# The Trail of the Golden Horn/Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25
“Maintien le Droit”
IT was evening, and Sergeant North and Constable Rolfe were travelling fast. They had been on the way since early morning, and were anxious to reach the next band of Indians, where they were planning to stay all night. They were not following the regular police trail, but visiting the various Indian camps instead, hoping in this manner to obtain some word about Bill, the Slugger, and perhaps overtake him. They believed that he could not travel far, judging from what they had heard about the injury he had received. So far they had learned nothing, but that did not discourage them. They had often followed after men and overtaken them with far less to work upon. This undertaking appeared easy in comparison with some they had experienced in the past.
Sergeant North was anxious to get through with the job as soon as possible that he might hurry back to Marion. It was hard for him to leave her at The Gap with the unconscious missionary. He wanted to remain with her. But his duty was out in the hills, so nothing must interfere with his loyalty to the Force. He had a reasonable excuse for delaying a day or two, at the least. Some men who had come through such hardships would have rested before venturing forth again. As he swung on his way, up hill and down, with the constable close at his heels, Marion was almost ​constantly in his mind. He thought of her standing at the door of the mission house bidding them good-by. How beautiful she looked then, although her eyes were misty, and her voice trembled as she tried to be brave and smile a cheery farewell. He had stooped and kissed her right before the constable, and he did not know that the latter’s heart was strangely stirred. He, too, longed for someone to care for him as Marion did for the sergeant. He envied North his good fortune, but it was envy robbed of all sting and malice. But away from The Gap his buoyant spirit once more gained the mastery, and he was apparently as light-hearted as ever. He joked, sang snatches of songs, and quoted poetry to his heart’s content. North, if he heard, paid no attention to his companion, so completely wrapped up was he in his own affairs.
The first night they encamped with the band of Indians who had given Tom such a warm welcome. These natives had heard nothing about the presence of any white man in the hills. They were enthusiastic over the idea of returning to The Gap, and asked the police numerous questions about the Gikhi. The visitors listened with much interest to the Indian service that night, which was conducted by the oldest native present. The constable’s face showed his approval, and his eyes sparkled with animation. The sergeant, on the other hand, expressed no outward sign. But he was doing considerable thinking, and his heart was stirred more than usual. He made no comment then, but the next day while resting and eating a cold lunch, he turned suddenly to his companion, who was seated on a fallen log by his side.
“Say, Tom,” he began, I’ve been thinking much to-day about that Indian service last night.”
​“Is that so? Going to put a stop to it, eh? You shouldn’t allow such superstitious practices to be carried on. They might do harm to the natives, you know.”
“No, I’m going to do nothing of the kind, Tom. And besides, I have not the power. And I don’t want to stop them. I have been greatly impressed of late by what I have seen, and am beginning to look at certain things in a different light.”
“Experiencing a change of heart?” the constable asked, looking quizzically at the sergeant. “Isn’t it coming to you rather late?”
“Not too late, I hope,” was the quiet reply. “I am afraid that my judgment of things pertaining to religion has been too much biased, and a one-sided affair. I have been going upon the idea that religion is all right in theory, but of little use in daily life. I see now that I was wrong.”
“What has led you to change your mind?”
“Oh, several things. The first, and perhaps the most important, was the thought of that old missionary giving up his life on behalf of the Indians, and standing bravely at his post of duty when deserted by nearly all of his flock. Why, Tom, that man is a great hero, and yet the world knows nothing about him. I could hardly keep back the tears at something I saw upon his rough table. Marion saw it, too, and she was deeply affected.”
“What was it, sergeant? It must have been something out of the ordinary to move such a hardened being as you.”
“It was the last bit of writing, I believe, that he did. His Bible was lying open on the table, with a sheet of paper right near, on which were some words in the Indian language. I did not know what they were, but ​Zell could read them, and what do you suppose they were?”
“I could never guess.”
“They were words of the Great Master Himself, and they have fairly burned themselves into my mind and soul. I had often heard them before, but thought little about them. But to see them there in that strange language, written with a trembling hand, and with an old rusted pen, stirred something within me which I can never forget.”
“What were they?” the constable asked, now deeply impressed by the sergeant’s earnest tone.
“Wonderful words about love which the Master was imparting to his disciples. ‘This is my commandment that ye love one another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Now, what do you think of that? The last words penned by that old saint for his wandering flock. And he lived them, too; that is what affected me so deeply. His love was so great that he actually laid down his life for the Indians.”
The sergeant paused and looked off among the trees. The constable watched him somewhat curiously, completely surprised at the change which had come over his leader. He admired him, too, and longed to tell him so. But before he could frame suitable words, the sergeant continued:
“And think of the influence that missionary exerted over the natives. They were wild savages when he first came among them, so I have been told. He changed their entire manner of living, and until base white men began to demoralize them they lived at peace and we had not the slightest trouble with them. It was a sad ​day when those wretched hootch peddlers began their diabolical work. I believe the natives want to follow the teaching of their missionary, and are anxious to return to The Gap. They are naturally religious by nature. Did you notice last night how reverent and attentive they were during that simple service?”
