The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

by Ernest Thompson Seton

  The Sheriff read the Governor's telegram to the crowd:

  "Reprieve Michael Shay for three days."

  As they led him back to the house of death, which was to him a house of resurrection, there was the whistle of a special train followed by the clatter of a carriage approaching the gate. Whoever it was had the right of entry. Hurried footsteps were heard, and short, low words. Then the doors swung wide for—the Governor himself, John Hopkins, and Belle. White fear was on their faces till they met a warder who knew.

  "All right, sir; we got it in time."

  "Thank God!"

  "Yes, sir; two hours after the time fixed. But the minister was in the middle of his prayer and he didn't seem to finish till it came."

  The party entered the death house, and at once were ushered into the room where Shay and Jim were sitting. Jim was weak and worn looking. The warden announced, "The Governor." Jim rose, and in a moment, Belle was in his arms. "I knew you would. I knew you would. I got your message. I prayed without ceasing. I would have been at it yet."

  Mike Shay, calm until now, broke down. Tears ran from his small gray eyes, and clutching the soft hand of his deliverer, he murmured: "There ain't anything I got too good for the Hartigans. Ye—ye—ye—oh, God damn it! I can't talk about it!" and he sobbed convulsively.

  The Governor shook his hand and said: "Michael Shay, I think the danger is over so far as you are concerned; all will be well now that Squeaks is found." Shay mumbled a "thank you." "Don't thank me," replied the man of power. "You may thank the loyal friends who found the trap and found the answer and found the Governor, when almost any other man or woman would have given up."

  * * *

  CHAPTER LIX

  The Heart Hunger

  When the flood rushes over the meadow and tears the surface smoothness, it exposes the unmoved rock foundation; when the fire burns down the flimsy woodwork, it shows in double force the unchanged girders of steel. Storm and fire in double power and heat had been Jim's lot for weeks and, in less degree, for months. Now there was a breathing spell, a time to stop and look at the things beneath.

  It was a little thing that gave Belle the real key to a puzzle. It occurred one afternoon in the apartment and Belle saw it from the inner room. Jim thought he was alone; he did not know she had returned. He stood before the picture of Blazing Star, and lifting down the bunch of sage he smelt it a long time, then sighed a little and put it back. Belle saw and understood. The rock foundation was unchanged; he loved and longed for the things he had always loved, and the experiences of these months had but exposed the granite beneath. The thought that had been in her heart since the day he put the ring on her finger, rose up with appalling strength. "He gave up everything for me. I taught him that his duty lay through college and then made him give that up for me." She had been quick enough to mark the little turnings of his spirit toward the West when there were times of relaxation or unguardedness. But she had hitherto set them down to a general wish to visit former scenes rather than to a deep, persistent, fundamental craving.

  Many little things which she had noted in him came up before her now, not as accidental fragments, but as surface outcroppings of the deep, continuous, everlasting granite rock, the real longing of his nature; and the strength of its fixity appalled her. As she watched from the outer room on that epochal afternoon, she saw him kneel with his face to the western sky and pray that the way might be opened, that he yet might fulfil the vow he made to devote his life to bearing the message of the Gospel. "Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done."

  He sat long facing the glowing West which filled his window and then rose and walked into the inner room. He was greatly astonished to find Belle there, lying on the bed, apparently asleep. He sat down beside her and took her hand. She opened her eyes slowly as though awakening—gentle hypocrite.

  "I didn't know you were back," he said. She closed her eyes again as though they were heavy with sleep. It was a small fraud, but it set his mind at ease, as she meant it should.

  After a time, she roused herself and began with enthusiasm: "Oh, Jim, I have had such a clear and lovely dream. I thought we were back at Cedar Mountain, riding again in the sagebrush, with the prairie wind blowing through our very souls."

