But after he had satisfied Tank that it wasn’t required of him to discard either of his lamps, especially the free one, he drifted off into tellin’ us how he had spent the day—and then I envied him a little, for he certainly did have the gift o’ wranglin’ words.
He told about havin’ rode up the mountain as far as he could go, and then climbin’ as far as he could on foot. He showed how hard it was to tell either a man or a mountain by the lines in their faces, and he went on with this till he made a mountain almost human. Then he switched around and showed how much a mountain was like life, ambition bein’ like pickin’ out the mountain, the easy little foothills bein’ the start, the summit allus hid while a feller was climbin’, and each little plateau urgin’ him to give up there and rest. He compared life and a mountain, until it seemed that all a feller needed for a full edication, was just to have a mountain handy. Then he wound up by sayin’ that he hadn’t been able to reach the peak. He had sat in a sheltered nook for a time, gazin’ up at the face of a cliff with an overhangin’ bank o’ snow on top, the wind swirlin’ masses o’ snow down about him, and everything tryin’ to point out that he had been a failure, and might as well give up in disgust. He stopped here, and we were all silent, for, as was usual with him, he had led us along to where we could see life through his eyes for a space.
“After a time,” sez the Friar as soon as he saw we were in the right mood, “I caught my breath again and followed the narrow ledge I was on around to where I could see the highest peak stand out clear and solitary; and from my side of it, it wasn’t possible for any man to reach it. There was no wind here, the air was as sweet and pure as at the dawn o’ creation, and everywhere I looked I met glory heaped on glory. A gray cloud rested again’ the far side o’ the peak, and back o’ this was the sun. Ah, there was a silver and a golden linin’ both to this cloud; and all of a sudden I was comforted.
“I had done all I could do, and this was my highest peak. Whatever was the highest peak for others, this was the highest peak for me; and there was no more bitterness or envy or doubt or fear in my heart. I stood for a long time lookin’ up at the gray cloud with its dazzling edges, and some very beautiful lines crept into my memory—‘The paths which are trod, by only the evenin’ and mornin’, and the feet of the angels of God.’”
The Friar had let himself out a little at the end, and his eyes were shinin’ when he finished. “I guess I have given you a sermon, after all, boys,” he said, “and I hope you can use it to as good advantage as I did when it came to me up on the mountain. We all have thoughts we can’t put into words, and so I’ve failed to give you all ’at was given me; but it’s some comfort to know that, be they big or be they little, we don’t have to climb any mountains but our own, and whether we reach the top or whether we come to a blind wall first, the main thing is to climb with all our might and with a certain faith that those who have earned rest shall find it, after the sun has set.”
This was one of the days when the magic of the Friar’s voice did strange things to a feller’s insides. We knew ’at he was talkin’ in parables, an’ talkin’ mostly to himself; but each one of us knew our own little mountains, an’ it was darn comfortin’ to understand that the Friar could have as tough a time on his as we had on ours.
We all sat silent, each feller thinkin’ over his own problems; and after a time, the Friar sang the one beginnin’, “O little town of Bethlehem!” It was dark by this time, but the firelight fell on his face, an’ made it so soft-like an’ tender that ol’ Tank Williams sniffled audible once, an’ when the song was finished he piled a lot more wood on the fire, an’ pertended ’at he was catchin’ cold. When Kit called us in to supper, we all sat still for a full minute, before we could get back to our appetites again.
[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—A CONTESTED LIFE-TITLE]
The bullet which had gone through Badger-face hadn’t touched a single bone. It had gone through his left lung purty high up, but somethin’ like the pneumonie set in, an’ he was a sorry lookin’ sight when the fever started to die out after havin’ hung on for two weeks. He had been drinkin’ consid’able beforehand, which made it bad for him, an’ the Friar said it was all a question of reserve. If Badger-face had enough of his constitution left to tide him over, he stood a good chance; but otherwise it was his turn.
He didn’t have much blood left in him at the end of two weeks on air and water, and he didn’t have enough fat to pillow his bones on. We all thought ’at he ought to have something in the way o’ feed; but the Friar wouldn’t stand for one single thing except water. He said ’at food had killed a heap more wounded men ’n bullets ever had; so we let him engineer it through in his own way.