Black Rock
by
Ralph Connor

Part 1 out of 4

This etext was produced by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com.

BLACK ROCK

A TALE OF THE SELKIRKS

by Ralph Connor

INTRODUCTION

I think I have met "Ralph Conner." Indeed, I am sure I have--once
in a canoe on the Red River, once on the Assinaboine, and twice or
thrice on the prairies to the West. That was not the name he gave
me, but, if I am right, it covers one of the most honest and genial
of the strong characters that are fighting the devil and doing good
work for men all over the world. He has seen with his own eyes the
life which he describes in this book, and has himself, for some
years of hard and lonely toil, assisted in the good influences which
he traces among its wild and often hopeless conditions. He writes
with the freshness and accuracy of an eye-witness, with the style
(as I think his readers will allow) of a real artist, and with the
tenderness and hopefulness of a man not only of faith but of
experience, who has seen in fulfillment the ideals for which he
lives.

The life to which he takes us, though far off and very strange to
our tame minds, is the life of our brothers. Into the Northwest of
Canada the young men of Great Britain and Ireland have been pouring
(I was told), sometimes at the rate of 48,000 a year. Our brothers
who left home yesterday--our hearts cannot but follow them. With
these pages Ralph Conner enables our eyes and our minds to follow,
too; nor do I think there is any one who shall read this book and
not find also that his conscience is quickened. There is a warfare
appointed unto man upon earth, and its struggles are nowhere more
intense, nor the victories of the strong, nor the succors brought
to the fallen, more heroic, than on the fields described in this
volume.

GEORGE ADAM SMITH.

BLACK ROCK

The story of the book is true, and chief of the failures in the
making of the book is this, that it is not all the truth. The
light is not bright enough, the shadow is not black enough to give
a true picture of that bit of Western life of which the writer was
some small part. The men of the book are still there in the mines
and lumber camps of the mountains, fighting out that eternal fight
for manhood, strong, clean, God-conquered. And, when the west
winds blow, to the open ear the sounds of battle come, telling the
fortunes of the fight.

Because a man's life is all he has, and because the only hope of
the brave young West lies in its men, this story is told. It may
be that the tragic pity of a broken life may move some to pray, and
that that divine power there is in a single brave heart to summon
forth hope and courage may move some to fight. If so, the tale is
not told in vain.

C.W.G.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP

CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ROCK CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER III

WATERLOO. OUR FIGHT--HIS VICTORY

CHAPTER IV

MRS. MAVOR'S STORY

CHAPTER V

THE MAKING OF THE LEAGUE

CHAPTER VI

BLACK ROCK RELIGION

CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST BLACK ROCK COMMUNION

CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING OF THE LEAGUE

CHAPTER IX

THE LEAGUE'S REVENGE

CHAPTER X

WHAT CAME TO SLAVIN

CHAPTER XI

THE TWO CALLS

CHAPTER XII

LOVE IS NOT ALL

CHAPTER XIII

HOW NELSON CAME HOME

CHAPTER XIV

GRAEME'S NEW BIRTH

CHAPTER XV

COMING TO THEIR OWN

CHAPTER I

CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP

It was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence, and a good
deal to Leslie Graeme, that I found myself in the heart of the
Selkirks for my Christmas Eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had
been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in Toronto, with such
Bohemian and boon companions as could be found in that cosmopolitan
and kindly city. But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for,
discovering me in the village of Black Rock, with my traps all
packed, waiting for the stage to start for the Landing, thirty
miles away, he bore down upon me with resistless force, and I found
myself recovering from my surprise only after we had gone in his
lumber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in the
mountains. I was surprised and much delighted, though I would not
allow him to think so, to find that his old-time power over me was
still there. He could always in the old 'Varsity days--dear, wild
days--make me do what he liked. He was so handsome and so
reckless, brilliant in his class-work, and the prince of half-backs
on the Rugby field, and with such power of fascination, as would
'extract the heart out of a wheelbarrow,' as Barney Lundy used to
say. And thus it was that I found myself just three weeks later--I
was to have spent two or three days,--on the afternoon of the 24th
of December, standing in Graeme's Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at
myself. But I did not regret my changed plans, for in those three
weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear's den and had wakened up a
grizzly-- But I shall let the grizzly finish the tale; he probably
sees more humour in it than I.

The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted of a group of
three long, low shanties with smaller shacks near them, all built
of heavy, unhewn logs, with door and window in each. The grub
camp, with cook-shed attached, stood in the middle of the clearing;
at a little distance was the sleeping-camp with the office built
against it, and about a hundred yards away on the other side of the
clearing stood the stables, and near them the smiddy. The
mountains rose grandly on every side, throwing up their great peaks
into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood was hewn out of
a dense pine forest that filled the valley and climbed half way up
the mountain-sides, and then frayed out in scattered and stunted
trees.

It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, bright, and
with a touch of sharpness in the air that did not chill, but warmed
the blood like draughts of wine. The men were up in the woods, and
the shrill scream of the blue jay flashing across the open, the
impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp,
and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping about on the
rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far down the
valley, only made the silence felt the more.

As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious beauty and the
silence of mountain and forest, with the Christmas feeling stealing
into me, Graeme came out from his office, and, catching sight of
me, called out, 'Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!' And then,
coming nearer, 'Must you go to-morrow?'

'I fear so,' I replied, knowing well that the Christmas feeling was
on him too.

'I wish I were going with you,' he said quietly.

I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look of suffering in
his face the words died at my lips, for we both were thinking of
the awful night of horror when all his bright, brilliant life
crashed down about him in black ruin and shame. I could only throw
my arm over his shoulder and stand silent beside him. A sudden
jingle of bells roused him, and, giving himself a little shake, he
exclaimed, 'There are the boys coming home.'

Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing, like
light-hearted boys.

'They are a little wild to-night,' said Graeme; 'and to morrow
they'll paint Black Rock red.'

Before many minutes had gone, the last teamster was 'washed up,'
and all were standing about waiting impatiently for the cook's
signal--the supper to-night was to be 'something of a feed'--when
the sound of bells drew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by
a buckskin broncho coming down the hillside at a great pace.

'The preacher, I'll bet, by his driving,' said one of the men.

'Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!' said Blaney, a
good-natured, jovial Irishman.

'Yes, or for pay-day, more like,' said Keefe, a black-browed,
villainous fellow-countryman of Blaney's, and, strange to say, his
great friend.

Big Sandy M'Naughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up
in wrath. 'Bill Keefe,' said he, with deliberate emphasis, 'you'll
just keep your dirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay,
it's little he sees of it, or any one else, except Mike Slavin,
when you're too dry to wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps
Father Ryan, when the fear of hell-fire is on to you.'

The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden anger and length of speech.

'Bon; dat's good for you, my bully boy,' said Baptiste, a wiry
little French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn ally and devoted admirer ever
since the day when the big Scotsman, under great provocation, had
knocked him clean off the dump into the river and then jumped in
for him.

It was not till afterwards I learned the cause of Sandy's sudden
wrath which urged him to such unwonted length of speech. It was
not simply that the Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence
for the minister and contempt for Papists and Fenians, but that he
had a vivid remembrance of how, only a month ago, the minister had
got him out of Mike Slavin's saloon and out the clutches of Keefe
and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers.

Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to Sandy's side,
slapped him on the back, and called out, 'You keel him, I'll hit
(eat) him up, me.'

It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in
a low, savage tone, 'Stop your row, you blank fools; settle it, if
you want to, somewhere else.' I turned, and was amazed to see old
man Nelson, who was very seldom moved to speech.

There was a look of scorn on his hard, iron-grey face, and of such
settled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard
of his deadly fights in the mines at the coast. Before any reply
could be made, the minister drove up and called out in a cheery
voice, 'Merry Christmas, boys! Hello, Sandy! Comment ca va,
Baptiste? How do you do, Mr. Graeme?'

'First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime
medical student, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a
bad sort.'

'A man to be envied,' said the minister, smiling. 'I am glad to
know any friend of Mr. Graeme's.'

I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked
straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his
shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He
insisted on going with Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his
broncho, put up.

'Decent fellow,' said Graeme; 'but though he is good enough to his
broncho, it is Sandy that's in his mind now.'

'Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so to
speak?'

'I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if he doesn't make
the Presbyterians of us think so too.' And he added after a pause,
'A dandy lot of parishioners we are for any man. There's Sandy,
now, he would knock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious
exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober, and Sandy will be
drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better Presbyterian
he'll be; to the preacher's disgust.' Then after another pause he
added bitterly, 'But it is not for me to throw rocks at Sandy; I am
not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of several other sorts.'

Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-
pan. Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no
man would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent
reluctance to his place at the table. At the further end of the
camp was a big fireplace, and from the door to the fireplace
extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not
too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple
sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at
regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof, and a row
of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means of slit
sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.

