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<!DOCTYPE html>
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<title>
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wolf Trail, by Roger S. Pocock
</title>

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<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69946 ***</div>


<h1>
<br><br>
THE WOLF TRAIL
</h1>

<p class="t3b">
BY
</p>

<p class="t2">
ROGER S. POCOCK
</p>

<p class="t4">
AUTHOR OF "CURLY," ETC.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
<br>
NEW YORK :: :: MCMXXIII
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t4">
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
<br>
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t4">
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
</p>

<p class="noindent" style="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
The author is deeply indebted to Mr. J. S. M. Ward
for permission to reproduce in this
novel a passage from his work, <i>A Subaltern
in Spirit Land</i>, published by
Messrs. William Rider &amp; Son, Ltd.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
CONTENTS
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p class="noindent">
CHAPTER
</p>

<p class="noindent">
I. <a href="#chap01"><span class="smcap">On London River</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
II. <a href="#chap02"><span class="smcap">The Voyage of the "<i>Beaver</i>"</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
III. <a href="#chap03"><span class="smcap">In British Oregon</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
IV. <a href="#chap04"><span class="smcap">Kootenay</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
V. <a href="#chap05"><span class="smcap">The Whole Armor</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
VI. <a href="#chap06"><span class="smcap">The Ghost Trail</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
VII. <a href="#chap07"><span class="smcap">The Holy Lodge</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
VIII. <a href="#chap08"><span class="smcap">Rising Wolf</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
IX. <a href="#chap09"><span class="smcap">The Striking of the Camp</span></a>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
X. <a href="#chap10"><span class="smcap">The Translation</span></a>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap01"></a></p>

<p class="t2">
THE WOLF TRAIL
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER I
<br><br>
ON LONDON RIVER
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
I
</p>

<p>
"To make a dogsnose," the publican explained,
"you spices the ale, so.  You laces it with
a dash of rum, thus, then you proceeds to
pour it into this yere metal cone, this way"&mdash;he crossed
to the fireplace&mdash;"and shoves it in among the coals to
mull."
</p>

<p>
"A great comfort is dogsnose," added Mr. Fright,
"especially of a Sunday after church.  You clears the
vimmen off to church, and then you has the dogsnose."
</p>

<p>
Presently he took the cone from behind the bars
of the grate, and filled the glasses with mulled beer,
distributing the same to his guests.
</p>

<p>
With rolled-up shirt sleeves exposing brawny arms,
a portly waistcoat, leather breeches, and top boots, this
publican might well have posed for a portrait of John
Bull, and yet his tavern, "The Fox under the Hill,"
had other associations, accounting for the landlord's
artful sideways grin and a certain glint of humorous
foxiness.  Moreover, a lifelong devotion to rum had
made him more ruddy than sunburned, his nose
inclined to blossom, his eyes to water, and his hands
to tremble.  "A short life, and a merry one!" so
Mr. Fright pledged the company.  His guests appeared
to be pleased with the sentiment, excepting only
his brother, Mr. James Fright, the bargee, who
crouched drunk in his window corner.  Brief life
was his portion also, but a diet of gin, instead of
making ruddy the face of man, turns his complexion blue.
The stuff is called blue ruin.
</p>

<p>
The bargee's only son, Bill, aged at that time eighteen,
sat in the ingle.  He had something of his father's
short pugnacious nose, and chin thrust forward, but
his hair was like wavy sunshine, and his eyes bright
blue.  He had a humorous twisty mouth, a freckled,
weather-beaten ruddy skin, a sturdy strength, clean
manliness, and amazing directness both of eyes and
speech.  His dress was a raggy blue jersey, torn slacks,
and old sea boots; and he was busy mending one of
them, making a workmanlike job with awl, waxed end,
and bristles.
</p>

<p>
Warming his tails at the fire stood a guest of the
house, a tall man in pumps, seedy black tights, a frayed
blue coat brass-buttoned, a black satin choker, and his
head so large and of such effulgent baldness that he
would have shone out remarkable in any company.  He
was a Mr. Wilkins wanted by the magistrates for stealing
pocket handkerchiefs, and now awaiting a wherry
which would convey him presently to a coal boat,
bound for Newcastle.
</p>

<p>
Of the company in the sanded bar parlor, perhaps
only one other person need be mentioned, Mr. Brown,
valet to Isaac Disraeli, Esquire, upon Adelphi Terrace.
</p>

<p>
The emigrant spoke feelingly of dogsnose as about
to become, if he might venture to say so, one of the
tenderest and most endearing of those beverages which
the forlorn and desolate exile would have to&mdash;ahem&mdash;go
without, a reminder to the banished heart of that
sacred homeland whose blessed liberties and hard-won&mdash;ahem.
The remainder of the sentiment was confided
with tears to a large red bandanna handkerchief.
</p>

<p>
"Which liberties," said the publican sternly, crossing
his bare forearms on the bar, "ain't what they're
cracked up to be.  Liberties!  Liberties of the Fleet,
the Marshalsea, and Newgate!
</p>

<p>
"It's terventy-one year since me and my brother
James there, what's sitting drunk in the winder,
fought at Waterloo.  It's nineteen year come Lammas
I been 'ere.  Nineteen year&mdash;so to speak&mdash;I been the
Fox under the Hill which sees plentiful, 'ears much,
smells a good deal, but doesn't have nothing votever to
talk abart.  Vile I keeps my mask shut, gennelmen, I
saves my brush."
</p>

<p>
He paused for a reply, but there was none.
</p>

<p>
"You mark my vords.  'Ere of a Sunday, so to
speak, vith my doors closed during church, and none
of you gennelmen being peelers, spies, nor warmints,
speaking to friends I says we's had a durned sight too
many Georges, and too many Villiams reigning over
we&mdash;the same being a pack of Germans."
</p>

<p>
The company seemed to be startled by such frankness.
</p>

<p>
"A durned sight too many lawyers, too many parsons,
too many lords and landlords, too many masters
altogether, vich is a pack o' willians, 'umbugs, and
sponges eating of our wittles wot we earns.  The
Prayer Book says as they'd ought to get their own living
in that state of life, whereas they gets most of my
living in tithes, rent, rates, taxes, and plundering of
me on every cask of beer."
</p>

<p>
"Liberty!  Equality!  Fraternity!" cried a voice
from the corner by the clock.  "Hoff vith their bleedin'
'eads!"
</p>

<p>
"The Froggies did that," said the landlord, "and to
the best of their knowledge and belief they 'ave their
reapings and their 'arvest 'ome, which is the Reign
of Terror.
</p>

<p>
"Then under old Boneyparte, hup comes a new crop
of rogues, and we reaps them.  The more rogues you
crops the more comes up.  These Froggies is excitable,
and comes up.  But for us English, vich ain't extravagent,
one 'ead at a time says I, vether it be King
Charles or King Villiam."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Fright's nephew looked around grinning,
to interrupt: "Or Alexandrina Wictoria by the
Grace&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Well," said the landlord, "if I was Princess Halexandrina
Wictoria, I'd rather 'ave my 'ead took off than
sign all that lot of stuff when I writes my name.  She
done no 'arm to me.  Ven it comes to cropping 'eads,
I wotes for Villiam the Fourth."
</p>

<p>
The nephew must needs interrupt.  "Uncle," said
Bill Fright, "does your 'ead fit?  It may come loose
from talking of 'igh treason."
</p>

<p>
"At that rate," said Mr. Fright, "Jack Ketch vill
'ave 'is 'ands full hanging the British public.  The
general public as a 'ole talks treason.
</p>

<p>
"Now I don't say nothing.  Silence is my 'obby.
But if I ever took to talking&mdash;you mark my vords,
young feller.  I was in India vith the Dook&mdash;Sir
Harthur Vellesley he vas in them days&mdash;ven he swiped the
Great Mogul, and sot down plump in Delhi.  Dahn
south in them days vas the Dook's hown brother, the
Markvis Vellesley, whopping them Mahrattas, and
setting plump on the Peishwa's nob at Poona.  The
Dook and the Markvis conquers India&mdash;and vot does
they do abart it?
</p>

<p>
"Now, young Bill," he turned upon his nephew,
"what does them Roman Generals in your schoolbooks
do when they conquers anything?"
</p>

<p>
"Makes themselves Hemperors," answered Bill as
usual, for this question belonged to the formal
proceedings of a Sunday.
</p>

<p>
"Didn't I say so?"  The publican triumphed.  "And
does the Dook and the Markvis make theirselves
Hemperors of Northern and Southern Hindia?"
</p>

<p>
Young Bill had finished the cobbling.  He hauled on
his thigh boot, returned his palm thimble, glovers'
needle, awl, waxed end, and beeswax to his trousers
pocket, then shifted his position a little to watch his
father, the drunken bargee in the window place.  He
always felt uneasy when Uncle Thomas, whom he
dearly loved, was spouting treason in presence of his
father.  Bill did not trust his father, who seemed to
be watching, listening, spying, while he pretended to
be drunk as usual.  The boy glanced up at his uncle
anxious to warn him, but Mr. Thomas Fright could not
have been more aggrieved if he had actually spoken.
</p>

<p>
"You shut your bleeding trap," growled Uncle
Thomas.  "I hain't said nothing yet.  Well, gemmen,
as I vos saying vhen the lad interrupts, I was vith the
Dook in the Peninsula.  His Lordship chases old Soult
and all his Froggies clear acrost Spain from Torres
Vedras into France, 'e did.  Vot does 'e do next?
Does the Dook declare for a monarchy vith hisself as
King o' Spain?  Not on yer life 'e don't.  He got no
use for Kings excep' them rotten Georges."
</p>

<p>
Dangerous talk this.  The bargee in drunken
confidences had told his son Bill plainly that he would
peach to the new police and get Uncle Thomas put
away for treason.  And yet Bill could not stop his
uncle's mouth.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Fright once more took up his parable.
</p>

<p>
"I vos the Dook's own sergeant trumpeter at the
Battle o' Vaterloo, so I'd ought to know, gents.
Boneyparte believes in being a Hemperor.  The Dook
hain't 'aving any.  Vot does 'e do?  Does 'e lead
Napoleon in chains through Lunnon?  Does 'e declare
hisself our Hemperor&mdash;this 'ero who conquers India,
Spain, and Boney?  No, 'e don't.  Hand why?  He
hain't no Roman General hain't the Dook.  He don't
believe in Kings no more nor I do, hand ven it comes
to hanging of 'em, gents, I wotes for Villiam!"
</p>

<p>
So Mr. Thomas Fright continued talking treason.
He spoke of the universal flogging, good for boys, but
not for soldiers, seamen, convicts, and the like; of
merchant sailors kidnaped by the press gangs to man
the navy, of little children down in the coalpits
harnessed as beasts of burden to haul trucks.
</p>

<p>
Then Bill remembered what mother said about pit
owners offending one of these little ones.  It would be
better for such owners to have millstones tied to their
necks, and be flung into the sea.
</p>

<p>
Uncle Thomas talked of naked women at the anvil
forging chains for convicts; of citizens transported to
Botany Bay for poaching a rabbit, condemned to life
imprisonment for a few pounds of debt, or hanged
outright for a five-pound theft.  Such were the liberties
for which Englishmen were asked to give their lives in
battle, such was the Government demanding loyalty.
</p>

<p>
Bill had heard all that before.  Treason was the
religion of low-caste Englishmen, sedition, privy
conspiracy, and rebellion articles of faith for all men
oppressed who loved their country.  Strong yeast that
which leavens a healthy state until men and women
are fit for freedom, until the slave becomes a disciplined
citizen trained to the sovereign power, able to heal
the maladies of the commonwealth.  Masters and men
alike will tell you any day this thousand years back
that the country is going to the Devil.  All is well.
But, when they are content, look out for the first
symptoms of decay.
</p>

<p>
So England, mother of nations, was in labor then,
in that year of grace 1835.  If she is still in sorrow,
every drop of blood and every tear is a seed sown for
mankind.  The harvesting shall be in new achievements
of freedom, new sciences, greater arts, enlarging
revelation.
</p>

<p>
Yet as respectable folk in church let their attention
wander from the sermon, so, while Uncle Thomas
preached, Bill thought of other things.  Especially his
mind concentrated upon his father.  Time out of mind
the bargeman, like everybody else, enjoyed a drink
when he got a chance.  Who didn't!  Even mother
said it was all right.
</p>

<p>
Mother always said that she managed father quite
easily until Uncle Joey got hold of him.  And Uncle
Joey never knew when to stop.  The pair of them took
to drinking together, more, so said Uncle Thomas, than
was good for anybody.
</p>

<p>
They were mixed up in business, too, not father's
trade of honest smuggling with the barge between
Margate and London, but something downright
crooked.  Father's cargo was bought, but Joey's goods
were stolen.
</p>

<p>
Anybody could see that father didn't like it.  When
they were drunk, father and Joey were always quarreling.
</p>

<p>
Then Joey was captured with stolen goods and everybody
said that father gave him away.  Father certainly
turned King's evidence against his brother, so
that, excepting Uncle Thomas, nobody would speak
to him.  He drank alone.  He drank harder than
ever.
</p>

<p>
When poor Uncle Joey was hanged, the family in
their Sunday clothes attended the show at Tyburn in
a hired wagon.  The rain completely spoiled their
day.
</p>

<p>
From that time onward&mdash;a month it must be now,
or even more&mdash;while father was busy drinking himself
to death, Bill always saw the Shadow.  It was not an
ordinary shadow.  It was not a shadow cast by any
light.
</p>

<p>
It was something awful, a blur in the air, shaped
like a man, like Uncle Joey.  It went about with
father, glided behind him, stooped over him.  Father
drank because he was frightened of It; and when he
drank It sprang upon him from behind, wrapped Its
legs and arms about him, sucked at him.  Then father
craved and screamed for drink, and drank, always with
the awful Thing wrapped round him, sucking him.
Only when he was dead drunk the Shadow stood
behind him watching, waiting.
</p>

<p>
The ghost of Uncle Joey was murdering father.
Every day the awful Thing gained power, and sometimes
there were horrible fits which could not be
prevented, could not be eased, or stopped.  One could
only watch.
</p>

<p>
The Shadow was there now.  While Uncle Thomas
preached his usual Sunday sermon of high treason,
and father crouched there drunk, the Thing was
standing behind him in the window frame.  It was
stooping over him.  There was going to be another
seizure!
</p>

<p>
"Uncle Thomas!" Bill cried to Mr. Fright,
"Uncle Thomas!  Father's going to be took bad!"
</p>

<p>
Mr. Fright scowled at his nephew.  Bill had taken
of late to seeing ghosts, or shadows&mdash;something
unwholesome, anyway.  The less one noticed or
encouraged him the sooner would he return to his
natural ways, and leave the whimsies to his betters,
which can afford the same.
</p>

<p>
Bill watched the Shadow stooping over father,
nearer, nearer&mdash;Uncle Joey's ghost wrapping long
arms round father&mdash;riding him, and then passing into
him.  There!  The Shadow was gone in.
</p>

<p>
Bill cried aloud.  "Oh, Uncle, can't you see?
You&mdash;you are all blind?  Look!  Look!"
</p>

<p>
Just as though the spirit of Uncle Joey had captured
father's body, so it seemed to be Joey who was
waking up, yawning, stretching himself, and rapping
knuckles truculent on the table, while in a hoarse
whisper he ordered gin.  Father's way would have
been quite different&mdash;a blinking of the eyes, an
apologetic grin, a cordial good morning to the gentlemen
present, and a polite inquiry, "Did any one say gin?"
</p>

<p>
Surely, any one with eyes in his head could see that
this was Uncle Joey taking a rousing pinch of snuff
from the public mull on the table.  Father never
touched snuff, but always chewed twist tobacco.
</p>

<p>
Father would have been amiable, but Joey was
fierce, with a sharp rasping voice demanding liquor
even while he sneezed out the strong snuff.
</p>

<p>
Yet nobody seemed to see the change, the menace.
Mr. Fright was expounding an argument to the bald
customer, taking no notice whatever of the
deep-throated growl of the drunkard in the window place,
who now stood up shouting and threatening.
</p>

<p>
Bill turned to Mr. Fright.  "Uncle Thomas!" he
called.  "Look out!&mdash;look out!"
</p>

<p>
"Vot's up?" asked Uncle Thomas, and went on
counting on his fingers the heads of the argument.
"And thirdly&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Look!" Bill screamed his final warning.
</p>

<p>
Father&mdash;or was it Uncle Joey?&mdash;had left his seat,
was reeling drunkenly across the room, then banging
his fists on the bar, demanding a bottle of gin, "and
look sharp abart it, Marster!"  Uncle Joey used to
call him "Marster," in sarcasm of his successful
brother the publican.
</p>

<p>
Uncle Thomas waved him away.  "Not a drop," he
said over his shoulder; "you'd better have another
sleep, James.  As I was a saying&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
The drunkard snatched a bottle of rum, splashed
out a tumblerful, and poured it down his throat, then
dashed the heavy glass in his brother's face.
</p>

<p>
Bill ran to interfere, to restrain his father, but
somehow he was terrified and dared not touch him.  There
was something uncanny, horrible, from which he
shrank.
</p>

<p>
The landlord's forehead showed a long bright gash,
then spurting blood which blinded him, even as he
vaulted across the bar.  But the other, the maniac, had
seized an oaken trivet stool, and laid about him,
screaming, froth at his lips, demoniac rage convulsing
his face&mdash;was it not Uncle Joey's voice, his face?&mdash;while
he brought the weapon down on his brother's
head.
</p>

<p>
The door behind the bar had opened, and Bill's
mother stood there, a gaunt, gray, weather-beaten,
haggard woman dressed in rusty black silk, a poke bonnet,
lace mittens, Sunday best; and in her hand was a
Bible stamped on the cover with a large gold cross.
As she came round the end of the counter, she held out
that cross, as though it could protect her from the
maniac, who turned brandishing the stool to beat her
brains out.  Without showing the least fear she held
the cross before his eyes, and at the sight of it he
seemed to shrink away.  He even tried to protect
himself with the stool.  He, not the woman, was afraid,
and she pressed him backwards until he came against
the deal table which stood in the middle of the room.
</p>

<p>
"Get out, you beast&mdash;get out, I say&mdash;get out, Joey,
thou body-snatching devil!"
</p>

<p>
It seemed to the people as though James, her husband,
died.  The stool crashed to the floor, the light
went out of the man's writhen face.  The bargeman's
body collapsed in a heap.
</p>

<p>
The woman sank down on the floor, shaking all
over in abject terror, sobbing hysterically.  "Bill,"
she wailed, "go thou&mdash;warm water&mdash;bandages&mdash;for
Thomas&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"All right, mother."  Bill bent down, petting her.
"Keep yer hair on, mother."
</p>

<p>
She went off in screaming hysterics.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
II
</p>

<p>
In due time Mr. Fright was bandaged and put in the
feather bed upstairs, Mr. James Fright, still
unconscious, hoisted on board his barge and dropped down
the cabin hatch, then Bill and his mother joined the
family and their guests in the kitchen, where there was
Sunday dinner.  It was a very proper dinner, of beef
roast on the spit, pudding served in the gravy, potatoes
and cabbage in heaps, and beer by gallons.  Afterwards,
while the slavey washed up, and the diners
slept it off, Bill took his mother in the wherry and
pulled across the Thames to the Southwark shore.  It
was but a mile walk to Bedlam, and maybe another mile
beyond to open country, but Bill, who had eaten heartily
and wore thigh boots, found it heavy going, while
the woman seemed only refreshed by the slight exercise.
The golden autumn sunshine, blue pools of shadow
under elm trees, the cattle standing drowsy in the
shade, the buzz and murmur of the flies&mdash;here was
there peace.  The mother took her seat against an oak
tree, the son lay at her feet, and while the lad was
sleeping the woman watched.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
III
</p>

<p>
By most urgent critics I am warned not to be a
bigger fool than nature made me, not to be abrupt
where the story changes rhythm, and by no means to
take it for granted that the average reader is a
psychologist.
</p>

<p>
I promise faithfully, then, that I will not preach, use
long words, or be dull as one who takes himself too
seriously.  I only want to make quite sure that every
reader shares with me the tremendous excitement,
wonder, and glory of a theme splendid beyond example.
</p>

<p>
So please be kind, and glance at a few main facts.
</p>

<p>
A properly grown man has three bodies: the natural
body, the soul (or body of desires), and the spirit
(or body of pure thought).  These have been likened
to the vessel, the oil, and the flame of a lamp.
</p>

<p>
What, then, is life?  That is the ray of Consciousness.
</p>

<p>
In sleep the ray lights up the natural brain but does
not control it, so that we have those funny,
inconsequent dreams which we remember.
</p>

<p>
In deep sleep the ray leaves the natural body and
lights the spiritual body (soul and spirit), which is
then free.  The spiritual body may go away and
enjoy the most surprising, delightful adventures&mdash;the
dreams which fade out as we awaken.  You see, the
natural body was left behind at rest, missed all the
fun, and so has nothing to remember.
</p>

<p>
In waking meditation and clear vision the ray lights
up the spirit.  "I was in the spirit," says St. John,
and so begins his Book of the Revelation.
</p>

<p>
In the last deep sleep the spiritual body departs from
the natural body, and cannot get back into it.  That
shattered or worn-out machine is scrapped, and the
event is the birth of the earth-free Man.  We call it
death.
</p>

<p>
Now as to the places we go to in deep sleep and at
death.  An ordinary piano has seven octaves or forty-nine
notes.  Each of these is a set of waves in the air,
large and slow for the low note, small and swift for
the high note.  We call these waves vibrations.  You
can see the wires vibrate.  The visible earth has three
great chords of vibration, known to us as land, sea,
and air.  But the visible earth is rather like the stone
or core of a fruit and the invisible pulp of that fruit
is arranged in layers like the flakes of an onion, layer
on layer, just as in the piano there are forty-nine
layers of vibration.
</p>

<p>
In deep sleep or at death we enter a group of layers,
a world outside our world, with land, sea, and sky
which are clearly visible to the eyes of the soul.  The
soul is keyed to its vibrations.  That world has many
names, the Hades of the Greeks, the Purgatory of
the Catholic Churches, the Astral Plane of the Mystics.
</p>

<p>
Somewhere in its sixth layer is the country which we
call Dreamland, and close by in its seventh layer is
Fairyland.  They are just as real as London or New
York, and we are about to visit them in this happy
story.
</p>

<p>
Beyond the Astral World are the Heavens Spiritual
and the Heavens Celestial, where dwell spirits only, of
just men made perfect, and of the holy angels.  These
also are quite real, but we shall not see them until we
can believe.
</p>

<p>
How do I know all this?  By reading books which
are open to every student.  But with the deepest
humility and the utmost reverence I give my word of
honor that I have seen enough for myself to know that
the books are honest.
</p>

<p>
Now at last may I speak quite clearly about two
people of this story, Mrs. James Fright the Quakeress,
and Bill Fright her son?  Both of them were seers.
They had the rare gift of "dreaming true," of
remembering the dreams of the deep sleep.  The woman also
had won by clean living, prayer, and meditation the
greatest of all human faculties, the vision of the spirit,
the keys of Heaven.
</p>

<p>
Take then a single example of meditation.
</p>

<p>
"Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy
laden, and I will refresh you."
</p>

<p>
The Quakeress took these words into meditation,
repeating each phrase over and over again, until its
meaning deepened, broadened out, and filled her, until
she saw the golden aural light of other worlds, until
she entered that Peace which passeth all understanding
and looked out with the eyes of the Spirit upon the
Plains of Heaven.
</p>

<p>
But the story must leave this holy woman, and follow
the adventures of her son.
</p>

<p>
The boy's body lay at her feet, but Bill himself had
stolen away to the frontier which is between Dreamland
on the one side and Fairyland on the other.
There were certainly fairies about, for as he came into
the glade between the birch woods he hears them ringing
the bellflowers, weaving thin fine threads of blended
melodies into one rhapsody.  The birch fairies, within
their native trees, were swaying to the air of the
carillon.  The flower fairies peeped from within their
blossoms, and several squirrels ran chattering down the
path ahead of him to say that he was coming, to tell
his Dreamland comrade, Rain, that he was on his way
to keep his tryst with her.
</p>

<p>
He found Rain kneeling on a tuft of moss, an arrow
set in her bow for aiming practice, and at his
coming she sighted directly at his heart.
</p>

<p>
"Stand!" she said.
</p>

<p>
He stood quite still.
</p>

<p>
"Stupid!" she said.
</p>

<p>
"Why?"
</p>

<p>
"To obey a maid, and make her think she's master."
</p>

<p>
"But with an arrow through me?"
</p>

<p>
"What's the odds?  You left your animal body
down there, didn't you?  This astral body cannot die."  She
drew the bow until the stone head of the arrow
touched the grip.  "Say after me, I do believe in the
Great Spirit!"
</p>

<p>
"I does believe in Gawd!"
</p>

<p>
"And so you cannot die."  She launched the arrow
through his heart.
</p>

<p>
"You still believe?" she said.
</p>

<p>
"I does believe," he answered, laughing uneasily.
</p>

<p>
He turned about, and drew the arrow, which had
lodged in a tree behind him.  He gave it back to her.
</p>

<p>
"Love has no fear," she whispered, and he kissed her.
</p>

<p>
"My Dream!" he said.
</p>

<p>
"My Dream!" she answered, and they sat down.
She nestled in his arms, and there was silence
enfolding both of them.
</p>

<p>
Rain was Red Indian, of the Blackfoot nation,
whose home is on the plains beside the World-Spine.
Maid she was, and yet her dress that of a warrior, a
deerskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins all
tawny golden, the leather cut in thongs, long fringes of
them about the shoulders, and along the seams.  Quills
dyed vermilion, violet, and lemon were set in patterns
of delicate embroidery upon the breast, the shoulder
straps, and the tongues of the soft skin shoes.  A
fringed and broidered quiver of stonehead arrows was
slung on her back, a bag to hold a sacred talisman
hung from her belt.
</p>

<p>
The dress was beautiful to illustrate youth, lithe,
wholesome strength and grace, the clear-cut loveliness
of a face colored like glowing bronze, the fearless
gallantry of bearing, the spiritual purity and power.
</p>

<p>
The maid lived in the uttermost solitudes of the
mountain wilderness, the lad was a bargee plying on
London River.  On earth they were worlds apart, and
had never met, but here in Dreamland were joined
together from earliest childhood in the strong bonds
of a love untarnished by the world.
</p>

<p>
Bill's Dreamland name was Storms-all-of-a-sudden.
</p>

<p>
"Storm," she said wistfully, "I was calling and
calling you ever so long."
</p>

<p>
"I had to wait," he answered.  "After dinner on
Sundays mother wants me.  We go into the fields, and
she prays, while I sleeps.  Then I come quick."
</p>

<p>
"Storm," she said, "this is the last time that your
mother will pray in the fields down there on earth.
The spirits are calling her home."
</p>

<p>
"She is to die, then?"
</p>

<p>
"Her animal body is to die, dear."
</p>

<p>
"Will she come here?"
</p>

<p>
"Not here, Storm.  I may see her as she comes
through Dreamland, but she will be asleep, carried by
the Radiant Spirits.  She will wake up in air which
we could not breathe, light far too strong for us to
bear, love which outshines the sun.  When you go
back, will you tell her?"
</p>

<p>
"I shan't remember.  It all fades away when I wake
down there&mdash;gone.  I remembers nothing."
</p>

<p>
"When you wake, seize both your mother's hands,
and by her power you will remember.  Afterwards
you will not be so lonely, because you will remember.
You will remember me."  Her face became of a sudden,
wild, savage, ferocious.  "When you meet other
women there down on the earth, you must remember me."
</p>

<p>
"Dost remember me, Rain, when you awake, down
there on the Earth?"
</p>

<p>
"When men make love to me then I remember you."  Her
face had softened now.  "For you are mine, all
mine, dear, and I am yours, forever and forever,
Storm, forever.  But if any man or any woman come
between us two, then I shall kill."
</p>

<p>
"My mother says," he answered, "'thee shalt not kill.'"
</p>

<p>
"My mother says," she looked out steadfastly into
Space, "that if a woman will not defend her honor,
with her weapons defend her honor, with all that she
is, all that she has defend her honor, then let her not
think that she shall dare the Wolf Trail.  She shall
not climb the Wolf Trail which leads to the land of
the Blessed Spirits, but drift with the poor ghosts who
have lost their way in the Sandhills."
</p>

<p>
"We doesn't call it the Wolf Trail," answered
Storm.  "Our people always calls it the Milky Way."
</p>

<p>
There is no such thing as Time yonder in Dreamland.
But down on earth the bright day waned in
England.
</p>

<p>
"I thinks old mother's calling me," said Storm.
</p>

<p>
"Go to her," answered Rain, "call to her, call as you
go to her, and, as you wake, clutch both her hands,
let all her power pour through you.  So you shall
remember."
</p>

<p>
He stood up.  "Good-by," he said, then shouted as
he turned, "Mother!&mdash;mother!"
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Mother!"
</p>

<p>
"What's wrong with thee, son?"
</p>

<p>
Bill had awakened shouting, "Mother!&mdash;mother!"
He reached up and clutched her hands in both his own.
"Rain says I got to tell!"
</p>

<p>
"'Rain says.'  Who is this Rain?"
</p>

<p>
"I dreamed as she and me 'ave been together.  We
is Rain and Storm&mdash;her and me in love since we was
kids."
</p>

<p>
"Thee dreamest."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, in Dreamland, all our lives since we was kids.
There's Fairies, too.  And she sends a message,
mammie&mdash;a message to you."
</p>

<p>
"The Rain in Dreamland sends messages by the
Storm, to me, dear?  What is this message?"
</p>

<p>
"Radiant Spirits, carrying of you, mammie, over
the Wolf Trail."
</p>

<p>
"What is the Wolf Trail, son?"
</p>

<p>
He put his hands to his forehead thinking deeply.
"I forget," he said.
</p>

<p>
"Thee hast been dreaming, son."
</p>

<p>
"Aye, dreaming, that's all, mammie."
</p>

<p>
But he had not forgotten.  His mother was to die.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
IV
</p>

<p>
The barge lay at the land stage beside the tavern.
Along the causeway below Adelphi Terrace one entered
the underground streets.  These winding tunnels beneath
the Adelphi district have several exits convenient
for the thieves and occasional murderers who harbored
there, and the destitute who sheltered in that refuge.
The streets and cellarages were then a large stable
for draught horses and the milch cows of several
dairies, in all a crowded, busy place with about five
hundred inhabitants by day whose custom went to "The
Fox under the Hill."  From his earliest childhood
Bill had frequented the underground town; but when
he had the time, as on that Monday morning, waiting
until the tide served, he loved the crowded Strand up
in the daylight.  It was good to loaf there when he
ought to have been at work with sailor jobs on board.
</p>

<p>
The Strand was a game path once just at the edge
of the crumbling river bank, where the flints went
rolling down unto the Thames.  Roan hairy elephants
grazed there, loitering on their way to water in Fleet
Ditch.  Later, along that pathway of the Mammoth,
tame kine went lowing homeward of an evening to the
Brython's stockaded village on Tower Hill.  Afterwards
respectable suburban Romans built their villas
there outside the walls of Augusta.  A thousand years
later still the Strand was a stable lane behind the
Thames-side palaces of the Plantagenets.  Then the
mews became a cobbled Georgian street linking the
olden cities of London and Westminster, and to-day
it is the main artery of a world capital.
</p>

<p>
As a thoroughfare it may not claim comparison with
the Grand Canal in Venice or the exquisite Sierpes of
old Seville.  It is not, like Princes Street in Edinburgh,
part of a splendid landscape.  It lacks the spaciousness
and verdure of Unter den Linden, the endless
perspective of the Nevski, the glittering wealth of the
Rue de la Paix, the astounding uproar of abysmal
Broadway.  Many a provincial thoroughfare, as the
Apollo Bunder in Bombay, or Collins Street in
Melbourne, would put the Strand to shame; yet, second to
the Via Dolorosa, it is a street of memories.
</p>

<p>
For if the Strand might speak it would tell us about
Queen Boadicea in her scythed chariot, perhaps of
St. Paul as a ship's passenger from Cadiz, of the
English Emperor Hadrian on his way to Rome, of Richard
Lionheart home from captivity, the Black Prince
leading John of France his prisoner of war, of Henry V
returning thanks for Agincourt, of Cabot and
Columbus, Erasmus, Holbein, of Peter the Great and
Handel and Voltaire, of Cochrane and Mazzini the
Liberators, of Drake and Shakespeare, Milton, Newton,
Darwin, Purcell, of Nelson and Wellington, of Gordon
and Allenby, of ever so many saints, heroes,
conquerors and statesmen, discoverers, explorers,
adventurers, pioneers, in every field of service.  How the
old pavements echo to the tramp of horsemen!
Processions march here of men from the ends of the
Earth, bringing the glory with them of young free
Dominions, hundreds of feudatory kingdoms, barbaric
states in tutelage, and savage legions armed in the
cause of Peace.  So in this olden highway it is very
pleasant on a sunny day to watch the passing traffic
when one ought to be at work.  And well may we
envy fellows like Bill Fright, who saw the Strand in
October, 1835, when still the shop windows were bowed
with little panes of glass, and had a couple of tallow
dips of an evening to light up the modest stock; when
still men wore the dress becoming to their trade; big
cargo wagons, drawn by teams of ten, came rumbling
over the cobbles; and the gay mail coaches with a blare
of horns set forth for Portsmouth or for Liverpool.
</p>

<p>
There goes Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire, with little
mousy features inflamed with drink, and bright green
driving-gloves, perched in his high gig.  Here's
Mr. Jorrocks, grocer and sportsman, attended by James
Pigg, jostling his way to buy a "hoss" at Aldridge's.
Mr. Pickwick, author of <i>Observations on Tadpoles in
the Hampstead Ponds</i>, comes beaming past us, escorted
by his colleagues the poet Snodgrass, the sportsman
Winkle, and the loving Tupman.  Time has enlarged
their waistcoats since the day, now seventeen years
ago, when they set forth upon their memorable journey
to observe mankind.  This is the anniversary, and
they are on their way to the Adelphi Hotel, to dine
most bountifully.  Mr. Paul Pry, who lives close by
at 11 Adam Street, may possibly look in, and say,
with one eye round the corner of the door, "I hope I
don't intrude!"
</p>

<p>
Here comes the Iron Duke, on an Arab whose dam
had carried him at Waterloo.  He has a seat in the
saddle, this erstwhile flogging martinet, and mellow
tyrant.  He is attended by a mounted servant.
</p>

<p>
There is Mr. Pendennis, bound from the Temple to
the Courts at Westminster; and behind him is
Mr. Peter Simple, midshipman, guided by Boatswain
Chucks, on his way to report at the Admiralty.
</p>

<p>
Here are two or three more notables, the Count
d'Orsay, and young Mr. Disraeli the eminent novelist.
What a pair of fops!  Mr. Carlyle is slouching past,
the unkempt, observant historian of the French
Revolution, watching for another such upheaval here in
England.  Watch here a day or two and one might see
Turner the painter, whose father's barber shop is just
round the corner, Mr. Dickens, Mr. Gladstone,
Mr. Tennyson, and other blithe young fellows whose
troubles are still to come.
</p>

<p>
The vision fades, and one can only see a solitary
figure leaning against a post, a bareheaded youngster
in a ragged jersey and sea boots, Bill Fright, whose
barge is laden down beside the Fox, ready to clear
with the ebb.  So we must follow him as he slouches
down Ivy Lane to the barge.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
V
</p>

<p>
The barge <i>Polly Phemus</i> belonged to Mr. Thomas
Fright the publican, who found her a convenience for
smuggling schnapps and cognac from certain caverns
at Epple Bay upriver to his cellars.  Mr. James Fright
his brother was registered as master, but if entrusted
with the cash for port dues would invest the same in
gin for his own personal comfort.  Now Mrs. Fright
kept the cash account with Quakerish precision, and
an excessive frankness, making such entries as "Bribe
to peeler Addock, 2d.; squaring Mr. Wimpole, the
Customs Officer, 2/&mdash;; to Mr. Dyker for brandy
smuggled, 206/-2d."
</p>

<p>
"If her account book were ever captured&mdash;my hat!"
said Mr. Thomas.
</p>

<p>
In consideration for not broaching cargo, Mr. James
had three bottles of gin per voyage, duly shown in
petit cash %.  For abstinence from pawning the anchor,
sails, or ship stores he had two bottles of gin
per voyage.  Yet shipments being in advance of his
performance, when he needed a little refreshment in
port he pawned Bill's blanket, or, on the present
occasion, it being Monday, mother's Sunday bonnet.  It
might have been observed that mother had some cotton
wound round her third left finger by way of a keeper
to guard her wedding ring.  If that were pawned
while she slept, she would not be a respectable woman
any more at all.
</p>

<p>
Concerning her husband, not a bad sort of fellow
when he was sober, the wife made no complaint.  She
remembered him as a gallant corporal of horse, with
the loveliest little fluffy whiskers and a fine red coat.
And her parents had objected to his persiflage.  He
said "Damme!"  To put them quite in the wrong, she
married him.  So had she made her bed, and now must
lie in it for better or for worse.  Still the slightest
expression of sympathy would set her raving; but then,
the dressing of our wounds rather depends upon the
sort of nurse, and if Satan has a hospital in Hades,
the publican's daughters, Miss Fright and Miss
Euphemia Fright, may be employed there as chief and
assistant torturers.
</p>

<p>
When Bill told Uncle Thomas about the stolen
bonnet, the publican&mdash;abed with a bandaged head&mdash;was
not in the best of tempers.  He said it served the
woman damn well right for her holy airs and graces.
"All the same," said he, "your father has most annoying
'abits, vich I resents his deportment of a Sunday,
making a shindy in my bar-parlor.  The next time the
press gang comes, Bill, I'll send you away out of sight,
and offer hup your father to the Navy.  He'll make
a good thank offering, and you shall 'ave the barge."
</p>

<p>
"Mother won't like that," said Bill, somewhat
aggrieved, "and I'd be lonesome vithout no punching
block to keep me hexercised.  As to thishyer <i>Polly
Phemus</i>, you know my mother is master.  Leave dad
to me&mdash;I'll pet him comfortable."'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. James Fright, as everybody knew on London
River, was the real master of the <i>Polly Phemus</i>.  As
Bill had grown up from childhood, each year she found
more and more relief from a job beyond her strength,
until now he left to her only a little steering at times
when he entered or left port, or made or shortened sail.
The sailorizing jobs of sennit and spunyarn, chafing
gear, patching the canvas, renewing rigging, or tarring
down he did when he felt disposed, which was very
seldom, but therein father set an example by doing
nothing at all.
</p>

<p>
On the whole the lad was unselfish, keen, and able,
and kept the Ten Commandments, except the fifth.
For when it came to honoring his father, he would do
so with a clip under the ear or a punch in the jaw.
Whenever the parent needed a slight hint on points of
conduct, Bill would oblige at once.  So, drunk or
partially sober, Mr. James Fright found it was not
expedient to speak unless he was spoken to, for if he
said too much Bill knocked him overboard.  Being a
Quaker, Mrs. Fright would register a diplomatic
protest against any sort of strife; but, as Bill explained,
it takes two persons to make an argument, and the
parent never got a word in edge-ways.  One could not
call that even a disagreement, much less a violation of
Quaker principles.  Mrs. Fright being very human,
protested outwardly, but loved Bill all the more because
he rebuked an erring husband beyond her own control.
</p>

<p>
She took the tiller for the run to Margate, not in
her Sunday best, but in an old sou'wester, a jersey, a
homespun skirt, and sea boots.  To do her justice,
never a bargee on London River, or even a deep-sea
bo's'n, could pass remarks or exchange amenities
without being presently floored by Mrs. Fright.  Like
theirs, her words were scriptural, but the men were
merely profane, whereas the lady's fulminations were
worthy even of the major prophets.  Even so, they
could bear up manfully under her heaviest fire until
she crossed her words, and when she spoke of heathen
raging furiously, she had them furing ragiously in the
abomination of detonation, bowling their trails in the
pist of the but.
</p>

<p>
The fact is she shocked the very worst of them,
and it may be added that Bill took kindly to her
scriptural lessons.  He plied a sixteen-foot sweep to swing
the <i>Polly Phemus</i> into the tide while mother steered
until they shot the three bridges, Waterloo, Southwark,
and London.  New built was London Bridge of granite
brought by sea from Aberdeen, and never a stone
less than a ton and a half in weight.  To hit such
masonry was bad for barges.  Clear of the arch Bill
stepped the mast in haste, and loosed the brails so that
the big tanned mainsail filled, to give the <i>Polly Phemus</i>
her steerage way.  Then he set the topsail.  Needed
was that as she threaded the narrow channel in the
Pool, whence six abreast for miles on either side the
sailing ships lay berthed, and masts in uncounted
thousands formed a forest.  Bill set the headsail and came
aft to take the helm, while mother cooked the belated
dinner.  Presently Bill snuffed the savor of kippers
and fried bread which came up out of the cabin, filling
his emptiness with a sort of anguish so greatly he
desired to be fed.  The parent was dining on a bottle of
gin, squat in a corner, droning "Jump, Jim Crow," to
the wheeze of his concertina.  Then he began a
convict song, a twopenny broadsheet sold at the street
corners:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Come Bet my pet, and Sal my pal&mdash;a buss and then farewell,<br>
  And Ned, the primest ruffling cove&mdash;that ever nail'd a swell<br>
  To share the swag, or chaff the gab&mdash;we'll never meet again,<br>
  The hulk is now my bowsing crib&mdash;the hold my dossing ken.<br>
  Don't nab the bib my Bet, this chance&mdash;must happen soon or later,<br>
  For certain sure it is that trans&mdash;portation comes by natur'.<br>
  His Lordship's self upon the bench&mdash;so downie his white wig in,<br>
  Might sail with me if friends had he&mdash;to bring him up to priggin'.<br>
  And it is not unkimmon fly&mdash;in them as rules the nation,<br>
  To make us end with Botany&mdash;our public edication?<br>
  But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind&mdash;the beaks don't catch you<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tripping;<br>
  You'll find it hard to be for shop&mdash;ping sent on board the shipping.<br>
  So tip your mauns[<a id="chap01fn1text"></a><a href="#chap01fn1">1</a>] before we part&mdash;don't blear your eyes and nose,<br>
  Another grip my jolly hearts&mdash;here's luck! and off we goes!<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p class="footnote">
<a id="chap01fn1"></a>
[<a href="#chap01fn1text">1</a>] Shake hands.
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Down Greenwich way, where fishing smacks were
moored by dozens above the Hospital, mother set out
the dinner, handing the food and the beer to Bill as
he squatted on the tiller head.  The southwesterly
wind made lively water, and the barge had a bone in
her teeth as she swept down the reaches.  Chill was
the air under the purple shadows of the clouds, warm
when the sun shone on the pale green river, the dark
green meadows, and trees in autumn russet or sere
gold.  Tall ships were running free and shaking out
more canvas.  Little paddle steamers crept along
inshore sneaking through back-waters, or crawling inch
by inch where the ebb set against them at the
headlands.  There were six hundred steamers in Lloyd's
List, but mother doubted if these would have God's
blessing.  They were not mentioned in the Holy
Scripture.  As to railways, and there was one which ran
from Bristol to Paddington within a mile of London,
there could be no good in headlong gallivanting at
twenty miles an hour, disturbing the good kine,
affrighting the birds whose songs in God's great honor
were changed to shrieks, and doing away with the
horses which England needs in her defense from the
French and other savages.
</p>

<p>
Bill quite agreed, but all the same, when next they
had a freight to Whitsable, the driver of the Canterbury
train had promised him a journey, firing the engine.
</p>

<p>
Mother sighed.  "The things of this yere world
which shall perish, draws thee away, my son, from
them which endureth forever."
</p>

<p>
"But I can't see," he answered, "these yere things
which ain't wisible."
</p>

<p>
"Dost thee think," she answered, looking across the
waters, far into the distance&mdash;"dost think I like livin'
aboard of this dirty boat, with me 'ands filthy always,
in the sty down there with that pig?  Thinkest thee as
I enjoys doing work far past a woman's strength, and
cursing like a bargee when them sea-lubbers fouls me?"
</p>

<p>
"Don't you?" asked Bill.  "Own up, mum!"
</p>

<p>
"Humph!"  She glanced at him with one eye, trying
not to smile with that side of her mouth.  "Perhaps,"
she said, "I be woman enough to like the last
word&mdash;and they don't get much change out of me&mdash;Christ
forgive a sinner!  But smuggling hain't honest,
either, Bill, nor paying bribes.  I'd like to be honest
and live in a house.  But them as goeth down to the
sea in ships and hoccupies their business in great
waters, them see the works of the Lord, and His
wonders in the deep.  Thinkest thee as I sees none of all
them wonders, Bill?  Enter in by the gate of meditation,
son, and thee shalt see as I does things as no
words can tell of.  Canst thee not believe thy mother?"
</p>

<p>
"I never done till yesterday," said Bill, "but all wot
I seen in that dream, when I vos Storm, and Rain she
showed me&mdash;mammie, I does believe."
</p>

<p>
"Wilt be baptized?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  S'elp me bob.  But I'll make a rotten Christian
'cept you helps me."
</p>

<p>
Standing with the tiller against his leg he bore up
a little to clear some Barking fishing smacks ahead,
then looked down at his mother where she sat beside
the dinner plates and the scraps of food.  The lad
was sensitive, psychic, clairvoyant, and he was
conscious of a strange light which surrounded his mother.
He had grown and prospered in that mysterious glory.
Her faith, her love, and the example of her holy life
had given him some makings of real manhood.  And
he loved her.  He worshiped her.  Aye, but it would
be hard to hand his worship over to a Deity he could
not sense, or see, or love.
</p>

<p>
"She'll think," he said in his heart, "as I'm a bloody
failure as a Christian."
</p>

<p>
Then he realized he had got to keep a better lookout
or he would foul that smack on the larboard bow.  The
golden haze was gone, and down in the cabin the parent
was howling to him to come and drink with him, to
drink up manly.  For the next half-hour, with a
thickened utterance and slurred words, he reviled his son
for a mollycoddle, a milk-sop, a mammie's darling, an
'oly prig, a sneak, a cur, a dirty coward.  It was
unreasonable of mother to refuse point-blank when Bill
asked her to take the tiller while he gave the old man
a licking.  The devoted parent downstairs knew he was
perfectly safe from being reproached.  A string of
blasphemies&mdash;all he could remember&mdash;addressed to
mother, brought his remarks to an end quite inarticulate
followed by loud snores.
</p>

<p>
Then mother read the Bible aloud.  There were
times when, having fastened her teeth into Jeremiah or
Leviticus, she would not let go even to cook the meals
until she had made an end.  Then she was obstinate
and Bill was bored, but this day she read chapters from
the Gospel according to St. John.  Rough was the
voice, and many words were not pronounced correctly.
She blundered through as best she could, and even so
brought tears to the lad's eyes.
</p>

<p>
Few are the readers who can render the rhythm, the
throbbing melody of this great English text, and fewer
still the seers who alone have power to bring to light
its modes of tender fun, of sparkling humor, of love,
of awfulness, abysmal deeps, and heights illimitable.
Wisdom and Understanding, Counsel, Power, Knowledge,
Righteousness, and the Divine Awe, the seven
rays of one clear spectrum, blend in the white light of
this great revelation; and Time stands still, for all the
years of Earth are numbered, spreading like ripples
on a pool from this one message of the Word made
Flesh.
</p>

<p>
The flaming sunset faded behind the smoke of London,
the rose and violet of the afterglow waned as the
indigo of night veiled all things earthly, and the
heavens opened revealing high eternities of light, while
still the mother spoke to her son, and he sat at the
helm rapt, resolved to consecrate his life to her
Master's service.
</p>

<p>
The wind slept in the high shoulder of the trysail
long after the deep calm fell upon the waters, and still
the tide served under the frosty starlight.  Mother
and son had their evening meal together on the cabin
hatch.  Would he have tea?  Why, it was twenty
shillings a pound!  It could not be afforded to feed the
likes of him.  Still, she insisted.  And although tea
was an effeminate stuff which working men were
ashamed to drink, Bill had some just for once.
Nobody would know.  Besides, it was rather nice, but
still he hated being a mammie's pet.
</p>

<p>
Four miles short of Margate, with the lights of the
town in the east, the tide failed, so to the last of the
westerly air Bill luffed, then let the anchor go, brailed
his trysail, took in the topsail and staysail, and made
all snug for the night.  Mother had gone to bed some
time ago, and the parent was dead drunk before the
sun set.  Bill stood for some time smoking his father's
clay pipe, unbeknown to mother, peering the while
across the shallows to the loom of low chalk cliffs in
Epple Bay.  Here were the caves from which on the
homeward passage the <i>Polly Phemus</i> was to ship
certain casks.  Smuggling, of course, and she thought it
wasn't honest.  It was a famous place also for prize
fights, and mother hated that also.  Inland, to the
right, were one or two lighted windows in the village
of Birchington, and the church clock was striking
eleven.  By the way, he must remember at Margate to
warn mother about the port dues on the Reverend
Binks his harpsichord.  Half the strings were missing,
and ninepence ought to be ample.
</p>

<p>
His boots crunched frost crystals all along the gangway
as he went forward, on the port side lest he should
wake his mother.  Then he dropped down the fore
hatch into his little private glory hole, and pulled the
cover close because, as mother said, the night air is so
dangerous.  As to the savor from coils of tarry rope,
tallow, damp clothes, spare sail, and iron-rusted chain,
rats' nests, and bilge water&mdash;that was just homely.
He pulled off his boots, said "Our Father which," by
way of a reminder of what was due to mother, turned
in under the spare jib and went to sleep.
</p>

<p>
A northerly air which cut like knives began to
quicken, and little bitter waves to smack the flanks of
the barge.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VI
</p>

<p>
Storm came to the tuft of moss where he had tryst
with Rain, but she was not there, and though he
whistled the love call, she did not come.  Indeed, the
sun had risen then beyond the Rocky Mountains and
Rain was awake eating smoked venison for breakfast
before she went to her hunting.  At such an hour she
could not come to Dreamland.  And since she did not
come, Storm felt aggrieved.  He would worry the
Fairy Parson for lack of better sport.
</p>

<p>
He went up the bed of the sparkling brook which
splashes but never wets one, through the still pool
whose ripples flash like rainbows, and on past the
fountain spring which croons a lullaby.  It always
croons one song, but when the fairies tickle it has
to chuckle.  It always chuckles too when the
Padre preaches, as he does when he loses his temper.
</p>

<p>
The adobe house, although absurdly small, is really
most important, the only parsonage in Fairyland.
</p>

<p>
The Padre used to be a monk, not by vocation, but
by a mistake of his mother who hoped he was
religious, because he was really fit for nothing else.
Truly he was a born Unnaturalist, devoted from childhood
to Unnatural History, heraldic animals, story-book
monsters, sea serpents, nightmares, and of course
all sorts of elementals, especially the bad ones.  He
felt it must be enormous sport to be a Fiery Dragon
and hunt saints.  Indeed he said so.  Moreover, he
announced one evening in the refectory that the Abbot
was going to Heaven on Saturday.  "Now God
forbid!" said the Abbot, but on Saturday he went to
Heaven.  "Perhaps!" quoth this unholy monk, "I
called it Heaven, because, you see, one must be polite to
an Abbot."
</p>

<p>
Afterwards the monks as a body resolved that this
was a very uncomfortable Brother, so he was ordered
to go and convert the heathen.
</p>

<p>
"Not that they ever did me any harm," said he,
"but perhaps the heathen may tell me stories, nice
ones&mdash;about boiled monks&mdash;yes, boiled with parsley
sauce."
</p>

<p>
And thus among the Red Indians he became an eminent
Fairyologist.  Nobody else but an eminent Fairyologist
would have been so utterly unpractical as to go
hunting Fairies in the driest corners of the Great
American Desert.  Everybody knows that Fairies like
a moist climate, superstitious inhabitants, and Mozart
or Greig to play their own tunes.
</p>

<p>
In Death Valley he found no moisture at all, no
people whatsoever, or any music except when the snakes
played their rattles.  There he became very thirsty,
lonely, and frightened, so altogether miserable that one
of the rattlesnakes gave him a bite just to cheer him
up.
</p>

<p>
... And he came here to be the Chaplain in Fairyland.
Here, you see, no matter how badly he preached&mdash;and
he preached badly even for a clergyman&mdash;he
could not possibly do any harm because nobody would
ever take the slightest notice of what he said except
when he was cross.  Then the fountain chuckled.
</p>

<p>
He built his little adobe house beside the crooning
spring, and that was all right until a female Griffin,
eighteen feet long, became his lady companion for
lessons in deportment.  Whenever she was pleased she
wagged her tail, and when she wagged her tail the
house came down.  That is why the new walls are
unusually thick, and the inside so small that the Griffin
has to wag her tail outside.  She has got so far with
her lessons that now she puts her paw before her
crocodile mouth before she sneezes&mdash;and then the clergyman
is not blown through the window.
</p>

<p>
She was out mousing when Storm paid his call.
That is, the boy crept in on all fours while the Padre
was busy writing his book, which nobody will ever
read, on Fairyology.  Storm got under the stool and
tickled the Padre's bare ankles with a feather.
</p>

<p>
"Bless the mosquitos!" said the holy man, "and send
them a nourishing maiden."
</p>

<p>
Storm tickled again, and the Padre stooped down to
slap the mosquitos, saying "Pax vobiscum."
</p>

<p>
Storm laughed, the fountain chuckled, and the Padre
looked under the stool.
</p>

<p>
"Hello!" said he.  "That you?"
</p>

<p>
"No," answered Storm, "I'm not."
</p>

<p>
So of course as it wasn't he, the holy man went on
with his writing.
</p>

<p>
Since Rain had warned him of his mother's death,
Storm was uneasy, and in his dream-life frightened of
being alone.  So as the Padre could not be bothered
with him he crept into a corner of the cabin, where
it was nearly dark, to brood upon this matter of his
mother's passing.
</p>

<p>
"When my meat-body," so ran his thought, "is
tired out after a long day's work, and can't be rode
any longer, I turns it in for a watch below.  Sometimes
I stays all night in my meat-body, and has funny
mixed-up dreams, the ones which I remembers
afterwards.  Sometimes I gets out of the meat-body and
comes straight into this here world which Rain calls
Dreamland.  I've got my dream-body for life in the
dream-world&mdash;so that's all clear.
</p>

<p>
"But suppose my animal-body gets wore out, or
dies, or happens to get killed, so as I'm drove out, and
can't get in again&mdash;that's what they calls Death.  It's
bound to happen sooner or later, and it doesn't matter
anyway.  The animal body won't be needed any
longer, and so it can be took away, and buried, or
burned, or drowned, and there's an end of that.
</p>

<p>
"I've got this dream-body, which is just as solid,
and comfy.  It looks just the same, and is a deal more
useful.  If I've been good on earth I'll have a fine
time in this dream-world.  If I've been bad I'll have a
rotten time, and it will serve me right.  But as I've
promised mother to be good, and means to be good
always, there's nothing to be afraid of.  So that's all
clear.
</p>

<p>
"The next part ain't so clear.  Rain knows all about
everything, and she says this: On Earth and in
Dreamland we have a job, one job, to grow a soul.
That soul is another body made of thoughts and feelings.
It's called the spiritual body.  It may be made
of good thoughts and good feelings like mother's, or
of bad thoughts and bad feelings like father's.  When
it is grown up, and all ready to sail, it clears for the
port where it belongs.  It leaves this dream-body,
crumbled away into dust or gas, and it goes to the place
where it will be at home.  It is spiritual.  It goes to
the home of bad people in Hell, until it learns to pray,
or of good people in Heaven.  Mother is going there,
and I'm to be awful lonesome, because I can't go with
her, and I can't follow her there until I've growed a
spiritual body fit to be seen in Heaven by the angels.
</p>

<p>
"All that is what the Bible means, if we could only
understand things better.  It's what Religion means.
Mother's a Christian, and Rain's a heathen, but whatever
sort of lamp we has to light the way, it's the same
voyage.  If we're good it's fine weather, if we're bad
it's storms, so if a fellow has any sense at all, he'll jolly
well do his best.
</p>

<p>
"That seems to be all clear."
</p>

<p>
"Have you quite finished?" asked the Padre.  To
look more impressive, he put horn spectacles upon his
thin, high nose, but in order to see he had to glance
over the top of them as he turned to bend his vision
upon Storm, like a reproachful rabbit surveying a
rotten turnip.  "Because," he said peevishly, "if you
had any sense at all, you'd know that your loud
thoughts disturb me at my work."
</p>

<p>
Storm had forgotten that here in Dreamland no
thoughts can be hidden, but all are heard by
everybody who listens.
</p>

