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Home My WebLink AboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-06-22, Page 7June 22th, 1916f THE WINGHAM TIMES jr, the HONOR of THE BIG SNOWS By JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Copyright 1911 by the Bobbs-Merrill Co. S'�5r5 re n 'He clutched his hand for an instant to the empty pocket where the papers bad been. That night, leaving Thornton still at supper in the little old Windsor hotel, Jan slipped away and, with Kazan at bis heels, crossed the frozen Saskatch- ewan to the spruce forest on the north shore. He wanted to be alone to think, t6 fight with himself against a desire which was almost overpowering him. Once, long ago, he bad laid his soul bare to Jean de Gravels, and Jean had -given him comfort. Tonight he longed •to go to Thornton as he had gone to .Jean and to tell him the same story •and what had passed that day in the office of the subcommissioner. In his heart there bad grown something for Thornton that was stronger than friend- -ship—something that would have made him fight for him and die for him as he would bave fought and died for Jean de Gravols. It was a feeling ce- dnented by a belief that something was :troubling Thornton; that he, too, was 'filled with a loneliness and a grief • which he was trying to conceal. And yet he fought to restrain himself from confiding in his new friend. It would do no good, he knew, except by reliev- ing him of a part of his mental burden. A week—it might be ten days, the -subcommissioner had told him—and it would be over, Lights were out, and people were in bed when he and Kazan returned to the hotel, but Thornton was up, sitting by himself in the gloom, as Jan had first seen him at Le Pas. Jan -sat down beside him. There was an uneasy tremor in Thornton's voice when he said: "Jan, did you ever love a woman— love her until you were ready and will- ing to die for her?" The suddenness of the question wrung the truth from Jan's lips in n low, chok- ing voice. For an instant he thought that Thornton must have guessed his secret. "Yes, m'sleur." Thornton leaned toward him, grip- -ping his knees, and the misery in lila face was deeper than Jan had ever seen it before. "I love a woman—like that," be went • on tensely. "A girl—not a woman, and •she is one of your people, Jan—of the north. as innocent as a flower, more beautiful to me than—than nil the wo- .men 1 bave ever seen before. She 1s at Oxford House. I am going home td —to save myself." "Save yourself1" cried she not love you?" "She would follow the earth!" "Then"— 'Thornton straightened himself and wiped his pale face. Suddenly he rose to his feet and motioned for Jan to fol. low him. Ile walked swiftly out into the night and still faster after that um til they passed beyond tbe•town. ,From where he stopped they could look over the forests far into the pale light of :the south. "That's hell for mel" said Thornton, pointing., "It's what we call civiliza- tion—but it's mostly hell! 1 wish to God 1 could stay here—always!" "You love her," breathed Jan. "You can stay." "I can't," groaned Thornton. "I can't .—unless"— "What, m'sleur?" "Unless I lose everything—but her." Jail's fingers trembled as they sought - Ekornton's hand. "And everything is—is—nothing when You give it for love and happiness," he .urged: "Tho great Gori; I knotY"— "Dverytbing," cried Thornton. "Don't %you understand? I said everyth1ngVV He turned almost fiercely -Upon hilt •eompatil8u. "I'd gide np iny, name-. for her. I'd bitty myself back there In the. forests .find ,never go out of thenii-..-1 Jan. "Doer me to the end of forher. Te. give up dortune'frien89, lose myself forever—for her. But I can't. Good God, don't you under. stand?" Jan stared. His eyes grew large and dark. "I've spent ten years of worse than hell down there with a woman,", went on Thornton. "It happens among us frequently, this sort of hell. I came up here to get out of it for a time. You know now. There is a womatt down there who—who is my wife. She would be glad if I never returned. She is happy now when-! am away, and I have been happy for a time. I know what love is. I have felt it, have lived it. God forgive me, but 1 am almost tempted to go back to heel' He stopped at the change which had come In Jan, who stood as ,straight and as still as the blank spruce be. hind them, with only his eyes show- ing that there was life in him. Those eyes held Thornton's. They burned upon him through the gray gloom ae he had never seen human eyes burn before. He waited, half startled, and Jan spoke. In his voice there wag nothing of that which Thornton saW, in his