Tales of the Klondyke | Page 8

they get ugly."
"No," Stockard answered. "I gave him my word that he could speak
with us unmolested. Rules of warfare, Bill; rules of warfare. He's been
on the square, given us warning, and all that, and--why, damn it, man, I
can't break my word!"
"He'll keep his, never fear."
"Don't doubt it, but I won't let a half-breed outdo me in fair dealing.
Why not do what he wants,--give him the missionary and be done with
it?"
"N-no," Bill hesitated doubtfully.
"Shoe pinches, eh?"
Bill flushed a little and dropped the discussion. Baptiste the Red was
still waiting the final decision. Stockard went up to him.
"It's this way, Baptiste. I came to your village minded to go up the
Koyukuk. I intended no wrong. My heart was clean of evil. It is still
clean. Along comes this priest, as you call him. I didn't bring him here.
He'd have come whether I was here or not. But now that he is here,
being of my people, I've got to stand by him. And I'm going to. Further,
it will be no child's play. When you have done, your village will be
silent and empty, your people wasted as after a famine. True, we will

he gone; likewise the pick of your fighting men--"
"But those who remain shall be in peace, nor shall the word of strange
gods and the tongues of strange priests be buzzing in their ears."
Both men shrugged their shoulder and turned away, the half-breed
going back to his own camp. The missionary called his two men to him,
and they fell into prayer. Stockard and Bill attacked the few standing
pines with their axes, felling them into convenient breastworks. The
child had fallen asleep, so the woman placed it on a heap of furs and
lent a hand in fortifying the camp. Three sides were thus defended, the
steep declivity at the rear precluding attack from that direction. When
these arrangements had been completed, the two men stalked into the
open, clearing away, here and there, the scattered underbrush. From the
opposing camp came the booming of war-drums and the voices of the
priests stirring the people to anger.
"Worst of it is they'll come in rushes," Bill complained as they walked
back with shouldered axes.
"And wait till midnight, when the light gets dim for shooting."
"Can't start the ball a-rolling too early, then." Bill exchanged the axe
for a rifle, and took a careful rest. One of the medicine-men, towering
above his tribesmen, stood out distinctly. Bill drew a bead on him.
"All ready?" he asked.
Stockard opened the ammunition box, placed the woman where she
could reload in safety, and gave the word. The medicine-man dropped.
For a moment there was silence, then a wild howl went up and a flight
of bone arrows fell short.
"I'd like to take a look at the beggar," Bill remarked, throwing a fresh
shell into place. "I'll swear I drilled him clean between the eyes."
"Didn't work." Stockard shook his head gloomily. Baptiste had
evidently quelled the more warlike of his followers, and instead of
precipitating an attack in the bright light of day, the shot had caused a
hasty exodus, the Indians drawing out of the village beyond the zone of
fire.
In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the hand of
God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp of the
unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but in the
waiting which ensued, the fever of conviction died away gradually, as
the natural man asserted itself. Physical fear replaced spiritual hope; the

love of life, the love of God. It was no new experience. He could feel
his weakness coming on, and knew it of old time. He had struggled
against it and been overcome by it before. He remembered when the
other men had driven their paddles like mad in the van of a roaring
ice-flood, how, at the critical moment, in a panic of worldly terror, he
had dropped his paddle and besought wildly with his God for pity. And
there were other times. The recollection was not pleasant. It brought
shame to him that his spirit should be so weak and his flesh so strong.
But the love of life! the love of life! He could not strip it from him.
Because of it had his dim ancestors perpetuated their line; because of it
was he destined to perpetuate his. His courage, if courage it might be
called, was bred of fanaticism. The courage of Stockard and Bill was
the adherence to deep-rooted ideals. Not that the love of life was less,
but the love of race tradition more; not that they were unafraid to die,
but that they were brave enough not