The Sky Pilot: A Tale of the Foothills

by Ralph Connor

  CHAPTER IV

  THE PILOT'S MEASURE

  It was Hi Kendal that announced the arrival of the missionary. I wasstanding at the door of my school, watching the children ride offhome on their ponies, when Hi came loping along on his bronco in theloose-jointed cowboy style.

  "Well," he drawled out, bringing his bronco to a dead stop in a singlebound, "he's lit."

  "Lit? Where? What?" said I, looking round for an eagle or some otherflying thing.

  "Your blanked Sky Pilot, and he's a beauty, a pretty kid--looks tootender for this climate. Better not let him out on the range." Hi wasquite disgusted, evidently.

  "What's the matter with him, Hi?"

  "Why, HE ain't no parson! I don't go much on parsons, but when I callsfor one I don't want no bantam chicken. No, sirree, horse! I don't wantno blankety-blank, pink-and-white complected nursery kid foolin' roundmy graveyard. If you're goin' to bring along a parson, why bring himwith his eye-teeth cut and his tail feathers on."

  That Hi was deeply disappointed was quite clear from the selection ofthe profanity with which he adorned this lengthy address. It wasnever the extent of his profanity, but the choice, that indicated Hi'sinterest in any subject.

  Altogether, the outlook for the missionary was not encouraging. Withthe single exception of the Muirs, who really counted for little, nobodywanted him. To most of the reckless young bloods of the Company of theNoble Seven his presence was an offence; to others simply a nuisance,while the Old Timer regarded his advent with something like dismay; andnow Hi's impression of his personal appearance was not cheering.

  My first sight of him did not reassure me. He was very slight, veryyoung, very innocent, with a face that might do for an angel, except forthe touch of humor in it, but which seemed strangely out of place amongthe rough, hard faces that were to be seen in the Swan Creek Country.It was not a weak face, however. The forehead was high and square, themouth firm, and the eyes were luminous, of some dark color--violet, ifthere is such a color in eyes--dreamy or sparkling, according tohis mood; eyes for which a woman might find use, but which, in amissionary's head, appeared to me one of those extraordinary wastes ofwhich Nature is sometimes guilty.

  He was gazing far away into space infinitely beyond the Foothills andthe blue line of the mountains behind them. He turned to me as I drewnear, with eyes alight and face glowing.

  "It is glorious," he almost panted. "You see this everyday!" Then,recalling himself, he came eagerly toward me, stretching out his hand."You are the schoolmaster, I know. Do you know, it's a great thing? Iwanted to be one, but I never could get the boys on. They always gotme telling them tales. I was awfully disappointed. I am trying the nextbest thing. You see, I won't have to keep order, but I don't think Ican preach very well. I am going to visit your school. Have you manyscholars? Do you know, I think it's splendid? I wish I could do it."

  I had intended to be somewhat stiff with him, but his evident admirationof me made me quite forget this laudable intention, and, as he talkedon without waiting for an answer, his enthusiasm, his deference to myopinion, his charm of manner, his beautiful face, his luminous eyes,made him perfectly irresistible; and before I was aware I was listeningto his plans for working his mission with eager interest. So eager wasmy interest, indeed, that before I was aware I found myself asking himto tea with me in my shack. But he declined, saying:

  "I'd like to, awfully; but do you know, I think Latour expects me."

  This consideration of Latour's feelings almost upset me.

  "You come with me," he added, and I went.

  Latour welcomed us with his grim old face wreathed in unusual smiles.The pilot had been talking to him, too.

  "I've got it, Latour!" he cried out as he entered; "here you are,"and he broke into the beautiful French-Canadian chanson, "A la ClaireFontaine," to the old half-breed's almost tearful delight.

  "Do you know," he went on, "I heard that first down the Mattawa,"and away he went into a story of an experience with French-Canadianraftsmen, mixing up his French and English in so charming a manner thatLatour; who in his younger days long ago had been a shantyman himself,hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or on his heels.

  After tea I proposed a ride out to see the sunset from the nearestrising ground. Latour, with unexampled generosity, offered his owncayuse, "Louis."

  "I can't ride well," protested The Pilot.

  "Ah! dat's good ponee, Louis," urged Latour. "He's quiet lak wan leetlemouse; he's ride lak--what you call?--wan horse-on-de-rock." Under whichpersuasion the pony was accepted.

  That evening I saw the Swan Creek country with new eyes--through theluminous eyes of The Pilot. We rode up the trail by the side of the Swantill we came to the coulee mouth, dark and full of mystery.

  "Come on," I said, "we must get to the top for the sunset."

  He looked lingeringly into the deep shadows and asked: "Anything livedown there?"

  "Coyotes and wolves and ghosts."

  "Ghosts?" he asked, delightedly. "Do you know, I was sure there were,and I'm quite sure I shall see them."

  Then we took the Porcupine trail and climbed for about two miles thegentle slope to the top of the first rising ground. There we stayed andwatched the sun take his nightly plunge into the sea of mountains, nowdimly visible. Behind us stretched the prairie, sweeping out level tothe sky and cut by the winding coulee of the Swan. Great long shadowsfrom the hills were lying upon its yellow face, and far at the distantedge the gray haze was deepening into purple. Before us lay the hills,softly curving like the shoulders of great sleeping monsters, their topsstill bright, but the separating valleys full of shadow. And there, farbeyond them, up against the sky, was the line of the mountains--blue,purple, and gold, according as the light fell upon them. The sun hadtaken his plunge, but he had left behind him his robes of saffron andgold. We stood long without a word or movement, filling our hearts withthe silence and the beauty, till the gold in the west began to grow dim.High above all the night was stretching her star-pierced, blue canopy,and drawing slowly up from the east over the prairie and over thesleeping hills the soft folds of a purple haze. The great silence of thedying day had fallen upon the world and held us fast.

  "Listen," he said, in a low tone, pointing to the hills. "Can't youhear them breathe?" And, looking at their curving shoulders, I fancied Icould see them slowly heaving as if in heavy sleep, and I was quite sureI could hear them breathe. I was under the spell of his voice and hiseyes, and nature was all living to me then.

  We rode back to the Stopping Place in silence, except for a word of minenow and then which he heeded not; and, with hardly a good night, heleft me at the door. I turned away feeling as if I had been in a strangecountry and among strange people.

  How would he do with the Swan Creek folk? Could he make them see thehills breathe? Would they feel as I felt under his voice and eyes? Whata curious mixture he was! I was doubtful about his first Sunday, and wassurprised to find all my indifference as to his success or failure gone.It was a pity about the baseball match. I would speak to some of the menabout it to-morrow.

  Hi might be disappointed in his appearance, but, as I turned into myshack and thought over my last two hours with The Pilot and how he had"got" old Latour and myself, I began to think that Hi might be mistakenin his measure of The Pilot.