The Project Gutenberg EBook Northern Lights, v4, by Gilbert Parker

#17 in our series by Gilbert Parker

Contents:

A Man, A Famine, And A Heathen Boy

The Healing Springs And The Pioneers

The Little Widow Of Jansen

Watching The Rise Of Orion

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Title: Northern Lights, Volume 4.

Author: Gilbert Parker

Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6189]

[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]

[This file was first posted on September 6, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHERN LIGHTS, v4, BY PARKER ***

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NORTHERN LIGHTS

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 4.

A MAN, A FAMINE, AND A HEATHEN BOY

THE HEALING SPRINGS AND THE PIONEERS

THE LITTLE WIDOW OF JANSEN

WATCHING THE RISE OF ORION

A MAN, A FAMINE, AND A HEATHEN BOY

Athabasca in the Far North is the scene of this story—Athabasca, one of

the most beautiful countries in the world in summer, but a cold, bare

land in winter. Yet even in winter it is not so bleak and bitter as the

districts south-west of it, for the Chinook winds steal through from the

Pacific and temper the fierceness of the frozen Rockies. Yet forty and

fifty degrees below zero is cold after all, and July strawberries in this

wild North land are hardly compensation for seven months of ice and snow,

no matter how clear and blue the sky, how sweet the sun during its short

journey in the day. Some days, too, the sun may not be seen even when

there is no storm, because of the fine, white, powdered frost in the air.

A day like this is called a poudre day; and woe to the man who tempts it

unthinkingly, because the light makes the delicate mist of frost shine

like silver. For that powder bites the skin white in short order, and

sometimes reckless men lose ears, or noses, or hands under its sharp

caress. But when it really storms in that Far North, then neither man

nor beast should be abroad—not even the Eskimo dogs; though times and

seasons can scarcely be chosen when travelling in Athabasca, for a storm

comes unawares. Upon the plains you will see a cloud arising, not in the

sky, but from the ground—a billowy surf of drifting snow; then another

white billow from the sky will sweep down and meet it, and you are caught

between.

He who went to Athabasca to live a generation ago had to ask himself if

the long winter, spent chiefly indoors, with, maybe, a little trading

with the Indians, meagre sport, and scant sun, savages and half-breeds

the only companions, and out of all touch with the outside world, letters

coming but once a year; with frozen fish and meat, always the same, as

the staple items in a primitive fare; with danger from starvation and

marauding tribes; with endless monotony, in which men sometimes go mad—

he had to ask himself if these were to be cheerfully endured because, in

the short summer, the air is heavenly, the rivers and lakes are full of

fish, the flotilla of canoes of the fur-hunters is pouring down, and all

is gaiety and pleasant turmoil; because there is good shooting in the

autumn, and the smell of the land is like a garden, and hardy fruits and

flowers are at hand.

That is a question which was asked William Rufus Holly once upon a time.

William Rufus Holly, often called "Averdoopoy," sometimes "Sleeping

Beauty," always Billy Rufus, had had a good education. He had been to

high school and to college, and he had taken one or two prizes en route

to graduation; but no fame travelled with him, save that he was the

laziest man of any college year for a decade. He loved his little

porringer, which is to say that he ate a good deal; and he loved to read

books, which is not to say that he loved study; he hated getting out of

bed, and he was constantly gated for morning chapel. More than once he

had sweetly gone to sleep over his examination papers. This is not to

say that he failed at his examinations—on the contrary, he always

succeeded; but he only did enough to pass and no more; and he did not

wish to do more than pass. His going to sleep at examinations was

evidence that he was either indifferent or self-indulgent, and it

certainly showed that he was without nervousness. He invariably roused

himself, or his professor roused him, a half-hour before the papers

should be handed in, and, as it were by a mathematical calculation,

he had always done just enough to prevent him being plucked.

He slept at lectures, he slept in hall, he slept as he waited his turn

to go to the wicket in a cricket match, and he invariably went to sleep

afterwards. He even did so on the day he had made the biggest score,

in the biggest game ever played between his college and the pick of the

country; but he first gorged himself with cake and tea. The day he took

his degree he had to be dragged from a huge grandfather's chair, and

forced along in his ragged gown—"ten holes and twelve tatters"—to the

function in the convocation hall. He looked so fat and shiny, so balmy

and sleepy when he took his degree and was handed his prize for a poem on

Sir John Franklin, that the public laughed, and the college men in the

gallery began singing:

"Bye O, my baby,

Father will come to you soo-oon!"

He seemed not to care, but yawned in his hand as he put his prize book

under his arm through one of the holes in his gown, and in two minutes

was back in his room, and in another five was fast asleep.

It was the general opinion that William Rufus Holly, fat, yellow-haired,

and twenty-four years old, was doomed to failure in life, in spite of the

fact that he had a little income of a thousand dollars a year, and had

made a century in an important game of cricket. Great, therefore, was

the surprise of the college, and afterward of the Province, when, at the

farewell dinner of the graduates, Sleeping Beauty announced, between his

little open-eyed naps, that he was going Far North as a missionary.

At first it was thought he was joking, but when at last, in his calm and

dreamy look, they saw he meant what he said, they rose and carried him

round the room on a chair, making impromptu songs as they travelled.

They toasted Billy Rufus again and again, some of them laughing till they

cried at the thought of Averdoopoy going to the Arctic regions. But an

uneasy seriousness fell upon these "beautiful, bountiful, brilliant

boys," as Holly called them later, when in a simple, honest, but indolent

speech he said he had applied for ordination.

Six months later William Rufus Holly, a deacon in holy orders, journeyed

to Athabasca in the Far North. On his long journey there was plenty of

time to think. He was embarked on a career which must for ever keep him

in the wilds; for very seldom indeed does a missionary of the North ever

return to the crowded cities or take a permanent part in civilised life.

What the loneliness of it would be he began to feel, as for hours and

hours he saw no human being on the plains; in the thrilling stillness of

the night; in fierce storms in the woods, when his half-breed guides bent

their heads to meet the wind and rain, and did not speak for hours; in

the long, adventurous journey on the river by day, in the cry of the

plaintive loon at night; in the scant food for every meal. Yet what the

pleasure would be he felt in the joyous air, the exquisite sunshine, the

flocks of wild-fowl flying North, honking on their course; in the song of

the half-breeds as they ran the rapids. Of course, he did not think

these things quite as they are written here—all at once and all

together; but in little pieces from time to time, feeling them rather

than saying them to himself.

At least he did understand how serious a thing it was, his going as a

missionary into the Far North. Why did he do it? Was it a whim, or the

excited imagination of youth, or that prompting which the young often

have to make the world better? Or was it a fine spirit of adventure with

a good heart behind it? Perhaps it was a little of all these; but there

was also something more, and it was to his credit.