eyes. It was low and soft, and, though it had that which rang like steel,. Thorn•' ton could not have understood or fear. ed It more. "M'sleur, how far have you gone -s with her?" Thornton understood and advanced with his hands reaching out to Jan. "Only as far as one might go with the purest thing on earth," he said. "1 have sinned in loving her and in let- ting her love me, but that Is all, Jan Thoreau. I swear that is al!!" "And you are going back into the south?" "Yes, I am going back into the south." The next day Thornton did not go. He made no sign of going on the sec and day. So it was with the third, the fourth and the fifth. On each of these days Jan went once, in the after- noon, to the office of the subcommis- stoner, and Thornton always accempa. nied him. At times when Jan was not lookin: here was a hungry light in his eyes as he followed the other's move- ments, and once or twice Jan caught what was left of this look when he turned unexpectedly. He knew what was in Thornton's mind, and he pitied him, grieved with him in his own heart until his own secret almost wrung It. self from his lips. The ninth day was the last day for Jan Thoreau. In a dazed sort of way he listened as the subcommissioner told him that the work was ended. They shook hands. It was dark when Jun came out from the company's of- fices, dark with a pale gloom through which the stars were beginning to gihw —with .a ghostly gloom, lightened still more in the north with the rising. tires 'of the arorthern lights. Alone Jan stood' for a few moments close down. to the river. Across from him was the for- est, silent, black, reaching to the end of the earth, and over, it, like a signal light, beckoning him back to his world, the aurora sent out its shafts' of red and gold. And as he listened there came to him faintly a distant wailing sound that he knew was the voice from that world, and at the sound the hair rose along Katan's spine, and he whined deep down in his throat Jan's breath grew quicker, his blood warmer. Over there across theriver-itis world was calling to him, and lie, Jan Tho- reau; was now free togo. This very night be wouldburY • mseltin the for- est again and when he 'lay down to sleep ft would be with his beloved stays above him, and the winds whispering sympathy and. brotherhood, to trim in the spruce tops, He would go—not7. He would say goodby to Thornton and go. He found himself running, and Ka- zan ran beside hhii- He was breath less when he came to the one lighted 'Heart Palpitated down In one across from hie.' "I am going back to her," he repeats ed. "No one will ever know." 110 could not account for the look in Jan's eyes nor for the nervous twitch- ing of the lithe brown hands that reached half across the table. Thorn- ton would never know that Jan's fix. Would Have to Sit Up In Bed. FELT AS IF SMOTHERING. Mrs. Francis Madore, Alma, P.B.I., writes: "My heart was in such a bad condition I Could tintStand any excite- ment, and at times when I would be talking my heart would palpitate so that I would feel like falling. At night, when I would go to bed and be lying down for a while, Lwould•bave•to situp for ten or fifteen minutes, as I would feel; as though I waS smothering. I read in the daily paper of a lady wl o hadbecn in the same condition as I was, and was cured by Milburns Heart and Nerve Pills, using r bought a,Ittrit', rind they . did me so much good, my husband got another, and before 1 had,used half of the second box I Wee completely c'uff'ed' I feel as though I tan'beVer say etotigh in f f your heart and Nerve Pills. 9 street of the town. He hurried to the hotel and found Thornton sitting where he had left him. "It Is ended, in'eleur," he cried in a low Voice. "It is over and I am going. I am going tonight" Thornton rose. "Tonight," he re- peated. "Yes, tonight—now, 1 am going to pick up my things. Will you come?" He went ahead of Thornton to the bare little room In which he had slept while at the hotel. He did not notice• the change in Thornton until he had lighted a lamp. Thbrnton was look- ing at, him doggedly. There,tiA$ an unpleasant look in his face - "And 1.4 to ani going tonight," he .1111d. "Inbo the south, m'sleur?" 