the price of shame.
The missionary rose, for the moment swayed by the mood of
sacrifice. He half crawled over the barricade to proceed to the
other camp, but sank back, a trembling mass, wailing: “As the
spirit moves! As the spirit moves! Who am I that I should set
aside the judgments of God? Before the foundations of the world
were all things written in the book of life. Worm that I am,
shall I erase the page or any portion thereof? As God wills, so
shall the spirit move!”
Bill reached over, plucked him to his feet, and shook him,
fiercely, silently. Then he dropped the bundle of quivering
nerves and turned his attention to the two converts. But they
showed little fright and a cheerful alacrity in preparing for the
coming passage at arms.
Stockard, who had been talking in undertones with the Teslin
woman, now turned to the missionary.
“Fetch him over here,” he commanded of Bill.
“Now,” he ordered, when Sturges Owen had been duly deposited
before him, “make us man and wife, and be lively about it.” Then
he added apologetically to Bill: “No telling how it’s to end, so
I just thought I’d get my affairs straightened up.”
The woman obeyed the behest of her white lord. To her the
ceremony was meaningless. By her lights she was his wife, and had
been from the day they first foregathered. The converts served as
witnesses. Bill stood over the missionary, prompting him when he
stumbled. Stockard put the responses in the woman’s mouth, and
when the time came, for want of better, ringed her finger with
thumb and forefinger of his own.
“Kiss the bride!” Bill thundered, and Sturges Owen was too weak to
disobey.
“Now baptize the child!”
“Neat and tidy,” Bill commented.
“Gathering the proper outfit for a new trail,” the father
explained, taking the boy from the mother’s arms. “I was grub-
staked, once, into the Cascades, and had everything in the kit
except salt. Never shall forget it. And if the woman and the kid
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13
cross the divide to-night they might as well be prepared for pot-
luck. A long shot, Bill, between ourselves, but nothing lost if
it misses.”
A cup of water served the purpose, and the child was laid away in
a secure corner of the barricade. The men built the fire, and the
evening meal was cooked.
The sun hurried round to the north, sinking closer to the horizon.
The heavens in that quarter grew red and bloody. The shadows
lengthened, the light dimmed, and in the sombre recesses of the
forest life slowly died away. Even the wild fowl in the river
softened their raucous chatter and feigned the nightly farce of
going to bed. Only the tribesmen increased their clamor, war-
drums booming and voices raised in savage folk songs. But as the
sun dipped they ceased their tumult. The rounded hush of midnight
was complete. Stockard rose to his knees and peered over the
logs. Once the child wailed in pain and disconcerted him. The
mother bent over it, but it slept again. The silence was
interminable, profound. Then, of a sudden, the robins burst into
full-throated song. The night had passed.
A flood of dark figures boiled across the open. Arrows whistled
and bow-thongs sang. The shrill-tongued rifles answered back. A
spear, and a mighty cast, transfixed the Teslin woman as she
hovered above the child. A spent arrow, diving between the logs,
lodged in the missionary’s arm.
There was no stopping the rush. The middle distance was cumbered
with bodies, but the rest surged on, breaking against and over the
barricade like an ocean wave. Sturges Owen fled to the tent,
while the men were swept from their feet, buried beneath the human
tide. Hay Stockard alone regained the surface, flinging the
tribesmen aside like yelping curs. He had managed to seize an
axe. A dark hand grasped the child by a naked foot, and drew it
from beneath its mother. At arm’s length its puny body circled
through the air, dashing to death against the logs. Stockard
clove the man to the chin and fell to clearing space. The ring of
savage faces closed in, raining upon him spear-thrusts and bone-
barbed arrows. The sun shot up, and they swayed back and forth in
the crimson shadows. Twice, with his axe blocked by too deep a
blow, they rushed him; but each time he flung them clear. They
fell underfoot and he trampled dead and dying, the way slippery
with blood. And still the day brightened and the robins sang.
Then they drew back from him in awe, and he leaned breathless upon
his axe.
“Blood of my soul!” cried Baptiste the Red. “But thou art a man.
Deny thy god, and thou shalt yet live.”
Stockard swore his refusal, feebly but with grace.
“Behold! A woman!” Sturges Owen had been brought before the
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14
half-breed.
Beyond a scratch on the arm, he was uninjured, but his eyes roved
about him in an ecstasy of fear. The heroic figure of the
blasphemer, bristling with wounds and arrows, leaning defiantly
upon his axe, indifferent, indomitable, superb, caught his
wavering vision. And he felt a great envy of the man who could go
down serenely to the dark gates of death. Surely Christ, and not
he, Sturges Owen, had been moulded in such manner. And why not
he? He felt dimly the curse of ancestry, the feebleness of spirit
which had come down to him out of the past, and he felt an anger
at the creative force, symbolize it as he would, which had formed
him, its servant, so weakly. For even a stronger man, this anger
and the stress of circumstance were sufficient to breed apostasy,
and for Sturges Owen it was inevitable. In the fear of man’s
anger he would dare the wrath of God. He had been raised up to
serve the Lord only that he might be cast down. He had been given
faith without the strength of faith; he had been given spirit
without the power of spirit. It was unjust.
“Where now is thy god?” the half-breed demanded.
“I do not know.” He stood straight and rigid, like a child
repeating a catechism.
“Hast thou then a god at all?”
“I had.”
“And now?”
“No.”
Hay Stockard swept the blood from his eyes and laughed. The
missionary looked at him curiously, as in a dream. A feeling of
infinite distance came over him, as though of a great remove. In
that which had transpired, and which was to transpire, he had no
part. He was a spectator–at a distance, yes, at a distance. The
words of Baptiste came to him faintly:-
“Very good. See that this man go free, and that no harm befall
him. Let him depart in peace. Give him a canoe and food. Set
his face toward the Russians, that he may tell their priests of
Baptiste the Red, in whose country there is no god.”
They led him to the edge of the steep, where they paused to
witness the final tragedy. The half-breed turned to Hay Stockard.
“There is no god,” he prompted.
The man laughed in reply. One of the young men poised a war-spear
for the cast.
Tales of the Klondyke
15
“Hast thou a god?”
“Ay, the God of my fathers.”
He shifted the axe for a better grip. Baptiste the Red gave the
sign, and the spear hurtled full against his breast. Sturges Owen
saw the ivory head stand out beyond his back, saw the man sway,
laughing, and snap the shaft short as he fell upon it. Then he
went down to the river, that he might carry to the Russians the
message of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there was no god.
THE GREAT INTERROGATION
To say the least, Mrs. Sayther’s career in Dawson was meteoric.
She arrived in the spring, with dog sleds and French-Canadian
voyageurs, blazed gloriously for a brief month, and departed up
the river as soon as it was free of ice. Now womanless Dawson
never quite understood this hurried departure, and the local Four
Hundred felt aggrieved and lonely till the Nome strike was made
and old sensations gave way to new. For it had delighted in Mrs.
Sayther, and received her wide-armed. She was pretty, charming,
and, moreover, a widow. And because of this she at once had at
heel any number of Eldorado Kings, officials, and adventuring
younger sons, whose ears were yearning for the frou-frou of a
woman’s skirts.
The mining engineers revered the memory of her husband, the late
Colonel Sayther, while the syndicate and promoter representatives
spoke awesomely of his deals and manipulations; for he was known
down in the States as a great mining man, and as even a greater
one in London. Why his widow, of all women, should have come into
the country, was the great interrogation. But they were a