Lazy as William Rufus Holly had been at school and college, he had still

thought a good deal, even when he seemed only sleeping; perhaps he

thought more because he slept so much, because he studied little and read

a great deal. He always knew what everybody thought—that he would never

do anything but play cricket till he got too heavy to run, and then would

sink into a slothful, fat, and useless middle and old age; that his life

would be a failure. And he knew that they were right; that if he stayed

where he could live an easy life, a fat and easy life he would lead; that

in a few years he would be good for nothing except to eat and sleep—no

more. One day, waking suddenly from a bad dream of himself so fat as to

be drawn about on a dray by monstrous fat oxen with rings through their

noses, led by monkeys, he began to wonder what he should do—the hardest

thing to do; for only the hardest life could possibly save him from

failure, and, in spite of all, he really did want to make something of

his life. He had been reading the story of Sir John Franklin's Arctic

expedition, and all at once it came home to him that the only thing for

him to do was to go to the Far North and stay there, coming back about

once every ten years to tell the people in the cities what was being done

in the wilds. Then there came the inspiration to write his poem on Sir

John Franklin, and he had done so, winning the college prize for poetry.

But no one had seen any change in him in those months; and, indeed, there

had been little or no change, for he had an equable and practical, though

imaginative, disposition, despite his avoirdupois, and his new purpose

did not stir him yet from his comfortable sloth.

And in all the journey West and North he had not been stirred greatly

from his ease of body, for the journey was not much harder than playing

cricket every day, and there were only the thrill of the beautiful air,

the new people, and the new scenes to rouse him. As yet there was no

great responsibility. He scarcely realised what his life must be, until

one particular day. Then Sleeping Beauty waked wide up, and from that

day lost the name. Till then he had looked and borne himself like any

other traveller, unrecognised as a parson or "mikonaree." He had not had

prayers in camp en route, he had not preached, he had held no meetings.

He was as yet William Rufus Holly, the cricketer, the laziest dreamer of

a college decade. His religion was simple and practical; he had never

had any morbid ideas; he had lived a healthy, natural, and honourable

life, until he went for a mikonaree, and if he had no cant, he had not a

clear idea of how many-sided, how responsible, his life must be—until

that one particular day. This is what happened then.

From Fort O'Call, an abandoned post of the Hudson's Bay Company on the

Peace River, nearly the whole tribe of the Athabasca Indians in

possession of the post now had come up the river, with their chief,

Knife-in-the-Wind, to meet the mikonaree. Factors of the Hudson's Bay

Company, coureurs de bois, and voyageurs had come among them at times,

and once the renowned Father Lacombe, the Jesuit priest, had stayed with

them three months; but never to this day had they seen a Protestant

mikonaree, though once a factor, noted for his furious temper, his powers

of running, and his generosity, had preached to them. These men,

however, were both over fifty years old. The Athabascas did not hunger

for the Christian religion, but a courier from Edmonton had brought them

word that a mikonaree was coming to their country to stay, and they put

off their stoical manner and allowed themselves the luxury of curiosity.

That was why even the squaws and papooses came up the river with the

braves, all wondering if the stranger had brought gifts with him, all

eager for their shares; for it had been said by the courier of the tribe

that "Oshondonto," their name for the newcomer, was bringing mysterious

loads of well-wrapped bales and skins. Upon a point below the first

rapids of the Little Manitou they waited with their camp-fires burning

and their pipe of peace.

When the canoes bearing Oshondonto and his voyageurs shot the rapids to

the song of the river,

"En roulant, ma boule roulant,

En roulant, ma boule!"

with the shrill voices of the boatmen rising to meet the cry of the

startled water-fowl, the Athabascas crowded to the high banks. They

grunted "How!" in greeting, as the foremost canoe made for the shore.

But if surprise could have changed the countenances of Indians, these

Athabascas would not have known one another when the missionary stepped

out upon the shore. They had looked to see a grey-bearded man like the

chief factor who quarrelled and prayed; but they found instead a round-

faced, clean-shaven youth, with big, good-natured eyes, yellow hair, and

a roundness of body like that of a month-old bear's cub. They expected

to find a man who, like the factor, could speak their language, and they

found a cherub sort of youth who talked only English, French, and

Chinook—that common language of the North—and a few words of their own

language which he had learned on the way.

Besides, Oshondonto was so absent-minded at the moment, so absorbed in

admiration of the garish scene before him, that he addressed the chief in

French, of which Knife-in-the-Wind knew but the one word cache, which all

the North knows.

But presently William Rufus Holly recovered himself, and in stumbling

Chinook made himself understood. Opening a bale, he brought out beads

and tobacco and some bright red flannel, and two hundred Indians sat

round him and grunted "How!" and received his gifts with little comment.

Then the pipe of peace went round, and Oshondonto smoked it becomingly.

But he saw that the Indians despised him for his youth, his fatness, his

yellow hair as soft as a girl's, his cherub face, browned though it was

by the sun and weather.

As he handed the pipe to Knife-in-the-Wind, an Indian called Silver

Tassel, with a cruel face, said grimly:

"Why does Oshondonto travel to us?"

William Rufus Holly's eyes steadied on those of the Indian as he replied

in Chinook: "To teach the way to Manitou the Mighty, to tell the

Athabascas of the Great Chief who died to save the world."

"The story is told in many ways; which is right? There was the factor,

Word of Thunder. There is the song they sing at Edmonton—I have heard."

"The Great Chief is the same Chief," answered the missionary. "If you

tell of Fort O'Call, and Knife-in-the-Wind tells of Fort O'Call, he and

you will speak different words, and one will put in one thing and one

will leave out another; men's tongues are different. But Fort O'Call is

the-same, and the Great Chief is the same."

"It was a long time ago," said Knife-in-the-Wind sourly, "many thousand

moons, as the pebbles in the river, the years."

"It is the same world, and it is the same Chief, and it was to save us,"

answered William Rufus Holly, smiling, yet with a fluttering heart, for

the first test of his life had come.

In anger Knife-in-the-Wind thrust an arrow into the ground and said:

"How can the white man who died thousands of moons ago in a far country

save the red man to-day?"

"A strong man should bear so weak a tale," broke in Silver Tassel

ruthlessly. "Are we children that the Great Chief sends a child as

messenger?"

For a moment Billy Rufus did not know how to reply, and in the pause

Knife-in-the-Wind broke in two pieces the arrow he had thrust in the

ground in token of displeasure.

Suddenly, as Oshondonto was about to speak, Silver Tassel sprang to his

feet, seized in his arms a lad of twelve who was standing near, and

running to the bank, dropped him into the swift current.

"If Oshondonto be not a child, let him save the lad," said Silver Tassel,

standing on the brink.

Instantly William Rufus Holly was on his feet. His coat was off before

Silver Tassel's words were out of his mouth, and crying, "In the name of

the Great White Chief!" he jumped into the rushing current. "In the

name of your Manitou, come on, Silver Tassel!" he called up from the

water, and struck out for the lad.