11_I!11'oi into the north." There rias a Illsteenees in Thornton's emphasis: Ho "I've broken loose," he went on. 09'm not going south, bank to that hell of mine." gers twitched for an instant in their old mad desire to leap at a human throat. "'You will quietly. •"Yes, I will," replied Thornton. "I have made up my mind. Nothing can stop me but death." "I will stop you," said Jan, rising also, "and I am not death." He went to Thornton and placed his two hands. upon bus .shoulders, and in his eyes there glowed now that gentle light which had made Thornton love him as he had loved no other man on earth. "M'sleur, 1 will stop you," he said again, speaking as though to a brotber. "Sit down. I am going to tell you something, and when I have told you this you will take my band, and you will say, 'Jan Thoreau, I thank the great God that something like this has happened before and that it has come to my ears iu time to save the one I cove.' Sit down, m'sleur." not do that," he said ss CHAPTER XV. Jan's Story. 'SIEUR," began Jan in the 1gw voice which Thornton tVas beginning to under- stand, "I am going • to .tell you something which 1 have told to but two other human beings. It Is the story of another man—a man from clvilizat1on, like you, who came up Into this country of ours years and years ago and who met a woman, as /on _ have met this .girl at Oxford House, and who loved her as you love this one and perhaps more. It is sin- gular that the case should be so simi- lar, m'sleur, and It is because of this that 1' believe our Blessed Lady gives me courage to tell it to you, for this man, lite you, left a wife end two ellildren when he carie into the north. Welker, 1 pray the great God to for - ere him, for ,be left a third child— unborn." Jan leaned upon his hand so that it Shaded bis face. "It 1s not so' much' of that 'Se of "that followed that I am going to tell Iron. f i'alenr," he Vent on. "It was it beautiful love on the woman's part, and 1t would have been a beautiful love on the Matte's part if It had been pare. For her be gave up everything, oven hip God. as yotl would give up eyettytliing and yoht God for this girl at Axford .Bonne. Ill'steur. I will Speak lnoltly of the woman now. She was beautiful. She, was one of the three most beautiful tinge that God ever placed in our world, and she roved this mast She Married him, be- tietad' 1n him;' wee reedy to die for hitch, to follow hint to the ends bf the earth, as our women Mill do for the stip they lora Gott' fir heaven! Can 1alI notguese what happened, m'sleur? A cbtld was borax' !lo fiercely d1d Js cry brit the stpod,Apposlte Jan, leaning over the ta- words that Thornton jerked back as `'Ns , e it - which the light was "laced, thogt;h a "blow lied been struck at hiss "1't i brotten loose." he went on. .;"I'la • l lista out of the gloom. repeated Jan. atone o ` 1 ' Oink i doth, back • to that be111 01 A child was born. pe Milburn's Heart aced ,Net ee Pills are edge. 1'is iniyor . I iuth again. sod '1'b irnten bee Its naMls, d*gglnt the dead down there --dead for time. In the tibia:, : tat Was 110 drat Composed of the ver}' best heart and, nerve tonics and stimulants known to : 'u never kear of Inca They hire, of1144,64 Arlin t 1rrlon, beasts ttiedieal science, and are for sale at all 1.flntdlbir;::►1ns• I'm bf earr$ols, that i Whit w11" call them— dealers, or writ be imited Toronto,rs The n north. I'm going to live with beasts of carrion' and cirrtoii gates. T. Milburn Co., Limited, Ont. yo wpb and God and herr breeders of devils and slut My God* Prtcc, :,J guts per box, GI 3 boxc.a f.: .. Jan sanll.into,a chair. LEkornton eat That In what haprened,,..A- cbtM-.was BURDOCK BLOOD BITTERS CURED DYSPEPSIA. Unless the stomach is kept in good shape your food will not digest properly but will cause a rising and souring of food, a feeling of rawness in the stomach, pains in the stomach or a feeling as if a heavy weight were lying there. Burdock Blood Bitters cannot be surpassed as a cure for dyspepsia and all its allied troubles. Mr. James R. Burns, Balmoral, N,S., writes: "About two years ago I was badly troubled with dyspepsia, and could not get any relief. I tried most everything, not even the doctors seeming to do me any good. One clay a friend told me to try Burdock Blood Bitters, as he had seen it advertised. I did so, time the first bottle was gone I felt better, and after taking three bottles I was com- pletely cured. I. highly recommend it to all sufferers from dyspepsia." 