# The Trail of the Golden Horn/Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16
The Man of the Gap
“THE GAP” is a natural opening between the Yukon River region on the east and the great mountains on the west. In fact, it is the one door through which people pass, Indians and whites alike, on mining, trading, or any other business. In former days native warriors passed this way to wage war upon some distant tribe. It was a regular Thermopylæe where a few men could hold an entire army at bay. Two huge shoulders of rocks, devoid of any vegetation, oppose each other. Through The Gap flows a little stream, draining a lake miles away. By the side of this runs the trail, worn deep by the tread of many feet, not only of human beings, but of moose, deer, bear, and other animals of the north. Just within The Gap on the Eastward side is a remarkable valley, several acres in extent, scooped, so it seems, out of the mountains. This is completely sheltered from every wind which blows, and had always formed a favorite camping-ground for Indians. It is a most desirable place, for apart from the shelter it affords from storms and enemies, mountain sheep and other game are abundant, while the little stream and various lakes teem with fish, especially the King Salmon.
It was, therefore, but natural that Charles Norris, a clergyman sent out by a great English Missionary Society, should choose this spot as the strategic point ​in his work among the Indians. For long years he and his faithful wife laboured among the tribes of the wandering foot. They won them from heathen ways, and the influence of the Medicine Men. A log church was built, and in due time a school for the children. A linguist of no mean ability, Mr. Norris learned the native tongue, and gave the Indians hymns, prayers, and portions of Scripture in their own language. It was a happy community, uncontaminated by any of the degenerating influences of so-called civilisation. When the Indians returned from the hills, the church and mission house were always filled with earnest seekers after the truth, and the hearts of the missionaries overflowed with thankfulness to Him who had wrought such wonders through their humble efforts.
Often they would look upon the great mountains, and in their majesty and surrounding strength they would see the encompassing arms of the Almighty. To them The Gap Mission was what Jerusalem was to the people of Hebrew days. Their eyes would kindle and their hearts thrill as they dwelt upon the words of the ancient poet:
“As the mountains are about Jerusalem, So the Lord is round about His people.”
Hardly a morning passed that Charles Norris did not stand at the door of his house and say, either silently or aloud:
“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, From whence cometh my help.’”
It was a great day for the missionaries and Indians alike when the first copies containing hymns, prayers, ​and portions of Scripture reached them from England. Already there were leaders trained to read, and these small books were carried by the natives to their hunting-grounds. There night after night, where the two or three gathered together, the leader would read the wonderful words contained in the little manual. He would then repeat a number of prayers, and all would join in singing some favourite hymn. To the missionaries it seemed as if the Pentecostal fire had really come down upon those lost sheep of the Rocky Mountains.
But alas! great changes ere long took place. This happy state of affairs was not destined to endure. As the serpent entered the Garden of Eden and destroyed its peaceful repose, so it was at The Gap. With the discovery of gold, thousands of men poured into the country. They traversed every trail, followed up every valley in their mad rush for wealth. Although many of the newcomers were good men, who respected the law of God and man, there were others, the scum of civilisation, who polluted everything and place they touched. Little by little they led away the Indians from their allegiance to what they had been taught. For a time the natives resisted, but their thirst for hootch, and the temptations the white men set before them, proved too strong. Sadly Charles Norris and his wife saw their influence wane, and their work of years brought to ruin. They pleaded, they prayed, but all in vain. At last the day came when only two were left—an old leader, Tom, and his faithful wife, Kate. Nothing could divert their loyalty to the missionaries, and they, too, grieved over the defection of the members of their tribe.
It was a trying time when the mission school had to ​be given up. The children slipped away, one by one, a number of the girls being led astray by white men. The loss of Zell affected them keenly. They had hoped much from this girl, who was brighter than the others, and possessed of nobler qualities. They had made much of her, and she was to them almost like a daughter.
But the greatest blow of all to Charles Norris was when his wife sickened and died. For a time he was completely bewildered. He laid her to rest in the little Indian burying place nearby, and once again took up his weary and lonely task. Nothing could induce him to leave his post of duty. His Bishop came, pleaded, and reasoned with him, but to no purpose.