Not pausing an instant, Silver Tassel sprang into the flood, into the

whirling eddies and dangerous current below the first rapids and above

the second.

Then came the struggle for Wingo of the Cree tribe, a waif among the

Athabascas, whose father had been slain as they travelled, by a wandering

tribe of Blackfeet. Never was there a braver rivalry, although the odds

were with the Indian-in lightness, in brutal strength. With the

mikonaree, however, were skill, and that sort of strength which the world

calls "moral," the strength of a good and desperate purpose. Oshondonto

knew that on the issue of this shameless business—this cruel sport of

Silver Tassel—would depend his future on the Peace River. As he shot

forward with strong strokes in the whirling torrent after the helpless

lad, who, only able to keep himself afloat, was being swept down towards

the rapids below, he glanced up to the bank along which the Athabascas

were running. He saw the garish colours of their dresses; he saw the

ignorant medicine man, with his mysterious bag, making incantations; he

saw the tepee of the chief, with its barbarous pennant above; he saw the

idle, naked children tearing at the entrails of a calf; and he realised

that this was a deadly tournament between civilisation and barbarism.

Silver Tassel was gaining on him, they were both overhauling the boy; it

was now to see which should reach Wingo first, which should take him to

shore. That is, if both were not carried under before they reached him;

that is, if, having reached him, they and he would ever get to shore;

for, lower down, before it reached the rapids, the current ran horribly

smooth and strong, and here and there were jagged rocks just beneath the

surface.

Still Silver Tassel gained on him, as they both gained on the boy.

Oshondonto swam strong and hard, but he swam with his eye on the struggle

for the shore also; he was not putting forth his utmost strength, for he

knew it would be bitterly needed, perhaps to save his own life by a last

effort.

Silver Tassel passed him when they were about fifty feet from the boy.

Shooting by on his side, with a long stroke and the plunge of his body

like a projectile, the dark face with the long black hair plastering it

turned towards his own, in fierce triumph Silver Tassel cried "How!" in

derision.

Billy Rufus set his teeth and lay down to his work like a sportsman. His

face had lost its roses, and it was set and determined, but there was no

look of fear upon it, nor did his heart sink when a cry of triumph went

up from the crowd on the banks. The white man knew by old experience in

the cricket-field and in many a boat-race that it is well not to halloo

till you are out of the woods. His mettle was up, he was not the

Reverend William Rufus Holly, missionary, but Billy Rufus, the champion

cricketer, the sportsman playing a long game.

Silver Tassel reached the boy, who was bruised and bleeding and at his

last gasp, and throwing an arm round him, struck out for the shore. The

current was very strong, and he battled fiercely as Billy Rufus, not far

above, moved down toward them at an angle. For a few yards Silver Tassel

was going strong, then his pace slackened, he seemed to sink lower in the

water, and his stroke became splashing and irregular. Suddenly he struck

a rock, which bruised him badly, and, swerving from his course, he lost

his stroke and let go the boy.

By this time the mikonaree had swept beyond them, and he caught the boy

by his long hair as he was being swept below. Striking out for the

shore, he swam with bold, strong strokes, his judgment guiding him well

past rocks beneath the surface. Ten feet from shore he heard a cry of

alarm from above. It concerned Silver Tassel, he knew, but he could not

look round yet.

In another moment the boy was dragged up the bank by strong hands, and

Billy Rufus swung round in the water towards Silver Tassel, who, in his

confused energy, had struck another rock, and, exhausted now, was being

swept towards the rapids. Silver Tassel's shoulder scarcely showed, his

strength was gone. In a flash Billy Rufus saw there was but one thing to

do. He must run the rapids with Silver Tassel-there was no other way.

It would be a fight through the jaws of death; but no Indian's eyes had

a better sense for river-life than William Rufus Holly's.

How he reached Silver Tassel, and drew the Indian's arm over his own

shoulder; how they drove down into the boiling flood; how Billy Rufus's

fat body was battered and torn and ran red with blood from twenty flesh

wounds; but how by luck beyond the telling he brought Silver Tassel

through safely into the quiet water a quarter of a mile below the rapids,

and was hauled out, both more dead than alive, is a tale still told by

the Athabascas around their camp-fire. The rapids are known to-day as

the Mikonaree Rapids.

The end of this beginning of the young man's career was that Silver

Tassel gave him the word of eternal friendship, Knife-in-the-Wind took

him into the tribe, and the boy Wingo became his very own, to share his

home, and his travels, no longer a waif among the Athabascas.

After three days' feasting, at the end of which the missionary held his

first service and preached his first sermon, to the accompaniment of

grunts of satisfaction from the whole tribe of Athabascas, William Rufus

Holly began his work in the Far North.

The journey to Fort O'Call was a procession of triumph, for, as it was

summer, there was plenty of food, the missionary had been a success, and

he had distributed many gifts of beads and flannel.

All went well for many moons, although converts were uncertain and

baptisms few, and the work was hard and the loneliness at times terrible.

But at last came dark days.

One summer and autumn there had been poor fishing and shooting, the

caches of meat were fewer on the plains, and almost nothing had come up

to Fort O'Call from Edmonton, far below. The yearly supplies for the

missionary, paid for out of his private income—the bacon, beans, tea,

coffee and flour—had been raided by a band of hostile Indians, and he

viewed with deep concern the progress of the severe winter. Although

three years of hard, frugal life had made his muscles like iron, they had

only mellowed his temper, increased his flesh and rounded his face; nor

did he look an hour older than on the day when he had won Wingo for his

willing slave and devoted friend.

He never resented the frequent ingratitude of the Indians; he said little

when they quarrelled over the small comforts his little income brought

them yearly from the South. He had been doctor, lawyer, judge among

them, although he interfered little in the larger disputes, and was

forced to shut his eyes to intertribal enmities. He had no deep faith

that he could quite civilise them; he knew that their conversion was only

on the surface, and he fell back on his personal influence with them. By

this he could check even the excesses of the worst man in the tribe, his

old enemy, Silver Tassel of the bad heart, who yet was ready always to

give a tooth for a tooth, and accepted the fact that he owed Oshondonto

his life.

When famine crawled across the plains to the doors of the settlement and

housed itself at Fort O'Call, Silver Tassel acted badly, however, and

sowed fault-finding among the thoughtless of the tribe.

"What manner of Great Spirit is it who lets the food of his chief

Oshondonto fall into the hands of the Blackfeet?" he said. "Oshondonto

says the Great Spirit hears. What has the Great Spirit to say? Let

Oshondonto ask."

Again, when they all were hungrier, he went among them with complaining

words. "If the white man's Great Spirit can do all things, let him give

Oshondonto and the Athabascas food."