11.B.B. is manufactured only by The T. Milburn Co., Limited, Toronto, Ont, eons-wanUig c, i Citi God`Mai " Jan stopped, his nails digging deep- er. his breath escaping from him as though he had been running. "Down In your world tie would nave t17at be- midi kfl?etf hi mother," TTlet was a terrible calmness now In Jan's voice, "M'sieur, it was tree. She wasted away like a flower after that night. She died and left the boy alone with the curse. And that boy. m'sleur, was Jan Thoreau, The woman was his motber," There was silence now, a dead, pulse- less quiet, broken after a moment by a movement. It was Thornton, grog• ing across the table. Jan felt his bands touch his arm. They groped farther in the darkness, until Jan Thoreau's hands were clasped tightly in Thornton's. "And that—is all?" be questioned hoarsely. "No, it is but the beginning," said Jan softly. "The curse has followed me, m'sleur, until I am the unhappiest man in the world. Today I have done all that is to be done. When my fa- ther died he left papers which my mother was to give to me when I bad attained manhood. When she died they came to me. She knew nothing of that which was in them, and I am glad, for they told the story that I have told to you,sleur, and from his grave my father, rayed to me to make what restitution I could. When he came int" the north for good be brought with him most of his fortune, which was large. m'sieur, and placed it where no one would ever find it—in the stock of the great company. A half of it, be said, should be mine. The other half be asked me to return to his children and to his real wife if she were living. I have done more than that, m'sleur. I have given up all, for none of it is mine. A half will go to the two children whom he de- serted. The other half will go to the child that was unborn. The mother- 1s—dead." After a time Thornton said: "There is more, Jan?" "Yes, there is more, m'sleur," said Jan. "So much • more that if I were to tell It to you it would not be hard for yon to understand why Jan Tbo- reati Is the unhappiest man in the world. I have told you that this is but the beginning. I bave not told you of bow the curse bas followed me and robbed me of all that is greatest in life—bow It has haunted me day and night, m'sieur, like a black spirit, de- stroying my hopes, turning me at last into an outcast, without people, with- out friends, without—that—which you, too, will give up in this girl at Oxford House. M'sieur, am I rigbt? You will not go back to her. You will go south and some day the great God will re- ward yon." He beard Thornton rising In the dark. "Shall I strike a light, m'sienr?" "No," said Thornton close to hi::: -n the gloom their hands met There was a change in the other'te voice now, something of a pride, of triumph, of a glory just achieved. "Jan," he said softly, "I thank you for bringing me face to face with a God like yours. You bave taught me more than has etre been preached Into me, and this great. giorlos world of yours is send. Ing ale back a better man for having grown up a man." he continued. speak - lug more calmly. "1 have heard that since. Ilut here it is different.. The curse never dies. It follows, day after day. year after year. And this child. more unfortunate than the wild things, was born one of them. if the winds had whispered the secret nothing would have come near him. The In. diuo women would sooner have touch• ed the plague. He would have been an outcast, despised as he grew older, pointed at and taunted, called names which are worse than those called to the lowest and meanest dogs. That is what it means to be born under that curse—up here." He waited for Thornton to speak, but the other sat silent and moveless across the table. "The curse worked swiftly, m'sieur. It came first—in remorse—to the man. It gnawed at his soul, ate him alive and drove him from place to place with the woman and the child. The purity and love of the woman added to his suffering, and at last he came to know that the hand of God bad fallen upon his head. The woman saw his grief, but did not know the reason for it. And so the curse first came to her. They 'went north—far north, above the Barren Lands, and the curse followed there. It gnawed at his life until—he died. That was seven years after the child was born." The oil lamp sputtered and began to smoke, and with a quick movement Jan turned the wick down until they were left in darkness. "M'sieur, it was then that the curse began to fall upon the woman and the child. Do you not believe that about the sins of tbe fathers falling upon others? It is so, it is so. It came in many small ways, and then the curse It came suddenly—like this." Jan's voice came in a hissing whisper now. Thornton could feel his hot breath as be leaned over the table, and in the darkness Jan's eyes shone like two coals of fire. "It came like this!" pant- ed Jan. "There was a new missioner at the post-a—a Christian from the ionth, and be was a great friend to the woman and preached God, and she be- lieved him. The boy was very young and saw things, but did not under- stand at first He knew afterward that the tnissioner loved his mother's beauty and that he tried hard to win it—and failed, for the woman until death would love only the one to whom she had given herself first Great God, It happened then—one night when every soul was about the big fires at the caribou roast and there was no one near the lonely little cabin where the boy and his mother lived. The boy was at the feast,,put he ran home with a bit of dripping )meat as gift for his mother, and he heard her cries and ran In. to be struck down by the missioner. 