There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig
rose and said, 'I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me
this looks good enough to be thankful for.'

'Fire ahead, sir,' called out a voice quite respectfully, and the
minister bent his head and said--

'For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and
goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this
Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen.'

'Bon, dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste. 'Seems lak dat's make me
hit (eat) more better for sure,' and then no word was spoken for
quarter of an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments
too precious for anything so empty as words. But when the white
piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for a second time
vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared, there came a
pause and hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each
bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.

'Hooray!' yelled Blaney, 'up wid yez!' and grabbing the cook by the
shoulders from behind, he faced him about.

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the
same way, called out, 'Squad, fall in! quick march!' In a moment
every man was in the procession.

'Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!' shouted Blaney, the
appellation a concession to the minister's presence; and away went
Baptiste in a rollicking French song with the English chorus--

'Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, ye winds, ay oh!
Blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, blow, blow.'

And at each 'blow' every boot came down with a thump on the plank
floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round, Mr.
Craig jumped upon the bench, and called out--

'Three cheers for Billy the cook!'

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say,
'Bon! dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup mesef, me.'

'Hear till the little baste!' said Blaney in disgust.

'Batchees,' remonstrated Sandy gravely, 'ye've more stomach than
manners.'

'Fu sure! but de more stomach dat's more better for dis puddin','
replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall,
and pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort
the men disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which
now roared and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from
the roof. The lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man
Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone,
well away from the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the
second pipes were well a-going, one of the men took down a violin
from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two
brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders:
Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and
Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his brother, a
devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all
sides, struck up 'Lord Macdonald's Reel.' In a moment the floor
was filled with dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the
wildest manner. Then Baptiste did the 'Red River Jig,' a most
intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to
the music with hands and feet.

When the jig was finished, Sandy called for 'Lochaber No More'; but
Campbell said, 'No, no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig
will play.'

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no
ordinary player. I did not recognise the music, but it was soft
and thrilling, and got in by the heart, till every one was thinking
his tenderest and saddest thoughts.

After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell
his violin, saying, 'Now, "Lochaber," Lachlan.'

Without a word Lachlan began, not 'Lochaber'--he was not ready for
that yet--but 'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered
through 'Auld Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at
last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No
More.' At the first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on
some blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning
sleep. Sandy M'Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up
straight and stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the
fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I,
in our student-days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his
father wailing out 'Lochaber' upon the pipes, and I well knew that
the awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long
since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs
and glens of his far-away native land, and making us, too, see
strange things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson,
and was startled at the eager, almost piteous, look in his eyes,
and I wished Campbell would stop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and,
stepping over to Campbell, held out his hand for the violin.
Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew out the last strain,
and silently gave the minister his instrument.

Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of 'Lochaber' was
still upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the
refrain of that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, 'The Sweet
By and By.' After playing the verse through once, he sang softly
the refrain. After the first verse, the men joined in the chorus;
at first timidly, but by the time the third verse was reached they
were shouting with throats full open, 'We shall meet on that
beautiful shore.' When I looked at Nelson the eager light had gone
out of his eyes, and in its place was kind of determined
hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.

After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig played again the refrain,
more and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on
Campbell's knees, he drew from his pocket his little Bible, and
said--

'Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission, I want to read you something
this Christmas Eve. You will all have heard it before, but you
will like it none the less for that.'

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the
eternal story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as
he read, a slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us
see, as he was seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the
timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in
upon us with overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the
same low, clear voice went on to tell us how, in his home years
ago, he used to stand on Christmas Eve listening in thrilling
delight to his mother telling him the story, and how she used to
make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep bleating near by, and
how the sudden burst of glory used to make his heart jump.

'I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me
they were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn't fear
them any more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a
baby.' There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. 'I used to
peek through under to see the little one in the straw, and wonder
what things swaddling clothes were. Oh, it was all so real and so
beautiful!' He paused, and I could hear the men breathing.

'But one Christmas Eve,' he went on, in a lower, sweeter tone,
'there was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it,
and went away to college, and learned to think that it was only a
child's tale and was not for men. Then bad days came to me and
worse, and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of
goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a faraway city,
when I had given up all, and the devil's arms were about me, I
heard the story again. And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my
heart, for I had put it all behind me, I suddenly found myself
peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's wonder at the Baby
in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves, that His name
was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins.
Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I
knew, I had called out, "Oh! can He save me?" It was in a little
mission meeting on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be
used to that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; and a
young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and said, "Why! you just
bet He can!" His surprise that I should doubt, his bright face and
confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held
to that hope with all my soul, and'--stretching up his arms, and
with a quick glow in his face and a little break in his voice, 'He
hasn't failed me yet; not once, not once!'

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool
of myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these
things. Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad
yearning in his dark eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff, and
staring harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling with
excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears away. But the face
that held my eyes was that of old man Nelson. It was white,
fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as
if to cry.

The minister went on. 'I didn't mean to tell you this, men, it all
came over me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a
word will I take back. And, what's more, I can tell you this, what
He did for me He can do for any man, and it doesn't make any
difference what's behind him, and'--leaning slightly forward, and
with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice--'O boys, why
don't you give Him a chance at you? Without Him you'll never be
the men you want to be, and you'll never get the better of that
that's keeping some of you now from going back home. You know
you'll never go back till you're the men you want to be.' Then,
lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to
himself, 'Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins,' and
then, 'Let us pray.'

Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and
Blaney dropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some
others, stood up. Old man Nelson held his eyes steadily on the
minister.

Only once before had I seen that look on a human face. A young
fellow had broken through the ice on the river at home, and as the
black water was dragging his fingers one by one from the slippery
edges, there came over his face that same look. I used to wake up
for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing the white face
with its parting lips, and its piteous, dumb appeal, and the black
water slowly sucking it down.

Nelson's face brought it all back; but during the prayer the face
changed, and seemed to settle into resolve of some sort, stern,
almost gloomy, as of a man with his last chance before him.

After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner
next day in Black Rock. 'And because you are an independent lot,
we'll charge you half a dollar for dinner and the evening show.'
Then leaving a bundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the
table--a godsend to the men--he said good-bye and went out.

I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the sleigh first,
and waited while he said good-bye to Graeme, who had been hard hit
by the whole service, and seemed to want to say something. I heard
Mr. Craig say cheerfully and confidently, 'It's a true bill: try
Him.'

Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that interesting broncho
was attempting with great success to balance himself on his hind
legs, came to say good-bye. 'Come and see me first thing, Sandy.'

'Ay! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig,' said Sandy earnestly, as
Dandy dashed off at a full gallop across the clearing and over the
bridge, steadying down when he reached the hill.

'Steady, you idiot!'

This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side spring into the deep
snow, almost upsetting us. A man stepped out from the shadow. It
was old man Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh, and, ignoring
my presence completely, said--

'Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it work?'

'Do you mean,' said Craig, taking him up promptly, 'can Jesus
Christ save you from your sins and make a man of you?'

The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on the other's face.

'Well, here's His message to you: "The Son of Man is come to seek
and to save that which was lost."'

'To me? To me?' said the old man eagerly.

'Listen; this, too, is His Word: "Him that cometh unto Me I will in
no wise cast out." That's for you, for here you are, coming.'

'You don't know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby fifteen years ago
because--'

'Stop!' said the minister. 'Don't tell me, at least not to-night;
perhaps never. Tell Him who knows it all now, and who never
betrays a secret. Have it out with Him. Don't be afraid to trust
Him.'

Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a husky
voice, 'If this is no good, it's hell for me.'

'If it is no good,' replied Craig, almost sternly, 'it's hell for
all of us.'

The old man straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then
back at Mr. Craig, then at me, and, drawing a deep breath, said,
'I'll try Him.' As he was turning away the minister touched him on
the arm, and said quietly, 'Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow.'

Nelson nodded, and we went on; but before we took the next turn I
looked back and saw what brought a lump into my throat. It was old
man Nelson on his knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward
to the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above the stars,
and nearer than the stars, who could see. And then the trees hid
him from my sight

CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ROCK CHRISTMAS

Many strange Christmas Days have I seen, but that wild Black Rock
Christmas stands out strangest of all. While I was revelling in my
delicious second morning sleep, just awake enough to enjoy it, Mr.
Craig came abruptly, announcing breakfast and adding, 'Hope you are
in good shape, for we have our work before us this day.'

'Hello!' I replied, still half asleep, and anxious to hide from the
minister that I was trying to gain a few more moments of snoozing
delight, 'what's abroad?'.

'The devil,' he answered shortly, and with such emphasis that I sat
bolt upright, looking anxiously about.

'Oh! no need for alarm. He's not after you particularly--at least
not to-day,' said Craig, with a shadow of a smile. 'But he is
going about in good style, I can tell you.'

