Voice of the Intangible: Part of a Program

Voice of the Intangible

BY ALBERT R. LYMAN

Chapter XV — Part of a Program

With two exceptions, the double-action pintos, and the hick- ory-hearted buckskin, every horse in the Rojer outfit grew thin from the day the work of Alec and Flossy was added to their own. They endured it, however, and the Pagahrit herd joined the J B round-up at the old cabin on the Elk Mountain. Jud and Juan went on with the steers to Paradox Valley, the place of delivery, but Ben and his father started home by way of Long Flat.

Fred Rojer had been unusually quiet since they left the lake, speaking only when their immediate business demanded it, and al- ways briefly. When he and his son left the noisy herd and rode away through the peaceful pines, instead of striking up a conver- sation at once, as they were wont to do at other times, they trav- eled in silence— silently down Joshua's Trail— silently through the narrows of Cane Gulch, and out into the dense forest of cedars

beyond it.

Ever since the bay mare evaporated, (or did she take wings and fly?) young Rojer had felt a melancholy boding of evil. Not that he grieved for her, nor for the bay colt in a putrid heap on the sand, though their loss would have been sufficient cause for grief at ordinary times. This was no ordinary time. The two horses could be no more than dead, and there the trouble ended so far as they took part in it; but as to the misery or its extent, in the im- pending future, he had no heart to guess. From the first, Ben longed to talk it over with his father, and find in it something definite to believe or reject; and when he found the necessities of the herd always in the way of this desire, he counted hopefully on the homeward ride as an ideal, if not really a providential, time for that business. . .

But behold, on the homeward ride, an invisible barrier cut off his flow of confidence, and without the herd to occupy his mind, his forebodings grew more distressing still. Yet that invis- ible barrier still held him away, and a dozen times when he parted his lips to ask a leading question, he closed them without speaking. Of late years he and his father had found short cuts to each other's confidence, and conversed with a freedom that made con- versation a keen pleasure, yet today they rode wearily on mile after mile with scarcely a word.

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That something preyed on his father's mind, and had preyed on it for days past, Ben had no doubt whatever. What that some- thing might be, he was forbidden to ask — forbidden as emphatical- ly as though he heard the words with his ears ; and he looked from his fine trappings to the over-worked horses, and felt mocked by the whole scene.

Fred Rojer's tender love for his son had ever been surround- ed by limits of dignity and majesty, over which the son never ventured to go without invitation. That invitation became con- spicuous by its absence on this ride by way of Long Flat, for it

came neither by word nor soul-feeling that day at all.

Evening found them camped in a cave on the east- ward slope of the Ridge. Ben insisted on preparing supper, and their bed on springy pine twigs, and after the meal they sat staring meditatively into the red coals.

Their fewness of words must not be mistaken to mean ill-will, nor disagreement be- tween them ; each felt a soul- assurance of the other's fond attachment. That attach- ment had grown firm and strong by years of fatigue and hardship. It had be- come a mighty passion, claim- ing indulgence on every occa- sion ; and now, to indulge this immortal desire, in a dear old familiar way, Fred Rojer raised his eyes from the fire and said simply, "I love you, son."

Those words, always sweet to Ben, like the kindest tones of the great Intangible, came now so nearly releasing his tongue and his tears, that he probably would have launched straight into the heart of the dark situation, but he waited to quiet his twitching lips. While he waited, his father began the hymn so dear to them : "Earth with her ten thousand flowers."

That hymn seemed to characterize their feelings when they camped alone, and if ever it were sung inappropriately to the oc- casion, Ben didn't recognize the inappropriate element. Fred Rojer may have chosen it from among other songs because he pre- ferred it to them, but Ben loved it as a sweet story of times gone

"In a putrid heap on the sand."

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by — he hugged it to himself as an essential part of his father's kind influence, and he felt it his duty and privilege to join in with his alto whenever the song began. So far as he could tell, the tune and words suited every occasion exactly, and floating away from their lonely fire, they sanctified many an echoing cave and desolate camp-ground.

That song fitted wonderfully well into the cave on the east- ward slope of the Ridge, and left father and son full of the rever- ence which silence alone can express. ' Into the poetry or the notes or the meter, they read an abundance of feeling and sentiment, and when the last verse closed softly and reverently with the sentence : "God is love," and when the sound floated mildly away beyond the dim cedars into the still darkness of night, to have spoken too soon would have desecrated the hallowed silence. Besides that, young Rojer's lips trembled too convulsively to admit of speech, and silence reigned while they prepared for rest.

When Fred Rojer sank on his pillow, he yawned and heaved the same sigh of relief that Ben had heard after many a hard day's ride, and then added, as he had often done before, "One day nearer the end."

There are times when the keen stress of necessity goads us up from the lethargy of our deafness — times when our inward selves start from their sleep and look fearfully around. When Ben Rojer sat on the bed to remove his boots, his very soul harked with open-mouthed effort — leaned eagerly out into the whispering hush for words which the all-knowing Intangible might even now be saying to his dull ears. He zvould hear something. If it came not in audible sound, then he would search it out and grasp it from the deep silence.

Into young Rojer's listening mind of intensity his father's words came like a message of heavy import. He turned anxious- ly around, saw the head on the pillow and the relaxed hands on the cover, but though his lips parted he continued to undress with- out a word.