<p>
"I wants to go with mother," he answered sadly.
"I comes to you for help 'cause you're a parson."
</p>

<p>
"Can't be done," said the Padre.  "You haven't got
a spirit-body yet.  You're busy growing one and so
am I.  That's what we're here for."
</p>

<p>
"I see."
</p>

<p>
"I wish I could," sighed the Padre, taking off his
spectacles.  "Ah!  That's better.  Well, young man,
and how is your temporal body?  Well, I hope?"
</p>

<p>
"It's having its watch below."
</p>

<p>
"I mislaid mine"&mdash;the Padre seemed to be very
unhappy about it&mdash;"down in the southern desert.  The
eagles had it.  Poor things!  It was mere skin and
bone, not enough food for a mouse.  And yet I sat on
a rock and watched them squabbling over it.  Poor
dears!  I can't think how they manage to get a
meal."
</p>

<p>
"Ahem!"  There came an affected cough, "Ahem!"
outside the doorway.  "Ahem!"  A colossal head appeared,
like that of a crocodile, looked in, and filled the
door place.  A red rag of a tongue lolled out on the
starboard side, while the port eye was cocked up,
meekly appealing to the Padre.
</p>

<p>
"May I come in?"
</p>

<p>
"No!" said the Padre.  "Go, Julia, and practice
deportment, or catch mice."
</p>

<p>
"He called me Julia!"  This with both eyes to
heaven.  Then the creature wriggled in a few feet
farther, and holding one paw bashfully to her mouth,
"Ahem! ahem!  Deportment is so fatiguing, and as to
mice, you know they are so small.  Oh!"  Her snuff
blew Storm against the wall, and then she sniffed.
"Ah!  Do you know, I think I could sit up and take
a little boy."  She smacked her lips.  "Come here,
little boy!  Come to its Julia, then."
</p>

<p>
"If she swallers this good little bo-hoy," said Storm,
deriding her, "I'll wager my sheath knife makes tripe
of her blanked guts."
</p>

<p>
"G-o-o-od 'ittle b-o-oy, then ... Goo-oo&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Julia, shut up," said the Padre.  "Boys are out of
season.  Surely you must know there's an V in the
month.  For shame!  Go away and powder your face."
</p>

<p>
The Griffin retreated sobbing.  "Nobody loves
me!"  Sniff!  "No-body loves me!"
</p>

<p>
"But all the same, young man," said the Padre, "if
I were you, Storm, I'd disappear.  You'd really better
go and look after your mother.  I think she may be
needing you, at once."
</p>

<p>
Storm willed himself back to Earth, and he was
there.  He willed back to the after cabin of the barge,
and he was there.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VII
</p>

<p>
Still in his dream, Storm stood in the after cabin.
He saw his father held by evil men, struggling to
escape, screaming for mercy.  The curved wall of the
cabin, the bulkhead forward shutting off the cargo
hold, were like dark mist, form without substance, and
through them and within obscene and awful beasts
crowded the air, their red eyes gloating upon James
Fright, who writhed and shrieked, trying to get back
to his body.  That body of his lay sprawled upon the
table, face downwards, arms outstretched.  Uncle
Joey was riding father's body, his legs locked round
the loins, his arms with a strangle hold about the
throat, while he looked up at Storm as though
disturbed by his coming.
</p>

<p>
"Hello! mammie's darling!" he jeered.  "Come to
see the fun?  And then you'll go sneaking to mammie?
Now you watch&mdash;all done by kindness.  One&mdash;two&mdash;three!
There!"
</p>

<p>
Uncle Joey entered the vacant body, and father, held
by his captors, was shrieking blasphemies, calling
Storm a coward because he did not come instantly to
the rescue.
</p>

<p>
Storm was not concerned for his father's worries.
He knew that Uncle Joey was returned from the dead
to earth for no good purpose, that he was dangerous,
and that his own mother lay there asleep, helpless at
this demon's mercy.  He sprang to the bunk to guard
her, to save her, but when he looked at the sleeping
body he breathed most fervent thanks to Heaven.
Mother was away in Dreamland.  Only her body lay
there tenantless.  Should he call her?  Nay, not into
mortal peril.  He put forth the whole power of his
will to keep his mother away, then turned to fight the
demon.
</p>

<p>
Uncle Joey, clad in the stolen body, rose from the
table stiffly, groping at the air, unable now to see the
astral world, to descry Storm on guard beside the
bunk, or James Fright struggling in the clutches of the
men who held him, or the awful monsters of the Pit
which crowded in upon the nightmare scene.  Only he
whipped the sheath knife from his belt and reeled
across to the bunk where he saw Mrs. Fright asleep.
Storm tried to seize Uncle Joey, but his arms clutched
thin air.  The re-embodied demon sprang straight
through him as though through mist, and yelling
exultation, shouting with laughter, he plunged the blade
again and again into the woman's body.  Storm could
do nothing.  Sick with horror, he leaned against the
panels, but his arm went through them as though they
were but mist.
</p>

<p>
Uncle Joey drew back, still laughing.  "Can you
hear?" he shouted.  "Did ye see that, Brother James,
as I done your vife in?  You as brought me to the
gallows!  You as peached, and got me hanged.  And do
you think as 'ow you're going to get back into this
yere body what I've stole?  No!  Damn you!  No!"
</p>

<p>
He drove the knife straight at his own breast, the
breast of the stolen body, struck bone, and lunged
again between the ribs.
</p>

<p>
The rigor of death clutching the hand to the hilt, the
body reeling towards the blow, the stained yellow eyeballs
rolling up&mdash;that which had been the living earthly
habitation of James Fright went crashing down.
</p>

<p>
And there was Uncle Joey, again discarnate, leering
in Storm's face beside the bunk.
</p>

<p>
"'Ow's that, umpire?  'Ow's that, Mollycoddle?
Hain't that a proper vengeance worth giving of one's
life for?  Hain't I got my own back for being hanged,
and damned before my time?"
</p>

<p>
But while he spoke, the fear grew in his eyes, the
dawning sense of a most awful doom, for the dense
astral matter which encrusted his spiritual body was
crumbling to dust.
</p>

<p>
Storm watched, appalled, for now the man stood
naked, black as coal, but with a dull red glow of rage,
of hate, demoniac, horrible, doomed to perdition in
the act of murder.  But rage changed to terror, for he
was falling, falling down through space, lost in the
bottomless abyss upon whose overhanging, rocky verge
Storm knelt, forgetting his own peril in an agony of
prayer for a fellow creature drawn shrieking down to
Hell.
</p>

<p>
"Mother!" he screamed&mdash;"help!"
</p>

<p>
Across the illimitable deeps of space Storm saw a
white light like a little star, grow nearer, brighter,
human in form, gigantic in stature, shining like the sun,
filling the whole night with radiance, blinding.  He
covered his face in awe in terrified reverence.
</p>

<p>
Beaten to earth by the tremendous rays, his eyes
burned by the splendor, he dared to look at the Angel,
and saw his mother at rest in the strong arms, sheltered
against the breast.
</p>

<p>
Then he felt a hand extended over him; and a sense
of blessedness, of divine love, soothed all his fears,
gave him to rest, to sleep.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VIII
</p>

<p>
In the fore cabin Bill sat up dazed, haunted, terrified
by the sense of something awful.  He shoved
the hatch aside, letting the starlight into the dark
forecastle of the barge, then pulled on his boots, and
scrambled up upon the white, dimly glittering frost
of the deck.  Stiff with cold, he flogged his arms about
his body until his fingers tingled with pain, and stamped
until he felt the blood returning into his numb feet.
Then he went aft, and opened the cabin hatch.  He
took the flint and steel from his pocket, struck a brisk
shower of sparks into the tinder, kindled a sulphur
match, and held the blue light down.  His mother lay
in the bunk, stone dead.  His father's body lay
stretched on the deck, a bloody sheath knife clutched
in the stiff right hand.
</p>

<p>
Now, of a sudden, the whole memory of the dream
glowed in his brain, and ghastly pale, sweating at the
palms of the hands, and at his neck, he realized the
truth.  He dared not go down into that place.  Even
as Rain had warned him, he knew that his mother
was dead.  Shuddering even at the touch of the woodwork
which enclosed the tomb, he closed the hatchway,
then found the dinghy's painter, hauled in, and
dropped into the boat.
</p>

<p>
The flood tide swept him up the estuary, and the
faint shadow of the barge melted away in the mist
under the frosty starlight.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
IX
</p>

<p>
Mr. James Watt, a canny Scots body, ye ken, was
the man who changed the steam engine from a capricious
plaything into a working servant of mankind.
He did not believe in railway locomotives, but his
marine engines were the pride and glory of Messrs. Boulton
&amp; Watt, of Birmingham.  Mr. Fulton, of New
York, bought one of them, you may remember, and
used it to run a barge on Hudson River, the first to
ply with passengers, they say.  Mr. Watt did not
live to see the little brigantine <i>Beaver</i> engined at
Blackwall yard in 1835, but that was as good a job as any
done by the famous firm.  The boiler had a steam
pressure of seven pounds, and when in later years it
rusted through, the engineer would plug the holes with
a pointed stick and a rag.  And yet that engine lasted
and worked well for fifty-two years, until the warship
became a neglected tug and in 1889 was cast away in
the cliffs of Stanley Park within the city limits of
Vancouver in British Columbia.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Beaver's</i> registered tonnage was 110, so her
size was that of a second-rate wooden steam trawler in
our modern fishing.  She carried four brass six-pounder
guns, each small enough for a man to lift by
the trunnions.  When she had business with savage
tribes, to trade with them or bombard their villages,
she set out boarding nettings, so she could not be
rushed.  The crew numbered thirty, sufficient for the
methods of lick, spit, and polish to which her
lickspittle bully of a Captain, Mr. David Home, devoted
his whole soul.
</p>

<p>
A real live duchess christened the <i>Beaver</i>, and if I
remember rightly Mr. Brunel, the engineer, left his
work, hard by in the Thames Tunnel, to witness the
cracking of the bottle.  The owners attended in force,
the Governor and Company of Merchant Adventurers
trading into Hudson's Bay, all in top hats, white
chokers, and swallow-tails.  Most likely they cracked
quite a lot of bottles.
</p>

<p>
The engine was in position, but the sponsons, paddle
boxes, and paddles were stored in the forehold for
the voyage under sail round Cape Horn.
</p>

<p>
At Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, the capital
of Oregon, the vessel was to be completed by her
carpenters, and to be the first steamer on the Pacific
Ocean.
</p>

<p>
Long afterwards it was, in 1842, that the <i>Beaver</i>
carried the great Sir George Simpson to the founding
of Fort Camosun on Vancouver Island.  When, many
years later, the <i>Beaver</i> was sold to become a tug, her
log books were pitched into the loft of an old log barn,
the last remnant of Fort Camosun, hid in a backyard
of the city of Victoria, capital of British Columbia.
I found the rat-eaten log books there in 1889, and
begged the Hudson's Bay Company to preserve these
precious annals.  The memory of them helps my
story-telling.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
X
</p>

<p>
The flood tide swept Bill's dinghy up past the
Roman fortress of Reculver, on by Whitstable where
oyster smacks lay moored, and thence towards the Isle
of Sheppey and the Thames.  It was only to keep
warm that sometimes he would scull, oar over stern,
athwart the stream, northward to channels with a
stronger tide.  Numb with cold, his heart like lead,
not caring where he went, hour by hour he sculled until
he was tired, or rested until he froze, not caring at all
what happened.  The new police would catch him if
he went ashore, to charge him with murdering his
parents, and send him to the gallows; or Uncle Thomas,
his owner, would curse him for leaving the barge
derelict, the property in law of the first man who
went on board.  Bill did not care now for Uncle
Thomas, or anybody alive, but only in a hard, dry,
gnawing grief mourned and was silent.  He did not
believe any more in God, who had allowed his mother
to be murdered; and as to spirits, they were only
phantasms of nightmare.  A sullen hatred of the
world, of men, of everything, of life itself, filled the
north wind, the dark spaces of seething water, and
the indifferent stars.  And on towards dawn he sank
down on his knees, his face in his hands, hoping for
death, an end of everything.  Yet, as he afterwards
confessed, when the <i>Beaver's</i> dolphin striker knocked
his cap off, and her clipper bows hove the boat's
gunwale under, so that she filled and sank beneath his
feet, he fought for life as keenly as anybody who
enjoyed the same.  Groping, so he said, in the dark for
hand and foot holds in the hanging wall, he found the
anchor astrip, and jumped upon the fluke, swarmed up
the shank and chain, then, getting a purchase with one
toe in the hawse hole, vaulted across the bulwark.
</p>

<p>
The lad on lookout squeaked, and ran for all he was
worth, reporting a ghost up on the starboard bow.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap02"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER II
<br><br>
THE VOYAGE OF THE "BEAVER"
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
I
</p>

<p>
In sailing-ship days we who were seamen and
self-respecting did not join for a voyage while we
were sober enough to come on board all of our
own accord.  It would have been bad form.
</p>

<p>
So, having shipped her joyful mariners, the <i>Beaver's</i>
officers and the afterguard, not more than half-seas
over, got the vessel off from Gravesend as best they
could, dropping downtide so far as the ebb served, then
brought her up in the fairway.  They dropped anchor
on the Nore, hoisted a riding light, and posted two
comparatively sober apprentices to keep each other
awake and call the mate at dawn.
</p>

<p>
Bill Fright, being fast asleep in his dinghy, was
swept up by the strong flood, and awakened in haste on
finding the boat foul of a ship's bows and more or less
capsized.  He climbed on board, a matter arranged
beforehand by the fairies or other spirits invisible who
look after seafaring boys&mdash;they need a deal of looking
after, too&mdash;and there is little doubt that his coming
scared the anchor watch.  Finding him, however, to be
no mermaid, but somebody wet and profane, they
sought for a hair of the dog which had bitten the
crew, stole a flask from one of the men up forward,
gave Bill a drink, and did not waste such liquor as
remained.
</p>

<p>
At dawn Bill watched the mate, Mr. Dodd, come
up to snuff the air, wrap three turns of brown muffler
about his thin neck, button a monkey jacket across his
portly front, and stump about the half-poop to get
warm.  A ship is always at her dirtiest on leaving
port; and of a certainty the deck was filthy apart from
the unholy ravel of new stiff halliards coiled like a
knot of snakes.  Bill felt these a disgrace, and set to
work on them of his own accord to straighten out the
loops and flemish down.  Mr. Dodd, supposing him
to be a member of the crew, saw that Bill knew his
business.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile one 'prentice had gone to the hoodway
up forward, the other to the steerage hatch, and both
of them howled like demons down the ladders.  "Ahoy
there!  All hands on deck!"  "Hear the good news!
Oh, rise and shine, my hearties!"  "Show a leg there,
cripples, or the mate will bring you tea in bed.  Ahoy!
Ahoy!  Tumble up for the rum!  Ahoy!"
</p>

<p>
The people tumbled up, looking somewhat bilious in
the gray light, and set to scrubbing the frosted deck.
Bill hung the coiled halliards on their pins and watched
the mate the while, a proper officer who knew his job,
one who did not nag or fuss, but let each man work
his best.  "I dunno as I'd mind," Bill thought,
"making a woyage with him."  And he had always longed
to go foreign.  But for mother he would have gone
big boating these three years past or more.  And now
she was dead.  Why not!
</p>

<p>
The captain had appeared, a meager, pompous man
with a mean face, stamping in sea boots along the
windward side of the half-poop.  Mr. Dodd gave him
a curt salute and took the leeward side.
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Dodd," said the captain, pointing to Bill, "call
that man aft."
</p>

<p>
The mate signaled Bill to come to the foot of the
three steps which led from the quarter-deck up to the
holy place behind the rails.
</p>

<p>
"Ask this Willie Muggins what the blank he means
by getting himself arrested at Gravesend."
</p>

<p>
Bill felt surprised, somewhat abashed, not called
upon to speak.  Why did this captain call him Willie
Muggins?
</p>

<p>
"I think, sir," answered the mate respectfully, "that
the arrest was at the instance of Mrs. Willie Muggins.
This lad seems much too young to be a husband."
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Dodd," said the captain, "you will be pleased
to mind your own concerns.  You, Muggins, what time
did you come aboard?"
</p>

<p>
These officers on the half-poop were rather terrifying.
Unwashed since yesterday, with grimy hands,
an aching heart, and a frantic desire for breakfast, Bill
felt at a disadvantage.  This captain also, bully and
cur complete, had unlimited power to do him wrong.
The lad's bulldog face turned rigid, his eyes were
menacing, his fists clenched, his body strung for defense
as he answered the captain.
</p>

<p>
"You sunk my boat," he said, "so you can put me
ashore.  As to this yere Villie Muggins, I'll find him
out, and give him your love if you like."
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Dodd," asked the captain, "is this man a seaman?"
</p>

<p>
"To judge by his conduct, yes, sir."
</p>

<p>
"My man," said Captain Home, "you're signed on
as Willie Muggins, your chest is in the forecastle
beside your bunk.  If you don't answer to your name,
you'll be flogged until you do.  Mr. Dodd, put him to
work."
</p>

<p>
"But&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Turn to, lad," said Mr. Dodd.
</p>

<p>
Bill stood for a moment, feeling the man's kindness,
the good will, the well-meant advice.  He would do
anything on earth to please that mate.
</p>

<p>
"Aye! aye!" said he quite cheerfully, and turned to.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
II
</p>

<p>
In sailing days the Americans were a maritime
people, first among nations as naval architects.  Their
ships were magnificently found, handled with headlong
daring, and broke sea records; indeed, the young
skippers of that time have never been rivaled in
seamanship.  The bucko mates aspiring to succeed them
were man stealers and slave drivers well armed, able
to cow the boldest seamen in the world.  They did
not stick at murder.  So the American ship might be
puritanically Sabbatarian of a Sunday, and even moderately
well fed in rare examples, but, on the whole, she
had the reputation of a hell afloat.  There were cases
of the ship's company being driven to desert, and
replaced by shanghaied men at every port, so that for a
three-years' voyage the captain paid no wages.
</p>

<p>
By comparison the Canadian, and especially the
Bluenose or Nova Scotian shipping, was even more
hard-bitten, with man-killing mates as a speciality.  The
British merchant service, like the North American,
was undermanned, and had a reputation also for being
hungry, but it was rather more humane, and the death
rate of ships and men least among maritime nations.
The Norwegian death rate was highest, the ships being
second-hand coffins, ill-found, but handled with
gallant seamanship.  French ships were well designed,
beautifully built, admirably found, but double-manned
to make amends for poor seamanship, and their people
liable to sudden panic.  Prussian or "Square-head"
seamanship was fairly good, Russian a joke, the Mediterranean
shipping classified as "dago," and the rest as
"nigger."
</p>

<p>
The pen runs away with the writer.  Blame the pen.
As one descended from a race of mariners, brought
up among retired shellbacks, serving before the mast
just at the end of that great Golden Age of Seamanship,
I cannot but look back.  The life was bitter hard,
the men grim humorists, the ships most gloriously
beautiful.  They thronged the straits of Dover,
outward, taut on a fine bowline, or homeward running
free, while purple shadows of the racing clouds swept
green sea pastures, and England faded into silver
haze.  The Channel widened under golden sunshine
the gateway of Adventure, and beyond lay enchanted
seas where there were pirates still, dangerous tribes of
savages, lone desert isles, Empires in the making
through remote, obscure campaigns, stampedes to
new-found gold fields, and hardy pioneering of wild lands.
Aye, but there is heartache when memory lights the
corridors of Time, when pictures come to life of scene
and incident in the days when one was young and
cared, took the long odds and lost, fought on, and
tried, and won.
</p>

<p>
According to the Norsemen, who are sea-wise beyond
the common run of mariners, the fore-and-aft
sails of schooner, smack, or cutter were masculine of
gender, while the ship's rig with square yards was
rated feminine.  So, the world over, a vessel
square-rigged on the foremast, but schooner rigged on the
mainmast, partook in its nature of both sexes, and was
called hermaphrodite.  Such was the brigantine
<i>Beaver</i>, but having a cross jack and a topgallant sail
on the main, her conduct as a whole was that of a
perfect lady.
</p>

<p>
When the seamen were thrown into their two divisions,
the mate and the second chose alternately, each
trying to pick the best team.  So the mate chose the
larboard watch, and picked out Bill Fright in preference
to the apprentices.
</p>

<p>
At actual work in making or shortening sail, each
man had his proper station, the stronger seamen on
the large sails of the foremast, the weaker on the
smaller canvas aft.  So Bill found his way aft, and
barge-trained as he was, proved from the start the best
man on the trysail and the staysails.  Yet though he
would break his heart with overanxiety to please the
mate and prove his manhood, it took him many weeks
to learn the crossjack and topgallant sails, and longer
still to win the leadership, to be first aloft, first at the
weather earning or the bunt, taking the posts of honor
on the high swaying yards.
</p>

<p>
The builders had left a deal of rubbish in the 'tween
decks, which the crew saved for fuel in the forecastle
bogey.  On that first evening at sea, while the <i>Beaver</i>
was threading her way through the Downs and the
Straits of Dover, the larboard watch rested from six
P.M. to eight.  They had firelight and leisure in their
dogwatch below to get the place in order, the bedding
in their bunks, and kit sorted out for use.  Then they
sat on the sea chests, and Auld Jock, the forecastle
oracle, delivered a homily to instruct the
young.
</p>

<p>
"Ye'll ken," he said, as he kindled his clay pipe with
a coal from the fire, "that wi' the Scots Ahm Scotch,
but when Ahm shipmates wi' the vulgar, as in the
present circumstances, Ah speaks the vulgar tongue, which
is the English, and that withoot a tr-r-ace o' Scottish
accent."
</p>

<p>
"You bet your sweet socks," observed a Yankee,
Silas by name, from Salem.
</p>

<p>
"And in pairfect English," continued Jock.  "Ah
lays it doon as a first princeeple, that the vulgar is
liable to interrupt: Yankees especially being
constructed like a dog, with an inch of brain to a fathom
of mouth."
</p>

<p>
"!," said the Yankee, or something to that effect.
</p>

<p>
"But them as hae the gift of reason," Jock turned
his eyes away from the American, "may have obsairved
the hoose flag at oor fore truck, a white pennant wi'
red letters 'H.B.C.,' the which means Here Before
Christ forbye the Hudson's Company goes forth to
the uttermost heathen which can be skinned for furs,
and the missionaries do not follow after.
</p>

<p>
"And for why?  Them as has brains, instead of"&mdash;he
glanced at the Yankee&mdash;"of a bucket o' slush,
considers the ways of the heathen.  The missionary gives
the puir savage a guid conceit of his soul, so up goes
the price of furs.  Whereupon the missionary is not
invited, ye ken, to follow after.
</p>

<p>
"Whilk this Hudson's Bay Company is Here Before
Christ in a second sense o' standing in front of
Him, not being especially relegate to damnation, but
for the maist pairt Presbyterian.  So ye'll tak' notice,
shipmates, that if the Company buys a leaky bucket,
the same is put in soak until the wood swells&mdash;and is,
in a manner, a reformed, guid, soond bucket, wi'
warranty to haud water.
</p>

<p>
"So if the Company engages of a liar&mdash;like some
he-ere present&mdash;as I sees grinning&mdash;he'll be richt weel
advised to wrop up his girt talent in a napkin, or put
it under a bushel, the while he larns to tell the
truth&mdash;in moderation, ye ken.
</p>

<p>
"And if the Company engages a thief, the same will
go to waste for want o' practice, or he'll be cast oot
into a wilderness o' mosquitos withoot sae much as a
hook to fush wi'.
</p>

<p>
"Ye manna leak, nor lie, nor steal, or ye'll na stay
i' the Hudson's Bay Sairvice ane week.  And as to
gettin' fu'&mdash;&mdash;  Well, boys, if I didna get droonk, for
ma stomach's sake, ye ken, I'd be a captain afloat or a
chief trader ashore instead o' wasting guid advice on a
lot o' gumps in a ship's forec'stle.
</p>

<p>
"The which brings me roond to this lad heare, as
is shippit i' the name o' Willie Muggins, whereas he's
no but a lubberly bargee, taking the wage of an honest
able-bodied sailorman.  Coom oot o' that bunk, Willie,
and let me get me een on ye.  So.  Rub oot the grin
frae yer ugly mug, me son, and, juist as if ye were
standin' He-ere Befo' Christ, tak a' that I say to
hearrt.
</p>

<p>
"This Captain Home, a' for his own honor and
glory, and to keep his log book free frae blots and
erasures, taks a bargee oot o' London River, worth ten
shillin' a month as a boy, and ca's ye an a-able
seaman at twa pun' ten a month, with anither man's kit
to haud for yer ain, and a bunk among men in the
forecastle.
</p>

<p>
"Weel.  Weel, ye're in luck, ma son, and we'll no
grudge ye the luck.  But ye owes it to the captain, and
to us, as ye mak' guid a' that luck.  Ye've got to pu'
yer weight as a man which doesn't leak, or lee, or steal,
but does guid honest man's wark as a shipmate, come
cauld, or storm, or wrack, frae heere to Cape Stiff, and
roond, and hame agin, not leaving any ither mon to
tak' yer trick at the wheel, or yer lookout aheid, or yer
ain bunt, or earring, or jobs at sailorizing."
</p>

<p>
There was something about Bill's eyes told the
Scotsman that this lad would not fail.  Indeed, the
youngster was looking not at Jock at all, but at his
mother, who stood behind the seaman just as in life,
nor was she changed by death save for a strange rare
glory, love in her eyes, amusement in her smile, then
on her lips a word.  That word was "Peace!"
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
III
</p>

<p>
Auld Jock had likened the Yankee to a dog with an
inch of brain and a fathom of jaw; and of a surety
there was some faint suggestion, but not of a dog
exactly.  The retreating forehead, cold eyes, red
eyelids, lean, ravenous jaws, and yellow fangs, the mean
and stealthy smile with upcurved lip, were not quite
those of a dog, but rather of a wolf.  The one barks,
and the other snarls, but this man kept silence
watching, waiting.  The Englishmen, the Norwegian, and
the Iroquois Indian would make the best of things or
share the worst in common, but the American would
master the lot or go under.  The hours they wasted he
had filled with study.  He would be second officer,
then mate, and a bucko mate at that, then command a
ship, and own one while they were still in the
forecastle.  They could play the game, but he would
win.
</p>

<p>
As yet it had not entered into his mind that he, an
American, had aught to learn from Britishers.  Hatred
for the British Government was part of his heritage,
contempt for the British a portion of his faith.  He
would read them a lesson.
</p>

<p>
As his nation had nothing to learn from Great Britain,
so Silas would have accounted anybody lunatic
who claimed that he could be the better man for a
lesson at the hands of these Britishers.  He sat on the
edge of his bunk contemptuous alike of the Scotsman's
tolerance and the boy's simplicity.  Auld Jock
had affronted him, and Silas would get even.  As for
Willie Muggins or whatever his tally might be, here
was a sodger, a mere bargee taking a man's pay for
a boy's work.  The shrewd American was too good a
seaman to tolerate false ratings in <i>his</i> watch.  He
would take the shine out of Willie Muggins.  "He'll
wish himself dead," said Silas to himself, "before I'm
through with him."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
IV
</p>

<p>
The <i>Beaver</i> and her consort the <i>Nereid</i> lay at
Falmouth completing for their voyage to Oregon.
Captain Home had taken the coach to London, where he
would get his final orders from the Hudson Bay House
and say good-by to his family.  His crew were at
work from dawn until after dark, watering, taking in
fuel, loading the ship's stores, and making all
shipshape aloft.  Except for an anchor watch, the people
had the nights in the crowded forecastle, when foul
air made the flame of the slush lamp blue, while in
the bunks men lay half suffocated.  Willie Muggins
had been on anchor watch, trying hard to realize that
he was really and truly Bill Fright of the <i>Polly
Phemus</i>, and of London River, one who had vowed
himself to a religious life, been in great dreams, beheld
tremendous visions.  He was all adrift, and now in
light and troubled sleep haunted by nightmare.  At
last his body, tired out, lapsed into deep sleep, and his
soul dreamed true.
</p>

<p>
A creature of fairy grace poised on the edge of the
bunk, then settled down to pull his ears, to kiss his
upturned nose.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Slug!  Wake up!" she said.  "Storm!
Storms-all-of-a-sudden!  Wake up!"
</p>

<p>
"H'm!" said he in the deep sleep.  "That you, Rain?"
</p>

<p>
"Why didn't you come, eh, Stupid?"
</p>

<p>
"I daresn't leave my body.  Mother might come.
She'd miss me."
</p>

<p>
"Kyai-yo!" she cried.  "Her love would find you,
Storm, if you were hid in the Shadows of the Sandhills."
</p>

<p>
She looked about her.  "See that man?" she asked,
pointing to Silas, the American.  "He makes bad
medicine against you, Storm.  Keep your temper with
him."
</p>

<p>
"I hate him."
</p>

<p>
"Love him," she answered, "and he is harmless.
Hate him, and his hate is stronger than yours.  He'll
ruin you."
</p>

<p>
"How can I love him?"
</p>

<p>
"First pity him.  He's lonely.  He has no friends.
His medicine is bad.  The love of a friend could save
him from sinking, drowning in seas of Hate.  Now
come to Dreamland."
</p>

<p>
"Dreamland!" he answered; and the two of them
were walking through the Fairy Glen, with the
squirrels running in front to say that they were
coming.
</p>

<p>
When they came to the Tuft of Moss they found
Rain's seat close guarded by Julia, the lady Griffin,
who lay stretched out to a length of eighteen feet,
asleep, with one eye open.  At sight of Rain she
blinked, and wagged eight feet of fine bronze tail with
spikes, and a barbed tip complete.
</p>

<p>
"How d'ye do?" she minced affectedly.  "I hope I
see you well, ma'am."  Her wicked eye was cocked at
Storm, and her jaw slavered.
</p>

<p>
"If you sniff at him," said Rain, "I'll tell him how
old you are."
</p>

<p>
Being a mature virgin, some fourteen centuries of
age, she promised faithfully to be very good.
"Especially," she added, if I may be chaperon.  I'd
love to feel like a real chaperon.  I'd be vastly
obleeged if I might take you to the Mythological
Gardens.
</p>

<p>
"You know I'm really and truly a Dragon, and it's
only to be genteel that I try to behave like a Griffin.
But, would you believe it"&mdash;with much complaisance
Julia surveyed her lion body, alligator tail, and folded
bat wings&mdash;"that among my relatives at the Mythological
Gardens I am considered almost plain, not quite
of course, but almost?"
</p>

<p>
She invited the lovers to take their seats between her
folded wings, which they did.  They knew it would
please poor Julia.
</p>

<p>
"If it were not unbecoming," she simpered, "to a
perfect lady&mdash;ahem&mdash;I would say 'Hang on with teeth
and toenails, or you will alight&mdash;ahem&mdash;at the wrong
gardens.'  I will now ask you, Lady and Gentleman,
to put twopence in the slot.  It's for the Home, you
know, for Decayed Griffins.  Thank you.  I will next
proceed&mdash;as expected&mdash;to breathe out a few small
flames."
</p>

<p>
She did, although the flames were neither few nor
small, and with a mighty leap extended her wings, all
gloriously iridescent, flapped powerfully and soared
into the skies.  Then her wings seemed asleep upon
the air, with delicate featherings as she steered through
space.
</p>

<p>
As to the landscape down there which floated past
at a hundred miles an hour, I might plead scant time to
see, but that other fellows who have traveled in
aeroplanes would sneer at my false pretenses.  Or I might
claim that, were the story told, nobody on earth would
believe one word of it, and that again would be a mean
excuse.  It is best to own up at once to a very
well-grown, mature, and lively ignorance.  And yet, there
being many sorts of gems, as diamonds or rubies; so
there be divers kinds of ignorance.  Nobody would
compare my ignorance with that of a truly scientific
person, shut up in a little truth-tight compartment, and
taking less air and exercise than any convict.  My
darkness is complete and natural.  Concerning the
provinces of Dreamland, Fairyland, and Wonderland
I have read <i>Alice</i> (a sound authority), the <i>Arabian
Nights</i>, which are most explicit, Malory's <i>Morte
D'Arthur</i>, Mandeville's <i>Travels</i>, Hans Anderson, the
Brothers Grimm, bits of the <i>Odyssey</i>, and in fact all
the best authors, who visited lands of glamour in their
dreams, and brought us back their happy memories of
truly facts.  But how did they get back?  How tear
themselves away?  On questions like these the
witnesses are dumb, the scientists are stumped, and how
on earth should I know!  Yet one may console
oneself with the comfortable thought that the more
ignorant an author is, the longer the words he is obliged
to use, and the deeper his obscurity of style.  By that
measure the ignorance of Darwin about Biology, of
Spencer in Philosophy, of Lodge on Ether of Space is
something really too awful to think about.
</p>

<p>
In her way, and as Griffins go, Julia was rather a
good sort.  She meant well, but when she set up as a
guide to places where she had never been before, she
became like a professional medium, all whoppers and
busters.  Her passengers were not at all particular, but
when she pointed out Sinbad's palace she said it was
Asgaard the gods-home of the Norseman.  Then she
showed off a Chinese pagoda as the Court of King
Arthur of England, so Storm called her a liar.  "So
far," she said judicially, "as it is quite becoming to a
perfect lady&mdash;I am.  You see, my dears, I know exactly
where we are, but the Mythological Gardens have
been removed, and I regret to say mislaid in the
confusion of removal.  House-moving is always a worry,
but think of having to move the whole Mythological
Gardens!  It's perfectly dreadful!"
</p>

<p>
It is much to be regretted that Julia could not find
her way to the Mythological Gardens, which must be
a wonderful show place.
</p>

<p>
Still, it was a nice excursion until, being very
absent-minded, the poor Griffin turned her head towards
home while her body continued in the old direction.
That is how she managed to breathe a gust of her
largest flames in the faces of her passengers.  Storm
was extremely annoyed....
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
V
</p>

<p>
An ant heap is a busy community, and has no time
to be concerned at all with the domestic worries of the
other ant heaps.  Our world is absorbed in its worldly
affairs, and looks upon other-worldly people as more
or less lunatic for being attracted by the concerns of
worlds remote or planets far removed.  By these
analogies we may perceive that Captain David Home was
all the world to Captain David Home.  The sun
which lighted that world was the Hudson's Bay House,
from whence came all good things, to which his prayers
were addressed in duplicate.  The moon which governed
the night was Mrs. Home, whose face was full
or peaked or turned away according to his conduct.
There were certain little satellites whose music was
not the music of the spheres as known to the angels in
Heaven.  And the rest of creation was the <i>Beaver</i>,
peopled by mates and microbes of low degree, together
possibly with rats, cockroaches, weevils, and other
vermin to be kept down.  The adoration of the sun,
and moon and the suppression of low forms of life
made up the sum of Captain's Home's religion.  So
shall it be understood that, what with the sun, the
moon, and the microbes, he had no time to be bothered
about the news-sheets, but merely caused a stack of
the same to be hoarded for future use at sea, where
they would come in handy when there was nothing
better as food for the mind, for shaving paper, stuffing
for his mattress, and an incentive to the mates.  They
might&mdash;if they behaved themselves&mdash;be allowed to
see what was left next time he had his berth cleaned.
So after a month or two the mates would read the
news-sheets, use them for shaving paper, stuff
mattresses, have their bunks cleaned, and allow what was
left to be seen by the Boatswain, Chips, Sails, and
others in the steerage.  These, having read, shaved,
stuffed, and cleaned out, would pass the ragged
remnants forward to such as could read in the forecastle.
There the very advertisements and obituaries would be
devoured over and over again by men with starving
minds.
</p>

<p>
Thus it came about that the <i>Beaver</i> was in the
tropics, and running down the "trades" while still the
tragedy of the barge <i>Polly Phemus</i>, noted in all the
news-sheets, escaped any special attention.  It was an
episode remote from the real world of things which
matter.  Indeed, from the point of view of deep-sea
mariners a barge is a mere obstruction to traffic on
the fairways, while bargees are lubbers of no account
whatever.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Beaver</i> was a fine sight of a Sunday morning,
when after the decks were holystoned snow-white and
breakfast served, she set her colors out above a cloud
of sail, and rigged church with the Union Jack upon
the table.  She had the boatswain whistle the men aft
barefoot all in their best white slacks, their red or
chequered shirts, black silken scarfs, and shiny
tarpaulin hats.  In no detail of pomp and circumstance
would the Hudson's Bay Company come short of the
Navy, being authorized by Royal Charter to arm their
forts, their troops, their ships, to wield the Greater and
the Lesser Justice, make treaty with savage peoples
or levy war, or, in an Empire three times as large as
the then United States, wield the main powers of a
Sovereign state.  Indeed the old man, standing at the
break of the half-poop, addressed his prayers to the
Almighty with a jolly good word of command.
</p>

<p>
In those days dinner and supper consisted of boiled
salt horse served in a kid or wooden tub upon the
forecastle floor.  The fat joints went aft.  There was
always hard-tack; and tea, not too powerful, was served
morning and evening.  At noon there was lime juice,
used by British merchant ships on long voyages to
stave off scurvy.  Sunday dinner was illustrated with
boiled duff of flour and water.  The Navy, East
Indiamen, Hudson's Bay ships, and clippers of the first
flight had plum duff.
</p>

<p>
Food thus being lavished upon common sailors,
mainly because they could not be put out to graze, they
had the Sunday afternoon off duty excepting one hand
to relieve the wheel.
</p>

<p>
Men on good terms with the cook would sometimes
win a mug of hot fresh water to wash themselves
withal, instead of waiting months perhaps for a deluge
of tropic rain.  Clothes were cleaned with sea water
by trailing them overboard.  There was a deal of making
and mending to get the whole kit ready against the
cold and storms off the Cape and the Horn.  Mighty
fine was their craftsmanship with waxed thread, palm
thimble, bladed needles, and awls for heavy sewing;
but for delicate artistry of intricately beautiful
knotting the sheath knife lanyard has never been excelled.
The knots took years to learn.  Men sat in the coil of
a halliard or perched upon a boat, smoking black muck
in cutty pipes while they sewed, gossiped, or spun
yarns, though some would read or sleep.  Above them
a flaw of the wind would set the reef points tapping
upon sails which slept, high up against white cloud race
or deep azure.  Out beyond the bulwarks, the indigo
of the deeps was maned with diamond-glittering spray
on the swift surges.  On deck was a splendor of swaying
light, and shadow soft as sapphire dissolved.  Bill
sat and darned socks, while Auld Jock read the Bible
aloud, or at times expounded the sacred text, "withoot,
ye ken, the verra slichtest trace o' Scottish accent."
</p>

<p>
Further aft, in the waist, his back against the
weather bulwark, Silas the Yankee overhauled frayed
scraps from the <i>London Advertiser</i>.  "A coroner's
inquest held on 28 October at Margate disclosed
particulars, which we summarize, of a peculiarly shocking
affair occurring on board the barge <i>Polly Phemus</i>
[sic!].  The vessel was the property of T. Fright,
licensed victualer at the "Fox under the Hill" tavern
by the Adelphi, who appeared in court to make claim,
contra the claimants who testified that they found her
derelict.
</p>

<p>
"Residents of Margate to whom her cargo had been
consigned, were astonished to hear on the 22nd inst. that
the barge, six days overdue at that port, was
reported to be lying at anchor some four miles to the
westward off Epple Bay, in the parish of Birchington.
Proceeding thither by road they learned, from laborers
employed upon the farm adjacent to Epple Bay, that
the barge's dinghy was gone from her stern, although
nobody had been observed to come ashore.  For some
days no smoke had been seen to rise from the cabin
funnel, nor had the vessel shown any sign of life.
</p>

<p>
"Such unusual circumstances being communicated
to the Vicar as nearest Justice of the Peace, he caused
a visit to be paid to the <i>Polly Phemus</i>.  On the cabin
floor lay the body, stabbed to the heart, of the master
of the barge, identified by the owner as his brother
James Fright.  In the bunk, attired in a nightdress,
lay the mortal remains of the man's wife, also stabbed
to death, but under circumstances of awful ferocity.
Indeed, the crime appears to be the deed of a maniac,
indifferent to the woman's purse containing two
sovereigns and some silver, her silver watch, and her gold
wedding ring.  The medical evidence pointed to an
interval of about six days between the date of the crime
and that of the discovery.  There were no signs of
a struggle, but the fact that the couple had been drinking
heavily was attested by the discovery of no less than
six empty gin bottles under the cabin table.  A sheath
knife was found crusted, blade and hilt, with dried
blood.  But the most sinister aspect of this affair
remains to be told.
</p>

<p>
"The cabin was found locked from the outside, and
this fact becomes of dreadful significance because the
fore hatch was discovered to have been left wide open.
The fore compartment was used as a store-room, but
also occupied by the only son of the deceased couple,
by name Bill Fright.  That he had left in haste was
evidenced by the finding in his spare clothes of six
shillings in silver and elevenpence three-farthings in
bronze, apparently forgotten when, after murdering
both his parents, he locked their bodies in the cabin,
and fled from the place in the dinghy.  No trace of
him or of the boat is as yet reported; but the coroner's
jury gave their verdict against him of willful murder,
a warrant has been issued for his apprehension, and
the police are understood to have a strong clue to his
present whereabouts.
</p>

<p>
"He is described as follows: age 18 to 19, height
5 ft. 7 in., build slight but strong, fair hair, blue eyes,
ruddy complexion, features those of a pug.  Usual
dress a ragged blue jersey and slacks, black silk
neckcloth, sea boots.  The Joseph Fright recently executed
at Tyburn was an uncle of this atrocious young scoundrel.
<i>Verb. sap.</i>"
</p>

<p>
Silas looked up from his reading and stared at Bill
with a malicious grin.  "I guess," so ran his thought,
"as he's the poor orphan right enough.  Got his Uncle
Joseph hanged, and knifed his beloved parents!  He
don't brag none of his past life, or talk about his last
ship either, and now it comes to mind as I caught him
blubbering&mdash;seems he feels kinder lonesome!
</p>

<p>
"Off Margate, eh?  So his boat drifts up the flood
twenty or thirty mile until he's off the Nore and fouls
our bows, and comes aboard white as a ghost, his
hands all shaking.  Say!  That's why he coiled them
halliards down to hide the trembling.  Waal!
</p>

<p>
"Calls himself Willie Muggins!
</p>

<p>
"All the same, I hain't due to be seen giving him
away, and him a shipmate&mdash;sort of.  The fellers
wouldn't stand for that.  Shucks!  And yet I dunno.
The news might be dragged out of me.  And there's
the mate leaning on the poop rail, curious as monkeys&mdash;sees
me look sideways trying to hide the paper, sort
o' furtive, acting mysterious.  What if I ups and axes
him!"
</p>

<p>
Silas went aft, ostentatiously hiding something in
his trousers pocket, looking worried, anxious, as he
approached the mate and asked his permission to
speak.
</p>

<p>
"What's wrong, my man?"
</p>

<p>
"If you please, mister.  I kinder doubt&mdash;&mdash;No"&mdash;he
turned away&mdash;"I ain't having any!"
</p>

<p>
"What on earth's the matter?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, nothing 'cept you kin gimme the date as we
dropped down on the tide from Gravesend, sir, to the
Nore!"
</p>

<p>
"October 17th&mdash;why?"
</p>

<p>
Silas appeared to be appalled, stared forward at Bill,
pulled out a corner of the paper, glanced at the date,
then looked back over his shoulder, thanking the mate,
and saying it didn't matter anyways.
</p>

<p>
"What doesn't matter?  Silas, give me that paper!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh no, sir, not that!  No!  No!"
</p>

<p>
"I order you to give me that paper!"
</p>

<p>
Silas used his neckcloth to wipe the sweat from his
face.  Of course he knew that the man at the wheel
heard everything.
</p>

<p>
"Waal, since you got ter have it, I guess I obeys
orders, if I breaks owners.  Here, sir."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dodd read the cutting, which to the Yankee's
mind appeared to concern young Willie who sat there
darning socks, beyond the galley door.  The ship had
cleared from Falmouth on 1st November, this paper
was dated 29 October, 1835.  A week or so before that
a young bargee had murdered his parents on board the
barge <i>Polly Phemus</i>, lying not far from Margate.
That must be on or about the 16th October, perhaps
a day or two earlier.  The murderer had got away
in the dinghy.  On the morning of the 17th young
Willie, sweeping upriver in a dinghy, had fouled the
ship's bows and come aboard at dawn.  He had not
given any name, had merely been dubbed Willie
Muggins because the skipper said so.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dodd told Silas to send Willie aft, and
presently the Yankee brought the lad.  "Stand out of
earshot," said the mate; "go forward."  Silas went
forward, dragging his feet, reluctant to miss the fun.
</p>

<p>
There was something ominous in the mate's bearing,
and Bill became uneasy, wondering vaguely which of
his many crimes had been found out.
</p>

<p>
"Sonny," said Mr. Dodd, "what is your real name?"
</p>

<p>
"Bill Fright, sir."  The lad was smiling now, yet with
an inward dread, for the officer had a queer catch in
his voice.  What was this paper he held and glanced at?
</p>

<p>
"You worked on a barge," he said.  "What was
she called?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>Polly Phemus</i>," came the reluctant answer.  Was
this paper something to do with mother's death?
</p>

<p>
"Why did you leave her, son?"
</p>

<p>
Bill's face had clouded; the mate could see a glitter
of tears, a twist of the lips.
</p>

<p>
"You leave that alone," said the lad in a broken
voice.  "It hain't your business."
</p>

<p>
"Mine, or the captain's business, Willie.  Wouldn't
you rather deal with me, lad, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, if you got to know&mdash;my father done my
mammie in with his belt knife, and then 'e killed
hisself.  I found 'em dead, I did."  The lad's face was
drawn and ghastly now.  "I locked the cabin up&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Why?"
</p>

<p>
"D'ye think I hain't got no pride?  D'ye think I
vants strangers peeping and prying down that 'atch,
and smellin' around my fambily affairs?  Well, I
don't."  Then defiantly, "And I doesn't thank you for
interfering neither!"
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dodd was a man first, an officer when he called
to mind his duty.  He saw no insubordination here,
but only honesty and manly self-respect.  He did not
know that the old man was listening within the cabin
hatchway.
</p>

<p>
"Who told you, sir?" Bill challenged, flushing with
sudden temper, his fists clenched, his jaw thrust out,
his anger mounting steadily.  "Is that the paper you
got from Silas?  Eh?  So that's the game!  I'll see
to him."
</p>

<p>
Shaking with passion the lad flashed round, looked
out for Silas, saw him, and leaped like a wild beast.
"You ... take that!" he yelled, launching his fist
in the Yankee's face, dislodging teeth, then drawing
back for a space to get his full strength into the second
blow.  But the American, snarling with rage and pain,
whipped out his belt knife, and crouching low, ripped
upwards with the blade.
</p>

<p>
"Ma mannie," Jock was saying, "calm yourself,"
as he tripped the Yankee headlong into the scappers.
"Belay all that!" he added.  The Yorkshireman seized
the knife, and the Iroquois, with a long leap, jumped
Silas to hold him down.  The negro cook held Bill,
who raged to get at his enemy again, screaming,
"Leave go!  Leave go!"
</p>

<p>
"What's all this?  Now, what's all this about?"
Captain Home, attended by the mate and the boatswain,
came surging along the gangway.  "I'll show
who's master here!"  He pointed to Auld Jock, and
ordered the bos'n to "clap that man in irons!"  The
bos'n laughed.  "What, sir!" asked the mate.  "For
saving a man's life?"
</p>

<p>
That brought the captain short with a round turn,
baffled.  He was determined to show his authority,
somehow, anyhow.  He rounded on the mate, would
have sent him to his berth under arrest, but for the
eyes of the seamen clustered forward.  Here was
menace, a low muttering not to be disregarded.  This
was their affair, a fight between two shipmates, and all
hands were determined to see fair play.
</p>

<p>
Knowing his business thoroughly, he dared not be
less than master.  He was bound to dominate these
men, or all of them would treat him with contempt,
as unfit to command a ship.  He must make some example,
and as it happened Silas claimed attention.  He
was yelling, "I charge that man.  I charge that man
with murder!"
</p>

<p>
The captain and all hands had seen him attempting
to knife the youngster.  The Yorkshireman, grinning
broadly, held out the weapon.  The bos'n with a broad
paw attempted in vain to mask a snort of joy.  Auld
Jock, suspecting the savor of a joke cried, "Haec mon!
Wha's murdering ye?  Wullie?  Aye, mannie!"  Even
the captain, angry as he was, joined his bleak
smile to the general roar of laughter.  But the Yankee
held his ground, defying all of them, pointing his
accusation.  "I guess," he said in his high nasal drawl,
slowly, venomously, "the joke is on this man's father
and mother, murdered!  And there," he pointed to the
paper which the mate still held, "is proof it ain't my
joke."
</p>

<p>
The mate gave the paper to Captain Home.  "You'd
better read this, if you will, sir."
</p>

<p>
The captain read, but did not grasp the issue until
the mate explained coincidence of dates, the description
which identified the murderer as Bill Fright, the
verdict of a jury, the warrant out.  Cold, stiff, official,
Home saw no demerit in this newspaper which dared
to presume the guilt of an untried man.  He looked
at the accused, and in disgust sneered at him,
contemptuous, disdainful.  "Murdered your parents, eh?"
</p>

<p>
Bill turned on Silas, and in the same level voice,
quiet, incisive, he said that all might hear, "Sneaked
on your shipmate, eh?  Sneaked on a shipmate!"  He
spat in the man's face.  "Cur!"
</p>

<p>
Americans have a code of honor not less manful or
more loosely held than the British, but it is different.
The American code is one of an extraordinary chivalry
towards women, children, all who are unarmed,
defenseless, weak, but has no trace of mercy on any
incompetence or false pretenses.  Silas attacked a bargee
pretending to be a seaman, and under a purser's name.
But his method of attack struck at the roots of the
British code the honor of the sportsman who plays the
game to the death, but neither explains, nor complains,
nor carries tales.  Anybody is liable to lose his temper,
and in the heat of anger, without the least intent of
homicide, to kill.  Silas himself had but this moment
attempted a comrade's life.  So much was readily
forgiven, but he had sneaked to the mate, and for that
there could be no pardon.  So Bill was put in irons,
and consigned to a cupboard known as the "bos'n's
locker."  He was now the pet of the ship's company.
He might be innocent of parricide, or guilty, as time
and a fair trial would bring to proof, but he was
victim of a sneak.  No officer or man on board the <i>Beaver</i>
spoke to Silas after that, off duty, nor was there
conversation in his presence.
</p>

<p>
As to the captain, he had his consolations.  Whenever,
as in this example, he made an all-round ass of
himself, he "logged" the mate with entry in the ship's
log book that Mr. Dodd had used insubordinate
language (signed) D. Home.  There are many such
entries in the oldtime manuscript volume, and, if I
remember rightly, Mr. Dodd did not always limit
himself to the use of appropriate language.  Reading
between the lines, I suspect that at times he kicked his
commanding officer down the companion ladder.  Two
years later, when Captain Home was drowned in the
Columbia River, Dodd took the command, and his log
books are quite free from any trace of peevishness.
</p>

<p>
Did Captain Home propose to relinquish the services
of an able-bodied man?  Did he expect Bill to be a
prisoner in that cupboard rounding Cape Horn and to
survive the voyage?  Was the captain likely to get the
prisoner transferred to a man-o'-war or to a magistrate
in British territory this side of Oregon?
</p>

<p>
"Then," asked the mate, "why keep my watch short-handed,
sir?  I'll answer for him that he don't jump
overboard."
</p>

<p>
"Mind your own business, Mr. Dodd."
</p>

<p>
"Right, sir; you are responsible for this man's life,
not I.  But it's my business, Captain Home, to report
to you that the bos'n's locker is too small to kennel a
dog.  There's no air to breathe, and barely standing
room.  It is slow murder, and has put the men in an
ugly mood, a very ugly mood, endangering your life,
Captain Home."
</p>

<p>
"How dare you!  Silence!  Go below, sir.  This is
rank mutiny!"'
</p>

<p>
Next morning, very early, the captain took all that
out of the bos'n, asking what the devil he meant by
locking up one of the seamen in that doghole.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VI
</p>

<p>
The bos'n's locker must have been, apart from its
perfume, cramped as an upright coffin, for Bill
dreamed that he was grandfather's clock stuck in a
corner of the old bar parlor at the "Fox," condemned
from everlasting to everlasting to point out the minutes
with one hand, the hours with the other.  And really
there was no room even to point.
</p>

<p>
Then into his dream swept Rain's beloved presence.
</p>

<p>
"Hai ya!" cried Rain.  "I wouldn't point if I were
you.  I'd stop."
</p>

<p>
The scene of his dream had changed.  He was in
Dreamland.
</p>

<p>
"I haven't been wound up," he answered sorrowfully,
"since we cleared Ushant.  I'm feeling awful&mdash;run
down, you know; but if the old man catches me&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Say a prayer to Old Man."  The Indian maid put
up her hands most reverently, for "old man" is a sort
of god among her people.  "Whenever you feel
hungry, you should say, 'For what I am about
to receive, please, Old Man, make me truly thankful.'"
</p>

<p>
"What, for hard-tack and water!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, you've been bad; but when you're good and
say grace prettily, Old Man will send you something
nice to eat, a tongue, or berry pemmican from the
captain's food box."
</p>

<p>
"Old Man!" said Storm, with scorn.  "I don't hold
with them heathen gods.  Nice sort of a Christian you
are!"
</p>

<p>
"And yet," she purred, "I hear that Christians swear
by the Christian gods Be Jabers, and S'elp-me-Bob,
and Strike-me-pink&mdash;or are these holy saints?"
</p>

<p>
So she began to tease him.
</p>

<p>
By this time they had traversed the glade which
leads into Fairyland, and as Rain sat for the Tuft of
Moss in the Fairy Parliament, of course she plumped
down flop on her constituency.  Moreover, this dream
was taking on a certain strangeness, for the Red
Indian maid was no longer clad in her warrior dress.
All of a sudden she had changed into a stiff costume of
ruff and farthingale in the fashions of the reign of
James I of England, while her copper color took on a
hectic flush, her face became shrunken, and she had a
dry cough.  The fairies, who have nice manners,
pretended to take no notice.
</p>

<p>
"What do you know," said Storm disdainfully, "of
how we swear in England?"
</p>

<p>
"Gadzooks!" was her joyful answer.  "Sirrah, I
do assure you"&mdash;this very primly&mdash;"that when I was
in England I could swear like a little gentlewoman.
Hoity-toity!"
</p>

<p>
The fairies had begun to scent a tale, and they are
always ravenous for stories.
</p>

<p>
"You wasn't never there!" cried Storm.
</p>

<p>
She rose from her tuft, to dip him a low curtsy.
Then she began to speak in the manner of the Devon
peasantry.
</p>

<p>
"What!  Haven't ye heeard as King Powhatan's
darter, the Blessed Pocahontas, be coom a-land i'
Devon?  And they du tell as thicky ma-aid be marriet
with Master John Rolfe, the young Planter, aie, an'
has a son by him aie.  Tammas his na-a-me is, and she
be coom a' the way-ay frae Virginia, thicky Lady
Rebecca Rolfe so they du sa-ay, which be her christened
na-ame."
</p>

<p>
Eavesdropping fairies, pretending not to hear, were
gathered by hundreds now to nurse a drooping rosebud.
</p>

<p>
"H'm!" Storm grunted.  "You've always got some
new mare's nest to sit on."
</p>

<p>
Yet he was puzzled to find himself arrayed, as
Master John Rolfe might have been, coming ashore
from Virginia, his sea boots changed to tan riding-boots,
his trousers to trunk hose, his jersey to a brown
doublet, a stiff, wide linen collar spreading above his
shoulders, and on his head a green top hat with a
feather.
</p>

<p>
"Mare's nest?" said Pocahontas.  "Pillion, you
mean, on the crupper, i' faith, be-hind my little master
John Rolfe in his brown doublet, and his green top-hat,
his scabbard bruising my knees, yes, all the way to
Town."
</p>

<p>
Of course it was only a dream, but still it was queer
that he seemed to be astride a sweaty gray horse, with
a perfect little witch of a woman perched up behind
him, poking shy fun as they rode.
</p>

<p>
"Now they do call me the Lady Rebecca Rolfe&mdash;as
one might say our Lady the Queen.  Yiss.  All the
simple people at their doors prick-eared and
open-mouthed as we ride by, to see the Redskin lady coom
a' the way from Jamestown at the new Plantations.
And the gentries come of an evening to our tavern,
where we shall lie the night, with civil welcome, so
please you, to the Lady Rebecca Rolfe who is a
Princess Royal."
</p>

<p>
Thousands of fairies formed the audience now, and
as their numbers gave them confidence, sat unabashed
to listen.
</p>