The missionary did not know of Silver Tassel's foolish words, but he saw

the downcast face of Knife-in-the-Wind, the sullen looks of the people;

and he unpacked the box he had reserved jealously for the darkest days

that might come. For meal after meal he divided these delicacies among

them—morsels of biscuit, and tinned meats, and dried fruits. But his

eyes meanwhile were turned again and again to the storm raging without,

as it had raged for this the longest week he had ever spent. If it would

but slacken, a boat could go out to the nets set in the lake near by some

days before, when the sun of spring had melted the ice. From the hour

the nets had been set the storm had raged. On the day when the last

morsel of meat and biscuit had been given away the storm had not abated,

and he saw with misgiving the gloomy, stolid faces of the Indians round

him. One man, two children, and three women had died in a fortnight. He

dreaded to think what might happen, his heart ached at the looks of gaunt

suffering in the faces of all; he saw, for the first time, how black and

bitter Knife-in-the-Wind looked as Silver Tassel whispered to him.

With the colour all gone from his cheeks, he left the post and made his

way to the edge of the lake where his canoe was kept. Making it ready

for the launch, he came back to the Fort. Assembling the Indians, who

had watched his movements closely, he told them that he was going through

the storm to the nets on the lake, and asked for a volunteer to go with

him.

No one replied. He pleaded-for the sake of the women and children.

Then Knife-in-the-Wind spoke. "Oshondonto will die if he goes. It is a

fool's journey—does the wolverine walk into an empty trap?"

Billy Rufus spoke passionately now. His genial spirit fled; he

reproached them.

Silver Tassel spoke up loudly. "Let Oshondonto's Great Spirit carry him

to the nets alone, and back again with fish for the heathen the Great

Chief died to save."

"You have a wicked heart, Silver Tassel. You know well that one man

can't handle the boat and the nets also. Is there no one of you—?"

A figure shot forwards from a corner. "I will go with Oshondonto," came

the voice of Wingo, the waif of the Crees.

The eye of the mikonaree flashed round in contempt on the tribe. Then

suddenly it softened, and he said to the lad: "We will go together,

Wingo."

Taking the boy by the hand, he ran with him through the rough wind to the

shore, launched the canoe on the tossing lake, and paddled away through

the tempest.

The bitter winds of an angry spring, the sleet and wet snow of a belated

winter, the floating blocks of ice crushing against the side of the boat,

the black water swishing over man and boy, the harsh, inclement world

near and far. . . . The passage made at last to the nets; the brave

Wingo steadying the canoe—a skilful hand sufficing where the strength of

a Samson would not have availed; the nets half full, and the breaking cry

of joy from the lips of the waif-a cry that pierced the storm and brought

back an answering cry from the crowd of Indians on the far shore. . .

The quarter-hour of danger in the tossing canoe; the nets too heavy to be

dragged, and fastened to the thwarts instead; the canoe going shoreward

jerkily, a cork on the waves with an anchor behind; heavier seas and

winds roaring down on them as they slowly near the shore; and at last, in

one awful moment, the canoe upset, and the man and the boy in the water.

. . . Then both clinging to the upturned canoe as it is driven nearer

and nearer shore…. The boy washed off once, twice, and the man with

his arm round clinging-clinging, as the shrieking storm answers to the

calling of the Athabascas on the shore, and drives craft and fish and man

and boy down upon the banks; no savage bold enough to plunge in to their

rescue. . . . At last a rope thrown, a drowning man's wrists wound

round it, his teeth set in it—and now, at last, a man and a heathen boy,

both insensible, being carried to the mikonaree's but and laid upon two

beds, one on either side of the small room, as the red sun goes slowly

down. . . . The two still bodies on bearskins in the hut, and a

hundred superstitious Indians flying from the face of death. . . .

The two alone in the light of the flickering fire; the many gone to feast

on fish, the price of lives.

But the price was not yet paid, for the man waked from insensibility—

waked to see himself with the body of the boy beside him in the red light

of the fires.

For a moment his heart stopped beating, he turned sick and faint.

Deserted by those for whom he risked his life! . . . How long had he

lain there? What time was it? When was it that he had fought his way to

the nets and back again-hours maybe? And the dead boy there, Wingo, who

had risked his life, also dead—how long? His heart leaped—ah! not

hours, only minutes maybe. It was sundown as unconsciousness came on

him—Indians would not stay with the dead after sundown. Maybe it was

only ten minutes-five minutes—one minute ago since they left him!. . .

His watch! Shaking fingers drew it out, wild eyes scanned it. It was

not stopped. Then it could have only been minutes ago. Trembling to his

feet, he staggered over to Wingo, he felt the body, he held a mirror to

the lips. Yes, surely there was light moisture on the glass.

Then began another fight with death—William Rufus Holly struggling to

bring to life again Wingo, the waif of the Crees.

The blood came back to his own heart with a rush as the mad desire to

save this life came on him. He talked to the dumb face, he prayed in a

kind of delirium, as he moved the arms up and down, as he tilted the

body, as he rubbed, chafed and strove. He forgot he was a missionary,

he almost cursed himself. "For them—for cowards, I risked his life,

the brave lad with no home. Oh, God! give him back to me!" he sobbed.

"What right had I to risk his life for theirs? I should have shot the

first man that refused to go…. Wingo, speak! Wake up! Come back!"

The sweat poured from him in his desperation and weakness. He said to

himself that he had put this young life into the hazard without cause.

Had he, then, saved the lad from the rapids and Silver Tassel's brutality

only to have him drag fish out of the jaws of death for Silver Tassel's

meal?

It seemed to him that he had been working for hours, though it was in

fact only a short time, when the eyes of the lad slowly opened and closed

again, and he began to breathe spasmodically. A cry of joy came from the

lips of the missionary, and he worked harder still. At last the eyes

opened wide, stayed open, saw the figure bent over him, and the lips

whispered, "Oshondonto—my master," as a cup of brandy was held to his

lips.

He had conquered the Athabascas for ever. Even Silver Tassel

acknowledged his power, and he as industriously spread abroad the

report that the mikonaree had raised Wingo from the dead, as he had sown

dissension during the famine. But the result was that the missionary had

power in the land, and the belief in him was so great, that, when Knife-

in-the-Wind died, the tribe came to ask him to raise their chief from the

dead. They never quite believed that he could not—not even Silver

Tassel, who now rules the Athabascas and is ruled by William Rufus Holly:

which is a very good thing for the Athabascas.

Billy Rufus the cricketer had won the game, and somehow the Reverend

William Rufus Holly the missionary never repented the strong language he

used against the Athabascas, as he was bringing Wingo back to life,

though it was not what is called "strictly canonical."