By this time I was quite awake. 'Well, what particular style does
His Majesty affect this morning?'

He pulled out a showbill. 'Peculiarly gaudy and effective, is it
not?'

The items announced were sufficiently attractive. The 'Frisco
Opera Company were to produce the 'screaming farce,' 'The Gay and
Giddy Dude'; after which there was to be a 'Grand Ball,' during
which the 'Kalifornia Female Kickers' were to do some fancy
figures; the whole to be followed by a 'big supper' with 'two free
drinks to every man and one to the lady,' and all for the
insignificant sum of two dollars.

'Can't you go one better?' I said.

He looked inquiringly and a little disgustedly at me.

'What can you do against free drinks and a dance, not to speak of
the "High Kickers"?' he groaned.

'No!' he continued; 'it's a clean beat for us today. The miners
and lumbermen will have in their pockets ten thousand dollars, and
every dollar burning a hole; and Slavin and his gang will get most
of it. But,' he added, 'you must have breakfast. You'll find a
tub in the kitchen; don't be afraid to splash. It is the best I
have to offer you.'

The tub sounded inviting, and before many minutes had passed I was
in a delightful glow, the effect of cold water and a rough towel,
and that consciousness of virtue that comes to a man who has had
courage to face his cold bath on a winter morning.

The breakfast was laid with fine taste. A diminutive pine-tree, in
a pot hung round with wintergreen, stood in the centre of the
table.

'Well, now, this looks good; porridge, beefsteak, potatoes, toast,
and marmalade.'

'I hope you will enjoy it all.'

There was not much talk over our meal. Mr. Craig was evidently
preoccupied, and as blue as his politeness would allow him.
Slavin's victory weighed upon his spirits. Finally he burst out,
'Look here! I can't, I won't stand it; something must be done.
Last Christmas this town was for two weeks, as one of the miners
said, "a little suburb of hell." It was something too awful. And
at the end of it all one young fellow was found dead in his shack,
and twenty or more crawled back to the camps, leaving their three
months' pay with Slavin and his suckers.

'I won't stand it, I say.' He turned fiercely on me. 'What's to
be done?'

This rather took me aback, for I had troubled myself with nothing
of this sort in my life before, being fully occupied in keeping
myself out of difficulty, and allowing others the same privilege.
So I ventured the consolation that he had done his part, and that a
spree more or less would not make much difference to these men.
But the next moment I wished I had been slower in speech, for he
swiftly faced me, and his words came like a torrent.

'God forgive you that heartless word! Do you know--? But no; you
don't know what you are saying. You don't know that these men have
been clambering for dear life out of a fearful pit for three months
past, and doing good climbing too, poor chaps. You don't think
that some of them have wives, most of them mothers and sisters, in
the east or across the sea, for whose sake they are slaving here;
the miners hoping to save enough to bring their families to this
homeless place, the rest to make enough to go back with credit.
Why, there's Nixon, miner, splendid chap; has been here for two
years, and drawing the highest pay. Twice he has been in sight of
his heaven, for he can't speak of his wife and babies without
breaking up, and twice that slick son of the devil--that's
Scripture, mind you--Slavin, got him, and "rolled" him, as the boys
say. He went back to the mines broken in body and in heart. He
says this is his third and last chance. If Slavin gets him, his
wife and babies will never see him on earth or in heaven. There is
Sandy, too, and the rest. And,' he added, in a lower tone, and
with the curious little thrill of pathos in his voice, 'this is the
day the Saviour came to the world.' He paused, and then with a
little sad smile, 'But I don't want to abuse you.'

'Do, I enjoy it, I'm a beast, a selfish beast'; for somehow his
intense, blazing earnestness made me feel uncomfortably small.

'What have we to offer?' I demanded.

'Wait till I have got these things cleared away, and my
housekeeping done.'

I pressed my services upon him, somewhat feebly, I own, for I can't
bear dishwater; but he rejected my offer.

'I don't like trusting my china to the hands of a tender-foot.'

'Quite right, though your china would prove an excellent means of
defence at long range.' It was delf, a quarter of an inch thick.
So I smoked while he washed up, swept, dusted, and arranged the
room.

After the room was ordered to his taste, we proceeded to hold
council. He could offer dinner, magic lantern, music. 'We can
fill in time for two hours, but,' he added gloomily, 'we can't beat
the dance and the "High Kickers."'

'Have you nothing new or startling?'

He shook his head.

'No kind of show? Dog show? Snake charmer?'

'Slavin has a monopoly of the snakes.'

Then he added hesitatingly, 'There was an old Punch-and-Judy chap
here last year, but he died. Whisky again.'

'What happened to his show?'

'The Black Rock Hotel man took it for board and whisky bill. He
has it still, I suppose.'

I did not much relish the business; but I hated to see him beaten,
so I ventured, 'I have run a Punch and Judy in an amateur way at
the 'Varsity.'

He sprang to his feet with a yell.

'You have! you mean to say it? We've got them! We've beaten
them!' He had an extraordinary way of taking your help for
granted. 'The miner chaps, mostly English and Welsh, went mad over
the poor old showman, and made him so wealthy that in sheer
gratitude he drank himself to death.'

He walked up and down in high excitement and in such evident
delight that I felt pledged to my best effort.

'Well,' I said, 'first the poster. We must beat them in that.'

He brought me large sheets of brown paper, and after two hours'
hard work I had half a dozen pictorial showbills done in gorgeous
colours and striking designs. They were good, if I do say it
myself.

The turkey, the magic lantern, the Punch and Judy show were all
there, the last with a crowd before it in gaping delight. A few
explanatory words were thrown in, emphasising the highly artistic
nature of the Punch and Judy entertainment.

Craig was delighted, and proceeded to perfect his plans. He had
some half a dozen young men, four young ladies, and eight or ten
matrons, upon whom he could depend for help. These he organised
into a vigilance committee charged with the duty of preventing
miners and lumbermen from getting away to Slavin's. 'The critical
moments will be immediately before and after dinner, and then again
after the show is over,' he explained. 'The first two crises must
be left to the care of Punch and Judy, and as for the last, I am
not yet sure what shall be done'; but I saw he had something in his
head, for he added, 'I shall see Mrs. Mavor.'

'Who is Mrs. Mavor?' I asked. But he made no reply. He was a born
fighter, and he put the fighting spirit into us all. We were bound
to win.

The sports were to begin at two o'clock. By lunch-time everything
was in readiness. After lunch I was having a quiet smoke in
Craig's shack when in he rushed, saying--

'The battle will be lost before it is fought. If we lose Quatre
Bras, we shall never get to Waterloo.'

'What's up?'

'Slavin, just now. The miners are coming in, and he will have them
in tow in half an hour.'

He looked at me appealingly. I knew what he wanted.

'All right; I suppose I must, but it is an awful bore that a man
can't have a quiet smoke.'

'You're not half a bad fellow,' he replied, smiling. 'I shall get
the ladies to furnish coffee inside the booth. You furnish them
intellectual nourishment in front with dear old Punch and Judy.'

He sent a boy with a bell round the village announcing, 'Punch, and
Judy in front of the Christmas booth beside the church'; and for
three-quarters of an hour I shrieked and sweated in that awful
little pen. But it was almost worth it to hear the shouts of
approval and laughter that greeted my performance. It was cold
work standing about, so that the crowd was quite ready to respond
when Punch, after being duly hanged, came forward and invited all
into the booth for the hot coffee which Judy had ordered.

In they trooped, and Quatre Bras was won.

No sooner were the miners safely engaged with their coffee than I
heard a great noise of bells and of men shouting; and on reaching
the street I saw that the men from the lumber camp were coming in.
Two immense sleighs, decorated with ribbons and spruce boughs, each
drawn by a four-horse team gaily adorned, filled with some fifty
men, singing and shouting with all their might, were coming down
the hill road at full gallop. Round the corner they swung, dashed
at full speed across the bridge and down the street, and pulled up
after they had made the circuit of a block, to the great admiration
of the onlookers. Among others Slavin sauntered up good-naturedly,
making himself agreeable to Sandy and those who were helping to
unhitch his team.

'Oh, you need not take trouble with me or my team, Mike Slavin.
Batchees and me and the boys can look after them fine,' said Sandy
coolly.

This rejecting of hospitality was perfectly understood by Slavin
and by all.

'Dat's too bad, heh?' said Baptiste wickedly; 'and, Sandy, he's got
good money on his pocket for sure, too.' The boys laughed, and
Slavin, joining in, turned away with Keele and Blaney; but by the
look in his eye I knew he was playing 'Br'er Rabbit,' and lying
low.

Mr. Craig just then came up, 'Hello, boys! too late for Punch and
Judy, but just in time for hot coffee and doughnuts.'

'Bon; dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste heartily; 'where you keep
him?'

'Up in the tent next the church there. The miners are all in.'

