Part 14 (1/2)
How refined must be the nature of the occupant of such a spot! How attuned his life to nature's moods! Alas! How long will the place be unspoiled by man? How long before the aggressive enterprise of the commercial spirit of the age will send its locomotive to insult the clouds with its nether smoke and the disturbing sounds of hurrying traffic?
The early summer had pa.s.sed, the days had begun their downward course, and the nights were colder. A traveller who had come to the Rockies in search of better air and health had wandered many miles from the village where he had taken up quarters for the season. The many and beautiful flowers which grow in rich profusion among the foot-hills had attracted his steps and robbed his limbs of all sense of fatigue. He was all unconscious of the distance he had walked or how far he was from the village. He was drinking in health with every breath of the pure mountain air, beauty with every bud or blossom he gathered, and such things as supper or bed were of a secondary nature to him at the moment.
As he stooped to pick yet another flower more perfect than the last, he was accosted with the words, ”Good-day, Stranger!” spoken in a soft minor key. Turning, he saw an old grey-haired man. There were lines of care and thought in the face, yet not such as have been furrowed deep by rebellion against the discipline of life. His dress was that of an old-timer of the mountains, its buckskin in picturesque harmony with the surroundings.
The traveller having responded courteously to the greeting, the two men were soon deep in a pleasant conversation.
”This is a delightful country; the air is so pure and the scenery grand,” said the stranger, by way of preface.
”Yes; a man must get a long way off nowadays to think and breathe,” was the unexpected reply.
”Do you live in this part of the country?”
”Yes, I hev' a shanty in the hills, an' if ye'd care to look in I'll give ye a welcome. We're a bit rough in these parts, for we don't see strangers often, an' we're willin' to just live in our own way an' be content,” and turning the old man led the way up the winding path in the hills.
Each bend and higher level reached revealed fresh beauty to the eye of the stranger, and when their steps crossed a wimpling, bubbling mountain stream to the shanty he had seen from the distance, words failed him to express his appreciation of the beauty of the spot.
”Lovely!” Far away the forest-crowned mountain tops pierced the clouds and hid from sight the snows and glaciered sides. Bright rivers wound about the foot-hills or plunged into the great canyons and were lost to sight. The stranger stood entranced, as if caught in some vision beyond his power to grasp the meaning of, and the mountaineer, knowing well the feeling, waited silent by his side.
Later, when seated before the door of the shanty they watched the sun go down, a sight to be remembered for all time, the hearts of the two men were one in praise to the Great Creator of the universe, the Master-mind who had so clothed the land with beauty and given to the mind of man the capacity to enjoy it.
Old Glad's quaintly proffered hospitality was willingly and gratefully accepted, and after his guest had been refreshed by a nicely cooked supper, their talk turned to the past in the old mountaineer's life.
The story-telling days of camp and prairie were once more revived.
”Have you always lived up here in the mountains?”
”No, but I hev bin here most of my life. Ye see there's not much to annoy ye here, an' I don't keer fur all yer noise in the towns.
There's nothin' like the prairie an' the mountains fur a man to get a livin' in an' be happy.”
”And have you always found the happiness you wished for in these places?” asked the stranger with interest. ”Happiness is what I have ever been in quest of, and I must confess I have failed to find what I desired.”
”Wall, I've got along pretty well. Of course I've had my hard times like other folk an' been down to bed-rock many a time.”
”Have you all your children with you?”
”No. I've lost some, like my neighbors. It's not so very long since we buried Nan, and then my Bill went like all the rest.” And the old man sighed as he paused for a moment. The stranger waited until he spoke again.
”Yes, Bill was a brave lad. He was born in the Indian camp when I wus workin' fur the Company, away in the north. The little fellow ran among the lodges, an' it wusn't long till he could talk Cree, an'
Blackfoot, an' Sioux, an' French. He wus a good rider an' a fine hand at the gun. I tell ye I wus proud o' him when he wus a little fellow.
The Indians an' half-breeds wus afeard o' him, 'cause, ye see, he could ride an' shoot better'n them, an' he wus a fine talker in the Indian camps. I min' once when he wus a little fellow runnin' around the Fort an' up to all kinds o' tricks, that he went off with Long Tom the half-breed, without lettin' me know.
”Tom wus a good shot, but a reckless fellow, an' if ye didn't look out he wus sure to get himself an' his friends into trouble. After he had gone some o' my comrades come an' told me, an' I wusn't well pleased, but I thought it 'ud turn out all right, so I said nothin', an' waited fur him to get back.
”Wall, ten days went by an' I wus gettin' kind o' anxious, an' I made up my mind if he didn't get back in a couple o' days I'd go off an'
look fur him.
”Late that night as I wus sittin' by the fire he come in. The wee fellow had his head tied up with a bit o' blanket, an' one o' his arms in a sling. His moccasins wur worn off his feet an' he couldn't speak.
He looked in my face an' kin' o' staggered an' fell down on the floor.