THE HEALING SPRINGS AND THE PIONEERS

He came out of the mysterious South one summer day, driving before him a

few sheep, a cow, and a long-eared mule which carried his tent and other

necessaries, and camped outside the town on a knoll, at the base of which

was a thicket of close shrub. During the first day no one in Jansen

thought anything of it, for it was a land of pilgrimage, and hundreds

came and went on their journeys in search of free homesteads and good

water and pasturage. But when, after three days, he was still there,

Nicolle Terasse, who had little to do, and an insatiable curiosity, went

out to see him. He found a new sensation for Jansen. This is what he

said when he came back:

"You want know 'bout him, bagosh! Dat is somet'ing to see, dat man—

Ingles is his name. Sooch hair—mooch long an' brown, and a leetla beard

not so brown, an' a leather sole onto his feet, and a grey coat to his

anklesyes, so like dat. An' his voice—voila, it is like water in a

cave. He is a great man—I dunno not; but he spik at me like dis,

'Is dere sick, and cripple, and stay in-bed people here dat can't get

up?' he say. An' I say, 'Not plenty, but some-bagosh! Dere is dat Miss

Greet, an' ole Ma'am Drouchy, an' dat young Pete Hayes—an' so on.'

'Well, if they have faith I will heal them,' he spik at me. 'From de

Healing Springs dey shall rise to walk,' he say. Bagosh, you not t'ink

dat true? Den you go see."

So Jansen turned out to see, and besides the man they found a curious

thing. At the foot of the knoll, in a space which he had cleared, was a

hot spring that bubbled and rose and sank, and drained away into the

thirsty ground. Luck had been with Ingles the Faith Healer. Whether he

knew of the existence of this spring, or whether he chanced upon it, he

did not say; but while he held Jansen in the palm of his hand, in the

feverish days that followed, there were many who attached mysterious

significance to it, who claimed for it supernatural origin. In any case,

the one man who had known of the existence of this spring was far away

from Jansen, and he did not return till a day of reckoning came for the

Faith Healer.

Meanwhile Jansen made pilgrimage to the Springs of Healing, and at

unexpected times Ingles suddenly appeared in the town, and stood at

street corners; and in his "Patmian voice," as Flood Rawley the lawyer

called it, warned the people to flee their sins, and purifying their

hearts, learn to cure all ills of mind and body, the weaknesses of the

sinful flesh and the "ancient evil" in their souls, by faith that saves.

"'Is not the life more than meat'" he asked them. "And if, peradventure,

there be those among you who have true belief in hearts all purged of

evil, and yet are maimed, or sick of body, come to me, and I will lay my

hands upon you, and I will heal you." Thus he cried.

There were those so wrought upon by his strange eloquence and spiritual

passion, so hypnotised by his physical and mental exaltation, that they

rose up from the hand-laying and the prayer eased of their ailments.

Others he called upon to lie in the hot spring at the foot of the hill

for varying periods, before the laying on of hands, and these also,

crippled, or rigid with troubles' of the bone, announced that they were

healed.

People flocked from other towns, and though, to some who had been cured,

their pains and sickness returned, there were a few who bore perfect

evidence to his teaching and healing, and followed him, "converted and

consecrated," as though he were a new Messiah. In this corner of the

West was such a revival as none could remember—not even those who had

been to camp meetings in the East in their youth, and had seen the Spirit

descend upon hundreds and draw them to the anxious seat.

Then came the great sensation—the Faith Healer converted Laura Sloly.

Upon which Jansen drew its breath painfully; for, while it was willing

to bend to the inspiration of the moment, and to be swept on a tide of

excitement into that enchanted field called Imagination, it wanted to

preserve its institutions—and Laura Sloly had come to be an institution.

Jansen had always plumed itself, and smiled, when she passed; and even

now the most sentimentally religious of them inwardly anticipated the

time when the town would return to its normal condition; and that

condition would not be normal if there were any change in Laura Sloly.

It mattered little whether most people were changed or not because one

state of their minds could not be less or more interesting than another;

but a change in Laura. Sloly could not be for the better.

Her father had come to the West in the early days, and had prospered by

degrees until a town grew up beside his ranch; and though he did not

acquire as much permanent wealth from this golden chance as might have

been expected, and lost much he did make by speculation, still he had his

rich ranch left, and it, and he, and Laura were part of the history of

Jansen. Laura had been born at Jansen before even it had a name. Next

to her father she was the oldest inhabitant, and she had a prestige which

was given to no one else.

Everything had conspired to make her a figure of moment and interest.

She was handsome in almost a mannish sort of way, being of such height

and straightness, and her brown eyes had a depth and fire in which more

than a few men had drowned themselves. Also, once she had saved a

settlement by riding ahead of a marauding Indian band to warn their

intended victims, and had averted another tragedy of pioneer life.

Pioneers proudly told strangers to Jansen of the girl of thirteen who

rode a hundred and twenty miles without food, and sank inside the

palisade of the Hudson's Bay Company's fort, as the gates closed upon the

settlers taking refuge, the victim of brain fever at last. Cerebrospinal

meningitis, the doctor from Winnipeg called it, and the memory of that

time when men and women would not sleep till her crisis was past, was

still fresh on the tongues of all.

Then she had married at seventeen, and, within a year, had lost both her

husband and her baby, a child bereaved of her Playmates—for her husband

had been but twenty years old and was younger far than she in everything.

And since then, twelve years before, she had seen generations of lovers

pass into the land they thought delectable; and their children flocked to

her, hung about her, were carried off by her to the ranch, and kept for

days, against the laughing protests of their parents. Flood Rawley

called her the Pied Piper of Jansen, and indeed she had a voice that

fluted and piped, and yet had so whimsical a note, that the hardest faces

softened at the sound of it; and she did not keep its best notes for the

few. She was impartial, almost impersonal; no woman was her enemy, and

every man was her friend—and nothing more. She had never had an

accepted lover since the day her Playmates left her. Every man except

one had given up hope that he might win her; and though he had been gone

from Jansen for two years, and had loved her since the days before the

Playmates came and went, he never gave up hope, and was now to return and

say again what he had mutely said for years—what she understood, and he

knew she understood.

Tim Denton had been a wild sort in his brief day. He was a rough

diamond, but he was a diamond, and was typical of the West—its heart,

its courage, its freedom, and its force; capable of exquisite gentleness,

strenuous to exaggeration, with a very primitive religion; and the only

religion Tim knew was that of human nature. Jansen did not think Tim

good enough—not within a comet shot—for Laura Sloly; but they thought

him better than any one else.

But now Laura was a convert to the prophet of the Healing Springs,

and those people who still retain their heads in the eddy of religious

emotion were in despair. They dreaded to meet Laura; they kept away from

the "protracted meetings," but were eager to hear about her and what she

said and did. What they heard allayed their worst fears. She still

smiled, and seemed as cheerful as before, they heard, and she neither

spoke nor prayed in public, but she led the singing always. Now the

anxious and the sceptical and the reactionary ventured out to see and

hear; and seeing and hearing gave them a satisfaction they hardly dared

express. She was more handsome than ever, and if her eyes glistened with

a light they had never seen before, and awed them, her lips still smiled,

and the old laugh came when she spoke to them. Their awe increased.

This was "getting religion" with a difference.