'Ah, dat so? Dat's bad news for the shantymen, heh, Sandy?' said
the little Frenchman dolefully.

'There was a clothes-basket full of doughnuts and a boiler of
coffee left as I passed just now,' said Craig encouragingly.

'Allons, mes garcons; vite! never say keel!' cried Baptiste
excitedly, stripping off the harness.

But Sandy would not leave the horses till they were carefully
rubbed down, blanketed, and fed, for he was entered for the four-
horse race and it behoved him to do his best to win. Besides, he
scorned to hurry himself for anything so unimportant as eating;
that he considered hardly worthy even of Baptiste. Mr. Craig
managed to get a word with him before he went off, and I saw Sandy
solemnly and emphatically shake his head, saying, 'Ah! we'll beat
him this day,' and I gathered that he was added to the vigilance
committee.

Old man Nelson was busy with his own team. He turned slowly at Mr.
Craig's greeting, 'How is it, Nelson?' and it was with a very grave
voice he answered, 'I hardly know, sir; but I am not gone yet,
though it seems little to hold to.'

'All you want for a grip is what your hand can cover. What would
you have? And besides, do you know why you are not gone yet?'

The old man waited, looking at the minister gravely.

'Because He hasn't let go His grip of you.'

'How do you know He's gripped me?'

'Now, look here, Nelson, do you want to quit this thing and give it
all up?'

'No, no! For heaven's sake, no! Why, do you think I have lost
it?' said Nelson, almost piteously.

'Well, He's keener about it than you; and I'll bet you haven't
thought it worth while to thank Him.'

'To thank Him,' he repeated, almost stupidly, 'for--'

'For keeping you where you are overnight,' said Mr. Craig, almost
sternly.

The old man gazed at the minister, a light growing in his eyes.

'You're right. Thank God, you're right.' And then he turned
quickly away, and went into the stable behind his team. It was a
minute before he came out. Over his face there was a trembling
joy.

'Can I do anything for you to-day?' he asked humbly.

'Indeed you just can,' said the minister, taking his hand and
shaking it very warmly; and then he told him Slavin's programme and
ours.

'Sandy is all right till after his race. After that is his time of
danger,' said the minister.

'I'll stay with him, sir,' said old Nelson, in the tone of a man
taking a covenant, and immediately set off for the coffee-tent.

'Here comes another recruit for your corps,' I said, pointing to
Leslie Graeme, who was coming down the street at that moment in his
light sleigh.

'I am not so sure. Do you think you could get him?'

I laughed. 'You are a good one.'

'Well,' he replied, half defiantly, 'is not this your fight too?'

'You make me think so, though I am bound to say I hardly recognise
myself to day. But here goes,' and before I knew it I was
describing our plans to Graeme, growing more and more enthusiastic
as he sat in his sleigh, listening with a quizzical smile I didn't
quite like.

'He's got you too,' he said; 'I feared so.'

'Well,' I laughed, 'perhaps so. But I want to lick that man
Slavin. I've just seen him, and he's just what Craig calls him, "a
slick son of the devil." Don't be shocked; he says it is
Scripture.'

'Revised version,' said Graeme gravely, while Craig looked a little
abashed.

'What is assigned me, Mr. Craig? for I know that this man is simply
your agent.'

I repudiated the idea, while Mr. Craig said nothing.

'What's my part?' demanded Graeme.

'Well,' said Mr. Craig hesitatingly, 'of course I would do nothing
till I had consulted you; but I want a man to take my place at the
sports. I am referee.'

'That's all right,' said Graeme, with an air of relief; 'I expected
something hard.'

'And then I thought you would not mind presiding at dinner--I want
it to go off well.'

'Did you notice that?' said Graeme to me. 'Not a bad touch, eh?'

'That's nothing to the way he touched me. Wait and learn,' I
answered, while Craig looked quite distressed. 'He'll do it, Mr.
Craig, never fear,' I said, 'and any other little duty that may
occur to you.'

'Now that's too bad of you. That is all I want, honour bright,' he
replied; adding, as he turned away, 'you are just in time for a cup
of coffee, Mr. Graeme. Now I must see Mrs. Mavor.'

'Who is Mrs. Mavor?' I demanded of Graeme.

'Mrs. Mavor? The miners' guardian angel.'

We put up the horses and set off for coffee. As we approached the
booth Graeme caught sight of the Punch and Judy show, stood still
in amazement, and exclaimed, 'Can the dead live?'

'Punch and Judy never die,' I replied solemnly.

'But the old manipulator is dead enough, poor old beggar!'

'But he left his mantle, as you see.'

He looked at me a moment

'What! do you mean, you--?'

'Yes, that is exactly what I do mean.'

'He is great man, that Craig fellow--a truly great man.'

And then he leaned up against a tree and laughed till the tears
came. 'I say, old boy, don't mind me,' he gasped, 'but do you
remember the old 'Varsity show?'

'Yes, you villain; and I remember your part in it. I wonder how
you can, even at this remote date, laugh at it.' For I had a vivid
recollection of how, after a 'chaste and highly artistic
performance of this mediaeval play' had been given before a
distinguished Toronto audience, the trap door by which I had
entered my box was fastened, and I was left to swelter in my cage,
and forced to listen to the suffocated laughter from the wings and
the stage whispers of 'Hello, Mr. Punch, where's the baby?' And
for many a day after I was subjected to anxious inquiries as to the
locality and health of 'the baby,' and whether it was able to be
out.

'Oh, the dear old days!' he kept saying, over and over, in a tone
so full of sadness that my heart grew sore for him and I forgave
him, as many a time before.

The sports passed off in typical Western style. In addition to the
usual running and leaping contests, there was rifle and pistol
shooting, in both of which old man Nelson stood first, with Shaw,
foreman of the mines, second.

The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse race,
for which three teams were entered--one from the mines driven by
Nixon, Craig's friend, a citizens' team, and Sandy's. The race was
really between the miners' team, and that from the woods, for the
citizens' team, though made up of speedy horses, had not been
driven much together, and knew neither their driver nor each other.
In the miners' team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle heavy
perhaps, but well matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly handled
by their driver. Sandy had his long rangy roans, and for leaders a
pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The pintos, caught the summer
before upon the Alberta prairies, were fleet as deer, but wicked
and uncertain. They were Baptiste's special care and pride. If
they would only run straight there was little doubt that they would
carry the roans and themselves to glory; but one could not tell the
moment they might bolt or kick things to pieces.

Being the only non-partisan in the crowd I was asked to referee.
The race was about half a mile and return, the first and last
quarters being upon the ice. The course, after leaving the ice,
led up from the river by a long easy slope to the level above; and
at the further end curved somewhat sharply round the Old Fort. The
only condition attaching to the race was that the teams should
start from the scratch, make the turn of the Fort, and finish at
the scratch. There were no vexing regulations as to fouls. The
man making the foul would find it necessary to reckon with the
crowd, which was considered sufficient guarantee for a fair and
square race. Owing to the hazards of the course, the result would
depend upon the skill of the drivers quite as much as upon the
speed of the teams. The points of hazard were at the turn round
the Old Fort, and at a little ravine which led down to the river,
over which the road passed by means of a long log bridge or
causeway.

From a point upon the high bank of the river the whole course lay
in open view. It was a scene full of life and vividly picturesque.
There were miners in dark clothes and peak caps; citizens in
ordinary garb; ranchmen in wide cowboy hats and buckskin shirts and
leggings, some with cartridge-belts and pistols; a few half-breeds
and Indians in half-native, half-civilised dress; and scattering
through the crowd the lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket
coats, and some with knitted tuques of the same colours. A very
good-natured but extremely uncertain crowd it was. At the head of
each horse stood a man, but at the pintos' heads Baptiste stood
alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown into a frenzy of
fear by the yelling of the crowd.

Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute
stillness, came the words, 'Are you ready?', then the pistol-shot
and the great race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the
shrill cry of Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of
his hand, and swung himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it
shot past.

Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths before
the other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd,
instead of bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they
wheeled to the right and were almost across the river before Sandy
could swing them back into the course.

Baptiste's cries, a curious mixture of French and English,
continued to strike through all other sounds till they gained the
top of the slope to find the others almost a hundred yards in
front, the citizens' team leading, with the miners' following
close. The moment the pintos caught sight of the teams before them
they set off at a terrific pace and steadily devoured the
intervening space. Nearer and nearer the turn came, the eight
horses in front, running straight and well within their speed.
After them flew the pintos, running savagely with ears set back,
leading well the big roans, thundering along and gaining at every
bound. And now the citizens' team had almost reached the Fort,
running hard, and drawing away from the bays. But Nixon knew what
he was about, and was simply steadying his team for the turn. The
event proved his wisdom, for in the turn the leading team left the
track, lost a moment or two in the deep snow, and before they could
regain the road the bays had swept superbly past, leaving their
rivals to follow in the rear. On came the pintos, swiftly nearing
the Fort. Surely at that pace they cannot make the turn. But
Sandy knows his leaders. They have their eyes upon the teams in
front, and need no touch of rein. Without the slightest change in
speed the nimble-footed bronchos round the turn, hauling the big
roans after them, and fall in behind the citizens' team, which is
regaining steadily the ground lost in the turn.

