The Sky Pilot: A Tale of the Foothills

by Ralph Connor

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE PILOT'S LAST PORT

  In the old times a funeral was regarded in the Swan Creek country as akind of solemn festivity. In those days, for the most part, men died intheir boots and were planted with much honor and loyal libation. Therewas often neither shroud nor coffin, and in the Far West many a poorfellow lies as he fell, wrapped in his own or his comrade's blanket.

  It was the manager of the X L Company's ranch that introduced crape.The occasion was the funeral of one of the ranch cowboys, killed by hisbronco, but when the pall-bearers and mourners appeared with bands andstreamers of crape, this was voted by the majority as "too gay." Thatcircumstance alone was sufficient to render that funeral famous, but itwas remembered, too, as having shocked the proprieties in another andmore serious manner. No one would be so narrow-minded as to object tothe custom of the return procession falling into a series of horse-racesof the wildest description, and ending up at Latour's in a generalriot. But to race with the corpse was considered bad form. The"corpse-driver," as he was called, could hardly be blamed on thisoccasion. His acknowledged place was at the head of the procession, andit was a point of honor that that place should be retained. The faultclearly lay with the driver of the X L ranch sleigh, containing themourners (an innovation, by the way), who felt aggrieved that Hi Kendal,driving the Ashley team with the pall-bearers (another innovation),should be given the place of honor next the corpse. The X L driverwanted to know what, in the name of all that was black and blue, theAshley Ranch had to do with the funeral? Whose was that corpse, anyway?Didn't it belong to the X L ranch? Hi, on the other hand, contended thatthe corpse was in charge of the pall-bearers. "It was their duty to seeit right to the grave, and if they were not on hand, how was it goin' toget there? They didn't expect it would git up and get there by itself,did they? Hi didn't want no blanked mourners foolin' round that corptill it was properly planted; after that they might git in theirwork." But the X L driver could not accept this view, and at the firstopportunity slipped past Hi and his pall-bearers and took the place nextthe sleigh that carried the coffin. It is possible that Hi might haveborne with this affront and loss of position with even mind, but thejeering remarks of the mourners as they slid past triumphantly could notbe endured, and the next moment the three teams were abreast in a raceas for dear life. The corpse-driver, having the advantage of the beatentrack, soon left the other two behind running neck and neck for secondplace, which was captured finally by Hi and maintained to the graveside, in spite of many attempts on the part of the X L's. The wholeproceeding, however, was considered quite improper, and at Latour's,that night, after full and bibulous discussion, it was agreed that thecorpse-driver fairly distributed the blame. "For his part," he said, "heknew he hadn't ought to make no corp git any such move on, but he wasn'tgoin' to see that there corp take second place at his own funeral.Not if he could help it. And as for the others, he thought that thepall-bearers had a blanked sight more to do with the plantin' than themgiddy mourners."

  But when they gathered at the Meredith ranch to carry out The Pilotto his grave it was felt that the Foothill Country was called to a newexperience. They were all there. The men from the Porcupine and frombeyond the Fort, the Police with the Inspector in command, all thefarmers for twenty miles around, and of course all the ranchers andcowboys of the Swan Creek country. There was no effort at repression.There was no need, for in the cowboys, for the first time in theirexperience, there was no heart for fun. And as they rode up and hitchedtheir horses to the fence, or drove their sleighs into the yard andtook off the bells, there was no loud-voiced salutation, no guying norchaffing, but with silent nod they took their places in the crowd aboutthe door or passed into the kitchen.

  The men from the Porcupine could not quite understand the gloomysilence. It was something unprecedented in a country where men laughedall care to scorn and saluted death with a nod. But they were quick toread signs, and with characteristic courtesy they fell in with the moodthey could not understand. There is no man living so quick to feel yourmood, and so ready to adapt himself to it, as is the true Westerner.