But presently they received a shock. A whisper grew that Laura was in

love with the Faith Healer. Some woman's instinct drove straight to the

centre of a disconcerting possibility, and in consternation she told her

husband; and Jansen husbands had a freemasonry of gossip. An hour, and

all Jansen knew, or thought they knew; and the "saved" rejoiced; and the

rest of the population, represented by Nicolle Terasse at one end and

Flood Rawley at the other, flew to arms. No vigilance committee was ever

more determined and secret and organised than the unconverted civic

patriots, who were determined to restore Jansen to its old-time

condition. They pointed out cold-bloodedly that the Faith Healer had

failed three times where he had succeeded once; and that, admitting the

successes, there was no proof that his religion was their cause. There

were such things as hypnotism and magnetism and will-power, and abnormal

mental stimulus on the part of the healed—to say nothing of the Healing

Springs.

Carefully laying their plans, they quietly spread the rumour that Ingles

had promised to restore to health old Mary Jewell, who had been bedridden

ten years, and had sent word and prayed to have him lay his hands upon

her—Catholic though she was. The Faith Healer, face to face with this

supreme and definite test, would have retreated from it but for Laura

Sloly. She expected him to do it, believed that he could, said that he

would, herself arranged the day and the hour, and sang so much exaltation

into him, that at last a spurious power seemed to possess him. He felt

that there had entered into him something that could be depended on,

not the mere flow of natural magnetism fed by an outdoor life and a

temperament of great emotional force, and chance, and suggestion—

and other things. If, at first, he had influenced Laura, some ill-

controlled, latent idealism in him, working on a latent poetry and

spirituality in her, somehow bringing her into nearer touch with her

lost Playmates than she had been in the long years that had passed;

she, in turn, had made his unrationalised brain reel; had caught him up

into a higher air, on no wings of his own; had added another lover to her

company of lovers—and the first impostor she had ever had. She who

had known only honest men as friends, in one blind moment lost her

perspicuous sense; her instinct seemed asleep. She believed in the man

and in his healing. Was there anything more than that?

The day of the great test came, hot, brilliant, vivid. The air was of

a delicate sharpness, and, as it came toward evening, the glamour of an

August when the reapers reap was upon Jansen; and its people gathered

round the house of Mary Jewell to await the miracle of faith. Apart

from the emotional many who sang hymns and spiritual songs were a few

determined men, bent on doing justice to Jansen though the heavens might

fall. Whether or no Laura Sloly was in love with the Faith Healer,

Jansen must look to its own honour—and hers. In any case, this

peripatetic saint at Sloly's Ranch—the idea was intolerable;

women must be saved in spite of themselves.

Laura was now in the house by the side of the bedridden Mary Jewell,

waiting, confident, smiling, as she held the wasted hand on the coverlet.

With her was a minister of the Baptist persuasion, who was swimming with

the tide, and who approved of the Faith Healer's immersions in the hot

Healing Springs; also a medical student who had pretended belief in

Ingles, and two women weeping with unnecessary remorse for human failings

of no dire kind. The windows were open, and those outside could see.

Presently, in a lull of the singing, there was a stir in the crowd, and

then, sudden loud greetings:

"My, if it ain't Tim Denton! Jerusalem! You back, Tim!"

These and other phrases caught the ear of Laura Sloly in the sick-room.

A strange look flashed across her face, and the depth of her eyes was

troubled for a moment, as to the face of the old comes a tremor at the

note of some long-forgotten song. Then she steadied herself and waited,

catching bits of the loud talk which still floated towards her from

without.

"What's up? Some one getting married—or a legacy, or a saw-off? Why,

what a lot of Sunday-go-to-meeting folks to be sure!" Tim laughed

loudly.

After which the quick tongue of Nicolle Terasse: "You want know? Tiens,

be quiet; here he come. He cure you body and soul, ver' queeck—yes."

The crowd swayed and parted, and slowly, bare head uplifted, face looking

to neither right nor left, the Faith Healer made his way to the door of

the little house. The crowd hushed. Some were awed, some were

overpoweringly interested, some were cruelly patient. Nicolle Terasse

and others were whispering loudly to Tim Denton. That was the only

sound, until the Healer got to the door. Then, on the steps, he turned

to the multitude.

"Peace be to you all, and upon this house," he said and stepped through

the doorway.

Tim Denton, who had been staring at the face of the Healer, stood for an

instant like one with all his senses arrested. Then he gasped, and

exclaimed, "Well, I'm eternally—" and broke off with a low laugh,

which was at first mirthful, and then became ominous and hard.

"Oh, magnificent—magnificent—jerickety!" he said into the sky above

him.

His friends who were not "saved," closed in on him to find the meaning

of his words, but he pulled himself together, looked blankly at them, and

asked them questions. They told him so much more than he cared to hear,

that his face flushed a deep red—the bronze of it most like the colour

of Laura Sloly's hair; then he turned pale. Men saw that he was roused

beyond any feeling in themselves.

"'Sh!" he said. "Let's see what he can do." With the many who were

silently praying, as they had been, bidden to do, the invincible ones

leant forwards, watching the little room where healing—or tragedy—was

afoot. As in a picture, framed by the window, they saw the kneeling

figures, the Healer standing with outstretched arms. They heard his

voice, sonorous and appealing, then commanding—and yet Mary Jewell did

not rise from her bed and walk. Again, and yet again, the voice rang

out, and still the woman lay motionless. Then he laid his hands upon

her, and again he commanded her to rise.

There was a faint movement, a desperate struggle to obey, but Nature and

Time and Disease had their way. Yet again there was the call. An agony

stirred the bed. Then another great Healer came between, and mercifully

dealt the sufferer a blow—Death has a gentle hand sometimes. Mary

Jewell was bedridden still—and for ever.

Like a wind from the mountains the chill knowledge of death wailed

through the window, and over the heads of the crowd. All the figures

were upright now in the little room. Then those outside saw Laura Sloly

lean over and close the sightless eyes. This done, she came to the door

and opened it, and motioned for the Healer to leave. He hesitated,

hearing the harsh murmur from the outskirts of the crowd. Once again she

motioned, and he came. With a face deadly pale she surveyed the people

before her silently for a moment, her eyes all huge and staring.

Presently she turned to Ingles and spoke to him quickly in a low voice;

then, descending the steps, passed out through the lane made for her by

the crowd, he following with shaking limbs and bowed bead.

Warning words had passed among the few invincible ones who waited where

the Healer must pass into the open, and there was absolute stillness as

Laura advanced. Their work was to come—quiet and swift and sure; but

not yet.

Only one face Laura saw, as she led the way to the moment's safety—Tim

Denton's; and it was as stricken as her own. She passed, then turned,

and looked at him again. He understood; she wanted him.

He waited till she sprang into her waggon, after the Healer had mounted

his mule and ridden away with ever-quickening pace into the prairie.

Then he turned to the set, fierce men beside him.