And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine. The bays
in front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing their
best; behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the limit
of their speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens' team;
while opposite their driver are the pintos, pulling hard, eager and
fresh. Their temper is too uncertain to send them to the front;
they run well following, but when leading cannot be trusted, and
besides, a broncho hates a bridge; so Sandy holds them where they
are, waiting and hoping for his chance after the bridge is crossed.
Foot by foot the citizens' team creep up upon the flank of the
bays, with the pintos in turn hugging them closely, till it seems
as if the three, if none slackens, must strike the bridge together;
and this will mean destruction to one at least. This danger Sandy
perceives, but he dare not check his leaders. Suddenly, within a
few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws himself upon the lines,
wrenches them out of Sandy's hands, and, with a quick swing, faces
the pintos down the steep side of the ravine, which is almost sheer
ice with a thin coat of snow. It is a daring course to take, for
the ravine, though not deep, is full of undergrowth, and is
partially closed up by a brush heap at the further end. But, with
a yell, Baptiste hurls his four horses down the slope, and into the
undergrowth. 'Allons, mes enfants! Courage! vite, vite!' cries
their driver, and nobly do the pintos respond. Regardless of
bushes and brush heaps, they tear their way through; but, as they
emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root, and, with a crash, the
sleigh is hurled high in the air. Baptiste's cries ring out high
and shrill as ever, encouraging his team, and never cease till,
with a plunge and a scramble, they clear the brush heap lying at
the mouth of the ravine, and are out on the ice on the river, with
Baptiste standing on the front bob, the box trailing behind, and
Sandy nowhere to be seen.

Three hundred yards of the course remain. The bays, perfectly
handled, have gained at the bridge and in the descent to the ice,
and are leading the citizens' team by half a dozen sleigh lengths.
Behind both comes Baptiste. It is now or never for the pintos.
The rattle of the trailing box, together with the wild yelling of
the crowd rushing down the bank, excites the bronchos to madness,
and, taking the bits in their teeth, they do their first free
running that day. Past the citizens' team like a whirlwind they
dash, clear the intervening space, and gain the flanks of the bays.
Can the bays hold them? Over them leans their driver, plying for
the first time the hissing lash. Only fifty yards more. The
miners begin to yell. But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one
hand seizes his tuque with the other, whirls it about his head and
flings it with a fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos. Like the
bursting of a hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a
splendid rush cross the scratch, winners by their own length.

There was a wild quarter of an hour. The shantymen had torn off
their coats and were waving them wildly and tossing them high,
while the ranchers added to the uproar by emptying their revolvers
into the air in a way that made one nervous.

When the crowd was somewhat quieted Sandy's stiff figure appeared,
slowly making towards them. A dozen lumbermen ran to him, eagerly
inquiring if he were hurt. But Sandy could only curse the little
Frenchman for losing the race.

'Lost! Why, man, we've won it!' shouted a voice, at which Sandy's
rage vanished, and he allowed himself to be carried in upon the
shoulders of his admirers.

'Where's the lad?' was his first question.

The bronchos are off with him. He's down at the rapids like
enough.'

'Let me go,' shouted Sandy, setting off at a run in the track of
the sleigh. He had not gone far before he met Baptiste coming back
with his team foaming, the roans going quietly, but the bronchos
dancing, and eager to be at it again.

'Voila! bully boy! tank the bon Dieu, Sandy; you not keel, heh?
Ah! you are one grand chevalier,' exclaimed Baptiste, hauling Sandy
in and thrusting the lines into his hands. And so they came back,
the sleigh box still dragging behind, the pintos executing
fantastic figures on their hind legs, and Sandy holding them down.
The little Frenchman struck a dramatic attitude and called out--

'Voila! What's the matter wiz Sandy, heh?'

The roar that answered set the bronchos off again plunging and
kicking, and only when Baptiste got them by the heads could they be
induced to stand long enough to allow Sandy to be proclaimed winner
of the race. Several of the lumbermen sprang into the sleigh box
with Sandy and Baptiste, among them Keefe, followed by Nelson, and
the first part of the great day was over. Slavin could not
understand the new order of things. That a great event like the
four-horse race should not be followed by 'drinks all round' was to
him at once disgusting and incomprehensible; and, realising his
defeat for the moment, he fell into the crowd and disappeared. But
he left behind him his 'runners.' He had not yet thrown up the
game.

Mr. Craig meantime came to me, and, looking anxiously after Sandy
in his sleigh, with his frantic crowd of yelling admirers, said in
a gloomy voice, 'Poor Sandy! He is easily caught, and Keefe has
the devil's cunning.'

'He won't touch Slavin's whisky to-day,' I answered confidently.

'There'll be twenty bottles waiting him in the stable,' he replied
bitterly, 'and I can't go following him up.'

'He won't stand that, no man would. God help us all.' I could
hardly recognise myself, for I found in my heart an earnest echo to
that prayer as I watched him go toward the crowd again, his face
set in strong determination. He looked like the captain of a
forlorn hope, and I was proud to be following him.

CHAPTER III

WATERLOO. OUR FIGHT--HIS VICTORY

The sports were over, and there remained still an hour to be filled
in before dinner. It was an hour full of danger to Craig's hopes
of victory, for the men were wild with excitement, and ready for
the most reckless means of 'slinging their dust.' I could not but
admire the skill with which Mr. Craig caught their attention.

'Gentlemen,' he called out, 'we've forgotten the judge of the great
race. Three cheers for Mr. Connor!'

Two of the shantymen picked me up and hoisted me on their shoulders
while the cheers were given.

'Announce the Punch and Judy,' he entreated me, in a low voice. I
did so in a little speech, and was forthwith borne aloft, through
the street to the booth, followed by the whole crowd, cheering like
mad.

The excitement of the crowd caught me, and for an hour I squeaked
and worked the wires of the immortal and unhappy family in a manner
hitherto unapproached by me at least. I was glad enough when
Graeme came to tell me to send the men in to dinner. This Mr.
Punch did in the most gracious manner, and again with cheers for
Punch's master they trooped tumultuously into the tent.

We had only well begun when Baptiste came in quietly but hurriedly
and whispered to me--

'M'sieu Craig, he's gone to Slavin's, and would lak you and M'sieu
Graeme would follow queek. Sandy he's take one leel drink up at de
stable, and he's go mad lak one diable.'

I sent him for Graeme, who was presiding at dinner, and set off for
Slavin's at a run. There I found Mr. Craig and Nelson holding
Sandy, more than half drunk, back from Slavin, who, stripped to the
shirt, was coolly waiting with a taunting smile.

'Let me go, Mr. Craig,' Sandy was saying, 'I am a good Presbyterian.
He is a Papist thief; and he has my money; and I will have it out
of the soul of him.'

'Let him go, preacher,' sneered Slavin, 'I'll cool him off for yez.
But ye'd better hold him if yez wants his mug left on to him.'

'Let him go!' Keefe was shouting.

'Hands off!' Blaney was echoing.

I pushed my way in. 'What's up?' I cried.

'Mr. Connor,' said Sandy solemnly, 'it is a gentleman you are,
though your name is against you, and I am a good Presbyterian,
and I can give you the Commandments and Reasons annexed to them;
but yon's a thief, a Papist thief, and I am justified in getting my
money out of his soul.'

'But,' I remonstrated, 'you won't get it in this way.'

'He has my money,' reiterated Sandy.

'He is a blank liar, and he's afraid to take it up,' said Slavin,
in a low, cool tone.

With a roar Sandy broke away and rushed at him; but, without moving
from his tracks, Slavin met him with a straight left-hander and
laid him flat.

'Hooray,' yelled Blaney, 'Ireland for ever!' and, seizing the iron
poker, swung it around his head, crying, 'Back, or, by the holy
Moses, I'll kill the first man that interferes wid the game.'

'Give it to him!' Keefe said savagely.

Sandy rose slowly, gazing round stupidly.

'He don't know what hit him,' laughed Keefe.

This roused the Highlander, and saying, 'I'll settle you afterwards,
Mister Keefe,' he rushed in again at Slavin. Again Slavin met him
again with his left, staggered him, and, before he fell, took a step
forward and delivered a terrific right-hand blow on his jaw. Poor
Sandy went down in a heap amid the yells of Blaney, Keefe, and some
others of the gang. I was in despair when in came Baptiste and
Graeme.

