Part 19 (1/2)

As Shock lay that night upon his bed of buffalo skins in the corner, listening to the weird sounds of the night without, he knew that for the present at least that haunting terror of the unknown and that disturbing sense of his own insufficiency would not trouble him. That dwelling place, quiet and secure, of the McIntyres' home in the midst of the wide waste about was to him for many a day a symbol of that other safe dwelling place for all pilgrims through earth's wilderness.

”Poor chap,” said McIntyre to his wife when they had retired for the night, ”I'm afraid he'll find it hard work, especially at The Fort. He is rather in the rough, you know.”

”He has beautiful honest eyes,” said his wife, ”and I like him.”

”Do you?”

”Yes, I do,” she replied emphatically.

”Then,” said her husband, ”in spite of all appearances he's all right.”

VIII

THE OLD PROSPECTOR

Loon Lake lay in the afternoon sunlight, s.h.i.+mmering in its glory of prismatic colours, on one side reflecting the rocks and the pines that lined the sh.o.r.e and the great peaks that stood further back, and the other lapping the gra.s.ses and reeds that edged its waters and joined it to the prairie. A gentle breeze now and then breathed across the lake, breaking into myriad fragments the gla.s.sy surface that lay like sheets of polished multi-coloured metal of gold and bronze and silver, purple and green and blue.

A young girl of about sixteen years, riding a cayuse along the lake sh.o.r.e, suddenly reined in her pony and sat gazing upon the scene.

”After all,” she said aloud, ”it is a lovely spot, and if only father could have stayed, I wouldn't mind.”

Her tone was one of discontent. Her face was not beautiful, and its plainness was increased by a kind of sullen gloom that had become its habit. After gazing across the lake for some minutes she turned her horse and cantered toward a little cl.u.s.ter of buildings of all sizes and shapes that huddled about the end of the lake and const.i.tuted Loon Lake village. As she drew near the largest of the houses, which was dignified by the name of Loon Lake Stopping Place, she came upon a group of children gathered about a little cripple of about seven or eight years of age, but so puny and poorly developed that he appeared much younger. The little lad was sobbing bitterly, shrieking oaths and striking savagely with his crutch at the children that hemmed him in.

The girl sprang off her pony.

”Oh, shame on you!” she exclaimed, rus.h.i.+ng at them. ”You bad children, to tease poor Patsy so. Be off with you. Come, Patsy, never mind them.

I am going to tell you a story.”

”He was throwin' stones at us, so he was,” said his brother, a st.u.r.dy little red-headed lad of six. ”And he hit Batcheese right on the leg, too.”

”He pu--pu--pulled down my mountain right to the ground,” sobbed Patsy, lifting a pale, tear-stained face distorted with pa.s.sion.

”Never mind, Patsy,” she said soothingly, ”I'll help you to build it up again.”

”And they all laughed at me,” continued Patsy, still sobbing stormily.

”And I'll knock their blank, blank heads off, so I will!” And Patsy lifted his crutch and shook it at them in impotent wrath.

”Hush, hush, Patsy! you must not say those awful words,” said the girl, laying her hand over his mouth and lifting him onto her knee.

”Yes, I will. And I just wish G.o.d would send them to h.e.l.l-fire!”

”Oh, Patsy, hus.h.!.+” said the girl. ”That's awful. Never, never say such a thing again.”

”I will!” cried Patsy, ”and I'll ask G.o.d to-night, and mother said He would if they didn't leave me alone.”

”But, Patsy, you must not say nor think those awful things. Come now and I'll tell you a story.”

”I don't want a story,” he sobbed. ”Sing.”