"Leave him alone," he said, "leave him to me. I know him. You hear?

Ain't I no rights? I tell you I knew him—South. You leave him to me."

They nodded, and he sprang into his saddle and rode away. They watched

the figure of the Healer growing smaller in the dusty distance.

"Tim'll go to her," one said, "and perhaps they'll let the snake get off.

Hadn't we best make sure?"

"Perhaps you'd better let him vamoose," said Flood Rawley anxiously.

"Jansen is a law-abiding place!" The reply was decisive. Jansen had its

honour to keep. It was the home of the Pioneers—Laura Sloly was a

Pioneer.

Tim Denton was a Pioneer, with all the comradeship which lay in the word,

and he was that sort of lover who has seen one woman, and can never see

another—not the product of the most modern civilisation. Before Laura

had had Playmates he had given all he had to give; he had waited and

hoped ever since; and when the ruthless gossips had said to him before

Mary Jewell's house that she was in love with the Faith Healer, nothing

changed in him. For the man, for Ingles, Tim belonged to a primitive

breed, and love was not in his heart. As he rode out to Sloly's Ranch,

he ground his teeth in rage. But Laura had called him to her, and:

"Well, what you say goes, Laura," he muttered at the end of a long hour

of human passion and its repression. "If he's to go scot-free, then he's

got to go; but the boys yonder'll drop on me, if he gets away. Can't you

see what a swab he is, Laura?"

The brown eyes of the girl looked at him gently. The struggle between

them was over; she had had her way—to save the preacher, impostor though

he was; and now she felt, as she had never felt before in the same

fashion, that this man was a man of men.

"Tim, you do not understand," she urged. "You say he was a landsharp in

the South, and that he had to leave-"

"He had to vamoose, or take tar and feathers."

"But he had to leave. And he came here preaching and healing; and he is

a hypocrite and a fraud—I know that now, my eyes are opened. He didn't

do what he said he could do, and it killed Mary Jewell—the shock; and

there were other things he said he could do, and he didn't do them.

Perhaps he is all bad, as you say—I don't think so. But he did some

good things, and through him I've felt as I've never felt before about

God and life, and about Walt and the baby—as though I'll see them again,

sure. I've never felt that before. It was all as if they were lost in

the hills, and no trail home, or out to where they are. Like as not God

was working in him all the time, Tim; and he failed because he counted

too much on the little he had, and made up for what he hadn't by what he

pretended."

"He can pretend to himself, or God Almighty, or that lot down there"—he

jerked a finger towards the town—"but to you, a girl, and a Pioneer—"

A flash of humour shot into her eyes at his last words, then they filled

with tears, through which the smile shone. To pretend to "a Pioneer"—

the splendid vanity and egotism of the West!

"He didn't pretend to me, Tim. People don't usually have to pretend to

like me."

"You know what I'm driving at."

"Yes, yes, I know. And whatever he is, you've said that you will save

him. I'm straight, you know that. Somehow, what I felt from his

preaching—well, everything got sort of mixed up with him, and he was—

was different. It was like the long dream of Walt and the baby, and he a

part of it. I don't know what I felt, or what I might have felt for him.

I'm a woman—I can't understand. But I know what I feel now. I never

want to see him again on earth—or in Heaven. It needn't be necessary

even in Heaven; but what happened between God and me through him stays,

Tim; and so you must help him get away safe. It's in your hands—you say

they left it to you."

"I don't trust that too much."

Suddenly he pointed out of the window towards the town. "See, I'm right;

there they are, a dozen of 'em mounted. They're off, to run him down."

Her face paled; she glanced towards the Hill of Healing. "He's got an

hour's start," she said; "he'll get into the mountains and be safe."

"If they don't catch him 'fore that."

"Or if you don't get to him first," she said, with nervous insistence.

He turned to her with a hard look; then, as he met her soft, fearless,

beautiful eyes, his own grew gentle. "It takes a lot of doing. Yet I'll

do it for you, Laura," he said. "But it's hard on the Pioneers." Once

more her humour flashed, and it seemed to him that "getting religion" was

not so depressing after all—wouldn't be, anyhow, when this nasty job was

over. "The Pioneers will get over it, Tim," she rejoined. "They've

swallowed a lot in their time. Heaven's gate will have to be pretty

wide to let in a real Pioneer," she added. "He takes up so much room—

ah, Timothy Denton!" she added, with an outburst of whimsical merriment.

"It hasn't spoiled you—being converted, has it?" he, said, and gave a

quick little laugh, which somehow did more for his ancient cause with her

than all he had ever said or done. Then he stepped outside and swung

into his saddle.

It had been a hard and anxious ride, but Tim had won, and was keeping his

promise. The night had fallen before he got to the mountains, which he

and the Pioneers had seen the Faith Healer enter. They had had four

miles' start of Tim, and had ridden fiercely, and they entered the gulch

into which the refugee had disappeared still two miles ahead.

The invincibles had seen Tim coming, but they had determined to make a

sure thing of it, and would themselves do what was necessary with the

impostor, and take no chances. So they pressed their horses, and he saw

them swallowed by the trees, as darkness gathered. Changing his course,

he entered the familiar hills, which he knew better than any pioneer of

Jansen, and rode a diagonal course over the trail they would take. But

night fell suddenly, and there was nothing to do but to wait till

morning. There was comfort in this—the others must also wait, and the

refugee could not go far. In any case, he must make for settlement or

perish, since he had left behind his sheep and his cow.

It fell out better than Tim hoped. The Pioneers were as good hunters as

was he, their instinct was as sure, their scouts and trackers were many,

and he was but one. They found the Faith Healer by a little stream,

eating bread and honey, and, like an ancient woodlander drinking from a

horn—relics of his rank imposture. He made no resistance. They tried

him formally, if perfunctorily; he admitted his imposture, and begged for

his life. Then they stripped him naked, tied a bit of canvas round his

waist, fastened him to a tree, and were about to complete his punishment

when Tim Denton burst upon them.

Whether the rage Tim showed was all real or not; whether his accusations

of bad faith came from so deeply wounded a spirit as he would have them

believe, he was not likely to tell; but he claimed the prisoner as his

own, and declined to say what he meant to do.

When, however, they saw the abject terror of the Faith Healer as he

begged not to be left alone with Tim—for they had not meant death,

and Ingles thought he read death in Tim's ferocious eyes—they laughed

cynically, and left it to Tim to uphold the honour of Jansen and the

Pioneers.

As they disappeared, the last thing they saw was Tim with his back to

them, his hands on his hips, and a knife clasped in his fingers.

"He'll lift his scalp and make a monk of him," chuckled the oldest and

hardest of them.

"Dat Tim will cut his heart out, I t'ink-bagosh!" said Nicolle Terasse,

and took a drink of white-whiskey. For a long time Tim stood looking at

the other, until no sound came from the woods, whither the Pioneers had

gone. Then at last, slowly, and with no roughness, as the terror-

stricken impostor shrank and withered, he cut the cords.