<p>
"The woman's got bats in her belfry!" said Storm,
disgusted.  He sat in the moss, and gloomed.
</p>

<p>
"Marry!  Was it not proper to ride pillion, even
with him my husband?  Or to have my arm around
him, with fingers creeping up under his jerkin, for it
was cruel cold, to pull the fur on his chin?"
</p>

<p>
Storm gave examples of the latest bargese, but Rain
put her fingers to her ears and went on, most demure.
</p>

<p>
"Of course my man had his servant to ride behind
him, and a Devon lass, good Betsy, riding cockhorse
with our baby son in her arms."
</p>

<p>
"Take leave of her senses!" was Storm's despairing
comment.
</p>

<p>
"Strewth," she observed, "or so they said in Jamestown,
for though I wore rich stuff under Dacca muslin,
with jewels in my hair and birdplumes, they all
held I had married beneath me.  Aye, sirrah,
Powhatan's eldest daughter of the Blood Royal mated to
plain Mister, commoner, so please you.  Albeit, my
little widower looked quite smart, I grant you, in his
court suit, a tobacco planter, a gentleman entitled to
sword and spur&mdash;by no means the common bargee
using foul speech to a lady.  At least he was never
anything low.  Dear no!
</p>

<p>
"And after all, a Princess is only woman when it
comes to mating, and John was rather nice.  I loved
him, so that's all there is to it, loved him, and love him
still, and ever shall do&mdash;madly!"
</p>

<p>
"O-o!" said the lady fairies&mdash;"o-h! o-h!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, this is too much!" Storm shrieked.  "Shut up!
For Gawd's sake shut yer mouth!"
</p>

<p>
"Methinks my little man mislays his manners."
</p>

<p>
All the gentlemen fairies clapped their tiny hands.
</p>

<p>
"Who is he?"  Storm ramped up and down in front
of her, and the more he raged, the softer was her
stroking.  "Just let me at your little man this once.
I'll corpse the swine.  I'll tear his hide off over his
ears.  Now out with it!  Who is he?  Where is he?"
</p>

<p>
"Whom I did swear to love, honor, and obey&mdash;more
or less, in his little tantrums, these two hundred years."
</p>

<p>
"Ah!" gasped the lady fairies.  "Two hundred minutes!"
</p>

<p>
"Two hundred years?  What d'ye mean?"
</p>

<p>
"Since you and I were wed, John Rolfe, in our last
life, my little man, two hundred years ago.  Don't
you remember, John, how we came freezing in the
bitter east wind into the courtyard at the 'Mermaid
Inn,' so numb with cold that we couldn't get down
off the horse.  Don't you remember, dear?  There was
a bald vagabond came out of the bar parlor bearing
a posset to warm us&mdash;God's charity to poor travelers.
He told us he acted at the theater.  Why, John, it
seems but yesterday."
</p>

<p>
"You mean that I&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Dear stupid, I mean that you're my little man
Master John Rolfe the planter of Virginia, and I'm your
true wife, once called the Blessed Pocahontas, King
Powhatan's daughter, christened i' the name of
Rebecca, known to the Englishry as the Lady Rebecca
Rolfe.  I'd know you again by your naughty temper,
John, pug nose, and fighting jaw, Storms-all-the-time.
Oh! fie upon you!  Can't you remember how you
vexed the Bishop, the Heap Big Medicine Man of
London, when we did lie in his lodge at Brentford?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't believe one word of it," said Storm.  "It's
only one of your games.  Now, isn't it?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, John dear, Matoaka speaks, your Matoaka.
Can't you remember even that, my birth name?  Why,
you would whisper it in the night, weaving it into
sonnets when you thought I was fast asleep!  Oh, well!"
she sighed, "you were not at all clever, John, dear, only
a good, religious gentleman."
</p>

<p>
She sighed, she turned away, then there came a
wicked little twinkle of her eye, a naughty curl of the
lip, showing the sharp teeth&mdash;she would have another
nibble!
</p>

<p>
"If it were only a game, why it does not matter then,
I didn't truly love you in that last life of ours.
Suppose, dear, that it was all make-believe!  What if I
loved another man at the time I wedded you?"
</p>

<p>
"Ah!" sighed the gentlemen fairies.  "Oh!" gasped
the ladies.
</p>

<p>
"Loved another devil!"
</p>

<p>
"He was more like a god."
</p>

<p>
"Hell!"  Storm's jealousy had flamed to greater
heights than ever.
</p>

<p>
"But, dearest, if you were not John Rolfe and I was
not your wife, why fuss?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't fuss.  I never fuss.  It's you that
fusses."  Storm ground his teeth.  "Who was he?"
</p>

<p>
"My friend, the dearest friend maid ever had, dread
leader and dear father of all Virginia.  Surely you
must remember the mighty Johnsmith?"
</p>

<p>
"Never heard tell of him.  Who was this Johnsmith?"
</p>

<p>
"Why think of the magic Johnsmith book you read
to me at Brentford, all about the paladin&mdash;so you
called him, this English lad commanding the Christian
guns, crusading against the Paynim Turks.  Big
warriors were these Indians you called Turks, clean
fighters, but Johnsmith made bad medicine against
them, new conceits you said of blazing serpents and
fiery flying dragons which burned up the Turkish
towns.  His medicine was very powerful.
</p>

<p>
"You read me how he fought three Turkish war
chiefs, Knights was the word you said, below the
stockade called Reigall.  He fought with the lance and
finished with the sword, taking their three heads, and
from the last of them a suit of golden armor.
</p>

<p>
"You told me how once at the Pass of the Rose
Tower this dread chief armed all his pony soldiers with
branches of trees soaked in pitch, then lighted them
like torches and charged a Turkish Army which
fled into the night, thinking the Devil was after
them.
</p>

<p>
"Next of a tribe called Tartars, very bad Indians,
more in number than the leaves of the forest, who
killed Johnsmith and all his warriors in battle.  But
Johnsmith came alive again to be a war slave sold to
Turkish squaws.
</p>

<p>
"From which captivity he did escape by using his
chain to club down a Turkish war lord whose head he
chopped off, then took his armor, sword, and horse for
that great ride he made, the ride of a hundred days
back to the Christian tribes.  They hailed him as first
of all their warriors.
</p>

<p>
"Then of his passage in the little trade ship which
fought two Spanish battleships.  Oh, you must
remember how they boarded, and when they got the
fore part of the ship he touched off his powder barrels
there and blew up the forecastle.
</p>

<p>
"Last of his coming to London, only twenty-five
years old, but passing rich in plunder, first of all
warriors on earth in glory, and so beautiful a man that
every woman worshiped him&mdash;even as I did."
</p>

<p>
"Oh well, it's only fairy tales," said Storm resignedly.
</p>

<p>
"Boo!" said all the fairies.  "Boo-oo-oo!"
</p>

<p>
"Truly it was like a fairy tale," said Pocahontas, and
the fairies were ever so pleased, "when Johnsmith
came into Virginia.
</p>

<p>
"My father King Powhatan watched that English
camp in Virginia, of wasters led by idiots, who starved
and squabbled until the sickness took their silly voices
one by one out into the silence.  'There's only one
man among them,' said my father Powhatan, 'so they
landed him in irons&mdash;this fellow they call Johnsmith.'  But
we called him the Great Werowance.  'I'll kill
him,' said Powhatan, 'and the rest of them will blow
away like the dead leaves in winter.'
</p>

<p>
"But Johnsmith had the heart of a saint and the
mind of a boy, magic beyond our biggest medicine men,
and such a queer little laugh.  Our warriors laid his
head on a block to club his brains out, but I took his
head in my arms and held on tight, so they must kill
me first.  After that he always used to call me his
little daughter.
</p>

<p>
"My father was the biggest of all kings, but Captain
Johnsmith was his master.  Time and again Powhatan
tried to get him killed but Werowance would
come and talk it over, smoking with him, laughing at
him.  Once I ran through the woods all night to tell
him that Powhatan's army was coming against his
little helpless camp, but instead of running away he
unpacked his goods to give me presents&mdash;oh, such
lovely gifts if only I'd dared to take them, to be caught
wearing them.
</p>

<p>
"Then came the night when the soldiers blew up his
boat with gunpowder, and what was left of him was
sent to die in England.  You swore to me that he died
there, or I'd never have married you.  And yet in my
heart I knew all the time, that he lived.  But how was
I to get to England and to him unless I married you?
Well," she sighed, "it can't be helped.  We're married.
</p>

<p>
"Verily when we got to England, Johnsmith was
alive, but then you see I was married, to a little man
with a temper&mdash;and so jealous.  Well, better jealous
than runagate!"
</p>

<p>
"Go on.  Twist the knife deeper."
</p>

<p>
She put her little head sideways and chirped like a
squirrel, then made a great pretense that she did no
such thing.
</p>

<p>
All the fairies were poking one another in the ribs,
ever so slyly.
</p>

<p>
"Johnsmith heard of my coming.  The camp crier
called it among the tipis in London town, but who
believes what he says!  And then one day the hero
walked in Philpot Lane among the smelly lodges, when
who should he see but Uttamatomahkin, one of Powhatan's
counselors, who went with a stick and a knife,
making a notch for every man he met.  Powhatan
had ordered him to find out the number of English
warriors there were for killing.  Johnsmith hailed him,
making the sign for peace.
</p>

<p>
"'Oh, Great Werowance, Master of all the Seas,'"
cried Uttamatomahkin.  "'I come with the Lady
Pocahontas, and her husband, and her baby son to seek
you.'"
</p>

<p>
"So they walked together, the chief notching his
stick for every man they met.  'Now show me God,'
said he, supposing that the God of the English ought
to live in their chief village.
</p>

<p>
"'Nay,' answered Johnsmith, 'but is it really true
my little one is here?'
</p>

<p>
"They came to the Sachem, Sir Thomas of the English
tribe in Virginia, and asked him about the Princess
Pocahontas.
</p>

<p>
"'I hear,' said the Sachem, 'she is a very civil formal
gentlewoman&mdash;though she be squaw in the wigwam
of Bear-who-sulks.'"
</p>

<p>
"You made that up!" Storm snarled.
</p>

<p>
"I did," said Pocahontas.  "Then Johnsmith put on
his chief's dress, his war bonnet, and best velvet robe.
He brushed his curly beard up, so, and his mustaches
straight out like a wildcat seeking his love.  He rode
his painted war horse to the Bishop's tipi, where you
and I were lying, with our small baby boy.
</p>

<p>
"Now may it please your worship Master Rolfe.
There was little me tied up with strings like a sacred
medicine bundle, in wooden hoops, and a stomacher
stiff as a baby's cradle board, a piccadill collar stuck
out all round with skewers, a tall hat, and high-heeled
moccasins&mdash;yes, with red heels tap-tap-tap on a floor
like black ice.  Tap-tap-tap&mdash;flop, then scramble up to
my feet, and tap, tap, tap&mdash;lawks!"
</p>

<p>
She slithered round the Tuft of Moss, like a cat on
glare ice, pretending to overbalance and recover,
wide-eyed, hands outstretched.
</p>

<p>
Some of the fairies skirled and ran away.
</p>

<p>
"I couldn't run to him on heels like that.  I couldn't
love him properly in stomacher and farthingale.  I
knew he'd hate me in blue, because I'm yellow, and
what could I do but beat the air with a fan of three
plumes or a stick?  He never liked face paint either&mdash;men
who kiss nicely object to the taste.  H'm?  No?
But then you don't kiss nicely like dear Johnsmith.
</p>

<p>
"On the whole I couldn't bear it.  At the sight of
him I tried to run and couldn't.  So I just turned
away, flopped on the floor, and howled.  Yes, there's
your civil formal Lady Rebecca, Royal Squaw, gentlewoman,
and tied up with a husband, sniff, boo-hoo-hoo-oo!
Although he was only a little one."
</p>

<p>
Storm crouched in the moss a picture of glum
despair, and all the fairies poking fun at him.
</p>

<p>
"Out with it," he growled.  "You ran away with
Johnsmith!"
</p>

<p>
"Ran away with grand-dad!  He kissed you as if
you were his long lost little one, and took you to walk
in the fields, his arm about your neck, until I'd time to
mend the ravages in my face-paint."
</p>

<p>
Storm looked up, wistfully, humbly.  "I seem to
remember," he whispered.  "Father of Virginia and
New England."
</p>

<p>
"Founder of the United States," said Rain, "for so
my spirit-guide would call him."
</p>

<p>
"Captain John Smith?  Why didn't you call him by
his proper name?"
</p>

<p>
"Beshrew me I did," she answered indignantly.
"All the time."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, you little liar!"
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I may be a little liar," said the bos'n, "but this is
the first I've heered about it.  Now wake up properly."
</p>

<p>
The bos'n had brought Bill hard-tack and water for
breakfast, together with a hunk of cold meat pie
pinched from the cabin pantry.  He unlocked the
handcuffs, and put the food on the small paint-shelf.
"When youse put that inside your belt," said he, "Old
Home-sweet-home says you kin make yourself scarce,
and join your watch, my son, the watch below."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VII
</p>

<p>
The old man nagged like an old woman and Mr. Dodd
looked haggard, haunted, grew irritable, and
hounded the men at their work.  As to the second mate,
he seemed demoralized altogether.  Nor was there
comfort in the forecastle, where the straining bowsprit
worked a passage for the water until all bunks were
sodden and men wrung out wet clothes to put on damp
ones after their watch on deck.  The presence of a
sneak made talk unsafe, and there was sullen silence in
that wet, black, freezing hole, while the Cape Horn
swell struck like a battering-ram and freezing sprays
lashed high.  Then somehow Captain Home took
exception to a glance or a word from Auld Jock, flew in
a passion, had the man spread-eagled, and gave him
three dozen to show him who was master.
</p>

<p>
"Rope's end" could not be mentioned after that, or
"rope," a word but seldom used afloat.  It was barred
lest that or ever so slight a reference remind Auld
Jock of the outrage.  Delicately tactful, afraid to take
over his duties lest they affront his pride, the fellows
would leave to him the bit of meat which had a trace
of fat, offer all sorts of little courtesies, seek Jock's
advice in their affairs, ask his opinion when a point was
argued.  Silas was once more a member of the mess,
apparently quite friends again with Bill, for in this
general mourning all men were brothers.  But on duty
there were no chanteys sung.  The job which had
taken five minutes was now dragged out for an hour;
a surly obedience, a scowling glance, replaced the old
alacrity of service, and Captain Home had remarkably
narrow escapes from blocks or marlinespikes which fell
from aloft by accident.
</p>

<p>
Then at long last, driven far down towards the
Antarctic after six weeks of awful cold, of furious gales,
of peril without and smoldering mutiny within, the
ship won round the Horn.  Sheeted with ice from
truck to keelson, she drove before a polar gale straight
to the norrard.  A storm jib, and a close-reefed to'gallant
sail kept her just clear of being jumped by black-browed,
white-manned, hell-bred, mast-high combers,
outroaring the Antarctic wind, while sheeted spray
slashed overhead, and on the rolling decks green seas
came aft, waist deep.
</p>

<p>
Jock and the Iroquois, the two strongest men in the
watch, were at the wheel, the mate standing by lest a
kick of the rudder whirl them into the scuppers.
Forward the rest of the men hung on, half drowned, Silas
and Bill together in the starboard shrouds.  "Say," the
American had to shout to make himself heard in that
uproar, "jest you keep an eye on the old man, aft there
in the rigging.  He knows he daren't heave to, and
if we broach we'll founder; but if he's man enough he'll
set three reefs in the tawps'l and let her rip for Hail
Columbia."
</p>

<p>
By the fading daylight Bill saw the gleam in this
Yankee's eyes, the smile upon his lips, the triumph of
him, caught the exultant laugh, and for the first time
knew that here was indeed a man.  But as it needs a
light to cast a shadow, this new admiration for the
Yankee sharpened Bill's memory of the betrayal, so
mean an act of spite.  If the ship won through to the
Columbia, Silas had prospects ahead a life to live.  If
she broached to, if one of these vindictive monster
seas should batter in her ribs, and send her reeling
down through the black deeps beneath, he need not go
to Newgate, or be hanged at Tyburn on a false charge
of murdering his mother.  As he looked at Silas the
lad's lips appeared to be drawn, gray, smoldering, while
in his eyes the American saw grief so awful that he
turned away.  He was afraid.
</p>

<p>
To fear is only human, but the display of it is cowardice,
that meanest selfishness which infects and saps
and drains away the courage of others just when they
need their strength.  So Silas, knowing at the inner-most
of his being that he was afraid of Bill, in spirit
terrified, must needs, for his manhood's sake, attempt
to bluff.
</p>

<p>
"Shucks!  You got a grouch ag'in me still?" he challenged.
</p>

<p>
"Yes," answered Bill, through his clenched teeth, "I has."
</p>

<p>
"You'd as lief fight it out?"
</p>

<p>
"In the second dog watch if we've time," said Bill,
"or the middle watch if we hasn't."
</p>

<p>
"Right-o.  Where?"
</p>

<p>
"On the bowsprit end.  We'll 'ave it out with knives."
</p>

<p>
Silas wished then with all his heart he had not tried
to bluff.
</p>

<p>
"You mean that?" he asked huskily.
</p>

<p>
"I mean," said Bill, "as I'm afraid to live, and Silas,"
he stared into the man's eyes, "you're scared to die!"
</p>

<p>
"Waal, that's a fact.  I am&mdash;leastways to die at
such a job as that."
</p>

<p>
"When you sneaked," said Bill, "your words was
murder."
</p>

<p>
A heavy sea crashed inboard, filled the fore deck,
and when the spray cleared they saw the galley all
adrift against the half-poop.
</p>

<p>
"Bill," said Silas, "I ax your pardon for what I
done."
</p>

<p>
"And I forgives yer, Silas."
</p>

<p>
"Bill&mdash;I see the old man screeching for us."
</p>

<p>
But Bill saw his mother standing amid the wash and
wreckage aft.  She nodded and smiled to him.  Then
she was gone, and the lad went to his duty about the
shattered galley.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VIII
</p>

<p>
The gale was at its height during the middle watch,
but on towards dawn began to flaw with lulls between
the furious squalls, so when the starboard watch was
called the captain had the idlers on deck, served rum,
and set the topsail.  It was a sign that, for Cape Horn
was conquered, and in their victorious mood, with the
sudden glow of liquor warming them, the men forgot
the gloom of the long nights, the piercing cold,
drenched clothing, boils, wet berths, the chronic hunger,
and mental weariness from lack of sleep, their burning
hatred of the captain, even the lack of that human
kindness which alone makes life worth living.  The
setting of the topsail was a sign of better days, of
favoring winds, of sunshine, warmth, the Happy Latitudes
ahead, water to wash with, a landfall, a seaport, fresh
food, and an all-night's rest.
</p>

<p>
Until this time Bill's mind had dwelt mainly upon
the past, with a sick yearning for his mother, and for
the barge, the only home he had known, the merry
traffic down the Lower Reaches, the stir and throb of
London.  If he thought of the future, it was only with
dread of being taken back, and hanged as a matter of
course&mdash;yes, just as Uncle Joey had been turned off
at Tyburn.  Now a new impulse filled him.  Was he
such a fool as to be taken back there alive?  "Yes, if
they're smart enough to catch me once I gets ashore!"
</p>

<p>
He was tailing on the halliard.  For the outrage
upon Auld Jock, the ship's best chantey man, no man
would start a stave.  Yet in his mind was the memory
of the Trawling chantey picked up long ago from the
Barking fisherman.  He began to hum the tune, aloud
before he knew, and presently a Shetlander of the
starboard watch took up the chorus, one after another
caught the melody, and Bill roared out the bass, yelped
the high grace notes:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Now up jumps the Herring&mdash;the King of the sea,<br>
  He jump to the tiller&mdash;shouts 'Hellum a lee.'<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
"Chorus, you fellers&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  For it's windy old weather,<br>
  Stormy bad weather,<br>
  And when the wind blow<br>
  We must all pull together!"<br>
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
IX
</p>

<p>
At Robinson Crusoe's Island, which is now called
Juan Fernandez, the <i>Beaver</i> put in for water, and there
her consort the <i>Nereid</i> joined company, having been
out of sight for a month.
</p>

<p>
Of course Bill wanted to go ashore with the watering
party, so the old man clapped him in irons lest he
attempt an escape.  "Losing your day's work," said
Silas, who came to him at dinner time in the
'tween-decks, and brought food for them both.
</p>

<p>
Bill yawned.  "Sleep is good," said he.  "I didn't
intend to run&mdash;at least, not here."
</p>

<p>
They sat on the deck with the food between them,
to share the salt meat and biscuit.
</p>

<p>
"You hadn't oughter run," answered Silas.  "Them
Chilian loafers ashore what thinks they're soldiers ain't
worth encouraging.  Set 'em to hunting you&mdash;why,
they'd get swelled head mistaking themselves for white
men.  You want to wait until we makes little old
North America, where there's more room."
</p>

<p>
"You been on this west coast?" said Bill.
</p>

<p>
"You betcher&mdash;droguing hides along them Mexican
ports, from San Diego all the way up north to San
Francisco.  Yes, and when I was whaling, I been to
Roosian America.  We watered at New Archangel!"
</p>

<p>
"Away north?"
</p>

<p>
"Sure, and in between California and the Roosian
fur-trade forts is the British claims.  That's from
San Francisco up to 54° 40" north&mdash;all Hudson's Bay
posts, wot we're heading for now.  The British hain't
got no rights to be there anyways, seeing it's U.S.A."
</p>

<p>
"What rights 'as you got to our forts?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, as to that, the English can take their rotten
forts away and bury 'em.  It's the country belongs
to us.  We bought it from France.  It's part of
Louisiana."
</p>

<p>
"'Ow abart the moon?"
</p>

<p>
Silas grinned joyfully.  "Waal," he drawled in his
very slow speech, "it's this a-way.  The President he
come along to tell my mother as he'd like to owe her
ten dollars, if she could fix it.  I axed him about the
moon, but I sort o' disremember exactly what he said.
Lemme see.  Why, yes.
</p>

<p>
"Mr. President, he says, says he, 'Waal, Silas, it
ain't lo-cated, the moon ain't, yet,' says he, 'but when
it is lo-cated, you kin bet yer life no foreigners will be
up early enough in the mawning, but they'll find our
stakes in fust.'"
</p>

<p>
Bill was profoundly impressed, and tried in vain to
recollect any such conversation of his own with King
William IV.
</p>

<p>
"Another time," said Silas thoughtfully, "when the
President went buggy riding with my father, he telled
him that when we're good and ready, we're going to
run you British out of Oregon."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"&mdash;and Padre, Silas says&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Is that the dog-faced man?" asked Rain.
</p>

<p>
"More like a wolf," said Storm.  "Him as is going
to give me his gun, to make up for the way he
sneaked."
</p>

<p>
"Give you his gun?" asked Rain, delighted.
</p>

<p>
"Yes; it's a good gun too, if I can get a flint for the
lock.  If it had a flint, of course he wouldn't give it
me.  Besides, there's no powder or ball."
</p>

<p>
"When will he give it?" asked Rain.
</p>

<p>
"When we gets to the mouth of your river."
</p>

<p>
"I'll pray to the Sun for a flint," said Rain.
</p>

<p>
"Padre"&mdash;the lad looked up at the fairy clergyman,
who was frightfully busy working at his book&mdash;"Silas
says that the Americans is going to run us English out
of Oregon."
</p>

<p>
The padre abandoned his work in despair, swung
round on his high stool, put up his spectacles, and
looked over the top of the rims at these disturbing
children who squatted very comfy on the corner, holding
each other's hands.  "Ah! that reminds me," he said.
"Julia is engaged!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh!" Rain cried.  "But, Padre, you know there is
no marrying here."
</p>

<p>
"Did I say marrying?" asked the clergyman.  "No,
Julia took a fancy to Lion King-at-Arms, and is
engaged, digesting him."  He sighed.  "She has such a
temperature!  Ah! yes, and by the way, young Storm,
I have a letter which will interest you."
</p>

<p>
"Eh?"  Storm jumped to his feet.  "But of course
there hain't no letters in Dreamland."  He sat down
again disappointed.
</p>

<p>
"Pause, my son.  Think it out.  The fairies know
all about everything.  Well, how would they know
anything if they never got any news?  When a letter
is destroyed down there on Earth, of course it comes
here by fairy post at once.  This letter"&mdash;he grubbed
about for some time in his desk&mdash;"Ah! here.  It came
I see in 1806, so it's been quite a long time waiting for
you."
</p>

<p>
"Twenty-eight years!  Nine years before I was born!"
</p>

<p>
"So matters are arranged.  The little beforehand
and the little behindhand are attributes of the
fore-handed fairies.  Now, this particular letter is in
Russian; but there again, pause, and reflect.  It is a
thought, my son, and thoughts are things which flash
from mind to mind.  I am speaking Spanish, but you
hear in English, and Rain understands in Blackfoot.
You shall read this Russian letter in your own language."
</p>

<p>
Bill wanted the letter, but the padre would lecture,
so it couldn't be helped.
</p>

<p>
"I see," he continued, "that it went down on board
the Russian scow <i>Peter Paul</i>, when she foundered in
a gale off Iterup in 1807.  It is written by a man you
are to meet in Oregon, a Lieutenant Tschirikov.  His
grandfather, you know, was the great Lieutenant
Tschirikov, the Russian explorer who sailed with Vitus
Bering in 1741.  He made the first landfall when the
Russians discovered North America from the west."
</p>

<p>
Storm groaned, for at this rate he would never get
the letter.
</p>

<p>
"I'm frightened," said Rain.  "Letters are
supernatural, and fearfully powerful medicine.  Hadn't
Storm better pray to the Sun before he reads?"
</p>

<p>
"N-no."  The padre thought this over very carefully.
"Lieutenant Tschirikov is bald, quite bald, and
very very fat, so he should be quite harmless.  The
truly dangerous magicians are never bald or fat like
Tschirikov."
</p>

<p>
"Still, I think," said Rain most fearfully, "dear
Storm, you'd better make a sacrifice to the Sun.  Just
hang up something."
</p>

<p>
Ever obedient to her, Storm jumped up, grabbed
the padre's spectacles, ran out, and hung them on a
tree as a sacrifice to the Sun.  Then he came in again,
snatched the letter, and read.  It seemed to have no
bearing upon his affairs, but still one never knows:
</p>

<p class="noindent">
  <span class="smcap">To His Excellency<Br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Colonel The Barin Alexei Alexandrovitch,,<Br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Governor-General of Eastern Siberia,<Br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Irkutsk.<Br>
  St. Petr, Kadiak Island, Russian America,</span><br>
</p>

<p>
<i>July</i> 10th, 1806.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Venerable Brother,</span>&mdash;
</p>

<p>
In the name of all the saints&mdash;vodka!  Send barrels!
I languish on salmon, and Eskimo, inhaling the latter,
for so far I have been mercifully delivered from the
necessity of eating any.  They are suffocating.
</p>

<p>
I pray you salute the Immaculate Ruin, our Aunt, and
kiss her on my behalf.  Thus I shall have done my duty,
but not suffered.
</p>

<p>
Oh for the delights of your Excellency's palace, and a
clean shirt!
</p>

<p>
How I envy you the very least of those perquisites and
assumptions of plunder which ever flow into your treasury,
pickings worthy a minister of state.  But at the
least I am solvent, for so long as I can blow my own
trumpet I shall never be destitute, having Her
Excellency&mdash;Salute!&mdash;yourself&mdash;General Salute!&mdash;and the
Immaculate Ruin&mdash;nine guns!&mdash;to borrow from.  In default of
roubles I repay, as you perceive, in compliments.
</p>

<p>
Baranov, you know, spent last summer in extending
the Company's operations to a point a few thousands
versts or so from here, and far to the eastward of
Mt. St. Elias.  Here's to St. Elias!  I was with him&mdash;not Elijah,
you stupid&mdash;in the <i>St. Paul</i>, my present command, and
he had all the natives that could be mustered, in some
three hundred skin canoes.  Most of them, by the way,
were drowned in Icy Bay, but when Baranov makes an
omelet he likes to hear the eggs splash.  We founded a
post in the country of the Sitka tribes, and called it New
Arkangel.  On our return westward in the autumn, we
left behind some twenty-three men as garrison, but they
have foolishly allowed themselves to be done to death.
So we sail in a few days to massacre the Sitkas, the
only amusement there is to look forward to at present.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile I have put in for repairs here at St. Petr;
and beyond some little diversion of which it is the purpose
of this present writing to advise you, I have little to do
except play cards with the priest, and listen to the oddest
lot of legends that ever came out of a monastery.  Yum!
Yum!
</p>

<p>
I do not suppose that you care to hear about the
conditions of the country and the fur trade, or I would
regale you with an account of all the hunters drowned,
stabbed, or starved since I last wrote.  Nay, I will not
weary you with commonplaces.  It is enough that men
such as ourselves of the first fashion are condemned to be
bored all day with the affairs of the canaille, without
letting them intrude upon our private correspondence.
Verily our revered grandparent deserved to be exterminated
and heavily fined for his idiocy in discovering such
a country.
</p>

<p>
As a matter of fact, however, I am not writing to
amuse either myself or you, but to tell you how I
managed to fall out with Baranov.  As the insolent old fool
has written to Golovnin and others to get me sent home
in disgrace.  I want your Excellency to have his paws
burned.  How such a base-born, red-haired, shopkeeping,
bald-headed, shriveled-up he-bear came to be Governor
of Russian America I cannot imagine.
</p>

<p>
Well, early in June I arrived at Ounalashka, in the
Aleutian Islands, with supplies from Petropavlovsk;
found the Governor there, and began to unload.  From
the first I heard of little else but the charms of Olga&mdash;the
Little Fur Seal&mdash;they called her&mdash;daughter of a big
Aleut chief from Oumnack.  I entertained the old gentleman
on board the St. Paul, until he grew mellow with my
particular vodka, now, alas! no more.  Olga sat in a
corner with her big dark eyes fixed on me, her red lips just
a little parted, and her black hair streaming down on
either side of her face: only a savage, of course, but
one cannot expect court ladies from the entourage of Her
Imperial Majesty.  When I thought the chief was in a
sufficiently amiable humor&mdash;you could have buttoned his
grin behind his neck&mdash;I asked how many skins he
required for his very plain daughter.  Not that I wanted
her.  But still I felt some curiosity.  It would not be
good for his morals to encourage his avarice.
</p>

<p>
To which he replied that all my skins wouldn't buy
her, because the great lord Baranov demanded her for
wife.  Now the Governor has more skins than I have
hairs; but I have wisdom, and wisdom is better than
many skins; so I told the chief that if he would give me
Olga I would tell him all about everything.  You know
I picked up ventriloquism at the Naval College, so that
when the chief derided me, voices were heard laughing at
him from under his chair, out of the vodka bottles, in
the beams overhead and all over the cabin.  He said I
was a great doctor, and knew everything; but how could
he give me Olga when he had also promised her to Ivan,
a young chief in the village?  Moreover, she was in love
with a fourth party.  I told him that I was very wise,
and that I loved Olga.
</p>

<p>
Now, to make a long story short, I disposed of the
pretenders as follows: The fourth party I won over by
giving him an old cocked hat and a broken sword,
together with the degree of Sublime Exaltation in the
Ancient and Hereditary Order of Mystical Gluttons.
The initiation was a most imposing ceremony.  I read the
ritual from the ship's big medicine book, and in token
of the ancient and hide-bound traditions of the Order,
encased his head in plaster of Paris and painted his
nose red.  After marching thrice round the cabin on all
fours we concluded the ceremony with an oath, whereby
he is bound to present himself in person at Irkutsk, and
there to deliver letters credential to His Excellency the
Venerable and Supreme Grand Master of the Order,
take him into his arms, rub noses in token of amity
and a joyful heart, and to receive the appointment of
Minister of Stolen Goods in the government of the
province.  He sails in the ship of my little friend Hans
Schlitz, and I hereby commend him to your brotherly
love.
</p>

<p>
Now for the third party, Ivan, the young Chief: I
sent him to Baranov in the dead of the night to ask why
he has red hair; but instead of having his mind enriched
with the important revelations which were to have been
uttered by the Governor on hearing this mystic password,
my poor friend Ivan had his body decorated with quite
other forms of enrichment, and was found next morning
on top of the church belfry with one eye and three fingers
missing and his nose pointing round the corner.  Baranov
is inclined, at times, to be a little playful.
</p>

<p>
The fourth party being under your Excellency's care,
and the third suitor ignominiously rejected by the Little
One as damaged goods, I had now to compensate her
father for not getting Baranov's skins.  Wherefore I
proceeded to instill the most subtle wisdom into the head
of my future father-in-law.  I taught him a little sleight
of hand, and some card tricks; showed him how to run a
sword through his body by means of a tin tube in the
shape of a half belt, invented for him a beautiful system
of fortune telling, and gave him the ship's speaking
trumpet with which to bellow at the people through his
big medicine mask.  I showed him the effects of phosphorus
upon the face at night, and how even white people
turn black when painted with nitrate of silver.  But the
most polite of his new accomplishments is the
ventriloquism&mdash;a trick which he has raised to the dignity of a
fine art.  Suffice it to say that I qualified that savage to
become such an intolerable nuisance that he is to-day
the recognized terror of all Aliaska, and possesses more
skins than even Baranov could have offered for his
daughter.
</p>

<p>
But alas for all my virtue and my discretion!  Just
as I had won the Little Fur Seal, for whose sake Baranov
piled up his skins in vain, the young Aleut Chief was
undergoing repairs, and the fourth party proceeding to
rub noses with your Excellency at Irkutsk, the old chief
came to me, crouched down on the cabin floor, and began
to wail.
</p>

<p>
I took him by the scruff, rattled his teeth, and ordered
him to speak.
</p>

<p>
"She's gone," he moaned&mdash;"gone away in the night,
and left her poor old father all alone!"
</p>

<p>
I hauled him on deck by the ear, kicked him overboard,
and went to Baranov.  Our sorrows had made us brethren,
and we wept.  We were sampling a small keg of
brandy, to assuage our anguish, when in came Ivan,
with his nose bandaged up and his tongue hanging out,
to mourn with us.
</p>

<p>
In proof of our sympathy we gave him some of the
brandy, and as we three sat together mingling our tears
with our spirits, a rude little boy came in and laughed at
us.  Olga, he said, was his sister, and had whispered to
him last night, before she went away that <i>any one who
wanted Fur Seal would have to hunt</i>!  She said also that
she was going to St. Petr on Kadiak Island, and bade
him tell nobody of the fact, particularly Captain Tschirikov.
</p>

<p>
Baranov rose from his chair with a most absurd
assumption of dignity, and said: "Captain Tschirikov, you
will at once beach the <i>St. Paul</i> for repairs in the East
Cove, and superintend the work in person.  Ivan, you
will report to me at nine o'clock this evening, and
receive dispatches for Attoo Island.  Boy, consider
yourself entered on the books of the Company as my body
servant, and be ready by to-morrow morning to go with
me to Kadiak Island."
</p>

<p>
Dismissing Ivan and the boy, I told Baranov that I
intended to beach my ship for repairs, not in the East
Cove but at St. Petr, where there are better facilities.
He at once ordered me under arrest.  I replied that I
was not accustomed to receive indignities at the hands
of tradesmen, that as a naval officer I was responsible
to no civilian, and only refrained from calling him out
because he was not a gentleman.  Leaving him speechless
with rage, I boarded my vessel, slipped and buoyed
my cable, and squared away for Kadiak.
</p>

<p>
A Russian does not sleep when he is out wife-hunting,
and you have only to hold in remembrance the black
eyes of my Little Fur Seal to realize that I was not
many days in reaching her hiding place.  I landed at
St. Petr with my whole starboard watch, and proceeded
to search the village.  Just as one of my men entered
a house, he called to me, but I reached the front door
only in time to see something flutter out at the back.
Giving chase, I had the Little Fur Seal safe in my arms
within a hundred yards of the house.  We have hunted
bears together, O my brother, and faced them when they
were defending their cubs; but a she-bear in the spring
is a lamb compared to Olga.  She scratched, kicked, bit,
screamed; she tried to plunge a long knife into me, and
when I took that from her, clutched my hair.  Wherefore
I do beseech thee, Alexei Pavlovitch, as thou dost
honor the memory of our sire, to send for a wig to
Petersburg&mdash;just a little wig, with a becoming queue, in
the latest mode of the <i>vielle noblesse</i>, in size about the
same as you wear on full-dress occasions.  Have this
consigned to the care of Hans Schlitz at Petropavlovsk.
</p>

<p>
When I got her down to the boat the Little One began
to sulk; and except for some little scratching as
we got her up over the ship's side, she sulked on
consistently until supper time.  I felt like a brute as, after
a solitary meal in the cabin, I smoked my pipe before
turning in.  I was conscious all the time of the glare
from her black eyes.  Whenever I tried to make friends
they flashed upon me like twin stars; while once in my
bunk I had an uncomfortable presentiment that,
presently finding me asleep, she would cut me off in the
flower of my youth with a big butcher knife.  But
reflecting that it is much wiser to sleep than to lie awake
imagining vain things, and greatly solaced by the
memory of having seen Baranov's vessel beating her
way up the harbor, I partly closed my eyes, and dozed a
little.
</p>

<p>
As luck would have it, I was just sufficiently awake
to note that the Little One, believing me to be asleep,
was stirring.  To give her confidence, I snored
comfortably and, unsuspected by her, watched every
movement.  How pretty she looked as she stood in the faint
glow of the candlelight, and then moved slowly towards
me, almost imperceptibly and softly as a panther!
Picture to yourself, Alexei, the gentle swaying of her
limbs, the tangled mass of shadowy hair, the brilliant
eyes, the full red lips!  Outside I could hear Baranov's
crew letting their anchor go, and taking in their canvas.
I thought also, with a sense of pleasure, of Ivan
stealing slowly along the coast in his canoe towards us.
Then, brother, conceive my delight as I saw her creep
past the locker upon which lay the knife without even
stretching out her hand towards it.  A moment later
I felt that she was bending over me; her breath played
upon my face, her lips drew closer and closer, until at
last they rested upon my cheek, leaving there the
imprint of the sweetest small round kiss that ever sent a
thrill of joy through the heart of man.
</p>

<p>
<i>The Little Fur Seal was mine!</i>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
  Your affectionate brother,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;NICOLAI.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
In the padre's little adobe house Storm finished reading,
and at once the fairies, peeping round the edge of
the door and the window, made grand pretense that
they had not heard.
</p>

<p>
"Padre," asked Rain, "what's bald?"
</p>

<p>
The holy man lowered his head to show the shaven
tonsure.  "That," said he.
</p>

<p>
"Oh!" said Rain.  "I never saw a bald before.  We
don't have any in the Blackfoot nation."  Tears
came to her eyes and made them glisten.  "And fat,"
she said.  "Poor Nicolai!  Poor Little Fur Seal!
Storm, when you meet him in the Oregon be kind to
him and comfort him for the fat and bald.  And give
her my love too."
</p>

<p>
"If I remember," answered Storm.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
And Bill awakened because the bos'n knelt beside
him with a lantern, taking off the handcuffs.  The
<i>Beaver</i> was at sea.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap03"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER III
<br><br>
IN BRITISH OREGON
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
I
</p>

<p>
What is a Christian?  Is he one who
professes the Faith?  I have my doubts.  The
Holy Inquisition professed belief, and
generously burned the bodies of the orthodox in order to
save their souls.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps He accepts as Christian all who do the
will of His Father by loving God and their neighbors.
I dare hold that these are the Christians whom Christ
believes in.  Throughout a varied and misguided life
I have found the sort of Christians who love God and
their neighbors, both in the cities and the countryside;
but they seemed most numerous in the fighting forces
at war, the fishing vessels, the deep-sea shipping, the
cow camps, the remote gold fields, and the forlorn
outposts of trappers, rangers, scouts, explorers, pioneers.
Such Christians did not always clean their teeth, or
wash behind their ears, their conversation would have
shocked their mothers and all angels; but then one
doubts if the fisherman of Galilee had any table
manners, and if Peter, James, and John called on a modern
bishop, they would certainly be sent to the back door.
</p>

<p>
Is this too long a sermon?  Skip, then!
</p>

<p>
Nowhere are men so jammed as in a deep-sea forecastle,
or piled on top of one another for so long a
time, so plagued by rats, bugs, damp, cold, and gloom,
with such a suffering from lack of sleep, fresh water,
decent food, pure air, and privacy.  And nowhere do
men learn a more whole-hearted charity towards others,
and liberality, such a complete unselfishness, so grand
a Christianity of mind.  In foul weather everybody
saves a shipmate's life, say, once a day, and nobody
expects a word of thanks.
</p>

<p>
The fellow who does not matter one way or the
other is called Hi!  The chap who provides any sport,
puts up a good fight, or makes friends worth having
generally earns a nickname and as a rule will answer
to it, cheerily or with his fists, according to his nature.
Murderer Bill, as his shipmates called young
Fright, took his nickname without resentment.  So
one may address the most frightful insults to a
dog in such a tone of voice that he wags his tail
delighted.
</p>

<p>
If anybody wanted to have trouble, Murderer Bill
made haste to provide.  He fought several battles, and
had a reputation for pugnacity.  Yet to anybody who
treated him half decently he proved a loyal friend in
thought, word, and deed, the least selfish man on
board, recklessly generous.  No doubt was ever thrown
upon his courage, he had a natural bent for seamanship,
and fully held his ground as able seaman.  In
the larboard watch his special chum, towards the end,
was Silas, Auld Jock his instructor, and the rest were
friends.  There was no man on board more generally
liked.
</p>

<p>
And when the <i>Beaver</i> came safe inside the breakers
on the Columbia bar, the captain had Murderer Bill
haled down from aloft by the bos'n, clapped in irons,
and once again consigned to the 'tween-decks as a
prisoner.  The ship's company as a whole determined
to get even with the captain.
</p>

<p>
Thus Rain's prayer to the Sun came to be answered.
The mate lent a flint which fitted the lock of Silas's
gun.  A bullet mold was found in the bos'n's locker
and plenty of lead in the ballast for a supply of bullets.
When the ship's magazine was opened for the salute
to Fort Vancouver, a bag of powder strayed.  The
Iroquois made the belt and pouches, Auld Jock gave a
hunting knife, somebody stole a lens from the captain's
telescope to serve as a burning glass for making fire.
The Yorkshireman gave a wallet with flint, steel, and
tinder.  There was a purse filled by subscription.  It
was certain that, when Murderer Bill escaped to the
woods, he would not go empty handed, but doubtful
rather whether he might need a wagon to carry his
equipment.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
II
</p>

<p>
To have a luminous mind concerning Fort Vancouver
it is better not to get the place mixed with Vancouver
Island, or with the modern seaport of Vancouver upon
the adjacent mainland.  The old capital of British
Oregon&mdash;a city stands there now&mdash;was on the northern
bank of the Columbia where a natural park of
pasturage and timber sloped upwards from the river.
Upstream the valley was barred by lofty forests, and
from north to south no less than seven white immense
volcanoes appeared to float above a sea of mist.
</p>

<p>
The village on the river bank had three dozen log
cabins, very neatly kept by Indian housewives, their
men being Shetlanders and Orkneymen, French-Canadians
and Métis, Kanakas and Iroquois.  The offspring
attended school, where Solomon Smith taught
American, singing, deportment, and morality.  Behind
the village rose the stockade 20 feet high, quadrangular,
and in extent 750 feet by 450.  It was not really
a fort, having neither bastions, galleries, guns, nor
even loopholes, for indeed a wooden popgun would
suffice to terrorize the Chinooks.  Facing the main
gate was the chief factor's house, a French-Canadian
manor, its white veranda trellised for vines which
yielded purple grapes.  Between two flights of steps
forming a horseshoe stood a 24-pounder gun, with a
mortar on either side, and pyramids of shot, to frighten
children away from the geranium beds.  On either
side of the great house extended the officers' mess,
anteroom, library, a range of officers' quarters, and
houses for the guests.  Fronting these were the big
warehouses, store, ration house, hospital, and shops for
the artificers, the tailor, the turner, the cobbler, the
smith who made fifty hatchets a day in his spare time,
the bakers who supplied hard biscuits to the Company's
ships, and the Indians who beat the furs each week to
rid them of moth and dust.  On the lawn which covered
the main square stood the bell-house and the flag-staff.
Outside the stockade was the stead, with a
threshing floor worked by oxen, the orchard where all
the trees had props to help them carry their load, and
the farm of seven hundred acres.  Beyond was pasturage
where the sheep yielded twelve-pound fleeces, and
the growing herd of cattle was kept sacred for the
future prosperity of Oregon.  Downstream a couple
of miles an Hawaiian herder tended the pigs in the
oak woods.  Upstream was the sawmill which furnished
cargoes of lumber to the Sandwich Islands.  In
all that husbandry the figs and lemons were the only
failures; but Mr. Bruce, the gardener, had an exchange
of seeds with the Duke of Devonshire's place over at
Chiswick-on-Thames, and yielded to no man in strawberries
or Juan Fernandez peaches.  Outlying this capital
of the fur trade was old Astoria, an American
fort bought by the Company during the American-British
War of 1812, but now in ruins.  A white man
lived there to tend the four-acre garden and report the
arrival of ships.  On Puget Sound was Fort Nisqually,
and farther up the coast Forts Langley, McLoughlin,
Simpson, and Stickeen, which last had been leased from
the Russians.  Up the Columbia Valley was Fort
Walla Walla, from whence a trail went eastward a
couple of thousand miles to the United States, then
spreading steadily up the Missouri Valley.  Northward
of Walla Walla was Fort Okanagan, which had stockaded
outposts on the Spokane River, Lake Pend d'Oreille
and Flathead River, with others farther on in what
is now Canadian territory.  Fort Colville, near the
present boundary, and on the main stream of the Columbia,
was second only to the capital, and thence the annual
brigade of cargo boats went by river to Hudson's
Bay.  Southward of Vancouver about two hundred
miles there was an outpost, and beyond that, six
hundred miles or so, was the little Mexican presidio of
San Francisco.
</p>

<p>
In theory the country was held jointly by Great
Britain and the United States, but in fact it was
British Oregon.  The Hudson's Bay voyageurs retired,
who farmed in the Willamette, were hardly as yet a
colony, nor did the Company project large settlements
to disturb the Indians or the fur trade.  The time was
a golden age of progress, prosperity, sane government,
and unbroken peace, the sole creation of one
man, Chief Factor David McLoughlin, Father of
Oregon.
</p>

<p>
This gentleman was Irish on the father's and
French-Canadian on the mother's side, Canadian born, and
held a degree in medicine from the Faculty of Paris.
He stood six feet six inches, powerfully built,
strikingly handsome, with long hair iron-gray.  One
would compare him, in stern probity, with Washington,
in charm with Lincoln, but not by any means with
lesser men than these.  His enemies testify to his
hospitality, his delight fulness as a host, his generosity.
People who came out of the wilderness or from the
sea were charmed with the officers' mess, with its
willow-pattern crockery salved in 1825 from a wrecked
Chinese junk, the English cut glass, the bright silver,
the flowers, the gracious ease, the sparkling conversation.
And after dinner, Dr. McLoughlin, who had one
glass of wine when a ship came in, would ring the bell
for Bruce the gardener, who presented him with the
snuff box.  The pinch of snuff was a solemnity, a signal
which sent the officers to their work, and the guests
for a ride, or in wet weather to the library.
</p>

<p>
The pioneer serpents in this Paradise were the
Reverend Herbert Beaver, Church of England chaplain,
and Mrs. Beaver, the first white woman in Oregon.
Beaver had been an army chaplain in the West Indies,
a fox-hunting vicar at home, always more horse-proud
than church-proud.  He was a little man of light
complexion, a feminine voice, an oratorical manner,
flippant and arrogant, who hunted every morning and
baptized the heathen in drill time all the afternoon.  He
was appalled by the discovery that each of the twenty
officers, the doctor included, had an Indian woman in
quarters, a half-breed family, not married.  It did not
occur to him that the Indian marriage was sacred to the
Indians, and that himself was the first priest with
power to celebrate the Christian rite for the men.
With one exception, they refused his services as an
insult.  Beaver would not associate with immoral
women, or Mrs. Beaver with lewd, adulterous men.
They said so.  Indeed, the pair made themselves variously
and acutely unpleasant, and that in the name of
Christ.
</p>

<p>
The American missionaries who followed them
developed deadly treachery against the doctor; the American
pioneers, all pleasantly uncouth, wrested the country
from its British owners, but the English Beavers
were first to undermine the happiness of Oregon,
and it was their advent which closed the golden
age.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
III
</p>

<p>
H.B.C. brigantine <i>Beaver</i>, all shiny with fresh paint
and burnished brass, dipped her ensign to the fort,
fired her salute of guns, dropped anchor abreast of the
village, reported to the chief factor, and sent ashore all
sorts of reading matter and other precious treasure.
Then she proceeded to turn herself into a little paddle
boat, the pioneer steamer of the Pacific Ocean.  It was
on the 14th of June, 1836, that she took the gentlemen
of the fort on an excursion all round Wapato Island.
After that came her maiden voyage under steam of
800 miles to Milbank Sound, and the first filling of her
little bunkers at the Nanaimo coal seam.  So she passes
out of our story.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, at his first obeisance to the chief factor,
Captain Home made report with much pomp and
circumstance that he had a prisoner in irons awaiting
commitment on the horrible charge of murdering his
parents.  The doctor advised him to see Mr. Douglas,
Justice of the Peace.
</p>

<p>
Black Douglas, scarce less tall and imposing of
presence than the doctor himself, received the little fuss
box with an amiable grin, read over the newspaper
cutting with some slight impatience, and remarked that
Bill Fright seemed to have a jolly good case for
criminal libel against the <i>London Advertiser</i>.  The captain
was disgusted, and presently consoled himself by telling
Mr. Beaver all about it.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the ship's company related to all comers
that the prisoner was a pretty good fellow, with the
makings of a sailorman, although the skipper "had a
down on him."
</p>

<p>
The officers' mess agreed that Captain Home was
a pompous ass, sitting on a mare's nest, and making a
ridiculous fuss about some youngster falsely accused of
felony.
</p>

<p>
At the mess the Reverend Herbert Beaver observed
over his wine that he had already reported to the
Aborigines Protection Society of London on the hideous
and callous immorality of the present company, and if
this parricide were not at once committed for trial he
in fact would proceed&mdash;to take steps.
</p>

<p>
Doctor McLoughlin rang for Bruce, took a pinch
of snuff, released the servants, then requested the
Reverend Chaplain to resign from the mess, because it was
intended only for the use of gentlemen.
</p>

<p>
The Reverend Beaver having flounced out of the
room in a huff, and banged the door, the chief factor
bowed to the delighted officers, who came about him as
he stood to receive their congratulations.  "Do you
know, gentlemen," he said, "I agree with the chaplain.
Yes.  I regret to say that for once I find myself in
agreement with Mr. Beaver.
</p>

<p>
"Now, James," he turned to Douglas, "please don't
give Mr. Beaver ground for complaints against you to
the Government of Lower Canada from which you
hold Commission of the Peace."
</p>

<p>
"You mean sir, that I should try this rotten case?"
</p>

<p>
"I do, Jim, really.  I have my reasons too.  And
Jim," he winked at the magistrate, "may I be
prisoner's friend?"'
</p>

<p>
There was a roar of laughter.
</p>

<p>
"And mind you, Jim, no hole-and-corner business.
All white men should be present, as witnesses to the
fact that Mr. Beaver has no grounds for complaint
either against you or against me."
</p>

<p>
"May we use this room, sir?"
</p>

<p>
And so was the trial arranged.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
IV
</p>

<p>
"Prisoner.  The London news-sheets of 29th October,
1835, our latest advices, report that a coroner's
inquest was convened at a place called, yes&mdash;Margate,
the day previous, upon the bodies of James Fright, a
barge master, and Catherine his wife.  The jury gave
a verdict of deliberate and willful murder against the
son of the deceased, by name Bill Fright.  As a
Justice of the Peace I'm obliged to rule that this
newspaper report is bona fide evidence.
</p>

<p>
"What is your name?"
</p>

<p>
"Bill Fright."
</p>

<p>
"Call Mr. David Home."
</p>

<p>
David Home, having taken oath, protested that he
was entitled to be called Captain.
</p>

<p>
"By courtesy," said the magistrate blandly, "which
I shall render, when I have inspected your log book.
You will please show the prisoner's name in your
log."
</p>

<p>
"Prisoner is shown here," said Home, "under a
purser's name, as Willie Muggins."  The captain was
mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.  Certainly
the mess room was hot and crowded.
</p>

<p>
"You assert that the prisoner signed on under a false
name?"
</p>

<p>
The captain shuffled.  "Oh, well, fact is&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Be careful, Mister David Home, be careful!"
</p>

<p>
Still the captain shuffled, and his ship's company,
present at his request, excepting the Iroquois and the
Negro, began to rejoice aloud.
</p>

<p>
"Am I to understand," thundered Black Douglas,
"that you attempt to prejudice the prisoner's case by
suggesting that he signed under a false name?"
</p>

<p>
"No, sir!"
</p>

<p>
"Then what the devil do you mean by appearing in a
British Court of Justice with a false log book?  I
refuse to receive your evidence.  You will leave my
court.  Get out!"
</p>

<p>
Nothing could restrain the <i>Beaver's</i> crew from
rousing cheers as their captain was shown out, but Black
Douglas ordered silence or he would clear the court.
</p>

<p>
The boatswain's evidence was accepted as to the
fact of arrest.
</p>

<p>
"And now," the magistrate turned to the prisoner,
"you are charged," he spoke with a grave gentleness,
"with the murder of your parents.  Do you plead
guilty or not guilty?"
</p>

<p>
Bill knew that this man was a friend worth winning.
"Not guilty!" he answered joyfully.
</p>

<p>
Black Douglas looked at the crowd.  "I want you
all to know," he said, "that I don't pretend to any
training at all in law or in court procedure.  I'm a
trader.  But I am a white man claiming British blood.
Deep down in all our hearts there is one root principle
of our common sense, fair play between man and man.
We are here to play the game.  A prisoner is a man
restrained by the law because his conduct has been
called in question, held until Justice can give him
absolute fair play, and he stands free in presence of his
fellows.  He is an innocent man in trouble, in jeopardy."
</p>

<p>
Here the Reverend Beaver, seated in the front row
of the spectators, was unrestrained in his impatience.
</p>

<p>
"Pish!  Pshaw!  Mawkish sentiment!  Playing to
the gallery!  Disgraceful!"
</p>

<p>
The magistrate seemed to be pleased, and addressed
the remainder of his remarks directly to the chaplain.
As he drove home the attack, great was the joy of his
brother officers.
</p>

<p>
"To slander a prisoner behind his back, to question,
bully, or punish him, or in any way to treat him as a
felon before he is proven guilty, is a beastly and
contemptible act of cowardice.  The prisoner before me
has been slandered by the news-sheets behind his back
prior to his trial.  I cannot shoot the reptiles of the
press, but I can and will defend the prisoner in the
establishment of his own innocence.  As magistrate I
am allowed to ask him which way he pleads, in guilt
appealing to the Crown for mercy, or in innocence
demanding release as an act of justice.  Pleading 'Not
guilty,' he has demanded trial.
</p>

<p>
"Prisoner, Dr. David McLoughlin, Chief Factor,
asks leave to appear on your behalf as prisoner's friend
to see that you get fair play and benefit of doubt.  Do
you accept his help?"
</p>

<p>
There were tears in Bill's eyes and his voice was
very gruff as he answered "Yes."
</p>

<p>
Press cuttings were then read by the clerk of the
court and noted as documentary evidence, completing
the case for the prosecution.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dodd, mate of the <i>Beaver</i>, was sworn for the
defense, and presently examined by the doctor.
</p>

<p>
"In whose watch, Mr. Dodd, did the prisoner serve?"
</p>

<p>
"In mine, sir; I chose him."
</p>

<p>
"Any regrets?"
</p>

<p>
"None, sir."
</p>

<p>
"What sort of character?"
</p>

<p>
"First-rate, sir; best helmsman we has, makings of
an excellent seaman.  Couldn't have done it, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Done what?"
</p>

<p>
"Done murder, sir."
</p>

<p>
"I think," observed the magistrate, "that this is
opinion rather than evidence as to fact."
</p>

<p>
"Does the prisoner get on well with Captain Home?"
</p>

<p>
"No, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Why?"
</p>

<p>
"Rather not say.  It's not my place to discuss my
commanding officer."
</p>

<p>
"Excellent.  By the way, Mr. Dodd, was the prisoner
wearing a belt knife when he joined the ship?"
</p>

<p>
"He was, sir."
</p>

<p>
"May I request the court to have one or two of the
newspaper reports read again with reference to the
weapon?"
</p>