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But, instead, he went south, and so it came to pass that a year after he had left Lac Bain he built himself a cabin deep in the for- est orest of God's river, fifty miles from Ox- ford House, and trapped once more for the company. He had not forgot- ten his promise to Thornton, and at Oxford House left word where he could be found if tbe man from civilization should return. In late midwinter Jan returned to Oxford House with his furs. It was on the night of the day that be came into the post that he heard a French- man who had come down from the north speak of Lac nein. None no- ticed the change in Jan's face as he hung back in the shadows of the com- pany's store. A. little later he follow- ed the, Frenchman outside and stopped him where there were no others near to overbear. " Ai'sieur, you spoke of Lac Bain," he said in French. "You have been there?" "Yes," replied the other, "I was there for a week waiting for the first sledge snow." "It is my old home," said Jan, trying to keep his voice natural. "I have wondered if there are changes. Yon saw Cummins, the factor?" "Yes, he was there." "And—and Jean de chief man?" "He was away." "The factor had tisse"— "She left Lac Bain a long time ago, m'sieur," said the trapper. "M'sieur Cummins told me that he had not seen her 1n a long time. I believe It was almost a year." Jan went to the company's store. He took his pack to the sledge and dogs in the edge of the spruce, and Kazan leaped to greet him at the end of his babiche. That night as Jan traveled through tbe forest he did not notice the stars or the friendly shad- ows. "A year," he repeated to himself again and again. and once when -Ka- zan rubbed against his leg and looked up into his face he said: "Ab, Kazan. our Melisse went away with the Eng Lishman. May the great God give them happiness!" The forest claimed him more than ever after this. He did not go back to Oxford House in the spring, but sold his furs to a passing balfbreed and wandered through all of that spring and summer In the country to the west It was Januarys when he returned to his cabin, when the snows were deepest, and three days later he ret out to outfit at the Hudson's bay post on God's lake Instead of at Ox- ford House. It *as while they were crossing 1 part of the lake that Kazan leaped abide for In instant in Isis traces and snapped at something in the snow. .Lata saw the movement, but gave no attention to it until a little later when Kazan stopped and fell upon his belly, biting at the bathos and whining in pain. The thbeght of itatan'a sudden !nap at the snow cat1Ye to him then like a knife thrust, and with it low cry of horror and feat' he fell •upon his finch' besidb the deg. /Win whim- pered, vend Ida bushy tail` s*bpt the iffier ilii In 'lifted hit{ *tett, rbolilsh bead betwaata i his two Milds, 1t'9 other sound came from Jan's lips now, and slowly he drew the dog up to hire until ti! 1101.hl41.1&. g. illga.fltiaa4114 come into It. I am going—south. Some day I will return, and I will be one of this world and one of your people. I will come, and I will bring no curse. If I could send this word to her, ask ber forgiveness, tell her what I have almost been and that I still have hope —faith—I could go easier down pito that other world." "Yon can," said Jan. "I will take this word for you, m'sieur, and I will take more, for I will tell her what it has been the kind fate for Jan Tho- reau to find in the heart of M'sieur Thornton. She is one of my people. and she will forgive, and love you more for what you have done. For this, m'sieur, is what the Cree god has giv- en to his people as the honor of the great snows. She will still love you. and if there is to be hope it will burn In her breast too. M'sieur"— Something like a sob broke through Thornton's lips as he moved back through the darkness. "And you—I will find you again?" "They will know where I go from Oxford House. I will leave word with her," said Jan. "Goodby," said Thornton huskily. Jan listened until his footsteps had died away, and for a long time after that he sat with his head buried in his arms upon the little table. And Ka- ma, whining softly, seemed to know that in the darkened room bad come to pass the