The Valley of Silent Men | Page 7

life.
"I'm sorry, lad," he said. "I'm sorry."
Something rose up in Kent's throat that was not the blood he had been
wiping away since morning. His fingers returned the pressure of the
little missioner's hands. Then he pointed out through the window to the
panorama of shimmering river and green forests.
"It is hard to say good-by to all that, Father," he said. "But, if you don't
mind, I'd rather not talk about it. I'm not afraid of it. And why be
unhappy because one has only a little while to live? Looking back over

your life, does it seem so very long ago that you were a boy, a small
boy?"
"The time has gone swiftly, very swiftly."
"It seems only yesterday--or so?"
"Yes, only yesterday--or so."
Kent's face lit up with the whimsical smile that long ago had reached
the little missioner's heart. "Well, that's the way I'm looking at it, Father.
There is only a yesterday, a today, and a tomorrow in the longest of our
lives. Looking back from seventy years isn't much different from
looking back from thirty-six WHEN you're looking back and not ahead.
Do you think what I have just said will free Sandy McTrigger?"
"There is no doubt. Your statements have been accepted as a death- bed
confession."
The little missioner, instead of Kent, was betraying a bit of
nervousness.
"There are matters, my son--some few matters--which you will want
attended to. Shall we not talk about them?"
"You mean--"
"Your people, first. I remember that once you told me there was no one.
But surely there is some one somewhere."
Kent shook his head. "There is no one now. For ten years those forests
out there have been father, mother, and home to me."
"But there must be personal affairs, affairs which you would like to
entrust, perhaps, to me?"
Kent's face brightened, and for an instant a flash of humor leaped into
his eyes. "It is funny," he chuckled. "Since you remind me of it, Father,
it is quite in form to make my will. I've bought a few little pieces of

land here. Now that the railroad has almost reached us from Edmonton,
they've jumped up from the seven or eight hundred dollars I gave for
them to about ten thousand. I want you to sell the lots and use the
money in your work. Put as much of it on the Indians as you can.
They've always been good brothers to me. And I wouldn't waste much
time in getting my signature on some sort of paper to that effect."
Father Layonne's eyes shone softly. "God will bless you for that,
Jimmy," he said, using the intimate name by which he had known him.
"And I think He is going to pardon you for something else, if you have
the courage to ask Him."
"I am pardoned," replied Kent, looking out through the window. "I feel
it. I know it, Father."
In his soul the little missioner was praying. He knew that Kent's
religion was not his religion, and he did not press the service which he
would otherwise have rendered. After a moment he rose to his feet, and
it was the old Kent who looked up into his face, the clean-faced,
gray-eyed, unafraid Kent, smiling in the old way.
"I have one big favor to ask of you, Father," he said. "If I've got a day
to live, I don't want every one forcing the fact on me that I'm dying. If
I've any friends left, I want them to come in and see me, and talk, and
crack jokes. I want to smoke my pipe. I'll appreciate a box of cigars if
you'll send 'em up. Cardigan can't object now. Will you arrange these
things for me? They'll listen to you--and please shove my cot a little
nearer the window before you go."
Father Layonne performed the service in silence. Then at last the
yearning overcame him to have the soul speak out, that his God might
be more merciful, and he said: "My boy, you are sorry? You repent that
you killed John Barkley?"
"No, I'm not sorry. It had to be done. And please don't forget the cigars,
will you, Father?"
"No, I won't forget," said the little missioner, and turned away.

As the door opened and closed behind him, the flash of humor leaped
into Kent's eyes again, and he chuckled even as he wiped another of the
telltale stains of blood from his lips. He had played the game. And the
funny part about it was that no one in all the world would ever know,
except himself--and perhaps one other.
CHAPTER II
Outside Kent's window was Spring, the glorious Spring of the
Northland, and in spite of the death-grip that was tightening