The Frontiersman: A Tale of the Yukon

by H. A. Cody

The man's rage was terrible. His sunken eyes shot fire. His emaciated frame quivered with the intensity of his emotion. He staggered to his feet. "I will find him!" he cried. "Let me go to him!" He tried to walk to the door, but in vain. With a cry he fell upon the hard floor, groped for an instant like a blind man, and then lay perfectly still.

The days that followed the man's collapse were fearful ones. Keith would not leave him in such a condition, and he fought a hard battle to save his life. With the aid of rabbits, a few ptarmigan, grouse, and the little food he had brought with him, he managed to exist. Twice he left the cabin and scoured the forest for moose or deer, but the animals had deserted the locality. The wolves surrounded the shack at night, uttering their dreary cries, but kept warily out of gun-shot.

At times the sick man moaned and raved pitifully. As Keith sat hour after hour by his side he tried to piece together something of his past life from the broken words which fell from his lips. Often it was of the trail, the gold, and Bill. But again he wandered to other scenes in which "Connie," "the violin," and various pieces of music played important parts.

"Connie. Connie," he would say, over and over again. "Where is my violin? Bring it to me."

At such moments his poor, gaunt fingers would search eagerly over the blanket to reach the imaginary instrument. So often did he mention "Connie," that Keith felt quite sure she must be his sister, and in his mind he pictured a sweet-faced maiden, far away in some comfortable home, wondering, perhaps, when her brother would return.

One night, as he sat wearily at his post, something attracted his attention. It was a string fastened around the man's neck. Hoping to obtain some clue to his identity, he examined it closely, and found it held a small locket, hidden beneath the rough shirt. Opening the trinket, the beautiful face of a young woman was exposed to view. Long and earnestly he studied it, and, notwithstanding the wasted condition of the man lying before him, he could easily trace a marked resemblance between the two faces. Two letters, "K. R.," were neatly engraven upon the gold cover, but nothing else could he find which would reveal the man's name.

Carefully, almost reverently, he closed the locket, and restored it to its former position. But the sweet eyes which had looked forth at him still remained in his mind. The face burned itself into his soul, and twice during the night he again opened the locket, and studied the features most earnestly.

For ten long years he had not looked upon such a face, and to see this one before him brought back scenes of by-gone days. He remembered one, how pretty she looked on his graduation day, and what a thrill of pleasure he had experienced as she placed her delicate hand into his, and uttered words of congratulation. The future looked very bright then, and in all his visions that little woman stood out sweet and clear. But that was years ago, and now—she had been married long since to a portly, wealthy merchant, while he, no doubt, was forgotten.

At length, wearied out with watching, he threw several sticks upon the fire and lay down in front of it for a short nap. He awoke with a start, to find the fire low, and the form wrapped in the wolf-skin robe very still. A sense of dread crept over him, and, going to his side, he peered into that haggard face. Yes, it was still. The expression was one of peace, the awful peace of death. His right hand, firmly clutching the string of the little locket, was lying upon his breast. For him, at least, the long trail was ended.