<p>
The clerk read two or three versions which described
the murderer's blood-stained belt knife as found in the
barge's cabin.  The last version showed the weapon as
clutched in the dead man's hand.
</p>

<p>
"That's right, sir," cried the prisoner, and when the
doctor tried to silence him, so much the more he
protested.  "Why, I seen it!"
</p>

<p>
"Prisoner," said the magistrate, "you will be wise to
leave your defense to your counsel."
</p>

<p>
"Bias!  Bias!"  The Reverend Herbert Beaver
jumped up and shrieked in his shrill voice.  "Bias!
The court is shielding a felon!"
</p>

<p>
"Silence in court," said the magistrate.  "Usher, if
that man interrupts with one more word, remove him,
using all necessary violence."
</p>

<p>
The prisoner had whirled round to stare at the chaplain.
His face became deadly pale, his eyes were starting
from his head, his teeth were clenched, lips parted.
"You go to 'Ell," he snarled.  "And that ain't far&mdash;for you!"
</p>

<p>
"I call you all to witness&mdash;&mdash;" shrieked the reverend
gentleman; but he got no further, for all necessary
violence attended his departure.
</p>

<p>
The Reverend Jason and Daniel Lee, of the Methodist
faith, American missionaries, some visiting officers
of the company's outposts, one or two overland
trappers, a couple of stray seamen, the gentlemen and
servants of Fort Vancouver, and the ships' companies
of the <i>Beaver</i>, <i>Nereid</i>, and <i>Una</i>, made in all perhaps
the largest assemblage of white men which had so far
met on the Pacific coast.  The affair of Bill Fright
was not of the smallest consequence that day compared
with the great issue, the chaplain's grievance against
the magistrate which would be laid before the Government
of Lower Canada, and his complaints to the Governor
and Company in London which might easily ruin
the Father of Oregon.  Now he would claim conspiracy
between the doctor, the magistrate, and the prisoner!
How much worse his grievance, if the prisoner
were found not guilty, and released as an innocent
man!  The doctor and Black Douglas were exchanging
glances, and both understood that the boy must be
committed for trial.
</p>

<p>
The case went on, for Mr. Dodd was witness as to
Silas discovering the charge against the prisoner, and
how as chief officer he himself examined the supposed
Willie Muggins, who proved perfectly frank, and
manfully indignant at an outrageous slander.  Again the
seamen of the <i>Beaver</i> broke out cheering, and had to
be restrained.  There was no doubt as to their sympathy.
</p>

<p>
Now Bill demanded that the Court should hear his
story; and, rueful as they were lest he should ruin his
case, neither the magistrate nor the doctor felt that it
was wise to appear in the suppression of evidence.
Great was their relief as the lad spoke, simply and to
the point, clearing away all mystery, all doubt, until the
crime was seen in its true proportions, a murder and
suicide committed by his father, which left him
motherless, friendless, and in jeopardy of the gallows.
</p>

<p>
The doctor scribbled a note, and handed it to Douglas.
</p>

<p>
"Dr. McLoughlin," the magistrate looked up from
reading the note, "I quite understand.  The clerk of
the court will make record that the prisoner, having
taken over his own case, the prisoner's friend
withdraws from his defense."
</p>

<p>
Bill was horrified at that disaster just when he
thought that he had won the game.
</p>

<p>
"Prisoner, it is your right as a British subject, to
proceed to England, and there as an innocent man
demand a reversal of the coroner's sentence, so that your
innocence may be established before the world.  You
are therefore committed for trial."
</p>

<p>
"May I speak?" asked Bill.
</p>

<p>
"You may."
</p>

<p>
"Then"&mdash;he shook with anger&mdash;"I says as you sends
the mouse to eat the cheese in the mousetrap&mdash;and calls
that justice!"
</p>

<p>
The magistrate's grave face preserved an unsmiling
severity, but his right eye closed, then opened.
"Exactly so," said Douglas.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
V
</p>

<p>
"And then," said Storm, "he wunk!"
</p>

<p>
"But <i>how</i>?" asked Rain.
</p>

<p>
"Like this," Storm closed one eye and opened it with
much solemnity, first to the padre on his stool, and
then to Rain in the corner.
</p>

<p>
"Of which," explained the padre, winking a few
times to try what it felt like, "I will proceed to give
the interpretation.  For if," he assumed the pulpit
manner, and winked devotionally, "there is an
interpretation of dreams down there on Earth, there is
likewise an interpretation of wakes up here in Dreamland."
</p>

<p>
"Quite so," said Rain.  "I always felt that there
should be, seeing that our actions down on the hunting
ground are never taken seriously by any fairies here."
</p>

<p>
"The meaning of the magistrate's gesture," continued
the padre, "is as follows.  My good youth, if
I declare you innocent and free, you are a seaman on
board the <i>Beaver</i> and go to the northwest coast, to
shovel coals and have yourself bullied by that Complete
Swine Captain David Home.
</p>

<p>
"Or if I get the doctor here to take you on the
permanent staff of the Fort, you come under the spiritual
ministrations of the Holy Beaver, which stirs up mud
with its tail instead of using it as a trowel and building
dams to keep out Satan withal.
</p>

<p>
"And if I commit you to take your trial as a mouse
in the Public Mousetrap, which is very bad for
mice&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"That's what he done!" cried Storm indignantly.
</p>

<p>
"But for the wunk," explained the padre, "yes; albeit,
dear Brethren-in-the-singular, you will take to the
woods, and presently get yourself devoured by a very
fierce bear&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"A real bear," said Rain very gravely.
</p>

<p>
"Because you don't know how to shoot."
</p>

<p>
"I do!" cried Storm.
</p>

<p>
"Not to hit, my son."
</p>

<p>
"I see."  Storm showed dismay, and relapsed into
gloomy attention.
</p>

<p>
"Wherefore we will fool the captain of the ship,
the Holy Beaver, the Public Mousetrap, and the Real
Bear by sending you away to be taught hunting,
trapping, and woodcraft with my old friend Lieutenant
Tschirikov&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"The Fatbald!" said Rain.  "I'm sure he must be
very nice to make up for being so plain."
</p>

<p>
"So that's why!" cried Storm, delighted.
</p>

<p>
"&mdash;who lives, my son, at the river of the Kutenais,
on the green meads at the head of Flatbow Lake."
</p>

<p>
"Why, that's my lake!" cried Rain.
</p>

<p>
"Of course," observed the padre: "for this cause
was Storm brought from the Land of Barbarian-hereticks
who drop their aitches, and carried to the mouth
of your river, in order that he may come to your own
lake, and meet you on the high snow field overlooking
the Apse of Ice."
</p>

<p>
"The Sun Lodge where I am priestess!" cried Rain,
exultant.  "Now do I thank thee, Holy Spirit in the
Sun, for all Thy mercies!"
</p>

<p>
When they had all three said their thanks, the padre
observed that Julia was outside waiting to conduct
them.  They really must call on the invalid dragon.
</p>

<p>
"Who is that?" asked Storm.
</p>

<p>
"He is a poor dragon who devoured so many virgins
that he has grown too stout, his cave is pinching him,
and he can't get out."
</p>

<p>
"If I killed him," said Rain reflectively, "it would
count for a good coup, like a scalp."
</p>

<p>
"Nay," the padre rebuked her ignorance, "a proper
scalping lasts, but the more you chop a dragon the more
he grows, and when you kill him he comes alive again."
</p>

<p>
"Anyway," said Rain, who had turned obstinate,
"when Julia guides us, she is so busy showing herself
off, that she always loses her way."
</p>

<p>
"Let's give her the slip," said Storm; so they got
the padre out, by stretching him a little, through the
back window, and went to see the dragon.
</p>

<p>
It took Rain and Storm some time before they mislaid
the clergyman, and forgot all about the dragon,
as they set forward upon that great adventure.  At
first they crossed part of a city, set in the midst of a
park with very stately, formal gardens.  They wanted
to have a nearer view of the palace which rose beyond.
It was made of silvery morning mist carved into colonnades,
big shiny towers, and, far up in the sky, a dome
all iridescent like the soap bubbles which have gliding
colors.  Rather frightened, daring one another to
come on, expecting to be turned back at any moment,
they crept into the vestibule.  It had a sheen of pearl,
and went away on either side into cool green distances.
It was like the soul of the sea.  Beyond it they found
a courtyard with a pool reflecting its high walls, which
were of opal, changing as one watched with color
which rolled like sea waves towards the open doors
upon the farther side.  Within those doors was a big
ante-chamber, where the light was all golden.  Then
there was a forest of columns, dusky and enormous,
where footsteps echoed so that one went on tiptoe, until
one looked through into the vast throne room.  That
seemed to be hewn out of the heart of a diamond, and
in the midst of its flashing splendors there sat
enthroned and all alone the King of the High Fairies.
So dazzling was the light which came from him that
the intruders went down on their knees and covered
their faces.
</p>

<p>
"My thought has called you here," said the King,
softly as though he whispered.  "Do not fear, my
children.  Come to the step here at my feet, and rest
while I speak to you."
</p>

<p>
Now, the story which was told by the King of the
High Fairies is no invention, but real; not mine at all,
but copied word for word out of a splendid book.[<a id="chap03fn1text"></a><a href="#chap03fn1">1</a>]
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p class="footnote">
<a id="chap03fn1"></a>
[<a href="#chap03fn1text">1</a>] <i>A Subaltern in Spirit Land</i>, by J. S. M. Ward, B.A.,
F.R.Econ.S., F.R.S.S.  (London: Rider &amp; Son.)
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Long ago I was one of the fairy folk, such as those
you have just left, and so were we all.  I dwelt in a
castle, and did deeds of glamour, and hoped that a mortal
would one day proclaim them to the world.  But one day
I fell into a strange trance, and dreamed of Earth, and
of the sufferings of mortals, and their follies, and I
saw how foolish were their griefs, and how easy it would
be to relieve them.
</p>

<p>
And when I awoke, I pondered over these things, and
it grew upon me that the life I lived was aimless and
empty, since it was but glamour, and there was neither
real sorrow nor sin, but only make-believe.  For evil was
only potential, but there it was real.  Here the triumph
of the good knight was always assured, but there it was
uncertain.
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Be it understood that the High Fairies are like ourselves,
real people, but belong to a separate Order of
Spirits, who have never been in mortal bodies to learn
the discipline of pain, of sin and sorrow.  Many of
their adventures which happened in Fairyland are
well known to all of us, in the <i>Annals of the Round
Table</i>, <i>The Arabian Nights</i>, and some of the so-called
fairy tales.  The writers of such books went in their
dreams to Fairyland, invented earth-names for the
High Fairies they encountered there, and brought back
great annals of adventure.  Others of the High
Fairies hope that some day a writer will come and
give them earth-names, so that they and their
adventures may be known by mortals.  Now to resume the
story told by the Fairy King.
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Then I set out towards the confines of Fairyland, and
turned my back on the pleasant vales.  I journeyed
through the dark wood, and came at last to the cave
where the gnomes dwell.  These would have bidden me
stay, but I heeded them not, and at length I came out
into the astral plane, of which you know.  But lower
and lower I went, seeking sin and suffering, just as you
menfolk flee from them, and on the astral plane I worked
for a while, but as I knew not earth-life, I found my
efforts of little avail.
</p>

<p>
So at length I reached the earth plane, and wandered
unseen among the sons of men till the sorrow of the
world ate into my soul and grief for its woe
overwhelmed me.
</p>

<p>
Yet, try as I would, I found I could do little to help
mankind, for I was not of their nature.  Till one dread
day I stood on a hill near a city men call Jerusalem, and
I gazed in the faces of three who were crucified.  Then
He in the center saw me, though the rest saw me not,
and He spoke these words:
</p>

<p>
"O spirit of air, who knowest not the love of men,
draw near."
</p>

<p>
And I drew near, and said, "I have sought suffering
and grief that I might be able to aid menfolk.  Thou,
who seemest to be the King of Pain, bring pain to me."
</p>

<p>
And He smiled.  "Thou askest a hard thing.  Yet
shall it be given unto thee.  Wrench forth the nails which
fasten My hands and feet and set Me free."
</p>

<p>
Then I arose and strove to grasp the nails, but
couldn't, for they were material and I immaterial.  And
as I strove, my helplessness filled me with a new sensation,
and it was grief.  For, strive as I might, I could
do nothing to help that gentle sufferer.
</p>

<p>
And the grief grew to an intensity of pain which is
indescribable.
</p>

<p>
Then again He spoke.  "It avails not&mdash;thou canst
not help Me; and yet in the striving thy request has
been granted.  Go, and My love for men go with
thee!"
</p>

<p>
Then the vague desire to help men grew into a burning
passion, and I went from the spot and strove to
help them.  And now it seemed that I was changed in
spirit, for I comprehended their griefs and how to help
them.
</p>

<p>
So I comforted the heavy-hearted in the dark watches
of the night.  And I guided the erring ones into the
safe road.  I strove with the wayward and warned the
foolish, until my work was accomplished.  I have learned
to suffer, yet have I never learned to die, and I think that
none can become perfect till that experience has been
endured.
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
All the time that he was telling the story the King's
right hand had rested upon Storm's head, or gently
stroked the wavy, sun-gold hair.  "Why do you
tremble so?" he asked&mdash;"you that are learning to die,
that shalt become what I may never be, perfected in
endurance by the rite of death.  Why are you frightened?"
</p>

<p>
"I'm not frightened, sir.  We gets a training on
our earth so as not to show funk when we're
scared."
</p>

<p>
We all know how dream-scenes change, how dream-people
are transformed.  By the King's magic the
throne room had vanished.  They seemed to be in a
paved courtyard, and in front of him there rose a
Roman colonnade.  It was the Prætorium in old
Jerusalem.  "Why, that's the orderly room," said Storm;
"it's lucky I'm off duty."
</p>

<p>
His clothes had changed themselves into Roman
infantry uniform, parade kit, a burnished and plumed
steel helmet, a shining steel cuirass, a kilt, strapped
sandals.
</p>

<p>
That was the King's magic, which awakened slumbering
memories, making far-past events to live as
though they happened within the hour.
</p>

<p>
"You are not frightened," said the King; "what
then, lad, makes you as the leaves when they are dry,
when their voice is harsh, ere the death wind carries
them away?"
</p>

<p>
Storm glanced sideways angrily at Rain.  "It was
all along of her," he answered.  "When she blamed
it on to me that she was to have a baby.  Wanted me
to make an honest woman of her, as if I'd stoop to
the likes&mdash;a native&mdash;a Jew drab.
</p>

<p>
"She slobbered," cried Storm, "all over my breast-plate
and shoulder straps, which I'd been burnishing
for inspection.  I never noticed that anything was
wrong until the morning parade.  And there was
my steel all rusted.  The old centurion told our
ten-man, Vivianus his name was, that if he couldn't keep
his men clean he'd better chuck his stripes.  The
ten-man was proper sick at that and when we got back to
the barrack room he took it out of me, yes, good and
plenty.  He had to furnish the day's execution
detail, and I was senior soldier of the section.  Said he
couldn't trust a dirty man in charge.  He'd have to
take the detail himself.  Besides he insulted me, and
we Northmen take no lip from them little black
Italians.  Tell you, what with that, and the woman, and
the disgrace&mdash;by Mithras!  I was just about crazy by
the time he marched us round here to this Prætorium
Courtyard."
</p>

<p>
Storm was a Roman soldier once again, back in the
garrison of old Jerusalem.
</p>

<p>
"Got to chuck a brace, breast to breastplate, shoulder
blades touching or you galls your windpipe on the
cuirass.  Got to watch your step and mind your dressing
so as not to make a holy show of our legion in
front of them natives.  Got to keep your mouth from
yelling, yes, and leave your dirk sheathed when ye
can't see nothin' but blood&mdash;blood, blood, and the ten-man
a-prompting in yer ear&mdash;'left, left, left, right, left,
right incline, come up on the left there!  Mark time,
by the left&mdash;forward, march straight through the
swineherd!  Shoulder through them!  Damn them!
Frontform.  Halt.  Stand at ease&mdash;stand easy.'  Blood!
Blood!  By the crucified Mithras, I'll have
his blood for insulting me.
</p>

<p>
"The natives was having their usual riot.  It was
something about one of them street-preachers they
wanted hanged; and, after a shindy, the Governor
let 'em have Him, provided of course He was turned
off decently by the troops, not torn to pieces by the
mob.
</p>

<p>
"Of course the Governor's guard escorted the prisoner
to the Prætorium Courtyard for the usual flogging,
and then, as He seemed to be something special&mdash;claimed
to be King of the Jews&mdash;the boys on guard
called the battalion out of barracks for a bit of fun
with Him.  They sent out for a dead branch from one
of them acacias, with ivory-white thorns a couple of
inches long.  They plaited that into a crown.  They
got an old short crimson cloak&mdash;general officers'
batmen gets such things given them.  And a long cane
did for scepter, though it broke.  They stripped the
preacher, and rigged Him out, had a great game with
the King of the Jews, bashing the crown of thorns on
His head with that scepter.  His face was running
with blood.
</p>

<p>
"Of course our execution squad, of an N.C.O. and
three privates, just stood easy until the day's prisoners
was handed over to us for our job of hanging.  If
the boys behaved like kids, they was off duty, and it
weren't no business of mine.  Besides, the prisoner
was only a Jew, and Jews is offal.
</p>

<p>
"Yet He was sort of getting hold of me, like drink
takes hold of a man before he knows.  That's why I
acted rough when we took over, cause us Roman
soldiers can't afford to be sloppy, especially with
natives.  His eyes&mdash;crucified Mithras, His eyes!  I
couldn't look Him in the face while I was going to
murder Vivianus.  That's the first man I ever forgave.
</p>

<p>
"The quartermaster used to issue crosses which we
had to turn into store after the day's executions.
They was heavy, and this preacher, after the way the
boys had handled Him&mdash;well, He was none too strong.
The other two was just the usual thieves and they
come fresh from the cells, but He broke down under
the load.  We caught a friend of His'n, an old fellow
from Cyrene, in North Africa, who had a couple of
sons, Alexander and Rufus, in the horse trade.  Them
Cyreneans is horse copers to a man.  Well, this old
Simon what we caught, we made to carry the
preacher's cross all the way to the West Gate, with
the natives mobbing Him, cursing and throwing muck.
When they're roused, them Jews is beastly.  So we
come to the Skull Hill just due west of the city, in
full view from every roof.  There's holes hewn in
the rock there, a row of 'em for crosses.  Them two
thieves was lashed to their crosses, which is the usual
way, but He was a sort of special case, so I had the
job of driving the spikes with a sledge through His
hands and feet.  He lay there on the cross, watching
me, and when I went sick all of a sudden He tells me
to do my duty.  He was smiling at me.  My God!
We lifted them three crosses, dropped the butts into
the mortise holes, and hammered in the wedges&mdash;same
as quoins, to keep 'em steady.
</p>

<p>
"We'd took off all their clothes, which was our
perquisite, and our ten-man makes fair division.  Except
His tunic, no use if it was cut, being woven, same as
a jersey in one piece.  We used knucklebones, which
is much the same as throwing dice.  I won, and in
the evening I give it&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
He glanced at Rain.
</p>

<p>
"To her."
</p>

<p>
The King bent low.  "Go on," he said.
</p>

<p>
"The day was heavy, and along in the afternoon
come a big storm, dark, with sheets of rain, and
blinding flashes.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Hello!" said Storm, "that's Snow Fell!  This is
Broad Firth.  We're in Iceland.  This is another
life.  Oh, what's the name of the farm?"
</p>

<p>
"Under-the-lava," said Rain, "the stead of Slaying
Stir.  And I'm the veiled woman from Swede-realm.
Don't you remember Slaying Stir has murdered my
dear brothers Halli and Leikner?  Their ghosts have
brought me hither to murder Slaying Stir.  In my
dream they said I must come to Iceland and avenge
their deaths.  So I did.  I came with the two poor
ghosts to Iceland to the house of Slaying Stir.  And
when I tried to stab him, my heart was turned to water.
My man here, Storm, was guesting at Stir's house.
Storm loved me."
</p>

<p>
The King laid his hand on the lad's arm.
</p>

<p>
"That I did," said Storm.
</p>

<p>
"What were you, then?" asked the King.
</p>

<p>
"A slave.  I, Harald Christian, Earl of Man, captured
in battle, sold to be a thrall.  My master, I loved
my master, young Leif Ericson.  And we came guesting
to the house of Slaying Stir, where we met my
woman.  That was in Iceland, but our home was
Greenland, the new Colony."
</p>

<p>
"So," Rain continued, "my man and I loved and
were wedded secretly.  But Leif captured me.  Then
he took his thrall, my poor man, Storm, and lashed
him to a post which stood in the tideway.  'One prayer
to Thor,' said Leif, 'and you go free.  One prayer to
Thor,' said Leif, 'and you get your woman.'"
</p>

<p>
"'One prayer to Christ,' said Storm, 'and you
save your soul!'  Then the tide closed over Storm's
mouth."
</p>

<p>
"So," asked the King of the Fairies, "you gave your
life for the Christ you had slain?"
</p>

<p>
"No such luck," answered Storm gloomily.  "Leif
got me back to life, made me a freeman, gave me my
woman.  Christ had him.  Afterwards I was with
him, steersman of the <i>Flying Dragon</i>, when we found
a new world."
</p>

<p>
There came a sudden vision of smoking seas, of lashing
spray, a reeling, staggering ship, with one great
lugsail lifting her as she drove, thirty-two oarsmen
straining at their labor, Storm in a leather jerkin at the
thwart-ship tiller, and beside him a youth gigantic in
chain mail who pointed with drawn sword, conning
the passage between drowned sand banks and terrific
combers into the entry of a land-locked bay.
</p>

<p>
"A new-found world," said the King.  "New-found America."
</p>

<p>
But Storm answered concerning the Viking hero,
Leif the Fortunate.
</p>

<p>
"He called it Christ-realm.  Yes.  That was
afterwards, when we'd crossed the Western Ocean, made
Norway, and put in at Nidaros, the new capital.
There was Leif baptized, with the Norse King standing
godfather.  He offered Christ-Realm to Olaf
Tryggveson, the Christian King of Norway."
</p>

<p>
The King of the Fairies said then:
</p>

<p>
"There seems to be a purpose running from life to
life.  So in the voyage of a ship the days pass, and the
nights pass, but from day to day the purpose of her
master continues always towards one end, one seaport.
Mortals, your lives are days.  Tell me of the next
incarnation."
</p>

<p>
"That time," said Storm, "I never found my woman,
so it don't count."
</p>

<p>
"Tell me, though.  Perhaps the purpose runs."
</p>

<p>
"I was Gaston le Brut, de Joinville's body servant,
and him crusading with Louis, King of France.  Them
wars is a muddle of battles, mud, and hunger, the pest,
and slavery among the Paynim at Babylon the Less.
The King and de Joinville got ransomed before they
could raise the money to buy out us troops from the
Soldan.  It's all a muddle of bad management, but
yes&mdash;I see&mdash;the ridge! the dragging my little master by
the hand and he squealing 'Non! non! non!' but I made
him see that which St. Louis didn't, the view of the
Holy City through the heat mist faint in the distance,
and the Hill of Skulls where I'd helped crucify my
God!  Oh, Christ Almighty!"
</p>

<p>
"The purpose runs, Rain," said the King of the
Fairies.  "Follow the quest.  What was your next life?"
</p>

<p>
"When next we met," Rain answered, "I was what
Storm calls Red Indian.  I was Powhatan's daughter
then.  It was in those days that the English came first
into our country&mdash;the land they call Virginia&mdash;yes, and
the English called me Pocahontas.  It wasn't my real
name though.  I wedded my man, and he was Master
John Rolfe&mdash;a little widower.  Twice he was Roman
soldier, once he was thrall in Iceland, and then it seems
crusader, and again John Rolfe the planter, and now
what he calls bargee; but he is always Storm and I am
always Rain, and we shall always love."
</p>

<p>
"And have you loved none other?" asked the King.
</p>

<p>
"Nay, but there was one I worshiped as though he
were a god.  Captain Johnsmith."
</p>

<p>
"Which," cried Storm&mdash;"I'd know that face among
millions&mdash;was Leif Ericson, the man who found a new
world."
</p>

<p>
"And in his next life," said the King of the Fairies,
"founded the United States, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Then that," cried Rain, "which we drop in the last
life, we take up again in the next."
</p>

<p>
"The ship," answered the Fairy King, "carries on
her journey during the night, and at the next daybreak
is that much nearer to her haven.  Now tell me of this
present day's journey, which you mortals call a
lifetime, down on earth."
</p>

<p>
Storm answered.  "Me and her is man and wife."
</p>

<p>
"Whom God hath joined," said the King, "no man
can possibly sunder."
</p>

<p>
"Till death us part?" Rain whispered.
</p>

<p>
The Fairy King leaned forward on his throne, his
hands clasped.  "Death," he reflected, "Time, and
Space are only three impostors.  They are shadows,
glamour, not realities like Faith or Hope or Love.  A
Spirit told me once that a man and a woman who love,
whom death cannot set asunder, may in the end be
parts of one, one Angel.
</p>

<p>
"How I do envy you two children!  And have you
been parted in this life you are living now down on the
Earth?"
</p>

<p>
"We've never met," said Rain.  "Storm is an English
sailor; I live with my mother Thunder Feather, the
sacred woman of the Blackfoot nation.  We have our
tipi in a lonely valley of the mountains, and pilgrims
come to Thunder Feather to be healed when they are
sick in soul or body.  But she is dying, so I take up her
work.  And always I call my man, so that he has come
on a voyage of six moons, to the mouth of my river.
Still I call him to come up my river, then over the
mountains to the sacred lodge.  He brings the Christ
Faith with him for our Indian peoples."
</p>

<p>
"I'm a prisoner," said Storm, "at Fort Vancouver,
and they want to send me to England because they say
I murdered mother.  I didn't, so I don't want to be
hanged for that.  I did murder Christ.  I want to die
for that."
</p>

<p>
"A Roman legionary," said the King, "a brave man
among the Vikings, a Crusader, a pioneer of the United
States, a seaman of England&mdash;how I envy you the
least of these achievements!  And you, my daughter,
loving and heroic, how poor my fate compared with
yours!  But I see ahead of you the greatest of all
adventures, the most splendid, the most tremendous, the
most triumphant.  May God bless you both!"
</p>

<p>
"Good-by, sir."  Storm kissed his hand.  "My
body is calling me, dragging me back to earth&mdash;to
prison at Vancouver."
</p>

<p>
"And," said Rain, "my mother calls me home.
Farewell, Great Chief."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
VI
</p>

<p>
Bill Fright awakened in his cell at Fort Vancouver.
</p>

<p>
The dawn was breaking, and pale blue smoke went
up from the chimneys as Fort Vancouver awakened,
yawning, for the new day's work.  Quite naked,
wrapping a blanket about him, stately as a Roman
Emperor, Black Douglas came to his door to snuff the
breath of the spring.  Then stepping gingerly,
barefooted across the crisp and dewy lawn and the gravel
road beyond, he made his way out of the fort and
across the village, until he stood upon the riverbank,
where he dropped his blanket and bath towel.  It
looked very cold.
</p>

<p>
Mist lay on the shining water and the dim gray ships,
whose masts went up so sharply etched against the
deeps of sky.  Beyond them lofty firs and spreading
cedars faint as dreams arose from isles invisible, rapt,
waiting.  Far up the valley, soaring above the forest
and the cloud belts, snow fields of icy blue were edged
with flame against the throbbing splendors of the
sunrise.  Close at hand some little fussy birds were
singing orisons, but the great prayer of the forest and the
volcanoes was a Silence, faithful, calm, triumphant,
rendered to Love and Power which reigns for ever, the
Spirit in the Sun, their Lord, their God.
</p>

<p>
In that homage Douglas joined for a moment shivering
with cold, then dived for his morning bath in the
Columbia.
</p>

<p>
Near by, at the jetty, a crew of five voyageurs, the
hoods of their blanket capotes like the cowls of monks,
were urging a prisoner into their birch canoe.  As he
flatly refused to enter they gabbled like squattering sea
fowl in shrill French, until the patron Louis le
Grandeur bade them desist.  "Laissez, mes enfants!
Restez!  Cet animal!"  He shook his fist in Bill's
face.  "And how you t'ink we mak' ze bre'kfas' if we
no depart&mdash;hein?  Sacré, mojee, batteme, goddam pig!"
</p>

<p>
He turned about and saw Black Douglas climb dripping
up the bank, all glowing from the sting of the
crisp tide.
</p>

<p>
"V'la!"  He ran to the big chief.  "Bo'jour, M'sieu
Dougla!"  He saluted.  "Sare&mdash;zees animal prisonnier
Beel&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Good morning, le Grandeur.  Ready to start, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"&mdash;'e say he no coom!"
</p>

<p>
Bill shouldered him aside, presenting shackled hands.
</p>

<p>
"Don't like the handcuffs, eh?" said Mr. Douglas
cheerily, grooming his back with the bath towel.
</p>

<p>
"Called me an animal!" cried Bill, exasperated, raging
at fresh indignities.  Yet somehow this man, twice
his size and many times as strong, this Justice of the
Peace, this leader born to command, who looked down
at him smiling, indulgent, did make him feel like one
of the lower animals content to obey, to trust, to do
his bidding.
</p>

<p>
"You and I," said Douglas, "are being watched.
There's your late commanding officer watching from
the poop, and no doubt His Holiness the Chaplain is
peeping somewhere from behind a house.  The handcuffs
look impressive."
</p>

<p>
"I see," said Bill, quite humbled.
</p>

<p>
"Look up the valley," said Douglas.  "See a point
of standing forest yonder?"
</p>

<p>
The headland was black against the sunblaze.
</p>

<p>
"Behind that point," said Douglas, "le Grandeur will
release you."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sure!" broke in le Grandeur, "and ze fusil!"
</p>

<p>
"The gun," Douglas translated, "and everything
your shipmates gave you is in that canoe.  You are
free.  You can run away, and my voyageurs will not
shoot.  They have my orders."
</p>

<p>
"You mean that, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  But will you take advice from an old
frontiersman?  I know you're too sensible a lad to run
away and starve in the bush with a gun you can't use,
in swamps you cannot cross.  These good voyageurs
will teach you how to hunt, and if you can feed
the crew it stands to reason you wouldn't starve
alone."
</p>

<p>
"Then I run away, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"I wouldn't.  Inland the tribes are dangerous, unless
you know their ways.  Run by all means, but, if
you want to live, go with these men to the point where
the River of the Kutenais falls into Flatbow Lake.
There you will find my old friend the Russian, Nicolai
Tschirikoff."
</p>

<p>
"I've heard that name, sir, somewhere, Fatbald
Tschirikov."
</p>

<p>
"That's curious, for the doctor and myself are the
only men here in Oregon who know him by that name,
or call him Fatbald."
</p>

<p>
"I must ha' dreamed it."
</p>

<p>
"Maybe.  Anyway"&mdash;Douglas picked up his blanket
and wrapped it about him like a Roman toga&mdash;"he'll
make a man of you, hunter, trapper, able to hold your
own among the tribes."
</p>

<p>
"Gawd bless you, sir."
</p>

<p>
"But, lad, remember that you've run away, and as a
Justice of the Peace I'm after you, to catch you if I
can, and ship you to England, to be hanged because
your worthy father killed your mother.  Don't let me
catch you, Bill.
</p>

<p>
"Now, march off looking just as if I had sent you
to the gallows."
</p>

<p>
"Mayn't I shake 'ands, sir?"
</p>

<p>
The magistrate shook his head, and as Bill turned to
go assisted him on his way with a bare foot.  At that
Bill was indignant.
</p>

<p>
Still Black Douglas stood on the river bank, until
the prisoner had boarded the canoe, and the voyageurs
shoved off.  They came upstream saluting as they
passed, then the swing and flash and glitter of their
paddles took time from the voyageur chantey:
</p>

<p>
  <i>Allouette!  Chantez Allouette!<br>
  All-ou-ette!  Je le plumerai!</i><br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Douglas followed with his eyes as the canoe went
on into the blaze of sunshine on the ripples.  There
was something very tender, very wistful, in his smile
as he stood listening.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  <i>Je le plumerai le bee;<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Et les yeux,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Et la tête,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Et les ailles,<br>
  Ah-a-allouette!  Chantez allouette!</i><br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  * * * * *<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Et les ailles!</i><br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap04"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IV
<br><br>
KOOTENAY
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3">
I
</p>

<p>
When Fatbald Tschirikov would take his seat
before the fireplace his glance went first
backward and downward, fear seemed to
flatten his large ears against his head, and he lowered
his hands to the chair-arms, testing in doubt the
strength of the birchen frame.  Next would his eyeballs
roll, and his mouth gape in readiness for a screech
while he lowered himself, fearful even unto anguish,
into the vast rawhide seat; a very hammock, but liable
to split.  A smirk succeeded, the signal for applause
from his four Indian wives, then a wriggle or two
adjusted him for the day.  No. 1 wife cast the bison robe
to cover him.  No. 2 served the soup wherewith he
greased himself most amply, slopping his way through
the mess.  No. 3 loaded his meerschaum pipe.  No. 4
stood by to run for the help of the tribe if aught went
wrong.  Afterwards he would remark that the four of
them were canaille, and might attend their own several
funerals for all he cared.  At this token of his gratitude
they crept away on tiptoe into the lean-to kitchen.
</p>

<p>
The clay fireplace in front of him was full of logs
set upright and aflame as though an ox were to roast.
The cabin walls were of cottonwood trunks notched
at the ends and dovetailed where they crossed, the
chinks between them being filled with blocks of wood,
moss, and a daub of mud.  No air got in or out save
when some malefactor, a wife perchance, opened the
front door.  Then Fatbald screamed reproaches in
Russian, Samoyed, French, Blackfoot, Kutenais, and
general profanity mixed, hot, crescendo, and culminating
in a volley of good round English damns, fortissimo.
</p>

<p>
Outside it might be twenty to forty degrees below
zero Fahrenheit in a world of dazzling sunshine and
glittering snowdrift.  Northward from the front door
extended the frozen levels of Kootenay Lake some
ninety miles, walled by austere forest, and still, white
dreaming Alps.  And yonder, fifty miles or so from
the trading post, was a little headland jutting from the
right.  As far back as 1825&mdash;some fifteen years
ago&mdash;the Hudson's Bay voyageurs, making a night camp,
where now is the Bluebell mine, had been astonished by
a flow of molten metal from under their cooking fire.
The stuff was lead, the first discovery of mineral in all
the regions west of the Mississippi, and the Hudson's
Bay Company was quick to seize advantage from the
find.  They built a small stone smelter with a pyramid
of roof, still standing when I saw the place in 1889, but
gone when I returned in 1913.  There they were wont
to make bullets for use in the Indian trade.  They were
good bullets, hard, part silver as it happened, but
nobody knew that.  The Hydahs of Queen Charlotte
Islands once made and used gold bullets, rather too
soft, they said, but better than none at all.
</p>

<p>
In his mind old Tschirikov was rather concerned
about the lead mine yonder, a long day's march to the
north.  Storm&mdash;these three years past his dear adopted
son&mdash;was there, with a bullet mold found in the bos'n's
locker aboard the <i>Beaver</i>, making some bullets for the
Kutenais.  A weary while away, weary weeks.  The
old man had made up his mind to live until Storm came
home, rather than trust his funeral to a pack of useless
wives.
</p>

<p>
He spoke many languages, and the blend was thickened
into a husky wheeze.  Nobody on earth excepting
Storm knew what he talked about.  The American
trapper who squatted in a corner of the room, lacing
the web of a snowshoe, heard Fatbald muttering feebly
through the soup, something which ended
</p>

<p>
"&mdash;dobra fils delate Klahowya mik, eh, hombre?"
</p>

<p>
In Russian, French, Chinook and Eskimo, English
and Spanish, this, being interpreted, meant: "I fear
that my good son has gone to heaven, eh, man?"
</p>

<p>
"Fine day, sure," responded the trapper indulgently,
"and a right smart snap of cold."
</p>

<p>
The husky dog asleep at Fatbald's feet lifted his
gray muzzle, snuffing something new, pricked his ears
forward, muttered a rumbling growl, then of a sudden
leaped at the door, yelping, "He's coming!
Coming!"  He did not speak in English, but in Dog, a
language of even wider distribution.
</p>

<p>
Somebody was coming.  The trapper went to peer
through a little frosted windowpane.  Somebody was
coming with a sturdy shout to greet the house.  There
were yelps of a dog team to all the pups at home, the
swish of carriole and snowshoes, brisk orders given in
the Kutenais, and stampings to shake the snow off
moccasins.  The husky was yelling out joyful adjectives
as he jumped up and down at the door, then as it
opened he leaped high for a kiss while the man stooped
low to get in under the lintel.
</p>

<p>
This fellow was by no means the subdued but truculent
Bill Fright of three years back.  Standing six foot
and just beginning to widen at the shoulders, he was
lean, hard, hale, and deep-tanned as an Indian.  No
savage ever whelped had steel-blue eyes like his that
flashed and glittered with power, or such a mane of
sun-gold hair, or flush of eager blood to light the skin
as though with an inner lamp.
</p>

<p>
He slipped his hands out of the fur mitts, shook off
the frost rime from his buckskin shirt so that the heavy
shoulder fringes pattered like rain on leaves, then with
a grin which showed a white flash of teeth he chucked
his beaver cap at Tschirikov.  "Hello! hello!"  He
spoke in Kutenais.  "How's fleas, and the little nits,
eh, Daddy Fat-face?"
</p>

<p>
"La porte! la porte!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, the frowst!"  Storm slammed the door to.
</p>

<p>
"Storms-all-the-time," the old man wheezed in
Kutenais, "you deafen me."
</p>

<p>
"All right, old chief, we'll have the whelps loose."
</p>

<p>
He flung open the trade-room door, and out of the
freezing store tumbled a heap of children head-over-heels
and shrilling Indian war whoops, leaping at him,
clamoring the news, the wagers on his first kiss, the
games which he must play, and how they wanted dinner.
Had he any gifts?
</p>

<p>
They got him down on the floor, climbed all over
him, went through the pockets of his hunting shirt.
Yes, there were gifts!  For each a little leaden
redskin warrior cast in a special mold of his own
carving.  The four wives had been in violent collisions
getting him four meals ready all at once; but now let the
food burn while they shared the scrimmage for the
toys.
</p>

<p>
Presently there was silence, because the old man, the
wives, and all the offspring watched with enormous
solemnity while Storm sat on the floor cross-legged to
a bowl of berry pemmican, a dish of three large trouts,
and a stew of camas.
</p>

<p>
In his own corner the American was being fed, apart,
not quite as a guest, nor yet as a prisoner.  These
people would not let him starve or suffer, but they made
him doubt the nature of his welcome.
</p>

<p>
This new arrival, the trapper reckoned, was certainly
by his coloring a white man, but in his speech and
manners Indian, perhaps the old man's son, undoubtedly
the master of the house, honored, obeyed, and loved.
Was he husband to these four women, father of all
these children?  Surely too young.
</p>

<p>
He seemed to have traveled far, and at his topmost
speed, to be ravenous, weary, and now, after the meal
and a pipe of wild tobacco, right well disposed towards
sleep.  He dismissed the women and children to their
supper in the kitchen, kissed the old man who was fast
asleep in the chair, then crossed to his bed and lay down
looking at the fire while he smoked his pipe.  It
dropped upon the robes.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Secret Helper, I come!" he muttered softly.
</p>

<p>
Through the closed eyelids he felt the flicker of the
firelight.  He smelled in fresh warm air a fragrance
from some burning herb, then heard a low voice at
prayer.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Holy Spirit in the Sun!
</p>

<p>
"Hear, Old Man!
</p>

<p>
"Listen, oh dear Above-people!
</p>

<p>
"Hear me, Under-water-people!
</p>

<p>
"I purify my body that my prayers may reach your
hearing."
</p>

<p>
The scene before Storm's eyes had changed.  In a
moment he had passed to Rain's lodge, more than a
hundred miles to the northward.
</p>

<p>
The firelight flickered now upon the sloping wall of
a tipi, and through the skins of the lodge covering
poured sunshine, mellowed as though it flowed from
gold-stained ancient glass.
</p>

<p>
Rain knelt on the far side of her hearth fire, and
naked down to the loins she let her body sway to the
rhythm of the prayer, while she bathed her hands,
arms, shoulders, and breast in the smoke of burning
herbs.
</p>

<p>
"I purify myself.  O Holy Animals, intercede for
me.  If you have spirit-power, pray for me that my
spirit, O Buffalo, may be strong to overrun all enemies;
O Eagle, that it may soar far up above the earth-mists;
O Wolf, that it may be subtle to see and understand;
O Owl, that it may see far through the darkness; O
Deer, that I may run fast and far upon my errands.
</p>

<p>
"Hear me, O Spirit in the Sun!  I ask the Holy
Animals, so much stronger, wiser, swifter, more
powerful than poor Rain, to plead for me to you, that I
may have spirit-strength to help my people when they
are in need.
</p>

<p>
"My Secret Helper!  Hiawatha!  Men come who
are very unhappy.  Tell me of their needs, and show
me how to help them.
</p>

<p>
"Send blessings to Storm, dear Spirit.  Pity him,
and help him.  Send him to me, for he needs all my
love."
</p>

<p>
She looked up, across the smoke of the hearth, and
there was Storm, who lay on the couch, his shoulders
against the back rest, in the chief's place facing the
door of the tent.  She was ever so glad to see him.
"You got home quick," she said.  She sat back on her
heels, and drew up a sheet of milk-white antelope skin
about her shoulders, and the fringe of little dew claws
tinkled softly.
</p>

<p>
"The sun," he answered, "was still two hours high
when I got home."
</p>

<p>
"Your animal must have been very hungry?"
</p>

<p>
"When it was fed it felt quite sleepy, so I left it and
came to you, dear Secret Helper."
</p>

<p>
"Do you remember," she spoke wistfully, "in the
long-ago time when we were little?  How seldom we
could both leave our poor animals at the same hours!
How rare our Dreamland meetings!  Oh, the long
waitings for you at the Tuft of Moss!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Dream.  I'd leave my animal on board of the
old barge in London River, but before I made the Tuft
of Moss the sun was up over these western mountains,
and your mother shaking your animal to turn out for
the day's work.
</p>

<p>
"Then, you remember, I was on board the <i>Beaver</i> off
the Horn, when your nights and mine began to close in
together, so that I saw you every night watch below.
Ever since I came ashore we've had whole nights
together&mdash;three years now."
</p>

<p>
"Don't be so stupid, Storm.  The times of the Sun
Spirit are not changed.  The Ruler cannot change.
Only our Sun-power grows."
</p>

<p>
Now, Storm would hold as dogma that the sun keeps
different hours in Oregon and in England, and
therefore the Spirit in the Sun must pass from London
River to the Kootenay, a matter of six hours.  This
to Rain's mind was false doctrine, a flagrant heresy.
The Holy Spirit in the Sun must shine alike, with equal
hours at the same time, upon the unjust in England
and on the just west of the Rocky Mountains.  Here
was a point in theology on which they always
quarreled, without being a bit the wiser or one whit the
better.  Neither had grasped the thought that the Great
Spirit is everywhere, and shines even within ourselves,
while the good sun keeps appointed seasons, days and
hours.
</p>

<p>
If none of us were theologians, all of us might be
Christians.
</p>

<p>
After the squabble, Rain and Storm agreed that
anyway their "medicine" grew stronger.  That word may
need explaining in its Indian sense.  A physician in the
French is "médecin," his treatment in the English
"medicine."  But when a French voyageur would use
the word among the Western Indians, they understood
quite in a different way, for to them a doctor's drug
was magic, so the word "medicine" applied in time to
all things magical, mysterious, in contact with worlds
unseen.
</p>

<p>
To Storm and Rain their medicine, which grew
stronger day by day, was the power which we call psychic,
meaning awareness and activity outside the bodily
senses.  The gift is common, its cultivation rare, for
to these lovers it was given in great strength and quick
development.  Not knowing how to explain the whole
of this deep mystery, I venture only to suggest that
Rain's mother, a sacred woman of the Blackfeet, and
Storm's mother, a Quaker mystic among the English,
had met together in the planes of spirit-being,
and by their love were helping these children onward.
</p>

<p>
"At first," said Rain, "when mother went over the
Wolf Trail, I was, oh, so lonely here!  You used to
come, to comfort me.  I only heard your voice, and
when I saw you at last you were like a ghost.  I saw
the lodge poles through you, and was so frightened!
Now you grow clear, just like a person, making my
couch all rumpled."
</p>

<p>
"Come, sit beside me, Dream!"
</p>

<p>
"Not now," she answered gently.  "I made the holy
rites because two men are coming here."
</p>

<p>
"Who are they?"
</p>

<p>
"Two men came up the pass, Blackfeet, and chiefs.
They have killed an elk, to bring the meat and skin, a
pack-horse load, to hang up at the door of my lodge.
They all do that who come, else must I hunt, and they
would wait half a day before they saw me.  These men
have come from the Great Plains, a seven sun's journey,
to ask my help in trouble.  They pray so earnestly
to the Sun!  One of them has a daughter, the other a
boy, in love, but these poor lovers are parted because
the young man is a prisoner with the Sparrowhawks.
The fathers come to ask me if he lives.  And I must
show them how to get the young warrior back.  Else
will the girl think that her heart is broken, and that is
just as bad as a broken heart."
</p>

<p>
"How far away are these fathers?"
</p>

<p>
"They will come just before the sun sets.  They
have so little hope.  They do not truly believe that I
can help them, but the girl pleaded, and her mother
nagged, so of course they had to come.  I will send
them away in the morning with big hearts.  The Sun
has pity on them."
</p>

<p>
"Rain, dear," he asked, "when I got home I found
a white man there.  I didn't speak and greet him,
because I didn't know if he is good.  Is he good?"
</p>

<p>
"I see a white trapper," she said, "and a girl grieving
for him because she jilted him, and cannot get him
back.  She never will&mdash;the cat!  Her name is Nan.
Far in the East she lives, by the salt water&mdash;her fingers
so tired, hemming shirts all day!  How I do pity these
poor washed-out squaws of your Race!  Slaves they
are!  Slaves!"
</p>

<p>
"But the trapper?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, him?  Made too free with the Kutenais
women, so some of my good mountaineers made bold
to burn his cabin.  He came to your lodge for refuge,
the Kutenais at his heels.  They wait for you, so
angry too!"
</p>

<p>
"Why do they wait for me?"
</p>

<p>
"They want to ask you first before they kill him,
because, if you say yes, his ghost will haunt you, not
them.  They are artful, these Kutenais."
</p>

<p>
"Shall I let them have him?"
</p>

<p>
"Your guest?"
</p>

<p>
"Of course not.  I can't."
</p>

<p>
"He has hunted and brought good meat when they
were all afraid of famine.  He nurses the old Fatbald.
The children's spirits plead for him.  He will be your
friend, that is, at first, dear.  I shall be jealous.  Yes,
I'll be nasty."
</p>

<p>
"All right.  Why did you send me home in such
a hurry?  The old man seems all right."
</p>

<p>
"The flame will flicker to-night, and then go out.
He willed to live until he could see you, Storm.  Don't
laugh at him to-night."
</p>

<p>
"I promise.  And when he is dead, Rain, may I
come to you on Earth?"
</p>

<p>
"No, you must settle affairs.  The household would
starve if you left them now, and the tribe need you
badly.  Three months must pass before you are free
to come."
</p>

<p>
"Haven't I waited these three years, and all the years
before that?"
</p>

<p>
"Cry-baby!  Have I not waited?  Besides, I don't
think I want to see you in your meat body.  No.
How often do you bathe?"
</p>

<p>
"Wheugh!  Not in this weather, not in winter.  In
summer, when it's hot&mdash;yes."
</p>

<p>
"A Blackfoot warrior bathes daily."
</p>

<p>
"In winter?" He shuddered at the idea.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, in winter a sweat bath and a roll in the snow.
How else could he keep fit for the war trail?"
</p>

<p>
"Glad I'm not a Blackfoot!"
</p>

<p>
"Glad we're not married!  So there!  Storm, you'll
bathe every day from now on, or you come not to my
lodge, son of a dirty tribe!"
</p>

<p>
"The English, dirty!"
</p>

<p>
"Savage, rude, wild, uncouth&mdash;with naughty tempers.
Now go back to your stupid body, for the Blackfoot
chiefs draw near.  I hear them.  I must pray to
the Sun to smooth my temper too."
</p>

<p>
The fire blazed up strongly with a crackle of
curling birch bark, and Storm looked out from his bed
to see old Fatbald's chief woman putting on fresh
logs.
</p>

<p>
"Two Bits," he called to her in Kutenais.
</p>

<p>
She looked round.  "Awake?" she asked.
</p>

<p>
"Dear Two Bits, my Secret Helper is cruel and orders
me to have a bath every day.  Isn't it awful?"
</p>

<p>
"Huh!  Your Dream must be a Blackfoot.  Mark
you, it takes more than a daily bath to wash off their
dirty deeds."
</p>

<p>
"You'll get the sweat lodge ready?"
</p>

<p>
"You'll catch your death," she answered gloomily,
"and then of course we'll all starve."
</p>

<p>
She went out grumbling to get the sweat house
ready.  But Two Bits always grumbled, and never in
her life had risked a bath, having no dirty deeds to
wash away.
</p>

<p>
The old man slept, and Storm lay watching him.
Fatbald would awaken presently and demand to have
his back scratched.
</p>

<p>
"Say," the American trapper, determined to be
treated no longer as a log on the woodpile, came over
to the hearth and stood confronting Storm, "do you
talk white?"
</p>

<p>
Storm sat up yawning, stretched himself, looked at
the trapper, laughed, offered his hand.  "Sorry," he
said, and the English felt heavy, like bullets in his
mouth.  "English&mdash;I half forget&mdash;English, I speak no
word three years.  Talk white, eh?  So you're
American!"  The mother tongue came easier.  "I knew an
American once, name of Silas."
</p>

<p>
"Silas, what?"
</p>

<p>
"Just Silas.  Do your tribe have two names?  I
had two, once."
</p>

<p>
"Hiram J. Kant's my name."
</p>

<p>
"I asked no question, did I?  You are my guest.  I
do not ax you why you tried to make free with women
of my tribe, or why the men burned you out, or why
you took cover here, or why my people wait my leave
to kill you."
</p>

<p>
"How did you know all that?  It's more 'en these
Injuns know, and I seen they telled you nothin'.  They
nary looked my way."
</p>

<p>
"Who told me about Nan?"
</p>

<p>
The American went white, and shrank against the
wall.
</p>

<p>
"What d'ye mean?" he asked under his breath.  "I
ain't been asleep&mdash;to talk in my sleep since you come."
</p>

<p>
Storm's eyes made everything else blind dark to the
American.
</p>

<p>
"Far east," he said, "by the Atlantic coast, Nan sits
at her window, sewing all day long, shirts, always
shirts.  Her fingers are stiff with cramp, and she cries
and cries."
</p>

<p>
"What business is that of yours?  You leave my
private affairs to me.  What do you know, anyways?"
</p>

<p>
"Nothing much, shipmate.  It's your affair that
you'll take oath to leave our women here alone, or their
men kill you when you cross that doorstep.  Take
oath, swear to God that you leave the women of the
Kutenais alone, or you cross the doorstep now."
</p>

<p>
He went to the doorway, and stood with his hand on
the latch.
</p>

<p>
"You take your choice," he said.
</p>

<p>
"I ain't panting any," said the American disdainfully,
"after your damned homely old squaws."
</p>

<p>
"On your oath?"'
</p>

<p>
"Honest to God!"
</p>

<p>
"See that you keep your word."
</p>

<p>
The old man stirred, and burbled.
</p>

<p>
"He's waking up," said Storm.  "You take my bed.
Well, daddy?"  He spoke in Kutenais.  "Want your
back scratched?"
</p>

<p>
"Come here, my son."
</p>

<p>
"Here, daddy.  What's up?"
</p>

<p>
"Secrets, my son, secrets.  Bend your head down,
listen.  Don't tell these women."
</p>

<p>
"Not a word."
</p>

<p>
"Speak French.  I'm going to leave them.  I shall
be wafted, wafted, like a thistledown, to my brother's
palace at Irkutsk.  Then we go, he and I, to Peterborg,
to the winter palace, to the court ball&mdash;the Bal Masque,
my brother as Puncinello&mdash;so fat&mdash;ho! ho!  He is too
fat to be good form.  But I&mdash;don't breathe a word&mdash;I
go as the Sansculotte, the Revolutionary of the Red
Terror, with wild hair, and the tricolor sash.  Yes,
even the pantaloons&mdash;to terrify the Court.  Her
Imperial Majesty the Tsarevna will faint at the sight of a
Sansculotte.  Ah! there's the practical joke, to make
our Court of Russia expect Madame Guillotine, the
madam who thinks us all too tall to be quite in the
mode, too tall by a head.
</p>

<p>
"A Sansculotte, yes, but not without a shirt&mdash;no&mdash;no.
That would be too immoral.  Get out a dress
shirt with my Mechlin ruffles.  And really the striped
waistcoat does make most subtle suggestion of a
graceful figure.  Tatata&mdash;<i>quel horreur</i>!  Not the rude
breeches with iron buckles.  Wheu!  And these so
scratchy, disgustingly coarse gray stockings.  Take
them away!  Burn them!  Yes, dove-colored stockinette,
and for a graceful contrast the egg-blue swallow-tails
with salmon-colored revers.  And <i>comme la mode</i>
my diamond fob, of course&mdash;tut tut tut&mdash;to illustrate
the complexion of a patch here&mdash;as though by accident,
carelessly, <i>sans gêne</i>.  Ah! this black cocked hat with
its tricolor plume, and gold tassels above the
shoulders&mdash;oh, very saucy!  Ivan!  My quizzing glass! of
course.  Beast!  Why, they'll be the rage next season!
Not Sansculotte?  Pig!  Am I not Orthodox?  <i>Noblesse oblige</i>!
</p>

<p>
"Hark, Storm!  Violin, 'cello, harpischord, and
flute.  Why, 'tis the Herr Professor Beethoven's new
minuet!  Mad'moiselle in homage, adorable!  Thy
bridal crown, Pavlova!  My wife!  My darling&mdash;thy
love pours through me as Neva bathes her isles.  No
star dare shine where thy light gleams.  Rose of the
nightless summer.  Oh, petal fingers thrill my hand!
Am I not shadow to enhance thy sunshine?  And in
my reverent homage bow before thee.
</p>

<p>
"The music changes.  'Tis the Emperor's hymn.
A most fatiguing homemade tune.  And here come
their Imperial Majesties the Tsar and Tsarevna,
advancing through the lane of courtiers.  She wears the
Orlov diamond <i>en corsage</i>, but don't you think this old
Russian court dress rather dowdy?  Nicholas has the
new side-whiskers.  I must remember.  I really must
ask my barber if&mdash;&mdash;  What fun, what a joke!  Olga,
my Little Fur Seal, I shall present you as my
wife&mdash;my bride in hairy sealskin breeches&mdash;Eskimo!  The
Tsarevna and the Grand Duchesses will faint in heaps,
and order my head chopped off.  All Peterborg
convulsed at my last joke.  Now, don't you scratch my
face, dear.  No.  Not here!  Why, these insipid dolls
in diamonds and starch are not real flesh and blood,
passion and tenderness, as you are, my little savage.
But really you shouldn't scratch my face at a court ball.
<i>Démodé</i>, my dear, <i>outré</i>.  You hold my gloves
instead, for the zakouska.  We will have cognac and one
red mushroom, eh?
</p>

<p>
"Oh, dear me!  Paradise of course, my dear Storm,
and all the fountains playing, but who invites these old
Haidah wives of mine and the Kutenais harem as well?
They must not meet, or there'll be such a row.  And
for heaven's sake don't let them see my Little Fur
Seal, or any of them meet Pavlova.  Good gracious,
here's my old Samoyed wife as well!  What a
reunion!  How badly arranged!  They'll never get on
together.  Don't let my past wives catch me in Heaven&mdash;it's
really too disgusting.  I am busy.  Tell them I
haven't the honor of their acquaintance.  Olga!  Be
reasonable.  None of them have any manners.  Yes,
I admit they fail to do me justice, biting, clawing,
screeching.  Canaille!  Hags!  Oh, not at all a good
selection to meet me in Paradise.  The arrangements
here are really deplorable!  Help!  Help!  Woman,
that's my face&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Ah!  Brother!  Is that you?"
</p>

<p>
The dying man shoved Storm aside, reached out his
arms, his face most strangely boyish.  "Alexei!" he
said.  "Let's play at wives and husbands!"
</p>

<p>
Storm saw the spirit departing from the worn-out,
ruined body of his friend.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
II
</p>