“Indeed I did,” the constable emphatically declared. “I was thinking of what Longfellow said in his ‘Hiawatha’ about Indians. Did you ever hear it?”
“Not that I know of. More poetry, I suppose.”
“Yes, but great poetry, and it expresses fully what was in my mind. Longfellow says:
“‘That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings, For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God’s right hand in that darkness, And are lifted up and strengthened.’
“Now, isn’t that beautiful? I could quote you a great deal more from ‘Hiawatha,’ though I advise you to read it yourself when you get a chance. I can’t understand why you have not read it already.”
“For want of the proper poetic gift, I suppose, and because the whole of my life has been lived in the open. But I like those words, especially about feeble hands touching God’s hand in the darkness. I guess that applies to me as well as to the Indians. But, there, we have delayed here too long, so must get on our way.”
This conversation took place at midday, and all through the afternoon the two men sped rapidly forward. They had little to impede their march, for they carried only light packs, and their revolvers. They ​could turn aside whenever they wished and obtain extra food from the patrol house.
When about a mile from the Indian encampment they were surprised at the sight of a man just ahead, staggering along, and moaning as if in pain. Coming closer they saw that he was a white man, known to them as Jerry, a squaw-man, who lived in a small shack along the river. He stopped, straightened somewhat up and exhibited much fear at the sight of the policemen.
“What’s the matter with you?” the sergeant asked.
“The devils are after me!” was the gasping answer. “They’ll kill me! For God’s sake, keep them back till I git out of this!”
“Who are after you?”
“The Injuns. They’ve gone crazy. Been wild all day. Me pardner is killed, I guess.”
“Who’s that?”
“Bob Span,” the man replied, turning his head and looking fearfully back. “They set upon us like wolves, an’ I jist managed to git away.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” the sergeant sternly asked.
“Trappin’, of course. Happened to stay last night with them Injuns, an’ was jist leavin’ when they set upon us. Don’t let ’em git me.”
The sergeant shot a swift glance toward the constable, and then laid a strong hand upon the frightened man.
“You’ve been selling hootch to the Indians,” he charged.
“No, no!” the man denied. “I was jist trappin’. Let me go.”
“Quit your lying,” the sergeant ordered. “Do you ​think I’m fool enough to believe what you say? You will go with us, and I warn you not to make any trouble.”
“Where are ye goin’ to take me?” the man asked.
“Back from where you came, of course.”
“No, no; not there! The Injuns will kill me like they did me pardner.”
“Oh, we’ll attend to that. Come, we haven’t any time to lose.”
Seeing that the sergeant meant business and that further words would be useless, Jerry did as he was ordered. He was well worn out through fear and lack of sleep, so he tottered as he groped his way along. At last the policemen were forced to help him, each taking an arm, and thus they moved slowly along. At times Jerry wailed and sobbed. He vowed that the Indians would kill him as soon as they saw him. Once he dropped upon the snow and refused to go a step farther. It was only when North threatened to leave him there, and let the Indians come and deal with him, that he could be induced to go on. He was well aware that his only hope now lay with these hardy guardians he had so often eluded.
It was dark by the time the Indian encampment was reached, and there all was excitement and wild talking. Men, women, and children sprang to their feet as the policemen approached, dragging along their terrified prisoner. The natives advanced threateningly toward Jerry, but a stern warning from North caused them to hesitate and draw back. They recognised the sergeant and the constable as men who would stand no nonsense. They knew of them not only by report but through personal experience in the towns and on the trails. They had always held them in high regard and special ​awe, knowing that they and all the men of the Force would carry out their duties to the letter. Now, however, it was different. The natives were mad and half-crazed with bad hootch, and they were ready to cast discretion to the winds. What could two lone men do against an overwhelming number? This was the thought that ran through the minds of several daring young natives. They had easily disposed of the two hootch peddlers, and this made them venturesome and impudent. They wished to show the rest of the Indians that they were not afraid of the policemen.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, one of their number uttered a few words in the native tongue, sprang forward, and laid hold upon the cringing Jerry. He was followed by several of his companions, and Jerry was being lifted off his feet when the sergeant took a hand. Whipping out his revolver, he sternly ordered the Indians to drop their burden. As they paid no heed, the next instant the revolver spoke, and the right arm of the leader dropped to his side. With a yell of pain and rage the man staggered back, leaving his companions to complete the task. But they had no relish now for the undertaking, for the sergeant was standing silently there with his finger slightly pressing the trigger, and by his side was the constable, with drawn revolver, ready to follow his leader’s example. Quickly the natives deposited the terrified Jerry upon the ground and leaped back among the rest of the Indians who were standing defiantly near.