  She watched his face eagerly and saw the response she expected. It came in larger measure than she had looked for. "I felt as though I could do anything," she went on, "go anywhere or take any jump; and just as I was riding full tilt at the Yellowbank Canyon, you took me by the hand and held me back; then I awoke and you did have my hand. Isn't it queer the way dreams melt into reality?" She laughed happily and went on as if he were opposing the project: "Why not, Jim? You need a holiday; why shouldn't we go and drink a long deep draught of life in the hills and sage? I know we'll get a clearer vision of life from the top of Cedar Mountain than we can anywhere else."

  "It seems too good to be true," he slowly answered, and his voice trembled. Less than half an hour ago he had prayed for this and suddenly the way seemed plain, if not yet open.

  The winter and spring had gone, and the summer was dying. In all this time the Hartigans had carried their daily, hourly burden, without halt or change. Whatever of hardship there was, came in the form of thwarted plans, heart-cravings for things they felt they must give up. Jim made no mention of his disappointments and, so far as he could, he admitted his hunger neither to himself nor to Belle. It was merely a matter of form, applying for a month's leave; this had been agreed on from the beginning. The largest difficulty was in the fact that they must go together—the head and the second head both away at once. But there were two good understudies ready trained—Skystein and Dr. Mary Mudd—with Mr. Hopkins as chairman to balance their powers. Michael Shay too, came to offer gruffly and huskily his help: "If I can do anything, like puttin' up cash, or fixin' anybody that's workin' agin you, count on Mike." Then after a pause he added, a little wistfully: "I ain't got many real friends, but I want to have them know I'm real, and I know the real thing when I find it."

  A conference was finally held and the management of the Club was turned over to the chairman and his aides for a month. Jim and Belle were like children on leave from boarding school. They packed in wild hilarity and took the first train the schedule afforded for Cedar Mountain.

  * * *

  CHAPTER LX

  The Gateway and the Mountain

  August with its deadening heat was over; September, bright, sunny and tonic, was come to revive the world. Rank foliage was shaking off the summer dust, and a myriad noisy insects were strumming, chirping, fiddling, buzzing, screeping in the dense undergrowth. It was evening when they boarded the train for the West and took the trail that both had taken before, but never with such a background of events or such an eagerness for what was in the future. As the train roared through the fertile fields of Illinois, with their cornfields, their blackbirds and their myriads of cattle, red and white, the sun went down—a red beacon blaze, a bonfire welcome on their pathway just before the engine—a promise and a symbol.

  It was near noon the next day when they reached the junction and took, the branch line for the north. The first prairie-dog town had set Jim ablaze with schoolboy eagerness; and when a coyote stood and gazed at the train, he rushed out on to the platform to give him the hunter's yell.

  "My, how sleek he looked! I wonder how those prairie dogs feel as they see him stalk around their town, like a policeman among the South Chicago kids!"

  When a flock of prairie chickens flew before the train he called, "Look, look, Belle! See how they sail, just as they used to do!" As though the familiar sights of ten months before were forty years in the past.

  They were in the hills now, and the winding train went more slowly. Animal life was scarcer here, but the pine trees and the sombre peaks were all about. At five o'clock the train swung down the gorge with Cedar Mountain before it, and Jim cried in joy: "There's our mountain; there's our mountain!"

  There was a crowd assembled a
t the station and as soon as Jim appeared a familiar voice shouted, "Here he is!" and, led by Shives, they gave a hearty cheer. All the world of Cedar Mountain seemed there. Pa Boyd and Ma Boyd came first to claim their own. Dr. Jebb and Dr. Carson forgot their religious differences in the good fellowship of the time, and when the inner circle had kissed Belle and manhandled Jim to the limit of custom, a quiet voice said: "Welcome back, Mr. Hartigan," and Charlie Bylow grasped the Preacher's hand. "I brought my team so I could take care of your trunks." There was only one small trunk, but he took the check and would have resented any other man having hand or say in the matter.

  That evening the meal was a "welcome home," for a dozen of the nearer friends were there to hear the chapters of their hero's life. Jim was in fine feather and he told of their Chicago life as none other could have done, with jest and sly digs at himself and happy tributes to the one who had held his hand when comradeship meant the most.