One look at Sandy, and Baptiste tore off his coat and cap,
slammed them on the floor, danced on them, and with a long-drawn
'sap-r-r-r-rie,' rushed at Slavin. But Graeme caught him by the
back of the neck, saying, 'Hold on, little man,' and turning to
Slavin, pointed to Sandy, who was reviving under Nelson's care,
and said, 'What's this for?'

'Ask him,' said Slavin insolently. 'He knows.'

'What is it, Nelson?'

Nelson explained that Sandy, after drinking some at the stable and
a glass at the Black Rock Hotel, had come down here with Keefe and
the others, had lost his money, and was accusing Slavin of robbing
him.

'Did you furnish him with liquor?' said Graeme sternly.

'It is none of your business,' replied Slavin, with an oath.

'I shall make it my business. It is not the first time my men have
lost money in this saloon.'

'You lie,' said Slavin, with deliberate emphasis.

'Slavin,' said Graeme quietly, 'it's a pity you said that, because,
unless you apologise in one minute, I shall make you sorry.'

'Apologise?' roared Slavin, 'apologise to you?' calling him a vile
name.

Graeme grew white, and said even more slowly, 'Now you'll have to
take it; no apology will do.'

He slowly stripped off coat and vest. Mr. Craig interposed,
begging Graeme to let the matter pass. 'Surely he is not worth
it.'

'Mr. Craig,' said Graeme, with an easy smile, 'you don't
understand. No man can call me that name and walk around
afterwards feeling well.'

Then, turning to Slavin, he said, 'Now, if you want a minute's
rest, I can wait.'

Slavin, with a curse, bade him come.

'Blaney,' said Graeme sharply, 'you get back.' Blaney promptly
stepped back to Keefe's side. 'Nelson, you and Baptiste can see
that they stay there.' The old man nodded and looked at Craig, who
simply said, 'Do the best you can.'

It was a good fight. Slavin had plenty of pluck, and for a time
forced the fighting, Graeme guarding easily and tapping him
aggravatingly about the nose and eyes, drawing blood, but not
disabling him. Gradually there came a look of fear into Slavin's
eyes, and the beads stood upon his face. He had met his master.

'Now, Slavin, you're beginning to be sorry; and now I am going to
show you what you are made of.' Graeme made one or two lightning
passes, struck Slavin one, two, three terrific blows, and laid him
quite flat and senseless. Keefe and Blaney both sprang forward,
but there was a savage kind of growl.

'Hold, there!' It was old man Nelson looking along a pistol
barrel. 'You know me, Keefe,' he said. 'You won't do any murder
this time.'

Keefe turned green and yellow, and staggered back, while Slavin
slowly rose to his feet.

'Will you take some more?' said Graeme. 'You haven't got much; but
mind I have stopped playing with you. Put up your gun, Nelson. No
one will interfere now.'

Slavin hesitated, then rushed, but Graeme stepped to meet him, and
we saw Slavin's heels in the air as he fell back upon his neck and
shoulders and lay still, with his toes quivering.

'Bon!' yelled Baptiste. 'Bully boy! Dat's de bon stuff. Dat's
larn him one good lesson.' But immediately he shrieked,
Gar-r-r-r-e a vous!'

He was too late, for there was a crash of breaking glass, and
Graeme fell to the floor with a long deep cut on the side of his
head. Keefe had hurled a bottle with all too sure an aim, and had
fled. I thought he was dead; but we carried him out, and in a few
minutes he groaned, opened his eyes, and sank again into
insensibility.

'Where can we take him?' I cried.

'To my shack,' said Mr. Craig.

'Is there no place nearer?'

'Yes; Mrs. Mavor's. I shall run on to tell her.'

She met us at the door. I had in mind to say some words of
apology, but when I looked upon her face I forgot my words, forgot
my business at her door, and stood simply looking.

'Come in! Bring him in! Please do not wait,' she said, and her
voice was sweet and soft and firm.

We laid him in a large room at the back of the shop over which Mrs.
Mavor lived. Together we dressed the wound, her firm white
fingers, skilful as if with long training. Before the dressing was
finished I sent Craig off, for the time had come for the Magic
Lantern in the church, and I knew how critical the moment was in
our fight. 'Go,' I said; 'he is coming to, and we do not need
you.'

In a few moments more Graeme revived, and, gazing about, asked,
'What's, all this about?' and then, recollecting, 'Ah! that brute
Keefe'; then seeing my anxious face he said carelessly, 'Awful
bore, ain't it? Sorry to trouble you, old fellow.'

'You be hanged!' I said shortly; for his old sweet smile was
playing about his lips, and was almost too much for me. 'Mrs.
Mavor and I are in command, and you must keep perfectly still.'

'Mrs. Mavor?' he said, in surprise. She came forward, with a
slight flush on her face.

'I think you know me, Mr. Graeme.'

'I have often seen you, and wished to know you. I am sorry to
bring you this trouble.'

'You must not say so,' she replied, 'but let me do all for you that
I can. And now the doctor says you are to lie still.'

'The doctor? Oh! you mean Connor. He is hardly there yet. You
don't know each other. Permit me to present Mr. Connor, Mrs.
Mavor.'

As she bowed slightly, her eyes looked into mine with serious gaze,
not inquiring, yet searching my soul. As I looked into her eyes I
forgot everything about me, and when I recalled myself it seemed as
if I had been away in some far place. It was not their colour or
their brightness; I do not yet know their colour, and I have often
looked into them; and they were not bright; but they were clear,
and one could look far down into them, and in their depths see a
glowing, steady light. As I went to get some drugs from the Black
Rock doctor, I found myself wondering about that far-down light;
and about her voice, how it could get that sound from far away.

I found the doctor quite drunk, as indeed Mr. Craig had warned; but
his drugs were good, and I got what I wanted and quickly returned.

While Graeme slept Mrs. Mavor made me tea. As the evening wore on
I told her the events of the day, dwelling admiringly upon Craig's
generalship. She smiled at this.

'He got me too,' she said. 'Nixon was sent to me just before the
sports; and I don't think he will break down to-day, and I am so
thankful.' And her eyes glowed.

'I am quite sure he won't,' I thought to myself, but I said no
word.

After a long pause, she went on, 'I have promised Mr. Craig to sing
to-night, if I am needed!' and then, after a moment's hesitation,
'It is two years since I have been able to sing--two years,' she
repeated, 'since'--and then her brave voice trembled--'my husband
was killed.'

'I quite understand,' I said, having no other word on my tongue

'And,' she went on quietly, 'I fear I have been selfish. It is
hard to sing the same songs. We were very happy. But the miners
like to hear me sing, and I think perhaps it helps them to feel
less lonely, and keeps them from evil. I shall try to-night, if I
am needed. Mr. Craig will not ask me unless he must.'

I would have seen every miner and lumberman in the place hideously
drunk before I would have asked her to sing one song while her
heart ached. I wondered at Craig, and said, rather angrily--

'He thinks only of those wretched miners and shantymen of his.'

She looked at me with wonder in her eyes, and said gently, 'And are
they not Christ's too?'

And I found no word to reply.

It was nearing ten o'clock, and I was wondering how the fight was
going, and hoping that Mrs. Mavor would not be needed, when the
door opened, and old man Nelson and Sandy, the latter much battered
and ashamed, came in with the word for Mrs. Mavor.

'I will come,' she said simply. She saw me preparing to accompany
her, and asked, 'Do you think you can leave him?'

'He will do quite well in Nelson's care.'

'Then I am glad; for I must take my little one with me. I did not
put her to bed in case I should need to go, and I may not leave
her.'

We entered the church by the back door, and saw at once that even
yet the battle might easily be lost.

Some miners had just come from Slavin's, evidently bent on breaking
up the meeting, in revenge for the collapse of the dance, which
Slavin was unable to enjoy, much less direct. Craig was gallantly
holding his ground, finding it hard work to keep his men in good
humour, and so prevent a fight, for there were cries of 'Put him
out! Put the beast out!' at a miner half drunk and wholly
outrageous.

The look of relief that came over his face when Craig caught sight
of us told how anxious he had been, and reconciled me to Mrs.
Mavor's singing. 'Thank the good God,' he said, with what came
near being a sob, 'I was about to despair.'

He immediately walked to the front and called out--

'Gentlemen, if you wish it, Mrs. Mavor will sing.'

There was a dead silence. Some one began to applaud, but a miner
said savagely, 'Stop that, you fool!'

There was a few moments' delay, when from the crowd a voice called
out, 'Does Mrs. Mavor wish to sing?' followed by cries of 'Ay,
that's it.' Then Shaw, the foreman at the mines, stood up in the
audience and said--

'Mr. Craig and gentlemen, you know that three years ago I was known
as "Old Ricketts," and that I owe all I am to-night, under God, to
Mrs. Mavor, and'--with a little quiver in his voice--'her baby.
And we all know that for two years she has not sung; and we all
know why. And what I say is, that if she does not feel like
singing to-night, she is not going to sing to keep any drunken
brute of Slavin's crowd quiet.'