<p>
Daily the widows mourned.  Ah hai-i-i ahee-ee! for
the White Chief, Many Wives hai-ai-ya-hai!  Whose
medicine was so strong that the hair grew out at the
wrong end of his head?  Ya-a-a-hai!  Whose body
needed the tribe, the dogs, and carrioles lashed abreast,
to carry awai-i-i-ya-hai-i-i.  Yow-ow-ow-o!  And he
wanted to be buried up a tree-ee-ee-hee!  Aye,
yow-ow-ow!  Ahooo-oo-boohoo-oo-oo-oo-ahai-i!
</p>

<p>
At meals, or otherwise when ordered by the white
men to shut up, and hold their row-ow-ow-aeou! they
became placid, even moderately cheerful, and squabbled
a little in the kitchen about the division of Fatbald's
property.
</p>

<p>
It was at such an interval that Storm took Hiram
into the trade room where one's breath made clouds.
They sat on bales of furs considering a pack of sulphur
from the Cascade volcanoes, a sack of willow charcoal,
and ten alforgas of wood ash washed, strained, and
dried into gray niter with a nice gun-powder perfume.
These the American approved, but he demanded black
lead to waterproof the gunpowder, when made,
"Unless," he said, "you want it for liquid face
paint."
</p>

<p>
As for Storm's cake of explosive, made already and
with great pride set out for inspection: "Shucks,"
said the trapper, "ef that ain't the complete benighted,
effete, old-country Britisher!  Want it as mush for
breakfast, or to drown kittens in?
</p>

<p>
"And yet, I dunno.  It's shorely a safety gunpowder
this, all right.  No danger of going off bang&mdash;just
mammie's pap warranted safe for children."
</p>

<p>
"Make the stuff yourself then," said Storm indignantly.
</p>

<p>
"That's the proposition," answered the American;
"and what do I get?"
</p>

<p>
"I'll replace the outfit them Injuns burned.  You
'elps yourself."
</p>

<p>
"Done!"
</p>

<p>
The American had out a clasp knife, and whittled
the edge of a packing case.
</p>

<p>
"And, say!  When you auctions off them widders&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"They're not my widders."
</p>

<p>
"Eh?  Not your widders yet?  Waal, now I kind
of thought you was fell heir to them widders.
Marrying all four?"
</p>

<p>
"None."
</p>

<p>
"'Cause ef they come reasonable I'm open to dicker
for Two Bits."
</p>

<p>
"Hiram, hadn't you better wake up?"
</p>

<p>
"Eh?  Now I kinder reckoned I shorely was awake."
</p>

<p>
"This widder Two Bits owns this place."
</p>

<p>
"Well, did you hear me crying?  I don't weep
none."
</p>

<p>
"The Head Chief of the Lower Kutenais, young
Sitting Wolf, happens to be a widower.  He's going
to marry Two Bits."
</p>

<p>
"When she's through mourning for Many Wives,
eh?  Got it all fixed.  Now I sort of reckon the lady
ain't having any.  She's set her hat at me."
</p>

<p>
"And Sitting Wolf?  He had your winter quarters
burned because you looked at the women.  He's jealous.
His friend must have no other friend 'cepting
himself.  His first wife looked sideways at a man&mdash;he
killed both.  The man who looks at Two Bits is taking
risks.  Don't get athwart his hawse.  Don't foul his
bows if you want to keep afloat."
</p>

<p>
"All right&mdash;all right.  How much will Sitting Wolf
take to be sort of Running Wolf over the sky line?"
</p>

<p>
"I think," Storm answered him, "it's much more
like a case of Running Hiram."
</p>

<p>
"You mean he'll chase me out of the doggone country?"
</p>

<p>
"He mentioned the idea, and the tribe woted in the
affirmitude."
</p>

<p>
Here they were interrupted by a young warrior, a
messenger from Sitting Wolf and the tribal council,
requesting Storm to attend them.
</p>

<p>
"We'll be right along," said Hiram.
</p>

<p>
But Storm looked at the American's hair, which was
cropped at the neck.  "I wouldn't," he said earnestly.
</p>

<p>
"What's bitten you?" asked Hiram.
</p>

<p>
"A man with short hair ain't axed to sit with Injuns
in council.  Wait till your hair grows, and you're
asked to come."
</p>

<p>
"Is that so?  Waal, of all the&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
Storm followed the messenger to a lodge covered
with mats of rushes.  There in the chief's place
opposite the door was Sitting Wolf, dressed in his finest
robe, and on his left in order of their rank the leaders
of the septs, very grave and formal.  The white man
was asked to take his seat on the women's side of the
lodge.
</p>

<p>
In front of the chief lay a bundle which he now
opened, making a prayer for each of the many coverings
disclosed, until amid a breathless hush&mdash;as when
at the Roman Mass the Host is revealed to the people&mdash;he
took up the sacred pipe.  Its bowl of red sandstone
came from the pipe-stone quarry in far-away
Michigan, and the stem, ancient, charged with mysterious
power, was hung with eagle feathers.  The messenger,
kneeling in homage, received the medicine pipe,
charged the bowl with tobacco, and after praying,
lighted it with a coal from the hearth.
</p>

<p>
Sitting Wolf stood to perform the culminating rite.
He was a young man in those days, by all accounts a
gallant gentleman, lightly built, graceful of bearing,
his clear-cut face austere, now made beautiful by
reverence, by faith as he prayed.  Filling his mouth with
smoke and blowing it in homage, he greeted first the
Spirit in the Sun, then by turn the Spirits of the Four
Winds, and lastly Mother Earth.  Afterwards each of
the leaders smoked in turn, once, and Storm last of all,
before the pipe was returned and covered up.
</p>

<p>
Before the end of this long ritual the sun had gone
down behind the westward heights, the hearth fire
burned low, and the Indians were huddled in their
robes of elk or bison while Storm, with only his deer-skin
hunting dress, felt chilled to the bones.  With the
covering of the pipe, Sitting Wolf ceased to be priest
celebrant and was the chief, jealous, envious, with
something in his leathery dark face sinister, boding.
Storm knew that his own heirship to old Tschirikov
stripped Two Bits of great wealth, and the chief, who
intended to marry the widow, had been brooding over
her losses.
</p>

<p>
"We have purified our bodies," began the chief
indifferently, as one who patters a set form of words,
"with prayer have cleansed our hearts, and with smoke
of the sacred pipe-have cleared our heads for counsel.
Now for the leaders here, and for the tribe, I speak to
you Storm, adopted son and sole heir of him who
has passed.  He was our friend, but never a priest, a
chief, or leader in our tribe.  Having a sit-beside-him
wife, he lived with other women out of wedlock,
according to the custom of his people, which by our law
is very wrong.
</p>

<p>
"He came of a tribe beyond the western sea, you
come of a tribe beyond the eastern sea, and you have
different customs.  The question of the council is, will
you obey our laws?"
</p>

<p>
"Aye."
</p>

<p>
Sitting Wolf lifted his eyebrows as though surprised,
turned down the corners of his lips as if he
were disappointed.  If this white man obeyed the
tribal law, he could not well be fined or his property made
forfeit.
</p>

<p>
"Storm," he said, "we have watched you these three
snows.  We see, all of us here, that in your tribe
beyond the eastern sea, you came of a bad father."
</p>

<p>
The challenge would have been insulting to an
Indian, but Storm assented easily.
</p>

<p>
"Aye," he said&mdash;"aye."
</p>

<p>
"Poor chap!" was the inner thought, "Thinks I'm
robbing him of a trade house full of furs, three
hundred ponies in pasture, five canoes, no end of saddles
and harness, the dog teams, and carrioles."
</p>

<p>
"Aye," he said, "a bad father."
</p>

<p>
"I speak as chief," continued the envious Sitting
Wolf, and his upward glance was full of menace now.
"I speak for your good.
</p>

<p>
"We know that your father was bad because your
riding is a sin, and the Sun clouds his face at the sight.
Your seat in a canoe wakes the winds to howl.  Your
feet on the trail break sticks and stumble over roots to
frighten away the game and affront the Holy Animals.
You have an ill-trained nose which cannot smell a real
bear at ten paces.  Your sight may be long and keen,
but you have never learned to note the thing which
moves at a distance.  Your arrows are a danger to us,
and with the medicine iron your bullets hit the sky,
offending the Above Spirits.  Your fishing amuses the
fish, but affronts the Under-water Spirits.  You never
pray for the help of the Holy Animals.  You say you
do your best.  You try, but one who does not succeed
becomes a danger to his comrades whether in running
buffalo or on the war trail.  Until you can feed and
defend a woman and help in the tribe's defense, you
are not fit to marry among my people.  We live
too near the Lodge of the Hunger Spirit to take
such risks as that.  Later I shall speak more of
my mind, but first the medicine man has words to
say."
</p>

<p>
Storm was not at all pleased.  Truth is void of
manners, and yet has a front and a back, an outside
and an inside.  Here was only the outside of Truth
spoken in anger, with ill-veiled intention of enmity,
by one who had always seemed to be a friend.
</p>

<p>
Now spoke the withered medicine man, kindly,
fatuous Beaver Tail, who saw another aspect of the
Truth, and loved a platitude.
</p>

<p>
"White Man, our chief has spoken, and of course
his words are my words.  Yet these three winters,
friends, and not your enemies, have watched you, and
a friend speaks now.  Bad was your father, yet you
are the son of a good woman."
</p>

<p>
Storm looked up, and the sullen resentment seemed
to vanish from his face.
</p>

<p>
"Sitting Wolf, as chief," said the old man, "speaks
to your father's son.  I as priest speak to your
mother's son.  She gave you strength and staying
power.  The work you do should kill the strongest of
our young men.  She gave you also a quick mind, a
straight tongue, a good heart.  For these, not for your
skill as a hunter or warrior, we make you a member of
our tribe, and subject to our laws."
</p>

<p>
"Artful old devil!" was the white man's inner
thought.  "He wants me subject to the tribal law, so
that the chief can claim old Fatbald's property."
</p>

<p>
"Go on," he said, eager to fathom the plot which
underlay these compliments.
</p>

<p>
"Your Dream," continued <i>Beaver</i> Tail, under his
breath, his hands making signs of prayer, "your Secret
Helper is a strong and very holy animal.  Your
medicine is becoming powerful."  He smiled engagingly,
frankly.  "Your white man's cunning is of use to us.
We have decided to make you a member of this council."
</p>

<p>
Storm bent his head in acknowledgment.  "Does
the old humbug," he wondered, "think he is fooling
me?  If I'm a member of tribe and council they'll
claim that I'm subject to the chief&mdash;unfit to hold
property unless he adopts me as brother, to look after me,
to look after the old man's wealth."
</p>

<p>
Sitting Wolf had heard the medicine man's talk with
ill-concealed impatience.  "As member of tribe
and council," he said, "open your heart to us,
young man, as to the affairs of our friend who has
departed."
</p>

<p>
Swift as a flash of lightning Storm's mind went
back to Margate beach of a Sunday afternoon.  Once
more he was Bill Fright in ragged slacks and jersey,
where Dolly, the cuddlesome little 'tweenie, sat between
his knees upon the sands.  She had cotton gloves to
hide her grubby hands, and these must not be touched
lest he should soil their new-washed whiteness, though
he might kiss the place where the hair tickled just close
behind her ear.  "No, silly!  The left ear!"  Then
she recited word for word the very latest squabble
between her mistress, Lady Travis, and Sir Julian&mdash;a
cat-and-dog fight, no less.
</p>

<p>
A tear ran down Storm's cheek.  If only to take a
penn'orth of shrimps for mother's tea on board the
<i>Polly Phemus</i> at the quay side, he would forfeit his
share to these painted savages.  Stanch friends and
earnest instructors had they been: Sitting Wolf in
woodcraft, horsemanship, and canoe work, Beaver Tail
in the language, the sign talk, herb lore, hypnotic
medicine, and the deep things of Kutenais religion.  What
if the medicine man trapped him in tribal and
council membership that the chief might overrule his
claim on Fatbald's wealth!  These Indians were the
only friends he had, or ever could have now, on
earth.
</p>

<p>
He did not think of Rain as of the earth.  His body
had never dared to worship her, his love was as yet
untarnished by any breath of passion.  She was of
the spirit, and in the spirit beloved, beyond, above all
earthly creatures, a priestess serving at the Apse of
Ice, a High Place sacred to the All-Father.
</p>

<p>
He looked at the grave faces of his friends, knowing
them all so deeply, loving them so dearly.  There were
no braver men on earth, none more chaste, religious,
hospitable, sweet-tempered, honorable than these
large-handed, large-footed, great-hearted mountaineers.
He was proud to have their friendship, and yet in the
recesses of his soul he was a man, and these were only
children, who painted their faces.
</p>

<p>
One must have lived alone with savages before one
realizes that in the most ignorant white man of the
Northlands there resides age-long experience, a will
which never rests, a high authority and sovereignty
commanding their obedience.
</p>

<p>
Rough on the surface only, Storm in the soul of him
was a man of unusual force, with powers far beyond
the average of his race.  Humbly and simply as he
spoke to these Indians his words bit deep, his power
gripped their hearts, while still they were unconscious,
as he was himself, of anything unusual.
</p>

<p>
"My words are air, just frosty clouds of air.  See."  The
lodge was so cold that his breath showed white as
he spoke.  "Only my hands can thank you for all your
friendship, all your love.  I am a seaman of the big
canoes on the salt water.  There my hands are trained.
But here, on these plains and forests and high snows,
it needs the training of a lifetime up from childhood to
be a hunter and warrior as you are hunters, as you are
warriors.  Three snows are not enough to train a man."
</p>

<p>
"How!" they muttered their approval&mdash;"how!"
</p>

<p>
"Hear, then, Chief Sitting Wolf.  Hear, Beaver
Tail, my teacher.  Hear, my friends.  I speak from a
full heart, and the fool tears tell you I'm not a man yet
fit to sit among men, or to ride for buffalo out there
beyond the World Spine, or to walk on the war trail, or
to keep a wife.
</p>

<p>
"You go soon, most of you, to join with the Flatheads,
Nez Percés, Pend d'Oreilles, Cœur d'Alènes,
perhaps even a few Yakimas.  Your fit men will ride
together in force across the World Spine to the Great
Plains, to run the buffalo bulls of the spring hunting,
perhaps to fight the Blackfeet.  Your women will ride
to dry the meat and dress the robes.
</p>

<p>
"The rest of the tribe will go in your canoes along
the Lake and the West Arm, and the river of the
Kutenais to the Mother of Rivers, and downstream to the
Great Falls.  There they will join the fishing tribes,
under the Salmon Chief.  They will catch the salmon,
trade at Fort Colville, feast, dance, gamble.  They
take the women to smoke the fish.  They take the
children; for the babies, even the dogs, are fit.  I shall
be left behind, less than the least, worse than a dog."
</p>

<p>
The chief looked sulky and aggrieved, the medicine
man was clearing his throat to make a soothing speech.
One of the leaders asked Storm to be his brother at the
hunting.  Another was muttering, "Shame! shame!"  All
were uncomfortable.  "Come to the point!"
growled Sitting Wolf.
</p>

<p>
And Storm was laughing at their disquietude.  "No
need," he said more cheerfully, "for the dog to freeze."
</p>

<p>
He threw some wood on the fire, then wrapped a
robe about his shoulders.
</p>

<p>
"I am here," continued Storm, "to speak for him
that was my father.  What has the little law of your
petty tribe to do with a chief among the Russians?
By the law of the Russian tribe his sit-on-the-right
woman, Two Bits, gets the trading house and the lodge
furnishings.  By the law of the Russians the four
widows have taken equal shares of the pony herd and
harness, the canoes and paddles, the dog teams and
carrioles.  He who marries one of these widows will be
rich.
</p>

<p>
"Again I speak for my dead father.  He was a
Russian, I am an Englishman.  Russia and England are
the left arm and the right arm of mankind, enfolding
the whole earth.  And where the fingers meet, the
Kutenais tribe is a flea caught under a finger nail of
the English.  By the law of both Russians and
English I am heir to the great chief who made me his
son.
</p>

<p>
"The trade room is full of furs, and these are mine."
</p>

<p>
Sitting Wolf leaned forward staring, snarling in
his throat, but Storm went on, looking him straight in
the eyes and laughing at him.  "Enough," he said
incisively, "to load the canoes of the tribe!&mdash;Silence!  I
speak!&mdash;and at Fort Colville, to buy guns for all your
hunters.  Do you object to having your hunters
armed?"
</p>

<p>
If a shell had exploded among them these Indians
would have sat quite still while Death selected his prey;
and now, at the burst of Storm's words, they kept their
quietude, their dignity.  Only they turned their eyes
reproachfully upon their chief.  Their breathing
seemed to stop, but no face changed.  In sheer relief
the chief relaxed against the backrest, and a queer
smile, shy, friendly, as of a dog to his master, sought
Storm's approval.
</p>

<p>
Before they sent for Storm the members of the
council had been agreed that this white man was unfit
to marry, hunt, or fight, and least of all to hold
great property.  They had placed him beneath the
level of their dogs, and in return he gave them a
gun to every hunter.  Their chief would not have done
so.
</p>

<p>
Never again would famine camp among their lodges,
and war could not invade their mountain stronghold.
The tribes allied with them for hunting buffalo&mdash;East
Kutenais, Flatheads, Nez Perces, Pend d'Oreilles,
Cœur d'Alènes, Spokanes, Yakimas combined, could
never attack with arrows a people armed with guns.
Best armed of all the tribes, they should ride safely into
the barred hunting grounds of the powerful Blackfoot
Confederation.  Truly this dog had fangs!
</p>

<p>
"I thought you would be pleased," said the white
man easily, as he stirred the smoldering fire until it
blazed.  "But there are points you do not think of
until I speak about them.  This trading of furs for guns
needs a white man's brain to match against the
Hudson's Bay Company, whose trader would get the best
of any Indian.  I shall send my white man, Hiram
Kant, whom you call Hunt-the-girls."
</p>

<p>
The grave Indians were smiling as they heard that
new name for the trapper.
</p>

<p>
"You would have shot and wasted him, but I need
him, and kept him for this trading.  I want one of you
chiefs to go with Hunt-the-girls and see that you get
the guns here to this camp&mdash;or kill him.  Only a chief
shall do this, because Hunt-the-girls is a chief, as all
of you know in your hearts, all of you sitting here.
You shall choose who is to go, to help him, or shoot
him as the case may be.
</p>

<p>
"But of these medicine irons.  They are only sticks,
dead rubbish unless you have the medicine powder, and
the medicine balls.  Long ago I knew that my father
was dying, and that I should prepare this gift.  For
that reason I made, as you know, a carriole load and a
canoe load of bullets.  I tried, you may remember,
long ago, to make the powder, but my medicine was no
good.  For this kind of work Hunt-the-girls has
better medicine than mine, so I let him make the powder.
He gets a trapper's outfit for his pay.
</p>

<p>
"You shall not have the powder and ball to blow
away and waste.  They shall belong to Two Bits, and
she will sell them to you in trade for furs.  The higher
the price she charges for ball and powder, the less will
be thrown away in idle shooting.  These are my orders.
If you don't like them, I'm ready to fight anybody
who wants shooting, or I'll take on the crowd&mdash;as
you please.
</p>

<p>
"Now, I have one thing more to say.  I will have
Two Bits rich and powerful in the tribe because she
has more sense than any of you, and she will keep
Sitting Wolf out of mischief.  You cannot!  When the
chief is jealous he goes mad, and flies at the throat of
his nearest friend.  Two Bits will tame him&mdash;already
he eats out of her hand.
</p>

<p>
"That's all, I think."
</p>

<p>
For some minutes the Indians were lost in thought,
or deep in prayer.
</p>

<p>
"My brother," asked the chief at last, "where is your
share?"
</p>

<p>
"What share," answered Storm, "can I carry on my
back?  How many horses, how many canoes, can I
carry on my back through the woods?  That much is
my share."
</p>

<p>
"You take nothing?"
</p>

<p>
"Before I left salt water, my friends of the big canoe
gave me a gun, a belt, a wallet, a pouch, a knife&mdash;yes,
and one other thing I have never shown you, a secret
thing which is my medicine.  I will ask you, my brothers,
to give me a supply of ball and powder, a robe, and
your good will."
</p>

<p>
"Where do you go?"
</p>

<p>
"When all is done and the ice breaks, I go into the
Wilderness.  You have often told me about Rain, the
Sacred Woman of the Blackfeet.  Men of all nations
go to her lodge for counsel in their sorrow, sickness,
or peril.  I go to make my offering at the holy lodge,
and seek the guidance of the Sacred Woman."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap05"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER V
<br><br>
THE WHOLE ARMOR
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3">
I&mdash;RENUNCIATION
</p>

<p>
When the sun wears the snow thin, the
butter-cups underneath feel the light and the
warmth, so they have faith, melting their
way up through the edges of the drifts until they reach
the glory of the day.  Then the ice breaks, roaring
down the river, shatters and founders on the lake,
while the birds proclaim the summer to the valleys,
avalanches thunder in the hills, because it is Easter, the
time of the Resurrection.
</p>

<p>
The American trapper was much surprised at having
behaved himself so nicely as to win Storm's friendship
and the hearty good will of the tribe.  He was
quite touched by the treatment he met with.  The
trapping outfit, lost when they burned him out of
winter quarters, had been most lavishly replaced in
payment for his gunpowder.  He said he felt good.  He
helped to ballast the canoes with bullets, even to stow
the cargo of powder and furs for Fort Colville.  And
yet he had misgivings.
</p>

<p>
The Kutenais bark canoe is curiously fashioned with
a long horn or ram at either end below the water line.
Because its natural position is bottom upwards, it is
not popular.  Nobody really enjoys it except the
Flatbow Indians of Flatbow Lake.  And yet it has one
merit: one can spell Kutenai in seventy-six recognized
orthodox ways and always pronounce the word Flatbow.
Still Hunt-the-girls saw the loaded canoes and
heard of the cataracts, and to him the spelling and
pronunciation were mere details.  He was quite frank
about it.  He flatly refused the journey.  He would
be doggoned and several other disagreeable things
would happen to him before he would go trading to a
British Fort.  He had no sort of use for Britishers
anyways, having whipped 'em at Bunker Hill&mdash;wherever
that was&mdash;and kep' 'em on the dead run ever
since.  He didn't give a continental&mdash;whatever that
might be&mdash;about Injuns, which wasn't good unless they
was dead, and hadn't ought to be allowed out with
guns for shooting the whites.  Moreover, he'd heard
tell of a crick up North a-ways, which was plumb
spoiled with beaver dams, as needed clearing out with
his little set of traps.  Two Bits would loan him her
dugout.  There was no two ways about it.  "And
I'm due," he told Storm, "to roll my tail in the mawning."
</p>

<p>
Now the four widows, resolved that the trader who
represented the tribe at Fort Colville should be dressed
to do them credit, had made a deerskin hunting shirt,
leggings and moccasins soft as silk, golden-tawny,
perfumed with wood smoke.  The deep fringes about the
shoulders and along the seams, whose pattering throws
off snow to keep the leather dry, the decoration of
porcupine quills, dyed lemon, plum bloom, indigo, and
vermilion, in sacred patterns which charm away
disease, wounds, or death, made this gift beautiful, the
most precious that love could offer.  When Hunt-the-girls
refused to trade for the tribe the widows brought
their offering to Storm, and, cut to the quick, the
trapper declared it was rotten anyway.
</p>

<p>
Storm sat in Fatbald's chair before the fire and
let the women lay the hunting dress upon his knees.
"Get out!" he said to Hunt-the-girls.  "Get out of
my camp&mdash;you!"
</p>

<p>
And Hunt-the-girls left in a rage.  Storm heard
him swearing at the men while he got his dugout canoe
afloat and loaded for the North.  Then the women
saw that their friend wanted to be alone, so they left
him.
</p>

<p>
"Rain!" he whispered.  "My Dream!  Rain!"
</p>

<p>
"Storm," she answered out of the air, "I heard,
dear."
</p>

<p>
"How long?" he asked&mdash;"how long?"  And tears
were running down his face.
</p>

<p>
"We have waited," she answered, "all our lives.
Dearest, you are not obliged to go to the Fort of the
Stone-hearts."
</p>

<p>
"That's all you know," he said indignantly.
</p>

<p>
"But they'll arrest you for murder!"
</p>

<p>
"What of that!  If I let these silly savages trade
for guns, they'll waste the furs on imitation jewelry,
sham silk handkerchiefs, liquor, all sorts of foolishness.
They'll come back with two or three old fukes, and say
that arrows are better.  Of course I'll have to go."
</p>

<p>
He heard a chirp like that of a squirrel, cheeky,
truculent.
</p>

<p>
"You're laughing at me," he said peevishly.
</p>

<p>
"T-t.  T-t.  T-t.  Krr-aw-aw!  Storm, dear, your
mother is with me."
</p>

<p>
"Humph!  What does she want?"
</p>

<p>
"She says that long ago, in the big-canoe-on-the-salt-water,
you had an enemy."
</p>

<p>
"Silas?  Oh, we were pretty good friends after."
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  When you loved your enemy.  Then, when
you came within three suns' journey of my lodge, you
stayed three years to nurse a fat old man."
</p>

<p>
"How could I help that?  It wasn't my fault."
</p>

<p>
"That you didn't pass him by on the other side?
He died though, and left you the richest man in all
the mountain tribes."
</p>

<p>
"What was the good?  I couldn't carry all that,
and come to you."
</p>

<p>
"Your mother asks what you will do with this
dress."
</p>

<p>
Storm had given away a fortune without one pang
of regret, but he was filled now with a sick longing
for this gift from the four widows.  To give it up?
Oh, well, it would please his mother, make Rain happy.
"It's all one to me," he said quite cheerfully.  "And
after all, I ain't no hunter that I should swagger about
in such a kit.  Old clothes are good enough for the
likes o' me.  But then, Rain, there's them widders.
They'd cry their eyes out!"
</p>

<p>
He heard Rain singing her happy song, the squirrel
song.  Then she spoke as though she were crying.
</p>

<p>
"Storm!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes."
</p>

<p>
"We'll make a low-down savage of you, a Redskin
brave like my brother Heap-of-dogs."
</p>

<p>
"All right.  I wasn't much use as a white man, and
my tribe here say I'll never make an Indian."
</p>

<p>
"You gave everything away.  That's Indian."
</p>

<p>
"Nothing to brag about."
</p>

<p>
"Take all your old clothes and everything you've got
except your hunting weapons, and hang them up as a
sacrifice to the Sun Spirit.  That's Indian."
</p>

<p>
"Right."
</p>

<p>
"Had your bath to-day?"
</p>

<p>
"Of course."
</p>

<p>
"That's a good Indian!  Now swim across the
river in the running ice.  A Blackfoot thinks nothing
of that."
</p>

<p>
"I wasn't raised for a pet."
</p>

<p>
"Go naked into the woods, eat no food, pray till
your Secret Helper comes to you.  Every Indian does
that before he's a warrior."
</p>

<p>
"I won't be beat."
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow at this hour swim back across the
river, call the tribe together, and ask them to
pray for you to the Sun, the Moon, and Morning
Star.
</p>

<p>
"Go to the Council Lodge, and you shall use the
big-turnip smoke to purify your body.  The chief is to
open the bundle of the medicine pipe, and after the
ceremony the medicine man will dress you in these
new clothes which the widows made of love, prayers,
and the honor of the tribe to the glory of the Sun.
It is full of spiritual power to guard you from evil,
but your mother says that the dress is not completed
until you reach Fort Colville."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
II&mdash;COMMUNION
</p>

<p>
Naked and hungry, torn by the thorns, and bruised,
his feet bleeding on the rough ground, Storm climbed
to keep himself warm until he stood among the last
trees.  They were like torches, gaunt, funereal, their
feet in the old gray snow, their heads among the stars
waiting until the moon should rise and kindle them.
Far down beneath, the howls of the timber wolves
cleft the still deeps of night.  Storm leaned against
a tree facing the south, awed by the silence to the
verge of terror.  And then through the silence there
came a voice more beautiful than he had ever heard on
earth:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Spirit in the Sun,<br>
  I thank Thee for my training<br>
  In sorrow and adversity, in want and peril,<br>
  Which have brought me nearer to Thee;<br>
  For the happy adventures of my life,<br>
  The beauty of the earth,<br>
  The revelations of Thy mighty power,<br>
  And all the love which has enfolded me.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Who prays?" cried Storm.  "Who says the prayer?"
</p>

<p>
He looked about him, and found he was not alone,
for Rain was on her knees close by, her mother,
Thunder Feather, his mother, Catherine, the three of
them busy kindling a little fire.  The man whose voice
he had heard stood just beyond them, a figure of
radiant light and more than human stature, wearing a
ceremonial robe of milk-white deerskin and a single eagle
plume in his hair, the token of chiefship.  Storm
looked up very humbly at the Spirit whose face had
so grave, so sweet a majesty.
</p>

<p>
A glance of the great chief's eyes commanded him
to look at the scene surrounding them.
</p>

<p>
The trees had faded into mist.  Now they were
gone, and the snow lay unbroken, level, a headland
from whose edges, near on either side, the walls went
down into deep immensities of space.  On the far
side of this abyss, all round the east, the south, and
the west, mountains were taking substance in slow
revelation of walls inimitably deep, broken by five small
glaciers.  Precipice immeasurably high, scored here
and there by cornices of clear green ice, shouldered
the starlit snow fields, from whence there soared seven
peaks of hewn and graven starlight.
</p>

<p>
As he watched, these mountains began to glow with
an inner light, each of one clear color, the whole a
spectrum enclosing the level hilltop.  From where the three
women knelt, a thin blue smoke ascended, as from an
altar.
</p>

<p>
Storm turned again to the chief whose mysterious
power had made this vision.
</p>

<p>
"Who are you, sir?" he asked.
</p>

<p>
"In my last earth-life," answered the chief, "my
name was Hiawatha.  It used to be a custom among
my people that a young man seeking to have the rank
of a warrior gave away all his property, except his
weapons.  Then having bathed, and left every
impurity behind him, he went naked into the wilderness,
and there fasted until his Secret Helper came to
instruct him.  My son, you have followed the custom
of my people.  Will you accept me as your Secret
Helper?"
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, sir."
</p>

<p>
"The dress of a brave is something more than
clothing.  It is the outward sign of his training for
war, his obedience to his leader, his cheery endurance
of hardships, his gift to his tribe of all that he is, all
that he has, and all he can do, his dedication not only
of his life, but also of his death."
</p>

<p>
Storm bent his head in token that, understanding, he
stood in readiness.
</p>

<p>
"Under what leader shall you serve?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't brag," said Storm, "or even talk about that.
I suppose you've got to know.  I was one of four
soldiers, we were Romans, on execution fatigue, and
we hanged a man.  Well, He's my leader."
</p>

<p>
Hiawatha made the sign of the cross.
</p>

<p>
"And mine," he said, "Warrior!"
</p>

<p>
Then Storm knew that he was no longer naked,
but clad in the splendid dress whose earthly
counterpart he should put on for the first time
to-morrow.
</p>

<p>
"This Easter morning," said Hiawatha, "before the
day breaks, your wife and your mother here have
asked me, Storm, to tell you a few things about my
Indian people."
</p>

<p>
They sat down in comfort round the fire, the three
women on the chief's right, Storm on his left, after the
Indian manner.  Rain lighted Hiawatha's pipe, then
that of her man.
</p>

<p>
"I am the cracked earth," said Storm cheerily,
"which prays for rain."
</p>

<p>
"It seems to me," the chief's retort was prompt,
"that a cracked mouth makes fun of our holy animals."
</p>

<p>
"They seem so silly."
</p>

<p>
"What, even in your Bible?"
</p>

<p>
Storm thought for a moment, concerning the four
beasts full of eyes, within and without.  There were
the jolliest horses.  There was the symbolism of the
sheep, of the lamb.
</p>

<p>
"Truths," Hiawatha spoke with reverence, "veiled
in allegory, illustrated by symbols."
</p>

<p>
"But are there animals, real ones?"
</p>

<p>
"Many.  There is, for instance, one Spirit who has
charge of the buffalo.  The group-consciousness of all
the buffalo, their herd-awareness, which you know
as instinct, is a part of his mind that warns
the buffalo herds of coming storms, of changing
seasons, and leads them to winter pastures where the
bunch grass stands out clear from the thin snow.  To
this buffalo spirit my people address their prayers,
asking him to guide them also in search for food, and
in his pity to plead for them in their need to the Spirit
in the Sun.
</p>

<p>
"Such prayers give them spiritual strength.  Now,
sonny, which will give you spiritual power&mdash;to make
fun which hurts your wife, or to learn the lessons
which she had from me?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, damn the 'oly animals!" said Storm in his
heart.  "Old Daddy swore I'd never be a bargeman.
Silas claimed he couldn't make a sailor of me.  Even
these Injuns despise me.  I know I'm no good; I'm
nothing."
</p>

<p>
He had forgotten that in the spirit-realms no
secret thought is hidden.  Now Rain winked at her
mother, Thunder Feather, and Hiawatha, seeing that,
nearly betrayed his laughter, which would give such
pain if it were seen; but Catherine crept behind them
and sat beside her son.  "They're only a pack of
savages," she whispered.  "I 'aven't seen no 'oly animals
neither."
</p>

<p>
Hiawatha made signs to the Indian women, composed
his face to severity, and in the manner of a
schoolmaster addressed himself to Storm.
</p>

<p>
"Storms-all-of-a-sudden, what is a savage?" he asked
with Indian gravity.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, I dunno!"  The white man was sulky,
ashamed, and moaning to himself because his pride
was wounded.
</p>

<p>
"A dog," said Hiawatha, "has only four fingers,
so that he cannot hold or aim a gun to shoot at other
people.  A savage has four fingers and a thumb, so
you see he must be rather better than a dog, because
he can handle a gun, to shoot his neighbors when he
is not pleased.  A white man is still better because he
can make the gun.  In his rich country he finds the
medicine stones, copper, tin, and iron for making tools.
With the tools to strengthen his hands he can coin
money, forge weapons, and build ships.  As he labors
his mind grows, his will increases, his intellect is
strengthened, until he becomes as greedy as a pike,
swift as a horse, and like the buffalo he tramples down
the flowers, for none can resist his rush.  He rules the
seas, he occupies the lands, he wields dominion over
mankind, and having the whole earth for his possession,
dies, leaving it behind, divested of all that he had.  All
that he is goes to the spirit-lands, where the dogs pity
him.  The dog's unselfish love is worth more in the
spirit-realms than the money, the weapons, the ships
of his rich master.  Dogs and savages have not much
to be selfish about on earth, but only the hearts of little
children."
</p>

<p>
Storm and his mother were not so proud of their
blood as they had been; but Rain and Thunder Feather
looked complacent as Hiawatha again took up his
legend.
</p>

<p>
"When I lived on earth, my son, our Iroquois towns
were not so very savage.  London has lately copied
our municipal police.  While your doctors were bleeding
their patients to death, ours were far advanced in
hypnotic medicine, and among the Indian drugs were
the salicylates, quinine, coca, and jalap.  Our Indian
farming gave to man tobacco, corn and potatoes.  Of
our monuments I dare not boast, for the tremendous
pyramids of Mexico were an heresy, seeing that the
body of man is the real temple of the Holy Spirit;
and the palaces, however vast and lovely, were seats
of tyranny.
</p>

<p>
"At the time of my last earth-life your little
England was ruled by a sickly but very good and able
sovereign, Queen Elizabeth.  Philip the Second ruled
Europe for the Pope, Suleiman the Great had command
of the Mediterranean and held a splendid Empire for
Mahomet.  A still wealthier and better-ordered
empire was held for the Prophet by Akbar the Magnificent,
who reigned over Hindustan.  Greatest and most
stable of all was the throne of China.  In every case
the princes were tyrants, the people what we should
call war slaves.
</p>

<p>
"I believe that Iceland was first of Republics&mdash;but
half the people there were only slaves.
</p>

<p>
"In my little nation, the Iroquois, only the women
could own lands or houses, only the mothers could elect
the President.  Women and men sat together in congress.
</p>

<p>
"As President, it was my dream to put an end to
war.  For that ideal of an everlasting peace I called
four other nations into counsel.  They made me President
of the Five Nations, the Federated Republic of
the Iroquois.
</p>

<p>
"Here in the west there were many visitors from
other lands, Polynesians, Chinese, and Japanese.
They say that our first news of Europe came with the
Saint Quetzal-Coatl to the Toltec nation, and to his
memory they built a temple at Cholula four times as
large as the Great Pyramid in Egypt.  To my own
people came the hero Leif Ericson, and he was
followed by many Norsemen who traded with us or
hewed out cargoes of hardwood timber.
</p>

<p>
"Five centuries later, Columbus came, but he never
visited North America.  His people brought us horses,
but also they carried with them germs of disease, of
pestilences which are sweeping away almost the whole
Red Indian race."
</p>

<p>
"Sweeping us away?" asked Rain.
</p>

<p>
"Yes."
</p>

<p>
Thunder Feather lifted the death wail, mourning for
her people.
</p>

<p>
Hiawatha sheltered Rain in his arms:
</p>

<p>
"Be brave," he said.  "The bodies of our people are
wasted and destroyed with strange diseases not to be
healed by our medicine.  Our tribes are driven from
their farms, their fisheries, and their hunting grounds,
crowded into the west, forced to make war against each
other in order to get meat, resorting in despair to
savage crimes and eating human flesh, our wild herds
slaughtered, grass eaten, lands stolen, faith betrayed,
until only a last remnant shall be left on the earth."
</p>

<p>
"On earth," Rain answered bravely.  "But we are
a spirit-race which cannot die."
</p>

<p>
Again the sacred woman Thunder Feather sent up
her desolate cry for the lost nations.
</p>

<p>
But Hiawatha clasped Rain to his heart.  "I love
your courage," he said under his breath, "but still I
warn you never to let there be anger in your heart
against the white man or towards your husband.
Promise me."
</p>

<p>
"I promise."
</p>

<p>
"Catherine," said Hiawatha, "Storm, Rain, Thunder
Feather, I tell you on this Easter morning: The
seed is not quickened except it die, and the race
crucified shall rise again."
</p>

<p>
Once more the wailing of the old priestess shook
their hearts, and she began to sing the death-song of
her race.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Beware, ye base, relentless Ghost Invaders!<br>
  I see your bones lie naked on the prairie,<br>
  And such a frightful Death as yet you know not<br>
  Shall flap his wings in triumph o'er your women&mdash;<br>
  So shall your black deeds make your souls accursed<br>
  And God shall blast your spirits to destruction!<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Oh!  Thunder Feather," said Hiawatha gently,
"bad words come back like fleas to bite you in bed.
You make your nights all scratches.  Cover your head
with your robe, and pray the Spirit Porcupine to
smooth your quills, my dear.
</p>

<p>
"It is lucky for you, Storms-all-of-a-sudden, that
in the Blackfoot custom a son-in-law and mother-in-law
are never allowed to meet, so if your wife's prickly
mother tries to haunt you, tell Thunder Feather to
mind her manners."
</p>

<p>
The old woman had been glaring vindictively at the
white man, but now, discovered, she had a rather
sheepish grin to hide under her robe.
</p>

<p>
"Chief," said Rain, turning away from her malicious
little old mother, "my man and I have often been over
the Wolf Trail in our dreams.  Oh, but my dear man
is so stupid.  I cannot make him understand how
spirit-animals and spirit-men speak all one language
as we do&mdash;thought-flashings.  He is so blind and deaf
to natural things that animals are shy, and cannot flash
their thoughts to him, no, not even his horse along the
lead rope when we ride together.  Yet we have
ridden up there the dearest spirit-horses who died gallant
deaths on earth.  We have raced with the herds of
spirit-buffalo on prairies gay with fairy flowers.  We
sat in my father's lodge, and Thunder Feather with
us, while we smoked the everyday pipe, or used the
medicine pipe for the great prayers.  We worshiped
together in the Medicine Lodge.  We played with the
spirit-children.  Oh, but my man is so dull that he
still fears Death!"
</p>

<p>
"My daughter," said Hiawatha, "only the most awful
sorrow can awake your man until he is fully alive.
Then will the animals converse with him as they do
with us, the little children will teach him as they teach
us, and he will see how our nature worship is part of
a great faith.  Words cannot teach, only experience.
</p>

<p>
"Now we must tell him about the race-death."
</p>

<p>
"I would," said Rain, "that all my people were past
the race-death, safe in our Happy Hunting grounds
from Windmaker's tempests, Coldmaker's blizzards,
from the magicians of the Hunger Lodge, the peril of
wild rivers, the hatreds, wounds, and pain, the
pestilence, the wailing of the mourners."
</p>

<p>
"The lily," said Hiawatha, "has her roots in the
dirt, but her white vesture is not soiled whose warp
and weft are sunshine and clear rain, her home the
winds invisible.
</p>

<p>
"So stands the Indian Spirit seeded on earth, but
flowering in the heavens."
</p>

<p>
And after that there was silence.
</p>

<p>
Storm looked about him, and found that he was
alone.  Around him were trees like torches, gaunt,
funereal, their feet in old gray snow.  At the foot of
one of these he crouched naked, famished, shivering,
his feet bruised, his limbs benumbed and scarred with
wounds which seemed to have been bleeding.  Far
down across the forest he saw the icy river, and
beyond, thin threads of smoke went up from the lodges
of the Kutenais camp.  Cramped and in pain he stood,
remembering that he must observe the rite of purification,
and how he should put on the sacred dress of a
warrior.  Mother said that this must be completed at
Fort Colville.  What, then, was lacking?
</p>

<p>
So he set forward upon this adventure.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
III&mdash;THE SWORD
</p>

<p>
Some time in the third decade of the nineteenth
century certain voyageurs of the Hudson's Bay brigades
made their homes in the Rocky Mountains.  They
were Iroquois warriors, devoutly Christian, were fit
messengers.  The fiery Cross is not carried very far
by smug pastors who let the flame die out, but,
brandished by knights-errant such as these Iroquois, it
kindled the mountaineer Nez Percés, Flatheads, Cœur
d'Alènes, and Pend d'Oreilles, and like a forest fire
the Faith swept through the hills.  Not satisfied, but
craving for more light, the Nez Percés dispatched a
couple of young warriors as their envoys on foot
through countries held by hostile nations to visit the
white men's lands, and beg the Big Father at Washington
to send them Black-robes.
</p>

<p>
The White-tie missions responded, forwarding a
brace of Methodist ministers who settled on the Lower
Columbia where the tribes were tame, the lands fertile,
and prospects favorable in godliness and possibly real
estate.  Later a couple of Presbyterian White-ties
came to the mountains, with their courageous wives,
and were welcomed by an assemblage of the tribes,
thousands of mounted warriors at full gallop, a
display of frantic joy and terrifying grandeur.  The
ladies fainted, and their husbands were properly
shocked by naked, painted, plumed, and yelling
savages.  For some few years this intensely respectable
mission showed off their sober paces, their small
proprieties to ferocious idealists, wild saints of the Silent
Places.  In the end, utterly disillusioned, the Nez
Percés took the scalps of the missionaries as the only
useful asset of the mission.
</p>

<p>
If one cannot lighten one's darkness with sun rays,
a rushlight is better than nothing, so the pony tribes
were still quite patient with their White-tie medicine
men when in May, 1839 Storm came with a following
of his Kutenais to trade for guns at Fort Colville.
Upon the morning after his arrival he brought his
people to a church parade in progress outside the stockade.
The gate, of course, was closed, and in the covered
gallery above a sentry lounged to watch proceedings
through the loopholes, while on a bastion to the left a
gun was manned commanding the curtain wall, just to
make sure.  The fish-eating tribes assembled for the
salmon run were not more dangerous than an average
mothers' meeting, but some of the mounted Indians
had come to trade, and Storm's Kutenais might prove
excitable.  So in this congregation the salmon fishers
were squatted in the sunshine, the Kutenais standing
aloof, as aristocrats who observe the savor of the
commonalty, and the haughty mountaineers remained on
horseback.  Under the bastion stood a group of American
trappers, long-haired, dressed like the fighting
Indians in buckskin, chewing cable-twist tobacco and
spitting with an air of absolute detachment, spectators
not devotees.
</p>

<p>
The White-tie medicine man, in blacks, attired like
the Reverend Mr. Stiggins or dear Brother Chadband,
despite the repulsive dress, parsonic voice, and pious
mannerisms, had a suggestion of rough-neck about
him, something manful, real, earnest, a glitter of the
eyes, a smile.  He served out Presbyterian views on
Predestination as though he thought the stuff important.
Certainly he pleased the Hudson's Bay officers,
who sat with their native wives on adze-hewn benches,
all in their Sunday swallow-tails, nursing top hats,
Scots to a man, alert to the shrewd and pawky argument.
As to the native interpreters, sound on fish, but
hazy as theologians, each of them preached a sermon
of his own, which, had he known, would have horrified
the missionary.  Here and there in the congregation
were grubby naked boys conducting dog fights, groups
of mothers exchanging the latest gossip, and stolid
babies lashed to their board cradles making the most of
the sunshine.  The fleas were not wasting time.
</p>

<p>
Long afterwards when Storm told his mother about
that service: "Tea ain't much good," was his
summing-up, "unless you've boiled the water."
</p>

<p>
After dinner Mr. James Douglas went for a walk,
a Sabbath stroll taken in civilized dress, tall beaver
hat, gloves, his mother's New Testament in his left
hand, a cane in his right&mdash;the sort of things to remind
an exile of Home.  His close-cropped mutton-chop
whiskers and clean-shaven chin, clear-cut features,
gray eyes, stern jaw, belonged, one would suppose, to
city life, to business management; but the soul of
him, despite all such appearances, in defiance of the
uttermost self-discipline, was kin to the wild solitude
of the frontier.  Yet of all frontiersmen Storm was
the one man with vision keen enough to discern Black
Douglas as he was, and, when they happened to meet
beside the farm, he offered his hand to the factor as to
an equal.
</p>

<p>
"Beastly familiar.  Confound these Yankee trappers!"  So
Douglas felt as he pulled up short and took
a pace backward.  "And yet no trapper would sport
a single straight-up eagle pinion worn at the back of
the head.  This fellow claims my hand as an Indian,
as a chief!"
</p>

<p>
Against the verdure of the meadows, in clear sunshine,
this creature was certainly most beautiful.  Deep
tan, sun-lighted mane, and buckskin dress appeared
all dusty gold save for the flashing blue of his clear
eyes.  The stature, strength, grace, dignity, commanding
power of the fellow made the factor catch his
breath as he asked:
</p>

<p>
"Who are you?  Surely, I've seen you somewhere.
Not&mdash;not Bill Fright?"
</p>

<p>
"They call me Storm, now.  The Kutenais call me
Storms-all-of-a-sudden."
</p>

<p>
"H'm.  As Justice of the Peace, I'm supposed to
want young Fright for parricide."
</p>

<p>
White teeth flashed as the man laughed.  "And you
might get me," he answered, "with, say, five hundred
men&mdash;or even hold me, until my Kutenais had time to
raise the tribes."
</p>

<p>
Then as the shadow of a passing cloud will soften the
hard brightness of the snows, the youngster's laughing,
triumphant manhood became all tenderness.  "You
said as you'd make a man of me," he added under his
breath and very humbly.  "I owe all this to you.  I'm
not running away or asking for a fight, Mr. Douglas,
or even bragging; but if you should ever 'appen to
want a friend&mdash;my heart is good towards you."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, thank you.  I might be glad of that.
One never knows.  Will you shake hands, Mr. Storm?"
</p>

<p>
"Rather!"
</p>

<p>
Storm felt without resentment that the great man
condescended, as to a servant, yet tried to put an
inferior at ease.  Accepting that as natural, he wiped his
paw on his deerskin leggings before he would venture
to shake hands.
</p>

<p>
"I never thought to meet you, sir, upcountry, but I
wants 'elp for my tribe, and your trader here at
Colville is&mdash;well&mdash;<i>cultus</i>!"  He snarled the word, for
which the factor snubbed him.
</p>

<p>
They turned along the pathway by the river, and
for the next few minutes cut and thrust were sharp as
they came to business.
</p>

<p>
"Well, what can I do for you?" asked Douglas.
</p>

<p>
"You wants pelts.  You may need help of a fighting
tribe."
</p>

<p>
"Well?"
</p>

<p>
"One armed mountain tribe is worth more to you
in trade and war than all the fishing Injuns in the
world."
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps," was the dry response, "or they might
take their trade to the American Fur Company, and
use our guns to blackmail our brigades."
</p>

<p>
"Depends on who runs the tribe."
</p>

<p>
"It does.  How's Tschirikov?"
</p>

<p>
"Dead."
</p>

<p>
"Left everything to you?"
</p>

<p>
"Alow and aloft."
</p>

<p>
"You run the Lower Kutenais now?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  Do you trust me?"
</p>

<p>
"Personally, yes.  But the Company is here on business.
When we're attacked, it's time enough to serve
out guns to our men."
</p>

<p>
"Who don't know butt from barrel, and can't hit
a house from inside."
</p>

<p>
"There's something in that.  At the same time,
Mr. Storm, we have not found your Lower Kutenais
especially reliable for trade."
</p>

<p>
"They're true as steel!"
</p>

<p>
"No doubt.  Perhaps twenty years back, or even
more, Lieut. Tschirikov, late of the Russian Navy,
came down the coast from Russian America with a
schooner-load of sea otter.  Had he gone west to China
with that cargo he might have done much better, but
still, that was not our business.  The pelts were, so
far as we know, honestly come by.  We bought them.
He took trade goods, and set off upcountry, to start
a trading post among the Kutenais.  Quite naturally
we expected to buy his furs.  We got none."
</p>

<p>
Storm grinned amiably, and Douglas probed a little
deeper now.
</p>

<p>
"Once or twice when I was passing with our brigades,
I camped with the good old fellow and offered
to talk pelts.  He would change the subject at once.  I
never found out what sort of business he was&mdash;well,
concealing in our Territory.  I thought, to tell you the
plain truth, Storm, that it might be worth while to
send you, to find out Tschirikov's game."
</p>

<p>
Storm laughed until the tears came.
</p>

<p>
"It ain't no sort of secret," he said at last.
"According to old Fatbald that load of sea otter and fur
seal was worth at Pekin about a million pounds."
</p>

<p>
"Say half."
</p>

<p>
"Well, you got 'em cheap at twenty thousand pounds'
worth of trade goods."
</p>

<p>
"Reasonably cheap, yes."
</p>

<p>
"For trade goods as any Injun tribe is better without."
</p>

<p>
"Of all the confounded impudence!"
</p>

<p>
"Better without, and you know it as well as I does.
Is trade rum and sham silk handkerchiefs the cargo as
makes any nation strong to defend their 'unting
grounds, or rich to tide through famines?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, perhaps not, perhaps not.  More useful
merchandise would rot on our hands for want of buyers.
We are traders, not philanthropists&mdash;or dreamers."
</p>

<p>
"So Fatbald warned the Injuns.  Called 'em fools
for trading.  They traded with him, though, until the
bales of furs crowded him into a tipi.  He sold them
pelts to the Upper Kutenais in trade for 'orses.  His
pony herds filled all the pastures up above our lake.
They bred.  He sold them ponies to our Lower Kutenais,
for furs of course.  In twenty years he's made
that low-down fishing tribe into hunters, fighting
mountaineers, able to 'old their own, and defend their 'omes.
The little kiddies, what used to starve to death if the
salmon run came late, is fat as butter now.  Our people
rides level with the Upper Kutenais and the Flatheads,
runs buffalo out on the Blackfoot plains.
They're rich.  They're respected.  They has peace
because they don't buy no more rubbish from either you
nor them Americans."
</p>

<p>
"Fatbald the First," said the factor sarcastically,
"being gathered to his portly forefathers, King Storm
ascends the throne, whose little finger is heavier than
the old monarch's thigh.  At least, my late friend,
however reticent, was not insulting."  Then, with a
malicious smile, "Your Majesty has, I hear, a few
loads of pelts here, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"You're making fun of me," said Storm, uneasy,
ruffled, a little truculent.  "Go on!  Your medicine is
bad, but it ain't strong.  Go on."
</p>

<p>
"I might venture to point out," said Douglas, "that
your manners at the shop-counter are not ingratiating."
</p>

<p>
"I seen some Yakimas play 'umble Injun in front of
your Colville trader.  Their trade prayer and their
rum-dance don't make <i>him</i> what you calls infatuating.
I played big chief, but all the brains he has for politics
won't fill a hollow tooth.  Carries a mighty head of
sail, and forgets he's anchored!  No-head is a big
noise and a big smell, but you're a chief, and so I
comes to you."
</p>

<p>
The factor chuckled.  This was worth keeping for
Mrs. Douglas.
</p>

<p>
"When I was your prisoner," said Storm, "at Fort
Vancouver, I seen the furs beat once a week for dust
and moth.  I done that these three snows, and my
skins are prime."
</p>

<p>
"Bravo!"
</p>

<p>
"But No-head forks his tongue, so he lost my trade.
Besides, he asks too much and gives too little.  The
American Fur Company, so them trappers tell me, ain't
so far south as all that."
</p>

<p>
"I see.  Of course you want ball and powder?"
</p>

<p>
"None.  I make both."
</p>

<p>
"What!"
</p>

<p>
"Tons."
</p>

<p>
"Oh yes, I remember now.  Of course, our lead
mine is on Lake Kootenay.  But then the trader here
has orders not to lend our bullet molds to anybody."
</p>

<p>
"I found a bullet mold," said Storm, "in the bos'n's
locker aboard of the <i>Beaver</i>.  I don't lend mine,
neither."
</p>

<p>
Again the factor showed some little irritation.
</p>

<p>
"You seem," he said testily, "to have more brains
than Dr. McLoughlin and I had reckoned on.  But
it's all damned nonsense.  Make powder!  <i>We</i> can't!
The thing's impossible."
</p>

<p>
"Well," said Storm, enjoying this, "the couple of
hundredweights I bring with me ain't much to offer for
sale to people as was here before Christ."
</p>

<p>
"Does it go off?"
</p>

<p>
"You might care to try, Mr. Douglas.  And the bullets.
I'm using 'em as ballast under the cargoes of
pelts.  I'm here trading for guns.  The only question,
sir, is this&mdash;do I trade at Fort Colville or down south?"
</p>

<p>
Guns!  This was a leader of men, chief of a tribe
quite strong enough, under his discipline, to take and
loot Fort Colville for the guns.
</p>

<p>
"And why do you want trade guns?"
</p>

<p>
"I have a range of mountains," answered Storm.
"See&mdash;here&mdash;I'll show you."
</p>

<p>
Old Beaver-tail had mapped the country for him,
and like an Indian, Storm squatted on his heels making
lines on the dust of the trail with a dry twig.  "The
river of the Kutenais," he said, "starts here."
</p>

<p>
In the heart of the Rockies, within a mile or so of
the Canadian Pacific Railway, snows on ten-thousand-foot
Alps drain to the southward, down tangled steeps
of forest, calling from stream to stream along the
hillsides, a shrill assembly of many waters, source of
a white-maned torrent roaring through deep gorges.
Purling over gravels, hurling round short curves, and
undercutting cliffs, the river widens out among
pine-crested isles, and spreads in beaver-flooded jungle.
Then it snakes through meads of wild flowers, and
coils like a serpent by miles of widening prairie,
glittering in the sunshine.
</p>

<p>
"'Ere," said Storm, "across these pastures it swings,
being here ten bowshots distant from the head source
of the Columbia.  The Kootenay River wagers ponies
to little dogs on the path towards the sun, but the
Columbia says its prayers and hits the trail nor'west.
Both is beaten, for here's my range of mountains
walling off the west, miles high snows, hundreds of miles
in length."
</p>

<p>
Look at the maps and see how very few large rivers
manage to flow to the westward against the terrific
eastward trend of the earth's surface.
</p>

<p>
"At last," said Storm, "the Columbia finds a way
round the norrard end of my Alps, and the Kootenay
sneaks around the southern foothills.  Each makes a
hairpin bend.  They've both got lost in the woods, so
the Columbia flows due south, and the Kootenay due
north.  Here on the Kootenay is our herd camp, that's
the bulrush swamps, and there's my trading post on
the only bit of gravel which doesn't flood in summer.
And here's our hundred-mile lake.
</p>

<p>
"By this time the Kootenay cools off and gets lonesome,
so it finds a hollowed lip 'ere at the West Arm,
and goes ramping down big falls to the Columbia.
This way!' says he, 'due west!' but the old Columbia
knows what's best, and keeps straight on down through
them lava deserts, and the big volcanoes."
</p>

<p>
"Your mountains form the island, then?" said the
factor.
</p>

<p>
Storm looked up at Douglas, and his face had a
yearning, hungry ferocity reminding the factor of a
mother wolf guarding her cubs.
</p>