  This was the day of the cowboy's grief. To the rest of the communityThe Pilot was preacher; to them he was comrade and friend. They had beenslow to admit him to their confidence, but steadily he had won his placewith them, till within the last few months they had come to count him asof themselves. He had ridden the range with them; he had slept in theirshacks and cooked his meals on their tin stoves; and, besides, he wasBill's chum. That alone was enough to give him a right to all theyowned. He was theirs, and they were only beginning to take full pride inhim when he passed out from them, leaving an emptiness in their life newand unexplained. No man in that country had ever shown concern for them,nor had it occurred to them that any man could, till The Pilot came.It took them long to believe that the interest he showed in them wasgenuine and not simply professional. Then, too, from a preacher theyhad expected chiefly pity, warning, rebuke. The Pilot astonished themby giving them respect, admiration, and open-hearted affection. It wasmonths before they could get over their suspicion that he was humbuggingthem. When once they did, they gave him back without knowing it all thetrust and love of their big, generous hearts. He had made this world newto some of them, and to all had given glimpses of the next. It was nowonder that they stood in dumb groups about the house where the man, whohad done all this for them and had been all this to them lay dead.

  There was no demonstration of grief. The Duke was in command, and hisquiet, firm voice, giving directions, helped all to self-control. Thewomen who were gathered in the middle room were weeping quietly. Billwas nowhere to be seen, but near the inner door sat Gwen in her chair,with Lady Charlotte beside her, holding her hand. Her face, worn withlong suffering, was pale, but serene as the morning sky, and with not atrace of tears. As my eye caught hers, she beckoned me to her.

  "Where's Bill?" she said. "Bring him in."

  I found him at the back of the house.

  "Aren't you coming in, Bill?" I said.

  "No; I guess there's plenty without me," he said, in his slow way.

  "You'd better come in; the service is going to begin," I urged.

  "Don't seem as if I cared for to hear anythin' much. I ain't much usedto preachin', anyway," said Bill, with careful indifference, but headded to himself, "except his, of course."

  "Come in, Bill," I urged. "It will look queer, you know," but Billreplied:

  "I guess I'll not bother," adding, after a pause: "You see, there's themwimmin turnin' on the waterworks, and like as not they'd swamp me sure."

  "That's so," said Hi, who was standing near, in silent sympathy with hisfriend's grief.

  I reported to Gwen, who answered in her old imperious way, "Tell him Iwant him." I took Bill the message.

  "Why didn't you say so before?" he said, and, starting up, he passedinto the house and took up his position behind Gwen's chair. Opposite,and leaning against the door, stood The Duke, with a look of quietearnestness on his handsome face. At his side stood the Hon.Fred Ashley, and behind him the Old Timer, looking bewildered andwoe-stricken. The Pilot had filled a large place in the old man's life.The rest of the men stood about the room and filled the kitchen beyond,all quiet, solemn, sad.

  In Gwen's room, the one farthest in, lay The Pilot, stately andbeautiful under the magic touch of death. And as I stood and looked downupon the quiet face I saw why Gwen shed no tear, but carried a look ofserene triumph. She had read the face aright. The lines of wearinessthat had been growing so painfully clear the last few months weresmoothed out, the look of care was gone, and in place of weariness andcare, was the proud smile of victory and peace. He had met his foe andwas surprised to find his terror gone.

  The service was beautiful in its simplicity. The minister, The Pilot'schief, had come out from town to take charge. He was rather a littleman, but sturdy and well set. His face was burnt and seared with thesuns and frosts he had braved for years. Still in the prime of hismanhood, his h
air and beard were grizzled and his face deep-lined, forthe toils and cares of a pioneer missionary's life are neither few norlight. But out of his kindly blue eye looked the heart of a hero, andas he spoke to us we felt the prophet's touch and caught a gleam of theprophet's fire.

  "I have fought the fight," he read. The ring in his voice lifted up allour heads, and, as he pictured to us the life of that battered hero whohad written these words, I saw Bill's eyes begin to gleam and his lankfigure straighten out its lazy angles. Then he turned the leaves quicklyand read again, "Let not your heart be troubled . . . in my father'shouse are many mansions." His voice took a lower, sweeter tone; helooked over our heads, and for a few moments spoke of the eternal hope.Then he came back to us, and, looking round into the faces turned soeagerly to him, talked to us of The Pilot--how at the first he had senthim to us with fear and trembling--he was so young--but how he had cometo trust in him and to rejoice in his work, and to hope much from hislife. Now it was all over; but he felt sure his young friend had notgiven his life in vain. He paused as he looked from one to the other,till his eyes rested on Gwen's face. I was startled, as I believe hewas, too, at the smile that parted her lips, so evidently saying: "Yes,but how much better I know than you."

  "Yes," he went on, after a pause, answering her smile, "you all knowbetter than I that his work among you will not pass away with hisremoval, but endure while you live," and the smile on Gwen's face grewbrighter. "And now you must not grudge him his reward and his rest . . .and his home." And Bill, nodding his head slowly, said under his breath,"That's so."