"Dress yourself," he said shortly, and sat down beside the stream, and

washed his face and hands, as though to cleanse them from contamination.

He appeared to take no notice of the other, though his ears keenly noted

every movement.

The impostor dressed nervously, yet slowly; he scarce comprehended

anything, except that he was not in immediate danger. When he had

finished, he stood looking at Tim, who was still seated on a log plunged

in meditation.

It seemed hours before Tim turned round, and now his face was quiet,

if set and determined. He walked slowly over, and stood looking at his

victim for some time without speaking. The other's eyes dropped, and

a greyness stole over his features. This steely calm was even more

frightening than the ferocity which had previously been in his captor's

face. At length the tense silence was broken.

"Wasn't the old game good enough? Was it played out? Why did you take

to this? Why did you do it, Scranton?"

The voice quavered a little in reply. "I don't know. Something sort of

pushed me into it."

"How did you come to start it?"

There was a long silence, then the husky reply came. "I got a sickener

last time—"

"Yes, I remember, at Waywing."

"I got into the desert, and had hard times—awful for a while. I hadn't

enough to eat, and I didn't know whether I'd die by hunger, or fever, or

Indians—or snakes."

"Oh, you were seeing snakes!" said Tim grimly.

"Not the kind you mean; I hadn't anything to drink—"

"No, you never did drink, I remember—just was crooked, and slopped over

women. Well, about the snakes?"

"I caught them to eat, and they were poison-snakes often. And I wasn't

quick at first to get them safe by the neck—they're quick, too."

Tim laughed inwardly. "Getting your food by the sweat of your brow—and

a snake in it, same as Adam! Well, was it in the desert you got your

taste for honey, too, same as John the Baptist—that was his name, if I

recomember?" He looked at the tin of honey on the ground.

"Not in the desert, but when I got to the grass-country."

"How long were you in the desert?"

"Close to a year."

Tim's eyes opened wider. He saw that the man was speaking the truth.

"Got to thinking in the desert, and sort of willing things to come to

pass, and mooning along, you, and the sky, and the vultures, and the hot

hills, and the snakes, and the flowers—eh?"

"There weren't any flowers till I got to the grass-country."

"Oh, cuss me, if you ain't simple for your kind! I know all about that.

And when you got to the grass-country, you just picked up the honey, and

the flowers, and a calf, and a lamb, and a mule here and there, 'without

money and without price,' and walked on—that it?"

The other shrank before the steel in the voice, and nodded his head.

"But you kept thinking in the grass-country of what you'd felt and said

and done—and willed, in the desert, I suppose?"

Again the other nodded.

"It seemed to you in the desert, as if you'd saved your own life a

hundred times, as if you'd just willed food and drink and safety to come;

as if Providence had been at your elbow?"

"It was like a dream, and it stayed with me. I had to think in the

desert things I'd never thought before," was the half-abstracted answer.

"You felt good in the desert?" The other hung his head in shame.

"Makes you seem pretty small, doesn't it? You didn't stay long enough,

I guess, to get what you were feeling for; you started in on the new

racket too soon. You never got really possessed that you was a sinner.

I expect that's it."

The other made no reply.

"Well, I don't know much about such things. I was loose brought up; but

I've a friend"—Laura was before his eyes—"that says religion's all

right, and long ago as I can remember my mother used to pray three times

a day—with grace at meals, too. I know there's a lot in it for them

that need it; and there seems to be a lot of folks needing it, if I'm to

judge by folks down there at Jansen, specially when there's the laying-on

of hands and the Healing Springs. Oh, that was a pigsty game, Scranton,

that about God giving you the Healing Springs, like Moses and the rock!

Why, I discovered them springs myself two years ago, before I went South,

and I guess God wasn't helping me any—not after I've kept out of His way

as I have. But, anyhow, religion's real; that's my sense of it; and you

can get it, I bet, if you try. I've seen it got. A friend of mine got

it—got it under your preaching; not from you; but you was the accident

that brought it about, I expect. It's funny—it's merakilous, but it's

so. Kneel down!" he added, with peremptory suddenness. "Kneel,

Scranton!"

In fear the other knelt.

"You're going to get religion now—here. You're going to pray for what

you didn't get—and almost got—in the desert. You're going to ask

forgiveness for all your damn tricks, and pray like a fanning-mill for

the spirit to come down. You ain't a scoundrel at heart—a friend of

mine says so. You're a weak vessel, cracked, perhaps. You've got to

be saved, and start right over again—and 'Praise God from whom all

blessings flow!' Pray—pray, Scranton, and tell the whole truth,

and get it—get religion. Pray like blazes. You go on, and pray out

loud. Remember the desert, and Mary Jewell, and your mother—did you

have a mother, Scranton—say, did you have a mother, lad?"

Tim's voice suddenly lowered before the last word, for the Faith Healer

had broken down in a torrent of tears.

"Oh, my mother—O God!" he groaned.

"Say, that's right—that's right—go on," said the other, and drew back a

little, and sat down on a log. The man on his knees was convulsed with

misery. Denton, the world, disappeared. He prayed in agony. Presently

Tim moved uneasily, then got up and walked about; and at last, with a

strange, awed look, when an hour was past, he stole back into the shadow

of the trees, while still the wounded soul poured out its misery and

repentance.

Time moved on. A curious shyness possessed Tim now, a thing which he had

never felt in his life. He moved about self-consciously, awkwardly,

until at last there was a sudden silence over by the brook.

Tim looked, and saw the face of the kneeling man cleared, and quiet and

shining. He hesitated, then stepped out, and came over.

"Have you got it?" he asked quietly. "It's noon now."

"May God help me to redeem my past," answered the other in a new voice.

"You've got it—sure?" Tim's voice was meditative. "God has spoken to

me," was the simple answer. "I've got a friend'll be glad to hear that,"

he said; and once more, in imagination, he saw Laura Sloly standing at

the door of her home, with a light in her eyes he had never seen before.

"You'll want some money for your journey?" Tim asked.

"I want nothing but to go away—far away," was the low reply.

"Well, you've lived in the desert—I guess you can live in the grass-

country," came the dry response. "Good-bye-and good luck, Scranton."

Tim turned to go, moved on a few steps, then looked back.

"Don't be afraid—they'll not follow," he said. "I'll fix it for you all

right."

But the man appeared not to hear; he was still on his knees.

Tim faced the woods once more.

He was about to mount his horse when he heard a step behind him. He

turned sharply—and faced Laura. "I couldn't rest. I came out this

morning. I've seen everything," she said.

"You didn't trust me," he said heavily.

"I never did anything else," she answered.

He gazed half-fearfully into her eyes. "Well?" he asked. "I've done my

best, as I said I would."

"Tim," she said, and slipped a hand in his, "would you mind the religion

—if you had me?"