There were deep growls of approval all over the church. I could
have hugged Shaw then and there. Mr. Craig went to Mrs. Mavor, and
after a word with her came back and said--

'Mrs. Mavor, wishes me to thank her dear friend Mr. Shaw, but says
she would like to sing.'

The response was perfect stillness. Mr. Craig sat down to the
organ and played the opening bars of the touching melody, 'Oft in
the Stilly Night.' Mrs. Mavor came to the front, and, with a smile
of exquisite sweetness upon her sad face, and looking straight at
us with her glorious eyes, began to sing.

Her voice, a rich soprano, even and true, rose and fell, now soft,
now strong, but always filling the building, pouring around us
floods of music. I had heard Patti's 'Home, sweet Home,' and of
all singing that alone affected me as did this.

At the end of the first verse the few women in the church and some
men were weeping quietly; but when she began the words--

'When I remember all
The friends once linked together,'

sobs came on every side from these tender-hearted fellows, and Shaw
quite lost his grip. But she sang steadily on, the tone clearer
and sweeter and fuller at every note, and when the sound of her
voice died away, she stood looking at the men as if in wonder that
they should weep. No one moved. Mr. Craig played softly on, and,
wandering through many variations, arrived at last at

'Jesus, lover of my soul.'

As she sang the appealing words, her face was lifted up, and she
saw none of us; but she must have seen some one, for the cry in her
voice could only come from one who could see and feel help close at
hand. On and on went the glorious voice, searching my soul's
depths; but when she came to the words--

'Thou, O Christ, art all I want,'

she stretched up her arms--she had quite forgotten us, her voice
had borne her to other worlds--and sang with such a passion of
'abandon' that my soul was ready to surrender anything, everything.

Again Mr. Craig wandered on through his changing chords till again
he came to familiar ground, and the voice began, in low, thrilling
tones, Bernard's great song of home--

'Jerusalem the golden.'

Every word, with all its weight of meaning, came winging to our
souls, till we found ourselves gazing afar into those stately halls
of Zion, with their daylight serene and their jubilant throngs.
When the singer came to the last verse there was a pause. Again
Mr. Craig softly played the interlude, but still there was no
voice. I looked up. She was very white, and her eyes were glowing
with their deep light. Mr. Craig looked quickly about, saw her,
stopped, and half rose, as if to go to her, when, in a voice that
seemed to come from a far-off land, she went on--

'O sweet and blessed country!'

The longing, the yearning, in the second 'O' were indescribable.
Again and again, as she held that word, and then dropped down with
the cadence in the music, my heart ached for I knew not what.

The audience were sitting as in a trance. The grimy faces of the
miners, for they never get quite white, were furrowed with the
tear-courses. Shaw, by this time, had his face too lifted high,
his eyes gazing far above the singer's head, and I knew by the
rapture in his face that he was seeing, as she saw, the thronging
stately halls and the white-robed conquerors. He had felt, and was
still feeling, all the stress of the fight, and to him the vision
of the conquerors in their glory was soul-drawing and soul-
stirring. And Nixon, too--he had his vision; but what he saw was
the face of the singer, with the shining eyes, and, by the look of
him, that was vision enough.

Immediately after her last note Mrs. Mavor stretched out her hands
to her little girl, who was sitting on my knee, caught her up, and,
holding her close to her breast, walked quickly behind the curtain.
Not a sound followed the singing: no one moved till she had
disappeared; and then Mr. Craig came to the front, and, motioning
to me to follow Mrs. Mavor, began in a low, distinct voice--

'Gentlemen, it was not easy for Mrs. Mavor to sing for us, and you
know she sang because she is a miner's wife, and her heart is with
the miners. But she sang, too, because her heart is His who came
to earth this day so many years ago to save us all; and she would
make you love Him too. For in loving Him you are saved from all
base loves, and you know what I mean.

'And before we say good-night, men, I want to know if the time is
not come when all of you who mean to be better than you are should
join in putting from us this thing that has brought sorrow and
shame to us and to those we love? You know what I mean. Some of
you are strong; will you stand by and see weaker men robbed of the
money they save for those far away, and robbed of the manhood that
no money can buy or restore?

'Will the strong men help? Shall we all join hands in this? What
do you say? In this town we have often seen hell, and just a
moment ago we were all looking into heaven, "the sweet and blessed
country." O men!' and his voice rang in an agony through the
building--'O men! which shall be ours? For Heaven's dear sake, let
us help one another! Who will?'

I was looking out through a slit in the curtain. The men, already
wrought to intense feeling by the music, were listening with set
faces and gleaming eyes, and as at the appeal 'Who will?' Craig
raised high his hand, Shaw, Nixon, and a hundred men sprang to
their feet and held high their hands.

I have witnessed some thrilling scenes in my life, but never
anything to equal that: the one man on the platform standing at
full height, with his hand thrown up to heaven, and the hundred men
below standing straight, with arms up at full length, silent, and
almost motionless.

For a moment Craig held them so; and again his voice rang out,
louder, sterner than before--

'All who mean it, say, "By God's help I will."' And back from a
hundred throats came deep and strong the words, 'By God's help, I
will.'

At this point Mrs. Mavor, whom I had quite forgotten, put her hand
on my arm. 'Go and tell him,' she panted, 'I want them to come on
Thursday night, as they used to in the other days--go--quick,' and
she almost pushed me out. I gave Craig her message. He held up
his hand for silence.

'Mrs. Mavor wishes me to say that she will be glad to see you all,
as in the old days, on Thursday evening; and I can think of no
better place to give formal expression to our pledge of this night'

There was a shout of acceptance; and then, at some one's call, the
long pent-up feelings of the crowd found vent in three mighty
cheers for Mrs. Mavor.

'Now for our old hymn,' called out Mr. Craig, 'and Mrs. Mavor will
lead us.'

He sat down at the organ, played a few bars of 'The Sweet By and
By,' and then Mrs. Mavor began. But not a soul joined till the
refrain was reached, and then they sang as only men with their
hearts on fire can sing. But after the last refrain Mr. Craig made
a sign to Mrs. Mavor, and she sang alone, slowly and softly, and
with eyes looking far away--

'In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.'

There was no benediction--there seemed no need; and the men went
quietly out. But over and over again the voice kept singing in my
ears and in my heart, 'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.' And
after the sleigh-loads of men had gone and left the street empty,
as I stood with Craig in the radiant moonlight that made the great
mountains about come near us, from Sandy's sleigh we heard in the
distance Baptiste's French-English song; but the song that floated
down with the sound of the bells from the miners' sleigh was--

'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.'

'Poor old Shaw!' said Craig softly.

When the last sound had died away I turned to him and said--

'You have won your fight.'

'We have won our fight; I was beaten,' he replied quickly, offering
me his hand. Then, taking off his cap, and looking up beyond the
mountain-tops and the silent stars, he added softly, 'Our fight,
but His victory.'

And, thinking it all over, I could not say but perhaps he was
right.

CHAPTER IV

MRS. MAVOR'S STORY

The days that followed the Black Rock Christmas were anxious days
and weary, but not for the brightest of my life would I change them
now; for, as after the burning heat or rocking storm the dying day
lies beautiful in the tender glow of the evening, so these days
have lost their weariness and lie bathed in a misty glory. The
years that bring us many ills, and that pass so stormfully over us,
bear away with them the ugliness, the weariness, the pain that are
theirs, but the beauty, the sweetness, the rest they leave untouched,
for these are eternal. As the mountains, that near at hand stand
jagged and scarred, in the far distance repose in their soft robes
of purple haze, so the rough present fades into the past, soft and
sweet and beautiful.

I have set myself to recall the pain and anxiety of those days and
nights when we waited in fear for the turn of the fever, but I can
only think of the patience and gentleness and courage of her who
stood beside me, bearing more than half my burden. And while I can
see the face of Leslie Graeme, ghastly or flushed, and hear his low
moaning or the broken words of his delirium, I think chiefly of the
bright face bending over him, and of the cool, firm, swift-moving
hands that soothed and smoothed and rested, and the voice, like the
soft song of a bird in the twilight, that never failed to bring
peace.

Mrs. Mavor and I were much together during those days. I made my
home in Mr. Craig's shack, but most of my time was spent beside my
friend. We did not see much of Craig, for he was heart-deep with
the miners, laying plans for the making of the League the following
Thursday; and though he shared our anxiety and was ever ready to
relieve us, his thought and his talk had mostly to do with the
League.