  Then they sang that hymn of the dawning glory of Immanuel's land,--LadyCharlotte playing the organ and The Duke leading with clear, steadyvoice verse after verse. When they came to the last verse the ministermade a sign and, while they waited, he read the words:

  "I've wrestled on towards heaven 'Gainst storm, and wind, and tide."

  And so on to that last victorious cry,--

  "I hail the glory dawning In Immanuel's Land."

  For a moment it looked as if the singing could not go on, for tearswere on the minister's face and the women were beginning to sob, but TheDuke's clear, quiet voice caught up the song and steadied them all tothe end.

  After the prayer they all went in and looked at The Pilot's face andpassed out, leaving behind only those that knew him best. The Duke andthe Hon. Fred stood looking down upon the quiet face.

  "The country has lost a good man, Duke," said the Hon. Fred. The Dukebowed silently. Then Lady Charlotte came and gazed a moment.

  "Dear Pilot," she whispered, her tears falling fast. "Dear, dear Pilot!Thank God for you! You have done much for me." Then she stooped andkissed him on his cold lips and on his forehead.

  Then Gwen seemed to suddenly waken as from a dream. She turned and,looking up in a frightened way, said to Bill hurriedly:

  "I want to see him again. Carry me!"

  And Bill gathered her up in his arms and took her in. As they lookeddown upon the dead face with its look of proud peace and touched withthe stateliness of death, Gwen's fear passed away. But when The Dukemade to cover the face, Gwen drew a sharp breath and, clinging to Bill,said, with a sudden gasp:

  "Oh, Bill, I can't bear it alone. I'm afraid alone."

  She was thinking of the long, weary days of pain before her that shemust face now without The Pilot's touch and smile and voice.

  "Me, too," said Bill, thinking of the days before him. He could havesaid nothing better. Gwen looked in his face a moment, then said:

  "We'll help each other," and Bill, swallowing hard, could only nod hishead in reply. Once more they looked upon The Pilot, leaning down andlingering over him, and then Gwen said quietly:

  "Take me away, Bill," and Bill carried her into the outer room. Turningback I caught a look on The Duke's face so full of grief that I couldnot help showing my amazement. He noticed and said:

  "The best man I ever knew, Connor. He has done something for me too.. . . I'd give the world to die like that."

  Then he covered the face.

  We sat Gwen's window, Bill, with Gwen in his arms, and I watching.Down the sloping, snow-covered hill wound the procession of sleighs andhorsemen, without sound of voice or jingle of bell till, one by one,they passed out of our sight and dipped down into the canyon. But weknew every step of the winding trail and followed them in fancy throughthat fairy scene of mystic wonderland. We knew how the great elms andthe poplars and the birches clinging to the snowy sides interlaced theirbare boughs into a network of bewildering complexity, and how the cedarsand balsams and spruces stood in the bottom, their dark boughs weighteddown with heavy white mantles of snow, and how every stump and fallenlog and rotting stick was made a thing of beauty by the snow that hadfallen so gently on them in that quiet spot. And we could see the rocksof the canyon sides gleam out black from under overhanging snow-banks,and we could hear the song of the Swan in its many tones, now underan icy sheet, cooing comfortably, and then bursting out into sunlitlaughter and leaping into a foaming pool, to glide away smoothlymurmuring its delight to the white banks that curved to kiss the darkwater as it fled. And where the flowers had been, the violets and thewind-flowers and the clematis and the columbine and all the ferns andflowering shrubs, there lay the snow. Everywhere the snow, pure, white,and myriad-gemmed, but every flake a flower's shroud.

  Out where the canyon opened to the sunny, sloping prairie, there theywould lay The Pilot to sleep, within touch of the canyon he loved, withall its sleeping things. And there he lies to this time. But Spring hascome many times to the canyon since that winter day, and has called tothe sleeping flowers, summoning them forth in merry troops, and evermore and more till the canyon ripples with them. And lives are likeflowers. In dying they abide not alone, but sow themselves and bloomagain with each returning spring, and ever more and more.

  For often during the following years, as here and there I came upon oneof those that companied with us in those Foothill days, I would catch aglimpse in word and deed and look of him we called, first in jest, butafterwards with true and tender feeling we were not ashamed to own, ourSky Pilot.