<p>
"When I gets my guns," he said, "I can 'old that
range of Alps agin the world.  But you wants trade.
Well, here's the World Spine, and them Blackfoot
prairies.  Here's the Flatheads down south past
Tobacco Plains.  Here's the Shushwap tribes nor'west of
us.  There's trade enough."
</p>

<p>
He stood up facing Douglas.  "Who gets the
trade?" he asked&mdash;"you or them Americans?"
</p>

<p>
"You'll be trader?"
</p>

<p>
"No.  Fatbald's widow Two Bits owns the post, not
me.  She got more brains than me when it comes to
trading, and she's wife of the Head Chief Sitting
Wolf, my friend."
</p>

<p>
"I see," said Douglas thoughtfully.  "And you?
Where do you come into this?  When you've given
everything away, what then, King Storm?"
</p>

<p>
"What then?"
</p>

<p>
Storm's mood changed always with bewildering
suddenness.  Within this brief conversation he had been
cordial, truculent, grateful, shrewd, poetic, whimsical,
wistful, ferocious, and now astounded Douglas by
showing the reserve of an English gentleman intruded
upon by strangers.  This forlorn bargee and ordinary
seaman, fugitive from justice, had an extraordinary
air of breeding.  "I don't understand you," he
said, and turned away, as though to end the interview.
</p>

<p>
"My dear chap," said the administrator, treating
Storm, for the first time, as an equal, "I really must
beg your pardon.  Your private affairs&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
Storm swung around sharply.
</p>

<p>
"'Ow about them guns?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, I must see our resident officer.  You'll count
on my good offices?"
</p>

<p>
"Thank you."
</p>

<p>
"But when I spoke so bluntly just now, I was only
wondering, Storm, if I can do you a good turn,
somehow.  We white men stick together out here, eh?
And your life must be rather lonely."
</p>

<p>
Storm had a quizzing, twisty sort of smile.  He did
not know what impulse moved him, or realize that his
mother, invisible, but most urgent and determined for
his good, guided his mind, directed his hand as he
pointed to the New Testament in the factor's hand,
and said outright:
</p>

<p>
"I wants that!"
</p>

<p>
"What?"
</p>

<p>
"That book, sir.  The New Testament."
</p>

<p>
"I brought it out with me," said the factor, "to read
here under the trees.  You want to see it?  Here.  It
was my mother's copy," he added.
</p>

<p>
Storm took it in his hands, but looked away across
the sun-bright river.  "My mother's!  I left my
mother's behind," he said.  "You see, it was under her
pillow when daddy knifed her.  I couldn't go down
into the cabin to fetch it then.  I just couldn't.  Now
she says&mdash;says she&mdash;I got to ax you for this."
</p>

<p>
"Man!  She's dead.  She can't be speaking."
</p>

<p>
"Why not?  She hain't so dead as all that.  She
says there is no death.  She told me I'd got to come
here to Fort Colville because&mdash;to complete my outfit.
It hain't complete, she says, without&mdash;without that
book."
</p>

<p>
"The Word of God," said Douglas.  "No outfit is
complete without that weapon.  Take it, my boy.
You're welcome.  It is the sword of the Spirit."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
IV&mdash;THE TRAIL
</p>

<p>
Alone upon the river bank, under a tree, Storm
opened the book.  So long a time had passed since he
had last seen the written word, the white man's greatest
magic, that all he could do was to spell out letters
and make syllables aloud, forgetting the beginnings of
a line before he reached its end.  So reading he fell
into a doze, and presently into deep sleep, dreaming
true.  In his dream he stood once more among funereal
and torchlike pines upon a level tract of old gray snow.
There were the tracks quite fresh of a white man's
boots, which following, he came to the edge of the
snow-clad plateau.  Thence he looked down a thousand
feet or so of corkscrew trail among dark junipers,
and at the foot of the hill he saw Rain's sacred tipi.
The tracks led down the trail, and halfway to the tipi
lurched a man who carried pack and gun.  Storm
recognized the beaver cap, the deerskin hunting shirt,
the breeches with long fringes down the seams, the
long boots gone over at the heels.  So there went the
only white man save himself in all the Kutenais, for
this was American trapper Hunt-the-girls.  Evening
was closing in, and down there the hearth fire made
Rain's tipi glow, while a thin thread of smoke went
up as from an altar.  So Hunt-the-girls would seek
for hospitality at the Sacred Lodge.
</p>

<p>
In his dream Storm went directly to the lodge, where
he saw Rain at her evensong.  Storm would not
venture to make his presence known at such a time, but
stood behind her joining his prayer to hers.  A few
days more, after a lifetime of waiting and years of
self-denial, he would come there in the body, to be
joined with Rain in wedlock.  Both of them prayed
that the time might be shortened until they were man
and wife.
</p>

<p>
When Hunt-the-girls came to the tipi he drew aside
the door flap and entered.  He seemed a little daunted
at finding a woman at prayer, but presently Rain
stood up, gave him a kindly greeting, helped to take
off his pack, then let him have tobacco to smoke while
she made supper.  They talked a little in the Kutenais,
of the weather, the trails, the hunting, and the beaver,
but all the while the white man, fascinated, enthralled,
gazed at the woman, desire in his eyes, while she,
kneeling at the work, her back turned, grew more and more
uneasy.  Storm saw her loose the dagger in her belt
sheath, and tried to let Rain know that he was present,
but could not reach her mind.  He wanted with all
his might to restrain the white man, to frighten him,
to drive him away, or even in the last resort to kill,
but Storm's spiritual presence might have no influence
upon the material body of this felon, nor hands
invisible defend the woman he loved, in the extremity of
her peril.  She was praying in desperation.  At her
summons her mother, Thunder Feather, and Storm's
mother, Catherine, were present instantly, and
presently the great spirit Hiawatha.  These joined Storm,
and by agreement all of them bent their wills to daunt
the trapper, while they inspired Rain to coolness, skill,
and daring in her defense.
</p>

<p>
The mad beast passion had called up demons also
until a crowd of evil spirits urged the trapper on so
that Rain's friends could not avail to hold him from
his purpose.  The trapper leaped at Rain, flung her
headlong beside the little fire on the hearth, then
dragged her across the floor, laying her on the bison
robes against the back rest.  There they fought long,
desperately, until at last Rain's strength failed.  She
seemed to have fainted, yet her eyelids parted almost
invisibly as she got ready.  Only she opened her eyes
wide when she struck, driving the dagger home into
the white man's lungs.  It seemed but a minute later
that she dragged the wounded man abreast of the
hearth fire, rolled him face downwards across the belt
of red-hot coals, and stood holding him there with her
foot, until the awful vengeance was accomplished.
</p>

<p>
Then Storm remembered her words of long ago:
"If a woman will not defend her honor, with her
weapons defend her honor, with all that she is, all that
she has, defend her honor, then let her not think that
she shall dare the Wolf Trail.  She shall not climb
the Wolf Trail to the land of the Blessed Spirits."
</p>

<p>
So be it.  Her honor was defended, and avenged.
Henceforth he who had offended her, if he should live,
so long as he should live should have but one name,
No-man.
</p>

<p>
And the dream faded.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
The dusk had fallen, the lamp was alight in the chief
factor's room at the Fort.
</p>

<p>
"My dear," said Douglas to his Indian wife, "I've
given my New Testament to Storm of the East Kutenais."
</p>

<p>
The woman wondered at him.
</p>

<p>
"After all," Douglas explained, "what could I do?
We've got the big Bible with us and I'm sure my
mother would have given him that little Testament,
as of course I did.  You'll laugh at what I say, but
if you'd seen him there, a sort of spirit, all dusty
sunshine, his eyes dreaming, seeing things unearthly, as
he looked across the blaze of light on the water!  My
dear! why, his face was inspired."
</p>

<p>
"Hush!  Some one at the door," said Mrs. Douglas,
who was undressing to go to bed.  "Who can it be, so
late?"
</p>

<p>
The factor opened the door, and Mrs. Douglas hid
herself behind it.  Storm stood there, deathly-pale,
shaking all over, holding on to the lintel overhead.
</p>

<p>
"I want you," he said huskily.  "My wife's in
danger.  I got to go at once."
</p>

<p>
"You've had a message?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  From her mother, Thunder Feather.  I'm
starting now with the three best canoe men.  But I
can't leave my Injuns in the lurch about them guns.
You got to do the trading for me, with this Fort
Colville man?"
</p>

<p>
"I?" asked the factor.
</p>

<p>
"You.  I trust you.  You're straight."
</p>

<p>
"The Hudson's Bay Company is not exactly crooked."
</p>

<p>
"It's you I trust.  You'll do it?"
</p>

<p>
"Gladly," said Douglas.
</p>

<p>
"Fatbald's widow, Two Bits, Sitting Wolf's woman,
will come to you in the morning.  Or you can send
for her."
</p>

<p>
He was gone, and Douglas stood in the doorway
listening as Storm ran towards the river and his canoe.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap06"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VI
<br><br>
THE GHOST TRAIL
</h3>

<p>
The Indian would rather not be fed from the
Great Horn Spoon of the Pale-face.  North
of the Medicine Line we have kept faith with
him, in cold frugality and aggravating meanness.
Southward in the Land of Promises we showed him
the whole art and practice of Humbug, sometimes
massacred a tribe or so, were always liable to break out,
and yet had generous moods or even dealt a little
sunshine now and then to warm starved hearts.  The
Indian likes Canada least.
</p>

<p>
We wear hats, not for an occasional ceremony, but
all the time, as though we never desisted from making
magic.  That is uncanny, not quite human.
</p>

<p>
The Indian likes a fight as much as anybody, and
afterwards a scalp is the very best trophy.  But he
always took that trophy in war, not, like the white
frontiersman, in peace, or for fun, or as a collector of
curiosities.  In other ways, too, the white man is
ferocious.  When, on a hard trip, the Indians are done for
and lie down to die, the white man gets up and kicks
them.  I have done that myself.  The white man's
purpose goes on until he is dead, and afterwards.  He
is much fiercer even than the poor embittered Apaches.
He is fierce in cold blood.  He laughs.
</p>

<p>
All this is to illustrate the emotions of Falls-in-two,
Wags-his-tail, and Last-one-to-swim-home-with-fodder,
the three best canoe men of the Kutenais.
</p>

<p>
They did not like the white man Storms-all-of-a-sudden,
who kept two of them at the paddles, one resting,
and worked without sleep himself for seventy
hours on end.  When he caught them trying to cook
a meal, he kicked the fire out.  Of course, they could
kill him easily, but when they rejoined the tribe Two
Bits would have a few words to say about that.
Brave they were to a fault, but when old Two Bits
"turned her wolf loose," naught could avail but
absence.
</p>

<p>
A white man wears a hat and can work without rest
or food, such being his sun-power; but an over-strained
Indian's nerve breaks, and, though he may seem to
get well, he will not live long afterwards.  So, at the
cataract from which he had his name, Falls-in-two
explained this mystery to Storms-all-of-a-sudden.  It
made Storm worse than ever.
</p>

<p>
At the upper portage the three Indians prayed that
the sun would burn him and powder him up for black
face-paint.  Most certainly the prayer had some effect,
for the heat became extreme, and in the late afternoon
when they reached the place where the city of Nelson
stands, the white man, so said Wags-his-tail, just fell
down dead.  They were too tired to help.  They let
him stay dead until midnight.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Storm had lost himself among heaps of clinkers and
beds of cinders.  There were drifts of ashes flung by
an icy wind in the gray gloom, a gale of ashes blowing
through his body, cold which wrenched his heart,
clutched his throat, strangled him.  He could not find
Rain's enemy, the man who had ruined his wife, and
robbed her of her honor.  The plain reached away
forever without shelter or refuge or any hope.  There
was no hope.  There was no life in him or warmth
except from the burning of murderous hatred for Rain's
enemy.
</p>

<p>
"I have a soul," he shouted, "to offer in exchange if
I may have my enemy.  Give me my enemy!"
</p>

<p>
There was no answer to his cry, no echo from the
desert, only more furious wind, and deepening of gray
darkness, drift in which he floundered, sinking, cold
beyond endurance.
</p>

<p>
Again he shouted, offering his soul for help in the
finding of Rain's enemy.
</p>

<p>
That time he heard the echo, derisive, hollow, flung
by unseen cliffs, crashing from wall to wall, from
height to height, far up to summits remote, and empty
silence.  Presently his knee struck a chain suspended
in the ash drift.  Its cold tore the skin from his hands,
but he could not lower it to climb over or lift it to
get under.  He hauled himself along by the chain as
though it were a life line, knowing that the name of
it was Despair.  And by the chain of Despair he came
at last to the foot of the cliffs, just where a pathway
went up, broad, of easy gradient, quartering the
precipice.  He knew that the name of that path was Hope,
but he could not tell whither it led.  Only it saved him
from the gale of drifting ashes, and it seemed to lead
him away from Hate, wherein there is no shelter, or
succor, or deliverance.  He went on a long way, but
always the path narrowed, shrinking against the cliffs;
and whereas it had been easy, it was now steep, aye,
and perilous, for it shelved to the edge, of slippery
loose flakes which slithered over and fell.  He stood
breathless, listening for the stones to reach the bottom
to reassure him, but they fell, and fell without end.
Now he dared go no farther upon that narrow shelving
way lest he should miss a foothold in the dark, to
slither as the stones did, and go suddenly mad, to leap,
turning over and over in Space, falling into the Silence.
He would have gone down the path, but that he dared
not turn round.  He went on, clinging to the wall,
peering into the gloom, looking for footholds.
</p>

<p>
So Thunder Feather found him, and barred his path.
She said that Rain lay up yonder at the point of death.
She must come down this trail to find Storm because
he had failed her, in her extremity had failed her.
</p>

<p>
The words were echoed by clanging walls, with cap
and crash of thundering calls and answers, far up the
heights until the sound was lost in Silence.
</p>

<p>
And in the disorder of her grief the mother railed at
Storm.  "You think yourself a man," she cried, "a
warrior!"  The echoes crashed and thundered to every
word.  "Your woman bids you keep away from your
lodge these three snows past, and you obey, you cur!
What woman ever made could love or reverence a
thing that obeys her like a dog at the lodge door!
</p>

<p>
"Three winters married and never seen your woman!
O craven dog-face!  The squaw is master in your
lodge, and you whimpering outside, unfit, unworthy
to enter, not man enough to go in, Betrayer of
Manhood.  He arms a tribe with guns to protect his
woman's mountains, while he dare not guard her
honor."
</p>

<p>
She leaned forward, and spat in his face.
</p>

<p>
"It's just as well," she said, "you were not there
to meet that warrior, to spoil your woman's aim when
she launched the arrow, or afterwards where she
finished him.
</p>

<p>
"He lies outside the lodge writhing, moaning, there
in his blood, craving for water.  I sat unseen,
invisible, beside him, making sure of his agony, drinking
his anguish.  Rain's vengeance has not failed, as yours
fails, coward.  Her vengeance is the one thing saved,
the only thing which has not failed in our downfall, all
that we have left.  He will never have power to harm
another woman.
</p>

<p>
"And so you think you'll climb this trail up to the
Hunting Grounds among the blessed dead!  You will,
but it will be a land of strangers for such as you, who
shirked."
</p>

<p>
Father and Uncle Joey stood behind her, and they
also jeered.
</p>

<p>
In all Storm's life that was the moment of deepest
humiliation, for while he knelt upon the ledge, broken
with misery, Thunder Feather, his chief assailant,
turned on these evil spirits like a tigress.  She terrified
them, driving them away.
</p>

<p>
Afterwards when she came back, she crouched down
on a jutting crag, covered her head with her robe, and
mourned for the overthrow of all she had loved on
earth.
</p>

<p>
"What brought you here?" Storm asked, for his
heart went out to her.
</p>

<p>
"I'm finding the trail," she said, "to make it easier
for Rain when she dies, and comes here&mdash;she who
avenged her honor.  I will set up her lodge, and bide
with her."
</p>

<p>
Not sin, but love, had brought this unhappy spirit
down to Hell, love upside down, grotesquely changed
to hate, to venomous curses and exulting vengeance,
but love nevertheless, love eternal, love triumphant.
Ignoring his own misery, thrusting self away, Storm
had the heart to pity Thunder Feather, sought clumsily
enough and hopelessly to give her the comfort which
he lacked himself.
</p>

<p>
How strange it was that, all unnoticed, humble
mosses grew in the cracks of the rock, putting forth
tiny forlorn green flowers.  There was even a trickle
of water flowing across the shelf.
</p>

<p>
Why, there was light enough now to see far up the
gray, stupendous walls on either side, although the
abyss beneath was hardly visible.  The water caught
the light, and Storm saw it, letting the trickle flow into
his hands, although his thirst had become so terrible
that he could not keep still, but let it run away between
his fingers.  He tried again, but this time to get water
for the woman.  She cursed him, cross-grained as
ever, but she drank, and went on cursing his attempts
to give her comfort where there could be none.  She
tried to drive him away, but he was busy drinking and
took no notice.  She was glad in her heart that he
stayed, that he still tried to give her something to hope
for.  If she had come down the trail, it must be
possible for him to help her up again.
</p>

<p>
It was then that Catherine came, calling for Thunder
Feather, feeling her way down into the gloom of
the abyss.  She found the woman at her son's feet,
mourning.
</p>

<p>
Storm looked up wondering at his mother's radiance,
which lighted the gray walls on either side.  Then she
bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
</p>

<p>
"Silly old Thunder Feather!" she said with all the
clear-cut, brisk decisiveness of the trained nurse,
"talketh nonsense and knoweth it is rubbish, and grinneth
when found out, as she doth now.  Ugh!  Look at her!"
</p>

<p>
Thunder Feather tried to conceal the grin under her
robe.
</p>

<p>
"Pay thee no heed," said Catherine.  "For, if she
meant a tenth part of that which she saith, her portion
would be perdition, albeit her spirit dwelleth in Rain's
tent."
</p>

<p>
Storm dared not ask about Rain.
</p>

<p>
"I've just left Rain," said mother, "asleep and
asking for thee.  Thou must not come, son."
</p>

<p>
"Why?"
</p>

<p>
"Because if thee comes in the spirit she will leave
her body to meet thee, and then she won't get back
again.  Dost thee want her to croak?  Then don't be
silly.  Come in thy body like a man, so that thy wife
seeth thee in the flesh and cleaveth to the earth-life for
thy sake.  The poor thing prays for death.  Make her
pray for life.  Now promise.  S'elp you Bob!"
</p>

<p>
"S'elp me Bob."
</p>

<p>
"That's right."  The sensible old woman turned
briskly to Thunder Feather.  "Dost gloat on Hell, eh?
Come back to thy child or&mdash;or I'll smack thee black
and blue."
</p>

<p>
The Indian spirit got up, favored Storm with a
demure wink, and meekly followed Catherine back to
duty.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Despite his mother's comforting words, the taunts
of Thunder Feather had bitten so very deeply that
Storm awakened, yelling.  He raved to the three Indians
that he had failed his wife in her need, and they,
supposing him to be unmarried, thought he had gone
crazy.
</p>

<p>
Ill as he was from yesterday's touch of the sun, he
roused them again at daybreak, and drove them heartlessly
on that last day's journey of seventy miles by
water.  Yet as a gale breaks into squalls, and flaws
into calm, so he became inconstant, with moods of
furious haste followed by hours when he dared not go
on.  He might not find Rain alive.  So at the outlet
of the main lake he let his men cook breakfast; at the
Warm Springs they all had a bath; at Kaslo Point
landed for supper; and it was not until night was far
advanced that they came dead weary to the head of
navigation on Hamill Creek.
</p>

<p>
After a dreamless night Storm found himself fit for
travel.  At dawn he bathed, said his prayers, cooked
breakfast, and finished eating by the time the three
Indians awakened.  They sat up, each in his robe, and
offered thanks to Morning Star that they were to go
no farther with this madman.  They watched him
stow his New Testament and some jerked buffalo beef
into the robe which he packed and slung by shoulder
cords upon his back.
</p>

<p>
"Chiefs," observed Falls-in-two, "great medicine
men, and even warriors may fulfill a vow, or in grave
need venture to take this Ghost Trail.  I'll bet you my
canoe you don't get back."
</p>

<p>
"Yes," said Last-one-to-swim-home-with-the-fodder,
"my beaver-mother warned me in my dream.  'My
beaver-child,' she said, 'you were born lazy, which is
incurable, but if you ever do recover, don't attempt the
Ghost Trail.  But if you do go, prepare yourself with
fasting, purification, the beaver bundle ceremonial, and
the sacrifice of all your property to the Sun-spirit.'  I
would not like that part."
</p>

<p>
"My father," remarked young Wags-his-tail, "did
walk this Ghost Trail, to fulfill a vow.  The ghosts ate
him, and we never found anything except his skull.
Yes, and his tail-bone," he added cheerfully.
</p>

<p>
Storm was laughing as he belted on the hatchet,
took up his gun, and offered his hand to his friends.
</p>

<p>
"We will pray for you," said Falls-in-two grudgingly,
"but it's not much use in this case."
</p>

<p>
"Your scouting is bad," said
Last-one-to-swim-home-with-the-fodder.  "My dream
says you'll get
bushed.  The best way is not to go."
</p>

<p>
"Your hunting," said Wags-his-tail, "will make you
so thin that the ghosts won't think you're meat.  You
may get through to the sacred woman's lodge."
</p>

<p>
Thus thoroughly cheered, Storm took the Ghost
Trail, which was very faintly blazed through the dense
timber.
</p>

<p>
For a white man, he was not so bad a tracker.  He
knew a blaze on a tree, however much the bark had
overgrown the slash.  He knew that mosses and lichens
denote the north side of either tree or rock, that a
slope leads down to water, that deer tracks are guides
in crossing a valley, but that elk slot shows the best
route following a stream.  The man who knows these
things, even when tired or flustered, is not very easily
bushed.  Besides, when his mind was quiet, kindly
spirits were able to guide his course, as they always
will if one lets them.
</p>

<p>
For the first few hours he went in great contentment.
Farther on, within the foldings of the foothills,
he looked down a thousand feet or more upon the
white earth-shaking torrent, whose northern bank was
precipice unscalable.  The southern incurved slope of
the cañon, to which he clung like a fly on a wall,
became more perilous as he advanced, for the moss was
strewn with slippery pine needles, while here and there
it was clad with snow, thawed, and then glazed by
frost, so that he had to hew out a tread for every step.
No sunlight ever falls upon that hillside, where the
Douglas firs are a couple of hundred feet high, and
fallen trunks perhaps thirty feet in girth lie rotting,
sliding, not to be climbed, most dangerous to pass lest
they break loose.  Uphill the whole slope was ice-clad,
downhill the stretches of open ground were more and
more abrupt, and as the day waned, frozen, slippery as
glass.  Storm worked on, desperate because the sun
was setting and soon it would be dark.  It was then in
the dusk that he met the grizzly, an old man bear, a
giant, lean from the winter's fast, morosely hunting
tree grubs for a scanty meal.  He reared up from his
work on the butt of a fallen tree, angry at being
disturbed, barring Storm's way, determined to have meat.
</p>

<p>
Storm's stomach flopped over, so he said, for he was
terrified.
</p>

<p>
"Brother," he pleaded nervously, "my woman is
wounded, and I'm going to her.  Have pity, and let
me off!  Brother, do you believe in the Sun Spirit?
See this gun!  If I trust in that I'm a rotten shot, but
if I trust in the Sun Spirit&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
The man whirled the gun round his head and
launched it flying down into the cañon.
</p>

<p>
"Now, God," he cried, "it's Your turn!"
</p>

<p>
The bear dropped on all fours, and with a snarl of
defiance over his left shoulder dared Storm to follow
him.
</p>

<p>
"Spirit in the Sun!  Thanks!" cried Storm.  "That
gun is Yours."
</p>

<p>
So he followed the bear, who knew the way down to
the river, where there was ground level enough for
camping.  He went upstream a little, out of sight
from the gun, lest he be tempted to steal it back again.
</p>

<p>
So in the dusk he made a little fire, ate dried meat,
hung up the remainder beyond the reach of roving
porcupines, and slept.  For fear lest the bear come back
to eat his body, he dared not leave it, but mother came
in his dream to say he had done well.  And Rain was
better.
</p>

<p>
The river was at its very lowest, but even then it
makes one's flesh creep to think of crossing Hamill
Creek.  Of course the change of weather that night to
steady slopping rain made bathing no wetter than
walking, and, since the fellow swam like a duck, he
might as well land on the north bank.  Anybody else
would have drowned, but somehow he got across to
the sunlit side of the gorge.
</p>

<p>
The trouble about the north side is that it is streaked
with the tracks of snowslides, where avalanche has
swept away the giant timber, and in its place grows
grass.  When a horse falls into that grass one can see
by movements of the foliage where his four legs are
waving for assistance, but one cannot chop one's way
to him, or by any means get down to the rescue.  As
to the flowers, there is one, the giant hemlock, whose
blossom can just be reached up to by a mounted man.
Yet, when one comes to think, this jungle of late
summer might be quite easily passable in May.
</p>

<p>
A bull elk was ramping down the gorge rutting, who
belled for his mate, very crazy.  When he came upon
Storm he lowered his antlers, and charged, but the man
who had put the fear into a real bear was not to be
alarmed by any stag.
</p>

<p>
"Can't you see I'm not a cow?  Get out of my
way!" said Storm.
</p>

<p>
The elk propped with his four legs to a halt, stood
for a moment at gaze, and turned off, shattering
through the underbrush.
</p>

<p>
And presently a gray wolf, who was tracking the
elk, showed himself to Storm, rather shyly.  Indians
are comrades, but this one was off color.
</p>

<p>
"Brother," said the man, "your people and mine are
at peace.  Good hunting!"
</p>

<p>
"Not armed!" said the wolf to himself.  Then he
whimpered softly, for he was hungry, and the man
might help him to meat.
</p>

<p>
"Show me the way," said Storm, "and I'll give you
my dry meat.  Take me to my wife."
</p>

<p>
The Indians know that wolves have sometimes not
only hunted with people, but also shown them the way,
and Storm's power was very strong since his encounter
with the grizzly.  He followed the wolf up the gigantic
hills until at dusk he came to a little level field of
old gray snow where gaunt funereal pines like torches
stood in the dripping rain, the mournful rain.  The
snow had been disturbed and there were tracks of
unshod horses, who would not come up here unless they
were ridden.  Here, where the snow had melted
through, the sodden ground showed ashes of a camp
fire, pitted by big raindrops from the trees.  This tree
whose branches dripped into the ashes was hung with
clothes, torn by the wind to rags, bundles, weapons,
ornaments, offerings to the Sun.  It was a place of
sacrifice, dedicated.  And the wolf had fled without his
reward of meat:
</p>

<p>
"Surely," thought Storm, "I've been here before.
Aye, in this life I've sat beside that fire."
</p>

<p>
He peered through a veil of rain into the violet
gloom.  "If it were only clear enough!" he thought.
"There is the Apse of Ice!"
</p>

<p>
He walked to the eastward edge of the platform and
looked down the hillside, precipitous, flecked with dark
juniper bushes.  A thousand feet below he could see
a level mead where there were horses grazing, and
there in the pasture close against the hill was a tipi.
That was her lodge!
</p>

<p>
Risking his neck on slippery ground and snowdrift,
he rushed that hillside, leaping, sliding, rolling, falling,
catching at bushes, then scrambling to his feet and
quartering zigzag downwards until, breathless and
frantic, he pulled himself up short behind the tipi.  It
showed no smoke, no firelight.
</p>

<p>
He groped his way in the dark, round to the eastward
side where the closed square flap of the doorway
faced the valley.  There he tripped over something,
and reaching out his hands to save himself, he found
the body of a man, of Rain's enemy whom he had
come to kill.  To all Indians the place was holy, the
priestess a sacred woman.  The tribes would burn the
man who dared molest her.  This was no Indian.
These sodden clothes, a serge shirt, duck overalls, long
boots, were those of a white man.  There was but one
white man in these mountains, Hiram Kant, the American
trapper, known to the Indians as Hunt-the-girls,
who had "heard of a crick up north a-ways, plumb
spoiled with beaver dams."
</p>

<p>
Storm's groping fingers found the wound.  The
touch of it made him retch, for this man was
wounded&mdash;horribly.  Rain's vengeance had struck.  And
Thunder Feather had given to this trapper
Hunt-the-girls a new name&mdash;"No-man."
</p>

<p>
If he had only been dead!  But this thing was alive,
delirious, muttering, moaning for water.  "And it
wouldn't be decent to kill&mdash;until I gets him well
enough to fight me.  I suppose I got to&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
Sick, faint, reeling, Storm groped in the dark until
he found by the tent door an elk paunch used as a
bucket, and half full of water.  He poured some into
No-man's mouth.
</p>

<p>
And all the while there were words, dimly remembered
words, which would run in Storm's head:
</p>

<p>
"If thine enemy hunger!"
</p>

<p>
"Well?  Let him hunger!" said Storm out loud.
"I got to find Rain first."
</p>

<p>
Still feeling sick, he groped at the door flap,
unfastened it, wrenched it aside, and reeled into the lodge.
He could not hear properly, for the drumming of raindrops
on the skin wall drowned any sound, although
he had a sense which made his flesh creep of something
stirring, of deadly menace waiting in the darkness.
</p>

<p>
Then with a sense of horror he remembered that
Rain knew no word of English nor he of Blackfoot.
In Dreamland, where all languages are as one, they
used to talk of that, and how when they met on
earth&mdash;yes, he was to sing the melody she loved best.
</p>

<p>
His mouth was dry.  He could not sing.  He was
too frightened.  He must!  Yes; while he knelt down
groping for the fire sticks which always, in an Indian
tipi, lay just within the doorway on the left&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Now 'ere's to hold Tom Bow-oh-oh-le-hing,<br>
  The darling of our crew-hoo.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Would she remember?  His shaking hands had
found the fire sticks.  With fumblings at his belt
pouch, he got out flint, steel, and tinder, struck down
brisk showers of sparks&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Faithful be-low, he did his doo-hoo-hooty<br>
  But death has broached him too-oo-oo-hoo-hoo&mdash;<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
He blew at the tinder until it kindled&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  De-heth has broached hi-im too.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"That's right!"  The fire stick caught, and showed
him a torch, which he lighted.  "How's that?  Eh?"  He
looked up triumphant, and then, with narrowing
eyes, peered out across the lodge.
</p>

<p>
What should he know about Red Indian grief, of
Blackfoot rites which mourned for murdered honor?
The priestess had bled nearly to death, had starved her
body these four days, and only remained alive because
the guardian spirits gave her power.
</p>

<p>
They said that Storm was coming.  Who could
mistake that blundering white man's rush down the
hillside, that muttering of oaths when he fell over
No-man's body, that funny dear old melody?
</p>

<p>
Had she not loved so fiercely she could not have
hated his coming with such frantic intensity.  That he
should break into the place where she hid her misery!
</p>

<p>
Purity fierce as fire, anger which struck like lightning,
pride ferocious, a wild heart savage as this terrific
wilderness, all that had made her overwrought,
hysterical, half mad, found their expression now as she
crouched kneeling, her bow drawn, her arrow ready,
her staring eyes waiting until the light showed the
target, and then she steadied her aim directly at his
heart.
</p>

<p>
Storm saw the woman he had worshiped from childhood,
married in Dreamland, his wife whom now the
torch revealed to him for the first time on earth&mdash;a
terrible, avenging fury.
</p>

<p>
As a horseman speaks of his horse, so had this
woman spoken of her animal, her earthly body, which,
be it beautiful or be it disfigured, was a thing apart
from herself, which he had never seen, or loved, or
thought about.
</p>

<p>
It is not the lamp which gives light, or the oil, or the
wick, but the flame.  So the earthly body inspires
passion, while Love is of the soul, burning, spiritual, not
of the Earth or of Time, but of the Heavens eternal.
And Death can only make the dull flame clear, shining
above the level of the earth mists, in regions where
Love is regnant, omnipotent, omniscient, eternal.  The
human love which lights our way on earth is to that
mighty power, like the small twinkle in a sunlit dew-drop.
</p>

<p>
So Storm saw dimly by the flickering torchlight the
disfigured body, but clearly radiantly the untarnished
soul.  His love was not of the Earth, or of Time, or
Space or any limitation, but the divine spark which
kindled his manhood, not to be quenched by any
illusion of the senses.  And as to the threatened death,
what was that to him except a quick awakening from
this earth-dream!
</p>

<p>
Long ago in Dreamland Rain had launched an arrow
through Storm's heart, but by his faith he had been
saved from any pain or injury from the wound.
Laughing at that old memory, he said, "I still believe";
and, just as he had then, so now he stretched out his
arms.
</p>

<p>
His hair was draggled with the wet, his deerskin
dress was soaked, dank, clinging to his body; but
neither the drenching, the cold, nor his weariness could
lower the flash of his eyes or hide the love which
lighted his face as he knelt there, not come to affront
her privacy, but to show Rain that he, her lover, her
husband, had come at last to protect and succor her.
She understood.
</p>

<p>
The bow relaxed, the arrow dropped, she reached
out her arms to him, her lips rendered thanksgiving;
but now that the strain was ended, the wounded,
starving woman swayed helplessly, the flush gone from her
face, the light from her eyes.  And she fell forward.
</p>

<p>
Storm dropped the torch.  The tipi was all in darkness,
and there was no sound save the steady pattering
of rain on the taut skins overhead.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap07"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VII
<br><br>
THE HOLY LODGE
</h3>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3">
I
</p>

<p>
Europe has two groups of languages, the
Aryan and the Basque, but the North Americans
had ten, with hundreds of tribal dialects.
Only the nations on the northwest coast had a trade
jargon to unite their isolated villages.
</p>

<p>
The Indian of the hunting tribes made his whole
life the exercise of a religion expressed in endless
ceremonial, even the songs and dances being forms of
prayer.  The song was derived from the notes of birds
and beasts, the ritual and the dance were a careful
mimicry of the wild creatures, and the whole art of
pantomine gave to the Indian extraordinary
expressiveness, variety, and grace in gesture.  So North
America had what Europe lacked, the basis for a
language of signs, in universal use, breaking down tribal
barriers, welding all nations into one brotherhood.
The population was so small, its tribes were so far
apart, that war was informal, a hunting for trophies to
please the girls, not a campaigning for conquest; but
the sign talk made an immense telegraphy which
carried news from hill to hill across the wilderness,
scout's warning to the home camp, signal of tribe to
tribe guiding the hunt, as well as an instrument in
diplomacy, a vehicle for treaties.
</p>

<p>
So far back as they remembered their life, Rain had
instructed Storm in the ways of her people, and they
could spend hours together conversing in the hand talk
without one spoken word.  Their first earthly meeting
occurred on a dark night when the fire was out; but
when they had light to see by, they talked as deaf and
dumb folk do among ourselves.  Even when Storm
learned Blackfoot, they would revert to the graceful,
happy game, as one might turn for fun from prose to
poetry.
</p>

<p>
Think, then, of Storm on his knees enjoying a
bright fire, and the haggard priestess sitting up
affronted because he had bedded No-man down on the
other side of the tipi.  "That thing, No-man," she sig-
naled, "profanes my lodge.  Chuck him out!" No-man!
Such was the name which Thunder Feather
had called the white man Hunt-the-girls, her daughter's
enemy.
</p>

<p>
"Don't fuss," he answered, "here's your soup all
steaming, and I'm Old Squaw who smacks the children
to make them good inside.  You shan't have any soup
until you agree to be good."
</p>

<p>
Rain wanted that soup.
</p>

<p>
No-man did not want soup.  He was Hiram J. Kant,
a free-born American citizen, what had a right
to die if he pleased.
</p>

<p>
"Not at all," said Storm.  "You got no right to
sneak out of a fight."
</p>

<p>
"What fight?"
</p>

<p>
"I'm Rain's husband."
</p>

<p>
"Some liar," said No-man with admiration.
</p>

<p>
"You're going to fight me, Hiram," Storm added,
"knives, guns, or teeth, but you'll fight."
</p>

<p>
"Eh?"  The American became quite cheerful with
something to look forward to.
</p>

<p>
"Gimme that soup!"
</p>

<p>
Both patients were acutely disagreeable.  Rain
determined to finish murdering No-man the moment she
felt well enough, while the trapper had but one motive
for living, a duel with his nurse.  Moreover, all three
of them had to be fed.  So the nurse went hunting
with No-man's gun or Rain's arrows daily to get meat,
just at the height of the season when the animals were
either in love or looking after their children.  No-man
wanted rainbow trout, Rain said fish were unclean.
Storm could not catch them anyway, and only the little
fishes enjoyed the joke.  The camas lilies made the
pastures blue as a sunlit lake, and Rain turned rabid
vegetarian, but Storm had never learned to use the
rooting stick, shaped like a packing needle.  The bulbs
came up in broken bits.  As to the cooking of them in
a grass-lined pit, with a fire on top, that really needs a
bit of practice, and Rain's explanations in the hand talk
were merely an aggravation of his worries.  His
nursing was rough, his surgery a peril, his hunting a
failure, his cookery a besetting sin, his housekeeping an
outrage on decency, and in short his conduct of affairs
most stimulating.  Both patients in self-defense made
hasty convalescence.
</p>

<p>
The worker, arraigned by his conscience and
condemned by his fellows as a failure, sees but one side
of life, while on the other spirits invisible may be
praising his service as one of immortal beauty.  The
wise women, Catherine and Thunder Feather, saw the
excellence of Storm's deeds, but also the error in his
thoughts which brought his work to naught.  He
supposed his honor to demand a duel with No-man, while
Rain's desire was wholly set on murder, and the trapper
lived but for the single motive of a fair fight to the
death with his only friend.  Such thoughts were not
curative to the sick or helpful to the nurse, but liable
to end in some unpleasantness.  Catherine and Thunder
Feather prayed for help to Hiawatha.
</p>

<p>
He came, not to Rain's tipi, but to her place of
sacrifice, that hill which like an altar stood in the middle
of the Apse of Ice.  He called the children to him,
and when they arrived borne, in their dream, through
the hush of the night, they found him.  Remote and
spectral under the moonlight, the walls went up to
spires of frosty silver, and at their feet five glaciers
crouched, half seen through a veil of mist.
</p>

<p>
"May the Light defend us," said Hiawatha, "from
spiritual perils and in earthly danger."
</p>

<p>
Rain sat on his right hand, Storm on his left, their
hearts at rest.
</p>

<p>
"I come to tell you about certain angels."
</p>

<p>
The story-teller's duty is to amuse and interest the
folk, setting forth real and golden truth, not of events
as though he were historian, not of philosophy as
though he were a scholar, not of religion as though he
were a priest, but of human character, adventure,
humor, tragedy, and fun.  He is the jester in a fool's
cap, motley, and bells, but it would be a poor joke to
trap the unwary reader with a sermon.  That would be
dishonest and the book a swindle.
</p>

<p>
Yet I did love Hiawatha's sermons, sitting with
Rain and Storm to listen, moved as they were moved,
crying a little at times or laughing with them, resolved
as they were resolved to be more kindly, not quite
such a prig, forgiving as they forgave a fallen
enemy, and living as they lived on this earth the life
immortal.
</p>

<p>
We are so busy gabbling and fussing that our guardian
angels cannot get a word in edgeways unless we
are asleep.  And then we don't remember.  The soul
remembers.  I deem the world would all go mad but
for the good things which happen in the night, while
the bodies of the dream-folk rest.
</p>

<p>
So Hiawatha's sermons shall make a separate volume,
a better one than this, and for the time it is
enough to specify that through this teaching Rain and
Storm forgave No-man his trespass, hoping to be
for-given some of their own pet sins.
</p>

<p>
Long after his children had gone back to their lodge,
the Guardian Spirit of the New Race sat by the altar
fire peering into the future, the great and terrible days
to come.  He saw his people play the Game of Life
not for the zest of it, but for greed of the counters.
In that game, as seen from the spirit planes, the winner
is he who gives away the counters, the piteous loser he
who stakes his soul to get them, but presently leaving
the table, finds his gains no longer a currency in regions
where a million of them will not buy so much as a drop
of water.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
II
</p>

<p>
When Rain was well enough she made clothes for
No-man, but would not as yet speak to him or go near
him.  Storm was the nurse.  He did the hunting also,
but his wife sun-dried the meat and dressed the skins.
He fished, but she did the cooking; he dug wild
vegetables which his wife prepared and stored.  When the
berry season came he thrashed the sarvis, cherry, and
cranberry bushes, while Rain sifted, cured, and stored
the fruit for winter.  She had many a hard day's
work besides to entertain the clients, who came
hundreds of miles for healing or for counsel.  They had
to be fed, bedded down, and listened to for patient
hours far into the night.
</p>

<p>
When there was time, the day's work finished and
the gear repaired, if light enough remained of a
summer evening, Storm read the Bible spelling it out
laboriously and aloud in English, then translating phrase
by phrase into his broken Blackfoot and the sign talk.
</p>

<p>
As rendered, it was something of this kind:
</p>

<p>
"Jesus went up to the medicine lodge."
</p>

<p>
Rain could see the camp of the Jews: herders watching
their pony herd up on the prairie, and down in the
meadow, miles wide and miles long, was the ring of
the tribal tipis, in one immense ellipse.  There the
squaws were busy flenching skins, or sitting in a merry
group to piece together the covering of a lodge.  The
little naked Jew boys chased and roped dogs or went
on a make-believe buffalo hunt shooting with blunted
arrows.  The little girls were moving a doll's camp, or
cooking a let's-pretend feast.  Out in the open arena
stood a row of society lodges for the Pharisee,
Sadducee, and Scribe societies where they painted
themselves and dressed for ceremonials.  The Crazy Dogs,
or camp police, were called the "Roman soldiers,"
much too stuck-up to mix with the other societies.
</p>

<p>
In the very middle was the medicine lodge, an
enclosure of sheltering branches which sloped all inward
towards the sacred lodge pole.  Close by was the
booth where the sacred woman fasted, and there was
a shelter with a sweat lodge for the three high
priests.
</p>

<p>
"Jesus went up to the medicine lodge, and found a
lot of dog-faced persons who sold birds and trade
goods for sacrifice to the Sun-Spirit."
</p>

<p>
"Shame!  Shame!" cried Rain.
</p>

<p>
"So He threw them out, and pitched the trade goods
after them."
</p>

<p>
"Of course," said Rain, approving heartily.
</p>

<p>
"He said the holy tipi is a place for prayer, but you
have made it an All-Thieves-Society Lodge.
</p>

<p>
"Then a lot of blind and lame Indians came to the
medicine lodge for help.  So He mended them.
</p>

<p>
"But when the big chiefs and medicine men saw
that&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"I see," said Rain.  "If He mended the poor people
for nothing, they wouldn't have to pay all their ponies
and robes to be cured by the medicine men.  He was
spoiling the medicine business.  Of course they didn't
understand that He was really Morning Star, the only
Son of the Big Spirit.  Nobody except Scarface could
ever scout the way for the people over the terrible
Wolf Trail.  O Scarf ace, Star of the Daybreak,
Christ our Chief, lead us through the darkness upon
that Path of Stars."
</p>

<p>
On the other side of the hearth fire, No-man lay in
torment, half mad with pain, disturbed all day and far
into each night by the tireless labor and worship.
After a couple of months his nerves were torn to rags.
He became hysterical.  One morning, while Rain was
down at the bathing place, and Storm spelling out an
epistle to the people of Salonica, the patient called a
halt.
</p>

<p>
"Say," he drawled, "see here.  Whar I was brung
up, 'way East, my folks they got religion.  They took
it bad, at one of them camp meetings, whar more souls
is made than saved.  See?
</p>

<p>
"They was mean as snakes to start with, an' if they
lost five cents they raised the death wail.  But when
they got Religion the way they'd slander the unconverted
neighbors and whine about their own souls!  I
cleared.  You couldn't see my tail for dust.
</p>

<p>
"I'm shorely disabled, and heap sick, but I'm what's
left of a man, and you're a white-livered skunk with
cold feet, which daresn't meet me, either with knives,
guns, or teeth."
</p>

<p>
There was just enough truth in No-man's words to
stab, to torture, sufficient injustice to enrage Storm
almost to the point of murder.  And he had fallen so
far short of his own ideals.  A fugitive from justice
because he was afraid to face the gallows; an outcast
of the master race contented in his shame to be a sham
Indian among savages; a frontiersman, but so poor a
specimen compared with this wounded trapper; a
Christian yet angry, jealous, full of spiritual pride
mixed up with devilish hatred.  He doubted if he was
really fit to live.
</p>

<p>
His heart cried, "Is this man right?  Am I unfit to
live?"
</p>

<p>
No-man got to his knees unsteadily and swayed with
weakness as he took up the weapon and loaded.  His
head swam.  He fumbled with tremulous fingers,
muttering that there wasn't room for two men in Rain's
tipi.  Then he turned himself round, confronting
Storm, who sat with the Book clasped in his
hands.
</p>

<p>
"Whar's yo' gun?"
</p>

<p>
"My gun?"
</p>

<p>
Storm's mind flashed back to his interview with a
real bear, a much more formidable enemy than this,
and how his faith proved then of better avail than any
medicine iron.
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps," he thought more cheerfully, "if I hadn't
been no good at all, that grizzly would have got me."
</p>

<p>
"Oh," he said, "that's all right, Hiram.  One gun is
enough.  We'll draw lots, if you like, or you can have
first shot.  It's all the same to me."
</p>

<p>
"Huh!" the Trapper snorted.  "Play-acting, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes," Storm sighed.  "I'm just trying to play
at being a man.  That's all.  Shall we draw lots?"
</p>

<p>
But if the trapper waited for that, the pain would
master him.  He hesitated.
</p>

<p>
"All right," said Storm.  "Fire!"
</p>

<p>
"Of all the cold-blooded frawgs!"
</p>

<p>
"You'll need a touch of bear oil on that lock, Yank.
It's 'ard on the draw."
</p>

<p>
Storm wanted that minute.  He hoped it wasn't
cowardly.  Just one minute before&mdash;to serve in this
life, or in another world?
</p>

<p>
"Oh, well," he said out loud, "it doesn't really
matter.  Aim low."
</p>

<p>
"I'm going to call your bluff!" cried No-man, and
took aim.  "Damn you!  I'll call your bluff!"
</p>

<p>
"Too low," said Storm, "Hiram, that gun kicks!"
</p>

<p>
It did!
</p>

<p>
The recoil knocked the invalid head over heels
against the wall of the tipi.  Then he looked at the
slow-drifting smoke as it swept upwards, and from
behind came Storm's rather hysterical chuckle.  "You'll
catch it, Yank!  A bullet hole through the skin of the
lodge, a leak just over where she sleeps!"
</p>

<p>
No-man scrambled back to some sort of posture for
defense, but when the smoke cleared he saw Storm still
sitting, the Book clasped in his hands, a broad grin on
his face.
</p>

<p>
"Still acting!" the trapper sneered, "showing off to
yourself, eh?  Of all the humbugs!  Of all infernal
hypocrites!  I'll make you own to the sham!
I'll&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Call my bluff!" cried Storm, exulting.  "Try
again.  Aim lower.  Ask Him to help.  I always
have to, 'cause I'm such a rotten bad shot."
</p>

<p>
"Ask the Devil!" cried No-man, wild with rage.
</p>

<p>
"Friend of yourn?" asked Storm, then with biting
sarcasm: "Ask him then!  You couldn't hit me with
the muzzle against my ribs!"
</p>

<p>
"What'll you bet?"
</p>

<p>
"My burning-glass.  You has always envied that."
</p>

<p>
"Agin what?"
</p>

<p>
"Your soul, Yank.  My burning-glass to your soul,
you daren't fire!"
</p>

<p>
"Done!"
</p>

<p>
Beside himself, cursing, raving, the trapper loaded,
reviling the powder, wad, ramrod, gun, himself, and
the Devil, then with a burst of frantic blasphemy, he
advanced the weapon against Storm's ribs, and let fly.
The lock snapped in the pan.
</p>

<p>
"You'd really ought," said Storm, "to have primed
that pan.  Why, Hiram, you didn't stand no chance."
</p>

<p>
The trapper flung the weapon out through the door
of the tipi.  "I ain't no crawler.  And if you thinks
you've won my soul, you're away off.  It's done lost."
</p>

<p>
Storm laughed gayly.  "That's all right, partner,"
said he; "we'll catch it!"
</p>

<p>
"Well"&mdash;No-man smiled at last&mdash;"it's up to you.
You won.  And I shorely loves the way you acts."
</p>

<p>
"Found!  The very first thing is loving your enemy,
specially when you hates him like poison as you does
me.  Shake 'ands on it."
</p>

<p>
Shamefacedly No-man shook hands with Storm.
</p>

<p>
"Mush.  I'm getting mushy," said the trapper to
himself.  "Softer than a woman, plumb unmanly believing
of things which ain't so.  Sick, of course.  But
this man isn't no hypocrite.  He don't scare none.  He
don't preach.  His medicine is powerful strong too,
by the way he's healing this yer wound.  Now, if I
don't roll my tail down to the nearest white men and
have a fortnight's drunk&mdash;why, dammit, they'll have
me saved.  I'm off!"
</p>

<p>
He went, his hosts proclaiming so frequently and
with such insistence how greatly they were relieved at
his departure, that one might even think they needed
some persuasion of proof they did not miss the fellow
at all.  Of course he had to earn his living as a trapper,
and naturally must sell the season's takings, but
why not trade with Two Bits?  News came by various
clients at the lodge that No-man was here or there, in
all sorts of scrapes, trying to get himself killed in the
most lunatic adventures among hostile tribes, yet with
a charmed life.  He hunted Death, so of course Death
had to run away; always does if you chase him.  He
was trying to find a white man's camp and get a proper
drunk, or so he told the Indians.  Why was it, they
wanted to know, that when by accident he came on a
white man's trading camp, he ran away?  Was he
afraid of his own tribe, or was he ashamed to meet
them?  And why was it that, when the women made
eyes at Hunt-the-girls, he always fled from the camps?
</p>

<p>
Then, dreading the very sight of the priestess,
horribly afraid lest Storm should unman him altogether
by making a Christian of him, the trapper came back
to the tipi because he was lonely, homesick, hungry
of heart, and desolate.
</p>

<p>
Always after that, when he went away for a season's
trapping, No-man was full of pomp and ostentation
to himself, as well as towards his hosts, about the big
drunk he would have in the spring at the nearest trade
house, how he was hitting civilization, what presents
he was taking to the folks down East.  Young America
always proposes to do things, whereas the other
white men are grown-ups content to let the accomplished
deed speak for them.  Still, it pleased the exile
to dream ahead, and he found in that a satisfaction
which would never come from a drunk realized, a
visit to the civilization which he dared not face, a
return to the home love he never would know again, or
any other fair-appearing dead-sea fruit, which in his
mouth would change to ashes.  Rain said she hated
the very sight of No-man, Storm proclaimed him a
nuisance; yet they saw through him, their hearts ached
because of the tragic emptiness of the life he faced with
such gay valor, and when they expected his return to
this, his only home, they certainly looked forward to
his gossip.
</p>

<p>
While that sort of thing continued through six years,
they might have realized, had they thought of it, how
No-man would hardly be silent among the Indians.
He had to make some sort of face, put up something,
anything for appearances.  Craving for sympathy,
affection, respect, or even enmity, he could claim
attention only in one way.  He had no strength to boast
of, no wealth to display, or power, or virtue, fame of
deeds, or other merit save this: that his home was the
sacred tipi, that his friends were the holy woman of
the Blackfeet, and her husband the medicine man,
Storm.  He boasted of Rain's oracles and her miracles
of healing as though they were given under his
management.  More and more the mountaineers and the
warrior hordes of the plains regarded the sacred lodge
as a place of pilgrimage.  Yearly the Apse of Ice
became more central to that Indian world which was
swept by mysterious pestilence, ravaged by hopeless
wars, appealing for guidance, and getting fire water.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
III
</p>

<p>
As the work increased a guest lodge was set up for
the use of the Indian pilgrims, who hunted and cooked
for themselves.  Only No-man was admitted to the
sacred tipi, where his visits formed a pretext for a
bit of meat now and again which Rain and Storm
would share without too much offense to Hiawatha.
Of course they knew that they were doing wrong&mdash;so
much the better fun.  Early in their life together the
Spirit Guide showed them the life of an Indian tribe
as seen from the astral plane.  The slaughtering of
the buffalo, the dressing of meat, and the feasting was
all done in a cloud, a fetid mist caused by the fumes
of blood.  "Poor things," said Hiawatha, as he
watched, "if they do not hunt they will lose their
training for war, and the other tribes will rub them
out.  They eat flesh, they are strong, they have the
intellect which leads them to slaughter and despoil
their enemies, to lie, to steal, to cheat.  Only the
blood fumes cloud their intuition, fog their conscience,
and take away from them that foreboding which warns
the animals when there is danger.  That Veil of Blood
is the heaviest of all the seven which shut men out
from Vision."
</p>

<p>
Of course that was all very true; but, on the other
hand, the camas bulb is sweet enough to cloy, and
though there is a great variety of wild vegetables and
fruits, they are not an exciting diet.  As to rainbow
trout, they are very shy of holy anchorites.
</p>

<p>
But that was not the worst.  Bears are unscrupulous:
at certain seasons also vegetarians because meat
is rather scarce.  When Rain caught a grizzly raiding
the holy tipi, her thrashings tickled him so nicely that
he would fetch his wife to share the fun.  The wood
rats, a special nuisance in that district, the porcupines,
squirrels, chipmunks, polecats, all shared Rain's views
on diet, treating her supplies as a public larder.  So
great was their enthusiasm that she and Storm were
like to starve to death, rather than relinquish their
principles, but for the pilgrims who brought offerings
of dried fruits or vegetables.
</p>

<p>
Had there been seeds to start a garden without
any birds or bears to inspect the produce, had there
been eggs, milk, cheese, honey, groceries, or cereals,
there were no merit in a meatless regimen; but
housekeeping at the holy tipi was not without its worries.
</p>

<p>
Still, it is a verity that with rare exceptions prophets,
seers, hermits, saints, monks, some sorts of clergy, all
kinds of people as a whole who visit the spirit-realms
must abstain from eating any creature which is able
to look them in the eyes.  The most carnal among us
observe that rule with regard to dogs, cats, and horses.
</p>

<p>
Howbeit when No-man came on a visit, his fleshly
lusts were a very good excuse for a lapse from grace
which the anchorites were depraved enough to enjoy.
It was he who contrived the animal-proof cavern with
a rock door which finally solved the problem of the
vegetarian larder.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap08"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VIII
<br><br>
RISING WOLF
</h3>

<p>
Southward, astride of the Rocky Mountains,
ranged the Absarokas, the Sparrowhawks, who
were known to the whites as the Crows.  For a
decade or so one, if not both, of the Absaroka tribes
had been ruled by a mulatto adventurer Jim Beckwourth.
Under his leadership the hunters were skilled
in getting, the women industrious in dressing bison
robes.  In trade they abstained from liquor and bought
guns and ammunition.  They made themselves dreaded
in war, stole plenty of ponies, danced for scalps
beyond all numbering, and were very careful not to
kill a white man.  When at last Beckwourth abandoned
his wives and tribe, departing for California, a rival
but minor trader began to prosper among the
Absaroka.  He claimed to be an Absaroka, called himself
the Crow, but, like Jim Beckwourth, was part negro.
I think he was half negro and half Mexican.  Beginning
in a small way, he traded for bison robes with
liquor only.  As his business grew he got all the
Absaroka robes, but in return the people had nothing but
alcohol.  So the two tribes, the richest in the west,
were reduced to poverty, their pony herds became an
easy prey, their warriors a mere supply of scalps for
the Blackfoot raiders.  The Crow brought the nation
to ruin.
</p>

<p>
At this stage in the Crow's progress, the chief
medicine man of the Absaroka nation came to the holy
lodge and sought Rain's counsel.  She advised him to
get consent of his National Council, then have the
Crow's wagon burned, and the man himself expelled
with a price on his head lest he should venture back
again.  The medicine man departed, and No-man,
traveling in his company, learned from him the whole
advice which Rain had given in secret.
</p>

<p>
For some months No-man kept the secret, but in the
ensuing winter he came into partnership with another
trapper, and to him he told this story, together with
many others, to illustrate the power and influence of
his friends at the holy lodge.
</p>

<p>
Now does our story follow the other trapper.  He
was Hugh Monroe, the son of a Scots colonel and of
a French-Canadian mother, born at Montreal in 1799.
At the age of fourteen he joined the Blackfoot nation,
and earned a title of honor&mdash;Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
Friends of mine who knew Rising Wolf in his age,
spoke of him as not very much to look at, a little
wizened old man deeply sunburned.  In 1842, at the
age of 43 and the height of his powers, one must think
of him as the head of an Indian household, and as a
leader of the glorious Blackfoot chivalry, unrivaled
among horsemen, hunters, and warriors.
</p>