thing which broke at last hie master's overburdened heart. That night Jan Thoreau passed for the last time back into the shelter of his forests, and all that night he trav- eled, and with each mile that he left behind him something larger and bold- er grew in his breast until he cracked his whip in the old way and shouted to the dogs in the old way, and the blood in him' sang to the wild spirit of the wilderness: Once more he was home. To him the forest had always been home. .And from above him the stars look- ed down like a billion tiny fires kin- dled by loving bands to light his way —the stars that had given him music, peace, since he could remember and that had taught him more of the silent power of God than the lips of man could ever tell. From this time forth Jan Thoreau knew that these things would be his life, his god. Ho had loved the forest now he worshiped It In its vast faience be still po6se8s- ed Melissa Nearly a month passed before he reaehed Oxford House and found the sweet faced girl whom Thornton lov- ed. Ha did as Thornton bad asked and went en—into the north and east. 1i bad no Mission nor! except t(i roam 1a his forests Be went down tits 8aye3s, getting his few supplies itt Indio camps and stopped at last, with tit, beginning of spring, far tip as tha Cat• nrix,„,gestlaUnillt himselfcg,s i Gravels. tbe a daughter, Mo - Nave nerd a child. `KirzaiV s led'ilie whimpering sounds in his throat. His one eye rested on his master's face, faithful, watching for some sign, for some language there, even as the burn- ing fires of a strange torture gnawed at his life, and in that eye Jan saw the deepening reddish film which be bad seen a hundred times before in the eyes of foxes and wolves killed by poison: bait. A moan of anguish burst from Jan's lips, and he held his face close down against Kazan's bead and sobbed now like a child, while Kazan rubbed his hot muzzle against his cheek and his muscles hardened in a last desire to - give battle to whatever was giving his master grief. It was a long time be- fore Jan lifted his face from the shag- gy haggy bead, and when he did he hnevr, that the last of all love, of all compan- ionship, of all that bound him to flesh and blood in his lonely world, was gone. Kazan was dead. From the sledge he took a blanket and wrapped Kazan in it and carried him a hundred yards back from the trail. With bowed head he came be- hind his four dogs into God's !louse. Half an hour later he turned back into the wilderness with his supplies. It was dark when he returned to where he had left Kazan. He placed him upon the sledge, and the four huskies whined as they dragged on their bur- den, from which the smell of death came to them. They stopped in the deep forests beyond the lake, and Jan built a fire. This night, as on all nights in his lonely life, Jan drew Kazan close to him, and he shivered as the other doge clunk back from him suspiciously and the fire and the spruce tops broke the Oiliness of the forest. He looked at ° the crackling flames, at the fitful shad- ows which they set dancing and grimac- ing about him, and it seemed to him now that they were no longer friends, but were taunting him—gloating in Ka. tan's death and telling' him that he was alone, alone, alone. He let the are die down, stirring it into life only when the cold stiffened him, and when tt last he fell into an unquiet slumber It was still to hear the spruce tops whispering to him that Kazan was dead and that in dying he had broken the last fragile link between Jan Tho- reau and Sienese. CHAPTER XVI. The Musio Again. AN went on at dawn, with Kazan wrapped In his blanket on the sledge. He planned to reach his cabin that night, and the next day he would bury hie old comrade. It was dark when he came to the nar- row plain that lay between him and the river. The sky wets brilliant with stars when he slowly climbed the big barren ridge at the foot of which was his home. .&t the summit he stopped and seated himself on the edge of a rock, with nothing but a thousand miles of space between him and the pale glow of the northern lights. At his• feet lay the forest, black and si- lent. and he looked down to where he knew his cabin was waiting for him, black and silent too. For the first time it came upon him that this eras home—that the forest and the Silence and the little cabin hidden under the. spruce tops below 'held a deeper meaning for b[ta.'tlann a few hours before, when Kazan was a leaping, living comrade at his side. Katon Wes dead: Duren there he would burr Matt. And be had loved Itasatt. fie knew flow cif he -ditched bi .hands.Jiii ittbtnit i&i' t ..ail. (To BE CoN11?1UWl)