CHAPTER 17
The Trapper Arrives
CHARLES NORRIS was an early riser, and it was his custom to be at work hours before the sun stole down into the valley. But the next morning he departed from this habit of years, and remained in bed longer than usual. He did not wish to disturb his guest, for, judging by what he had heard in the night, he believed that his rest had been broken owing to the pain in his leg, and so was forced to move around a great deal. Once he had asked if he could do anything for him, and had been told that nothing could be done. After that the missionary had gone to sleep again, and did not awake until his usual time.
When at length he did get up and dress, he walked softly out into the other room. He made as little noise as possible in placing several sticks in the stove, and even postponed his breakfast. He sat down at the table and busied himself for a while with his translation work. At last he arose and went over to the corner of the room where he kept his supply of food. Finding nothing there, he was surprised. He went back for his candle and made a thorough examination of the corner. But not a scrap of meat, bread, or flour, was left. All was gone. Somewhat dazed, the missionary wondered what could have happened to his provisions. Then an idea came to his mind which caused him some uneasiness. Walking rapidly to the room where he believed his guest had slept, he held the candle above his head and looked in. But no sign of the visitor could he see. In fact, the bed had not been slept in at all. Then he knew for a certainty that the man had gone, and taken with him the scanty supply of food the house contained.
“My, oh, my! I am surprised!” the missionary murmured. “He need not have stolen that food, as I would gladly have given it to him. Why did he commit that sin?”
Charles Norris was of such a trustful disposition that it was hard for him to see evil in anyone. So gentle was he that his gentleness became a weakness when dealing with the stern facts of life. Had his nature been moulded along more rugged lines he would have succeeded better with his Indians. They considered his gentleness and patience as a weakness in his make-up, and always imposed upon him, even when most amenable to his teaching. Perhaps if he had been more severe, and mingled with his gentleness some of the manly fibre of the Great Master, it might have been better. But that he could not do. He would win through gentle love alone, and in no other way, forgetting in his holy enthusiasm that the truest love is at times closely linked with the chastening rod. He knew that there was much evil in the world, but he believed that the overmastering weapon to conquer it was love. He trusted his unknown visitor that night, and when he found that he had wilfully deceived him it was a severe shock.
Returning to the table, he sat down, and remained for some time lost in thought. At length he turned and looked toward a little box upon the shelf where a small clock was ticking. He rose to his feet, went over, took down the box, opened it and peered in. It was empty! He had not left much money there, but it was all that he had.
“So he took that!” he exclaimed. “I can understand his stealing food. But my money! The Indians, even when most uncouth, never stole anything from this house. And to think that a white man, and one I trusted, should be the first to steal from me!”
The missionary was standing near the shelf, when a gentle tap sounded upon the door, and old Tom at once entered.
“Good morning, Gikhi,” he accosted in the native tongue. “You are alone, I see.”
“And why shouldn’t I be, Tom?” the missionary asked. “Am I not generally alone?”
“Yes, but not last night. Where is the stranger?”
“Did you see him?”
“Tom saw him. Does Gikhi know who he is, and where he came from?”
“No; I never asked him.”
“Bad white man, ugh!”
“How do you know that, Tom?”
“Tom old man now. Tom knows much. Tom sees here,” and he touched his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. He then placed his hand to his forehead. “Tom sees more here,” he added, while a quaint smile overspread his face. “White man steal grub, eh?” and he looked over toward the corner of the room.
“Why, yes! How did you know that?”
“Tom get Gikhi grub now,” was the native’s reply.
“I can’t pay you, Tom. The white man took my money.”
“Tom doesn’t want pay. Tom glad to give grub. Gikhi good man.”
“Thank you, Tom. You are a true friend. I shall not forget this.”
When Tom had gone the missionary returned to his seat by the table. He did not pick up his pen as usual, but sat staring straight before him. Tom’s presence had brought back memories of other days when morning by morning Indians had come to his house on various missions, and they had always received a hearty welcome. They needed him then, but he needed them now. This was a new and startling idea. He wondered why he had never thought of it before. Had he done too much for the Indians, and had not allowed them to do enough for him? “Service for others” had always been his motto, and he had given of himself without stint. And the sense of responsibility, and of giving without receiving, had been an unspeakable joy. But had he thus taught the natives? Sadly he was forced to confess to himself that he had not. He had presented to them a distorted view of the life and teaching of the Great Master. Their characters, accordingly, had not been developed, and in the time of temptation they had fallen away.
“Forgive me, Lord! forgive me!” he murmured. “I did it unwittingly. I am not worthy to be called Thy servant. But now my eyes are opened and I see. Lord, give me another chance. Cast me not away in my old age, until I show to Thy wandering ones the true glory of loving and unselfish service.”
