I get off. Here's y'r money back. A've put up a pretty good fight for the Devil so far an' A've earned m' way! Now, A'm goin' t' fight for God an' earn m' way!' They didn't want to take the money back. They didn't believe it. A finished my job on the railroad, then A slummed it in th' cities, this was when the bishop tried to turn me school boy at forty, an' to dig in y'r graveyard o' theology; that was before m' brother was bishop and why, A hiked for Indians, Wayland! A know the Cree tongue, an' A know the need o' decency in th' tepees, an' A know the trick o' puttin' Christianity into th' end o' m' fist on white blackguards! An' that's all."
"Is that all?" repeated Wayland; and he gave the old frontiersman the same kind of a look, Matthews had given him that day going up the face of the Pass precipice.
"Yes, that's all there was to it; an' A could no more tell y' what happened, Wayland, than y' could tell a man what happened when y' jumped in that pool an' got washed clean! Better try it, Wayland!"
They sat late listening to the gurgle and trill and tinkle of the water slipping over the stones. Neither man said anything more, nor mouthed, nor kneeled, nor amened, nor did save as men among men do and say: but somehow Wayland had never felt so sure of the God, who was Love and whose Love washed men clean, being, as he told himself, 'on the job.' It may not have been religion; and it may not have been theology; but I think it was the workable conviction that many a fighting man incorporates into his life. Perhaps, it was what Christians call Belief, only we have so slimed that good word over with hypocrisy that it's hard for fighting working men among men, women among women, people on the job, to mine down to the exact business sense of those old religious terms. 'Slimed with hypocrisy?' Yes, good friends, 'slimed with hypocrisy.' Have you not known men and women, legions of them, who shouted their fire-proof Belief, Belief, Belief, their fire-insurance Belief that was to roof them from rain of fire and act as an umbrella against the results of their own misdeeds; who underscored their Bibles, and prayed long and loud, and proclaimed themselves right, when every day, every act of every day, every leastermost act of very hour, shouted blasphemous denial of what so ever is lovely and pure and unselfish and Christlike; whose influence damned and injured and blighted every life it touched? You must not blame business men and women for wanting a workable faith, a faith that will deliver the goods on the job.
CHAPTER XXI
THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING
They were up before sunrise following along a rock trail against the face of a mountain through the morning mists, when they turned a sharp crag and came suddenly on one of those flower slopes bevelled out of the forests by snow or ice. The slant sunlight met their faces, and the mists were lifting in a curtain, with a riffle of wind that ran through the grasses like the ripple of waves to the touch of unseen feet. The slope lay literally a field of gold, spikes and umbels of gold—the gold of yellow midsummer light dyed in the asters and sunflowers and great flowered gaillardias and golden rod, with an odor of dried grasses or mint or cloves.
"By George," cried Wayland, "you'd not believe it! Only seven weeks; look!"