  A month of freedom, with youth, sounds like years. Many plans were offered to fill the time. An invitation came from Colonel and Mrs. Waller to spend three days at Fort Ryan. In a delicately worded postscript was the sentence: "Blazing Star is well and will be glad to feel your weight again."

  "Blazing Star and Cedar Mountain!" shouted Jim as Belle read the letter the next morning at breakfast. And then, much to Pa Boyd's amusement he broke out in his lusty baritone:

  "'Tis my ain countree,

  'Tis my ain countree!'

  The fairest brightest land

  That the sun did ever see."

  Midnight and the horse that had been Belle's were waiting in the stable.

  "Now, where shall we go? Up Cedar Mountain, to Fort Ryan, or where?" asked Belle as they saddled their mounts. His answer was not what she expected. Cedar Mountain had ever been in his thought. "If only I could stand on Cedar Mountain!" had been his words so many times. And now, with Cedar Mountain close at hand, in sight, he said: "Let's ride nowhere in particular—just through the sage."

  They set off and veered away from Fort Ryan and any other place where men might cross their path. The prairie larks sang about them their lovely autumn song—the short, sweet call that sounds like: "Hear me, hear me! I am the herald announcing the King." Fluttering in the air and floating for a moment above the riders they carolled a wild and glorious serenade that has no possible rendition into human notation. After a hard gallop they rode in silence side by side, hand in hand, while Jim gazed across the plain or watched the fat, fumbling prairie dogs. But ever he turned his face and heart away from Cedar Mountain.

  At first it had been to him but a mighty pile of rocks; then it had grown to be a spot beloved for its sacred memories. It had become a symbol of his highest hopes—the blessed things he held too good for words. He was riding now in the lust of youthful force; he was dwelling not in the past; or the hopeful far-ahead; he was in the living now, and, high or low, his instinct bade him drink the cup that came.

  As the sun went down, he drew rein and paused with Belle to gaze at the golden fringe that the cedars made on the mountain's edge in the glow. He knew it and loved it in every light—best of all, perhaps, in its morning mist, when the plains were yet gray and the rosy dawn was touching its gleaming sides. He was content as yet to look on it from afar. He would seek its pinnacle as he had done before, but something within him said: "No; not yet."

  And the wise young person at his side kept silence; a little puzzled but content, and waiting, wisely waiting.

  * * *

  CHAPTER LXI

  Clear Vision on the Mountain

  Kind friends and hearty greetings awaited the Hartigans at the Fort. Colonel Waller, Mrs. Waller, and the staff received them as long-lost son and daughter; and with the least delay by decency allowed they went to the stable to see Blazing Star, still Fort Ryan's pride. The whinnied welcome and the soft-lipped fumbling after sugar were the outward tokens of his gladness at the meeting.

  "He's the same as ever, Jim," said the Colonel, "but we didn't race last summer. Red Cloud came as usual, but asked for a handicap of six hundred yards, which meant that they had not got a speeder they could trust. We had trouble, too, with the Indian Bureau over the whole thing, so the affair was called off. As far as we know now, Blazing Star is the racer of the Plains, with Red Rover making a good second. He's in his prime yet; he could still walk a stringer on a black night, and while you are here at the Fort he's yours as much as you want to use him."

  Jim's cup was filled to overflowing.

  Their midday meal over, a ride was in order; first around the Fort among the men—Captain Wayne, Osier Mike, Scout Al Rennie—then out over the sagebrush flat. "Here's the old battle ground of the horses; here's where you chased the coyote, and here's where Blazing Star took you over the single stringer bridge on that black night." It was less than a year he had been away, and yet Jim felt like one who was coming back to the scenes of his boyhood, long gone by. His real boyhood in far-away Links was of another world. Fightin' Bill Kenna, Whiskey Mason, the Rev. Obadiah Champ, the stable and the sawmills, his mother—they were dreams; even Chicago was less real than this; and he rode like a schoolboy and yelled whenever a jack rabbit jumped ahead of his horse and jerked its white tail in quick zigzags, exactly as its kind had done in the days when he lived in the saddle.