He ceased, and his grey eyes glowed anew with the light of a great resolve. Charles Norris, the missionary, had made a wonderful discovery. It came to him in a moment of time, but it had taken long years of toil and hardship, of sorrow and failure, to bring it to pass.
He was aroused from his reverie by a heavy knock upon the door. Ere he could rise, the door was thrust open, and Hugo, the trapper, entered, bearing in his arms the limp form of Zell, the half-breed girl. Hugo staggered as he started to cross the floor, and he would have dropped the girl had not the missionary stepped quickly forward and caught her in his arms. He then carried her over and laid her upon a little cot near the stove. Hugo followed him, and looked down anxiously upon the unconscious one.
“I made it!” he gasped. “Lord! I thought I’d never do it!”
“Who is the girl?” the missionary asked. “What has happened to her?”
Hugo made no reply, but sat down wearily upon the nearest seat, which was nothing but a rough bench. His face was drawn and haggard, expressing more plainly than words the great struggle he had made. The missionary wisely forbore questioning further, but turned at once and prepared a cup of tea.
“This is all I have to offer you, now,” he apologised, handing Hugo a steaming cup. “I had a visitor last night, and he took nearly everything but this.”
Hugo drank the tea, and giving back the cup, stretched out his hands toward the stove.
“My! that heat feels good,” he said. “That poor girl must be chilled through; I kept her as warm as I could, but it was a hard job.”
Going at once into his bedroom, the missionary brought out a thick blanket and laid it carefully over the girl’s body.
“What is the matter with her?” he asked, turning to the trapper.
“She’s crazy, that’s what’s wrong. I found her wandering around in the snow, singing and making queer noises, and so I brought her here.”
“But what happened to her? How did she come to be wandering about alone?”
“It was due to a devil who calls himself a man,” Hugo savagely replied. “I’m just longing to get my hands on that skunk, and I’ll—”
Hugo paused without finishing his sentence, and the doubled-up first of his right hand shot straight before him. There was no doubt about what he would do should he come across the man responsible for Zell’s condition.
Just then Tom entered, and laid a supply of food upon the table. He looked first at Hugo, whom he well knew, and then at the covered form on the cot. Indian like, he made no comment, but drew the missionary’s attention to the food.
“Never mind that now, Tom,” Mr. Norris replied. “Go and bring Kate here at once. I want her to look after the girl over there. I don’t know what to do for her. She should have a woman’s care, anyway.”
“Is the white girl very sick, Gikhi?”
“I am afraid so. She has had a hard time on the trail, and her head is queer.”
Tom at once left the building, and in a remarkably short time he was back again with his wife close at his heels. The latter, a stout, motherly-looking woman, went at once to the side of the cot. She turned back the blanket, and when she had drawn aside the hood which almost concealed the girl’s face, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“What’s the matter, Kate?” the missionary asked, hurrying to her side.
The Indian woman made no reply, but pointed excitedly at the girl. Owing to the dimness of the room, and failing sight, Mr. Norris bent down over the cot and peered at the girl’s face. Then a great cry of concern broke from his lips, and dropping upon his knees he reached out trembling hands.
“It’s Zell; it’s Zell!” he exclaimed. “It’s our own lost child come back again! Quick, Kate, remove her hood and let me have a good look at her. Light the candle, Tom, and bring it here.”
When his orders had been speedily obeyed, he took the candle in his left hand, and held it so that the light would shine upon the girl’s face. Catching one of Zell’s limp, cold hands in his, he felt her pulse.
“No, she is not dead, thank God. But she needs help at once. You will take good care of her, Kate.”
“Ah, ah, Gikhi, Kate will look well after the girl,” was the quiet reply. “Tom will carry her to our cabin.”
“No, no, she must stay here,” the missionary insisted. “She has come back home, and this is the place for her. My wife, were she alive, would want our child to remain here.”
“She is not with us now, Gikhi, remember,” Tom replied. “Kate knows what to do for Zell better than white men.”
“You are right, Tom,” the missionary agreed. “Zell shall go with Kate. She is the proper one to look after her.”
“Good, good,” Tom replied, as he stooped and lifted the girl in his arms. In another minute he was out of the house, with Kate following close at his heels.
The missionary stood watching them until they passed within their own abode. He then closed the door and came over to Hugo’s side.
“You are tired,” he said. “Let me get you something to eat, and after that you must have a good sleep.”
The trapper looked up wearily into the old man’s face. The missionary’s interest and sympathy touched him deeply. For the time, he was no longer the great strong Hugo of the trail, a modern Esau, with his heart against every man, except the unfortunate. He was as a child, tired out, ready to rest.
