The idea struck me full in the face like a sudden lash of spray, but before I could clear my eyes, the man had followed his thought to a weird conclusion.
"The more they build churches and chapels to corral Him, the more He takes to the woods. I sort of follow."
This only left me to wonder what my dear old white saint would have said.
Certainly he could never have accepted that American citizenship, and Jesse's nationality is vague. "Thar's God," he would say quite reverently, "and Mother England, and Uncle Sam, but beyond that I ain't much acquainted. The rest seems to be sort of foreigners. The Labrador? Oh, that's just trimmings."
Whatever he is, I love him,—primitive, elemental, kin of the woodland gods, habitant of the white sierras, the august forest, and the sweet wild pastures. My doubts fluttered away from the main issue to settle down on very twigs of detail. I had not courage to imagine what a fright he would look in civilized clothes, how awkward he would feel among folk and houses, or how such dear illusions would be shattered if ever my cynical relations saw him eat. He is a Baptist, and by his convictions liable to wed in store clothes, with a necktie like a bootlace, and number twelve kid gloves, taking his honeymoon as a solemnity at the very loudest hotel in San Francisco. Preferring plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder, and sudden death, to such festivities, I pleaded our poverty, and dire need of keeping free from debt. Although born in the Labrador, he had been a cow-boy in Texas for half his working life. As a stockman, he was to wed a rancher's widow. Was he ashamed of his business? No, proud as Lucifer! Was he ashamed of the dress of his trade? Not by a damned sight! Soldiers and sailors are proud to wear the dress of their trade when they marry. "So are cow-punchers," said he, with his head in the air. "S'pose we ride to Cariboo City, and get married in that little old log church."
He managed to persuade me; and I consented also to a hunting trip, instead of the usual honeymoon.
When I was well enough for the journey, I rode my colt, and Jesse his demon mare—Jones—my sole rival, I think, except that dreadful bear, in his affections. Two pack-ponies carried our camp and baggage, and each night he would set up a little tent for me, bedding himself down beside the fire. At the end of five days' journey, we rode at dusk into Cariboo.
Captain Taylor, of Hundred Mile House, and Pete Mathson, the cargador of the Star Pack-train, two old stanch friends of Jesse, witnessed our marriage in the quaint log building which served the Cariboo miners as church and schoolhouse. The Reverend Cyril Redfern, pioneer and missionary, read the service, while our ponies waited just outside the door. Jesse wore his plain old leather shaps, a navy blue shirt, a scarf of ruby silk against his tanned neck, and golden Mexican spurs—his dearest treasure. He must have known he looked magnificent, for he carried himself with such quiet dignity, and his deep voice thrilled me, for it was music. I could hardly respond for crying, and would gladly have been alone afterward in the church that I might thank God for all His mercy.
Captain Taylor is a retired naval officer, a pioneer of the gold mines, a magistrate, a man to trust, and when he gave me his heartfelt congratulations, it was not without knowledge of Jesse's character. He and Pete, the cargador, rode with us to the camp of his Star Pack-train, and it was there in the forest that we ate our wedding breakfast. The blue haze of Indian summer, the serene splendor of the sunlit woods, and autumn snow on all the shining hills—such was our banquet hall, and a rippling brook our orchestra. We drank healths in champagne from tin cups, and then, saddling up, Jesse and I rode away alone into the solitudes.