“My place is here,” he had quietly replied. “The Indians may come back, and when they do, I must be waiting to receive them. I have no other home, and the interests of the outside world are nothing to me.”
And so he remained, living alone in his house, attended by Kate, the Indian woman. She washed and cooked for him, and did what she could for his welfare. His wants were few, his mind now being entirely occupied with earnest prayers on behalf of his wandering flock, and preparing a larger manual of worship for the natives.
“They may need it some day,” he had told his Bishop. “I have spent many years in studying the language, and it may be a help to others when I am gone. I feel sure that the Lord will not let all my work come to naught.”
So great were his hope and faith, that every evening, both summer and winter, he held the simple service in the log church. Exactly at seven o’clock he would ring the little bell, which was fastened to a rude frame ​near the door. When the sound had ceased he would look up the valley, and listen intently for the music of hurrying feet which no longer came as in the past. Only Tom and Kate would come, shuffling along, to take their places near the chancel steps. The missionary would then enter the little vestry, don his robes, and read the service, never forgetting to pray for the absent ones.
One cold night after service the missionary returned to his lonely house. Lighting a candle, he stirred up the fire in the sheet-iron heater, and added a couple of sticks. He then sat down at the rough deal table nearby which contained a number of books, several sheets of paper, pen, and ink. His eyes rested upon his translation of the beautiful benediction of St. Paul in his second letter to the Church at Corinth. “Nyiwhet Kekwadhut Jesus Kreist vit chekoorzi ako Vittekwich-anchyo chettigwinidhun, ako Chunkyo Rsotitinyoo nichya sheg Myiwhot tutthug zyunkoli. Amen.” Carefully he compared this with the English, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all. Amen.” For some time he sat there pondering over these words. He had no doubt about their truth, but somehow it did seem as if they were not applicable to him and his scattered flock. Grace had been strangely withheld of late, love had grown cold, and the bond of fellowship broken. The enemies of righteousness had triumphed, and truth had been trampled under foot. He and his two faithful Indians were alone left to uphold the standard of the Lord in that desolate wilderness. Was it really any use for him to strive longer? Perhaps it might be better for him to go elsewhere. ​Surely there was other work for him to do. Was he only wasting his time by remaining at The Gap?
Suddenly there flashed into his mind the lament of the Lord, “I sought for a man that should make up the hedge, and stand in the gap before me for the land, and I found none.” These words startled him, and he quickly turned to the twenty-second chapter of the prophet Ezekiel. He read them with kindling eyes, and his heart beating a little faster. Why had they come to him just then? Was it a message from on high? A warning for him not to leave his post of duty? Did the Lord mean for him to remain there? Was there something yet for him to do? Yes, he would stay, and when the time came that a man was specially needed, he, Charles Norris, would be found standing in The Gap. This resolve gave him considerable comfort, so once more he picked up his pen and went on with his work.
For perhaps an hour he sat there, lost in his self-imposed task of translating the clear brief English words into the long, forbidding ones of the native language. He was at length aroused by a loud knock upon the door. He started, and looked around. At once the door opened and a man entered, who stood gazing for a few seconds at the scene before him.
“I want shelter for the night,” he roughly said. “An’ grub, too. I’m starving.”
He then moved toward the stove, and the missionary noticed that he limped painfully.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, rising from his seat and stepping forward.
The visitor was about to make a savage reply, when he suddenly stopped. Something about the old man restrained him. He could not tell what it was, but ​Bill, the Slugger, for once was abashed. He put up his right hand as if to keep the missionary back. The latter interpreted this motion as a sign of faintness.
“Come, come, sit right down here,” he said, drawing up a chair to the fire. “I shall give you something to eat at once, and make you a cup of strong tea.”
With a groan Bill slumped into the chair, and when food was brought, he ate ravenously. He gulped down the tea, and handed back his cup for more.
“Say, ye don’t happen to have somethin’ with a kick in it, do ye?” he asked.
“You mean hootch, I suppose,” and a sad expression overspread the missionary’s face. “No, I have no use for the stuff.”
“It’s good enough, though, when it has the right kick,” the visitor mournfully replied.
“It had the wrong kick among my flock, and ruined my work here.”
“Did it? That’s too bad.” Bill was feeling in a better humour now.