After Hugo had eaten the simple meal, the missionary conducted him to the room where he had taken Bill, the Slugger, the night before.
“There is a good bed,” he told him. “It has not been slept on for some time. The man who stayed here last night was suffering too much to sleep. He left before I was up.”
“Who was that?” Hugo asked.
“I do not know his name. But he had a bad leg, which he said he injured on the trail. I did what I could for him, but it gave him no relief. Anyway, he was able to travel and carry with him my entire stock of provisions, and all the money I had.”
“What! did he steal them?” Hugo asked in surprise.
“Yes, but, then, perhaps, he needed them more than I did. If he had only asked me, I would gladly have given him food, and money, too, for that matter.”
Hugo was about to question further, but refrained, and stretched himself out upon the bed. Carefully and almost tenderly the missionary covered him with thick blankets, closed the door and went back to his table and writing.
All through the day the trapper slept, and was only aroused by the sound of the bell outside. Wondering what it could mean, he quickly rose, went to the door and looked out. Then he understood, so closing the door he walked over to the little church. The bell was silent now, for the ringer had already gone into the building. Hugo also entered and sat down on a seat near the door. Old Tom was alone, sitting in his accustomed place. Presently the missionary came from the vestry and began the service. Although Hugo could not understand a word that was being said, he was much impressed. The church was cold, and dimly lighted by two candles. The missionary’s voice was intensely earnest, and a feeling of great respect came into the trapper’s heart as he listened. What wonderful faith the man must have, he mused. How other men would have given up long ago.
And as he watched, he gave a sudden start. A strange light seemed to surround the two worshippers. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that he was mistaken. But, no, the light was there, wonderfully soft, and yet much stronger than that of the candles. It resembled the light which had surrounded the sleeping child that night on the trail. He strained his eyes, half expecting to behold some angel visitants. And as he looked, the light gradually faded, and by the time the service was ended it had disappeared altogether.
Hugo slipped out of the church, and when the missionary returned to his house he found him sitting near the stove.
“Did you have a nice service?” the trapper asked.
“A remarkable one to-night,” was the quiet reply.
“But did you have any congregation? Are not most of the natives away?”
“You are quite right. Tom was the only Indian present, as Kate could not leave Zell. But I was wonderfully inspired at the service to-night. The church seemed to be filled with a great light, and I am certain that I saw angelic forms filling all the seats, and crowding the building. It may have been an hallucination, though to me it was very real and heartening. But I suppose you will say it is all nonsense. That is too often the way with people of the world who cannot understand such things.”
Hugo made no reply just then, but that night as he sat smoking, he turned abruptly to the missionary, busy at his writing.
“How is the girl?” he asked. “Have you seen her to-day?”
“Oh, yes, I have been over several times. There is no change as yet, although Kate thinks that she will recover.”
Hugo smoked in silence for a few minutes. At length he rose to his feet, and bent over the table.
“Will you do me a favor?” he asked.
“I shall be only too glad to do so if it is within my power,” was the reply.
The trapper at once thrust his right hand into an inside pocket, brought forth the diamond ring, and held it in the palm of his hand. Seeing the look of wonder in the old man’s eyes, he smiled.
“It is no wonder that you are surprised, Mr. Norris, for one doesn’t come across such as this every day. But I found it in a cabin and I want to give it to you.”
“Give it to me!” the missionary exclaimed. “Why what in the world would I do with such a thing as that? I have no use for so valuable a ring as I take that to be.”
“Yes, I believe it is valuable. You can sell it some day, and it will repay you a little for your care of that girl.”
“But I don’t want any pay for that.”
“So you won’t take it, then?” There was a note of disappointment in the trapper’s voice.
“No, I could not think of doing such a thing.”
“Will you keep it, then, until I come back? I am going to leave early in the morning, and may not return for several days. I am afraid of losing it on the trail.”
“I don’t mind doing that,” the missionary agreed. “It should be safe here, for I have few visitors, and the one I had last night is not likely to come again.”
He took the ring in his hand and examined it closely. He noted the flashing lustre of the diamond when the light of the candle fell upon it.
“I wonder what fair finger this once encircled,” he mused, as if to himself. “It’s a symbol of that life of which I was once so fond. It brings back old memories which I thought I had forever forgotten. But I left all those things behind when I enlisted beneath the Banner of the Cross.”
“Are you happier now than you were then?” Hugo asked.
“I have never really thought about it in that way,” was the reply. “But I know I am, for I am in possession of a Great Treasure which gives me peace in times of storm, and joy in the midst of tribulation. A man who once has that need never worry about losing the things of the world.”
“I believe you are right,” Hugo fervently replied, as he returned to his seat by the fire, and continued his smoke.