<p>
In August with the tribe on the march, Rising Wolf
rode one day with Many Horses, Head Chief of the
Blackfoot nation.  To him he repeated No-man's tale
concerning the downfall of the Absarokas, the Crow as
organizing their destruction, their chief medicine man
as pilgrim to the holy lodge and Rain's advice for
the deliverance of the people.  Many Horses was not
pleased.  The rescue of his foes the Absarokas was
not his policy or that of the Blackfoot Council.  Rain,
a Blackfoot woman, had done a grievous injury to her
tribe.
</p>

<p>
To Rising Wolf, Rain seemed of less importance,
not to be taken quite so seriously.  She and her
husband Storm were doubtless rogues, but not likely to
influence events or to become a factor in Indian politics.
</p>

<p>
"I don't know," said Many Horses.  "The faith of
the people makes this woman and her husband
powerful.  Get me proof that they are frauds, and I
can put a stop to any further mischief."
</p>

<p>
"Shall I go and see for myself?" asked Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"Yes.  But do not let the people think that I am
sending you, or have a hand in this.  An embassy to
the holy lodge would give it too much importance."
</p>

<p>
"Rain's brother, Heap-of-dogs, wants me to dine
with him."
</p>

<p>
The big chief chuckled.  "A young man," said he,
"newly admitted to serve in the Camp Police.  The
impudence!  Why, all the chiefs' wives, including
mine, would take the warpath.  If you refused their
feasts and dined with this young upstart, they'd dance
your scalp, my friend.  Take him as guide to the holy
lodge, but as you love me, do not dine with him."
</p>

<p>
"I only said I'd think it over," answered Rising
Wolf.  "Indeed, he bores me.  Haven't you noticed,
Many Horses, that a young man or a young woman
who goes in for being excessively beautiful, as this
young spark does, is always the very dullest company?
It's the plain fellows like you and me who have to be
attractive with humor, wit or skill, learning or valor."
</p>

<p>
"How you do paint yourself!"  The great chief
loved a chance of poking fun at his counselor.  "Now,
don't blush.  Your gifts are most becoming."
</p>

<p>
"Let me off, or I'll turn flatterer and sicken you.
This Heap-of-dogs, Rain's brother, is really beautiful."
</p>

<p>
"A fop, as you say&mdash;a fop."
</p>

<p>
Rain says that white people will not understand her
brother's name&mdash;Heap-of-dogs&mdash;unless it is explained.
</p>

<p>
So you must know that in Red Indian custom when
a mother carries her new born baby into the sunshine,
she looks about her, and the first thing she sees
amusing or unusual suggests a name for her child.
</p>

<p>
Thus when Rain's mother, Thunder Feather, had
been delivered of her firstborn child, her son, she went
with him to the lodge door, and looked out at the
sun-lit camp.  And as it happened, the Stony Indians, come
upon a visit, were pitching their tipis close by the tribal
camp.  But though the tribes were at peace, the dogs
were at war, engaged in battle, all of a writhing
heap.
</p>

<p>
So did Thunder Feather name her son Heap-of-dogs.
</p>

<p>
Rain's brother was strikingly handsome, a showy
horseman, a dandy, a leader of fashion.  Moreover,
he shone with several different kinds of reflected glory,
as son-in-law to a rich chief, as brother to the famous
prophetess, and presently as guide to Rising Wolf.
For this occasion he sported the top hat of a paleface
chief, from which he had cut out the crown to use
the thing as a sort of flowerpot from whence rose a
bush of scalps.  From his rump waved the tail of a
horse.  Large shaving glasses formed his necklace,
which blazed in the sunshine, visible for miles to
friends and enemies.  As to the design of his face-paint,
even Blackfoot society was surprised, ladies of
our own tribes would have fainted with envy, and
clocks would have stopped at the sight.
</p>

<p>
"Take off those mirrors," said Rising Wolf.  "I
don't want to be ambushed and scalped."
</p>

<p>
When this was done, they started, each with a wife
to drive the baggage ponies and make camp, while the
two men scouted ahead and killed meat for each day's
provisions.  They rode across the Rockies by way of
Crow's Nest Pass, they forded the Upper Columbia
below Lake Windermere, and they threaded the little
trail up Toby Creek, this in the first week of a bright
September.  So, nearing the sources of Toby Creek in
the heart of the Selkirk Range, they cantered through
glades of bunch grass, by orchards of wild fruit and
stately pine woods, with vistas now and then of
glaciers at the head of the valley and snow-crowned walls
against clear azure.  The heights were bathed in a
splendor of sunshine, but the vale in a mist of perfume
where the organ of falling waters played for a choir
of birds.  The beauty of the place was overwhelming.
</p>

<p>
"You never told me," Rising Wolf complained,
"that it would be like this."
</p>

<p>
"There are not words," answered Rain's brother,
"or signs to tell with."
</p>

<p>
They passed through the herd, two hundred head of
spotted and dappled ponies.
</p>

<p>
"We call Rain the Kutenai woman," said Heap-of-dogs,
"because she likes the spotted ponies.  How the
herd grows!"
</p>

<p>
"Considering," answered Rising Wolf, "that every
man in every tribe is a natural-born horse thief, have
these ponies no fear of being run?"
</p>

<p>
"They know," said Rain's brother, "that they are
the sacred herd.  They expect us to get out of their
way because they are important."
</p>

<p>
Now there opened out a glade commanding the head
of the valley, and the eastward glaciers of the Apse.
The westward glaciers were hidden by the altar hill on
the right, a dark wall clothed with juniper and
snow-crowned.  At its base nestled the holy tipi and the
guest lodge.  As the custom was, the visitors
dismounted, approaching the tents on foot.  Both proved
to be empty, but when a voice hailed them cheerily
from overhead, they saw the priestess and her husband
riding down the breakneck zigzag trail.
</p>

<p>
When Storm rode up and greeted him, Heap-of-dogs
whispered behind his hand.  "Brother Storm,
there's going to be some fun."
</p>

<p>
"Rising Wolf," was Rain's greeting, "may the Sun
bless you."
</p>

<p>
The white man saw in Rain's face the high cheekbones
and pinched forehead of her people, free from
face-paint though, aglow with health, and in a stern
way almost beautiful.  She moved with swift, savage
grace, a creature of the wilds.  Her smile was charming
as she gave him welcome to her lodge, and asked
Storm to make her brother comfortable.  She lighted
pipes for her white guest, Rising Wolf, and her
brother Heap-of-dogs, and her husband Storm.  Then
she settled modestly in her place, on the woman's side
of the hearth, confronting them.
</p>

<p>
"Certainly," the white man felt, "she has the manners
of a lady, not of the conjurer, the professional
charlatan."
</p>

<p>
According to Indian custom there was silence for a
few minutes before they came to business.  "You
know my name, then?" said Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
Rain answered: "No-man, and my dear Storm,
and Rising Wolf are the only Stonehearts in our
country."
</p>

<p>
And the visitor had supposed he could pass for a
Blackfoot!  He had actually painted his face "for the
mosquitos."
</p>

<p>
"It's much more comfortable," said Rain out loud,
"in the fly season."
</p>

<p>
So she read his thoughts!
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps," he said with sharp suspicion, "you know
what brings me?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, of course."  Rain counted on her fingers.
"Seven suns ago, you rode with the big chief Many
Horses, and you told him that my man and I are
frauds."
</p>

<p>
"Rain counts coup!" cried her brother Heap-of-dogs,
exultant.  "Didn't I warn you?"
</p>

<p>
"So," Rising Wolf probed shrewdly, "Many Horses
has sent a rider ahead to prepare you for this visit."
</p>

<p>
"Hyai yo!  You think the head chief too good a
sportsman!"
</p>

<p>
"I did," the white man retorted; "you read my
mind."
</p>

<p>
"That is true, Rising Wolf," answered the priestess,
amused by his chagrin.  "You rode leading your
painted war horse, who tried to plead, poor thing, that
the trotting was bad for his wound."
</p>

<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>

<p>
"That your war horse has an arrow point behind his
off shoulder blade, but you mistake the lameness for
cracked heel."
</p>

<p>
"The head chief said it was cracked heel, but, by
Jove, you may be right!  How on earth&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Not on earth," answered the priestess gently, "for
you didn't see me riding your led horse, you didn't
hear him pleading to me in his pain, you didn't
remember the red stone arrow points when the Snake
braves attacked you down at the Pisk'un.  You will
not believe until the red arrowhead works out to the
skin, at Leaf Fall."
</p>

<p>
"So I'm put off," said Rising Wolf sarcastically,
"until Leaf Fall for your proof!"
</p>

<p>
"My dear guest," Rain laughed at his ill-humor,
"did I ask you to come?  Did I seek your opinion?
Will you judge me as you judged your horse?"
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf thought deeply, and his was a quick
intellect.  If the Chief Many Horses had sent a
messenger, the priestess might know that his charger was
a piebald, lame in the off fore, but not of a red stone
arrowhead behind the shoulderblade.  Had the Snake
warriors, who raided his camp beside the old buffalo
trap, been here and told the story?  Of course this
must be some sort of cheap conjuring.  Was Heap-of-dogs
guiding Rain his sister in the sign talk, or
how was the trick worked?
</p>

<p>
"Even cheap conjuring," Rain answered his unspoken
thoughts once more, "is puzzling until one
knows the trick."
</p>

<p>
Gentle her smile, and womanly her conduct, yet
without the least offense she made him catch his breath,
amazed, startled, almost frightened.  Under the
straight, strong brows her eyes were shadowed, but
the glance was penetrating, looking right through him.
By her smile she seemed to be sorry for him.  And
she was beautiful, pure, austere, making his lurking
suspicion feel caddish.
</p>

<p>
"Many Horses is not pleased," she said, "that his
enemies the Absaroka are being rescued, that the Crow
is to be driven from their camps, that the fire water
shall not destroy them any more.  Are the Blackfeet
afraid lest their enemies be fit for war?  Is Many
Horses frightened?  Are you turned coward?"
</p>

<p>
Then Rising Wolf knew that Many Horses had sent
no messenger.  This witch had powers beyond all
things possible.
</p>

<p>
"Poor Doggie!" she whispered.  His father had
called him that far back in childhood, a nickname
forgotten these forty years.
</p>

<p>
"Your father," said Rain, "sends you that token."
</p>

<p>
Nobody in the West knew who his father was,
but in quaint, broken English, unable to pronounce
the letters l and r, "Co'on'ee Mon'oe," she said.
</p>

<p>
"Colonel Monroe," said Rising Wolf.  "Where is he?"
</p>

<p>
"At the small Stoneheart town under the hill by the
river where foam of the long falls rides on the salty
water."
</p>

<p>
"Name the town."
</p>

<p>
"Names do not make thoughts easily," said Rain.
</p>

<p>
"What is my father's message?"
</p>

<p>
"In three suns, his spirit will pass over the Wolf
Trail."
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf jumped to his feet.  "I must go quick,"
he cried.
</p>

<p>
"Sit down ... think.  How far can you ride your
animal in three suns?"
</p>

<p>
That was true.
</p>

<p>
"You would like to be with your father this evening?"
</p>

<p>
"Impossible!"
</p>

<p>
"Poor Stoneheart!" said Rain pitifully.  "You refuse
to see, you refuse to hear, you refuse to know.
You make yourself just like a stone which cannot see,
or hear, or feel, or know anything at all.  So if I took
you to Mont-re-al&mdash;I read the word in your mind&mdash;you
would come back from the dream saying it was
a dream, not real.  The woman is a fraud and plays
tricks.  You only want to prove that you are right&mdash;and
show me up.  Your heart is bad to my man and
to me.  You fool my brother to bring you here, and
think that is so clever.  I am sorry for you, my poor
little enemy!"
</p>

<p>
"You don't mince your words."
</p>

<p>
"I am frank to your face as you were behind my
back when you told Many Horses that my man and I
do our conjuring for the presents we get, the ponies."
</p>

<p>
"I saw a couple of hundred."
</p>

<p>
"We have three hundred.  Take them, all of them.
Four ponies will break back here when my love calls
them.  They are mine.  The rest you shall take to the
head chief as a gift to the poor of your village."
</p>

<p>
"Why didn't you do this before?"
</p>

<p>
"Why should we?  Nobody before has doubted us.
As you told my brother here, all other men except
yourself are horse thieves.  Any Indian, as he told you,
caught with the sacred herd, would be burned by my
people.  But, as you are not a horse thief, you are
safe.  What! surely you are not frightened?  You? who
are so brave!"
</p>

<p>
"Because I'm your enemy," said Rising Wolf,
"you've set a trap to get me burned!"
</p>

<p>
"My brother Heap-of-dogs shall ride ahead with
my message for the Chief Many Horses.  The head
chief himself shall send herders to help you.  Then
you will be praised for the gift you bring to the poor.
And you like praise."
</p>

<p>
"Damned clever," said Rising Wolf, "perfectly
convincing, and devilish subtle.  And why do you want
to win me over?"
</p>

<p>
"Is this the moment for telling?" asked Rain.
"Should we not win you first?"
</p>

<p>
"A common woman," the man was thinking, "would
have bargained with her horses.  She is at least a
lady.  And she claims that father is dying.  Suppose
it were true!  After all, I don't think she means any
harm, or that I'm frightened."
</p>

<p>
"Please," he said, "will you take me to my father?"
</p>

<p>
"Not while your heart is bad."
</p>

<p>
"Why not?"
</p>

<p>
"Because your coming would spoil your father's
peace while he is dying.  So I will take you in your
dream to see other people until your heart is good.
Who would you like to see?"
</p>

<p>
"Adventurers, fellows like me.  I understand them best."
</p>

<p>
The French-Canadian mother side of Rising Wolf
was very superstitious, had to be bitted severely, and
reined hard lest it run away with the pawky Monroe
strain in his character.  Now, both his womanly
intuition and his Scots intellect were leagued together
against the noble pig-headed tenacity of his Indian
training.
</p>

<p>
"I won't be fooled," he said all through that
afternoon, while he held himself proudly aloof from Rain
and haunted Storm like a peevish ghost to show his
independence.  Storm would tell him nothing, but went
fishing with Rain's brother Heap-of-dogs.  Like all
good Blackfeet, Heap-of-dogs despised fish as unclean,
but being a sportsman found that rainbow trouts were
rather good fun.  Neither Heap-of-dogs nor Storm
took heed of Rising Wolf and his worries; indeed
the Indian's mind was set upon his fond ambition to
get Storm's golden scalp as a trophy of war.  But
Rain objected.
</p>

<p>
At sundown, fagged in mind and body, Rising Wolf
lay down in the guest lodge bidding the squaws keep
quiet while he had a nap.  Afterwards he swore that
he went down to the bathing pool, where Rain came
behind him, placing her forefinger just between his
eyes, and bidding him look at the light on the still
water.  "We never moved an inch."  So he told the
woman.  "And all the time I could hear the roar of the
falls.  Only the sound through the pines was more
like the sough of wind.  It was lifting the snow as it
drove across the rocks, a sort of whirling blizzard, so
it was only between the gusts that I saw the old fellow
up on top of the crag.  The young chap was close
by, small, frail, with the fringes of his buckskin shirt
snapping like whip crackers.  He was blown off his
feet once or twice, but he scrambled up at last with a
little bundle which he reached out to the man on top.
It blew out on the wind, a flag, the Yankee flag, and
the man waved it, shouting.  Both of 'em were
cheering like mad."
</p>

<p>
"Who are they?" asked Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"The boy," said Rain, "is called Kit, Kit Carson,
I think.  The man's name is Fremont.  They're sent
by the Big Father to find a trail to the Oregon; but
they've climbed up a peak of the World Spine to
plant&mdash;they call it Old Glory!  Say a prayer with me,
Rising Wolf, for these men and for their flag."
</p>

<p>
"Why should I?"
</p>

<p>
"It helps them."
</p>

<p>
"To steal Oregon, eh?  I'll see 'em damned first."
</p>

<p>
"Oregon," said Rain, "is here."
</p>

<p>
The snow had vanished, and they looked down at the
Columbia, all flame red, snaking through lava fields.
Up beyond the broken brown hills loomed blue forest,
and high above that was a volcano blazing, whose immense
eruption filled the sky with light, as of a burning
world.
</p>

<p>
"Storm likes that," said the priestess.  "So I
thought it might please you.  He calls the mountain
Saint Helens.  I don't like it at all.  I think it's
dreadful.  The tribes on the coast are packing up smoked
salmon, for a move to the next world, poor things.
My man says that even the Stonehearts at Fort
Vancouver are getting frightened.  They call it
'Day-of-judgment.'"
</p>

<p>
"Ah!  That's it," the white man was thinking;
"she's got a professional manner, just like a medicine
man or a war chief teaching.  I wonder if the angels
have a professional manner."
</p>

<p>
"If you only saw one!" said Rain's mind.  "The
dogs and the ponies can see.  Why is this poor thing
blinded by his conceit!"
</p>

<p>
"Humph!" said Rising Wolf.  "Am I so bad as all that?"
</p>

<p>
"Your spirit-power," Rain answered, "is like a spent
torch, which flickers, then smokes and then flares,
nearly dead.  Sun Spirit, help him!"
</p>

<p>
They were flashing southward, the sunset glow
abreast upon their right, where violet cumuli, like
mountain ranges, broke to reveal cirrii of molten ruby
against clear orange sky.  As they came down into the
lower earth mist, that radiance glowed warmly upon
the face of an adobe wall upon their left, with prickly
pear bush on the parapet dark green against the upward
sweep of the advancing night.
</p>

<p>
"We are in Mexico," said Rain.
</p>

<p>
In front of this wall facing the afterglow stood a
long line of men on parade, at open intervals three feet
apart.  Ragged, unshaven, famished, they were gay
with a forced cheerfulness, passing jokes one to another
in derision of a group of officers, Mexicans.
</p>

<p>
"That general," said Rain, "is the wicked President
Santa Ana.  Years ago, in a dream like this, Storm
saw him at the siege of Alamo, when Bowie, Travis,
and so many heroes fell, and dear Davy Crockett."
</p>

<p>
The Mexican General Staff was attended by a squad
of half-clad soldiers, who shuffled their dusty sandals,
halting to order in front of each in turn of the
American prisoners.  To each of these captured filibusters,
when his turn came, there was tendered a sack from
which he was required to take one bean, and hold it
up for inspection.  If it proved to be a white bean, he
lived.  If it was a black bean, the firing party,
moving in drill time, got ready, presented, loaded, fired,
then left the quivering body in its blood, to shoulder
arms, and march one full pace right in readiness for
the next murder.  The Americans were jeering at
their uncouth movements.
</p>

<p>
"My man is here," said Rain.  "Of course, they
cannot see him.  Look."
</p>

<p>
Amid the disheveled company Storm stood out
clean.  His golden mane and tawny dress looked
crisp, fresh, strangely luminous, his face, from which
the beard hairs had been plucked in the Indian manner,
was that of a mighty chief, commanding, sternly
beautiful as he stood wrapped in prayer.  In his arms
he held the prisoner next for death, supporting him.
The fusillade rang out, and as the smoke cleared
Rising Wolf saw the crumpled body sag down with that
queer empty look he had noticed so often in men newly
dead.
</p>

<p>
But the prisoner released, the man, the spirit himself,
stood as before, supported in Storm's arms, rather
bewildered than hurt.  "It wasn't so very bad?" Storm
whispered to him.
</p>

<p>
"Why," answered the American, "you don't say I'm dead?"
</p>

<p>
"There is no death," said Storm, "except for your
poor body.  Come away; here is your mother waiting
to take you home."
</p>

<p>
Rain pointed out the prisoner next for trial, young
Crittenden.  "He isn't old enough to go on the war
trail," she said.  "A boy, and such a dear lad!  O
Rising Wolf, this will awaken your soul&mdash;or your soul
is dead.  My man and I pray for him.  Oh, can't you
say one little prayer?"
</p>

<p>
Crittenden drew a white bean, so Rain's prayer was
answered.
</p>

<p>
"I am glad of that," said Rising Wolf.  "He seems
a decent lad."
</p>

<p>
Crittenden gave his white bean to the middle-aged
man who stood next upon his left.  "You have a wife
and children," he was saying, his tongue so dried by
fear that he could scarcely speak.  "I haven't.  I can
afford to risk another chance."
</p>

<p>
"O Mighty Power," Rain cried, "O Morning Star,
Son of the All-Father, help him!  Help him!"
</p>

<p>
Storm came behind Crittenden, trying to guide his
hand.  "Rain," he shouted, "help me to guide his
hand!  Quick!"
</p>

<p>
Crittenden put his hand into the bag.
</p>

<p>
"Help him!" cried Rising Wolf.  "Oh, I do wish I
could help!"
</p>

<p>
"Your first prayer, answered!" said Rain, as
Crittenden held up a white bean.
</p>

<p>
For some time after that Rising Wolf joined his
wishes to the prayers of Rain and Storm for those who
were murdered or for those who lived.  Then Storm
was left to the duty, while the priestess led the white
adventurer upon another quest.
</p>

<p>
"How do you find your way?" asked Rising Wolf,
as they went southward into deepening twilight, guided
now for vast distances by the heights upon their left,
of the white Andes.
</p>

<p>
"My secret helper," answered the priestess, "tells
me the names and the places.  Then I just wish, and
I am there.  Pray now for those in peril."  The
southern ocean lay beneath, lashed by an icy hurricane.
Through the gray dusk loomed icebergs spectral and
enormous above the black white-capped ranges of seas
mountainous.  There, like poor ghosts half seen amid
the level driving snow, two ice-clad ships fled under
bare poles eastward.
</p>

<p>
"What ships?" asked Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"The <i>Erebus</i> and the <i>Terror</i>," answered Rain, "and
they are so frightened!"
</p>

<p>
The ships passed into the night, and Rain's prayer
went with them.
</p>

<p>
"I always help them a little at evening prayer," she
said.
</p>

<p>
But Rising Wolf was troubled.  "You do a hard
day's work; then travel ten thousand miles to pray for
people in danger, and that when you're dead tired."
</p>

<p>
"Dead tired?  Oh dear, no.  Are you?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, fact is, I'm not."
</p>

<p>
"How you get things mixed up!  Of course our
animals are tired, which we washed, fed, watered, rode
to a finish, then washed, fed, and watered all over
again before we put them to rest.  But we left our
animals asleep.  We are not the horses, but the riders,
the mounted Spirits of the Heavens.  We are free,
we use the free will which white men talk so much
about, and know so little."
</p>

<p>
"Free will?  What do you mean?"
</p>

<p>
"I'm free, dear man.  I will to be in a country called
Tahiti, at the hut of the Queen Pomare.  Look!"
</p>

<p>
The dusk was taking form within a large grass hut,
where there seemed to be many persons, women, asleep
on the floor.  The sudden flinging open of a door filled
the place with the hot splendor of a tropic day.
Outside, the cocoa palms were streaming in the breeze
above the coral reefs and the leaping diamond-glittering
surf.
</p>

<p>
A man stood in the doorway, seen darkly against
the blaze, his white uniform heavily laced, braided and
hung with cords of gold across the shoulders.  His
gestures and his speech were French and full of studied
deliberate insult, addressed to a woman who sat up on
the mats, while she suckled a new-born baby at her
breast.  She was lithe, tawny, fierce, tigerishly regal,
and in a royal rage as she stood up to confront this
bully.
</p>

<p>
"Admiral," she answered him, holding out her baby
that he might see, "this is the prince you have robbed
of his kingdom, this is my son, the king who shall
avenge me against your people.  Now"&mdash;with a sweeping
gesture of her arm, Pomare pointed away through
the door to the sun and the leap of the crested seas&mdash;"get
out!" she hissed, "or I'll have you thrown to the
sharks.  They love a cur.  I don't."
</p>

<p>
"Poor thing!" Rain muttered.  "So she has lost her
kingdom after all, to the cruel Stonehearts.  What do
you think of that man who could bully a woman in
labor?"
</p>

<p>
From Tahiti westward Rain showed her pupil the
wide immensity of the Coral Sea which, like the sky
at night, glitters with far-flung constellations, though
these are of ring-shaped palm groves and white beach,
set in a riot of surf.  Beyond that gleamed the Indies;
and, crossing a forest continent, they came to a bay in
Sarawak where a white schooner yacht rolled in the
anchorage.  The white man was puzzled by Rain's
Blackfoot accent, which gave a funny twist to "Rajah
Brooke."
</p>

<p>
"He is the new king of all this land," said Rain.
"He is ever so busy shooting robbers, saving English
sailors who are war slaves of the chiefs, opening old
mines of stuff called diamonds and gold, which is not
to eat, or to wear, or to keep the tipi warm."
</p>

<p>
Under the poop awnings Brooke of Sarawak sat
at a table writing.
</p>

<p>
"He makes the power-message every day for his
old mother.  Peep over his shoulder and tell me.  No?
Of course&mdash;you say you are a chief.  But what is the
use of being a chief, a gent-le-man, when nobody can
see you.  Oh, do look!"
</p>

<p>
Gentleman though he was, being greatly tempted,
Rising Wolf took one step, and read the words to Rain.
"'I breathe peace,' he writes, 'and comfort to all who
obey; and wrath and fury to the evil-doer.'"
</p>

<p>
"His medicine," said Rain, "is very strong this day;
but sometimes my man or I must nurse him through
the fever.  Now he thinks about his friend whose
name is so hard to say&mdash;Captainharry Keppel.  We
will go, see."
</p>

<p>
In Malacca Strait they found Harry Keppel's ship,
H.M.S. <i>Dido</i>, having a fight with a number of pirate
junks, one being afire and sinking.  "I like fights best,"
said Rain, "don't you?"
</p>

<p>
"But I thought you set up as a holy woman!"
</p>

<p>
"That's to help my man, and other people, but I'm
really and truly bad most of the time.  Storm likes
you, for instance, but I've always thought you hateful."
</p>

<p>
"We never met until yesterday!"
</p>

<p>
Rain chuckled.  "Why, we've looked after you for
years.  My Secret Helper told me I must train myself
by praying for some one I hated, so I took you.  Then
of course I had to help that other Stoneheart, No-man,
who is poison.  I loathe you both&mdash;like fruits and
vegetables."
</p>

<p>
They had crossed a broad haze of the midday heat,
but now above the mist descried a broken sea of
mountains, a storm of rock, which was called Afghanistan.
Far to the left, fain in the distance rose a rock
platform, old Herat.  Beyond lay Persia whose king, the
Shah-in-Shah, had lately laid siege with seventy
thousand men, to the rock fortress.  "The Afghans there,"
said Rain, "were yelping coyotes until the young spy
came.  He made them mountain lions."
</p>

<p>
"Who is the young spy?"
</p>

<p>
Eldred Pottinger was his name, but in Rain's telling
the words were not much like that.  While
Pottinger was busy saving Herat from the Persians, a
British field force had conquered Afghanistan.  But
there arose an Afghan chief named Akbar, who
brought about a revolt against the British.  It burst
like a volcano, and the British leaders lost their heads.
Their army was caught in the Khyber, and only one
man escaped, a Doctor Brydon.  Rain had held him
steady on his dying horse until he crossed the Indian
boundary to Fort Jellalabad.  She told the story next
of General Sale, and his young warriors cut off in
Afghanistan, corralled by Akbar's army.  During
three whole moons under fire they built the walls of
their stronghold; then on the ninetieth day an
earthquake knocked their fortress flat, and left them at
Akbar's mercy.  "That," said Rain, "is when I learned
what prayers can do.  Oh, if you had seen the chief
Havelock with his young men charge, stampeding
Akbar's tribes&mdash;like dust before a cyclone!
</p>

<p>
"See, Stoneheart, yonder, far in the north, is
Kohistan.  There was the young spy with his regiment of
the Ghoorka tribe, fighting his way southward.  He
was wounded and nearly dead.  He had five warriors
left when he came to the gates of Cabul."
</p>

<p>
"Five men!"
</p>

<p>
"Then," answered Rain, "but now!  See, all along
this roadside, the regiments of his Afghan army
camped, asleep through the heat of the day, until his
trumpets call at sundown.  See here, outside this little
wayside fort, are forty great chiefs and medicine
men of his Council.
</p>

<p>
"Where is the young spy?"
</p>

<p>
"That shabby Afghan sitting half asleep in the
shadow of the gate."
</p>

<p>
"You say he raised and leads an army?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, these Afghan tribesmen think that he is a sort
of god.  He leads them against Akbar, their own
king."
</p>

<p>
"This is a man indeed!"
</p>

<p>
Rain showed him the courtyard of the fort, full of
poor ragged women and children, Lady Sale, the
British General's wife, Lady McNaughten, the wives of
many soldiers.  The women of the fallen government
and the dead army were all rescued, they and their
children, by the spy who sat asleep there in the gateway.
</p>

<p>
"Listen!" said Rain, as they stood on the wall of
the fort.  Somewhere, far away in the heat haze, there
was a tiny broken thread of music.  First one and then
another, the women and the children stirred in their
sleep, awakened in sudden terror, then sat up,
wondering, to listen, straining to catch the distant
sound again, for an old, old Scottish melody rang
softly in the cañons, "Oh, but ye've been lang
a-comin'!"
</p>

<p>
Now they were all afoot, swarming across the
courtyard to the gate.  Lady McNaughten, rousing the
spy, cried, "Major Pottinger, don't you hear?  Oh,
can't you hear?  A band is playing somewhere!"
</p>

<p>
Pottinger rose to his feet, swaying with weariness
as he stared down the pass, intent to catch the sound;
and then he also heard.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, but ye've been lang a-comin'!"
</p>

<p>
Pottinger called his General Staff about him, giving
brisk orders.  His bugler was sounding the "Alert,"
then the "Assembly," and trumpet after trumpet took
the echo far off into the haze.
</p>

<p>
Then the head of the British relief column came
swinging round a shoulder of the cliffs, and Lady Sale
ran, shouting, to join her husband.
</p>

<p>
Rain cried a little, then brushed her eyes with her
sleeve.  "Finished," she said.  "I have worked for
our dear spy three snows now, and he needs no more
help."  She turned upon her pupil.
</p>

<p>
"And you?"  Rising Wolf felt as though Rain's
eyes were burning him.  "Your soul," she said, "has
come alive so quickly."
</p>

<p>
They were crossing the evening westward into the
night and Rain drove her lesson home to the white
man's heart:
</p>

<p>
"Faith in all that is good is the soul's life, like
sunshine to a plant, but doubt is the bleak wind which
stops its growth, denial the frost which nips and
withers it."
</p>

<p>
"I believe in you."
</p>

<p>
"The messenger is bad," she answered, "but the message
is true, and He who sends it expects you to obey.
Now, if I take you to your father, what sort of comfort
do you bring to his bedside?  Ah, you still dread
death!"
</p>

<p>
"I do."
</p>

<p>
"A sore thing, parting with one's horse, eh?"
</p>

<p>
"It is all that."
</p>

<p>
"&mdash;with the animal one has ridden so hard, and loved
so dearly."
</p>

<p>
"Aye, Rain.  You love a horse as much as I do."
</p>

<p>
"Did it break your heart to leave your tired animal
there in the guest lodge when you came with me?"
</p>

<p>
"You mean my body?  No."
</p>

<p>
"See.  There below us is the Atlantic, lit by the
moonrise."
</p>

<p>
"So it is.  Then we've been nearly round the earth.
What an immense adventure!"
</p>

<p>
"And yet you grudge your father this adventure?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, but he's dying."
</p>

<p>
"Dying into a bigger adventure than ours, in bigger
and more splendid worlds.  Do you grudge him that?
Shame on you!"
</p>

<p>
He saw America lift above the sky line, and presently
the Gulf of St. Lawrence narrowed to the river.
There was the citadel of Quebec, yonder his native
Montreal, the familiar maple trees, the garden, the
old house with its green shutters, the open
windows.  "See," said Rain, "I leave you now.  My
dear man, Storm, is waiting, to take you to your
father."
</p>

<p>
The night was hot and the windows thrown wide
open, the moonlight falling through the maples cast
the shadows of their delicately pointed leaves, like
dark stars, on the floor and on the white bed where
old Monroe lay dying.
</p>

<p>
"'For this my son,'" he said in his dream, "was
dead, and is alive again, was lost, and is found.  It's
been such a long time, Doggie.  I'm frightened, too,
although you needn't tell my brother officers."
</p>

<p>
"What is it makes you frightened, sir?" asked
Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"To lie in the earth while the worms crawl and bite
me.  I can't say I like the idea, Doggie.  And when
they've finished, I won't be exactly nice for the Last
Parade."
</p>

<p>
"I've a friend outside, sir, waiting, sort of angel,
knows all about it.  Will you see him?"
</p>

<p>
"Three days, Doggie, since I shaved my chin, or
brushed my whiskers.  I've had men flogged for less,
much less."
</p>

<p>
"Draw the sheet up to your mouth, sir.  There, you
look fine.  Storm!"
</p>

<p>
Storm knelt beside him.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, it's you!" said the old man.  "But, Doggie,
this is the fellow I sent to fetch you.  He doesn't know
a platoon from a quarter guard."
</p>

<p>
"I don't," said Storm cheerily, "but I use worm for
bait."
</p>

<p>
"Hoo!  What a despicable way of fishing."
</p>

<p>
"No flies," the Colonel's son explained.
</p>

<p>
"If a worm wanted," said Storm, "to eat me, and
if he was old Boneyparte himself, he'd need to run
like a jack rabbit, or fly like a bird before he got a
bite."
</p>

<p>
The colonel nodded.
</p>

<p>
"I'm not frightened of worms, and you're no more
scared of 'em than you was of Boney.  They're welcome
to my animal body, after I've finished with it."
</p>

<p>
"Finished with it?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, there's a natural body, and there's a spiritual
body, isn't there?"
</p>

<p>
"That's quoting Authority.  That's as good as
Queen's Regulations."
</p>

<p>
"Better," said Storm.  "Won't be monkeyed with
by the War Office.  I've heard soldiers growsing before
now."
</p>

<p>
"Bravo!  Excellent!"
</p>

<p>
"Well, the worms get the natural body, and the
angels get the spiritual body."
</p>

<p>
"We shall rise in our bodies at the Last Day.
That's Authority too."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, if it says 'in our animal bodies.'  I've seen
some I'd hate to repair if I was the carpenter."
</p>

<p>
The colonel chuckled.  "Well," he said, "there's
sense in that.  Go on."
</p>

<p>
"Soldiers tell me," said Storm, "that each regiment
has a battalion at home feeding one oversea."
</p>

<p>
"With drafts, yes."
</p>

<p>
"Yours, Colonel, if I've got it correct, sent out a lot
of drafts, one time and another."
</p>

<p>
"That's true."
</p>

<p>
"Drafts from Torres Vedras, Fuentes d'Onoro,
Talavera, Toulouse, Quatre Bras, Waterloo&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Hold on.  We lost men, a lot of men in those
engagements, but&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
"Drafts," said Storm.  "I've met the Other Battalion,
and they say they'll be jolly glad to welcome
good old&mdash;well, they called you 'Old Cat's Whiskers.'"
</p>

<p>
"They did, eh?  Beastly cheek!"
</p>

<p>
"They say you'll have seniority, whatever that
means."
</p>

<p>
"It means taking command, I say, young Angel, or
whatever you call yourself&mdash;are they on active service?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes."
</p>

<p>
"Who's the enemy?"
</p>

<p>
"Devils."
</p>

<p>
"Is it like that, Angel?" answered the colonel,
radiant.  "Doggie," he turned to his son, "seem's you've
found a new master.  Follow him, my son, when I
am gone."
</p>

<p>
"I will," said Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
For hours he kept vigil at his father's bedside, each
in his dream comforted by the other's presence,
although the old man did not speak again.
</p>

<p>
Hugh Monroe thought of this night's great
journey round the planet, made at a speed he reckoned of
about four thousand miles an hour, by sheer will power
of the woman he had slandered.  He had dared to call
Rain a charlatan!
</p>

<p>
He who called himself adventurer had met Kit
Carson, Fremont, and Crittenden, Brooke the King of
Sarawak, Harry Keppel, and greatest of them all young
Eldred Pottinger the spy.  Their very names were
new to him.  "And what am I?" he moaned, "compared
with the least of these!"
</p>

<p>
His world had seemed enormous, limitless, his
influence powerful, yet his own father had told him,
Rising Wolf, white leader of the Blackfeet, to be
Storm's dog!
</p>

<p>
Then Rising Wolf awakened from his dream, to
find himself in the guest lodge, and through the open
doorway saw the rose flush of the sunrise lighting
the pinnacles of the Apse of Ice.  Rain sat beside him,
her hand upon his forehead.  "Remember!" she was
whispering&mdash;"remember!"
</p>

<p>
"He called me Doggie," answered Rising Wolf.
"Storm's dog.  I shall remember.  While I live, I shall
remember."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap09"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IX
<br><br>
THE STRIKING OF THE CAMP
</h3>

<p>
So far back as the year 1813, Hugh Monroe had
been apprenticed to the Hudson's Bay Company,
and posted to a fort at the headwaters of the
Saskatchewan.  The three tribes of the Blackfoot
nation, the Blackfeet, Bloods, and Piegans, brought their
trade to that post, where the trader in charge had
misgivings, lest presently they be misled into dealing with
the Americans, whose hearts were bad and their goods
inferior.  So, one of the three tribes being at the fort,
the trader detailed young Monroe to join them, travel
and live with the people, win their confidence, and
steer them judiciously lest evil communications of the
American Fur Company corrupt the good manners of
the Blackfoot nation.
</p>

<p>
A few days out on the trail southward the chiefs,
with whom young Monroe was riding, came in an
afternoon to the brow of the prairie, overlooking a
meadow where the tribal camp would be pitched for the
night halt.  They dismounted to sit on the hill,
watching the procession file past, and one of the chiefs
had trouble with flint, steel, and tinder, kindling a pipe
which would not light.
</p>

<p>
The lad took the pipe, and held a burning-glass in
focus until the tobacco kindled.  Not perceiving the
lens, but supposing that the Stoneheart had the direct
aid of their Sun God, the chiefs hailed the event as a
miracle, and Hugh Monroe as a great medicine man.
He was given a name of honor&mdash;Rising Wolf.  Long
afterwards, though hand mirrors came into general
use for signaling, and the burning-glass for kindling
a camp fire, this Rising Wolf's reputed sun power,
which was really common sense, continued to give his
voice weight in the Blackfoot Council.  As time went
by he married into the tribe, became the father of a
family, and continued among the people, for a matter
of sixty years.  He was eighty-five years old when
his life ended, and in his memory one of the high
peaks of the Rocky Mountains is named Mount Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
It would be difficult to find a criticism of the holy
lodge more sane, temperate, and impartial than that
of the gentle adventurer.  Without the slightest doubt
as to their power, he spoke of the seers as cranks.
"Seems to me," he said in after-years, "the offense of
a crank is not that he is right, but that his rectitude puts
other folk in the wrong.  And as cranks, the seers
were so damned aggravating."
</p>

<p>
Thus one may be a vegetarian without malice, in
so far as one is opposed on principle to uric acid in
the blood.  Or one may prefer, quite reasonably, the
gift of vision to the juiciest buffalo steak.  There is
no harm in claiming merit for a meatless diet approved
by sound physicians on the one part, by mystics on the
other.  Offense only begins when one calls one's
friends foul feeders even as pigs and dogs, or taunts
the neighbors with the suggestion that eaters of
rabbits are quite capable of devouring the baby.  An
enthusiast without the restraint of common sense or the
slightest fear of consequences, Rain commended the
vegetarian tenets to Red Indians who must train
themselves in hunting, live by the chase, and migrate with
the game on pain of being starved in peace, or rudely
scalped in war.  So much said Rising Wolf outright,
but the priestess, very calm and aloof, observed that
he was quite ignorant without being at all clever.  Yet
the adventurer knew, as Rain did not, how lewd,
frivolous young savages in the camps make no end of fun
out of the vegetarian doctrine, while Many Horses and
other chiefs used to say that the sacred woman was
becoming a holy nuisance.
</p>

<p>
If Rain led, Storm was a close follower.  Having
sacrificed his gun, and afterwards his wife's bow and
arrows to the Sun Spirit, he began to observe that the
vicinity of the holy lodge was looked upon by the birds
and the beasts as a sanctuary.  He loved them.  They
trusted him.  They let him witness all sorts of their
affairs, and their ceremonies, such as the small bird's
jig in lugging the rest of a worm out of the ground, or
the bear's height mark scored on a tree trunk from
time to time as he grows, the field mouse dance, or
ructions at porcupine lodge.  Many animals with a sense
of humor would come to hear him sing "Tom Bowling,"
or, with much gravity and deportment, play at
congregation while he preached.
</p>

<p>
Unhappily there settled in the neighborhood a family
of cougars who proceeded, without regard to doctrine
or respect for the holy man, to eat their way through
his parishioners.
</p>

<p>
Much prayer guided a very strenuous hunting, until
at last, far up in the fells, Storm came one
afternoon to the residence of the cougar family; and,
firmly resolved to slay the parents, he fell in love with
their delightful kittens.  The result was a misunderstanding,
because the father and mother on their return
from hunting supposed Storm to be molesting the
babies.  Their combined rush felled him.  Either of
these nine-foot cats could have finished the business,
but that the cave was rather small, they got in each
other's way, and he found time to draw his hunting
knife.  The scrimmage was frantic, a whirling fury,
so that when at last the man dispatched them both, he
fainted from loss of blood.
</p>

<p>
Rain saw the affair in a vision, and by hard riding
reached the scene in time to save her husband from
bleeding to death.  She loaded him on her pony, got
him to camp, and kept him alive by her strong spiritual
power; but the wounds, being poisonous, festered.
Storm was long in delirium, weak when he rallied,
slow in recovery.  Afterwards he walked rather lame,
and had also a deep scratch which won for him among
the Blackfeet the sacred name of Scarface.
</p>

<p>
So far as critic Rising Wolf, who found Storm an
invalid on his second visit, could see, no harm whatever;
but presently, when Storm felt well enough, that
seer put up crosses, a big one in front of the holy lodge
and little ones five miles east and five miles west at
the trail side, to mark the limits of sanctuary for all
wild creatures.  A pilgrim must lay down his arms
at the foot of the boundary cross, or was sent back an
hour's journey to do so before either Rain or Storm
would give an audience.
</p>

<p>
Ingenious visitors would evade the extra ride by
lying; but Storm, who would read their thoughts, would
then deny to liars that sanctuary which was freely given
to mountain sheep and goats, elk, caribou, deer, the
beaver, and the bears.
</p>

<p>
Now it so happened that Two-shakes, and Worm-in-the-bud,
warriors of the Snake tribes, riding on a
knight-errantry to this far country, learned by the sign
talk from some friendly Crows about this Truce-of-God
in the northern mountains.  They came afoot
over the hills until they looked down into the valley,
where they descried two tipis beside the sanctuary
cross upon the eastward trail.  Quite naturally they
mistook this cross for the one which stood before the
holy tipi and the guest lodge.  They supposed that
they would get for a trophy of war Storm's famous
golden hair, by long odds the finest scalp in the known
world.
</p>

<p>
Their surprise attack just before dawn of a winter
morning was quite a success, for the knights-errant
counted coups on the scalps of Four Bears, chief of
the East Kutenais, Sings-all-night, the eminent
medicine man, his famous medicine pipe, Mrs. Four Bears,
whose name was Weeping Tit, Mrs. Sings-all-night,
whose name was Back-hair-parted, and her little
boy, whose name was Dark-in-places.  When day broke
it was a bitter disappointment for the Snake braves that
Storm's hair was not included in the treasure; but they
consoled themselves with two guns, many robes, and
a nice bunch of spotted ponies.  While they drove
long and hard it was their misfortune to leave tracks
in the telltale snow, whereby they were traced,
overtaken, and captured alive by the East Kutenais, who
burned them with much pomp and circumstance at the
mouth of Wild Horse Creek.
</p>

<p>
Afterwards the story ran like fire through the tribes
that Four Bears and Sings-all-night had lied to Storm
concerning the deposit of their weapons at the east
cross, that he refused to receive them as pilgrims and
had barred sanctuary.  Their fate most terribly
enhanced Storm's reputation and made the pilgrims meek.
</p>

<p>
In modern national parks, where there is truce for
the animals, they become self-conscious, show themselves
off with ostentation, are disposed as residents
to look down upon mere tourists.  So, under Storm's
protection, did that born <i>poseur</i> the big-horn, that low
comedian the bear, and even the porcupine who in the
wilds flies for his life from man at a mile an hour.
The skunk, of course, has right of way on all trails,
so that men, grizzlies, cougars, even the lordly elk
must step aside to let his lordship pass disdainfully by;
but that all the animals should expect the polecat's
honors was gall and wormwood to free-born warriors.
When, as critic Rising Wolf mentioned the subject,
Storm seemed a little truculent, and said it served
them right.  "I've been thirty years among 'em,"
answered Rising Wolf, "but you may know more than
I do.  I only warn you&mdash;don't make enemies for fun."
</p>

<p>
When Rising Wolf, on first meeting the seers,
accused them of avarice, they gave away their ponies,
robes, everything they possessed that was worth
having.  It was typically Indian.  A squaw in mourning
for an uncle, a cousin, or a brother, without consulting
her husband, may present the whole of his property
to the poor.  Surely nobody could be more generous
than that.  An Indian gives in a very large-hearted
way, and nothing grieves, hurts, or insults him as much
as a refusal to accept his present; but the seers, having
stripped themselves to bare necessities, would now
accept from the pilgrims nothing whatever except a little
dried fruit, a few wild vegetables, or a catch of trout.
The sick restored to health, the mourners comforted,
the men in grave dilemmas shown the way, found all
their gifts declined.  They were dishonored.  Their
gratitude turned sour.
</p>

<p>
All this they would reveal to their tribal medicine
men, who earned a living, supporting wives and families
on the fees received in their practice.  To such
professionals, any magician who wrought cures for
love was worse than amateurish.  He was a menace.
Not that the medicine man said anything outright, or
exposed himself to a suspicion of jealousy by using
such words as unprofessional, cheat, charlatan,
black-leg, unorthodox.  Only he would hint.
</p>

<p>
"String halt?  Dear, dear!  To get as lame as all
that the horse must have been on high, rough, broken
ground.  Been in the mountains lately?"
</p>

<p>
"So you don't like the weather?  Well, well, the
Thunder Bird, and the Spirits of the Storm, and the
Rain, have a deal to answer for."
</p>

<p>
"A war party ambushed?  Tut, tut, very curious,
very odd indeed.  Now, if they'd mentioned their plans
to a neutral, one who meets the enemy, and tells him
about our raids, why, of course, of course!  But no!
That's quite out of the question.  Quite.  Odd,
though, how many warriors we lose just after they've
gone on pilgrimage."
</p>

<p>
Were the traders overcharging for their goods?
"Why, what can you expect?  We depart from the
faith of our fathers to pick up every wind of heresy
which blows about in the mountains, and yet you
complain because your medicine goes bad!"
</p>

<p>
Were there scandals among the women.  "Ah!
How different in the days of our mothers, when there
were no magicians calling up evil spirits!"
</p>

<p>
"It seems ungracious," said Rising Wolf in after
years, recalling old events.  "I don't want to set
myself up as a critic of saints, for Rain and Storm were
saints, and I'm no more than a sinner.  Many a time
when they would get a meal for the pilgrims, they went
hungry themselves because there was nothing left to
eat.  They'd be up all night with people sick or in
trouble.  They never showed a sign of peevishness, or
said an ill word of anybody.  Both of them worked
what one has to call miracles.  They had far-reaching
influence among the tribes, always used for the good of
others.  There was no trace of sham or trickery, but
everything straightforward, unpretentious, real.  Rain
was really a very beautiful woman, and she would
charm a bird off a tree.  Storm was good-looking, too,
in his way, a matter of coloring with his fierce blue
eyes and that gorgeous mane of hair.  Of course he
had a slight truculence, a bit of defiance about him
which choked one off until one knew him better.  You
know he began as a sailor before the mast, and his
people, I take it, were in very humble life; but 'pon my
soul he was a damned sight more like some duke.  I
never met one, but I mean what I think a duke ought
to be like, with the grand air, the simple direct
manners, the courtesies, the thoughtfulness for everybody
which goes only with real thoroughbreds.  The pilgrims
just worshiped them&mdash;at the time; and yet when
they went away, out of the glamour so to speak, they'd
feel they'd been talked down to, their self-respect
bruised, their plumes a little rumpled.  There was the
bend in the arrow.
</p>

<p>
"You mark my words.  This human species runs
in herds.  If we forsake the herd life to run apart, we
get out of focus like a burning-glass at the wrong
distance, we see ourselves in the wrong proportion&mdash;not
enough world, too much me.  When the trouble came,
the average human person helped by these big saints
wanted to see them taken down a peg or two.  Of
course the tribes were shocked and all that, but human
people rather enjoy a sensation.  And if Rain and
Storm were so mighty powerful, why didn't they help
themselves?  After all, it was their business to work
wonders."
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf paid four visits to the holy lodge, the
first to expose fraud, the other times to seek advice in
his own troubles.  Of wider experience than any
Indian, a deeper man than most and very shrewd, he
had for thirty years kept almost the whole of the
Blackfoot trade in the hands of the Hudson's Bay
Company; and thanks to him, this nation, for all its
alleged ferocity, shed no white man's blood.
</p>

<p>
"They're gentlefolk," said he, "that's all.  One only
needs a little tact, and it would take a downright cad to
quarrel with such fellows as Many Horses."  Indian
names wear out, and are discarded about as frequently
as we change hats, but among the young bucks of that
period were chiefs, now remembered by whites and
Indians alike with kindly reverence as Crowfoot, Mad
Wolf, and Brings-down-the-sun.  In any land or age
such men would have been distinguished as very perfect
and most gentle knights, but there were hundreds
of men worthy to ride with these.
</p>

<p>
Sooner or later, inevitably as the tide marches from
neap to flood, the waves of American settlement must
lap the upper plains, and pioneers find their way into
the hunting grounds of the Blackfeet.  "Kill one,"
said Rising Wolf to the Council, "and a thousand will
come to the funeral."
</p>

<p>
The first American to secure a foothold among the
Blackfeet was the Crow, a mulatto, and according to
one version of the story an escaped slave.  Other
accounts allow for his being part negro, but for the rest
a Mexican Indian.  Certainly he had a touch of the
Spaniard in his manner.  He would make a statement,
and finish it with a query&mdash;"Yes?"  "No?"  He
would commence a sentence in words and end it with
a gesture.  The fellow passed himself off as an Indian,
an authentic Absaroka warrior with three Crow wives
and a litter of children; and he was known to the tribes
as the Crow.  Rising Wolf described him as a big,
lusty, hearty, jovial ruffian, lavish with gifts, fond of
display, hail-fellow-well-met with the chiefs, a braggart,
a monstrous liar, without fear; and, under that
surface of him, subtle, sinuous, fork-tongued, secret,
deadly.
</p>

<p>
When Rain advised the chief medicine man of the
Absaroka, had she been a little thoughtful of her own
benefit, she might have foreseen the calling together of
the Absaroka Council, the delivery of her message to
the chiefs, and the conveyance of every word with
embellishments to the Crow for his information and
action.  The Blackfoot priestess was not worldly-wise.
The Crow was all that.  He went to the chiefs in
council and called them a pack of fools.  "You wanted
fire water," said he, "and I delivered the goods.  You
did not engage me to ruin your enemies the Blackfeet.
It would have paid me just as well to ruin them."
</p>

<p>
They asked him what he meant.
</p>

<p>
"I am the Devil's merchant," he explained.  "The
Devil pays me pretty good money for bringing
destruction to silly Indian tribes.  How much will you
pay me to go and ruin the Blackfeet, as I ruined you?"
</p>

<p>
"If the white man's Devil pays you," asked the chief,
"why should we hire you?"
</p>

<p>
"All right," said the Crow.  "I guess I can put up
the same goods for your allies, the Snakes.  I don't
run half the risk there that I would with the Blackfeet."
</p>

<p>
The head chief lost his temper.  "We'll burn this
trader's wagons, share his ponies, and put a price on
his scalp.  Then he can go to the Devil."
</p>

<p>
"Of course," observed the Crow, "all traders will
know how you kept faith with me, and what to expect
if they come with trade goods to your camps.  May
the Blackfeet," he added piously, "drive off the rest of
your ponies, scalp the rest of your braves, enslave your
women, butcher your children, and blot out your camp
fires.  They will too.  My medicine says they're
coming, and your rotten tribes are in poor shape to meet
them."
</p>

<p>
In the end the Absaroka Council hired the Crow to
ruin the Blackfeet.  Afterwards, he said, he would
marry that Blackfoot priestess.  Rain should be his
squaw.
</p>

<p>
The Crow bragged of such intentions at Fort Benton,
well within earshot of the Blackfoot tribes.  His
talk was cynical, pungent enough to be repeated, to
pass into the general gossip of the Blackfoot country,
with comments on Rain's character to spice the scandal,
and derision of the old-fashioned Hudson's Bay
Company which could hardly fail to reach the ears of
Rising Wolf.  The Blackfeet were interested, amused,
and curious to see this trader who advertised so boldly,
who was going to undersell the Company, blacken the
face of Rising Wolf, and take Rain the sacred woman
down a peg or two.  As to their pending ruin, all the
surrounding nations would threaten as much or more
when the mood took them.  Threatened tribes live long.
</p>

<p>
The Blackfoot nation was blind to any danger.  Rising
Wolf alone saw the extent and nature of the peril.
For once he lost his head.  Where tact and humor
would have won for him the exclusion of the Crow
from the Blackfoot villages, he went raving before the
Council, pleading with the Blackfoot chiefs for the
mulatto's death.  That was a blunder.  By seeking
the murder of a rival trader he put himself in the
wrong, meeting his first rebuff from Many Horses,
who told him curtly to do his own killings.  To give
Rising Wolf justice, he challenged the Crow, a man
four times his size, to fight with any weapons&mdash;this in
presence of the Blackfoot Council.  "That's all right,"
was the Crow's cheery rejoinder.  "I reckon I name
the weapon&mdash;cannon, loaded with buffalo horns!"
</p>

<p>
The white adventurer failed to meet with jest the
gale of laughter which presently drove him out of
camp, leaving the Crow in possession.  And the Crow
was clever, distributing to the Blackfoot chiefs and
medicine men gifts of axes and guns, of scarlet cloth
and beads, every treasure the heart of man could covet,
silks for the women, toys for the children, liquor by
the keg.  The Crow offered subsidy to every important
leader, so long as he traded in safety with the Blackfoot
nation.  That night he had a wagon load of robes
and a tribe drunk.
</p>

<p>
Instead of reporting his failure to the Hudson's
Bay Company, which does not suffer fools gladly, their
agent, Rising Wolf, went on his third visit to the holy
lodge, and laid the whole of the troubles before the
Sacred Woman.
</p>

<p>
Now did Rain see that her people were doomed to
destruction.  "My eyes are opened," she said, "and
I see all the warrior spirit of our people change to
cowardice.  O fallen chiefs!  O childless mothers,
starving lodges, broken tribes driven to beggary.  Aye,
and the Stonehearts come with their cold charity&mdash;all
through my fault, my fault!"
</p>

<p>
"How can that be your fault?" asked Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
The spirit of prophecy forsook her; she was all
woman as she answered him.
</p>

<p>
"I try," she confessed, "to be a Christian, but I'm
a little heathen inside.  A Christian wouldn't have told
the Absaroka Council, as I did, to burn the Crow's
wagons, to steal his horses, and take his scalp if he
came back again.  'Twas I who had the Crow turned
loose to ruin my own dear Blackfeet people.  If I
wasn't really and truly a Christian I'd paint my face
black, cut off one or two fingers, and howl all night.
Then Storm would beat me, and it would do me good."
</p>

<p>
And then she fell to crying.
</p>

<p>
Rain and Storm had spent the whole of their working
years, as well as their arduous dream-life, in practical
application of every principle contained in the Sermon
on the Mount.  So intensely literal were they,
that Rain would sometimes devote an hour to slapping
her man's face, while he turned one cheek or the other,
until his complexion became that of a roast of beef on
a spit.  Had an eye offended either of them, it would
have been plucked out, and that with no hesitation;
indeed, they lived ever in fearful hope that they would
not be obliged to take offense at the conduct of a leg
or an arm.  On this occasion the pair of them spent a
night fasting in the cold fog on the altar hill, while
they tried to forgive the Crow for ruining the Blackfeet;
but in the morning they hated him worse than
ever.  It seemed for the time as though the Sermon on
the Mount had failed them.
</p>

<p>
Urgent, then, was their appeal to Hiawatha as guide,
who delivered to them a lecture full of original
thought, and high inspiration, beautifully phrased,
elusive as a fine, rare melody, difficult to remember, and
to all appearance wide of the point.
</p>

