Part 23 (1/2)

Ill luck for Viking in the hour of her success. Phil's shattered hulk is drifting. The masts have gone by the board, the pilot from the captain's side. Only the man's ”unconquerable soul” is on the bridge, watching the craft dip at the bow till the waters, their sport out, should hugely swallow it.

We were all gathered round. Phil had asked to see the lad who, by neglecting the machinery for a moment, had wrecked his life. ”My boy,”

he said, ”you played an ugly game. It was a big mistake. I haven't any grudge agen you, but be glad I'm not one that'd haunt you for your cussed foolishness.... There, now, I feel better; that's off my mind!”

”If you're wanting to show remorse or anything,” he continued, ”there's my friend, Mr. Roscoe, The Padre--he's all right, you understand!--Are you there?... Why don't you speak?” He stretched out his hand. The lad took it, but he could not speak: he held it and sobbed.

Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a sudden trouble. He said: ”There, never mind. I'm dying, but it isn't what I expected. It doesn't smart nor tear much; not more than river-rheumatism. P'r'aps I wouldn't mind it at all if I could see.”

For Phil was entirely blind now. The accident had destroyed his remaining eye. Being blind, he had already pa.s.sed that first corridor of death--darkness. Roscoe stooped over him, took his hand, and spoke quietly to him. Phil knew the voice, and said with a faint smile: ”Do you think they'd plant me with munic.i.p.al honours--honours to pardners?”

”We'll see to that, Phil,” said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman.

Phil recognised the voice. ”You think that n.o.body'll kick at making it official?”

”Not one, Phil.”

”And maybe they wouldn't mind firin' a volley--Lights out, as it were: and blow the big whistle? It'd look sociable, wouldn't it?”

”There'll be a volley and the whistle, Phil--if you have to go,” said Mr. Devlin.

There was a silence, then the reply came musingly: ”I guess I hev to go.

... I'd hev liked to see the corporation runnin' longer, but maybe I can trust the boys.”

A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice: ”By the holy! yes, you can trust us.”

”Thank you kindly.... If it doesn't make any difference to the rest, I'd like to be alone with The Padre for a little--not for religion, you understand, for I go as I stayed, and I hev my views,--but for private business.”

Slowly, awkwardly, the few river-drivers pa.s.sed out--Devlin and Mrs.

Falchion and Ruth and I with them--for I could do nothing now for him--he was broken all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened then.

”Padre,” he said to Roscoe, ”are we alone?”

”Quite alone, Phil.”

”Well, I hevn't any crime to tell, and the business isn't weighty; but I hev a pal at Danger Mountain--” He paused.

”Yes, Phil?”

”He's low down in s'ciety; but he's square, and we've had the same blanket for many a day together. I crossed him first on the Panama level. I was broke--stony broke. He'd been s.h.i.+pwrecked, and was ditto.

He'd been in the South Seas; I in Nicaragua. We travelled up through Mexico and Arizona, and then through California to the Canadian Rockies.

At last we camped at Danger Mountain, a Hudson's Bay fort, and stayed there. It was a roughish spot, but we didn't mind that. Every place isn't Viking. One night we had a difference--not a quarrel, mind you, but a difference. He was for lynchin' a fellow called Piccadilly, a swell that'd come down in the world, bringin' the worst tricks of his tribe with him. He'd never been a bony fidy gentleman--just an imitation. He played sneak with the daughter of Five Fingers, an Injin chief. We'd set store by that girl. There wasn't one of us rough nuts but respected her. She was one of the few beautiful Injin women I've seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly had ruined her, and one morning she was found dead. It drove my pal well-nigh crazy. Not that she was anything partik'ler to him; but the thing took hold of him unusual.”

Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I can imagine that this recital must have been swords at his heart. The whole occurrence is put down minutely in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it.

Phil had been obliged to stop for pain, and, after Roscoe had adjusted the bandages, he continued:

”My pal and the others made up their minds they'd lynch Piccadilly; they wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt--for it wasn't certain that the girl hadn't killed herself.... Well, I went to Piccadilly, and give him the benefit. He left, and skipped the rope. Not, p'r'aps, that he ought to hev got away, but once he'd showed me a letter from his mother,--he was drunk too, at the time,--and I remembered when my brother Rodney was killed in the Black Hills, and how my mother took it; so I give him the tip to travel quick.”