Seeing that for a time the rebels were quelled, the sergeant thrust back his revolver into its holster, stepped forward, and drew back Jerry to his side. His eyes then roamed deliberately over the silent band before him. He was well aware that he had to use extreme ​caution now, as the least mistake on his part might prove fatal. But his experience with the Indians covered a number of years, so he was no novice in dealing with them. Had he hesitated at the outset, and shown the least sign of fear, the entire band would have been upon him and the constable like howling wolves.
“Let us be friends,” he at length began. “We come here to help you and not to fight. These men who carry hootch harm you. We want to do you good, and save you from them. You could easily kill me and my companion here. But it would be very bad for you. Other men would take our place, and, if necessary, they would be followed by others as many as the trees of the forest. You could not fight them. But we do not want to fight. Let us talk this matter over, and be at peace with one another.”
Having finished, the sergeant moved forward, and sat down calmly near the fire. The constable followed his example, and there the two waited to see what would happen next. Although the Indians did not understand all the words that were said, they grasped their meaning, and at once began to talk to one another in the most animated manner. At length they drew back, ranged themselves in a circle around the fire, some standing, while others squatted upon the snow.
At last the leader arose and asked the sergeant why there were two laws in the country, one for the Indians and another for the white people. Why were not the Indians allowed the same liberty as their white brothers? The land belonged to the Indians, as it had been handed down to them from their fathers. Why could they not drink hootch if they wanted to do so? They did not think that the white man’s laws were fair. The strangers had come into their country, were ​killing their game, and driving the natives farther and farther back into the hills. Soon there would be no place left for them.
The sergeant was well aware of these old complaints, so he was not surprised to hear them again. He was wise enough not to attempt to answer them directly, as it would only involve him in a lengthy argument, for which he was not at all inclined. He merely told the Indians that what their leader said was only too true. But the Police were in the country to protect them from bad white men, and to save their young men and women. If they obeyed the laws it would be for their good, and no harm would come to them. He then drew a picture of their happy condition at The Gap when the missionary was their teacher, guide, and friend.
“Were you not happier then?” he asked. “Were you not all like one big family? But what has happened? Your teacher has been shot by a bad white man, and he may be dead now. He gave up his life for the Indians, and his every thought was for you. He was always praying that you might come back to him again. Let us now forget all strife and think only of him who is lying wounded in his house at The Gap. Suppose we have a little service here, and pray to the Lord to spare the missionary. That will do more good than quarrelling.”
This suggestion was carefully considered by the natives. Although he did not know what was being said, yet the sergeant could tell that several of the young men opposed the idea. But the will of the majority prevailed, and it was not long ere many of the natives were holding in their hands copies of the ​little manual which they had unearthed from most unlikely places.
“The white man’s words are good,” the leader said, turning toward the sergeant. “The Indians will pray for the Gikhi. Mebbe the Lord will not let the Gikhi die.”
Then at a word the natives all dropped upon their knees while the leader began to pray in the native tongue. At times all joined in, and from their earnest tones it was quite evident that they meant what they said.
Rising at length from their knees, they began to sing an old familiar hymn. This ended, they sang another, and still another. Their enthusiasm was now intense. It had been months since they had held such a service, and their hearts were all deeply stirred. When at last they paused to rest, some were anxious to start right away that very night for The Gap, but others advised waiting until morning before beginning the journey.
While they were discussing this, the other hootch peddler sneaked into their midst and stood before the fire. He was shivering with cold and his face was scarred and bleeding. The Indians made no attempt to molest the miserable creature, but left him to the sergeant.
“Where have you been?” the latter asked.
“Out in the woods, freezin’,” was the gasping reply. “I would have died if you hadn’t come along. Say, these Indians are devils.”
“Who made them devils?” the sergeant sternly asked. “You did,” he continued, receiving no reply. “You and your partner brought in your hootch-poison, and it’s a wonder they didn’t kill you.”
​“They tried to. Oh, Lord! I thought it was all up with me.”
“It’s too bad it wasn’t for the sake of others. But the Indians won’t harm you now, and you have that noble missionary at The Gap to thank for it.”
“Why, where does he come in on this?” the man asked in surprise. “I thought it was yer guns, an’ the hell-fear the Police have put into the hearts of the Injuns.”
“Oh, that had something to do with it, I suppose. But unless these Indians had been taught the difference between right and wrong, what could two of us have done with this bunch? No, it was mainly due to the teaching they received, and don’t you forget that. We’ve been on your trail for some time, and would have caught you sooner or later. We’ve got you now, and intend to hold on to you.”
With peace thus restored, the sergeant and the constable were able to rest. The Indians supplied them liberally with food, and gave them a comfortable place to sleep. They were tired out after their strenuous exertions, but thankful for what had happened. As the sergeant lay upon the robes spread over a wealth of fir boughs, he thought of Marion and wondered how she was making out. He went to sleep with her in his mind and heart, and did not hear the constable repeating one of his favorite verses:
“‘God bless the man who first invented sleep, So Sancho Panza said and so say I. And bless him, also, that he didn’t keep His great discovery to himself, nor try To make it, as the lucky fellow might— A close monopoly by patent right.’”