<p>
In meditation they saw great angels and all the
Heavens opened, but when they came to earth again
they had no practical or direct advice for Rising Wolf.
Only they felt with final conviction the irrevocable law
which binds us each to live his own life guided by such
light as he can find.  Storm summed it all up when he
rode with Rising Wolf to speed him on his way back
to the tribe.  "The Blackfeet are a flock of sheep.  A
wolf has got into the fold.  You are the shepherd."
</p>

<p>
Of Rising Wolf's duel that summer with the Crow
there are few particulars remembered now.  The fighting
seems to have been prolonged, in several successive
phases, beginning on horseback with guns at extreme
range, and closing on foot with axes.  Hand to hand
the little adventurer had no chance against a man of
longer reach and enormous muscular strength.  For
weeks afterwards he lay between life and death, during
the rest of a year a convalescent nursed by his wife.
In the moon of berries 1846, she brought him, an
invalid, a shadow of his former self, on his fourth visit
to the holy lodge.
</p>

<p>
"I don't want," he said, "to make things out worse
than they are.  It's better to keep a cool head, and
calculate without losing one's temper.  In the first place,
the Crow is a pretty good fellow in his way, with a
very big heart.  He's never been in camp without
coming to see me or sending his wives with presents&mdash;invalid
food that wasn't come by without sending especially
to St. Louis.  That corn meal helped, and the
dressings for my wound.  The Crow wants me to
chuck the Hudson's Bay Company and come into
partnership&mdash;can't for the life of him see any difference
between our old merchant adventurers trading honest
goods and his own horrible poison.
</p>

<p>
"By the way, it isn't so very poisonous.  I tried a
drink once, nasty but harmless.  It's just neat alcohol,
mixed, one part to four in water.  He sells a pint mug
for one buffalo robe, and doesn't put a thumb inside to
shorten the measure.  A pint makes an Indian think
he's on the Happy Hunting grounds, a second knocks
him out, and then&mdash;well, a lot of the warriors drop on
the way back to their tipis, and in winter they freeze
to death.  In liquor most of the bucks think they're
fierce and dangerous, so that the squaws and the
children take to the woods.  A few people are killed in the
squabbles.
</p>

<p>
"Then there's a limit.  The hunters get so many
buffalo, the women dress that many robes, and each
pelt fetches one pint.  You see, a very few gallons of
alcohol buys enough robes to load a prairie schooner;
so on the whole the drinking doesn't last long enough
to do the men very much harm.  They can't get
to delirium tremens, as white men do in the settlements.
</p>

<p>
"The men hunt all the time, instead of taking the
war trail.  The women have to dress robes instead of
curing meat, camas, and berries for the winter.  It
means that the men get soft.  The enemy grows bold
and runs our horses with impunity.  We're liable to a
general massacre, and there's horrible danger of
famine.  It would make you cry, Rain, to see how poor
our people are since the Crow came, to cart away the
whole wealth of the Blackfoot nation.  He keeps the
chiefs rich, while the rest are beggared.  That's why
some of the women have taken to drink, which isn't
good for the children.  And some of the men have
sold their wives to the Crow.  He takes the three
tribes by turns.  He's with the Piegans now.  And
Rain, your brother, my dear friend, Heap-of-dogs, is
falling under the influence of this devil."
</p>

<p>
Rain and her man had abandoned all other service in
their dream-life, and for a year past had visited the
sleep and the meditation of the Blackfeet, prompting
them to good thoughts, new resolutions, kindly
impulses, helpful deeds, to the overthrow of the trader,
even to the rigors of the war trail, the sport of stealing
ponies.  They had helped Rising Wolf to keep the
soul in his body, inspired his flagging courage, prayed
earnestly for his welfare and he alone rose clear above
temptation.  The rest kept their resolves until they
tasted liquor.  And Rain knew that her own brother
had become a drunkard.
</p>

<p>
"I understand," said Storm, when Rising Wolf had
spoken.  "The enemy killed my father, hanged my
Uncle Joey, damned my Uncle Thomas, and got my
mother murdered.  Even as you spoke, Rising Wolf,
I felt the old craving to get drunk.  It's in my blood.
It's harder to fight than cougars, but it's got to be
faced at last.
</p>

<p>
"We must go to the Blackfoot nation.  We must
set up the holy cross in front of this trader's wagon.
Nothing except the cross has power to save the people.
Besides, there's Heap-of-dogs, your own brother, Rain,
my brother, and your chum, eh, Rising Wolf?  We
must save him."
</p>

<p>
"You're taking a terrible risk," said Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"What risk?" asked Rain, bridling at the word.
</p>

<p>
"Death!" was the answer.
</p>

<p>
"The Crow," said Storm, "risks more than we do."
</p>

<p>
"What do you mean?" asked Rising Wolf.
</p>

<p>
"Hell!" answered Storm&mdash;"Hell!  If he's brave
enough to risk Hell, we're not cowards enough to shirk
so little a thing as death."
</p>

<p>
"We must go," said the priestess.  "Yes, we must
go.  Else must my people perish.
</p>

<p>
"The lodge poles of our tipi"&mdash;Rain looked up at
them&mdash;"have rooted and sprouted, so that I have to
trim the buds off every spring.  I thought our roots
had struck here, that we should never leave our home.
I must cut new poles for our journey."
</p>

<p>
"Why drag them across the World Spine?" asked
Storm.  "I'll cut a new set before we come out on the
plains, and a cross to set up in front of our lodge
door"&mdash;he leaned over and clutched his wife's
work-worn hands&mdash;"to remind us of home," he added, "as
well as to save the people."
</p>

<p>
"I must make a decent frock before we start," said
the woman.
</p>

<p>
Storm laughed, for she had a dozen splendid and
unworn dresses in her trunks of arrowproof hide.
</p>

<p>
"Rags!" she cried.  "Rags!  I've nothing fit to be
seen, and you'll want a pack of moccasins for this trail.
Besides, poor Rising Wolf needs a rest before he's fit
to travel.  And oh! how shall we ever manage with
only two pack ponies and the colt?  We'll have to load
our saddle beasts and walk."
</p>

<p>
It was ten years now since Storm had entered the
wilderness, and seven of these had been spent with
his wife in the sweet vale below the Apse of Ice.
Their home was very dear to both of them, filled as
it was with happy memories.  They pretended that
they would like to see the world, take part in the
stirring affairs of the Blackfoot nation, attend the
ceremonies, the buffalo hunting, the gambling at the wheel
game, the dancing, and the feasts.  That was all
make-believe.  They perhaps of all mankind were the most
widely traveled, for with the clarity of the dream-state
they had seen the innermost life of imperial palaces
and cities, traveled in regions unexplored, ascended
mountains never scaled by climbers, walked the sea
floor in groves of living coral, attended armies in
battle, passed unharmed through burning forests,
earthquake-shattered towns, devastating floods.  To them
the astral plane was familiar ground with its amazing
vistas of past ages from the dawn of Time, its lands
of glamour and fairy, its cities and settlements of the
"dead" who live.  They had been beyond the astral to
regions infernal, purgatorial, and spiritual, attending
worship at temples eternal in the Heavens where the
priests are angels ministrant and the music celestial in
chords of living light.  "Seeing the world!"  With
such phrases they consoled one another concerning this
journey to a Blackfoot camp with all its people
drunk.
</p>

<p>
"The berries are nearly ripe," said Rain as they
struck camp.  "I wish we could stay to get our supply
for the winter."
</p>

<p>
The men were loading a pony.
</p>

<p>
"My wife," Storm said to Rising Wolf, as they balanced
the packs on the sling rope, "my woman is still
a child&mdash;all make-believe, all let's-pretend."  He laid
the cooking gear between the panniers.  "She is not
grown up, and never will be."
</p>

<p>
"I don't follow," objected Rising Wolf.  "Of
course you'll want a winter store of berries."
</p>

<p>
They drew the manta, a bed robe, over the horse-load.
</p>

<p>
"Why, 'of course'?" asked Storm, as he passed the
bight of the lash rope, and Rising Wolf hooked on.
</p>

<p>
"I wouldn't hint such things to my woman," said
Rising Wolf reproachfully.  "The hook's clear," he
added.
</p>

<p>
Storm made the pony grunt as he set his knee to the
pack, and hauled sharp home.  Then he crossed the
lines.
</p>

<p>
"If Rain knew the meaning of fear," he said, "I'd
keep my mouth shut."  He made his basket line, and
Rising Wolf, with a foot on the end of the pack, took
in all that.  He also made his basket line, completing
the diamond hitch.  He made all fast.
</p>

<p>
"Rain and I," Storm smiled as he patted the pony on
the neck, "are making the big trail, the long trail, the
Wolf Trail, climbing the Milky Way, the great white
Road of Stars.  You"&mdash;he looked Rising Wolf in the
eyes&mdash;"will live to see the plains covered with the
white man's buffalo, the free water fenced, the free
men like dogs begging for their rations, the women
selling themselves to the Stonehearts because their
children are hungry.  I see vulgar white people tear
down the burial scaffolds to rob the bodies of our
Indian chiefs.  I see them peeping in at the window of
your cabin to see the squaw man at dinner, and say
'Now, ain't that jest too quaint!'  My friend, you will
live until your grandsons ride to the iron road, to see
the train, and sell war bonnets whose every feather
records a deed of war.  Wouldn't you rather ride the
Wolf Trail with Rain and Storm?
</p>

<p>
"The dead, the comforted, are sorry for the
mourners who cry in the night outside the desolate
lodges."
</p>

<p>
"Come," said Rain, "you who are speaking in the
owl talk, and keep the ponies waiting with their groans
all ready for the lash rope."
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf's woman laughed heartily as she folded
the lodge skin.  "Thus," she said, "days fly when
Stonehearts talk."
</p>

<p>
The guest lodge was left standing to shelter travelers;
the poles of the holy lodge to grow into a little
grove of trees; and Rain laid the ashes from her hearth
at the foot of the cross.  Her man led her away.
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf and his woman had spare ponies for
them to ride, driving the small remuda down through
the valley.  The falling waters called to them through
the berry groves, but they dared not look back to where
the desolate cross, gray in the dawn light, stood out
against the junipers, where the winding trail went up
the altar hill, and far above that, the mighty spires of
icy rock full in the rose flush of the sunrise pointed to
the skies.
</p>

<p>
"The valley seems full of shadows," said Rising
Wolf's woman fearfully.  "I'm so frightened."
</p>

<p>
"It is the valley of the shadow," answered Storm.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap10"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER X
<br><br>
THE TRANSLATION
</h3>

<p>
From the spring and early-summer buffalo hunt,
the robes were not all dressed before the Moon
of Berries, when the tribes moved into the lee
of the World Spine, to set their villages in river
meadows between the lakes and the timber.  The harvest
of the wild fruit, the cutting of new lodge poles to
replace those worn short upon the trails, and the rituals
of the Medicine Lodge, filled the shortening days until
the aspen leaves were all a quivering gold, and the
frosty evenings were given to feasts or dancing.  At
that season the Crow cleaned out the Blackfeet and the
Bloods, taking their robes to Fort Benton, then with
five wagons came to the Piegans.
</p>

<p>
He reached the Piegan village at sunset after a long
day's march, beset on his arrival by the men of the
tribe who brought robes demanding drinks.  One keg
of liquor he gave to the Council Lodge, disposing for
that night of the tribal government; but the Crow
knew nothing of the Blackfoot language, was deaf to
all entreaties of the warriors for trade or drinks.  He
sat on a rocking-chair within the leading wagon,
behind the tailboard which was iron-sheathed serving
him as a breastwork.  "Greeting, my brothers," he
said in the hand talk.  "Far have I traveled, who am
old and fat.  To-night my women pitch my tipi, my
men make a fort of our wagons, I smoke my pipe, taking
my rest.  When the sun rises, trade begins.  Send
me my friend Heap-of-dogs."
</p>

<p>
Knowing well that the Crow would not be moved
from his word, the people went to their tipis.
</p>

<p>
Presently Heap-of-dogs rode up to the wagontail, a
very gallant figure painted and dressed for war with a
coronal of eagle pinions which streamed from brow to
heels.  He was leader of the Crazy Dog Society, or as
we should say Chief of Police, and the Crow's devoted
slave while there was hope of a drink.  Some of his
warriors attended him on foot.
</p>

<p>
"How!" said the Crow, lifting his right-hand palm
forward, fingers closed, the peace sign.  Then as his
rocking-chair swayed gently back and forth: "Send
your Crazy Dog warriors," he continued in the hand
talk.  "Tell them to bid their squaws move camp and
come here to protect my trade.  You'll mount a guard
as usual."
</p>

<p>
Rain's brother gave his orders, and while his people
departed he played his horse as a virtuoso plays a
violin through graceful movements, those of a slow dance.
"Now," he said in the hand talk, "we are alone.  A
drink!"
</p>

<p>
Just so much.  The trader measured liquor enough
to loosen the young chief's tongue, not one drop more.
"Here's happiness," he said, passing the mug; then
took a dram of rum himself with kick enough in it to
set his own wits to an edge.
</p>

<p>
"Now me good Indian," said Heap-of-dogs happily,
for when his tongue was loosened, shyness fled, and he
knew a few English phrases learned from Storm.
"Now I have news."
</p>

<p>
Black skin and Indian dress belied the Crow, who
had the face, the expression, even the characteristic
gestures of the modern business American, statesman,
financier, or manufacturer, large-minded, lightning-swift
of thought, niggard of slow words which bit like
acid, straight to the point, and shrewdly humorous of
judgment.  "News of Rising Wolf?" he prompted.
</p>

<p>
"He came alive again," said the Indian merrily, "for
the warpath against you, Big Chief, to take away your
trade."
</p>

<p>
"He rode to the Hudson's Bay House?"
</p>

<p>
"No.  To my sister Rain at the sacred lodge."
</p>

<p>
"Who set the Absaroka at me.  Well?"
</p>

<p>
"I told you before," said Heap-of-dogs, "of my
sister's man, the white man, the prophet, Storm.  My
sister is holy, but he has the white man's cunning.
And Rising Wolf is wise.  They come.  They say
their God shall drive you from our villages!"
</p>

<p>
The Crow knew better.  "See, my son," he said.
"Their God lives a long way off.  I carry mine in this
wagon.  Which is the strongest&mdash;an enemy nation beyond
the World Spine yonder, or the enemy warrior in
your camp, knife in his teeth, creeping under the lodge
skin, feeling the heave of your bed robe, finding the
way for the heart?  Such is my god; but theirs&mdash;&mdash;"  He
chuckled softly, and Heap-of-dogs passaged his
horse to and fro, played by the liquor.
</p>

<p>
"Where are they?" asked the trader.
</p>

<p>
"One hour up the pass, camped to cut out new lodge
poles, and to hew a cross like they have at the holy
place.  They're going to set up that cross in front of
your wagon.  They make strong medicine to drive you
away.  I supped with them so I'm hungry, and thirsty.
Big Chief, I love your god."
</p>

<p>
"You shall pray to him when you've told the
news&mdash;you're keeping from me."
</p>

<p>
"Rising Wolf is burning the trail to fetch his
friends from the Blood and the Blackfoot camps.  He
says my sister will need guards&mdash;as if," he added
haughtily, "my men were not enough."
</p>

<p>
"Faithful brother!  You shall pray now," said the
Crow, "just a short prayer."  He handed a second
drink across the tailboard, then as he watched the
mounted man lift the mug to his lips, "when do your
sister and her husband come to this camp?"
</p>

<p>
"Before the sun."
</p>

<p>
"You must keep sober to protect your sister.  There
are bad Indians about."
</p>

<p>
"But I want to get drunk!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, afterwards.  Not now."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, but my Crazy Dogs will keep Rain safe.
They'll scalp the man who lays a hand on my sister."
</p>

<p>
"See that they're sober, then."
</p>

<p>
"You don't want to hurt my sister?"
</p>

<p>
"Far from it.  I want to save her."
</p>

<p>
"Save her from what?"
</p>

<p>
The Crow's eyes gleamed in the dusk under the
wagon cover.
</p>

<p>
"From a fool husband," he answered.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, that's all right," cried Heap-of-dogs.  "But I
get his scalp.  I want his scalp on my belt.  Best scalp
in the world.  Say it's for me."
</p>

<p>
"When I have finished with him, not before."
</p>

<p>
"And you'll save my sister?"
</p>

<p>
"I'll make her wife of a big chief."
</p>

<p>
"What chief?"
</p>

<p>
"Am I not a big chief?"
</p>

<p>
"But if you get my sister for your wife, what sort
of present do you make to me?"
</p>

<p>
"It's worth a hundred ponies to you."
</p>

<p>
"Huh!  I can steal your ponies any day.  And
besides, what do you do when you break my heart with
the killing of my poor brother, Storm?"
</p>

<p>
"See here, young fellow.  You keep sober, and I'll
see your braves get none.  And you obey my orders
until, say, sundown to-morrow.  When I've finished
with Storm, you get his beautiful yellow scalp you
talked about so much.  You get me for your brother.
Do you see what that means?  First, I give you, my
brother, a keg for you and your braves to dance the
scalp with.  You shall be so drunk to-morrow night
that you'll fall up off the ground.  You shall be dead
drunk every night for one moon, and after that I'll
teach my brother the way I pray to my god all the time
just a little.  Why, it's ten years since I've been
properly sober, and all the time my god makes me richer
and richer with wagons, horses, scarlet cloth, axes,
beautiful guns.  My god shall make my brother as
rich as that!  And you'll never be sober again.  Think
of it!"
</p>

<p>
The trader sighed.  "If it were only true!" he
thought.  "It gives one quite a glow.  The Devil, if
there is any such person, must enjoy a bit of
philanthropy.  It makes one feel so good."
</p>

<p>
The Indian felt the blood race in his arteries, the
whirling joy.  Clearer vision, a new worldly wisdom,
made him see the folly of Rain's mission to the tribes.
"She doesn't know what's good for her," he thought.
"She needs me to handle her affairs, and make her the
Big Chief's wife.  Then she can run him, as he runs
the Nations."  Then came insurgent memories of
Rain's camp, and the meager supper, of Storm hewing
notches in the two logs, so that they would fit, one
athwart the other, to make a cross.  "Like the logs
notched at the corners of a cabin."  Storm dreaded
the preaching.  "I'd much rather," he had confessed,
"trust all to the mysterious power of the cross, which
burns away all evils, triumphs over enemies, conquers
Death himself.  Death is not."
</p>

<p>
"That must be nonsense, but still&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
The young chief was riding his horse in circles
through the dusk, teaching a new dance movement of
exceeding grace.  The Crow thought he had never in
all his life seen anything quite so beautiful.
</p>

<p>
"I want," said Heap-of-dogs, "another prayer to
clear my head."
</p>

<p>
"When it's earned," answered the trader.
</p>

<p>
"Suppose I fetch Storm's hair, will you give me a
drink?"
</p>

<p>
"If you lay your hands on Storm's hair before I
give you orders, my Devil shall tear your entrails out,
very slowly, and wind them round a tree."
</p>

<p>
"But I want a drink!  Give me a drink!"
</p>

<p>
The Indian had drawn an ax from the saddle and
passaged his horse against the tailboard to get near
enough for the blow.
</p>

<p>
"Seems you want a pill," answered the trader, pressing
the muzzle of his rifle against the Indian's
ribs.
</p>

<p>
Then Heap-of-dogs felt for the first time that
hypnosis whereby the Crow's eyes compelled him to obey,
to the strict letter of his orders.  "All right," he
muttered sulkily, drawing off.
</p>

<p>
At that moment another horseman came surging
down upon them, shaking the turf with his rush,
yelling exultant war whoops, as he charged between the
Indian and the wagon.  He pulled the horse on his
haunches, with forefeet sliding forward.
</p>

<p>
"That you, Hiram Kant?" asked the trader, peering
out of the darkness into the dusk, where he saw the
American trapper, once known to the Indians as
Hunt-the-girls, but now called No-man, friend of Rain and
Storm.
</p>

<p>
"That's your little prairie chicken!  Look a-here,
Crow, I got a whole pack of beaver pelts in camp here.
See?  I've come for a fortnight's drunk.  Me and my
hoss has our tongues out.  Quick, gimme a drink!"
</p>

<p>
For years had No-man boasted to his friends.
</p>

<p>
"Turn your pony loose, and come up into the
wagon," answered the trader.  "Meanwhile, here's a
tot.  Heap-of-dogs," he called out in English, "see
this?  Want to watch the white man getting drunk
with me?"
</p>

<p>
Rain's brother rode off into the gloaming to carry
out his orders, and to make his fortune.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Pale golden light revealed the sky line of the Great
Plains to eastward, dreaming mountains awakened as
the first grayness of the daybreak outlined their sheer
scarps, their level snow fields.  The hoarfrost of the
meadow began to be veiled by the dawn mist and
Heap-of-dogs sober, gloomy, resolute, rode out to meet his
sister.  She walked by her saddle pony, who trailed
the new set of lodge poles, eight on either flank.
Storm led his horse, which carried the two logs of the
cross.  The other ponies followed, stopping to get a
bite of the sere brown bunch grass, then trotting a few
paces to catch up with the leaders.
</p>

<p>
"Everything ready?" asked Storm, as his brother-in-law
gave the peace sign by way of greeting.
</p>

<p>
"All," answered Heap-of-dogs, bending down from
the saddle to caress the white man's hair.  His hands
and his feet were small and delicate, his touch
like that of a woman.  "My warriors," he added,
"were too proud to dig the hole for the cross, but the
women did that, and made the wedges."
</p>

<p>
"Just as I told you?" asked Rain&mdash;"opposite the
Crow's trading wagon?"
</p>

<p>
"Three horse-lengths distant.  I left space for your
lodge between the Crazy Dogs' tipis, where we can
guard you best.  No-man came last night to visit the
Crow.  He's lying dead drunk under the trade
wagon."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, I'm so sorry for him, so sorry," said Rain.
"I couldn't find him in my dream.  Brother, I
couldn't find anybody.  Ever since we left our home
both Storm and I have been so lonely on our
dream-trails.  We can't find Catherine, or my mother.  We
pray for Hiawatha, but he does not come.  All the
dear Spirits have left us."
</p>

<p>
"Then the Crow's medicine," said her brother, "must
be very powerful.  You'd better turn back."
</p>

<p>
Not even Storm knew this woman so well as he did.
She pressed on, resolute across the pasture and through
the pony herd, which had started grazing.  Before her
she saw the village of her people, that far-flung ellipse
of tipis, like the rim of a wheel dark yonder against
the orange glow on the sky line.  Plumes of blue
smoke began to rise from the lodges, as the small group
drew abreast, closing the southern edge of the camp.
Not since her childhood had Rain in her waking life
seen the beloved and familiar things of a Blackfoot
village; rows of painted "dusty stars" which adorn the
base of the lodge skin, representing puffballs; tripods
beside the tipis which carry the bundle containing
sacred things, or a brave's war dress; travois, the cart
with trailing poles instead of wheels on which the very
old folk, the babies, and little puppies ride with the
marching tribe; rag dolls or blunt arrows lost by the
children at play.  The childless wife went on with an
aching heart, while her brother rode ahead, curbing his
restive charger to a foot pace, his magnificent war dress
in black silhouette against the orange daybreak, the
little ruby cloud-flecks.  Storm followed her, his pony
staggering under the heavy beams of the cross.  The
woman's heart was crying for the everyday things, the
home life, the babies, the gossip, the dancing, the
wholesome world which she could never know.  Her
man went towards the light through a peace which is
not of this world.  And so they came before the village
was as yet astir, to the trader's fort of wagons,
the tipis of the tribal police on guard, the hole in the
ground with the wedges for stepping the holy cross.
The warriors of the Crazy Dog band stood at their
lodge doors grinning.  Not one of them greeted the
holy woman, though two or three in years gone by had
come to her as pilgrims, and been helped.
</p>

<p>
It is a very shameful thing for a warrior to aid in
woman's work, such as the unlading of the pack beasts,
or the setting-up of a tipi; but Storm carried no
weapons, nor did he claim to be anything except his
Master's servant.  Still, he felt degraded under the eyes
of the Crazy Dogs as he helped Rain.  He made the
rawhide lashing which bound the four key poles of the
lodge, whose butts made the corners of a square upon
the ground, while their four shafts described the
outline of a pyramid, and their heads keyed one with
another so that no gale would dislodge them.  The other
twelve poles, resting against these crotches, turned the
pyramid into a cone, and their butts completed the
square on the ground into a circle.  Next, the heavy
skin of the lodge was hoisted by aid of the vane pole,
wrapped about the cone and fastened above the door
hole with wooden pins.  In all this, and the remainder
of the work, Storm, having but little practice, was very
clumsy, and put to shame because Rain chided, and the
Crazy Dogs were shouting rude remarks.
</p>

<p>
Rain's brother had awakened the Crow, who got out
of his blankets to give the man a pint of trade liquor,
then a tot of rum to quicken its action.  A few at a
time the Crazy Dogs were brought to the wagon-tail
for the same treatment, making them all mad drunk
within the first few minutes.  The trader mixed a still
more powerful drink for himself, which seemed to
have no effect.
</p>

<p>
The priestess and her man saw nothing of all this,
for they were busy unloading the other ponies, whose
cargo they carried into the lodge.  They scarcely
noticed that they were now encircled by a ring of
hilarious Indians who watched their work and jeered.  The
pony who had the two great timbers was led near the
mortise hole directly in front of the trading wagon,
distant some few paces.  There Storm cast off the
lashings, letting the timbers crash to the ground.  He
and his wife lifted the ends of the shorter beam until
its notch was lowered athwart the notch in the longer
piece of timber.  Storm, with wet rawhide, made the
seamanlike lashing which bound the two together into
a cross.
</p>

<p>
He did this kneeling, while Rain stood for a moment
to see how the lashing was made, which when dry
would hold if even the solid log was broken.
</p>

<p>
"It is good," said Rain, just to please him, as men
are always hungry for a word of praise.
</p>

<p>
"I'm still," he answered complacently, "more sailor
than medicine man."
</p>

<p>
At that moment both were seized from behind, and
pinioned by the elbows.  Taken completely aback, the
priestess found Heap-of-dogs giving directions for her
removal; but somehow in these last few minutes her
brother had changed, seemed like a different man, no
longer morose or silent, but showing white flash of
teeth, glitter of bright eyes, glow of ruddy health, a
strange aloofness and remoteness as though he did not
know her, as though they had never met.
</p>

<p>
The Crow was standing beside Heap-of-dogs nudging
him with an elbow, leering at her as No-man had
leered once.  "Not so bad, eh?  Needs feeding up a
bit.  Well, take her to my tipi."
</p>

<p>
The words were English, the gestures those of the
sign talk, but the look and the smile told everything,
laid bare the fathomless treachery of her betrayal.
Her brother had sold her to this beast.
</p>

<p>
The guiding spirits had deserted her.  God had
abandoned her.  There was no hope in earth, or any
heaven or hell, but only this horror.  She opened her
mouth to scream.  Then pride rescued her.  She was
not here to amuse her enemies, or to shame her man,
or to abandon him as God had abandoned her; but to
be loyal as Love, to be strong as Death, giving Storm
heart and courage who needed her so sorely when he
was in trouble, when he was in danger.  "Courage!"
she called to him.  "Courage, Warrior!"
</p>

<p>
Indeed she had to shout, so great already was the
clamor growing up about them.  A crowd was gathering
rapidly, and the camp police were just drunk
enough to ply their clubs at random, while they lacked
the numbers needed to keep the ground clear.  The
bartenders at the wagon were taking on special police,
each of them pledged with a pint to keep the crowd off.
</p>

<p>
Yet while the riot grew, the vortex round which it
swirled seemed to become so quiet, that presently Rain
heard quite clearly the low voice of the Crow as he
spoke to Storm.  By main force, she wrung her captor
half round until she could face the scene.
</p>

<p>
The Crow was speaking quite amiably, and by his
gestures in the sign talk Rain understood him where
his English failed her.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Storm," he said, "I hear you've come to
preach against my god."
</p>

<p>
"I have."
</p>

<p>
"Going to put up your shingle in front of my wagons?"
</p>

<p>
"I am."
</p>

<p>
"Waal, I've got along of a quarter million dollars
to back John Barleycorn, my god with, agin your God."
</p>

<p>
Storm looked him in the eyes, and laughed.  "Well?"
</p>

<p>
"White man, I ain't exactly partial to your tribe,
your bleached, washed-out white men.  I," he said
this proudly, "am of the black.  I been insulted too
much and too often to be fond of you-all&mdash;much.
Still, I'm not a bad sort of fellow, I'm a bit of a sport,
kinder warm-hearted enough, anyways, to give your
God a sporting chance agin John Barleycorn."
</p>

<p>
"Well?"
</p>

<p>
"What is it that saves our souls, young feller, the
cross, or the man on the cross?"
</p>

<p>
"The God on the cross."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I ain't got your God handy, so a man on the
cross is as far as I'm prepared to go.  I'm putting up
a handicap in favor of your side.  That's what I calls
a sporting proposition.  Now, isn't it?"
</p>

<p>
"I am no judge," Storm answered, and the trader
chuckled.  His manner was friendly, almost confiding.
</p>

<p>
He carried in his hands and clanked together four
spikes such as are used to pin the rails down to the
ties or sleepers on an American railroad.  They had
served in his camp for tent pegs&mdash;a sign of riches that,
and many had been the attempts to steal such treasures.
</p>

<p>
"These here spikes," he said, "is to nail you good
and hard to this cross.  Then I'll turn my god loose,
and you can do the same.  You and your woman here
can preach all you've a mind to.  Only, I stake my life
and a quarter of a million dollars that your God's
dead."
</p>

<p>
It was then that Rain grasped his meaning, and
screamed again and again for mercy, offering her body
as her husband's ransom.
</p>

<p>
But the sacred woman's appeal had stirred the dying
embers of her brother's manhood.  Heap-of-dogs took
station in front of Rain, blustering, pot-valiantly
defiant, offering battle to the Crow or anybody who
should dare to touch her.
</p>

<p>
At a sign from the trader, one of his bartenders
poured two or three drops of a drug into a pint of fire
water, then brought it running to Heap-of-dogs, who
swallowed the whole at a draught.  Afterwards he
stood rocking backwards and forwards, wondering
who it was he wanted to kill, babbling invitations to
anybody who would like to have a battle.
</p>

<p>
The Crow knew well that at any moment some
friend of the sacred woman might cry a rescue, and
short shrift would he get if the chiefs of the tribe
awakened from their debauch before he could show
them the accomplished fact.  If he would live he must
carry his audience with him, so now in the sign talk he
explained to the crowd how much he admired their
sacred woman, what a killing he and her brother would
make if anybody dared molest her, how he proposed
most honorably to make Rain his wife, so soon as he
had freed her from a swindling charlatan and his
bogus God.  Meanwhile, in the greatness of his heart,
the Crow, for this day's trading only, gave away a little
glass, a chaser of rum, with every pint of fire water.
He was perfectly sure that prime robes would be
forthcoming to meet so great a business opportunity.
</p>

<p>
One may realize that when the blood ebbed out of
Storm's face, lean from ten years of self-denial and
frequent fasting, his ivory pallor and the bluish shadows
would emphasize the deep-cut lines of age, of rigid
character, the high austere and saintly beauty of him,
the blaze of power in his fierce blue eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Be quick," he shouted in Blackfoot to the Crow.
"You talk too much, and do too little&mdash;frightened of
my God!  You"&mdash;he turned to the man who held him
pinioned&mdash;"how can I lie down on this bed of timber
unless you loose my arms?  Loose me, you fool, that
I may kiss my woman, and take my place there, ready."
</p>

<p>
In sheer surprise the Indian loosed him, and standing
free, Storm ordered the Crow, as a master to his
servant, "Go and get a sledge hammer.  The spikes,"
he said, "are useless unless you can drive them."  He
took Rain in his arms.  "We are not cowards," he
whispered.  "Death is nothing to us, who have died
so many times&mdash;and live forever.  You taught me to
be brave."
</p>

<p>
"Kill me," she whispered, when he kissed her.
"You have your knife still.  Save me from the Beast!
I'm frightened!  Save me!"
</p>

<p>
"Where is your faith!" he answered.  "Our God
shall deliver both of us.  Trust Him!"
</p>

<p>
With that he whipped the knife out of his belt and
brandished it, shouting to all the Indians.  "Witness!
The Crow stood at my mercy, but I have not stabbed
him.  God shall judge, not I!"
</p>

<p>
He flung his knife away.
</p>

<p>
Storm lay down upon the cross, his arms extended,
his eyes looking up at her face, a smile upon his lips.
The death song died in Rain's throat.
</p>

<p>
"We shall meet," he said, "in the Great Dream
presently.  Be brave."
</p>

<p>
"I do begin to see," she said, "there is a God!
Look, Storm"&mdash;she pointed to the trader&mdash;"below his
belt, see inside of him, that dim, gray, great Thing
clutching&mdash;clutching.  See"&mdash;she clutched in the air
with her hands&mdash;"like that.  What is it?"
</p>

<p>
Storm lifted his head from the cross and turned to
look.  "Crow," he said, "my wife and I can both see
the most awful slow death inside you.  Within three
weeks you shall answer for all you have done, for
every crime, for every evil thought.  We pity you.
From the very bottom of our hearts we both forgive
you."
</p>

<p>
The Crow had turned livid, attempting to laugh
while his mouth went dry.  His black hand clutched
his throat as he spoke in a hoarse whisper, struggling
to get his voice back.  "What if I let you off?
Here&mdash;take one drink to show these men you're
beaten&mdash;you and your woman&mdash;free!"
</p>

<p>
The place was reeking with heavy fumes of liquor.
The astral air, the living atmosphere of all emotion,
was filled with fierce desire.  Storm was heir to a line
of dipsomaniacs, by his very blood born drunkard, and
in his quick health swayed by every lust.  No man
held life more dearly.  Only the strong love of his
mother and of his wife had tamed the beast passions
raging in him, transmuted the wild soul into still spirit.
Now he met the fiercest temptation of his whole life
with triumphant laughter.
</p>

<p>
"Give me that sledge!" yelled the Crow; then to the
Indian who had arrested Storm, "Hold the spike&mdash;damn
you!"
</p>

<p>
"Let me hold the spike," said Storm, taking it from
the Indian.  "I'll hold it with my fingers, this way,
the point against my palm, so.  Now, drive!"
</p>

<p>
The Crow let drive.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
When the cross had been lifted, and its foot wedged
in the mortise-hole, they lashed Rain there, her head
against Storm's knees.
</p>

<p>
"Lean back hard," he said between his teeth; "it
takes away half the pain."
</p>

<p>
She obeyed, no longer bowed down, but facing the
people bravely with eyes half closed and head thrown
back.  The sweat from his face dropped on her hair.
</p>

<p>
"Now preach!"  The Crow was shouting at her.
"Preach!" he repeated, slashing a mug of liquor into
her face.  "Preach&mdash;&mdash;"
</p>

<p>
At Rain's feet her brother lay upon his face
unconscious, and close beyond him a ring of men
confronted her as they swirled slowly sideways round the
cross in the first movement of the scalp dance, drunk
all of them, and reeling.  Behind them were women
carrying buffalo robes which their men traded over the
counter to the Crow's bartender, getting for each a
pint, with a dram of rum.  Most of these men were
drunk, also the women, laughing, shouting, dancing,
quarreling, or yelling insults or throwing stones at
Storm.  An immense crowd of people jostled and
swayed, trying to enter the trade ground and buy
liquor or to get a nearer view.
</p>

<p>
The trader had taunted Rain, calling her vile names,
because she would not preach to amuse his customers.
It was no time for preaching.
</p>

<p>
The sun had risen, and swung slowly upward into
the southern sky, while still God showed no sign,
wrought no vengeance, gave no deliverance.  Only the
Crow's god visibly triumphed, for the addition of rum
to the trade liquor sent a man mad drunk for every
pint, and the trader with all three of the bartenders
could scarcely cope with the rush of business.  Towards
noon that saturnalia had every man in the tribe,
nearly all the women, many of the children, raving
mad.
</p>

<p>
The man on the cross confronted the sun, whose
ever-increasing splendor of light and heat gave him
the merciful delirium of pain, mounting towards its
climax.  And Rain, bound to the cross with wet rawhide,
felt as the lashings dried shrinking, the slowly
growing agony of swollen wrists and arms, without
the man's triumphant faith, or any hope either from
earth or heaven, for still there was no thunder of
Rising Wolf's rescuing horsemen, still no portent, still
no miracle to attest that God reigned, or would
avenge.
</p>

<p>
Yet in the steady growth of her own pain the
woman realized at last the valor of her man.  In the
stoic fortitude with which he faced the agonies of slow
death, she found a healing pride which comforted her
soul.  While he set so great an example, she would be
worthy of him, worthy to be his woman.  More than
that, she saw in his mysterious power proof absolute
of something superhuman, something inspired, miraculous,
divine.
</p>

<p>
They twain had been as one flesh, a lamp of the
All-Father burning in the darkness of the earthly mists;
but now, as the oil feeds the flame, her soul sustained
his spirit; and that majestic light blazed visible to the
Hells and to the Heavens.  To light the way for the
lost, to comfort the spirits in prison, to inspire those
who climb the steeps of purgatory, even to fill the
lower heavens with a new song of praise&mdash;that is the
glory which is called Martyrdom.
</p>

<p>
The mists which veil the spirit-realms were thinned
and rent asunder; the heavens, as we see them, were
rolled together like a scroll.  At last the priestess
realized that she had not been in danger of outrage or
pollution, but given the inestimable glory of the cross.
She knew that her body was dying.  She was beyond
pain, giving her strength to Storm, whose body still
endured in agony, unable to let him go.
</p>

<p>
At last, towards midday, No-man, who had been
lying under the trader's wagon, awake some hours ago
with a sick headache, crawled on his hands and knees
into the open, got to his feet by the aid of one of the
wheels, and stood there, clinging to the spokes.  Still
drunk, he staggered towards the bar in search of liquor
to set him to rights.  In a dim way he realized the
pandemonium of raving savages as he shouldered his
way among them.  They greeted him, hilarious,
eagerly pointing out the cross, and his friend, to whom
he came bewildered, and stood in front of him
swaying upon his feet, rubbing his eyes to clear
them, trying in vain to realize.  Then his brain cleared
suddenly, and he stood sober, shouting until Storm
heard him, saw him, spoke to him.
</p>

<p>
Yet this was not Storm, the seer, who spoke now,
not Bill Fright, bargee and seaman, not even John
Rolfe of his last life, or Gaston le Brut, the crusader,
or Harald Christian, slave in Iceland.  The spirit had
flashed back to an earlier memory.  Once again Storm
was a Northman in the Roman army.  He spoke in
Latin with a broad Northland accent, spoke to the
squad commander, the Decemvir, the Ten-man.
</p>

<p>
"Ten-man," said the Martyr, in a low, wailing voice.
"Decemvir.  This woman's tears rusted my armor for
me.  Oh, plead for me!  The Centurion favors thee.
Plead for me that I be not scourged, and dishonored
because I do love this woman."
</p>

<p>
No-man heard only strange words which were
spoken in delirium, a voice which pleaded with him.
Rain's eyes, wide, staring, terrible, seemed to pierce
him through&mdash;but when he spoke to her she made no
answer.  Then came the burning memory of his sin
against Rain, her terrific and deserved vengeance,
Storm's forgiveness, the wonderful friendship of them
both which for these latter years had been the one
bright light for him in a maimed life.
</p>

<p>
Sobered, horrified, and in tears, he groped his way
back to the wagon, where he found and loaded his rifle.
It seems to have been a double-barreled muzzle-loading
weapon fired by percussion caps, casting half-inch
slugs, quicker in action than the old-time flintlocks.
</p>

<p>
"Thou shalt do no murder!" so the words ran.
</p>

<p>
"What, then, if I do murder?" thus he reasoned.
"I shall be damned to Hell forever.  Well, I'm
damned anyway for what I done, so it don't matter
to me.  But it matters a lot to them to put an end to
all their pain, and let them loose into Heaven.
</p>

<p>
"What if I'm killed for doing this?
</p>

<p>
"Well, it's up to me to die, if I like, for them I
loves&mdash;the woman I love, the man I love, the only two
people on earth who done much good to me.
</p>

<p>
"I'll have to play drunk to these Injuns to get me in
point-blank range, and my hands is none too steady
even then.  Wish't I could have just one last drink to
steady me.  No, better not.  I may just as well die
sober&mdash;to please them.  Here goes."
</p>

<p>
Some there are among us who have lived sheltered
from all temptation to do wrong and therefore very
quick to judge their fellows.  To such the event which
followed will appear disgusting drunkenness and
atrocious murder.
</p>

<p>
Others there are of us who have ourselves been
hurled by elemental passions against raw issues of
life or death; and whether we be believers in Death or
whether we be Christians, we shall claim that there
can be no greater deed of love, no higher act of
valor.
</p>

<p>
Reeling, staggering, brandishing his rifle, shouting
to the Indians to come and see the fun, laughing
hysterically at the man crucified, at the woman dying,
No-man came in front of the cross, and at point-blank
range with exact and perfect aim shot Storm through
the heart, Rain through the forehead, releasing both of
them.
</p>

<p>
Then he reloaded his weapon to kill the Crow.
Already the trader, roused to action by the hundred-tongued
clamor of the event, was threatening with his
pistol from behind the bar, waving to the Indians to
stand clear.
</p>

<p>
Without the slightest warning he let drive through
the white man's back, breaking the spinal cord.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
At dusk came Rising Wolf with some few friends
from the Piegan tribe, who followed him in uncertainty,
pacing their horses among the people who lay
drunk on the prairie.
</p>

<p>
The wagon fort, and the village beyond, seemed
strangely empty.  No evening smoke went up from
the tipis.  The usual clamor of those who called the
names of guests bidden to feasting, of the camp crier,
of the dancing, the pony racing, the games, was
hushed as though night had fallen.  The boys failed
to bring the night horses, which should be at the lodge
doors.  Neither were there maids to scurry along the
watering trails, nor lovers to watch them pass.  Only
dogs prowled along the skirts of the tipis.  Over the
meadow hung a sense of terror, of desolation, and
sometimes far away, or sometimes near at hand, the
startling death wail of the mourners cleft a boding
silence.
</p>

<p>
Within the wagon fort the Crow lay, stricken with
rending pain; but it was not for him that his women
were wailing.  His children also had contracted
smallpox, which now spread from lodge to lodge through
the whole camp, where cry after cry of sharp-edged
despair attended each new discovery of the pestilence.
</p>

<p>
Rising Wolf buried the bodies of his friends at the
foot of the cross, where, on the blood-stained timber,
he carved an inscription to their memory.
</p>

<p class="t3">
  RAIN<br>
  STORM<br>
  NO-MAN<br>
  TOOK THE WOLF TRAIL<br>
  MOON OF BERRIES 1846<br>
  GLORIA IN<br>
  EXCELSIS<br>
  DOMINE.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
A few days later he showed this to Father de Smet,
who came with an escort of thirty mountaineer
warriors to visit the dreaded Blackfeet.  The priest
rendered the last office.
</p>

<p>
Being of one faith, de Smet and Rising Wolf
worked together throughout the plague of 1846, from
which the Blackfoot nation has never rallied.  Only
a pitiful remnant represents to-day that breed of
savage gentlefolk, the finest horsemen in the modern
world.  The Christianity which they see in practice
has not converted them, nor can they still believe in the
Sun-god who left them at the mercy of the Stonehearts.
</p>

<p>
Hope is dead, and with that is gone the sunny,
breezy, happy warrior spirit; but not the stoic
manhood underneath, or the strange distinctive charm
which appeals with greater power than ever to white
men who have hearts.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Of the three who went over the Wolf Trail, No-man
had died without being tortured, so he was the first to
awaken, not on the earth or in his earthly body.  The
flowers attracted his first thoughts, a bush near by his
head of wild briar covered with roses in blossom, some
red, some white.  Tall fronds of goldenrod bent over
him, and the whole pasture glowed with big, brown-hearted,
orange-petaled marigolds, up to the edge of
the sarvis bushes snowed down with their sweet
blossoms.  "Surely," he wondered, "it is the berry moon.
Why are there flowers?"
</p>

<p>
His deerskin hunting dress had been old, soiled,
ragged, most of the fringes used up for strings or
lashings.  Now it was brand-new, perfumed with wood
smoke.
</p>

<p>
He had been sick, but was well, maimed but was
made whole, with such a glow of health, riot of blood,
and joy of life, quick heart, live brain, as he had not
known for years.
</p>

<p>
He had not eaten food since goodness knows when,
and yet he felt no hunger, while all the craving for
alcohol was gone.  He would never know hunger
again, or any thirst.
</p>

<p>
Where were the Blackfoot camp, the wagon fort, the
cross, Storm crucified, Rain dying?
</p>

<p>
There came a little bunch of antelope, grazing, who
presently stood at gaze with all their natural curiosity,
none of their quick fear.  He reached for his gun.  It
was gone.  The antelope went on grazing, not frightened
even when he jumped to his feet shouting from
sheer astonishment.
</p>

<p>
And a voice answered:
</p>

<p>
"Man-alive!"
</p>

<p>
There was Nan, his girl, she who had jilted him, she
whom Storm had seen, her fingers stiff with cramp as
she sewed shirts, beside a window, looking out upon
the Atlantic sea, crying, and crying for him.  She
came across the pasture through the tall flowers,
walked with a healthy stride, swinging a sunbonnet, a
nut-brown lass freckled, dimpled, laughing, shouting
to him that greeting out of the lost years, "Why, man
alive!"
</p>

<p>
He seized her to his breast, and if he did rumple
her shirt-waist, he didn't give a damn, while he
verified each dimple with a kiss, and took the freckles
wholesale.
</p>

<p>
By her prim and downcast virginity, in her fresh
crisp beauty, for every grace, for every charm, for
everlasting love, he found a litany of thanksgivings,
and most of all for her forgiveness, for her tolerance
of his misdeeds.
</p>

<p>
"Your folks," she said at last, "is waiting.  They
said I'd best come to fetch you."
</p>

<p>
"But"&mdash;he was puzzled&mdash;"what are you doing here
in the Injun country?  What's this about the folks?"
</p>

<p>
"But, Man-alive, this isn't the Injun Country.
Why, you're dreaming!"
</p>

<p>
"Then let me go on dreaming!" answered Man-alive.
"And take me to the folks.  Where are we, anyways?"
</p>

<p>
"In Summerland," she said.  "Our town is yonder
behind these bushes, but we must give the people
time to get things fixed."
</p>

<p>
"What things?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, Man-alive, the flags, the arches, the triumph,
a proper American triumph to welcome a proper
American hero!  Davy Crockett himself is going to give
the oration, being an ex-Congress man.  He says you
died a greater death than his."
</p>

<p>
"Death?" He laughed.  "Dead?  Bet you a castor
I'm not!  I never been so much alive before."
</p>

<p>
"What's a castor?"
</p>

<p>
"A pelt, a beaver pelt, of course!"
</p>

<p>
"I never heard tell of pelt.  Yes, you may have
your arm there until we pass the bushes.  Then you
must try to act respectable.  This isn't wild west
here."
</p>

<p>
"You say I'm dead."
</p>

<p>
"Me, too," she answered cheerily.  "Thanks be,
that's over"&mdash;her face turned grave&mdash;"that bad dream
we called life.  See, here's our town&mdash;the dearest,
sweetest place.  Listen.  It's the Grand Army
band."
</p>

<p>
"What's that?"
</p>

<p>
"Grand Army of the Republic, of course.  Your
dad is trying to start branches down on earth, only
the people are too stupid.  He thinks this Mexican
war may wake 'em up a bit.  Now take your arm
from my waist, or they'll see."
</p>

<p>
They saw.  A band of the Grand Army of the
Republic struck up "Conquering Hero."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Now, of the briar rosebush seen by Man-alive,
there is a story, which was related long ago in the
fifteenth-century travels attributed to Sir John
Mandeville.  The story runs that after the Crucifixion
there did appear upon the hill of Calvary a briar bush
wherein each several drop of sweat and every tear
became a white rose, and all the drops of blood begat
red roses.
</p>

<p>
Where Ananias was an amateur but the author of
these old Travels a Great Master, one must be modest,
but this present writer is aware that he and his
fellow craftsmen break through at times into the Truth.
That rose bush may not very likely have blossomed
down on earth, and yet it might well appear upon the
holy site a veritable thing upon the astral plane, much
visited by people in their dreams, watered by fairies,
guarded by the angels.  One dreams of such a rose
bush growing thus out of the sweat, the tears, the
blood of martyrs crucified, and sheltering Rain as she
lay in Storm's arms asleep until the third day, the
time of resurrection.
</p>

<p>
Man-alive would see the roses there, but not the
astral cross of lambent flame like carven moonlight, or
the luminous figures of the priestess at rest in the arms
of a martyr crucified, or the spirits Catherine and
Thunder Feather, who knelt keeping vigil beside their
children, or their guardian Hiawatha, descended from
the middle Heavens, his glory softened lest its exceeding
splendor be unbearable to people of the mists.  He
witnessed the meeting of those long-parted lovers, in
a region where hearts are opened and misunderstandings
quite impossible.  But he also saw four angels
attendant upon the cross.  It was long since human
hands had fashioned a cross like that, claiming a guard
of Angels.
</p>

<p>
Rain awakened, and when she saw her mother,
Catherine, Hiawatha, and the four Angels on guard,
her cry of joy roused Storm.  He was a little bewildered
at first, supposing himself to be still that Roman
soldier who so long ago had helped to crucify the King
of Angels.  Then slowly he realized that he was Storm
who had made atonement, who now bore, on his own
hands, feet, and breast the very stigmata, the wounds
whose blood-drops burn and glow as rubies.  That is
the reason why on our earth the ruby is more precious
than the diamond or any other stone, being, as it were,
the shadow cast by the very holiest, loveliest, and
rarest thing in Heaven.
</p>

<p>
When they tried to stand up both Storm and Rain
were seen to be suffering from shock, for even the body
spiritual is jarred by such a death as theirs.  They
could not stand, but at a sign from Hiawatha knelt
before a table which now stood at the foot of the cross.
Upon the table were a Cup and a Dish which cannot
be seen except by those of pure and perfect knighthood,
such as Sir Galahad, and Joan of Arc, for the
Chalice is that used at the Last Supper, and the Dish
is the Holy Grail.
</p>

<p>
Two of the Angels, having performed the rite done
in Remembrance, brought the Grail which contained
the broken bread, and the cup of wine.  "Take, eat,"
said the one.  "Drink ye all of this," said the
other.
</p>

<p>
These two, who had hungered and thirsted, were
now fed, so that never afterwards could they know
hunger or thirst, weakness or any pain, but were
immediately filled with more than human strength.
Moreover, so great was the enlargement of their faculties
that they could hear music, of which only a little
had been revealed to Handel and Mozart, Bach and
Beethoven; they could see such color as was disclosed
to Turner; forms which Pheideas and Praxiteles tried
to model, da Vinci, Raffaele, and Michelangelo to
paint, or Shelley to describe.  Yet, even in the hands
of genius, our arts are bankrupt, unable to render a
penny in the pound of the Realities which have
inspired them.
</p>

<p>
Yet, because in the act of writing these passages, I
hear with the inner senses most tremendous music, and
see, when I close my eyes, color ineffably lovely, I feel
the assurance that the words may be true beyond my
knowledge.  It seems to me that I see the cross
uprooted, and laid down.  Then the four Angels hold a
laughing argument as to whether Storm and Rain shall
stand as in a chariot or sit as in a throne, it being
decided that they shall do exactly as they please; while
Storm has but one wish, that his arm may enfold his
wife, and she denies him such conduct as that in
public.  I see them seated upon the arms of the
cross facing its foot, while the Angels, one at each
limb of the glowing timbers, lift it upon their
shoulders.
</p>

<p>
Those who have been used to seeing pictures of
Angels may be reminded that the wings are symbolic
only, of beings whose flight is swifter than our thought.
They need no wings, who flash with the speed of light
upon their journeys.
</p>

<p>
Those of us who have not read the modern lucid
books describing the planes of being may care for a
moment to consider the lilies, which offer the best
analogy we have for understanding the Heavens.  The
bulb of the Liliacese, that is, of such plants as the lily,
camas, onion, and hyacinth, consists of many layers or
spheres concentrated round one nucleus.  In our planet
Earth, the nucleus is the world visible, which has three
layers of subplanes, the land, the sea, and the air, of
different densities, for the water is thicker than the
air, and the rocks more compact than the ocean which
rests upon them.  Outside these three layers of the
bulb there are others, concentric spheres of ether, less
in their densities, quicker in their vibrations, too
tenuous for perception by our gross animal senses.  Our
astral bodies are attuned to the vibrations of the astral
subplanes, which we visit in dreams and dwell in after
death.  Our spiritual body, when it grows, is able to
inhabit the land, sea, and air of the lower spirit-plane
or heaven spiritual.  Beyond are the heavens celestial,
and their outermost layers are those of the Christ-sphere,
an orb enormously transcending the material
sun in size and radiance.  In all there are forty-nine,
or seven octaves of subplanes, alluded to in Genesis
as that Ladder of Being, on which the patriarch
Jacob saw traffic of ascending and descending
Angels.
</p>

<p>
Imagination, the formation of images in the mind,
may have two separate modes, that of an artist
creating forms to which he shall give expression, and that
of the seer who is able to perceive things which are
shown to him.  One cannot ever know to what extent
one creates, or in what degree one perceives.
</p>

<p>
My vision is set down as it occurred with some of
the mental comments.
</p>

<p>
Each of the four Angels bears upon his shoulder a
limb of the lambent cross.  On this Storm sits naked
as he was crucified, but Rain wears a robe which has
the texture one sees in the petals of an Easter lily.
It is edged with a decoration of pistils and stamens,
sprinkled, made out of dust of light seeming to signify
fertility.  Both figures are strongly radiant.
</p>

<p>
Behind them is Hiawatha, a great figure, august,
serene, luminous.  Catherine and Thunder Feather
have fallen away, unable to endure the increasing
splendor of the light.
</p>

<p>
The foreground is of tawny plains, reaching away
downward to a sea deeply blue.  Hull down, beyond
are far-away white Alps.
</p>

<p>
This landscape, a province in extent, is, as it were,
the arena of an amphitheater, but the floor of the
lowest tier or circle is far above the summits of the alps.
The edge of the tier is not defined like the frontage
or balustrade of a balcony, but vague, as when one
looks up at the floor of a cloud field.  It is the margin
of a world which has its plains, seas, hills, ethereal
Andes, all glittering etched in light, with a detail of
trees luminous, temples opalescent, and iridescent
palaces.  There are innumerable multitudes of people
watching.
</p>

<p>
It is as though this upper world were (invisibly)
continuous overhead, but only becomes visible towards
the horizon.
</p>

<p>
Above this first tier of the amphitheater there is a
second, even a third, perhaps more.  But against even
the second tier our sun would look like a round patch
of darkness.  And this second tier is like a shadow
cast by the third.  The light is utterly beyond human
endurance, yet it proceeds from the spectators, circle
on circle, world above world, populous with an
innumerable throng, millions of millions, either of the
redeemed or of the angelic hosts.
</p>

<p>
A procession should march, but the ever-growing
pageant of the cross advances, not in position, with
regard to space but in the splendor of its tremendous
light.  Its progress is not even an ascension, but rather
a translation.
</p>

<p>
And yet there must have been an ascension, a lifting-up
into space, for when at last it moves forward,
it is not across the tawny plain of the arena, but
through a garden whose paths, lawns, flowers, trees,
are made of light, not blinding but refreshing to the
eyes.
</p>

<p>
Beyond, in the far distance crowning a plateau of
light, there is a temple&mdash;I remember reading about it
in many telepathic descriptions of the heavens&mdash;each
of whose four porches carries a cupola.  The four
porches describe the figure of a cross, and in the midst
above, the drum of the main building is sculptured in
deep-cut bas-reliefs.  This drum carries a circular
colonnade, from whence the main dome soars until its
ever-changing and prismatic radiance is lost in mist
of light, a cloud of glory.
</p>

<p>
They who joined the procession of the cross have
become a multitude and they seem to move in silence,
with a sense of hushed reverence.  For there is One
coming through the garden to meet them.  Words are
like the dice which a gambler throws at random, and
it is better not to attempt thoughts which no language
can render.
</p>

<p>
At His coming the four Angels bow down, then
lower the cross from their shoulders, but Storm and
Rain are bidden to kneel at His feet that they may
receive His blessing.
</p>

<p>
If their hearts quake, if their limbs turn to water,
all spirits bow down before Him not in fear, nor in
dread, only in homage.
</p>

<p>
"Be still, and know that I have loved you, and have
longed to give you Life."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
THE END
</p>

<p><br><br><br><br></p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69946 ***</div>

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