“An’ so ye lost ’em all, eh?”
“All but two; old Tom and his wife.”
“Religion doesn’t take much hold on Injuns, so I’ve heard. Ye’ll give up yer job now, I s’pose. Much in it, eh?”
“In what way?”
“Oh, in money. D’ye git much fer hangin’ out here? It’s a wonder ye don’t leave.”
“All I have in this world is here,” was the quiet reply. “My total earthly possessions are under this roof, and out among the trees, a short distance from the building.”
“What! a cache?”
“No—my wife’s grave.”
​This unexpected reply startled Bill, and he gasped, knowing not what to say. His movement caused him to groan with pain, and only with difficulty he smothered an angry oath.
“Is there anything I can do for your leg?” the missionary asked. “I am quite a doctor, so might be able to help you.”
“Yes, it’s bad,” Bill acknowledged. “Hurt it on the trail. Look.” When the left bare leg was exposed, Norris beheld a nasty swelling, just above the ankle.
“It looks like a sprain,” the missionary remarked, examining it closely. “Hot applications and iodine will give you relief.”
The visitor made no comment but let the missionary wait upon him. Hot cloths were then applied, after which the swollen part was well painted with iodine.
“There, I guess that will do for the present,” Norris said, as he rose from his knees, corked the bottle and placed it upon a shelf.
“A rest will do you good. You may sleep in that little room over there. You will find it quite warm.”
“I’d rather sit here fer a while,” Bill replied. “Ye don’t mind if I smoke, do ye?”
“Not in the least. The Indians always smoked when they came to see me. Have you any tobacco?”
“No, I haven’t. Say, ye don’t happen to have any, do ye?”
“Yes, there is part of a plug which old Tom left the other day. He won’t mind you having it.”
Bill eagerly seized the tobacco, quickly whittled off several slices, and filled his blackened pipe. With a sigh of contentment, he leaned back in the chair.
“My! that’s good,” he said. “I’ve been sufferin’ fer days fer a smoke.”
​“Well, enjoy yourself, then, while I do some work,” Norris replied. “We can talk later.”
Seated once more at the table, the missionary was soon engrossed in his work. The visitor watched him curiously as he sent big wreathes of smoke into the air. And truly it was a scene worthy of a great artist—the venerable, white-haired man, with the long flowing beard, noble forehead, and eyes expressive of sympathy and devotion. The lighted candle, and the humble surroundings seemed to enhance the face and form of the man, bestowing upon him a patriarchal dignity, and the glorifying of the commonplace.
Of all this, however, the silent man near the stove thought nothing. His mind was dwelling upon more material things, such as the amount of money the missionary might have on his person or concealed about the house, and whether it would be worth the trouble and the risk to knock him on the head in order to find out. He wondered if he would fight if ordered to produce anything of value. He believed that he could handle him all right, and that he would easily submit when threatened by a revolver. But of the old man’s eyes he was not so sure. There was something about them that made him afraid, and awed even his reckless and villainous nature. No respect for the self-denying and gentle man of God entered his calloused heart. And gratitude for favors received, which even the dumb brutes possess, was to him a thing unknown.
At length the missionary laid down his pen and looked over at his visitor.
“You must be very tired,” he said. “It is my bedtime, so if you will excuse me, I shall retire. Make yourself perfectly at home here, and if you need any ​help in the night with your ankle, call me. But, as is always my custom, I shall have a few prayers.
At once the old man kneeled down and offered up his humble petitions. He prayed especially for the wandering flock, not forgetting to ask a blessing upon the stranger under his roof. Thanking God for all His past mercies, and committing himself and his visitor to the Divine protection, he rose from his knees and picked up his candle.
When the missionary began to pray, a cynical and a mocking expression overspread Bill’s face. With unbent head he watched the “daft old man,” as he considered him. But as the praying continued, some chord of memory was touched, and for the first time in years he recalled the little prayer he had learned at his mother’s knees. It was merely a passing emotion, however, but it brought a softer expression into his eyes.
“Are there any Injuns near here?” he asked, as the missionary was about to leave the room.
“Yes, several bands are out in the hills, so I understand.”
“Where?”
“Due west, straight up the valley. Good night, and may you rest well.”