Mrs. Mavor's evenings were given to the miners, but her afternoons
mostly to Graeme and to me, and then it was I saw another side of
her character. We would sit in her little dining-room, where the
pictures on the walls, the quaint old silver, and bits of curiously
cut glass, all spoke of other and different days, and thence we
would roam the world of literature and art. Keenly sensitive to
all the good and beautiful in these, she had her favourites among
the masters, for whom she was ready to do battle; and when her
argument, instinct with fancy and vivid imagination, failed, she
swept away all opposing opinion with the swift rush of her
enthusiasm; so that, though I felt she was beaten, I was left
without words to reply. Shakespeare and Tennyson and Burns she
loved, but not Shelley, nor Byron, nor even Wordsworth. Browning
she knew not, and therefore could not rank him with her noblest
three; but when I read to her 'A Death in the Desert,' and, came to
the noble words at the end of the tale--

'For all was as I say, and now the man
Lies as he once lay, breast to breast with God,'

the light shone in her eyes, and she said, 'Oh, that is good and
great; I shall get much out of him; I had always feared he was
impossible.' And 'Paracelsus,' too, stirred her; but when I
recited the thrilling fragment, 'Prospice,' on to that closing
rapturous cry--

'Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!'--

the red colour faded from her cheek, her breath came in a sob, and
she rose quickly and passed out without a word. Ever after,
Browning was among her gods. But when we talked of music, she,
adoring Wagner, soared upon the wings of the mighty Tannhauser, far
above, into regions unknown, leaving me to walk soberly with
Beethoven and Mendelssohn. Yet with all our free, frank talk,
there was all the while that in her gentle courtesy which kept me
from venturing into any chamber of her life whose door she did not
set freely open to me. So I vexed myself about her, and when Mr.
Craig returned the next week from the Landing where he had been for
some days, my first question was--

'Who is Mrs. Mavor? And how in the name of all that is wonderful
and unlikely does she come to be here? And why does she stay?'

He would not answer then; whether it was that his mind was full of
the coming struggle, or whether he shrank from the tale, I know
not; but that night, when we sat together beside his fire, he told
me the story, while I smoked. He was worn with his long, hard
drive, and with the burden of his work, but as he went on with his
tale, looking into the fire as he told it, he forgot all his
present weariness and lived again the scenes he painted for me.
This was his story:--

'I remember well my first sight of her, as she sprang from the
front seat of the stage to the ground, hardly touching her
husband's hand. She looked a mere girl. Let's see--five years
ago--she couldn't have been a day over twenty three. She looked
barely twenty. Her swift glance swept over the group of miners at
the hotel door, and then rested on the mountains standing in all
their autumn glory.

'I was proud of our mountains that evening. Turning to her
husband, she exclaimed: "O Lewis, are they not grand? and lovely,
too?" Every miner lost his heart then and there, but all waited
for Abe the driver to give his verdict before venturing an opinion.
Abe said nothing until he had taken a preliminary drink, and then,
calling all hands to fill up, he lifted his glass high, and said
solemnly--

'"Boys, here's to her."

'Like a flash every glass was emptied, and Abe called out, "Fill
her up again, boys! My treat!"

'He was evidently quite worked up. Then he began, with solemn
emphasis--

'"Boys, you hear me! She's a No. 1, triple X, the pure quill with
a bead on it: she's a--," and for the first time in his Black Rock
history Abe was stuck for a word. Some one suggested "angel."

'"Angel!" repeated Abe, with infinite contempt. "Angel be blowed,"
(I paraphrase here); "angels ain't in the same month with her; I'd
like to see any blanked angel swing my team around them curves
without a shiver."

'"Held the lines herself, Abe?" asked a miner.

'"That's what," said Abe; and then he went off into a fusilade of
scientific profanity, expressive of his esteem for the girl who had
swung his team round the curves; and the miners nodded to each
other, and winked their entire approval of Abe's performance, for
this was his specialty.

'Very decent fellow, Abe, but his talk wouldn't print.'

Here Craig paused, as if balancing Abe's virtues and vices.

'Well,' I urged, 'who is she?'

'Oh yes,' he said, recalling himself; 'she is an Edinburgh young
lady--met Lewis Mayor, a young Scotch-English man, in London--
wealthy, good family, and all that, but fast, and going to pieces
at home. His people, who own large shares in these mines here, as
a last resort sent him out here to reform. Curiously innocent
ideas those old country people have of the reforming properties of
this atmosphere! They send their young bloods here to reform.
Here! in this devil's camp-ground, where a man's lust is his only
law, and when, from sheer monotony, a man must betake himself to
the only excitement of the place--that offered by the saloon. Good
people in the east hold up holy hands of horror at these godless
miners; but I tell you it's asking these boys a good deal to keep
straight and clean in a place like this. I take my excitement in
fighting the devil and doing my work generally, and that gives me
enough; but these poor chaps--hard worked, homeless, with no break
or change--God help them and me!' and his voice sank low.

'Well,' I persisted, 'did Mavor reform?'

Again he roused himself. 'Reform? Not exactly. In six-months he
had broken through all restraint; and, mind you, not the miners'
fault--not a miner helped him down. It was a sight to make angels
weep when Mrs. Mavor would come to the saloon door for her husband.
Every miner would vanish; they could not look upon her shame, and
they would send Mavor forth in the charge of Billy Breen, a queer
little chap, who had belonged to the Mavors in some way in the old
country, and between them they would get him home. How she stood
it puzzles me to this day; but she never made any sign, and her
courage never failed. It was always a bright, brave, proud face
she held up to the world--except in church; there it was different.
I used to preach my sermons, I believe, mostly for her--but never
so that she could suspect--as bravely and as cheerily as I could.
And as she listened, and especially as she sang--how she used to
sing in those days!--there was no touch of pride in her face,
though the courage never died out, but appeal, appeal! I could
have cursed aloud the cause of her misery, or wept for the pity of
it. Before her baby was born he seemed to pull himself together,
for he was quite mad about her, and from the day the baby came--
talk about miracles!--from that day he never drank a drop. She
gave the baby over to him, and the baby simply absorbed him.

'He was a new man. He could not drink whisky and kiss his baby.
And the miners--it was really absurd if it were not so pathetic.
It was the first baby in Black Rock, and they used to crowd Mavor's
shop and peep into the room at the back of it--I forgot to tell you
that when he lost his position as manager he opened a hardware
shop, for his people chucked him, and he was too proud to write
home for money--just for a chance to be asked in to see the baby.
I came upon Nixon standing at the back of the shop after he had
seen the baby for the first time, sobbing hard, and to my question
he replied: "It's just like my own." You can't understand this.
But to men who have lived so long in the mountains that they have
forgotten what a baby looks like, who have had experience of
humanity only in its roughest, foulest form, this little mite,
sweet and clean, was like an angel fresh from heaven, the one link
in all that black camp that bound them to what was purest and best
in their past.

'And to see the mother and her baby handle the miners!

'Oh, it was all beautiful beyond words! I shall never forget the
shock I got one night when I found "Old Ricketts" nursing the baby.
A drunken old beast he was; but there he was sitting, sober enough,
making extraordinary faces at the baby, who was grabbing at his
nose and whiskers and cooing in blissful delight. Poor "Old
Ricketts" looked as if he had been caught stealing, and muttering
something about having to go, gazed wildly round for some place in
which to lay the baby, when in came the mother, saying in her own
sweet, frank way: "O Mr. Ricketts" (she didn't find out till
afterwards his name was Shaw), "would you mind keeping her just a
little longer?--I shall be back in a few minutes." And "Old
Ricketts" guessed he could wait.

'But in six months mother and baby, between them, transformed "Old
Ricketts" into Mr. Shaw, fire-boss of the mines. And then in the
evenings, when she would be singing her baby to sleep, the little
shop would be full of miners, listening in dead silence to the
baby-songs, and the English songs, and the Scotch songs she poured
forth without stint, for she sang more for them than for her baby.
No wonder they adored her. She was so bright, so gay, she brought
light with her when she went into the camp, into the pits--for she
went down to see the men work--or into a sick miner's shack; and
many a man, lonely and sick for home or wife, or baby or mother,
found in that back room cheer and comfort and courage, and to many
a poor broken wretch that room became, as one miner put it, "the
anteroom to heaven."'

Mr. Craig paused, and I waited. Then he went on slowly--

'For a year and a half that was the happiest home in all the world,
till one day--'

He put his face in his hands, and shuddered.

'I don't think I can ever forget the awful horror of that bright
fall afternoon, when "Old Ricketts" came breathless to me and
gasped, "Come! for the dear Lord's sake," and I rushed after him.
At the mouth of the shaft lay three men dead. One was Lewis Mavor.
He had gone down to superintend the running of a new drift; the two
men, half drunk with Slavin's whisky, set off a shot prematurely,
to their own and Mavor's destruction. They were badly burned, but
his face was untouched. A miner was sponging off the bloody froth
oozing from his lips. The others were standing about waiting for
me to speak. But I could find no word, for my heart was sick,
thinking, as they were, of the young mother and her baby waiting at

Back to Full Books

Black RockbyRalph Connor

Part 1 out of 4

Black Rock
by
Ralph Connor