  After dinner, by the log fire in the Colonel's dining room, Mrs. Waller raised the question of their plans. "Now, children" (she loved to be maternal), "what do you want to do to-morrow?"

  There was a time when Belle would have spoken first, but there had been a subtle, yet very real, change in their relationship. Jim was a child three years before, dependent almost entirely on her; now she was less his leader than she had been. She waited.

  Gazing at the fire, his long legs straight out and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped behind his head, he lounged luxuriously in a great arm chair. Without turning his gaze from the burning logs he began:

  "If I could do exactly what I wished——"

  "Which you may," interjected Mrs. Waller.

  "I'd saddle Blazing Star and Red Rover at seven o'clock in the morning and ride with Belle and not come back till noon."

  "Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Waller and the Colonel. "You children! You two little, little ones! Well, we must remember that Belle is still a bride and will be for another month, so we'll bid you Godspeed on the new wedding trip and have your breakfast ready at half past six."

  Early hours are the rule in a fort at the front, so the young folk were not alone at breakfast. And when they rode away on their two splendid horses, many eyes followed with delight the noble beauty of the pair—so fitly mounted, so gladly young and strong.

  "Now, where, Jim?" said Belle, as they left the gate and thundered over the bridge at a mettlesome lope. And as she asked, she remembered that that was the very question he used always to put to her.

  "Belle" (he reined in Blazing Star), "I have been waiting till it seemed just right—waiting for the very time, so we could stand again at our shrine. Sometimes I think I know my way and the trail I ought to seek, and sometimes I am filled with doubt; but I know I shall have the clear vision if we stand again as we used to stand, above our world, beside the Spirit Rock, on the high peak of our mountain."

  And then, in the soft sign language of the rein let loose, the ribs knee-nudged, they bade their horses go. Side by side they rode and swung like newly mated honkers in the spring—like two centaurs, feeling in themselves the power, the blood rush of their every bound. In less than half an hour they passed the little town and were at the foot of Cedar Mountain. The horses would have gone up at speed, but the riders held them in, and the winding trail was slowly followed up.

  The mountain jays flew round the pines before them as they climbed; an eagle swung in circles, watching keenly; while, close at hand, the squirrels dropped their cones to spring behind the trunks and chatter challenge.

  At the half-way ledge they halted for a breathing. Belle looked keenly, gently into Ji
m's eyes. She was not sure what she saw. She wondered what his thoughts were. The brightness of the morning, the joy of riding and being, the fullness of freedom—these were in glowing reflex on his face, but she had seen these before; yet never before had she seen his face so tense and radiant. Only once, perhaps, that time when he came home walking in the storm.

  He smiled back at her, but said nothing. They rode again and in ten minutes came to the end of the horse trail. He leaped from the saddle, lifted her down, and tied the horses. With his strong hand under her arm, he made it easy for her to climb the last steep path. A hundred feet above, they reached the top, above the final trees, above the nearer peaks, above all other things about them except the tall, gray Spirit Rock. Below spread a great golden world; behind them a world of green. The little wooden town seemed at the mountain's foot—Fort Ryan almost in shouting hail, though it was six miles off; beyond, was the open sea of sage, with heaving hills for billows and greasewood streaks for foam.

  Jim gazed in utter silence so long that she looked a little shyly at him. His face was radiant, his eye was glistening, but he spoke no words. The seat they had used a year before was there and he gently drew her toward it. Seated there as of old, he put his arm about her and held her to him. She whispered, "Make a fire." She had indeed interpreted his thought. He rose, lighted a little fire on the altar at the foot of the Spirit Rock, and the smoke rose up straight in the still air. It ascended from the earth mystery of the fire to be lost in the mystery of the above. How truly has it been the symbol of prayer since first man kindled fire and prayed.

  Jim took his Bible from his pocket and read from the metrical Psalm CXXI:

  I to the hills will lift mine eyes,