The Frontiersman Part 32

"La.s.sie," and Pete spoke very slowly, "I don't mind tellin' ye now; mebbe it's best ye should know. That chap was yer brother!"

If the prospector expected an outburst of lamentation at this announcement he was much disappointed. Startling though it was, father and daughter uttered not a word, but sat very still. The news was not altogether unexpected, for often had they discussed the matter when alone, and had reached the conclusion that it could be none other than Kenneth who had died in the cabin. And yet, mingled with this idea, there was the faint hope that they might be mistaken, and that their loved one some day would be given back to them. But now the last slender thread was snapped to which they had clung so long.

For a while Constance sat motionless on the couch, looking into Pete's face. But she saw him not, for her mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting far away to other days. She did not notice when Mr. Radhurst left his seat and came close to her side. But when he put his arms tenderly around her, and drew her close to him, she awoke from her reverie. Then when she saw the pained look on her father's face, and the tears which were stealing down his faded cheeks, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like a child.

For some time no one spoke, and Old Pete sat silently by, a sympathetic witness of the little scene. "It will do the la.s.sie good," he said to himself. "If them tears hadn't come I'd be a-feered, jist as I would of a biler without any safety valve."

After awhile Constance dried her eyes and, turning to Pete, apologized for her emotion.

"But then, I know, you understand. Kenneth was so dear to us--and to think that we shall never see him again!"

"Don't say that, la.s.sie. As ye are a Christian woman ye must believe that ye'll meet yer brother agin, when them pearly gates are opened. I was jist a-thinkin' how once I uster laugh at the idea of a future life. Says I to meself, an' to others, 'This life is enough fer me, so I'll have a good time now.' But as I growed older I began to see, an'

it all come gradual like, that this life is only a trail after all.

Now, ye see, we have nothin' but trails here, an' purty tough ones at that. By an' by thar'll be roads, an' then when them cities git built thar'll be paved streets. Then when us old pioneers walk on them fine, level highways we'll think of the time when only trails ran here, an'

we'll be mighty proud to tell others that we've roughed it a bit. So, la.s.sie, when mus.h.i.+n' over a hard trail, I says to meself that it's jist like life. Some day thar'll be the Holy City we read about, whar the streets are paved with gold, an' if we are to enjoy them thar we must be willin' fust to tramp the trails down here awhile. I know that larned men would laugh at this idea of mine, but I tell ye it's been a heap of comfort to me in my lonely life. But the parson'll tell ye all about it some day better'n I kin."

"So you think he will come back again?" asked Constance eagerly.

"Come back? Certainly he'll come back. He ain't made of sugar an'

water. He'll not desart his flock long fer a pack of wicked fools. He knows the good Lord's with 'im, an'll not let his wark be ruined. I reckon that even now he's a-doin' his Master's will somewhar out on them mountains."

"I wonder much why he didn't tell us about Kenneth's death. Was there a reason?"

"Thar was, la.s.sie. Ye was in a big trouble when he fust met ye, an' he kept it from yez both fer fear it would be too much to bear. He did it fer kindness sake, an' wished to wait till things settled down a bit."

"Are you sure that was his reason?"

"Sartin. Didn't he tell me so when we talked the matter over together?"

Constance sat for some time in deep thought, while Pete and her father talked on. Keith would come back. There was comfort, nay, more, there was joy, in the hope, and then she would thank him for his thoughtfulness.

Suddenly a wild cry fell upon their ears--a cry of sorrow and rage, which paled their cheeks and caused them to look at one another with apprehension.

"The Injuns! The Injuns have come!" cried Pete, rus.h.i.+ng to the door.

"My G.o.d, I feered it!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RUMBLING OF THE STORM

After the Indians' cry had rung through Kla.s.san there was no more sleep for the miners. Excitement reigned in each cabin, where men waited and wondered what the night would bring forth. Visions filled their minds of tales they had heard, and stories they had read, of enraged natives falling suddenly upon bands of white people and wiping them out of existence in the most cruel manner.

Following the yell came a silence as deep as death. Listen and watch as they might, no signal came from that quiet camp, and Night kept her secret well. Some, imagining they saw Indians stealthily creeping down upon them, sat or stood with rifles at their side, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. But as the slow hours dragged by, and nothing happened, the suspense became so unbearable that with one accord they made their way to the saloon. Here morning found them earnestly discussing the situation, and planning some method of defense. Sighs of relief escaped from many a lip as the light struggled in through the dirty window, filling them with new courage.

It is marvellous what a magical effect the day possesses. Men who, through the dreary night of doubt and fear, are veritable cowards, will then become the most arrogant boasters. So several who raised the loudest lamentations of apprehension now proved the greatest talkers.

"Give us daylight," said one, "and I reckon we can stand off a whole horde of redskins."

"Don't be too certain about that," replied another. "If those Indians make up their minds to wipe us out, it's all the same as if we were dead men."

"But can't we stand a siege here, and mow them down as they come up?"

persisted the other.

"Mow them down! Mow the devil down! Why, they're five to one, and, if they rushed us, where'd we be? But never fear, that's not their way of working. They'll not run any unnecessary risk when they've got night in which to do the job. If it comes to a hand-and-hand tussle we're out of it, that's all there is about it. They're as tough and supple as mountain ash, and are always in training, while we're as soft as a lot of kids."

The sun rose above the lofty peaks and swung high in the heavens, but still the Indians maintained their silence and showed no sign of hostility. Midday came, and yet no signal.

"I guess they'll do nothing," suggested one. "Maybe they're afraid of our guns."

Just then the mournful sound of an Indian drum fell upon their ears, causing them all to start and look at one another. What did it mean?

Were they gathering for the affray?

As they listened and waited Old Pete drew near and entered the building. He was a stranger there, and the men gazed with wonder and admiration upon the hardy prospector. His great stature, commanding presence, buckskin suit, hawk-like eye, and long, flowing beard streaked with gray, would have made him a marked man in any company.

But his sudden appearance at such a time made a strong impression.

"Who is he? Where did he come from?" pa.s.sed from lip to lip, as Pete strode up to the bar and confronted Perdue, who was standing blandly at his post.

"Any baccy?" he inquired, glancing at the array of black bottles along the wall.

"Plenty, pard. What's yer choice?"

"Yer best, an' I guess that'll be none too good."

"Now, what'll ye have next?" and Perdue rubbed his fat hands in antic.i.p.ation of a new customer.

"A match."

"What! nothing more? What's yer brand?"

"Ain't got any, 'cept old age, an' the good Lord done that Himself.

Guess He brands us all the same way sooner or later."

"Oh, I don't mean that," retorted the saloon-keeper, somewhat nettled at the laugh from the men at his expense. "I mean, 'What de'ye drink?'"

"Oh, I see," and Pete stroked his beard meditatively. "Wall, t'stimerlate the heart I sometimes drink the water of Life; to freshen up the mind a bit, I swaller a few drops from the mighty spring of Nater; while to keep this old carcase bright I find the good Lord's sparklin' water jist the thing. Have ye ever tried it?"

Perdue was certainly puzzled. It was impossible to take offence at the old man's words, spoken so quietly and impressively. Neither could he detect any sign of fun-making in his open face and kindly eyes. He wondered if this giant were altogether sane. He had often heard stories of men who, living so long in lonely places, had become quite demented. Perhaps this was one of them.

"Yer a stranger here, are ye not?" he asked not ungently. "Where did ye drop from?"

"Jist from the Injun camp up yon."

"What! not from there!" and Perdue looked his surprise.

"Sartin. Been strollin' round, sizin' things up a bit."