Doubt and hope soften the way to our sternest realities. We doubt the worst and hope for the best, and pass by easy grades over wide extremes of fortune. "One day nearer the end." After all, it might refer only to the end of the trip, or, perhaps that in- definite time to which it had referred during six years. No differ- ence ; it left a troubled echo in Ben's mind, and kept him awake a long, long time. He tried to frame an excuse, or find the cour- age or the soul-permission to mention it, but calling a tired man up from his sleep to discuss what might have been discussed be- fore, seemed a stupid thing to do.

If the Intangible said anything further that night, it sang a funeral dirge in the dark shades of cedar and juniper near their

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cave. Ben thought of his father as there beside him, yet far away — near to him and in reach of his embrace, only like the two horses were near when something had declared them beyond recall.

While young Rojer listened wearily to the hoot of an owl, he saw Soorowits and Toorah again ; he saw Stripes and Bowse and Josh ; he saw Montana and old Spy, and the three days of rain. All these things came without his bidding. He went through the whole round of his Pagahrit experience, from the dry bones at Greenwater, to the soon-to-be-dry bones at Little Mountain ; and in it all, like a dream of departed pleasure, he saw his father as the great feature in every situation. He saw the kind face restraining him from rash acts ; he heard the kind voice encouraging and blessing him, and singing the spirit of truth which words alone may hardly convey. From the old log meetinghouse, from Lake Gulch and Peavine, and many a lonely cave and distant camp, the words and songs and prayers came echoing back, like the words and deeds of a departed loved one.

Twice in the stillness he started up, resolved in spite of every- thing to awaken his father and talk it over ; and twice he encount- ered that barrier which held him off, even from the sleeping man.

With early dawn Ben pulled on his fine boots, recently a source of pride but now the more a mock because of their beauty and shapeliness, and hunted the horses while his father prepared breakfast. By sunrise they followed the trail again, riding through the same mist of silence which made yesterday's task a heavy one.

One may ride there hours at a stretch and see nothing but the standing or fallen trees immediately around him. A raise, there- fore, affording a look at the distance, is a place of new inspiration. When Fred Rojer and his son mounted with their weary beasts, on to the hill and along the shelf known as Katie's Dugway, the scene, embracing the distant cliffs of the San Juan, seemed by its in- spiration to break the long spell they had been under.

"Son, did it ever occur to you," asked the father, "that we are acting out a program arranged for us a long time ago ?"

"How do you mean?" queried Ben, recognizing a glad break in the long monotony.

"I mean that there are certain turns and changes in our earthly career, which seem to be scheduled to come whether we will or not."

"Why? Do you know of something scheduled for you?" young Rojer enquired anxiously, finding voice and liberty for his feelings.

"Yes, I think I do."

"What is it?" the son almost gasped. Something was com* ing — something different to anything yet.

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"You're more of a man than you used to be," Fred Rojer began calmly, "I make bold to tell you things which you couldn't have heard, at one time, and I'm pleased with your view of all my teachings so far. Now I'm going to tell you something else, and I shall expect you to receive it with the same good sense and judgment you have used heretofore." Their eyes met squarely. "This is my last, son ; I'll never cross Clay Hill again."

"But — how? Why?" Ben faltered, half dazed, recalling at once what he seemed to hear on the rock-knoll.

"Well, as I suggested, there are turns and changes in our affairs, that were arranged long ago. Our trip through the world was ordered to be just as profitable to us as it might be, by beginning at a certain time and place, passing through certain situations, and ending at a certain time and under certain con- ditions. And sometimes we are told of the turn just ahead that we may make the most of it."

"Where will you go now? What are you going to do?"

"Son, this matter is sacredly confidential. I'm telling you because you are a part of me — my shadow in poverty and tribu- lation these six years. I must leave you. I am drawing near to the end of my trip."

Ben looked silently into the loving face, now more lovable than at any time in those eventful six years. The first part of his premonition was clear" — painfully clear.

"Yes, son," the father went on, "I have watched over you since you were a little child, and you have been more to me than you supposed." He turned his face away and winked his eyes determinedly. "I felt a great deal of pride in your development from a tiny snip of a boy to your present stalwart size. You have leaned on me and loved me, and I have leaned on you, but the time is near when you must stand alone. It is necessary to your de- velopment. Providence seems to have arranged periods when we struggle on without help. I entered that period years ago."

"Ever since yesterday-morning I've wanted to talk about this very thing," said Ben huskily, feeling nothing of the old restraint.

"I knew it, son, but I couldn't," and Fred Rojer looked away again. "Besides, if I had told you, the first thing yesterday morn- ing, you wouldn't have remembered like you will now after hav- ing waited so long. We are generally in too much of a stupor when the main thing happens. I don't mean to charge you with being unduly stupid, but even now you can't remember all I want to say between here and home. My words will come echoing back to you as long as you live on earth."

Ben listened and asked questions, and took no note of the miles that slipped under them. He saw in his father's bright, clear eyes, a fulness of feeling which out-shone anything of its

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kind in the past. The same great soul which in Lake Gulch had looked at him and said without words, "Oh my son! my son!" looked again and said greater things, and spoke of manhood and the immortal riches which never perish. It spoke of the undying love of soul for soul — the love which formed an eternal link be- tween this father and son.

The remaining twenty-five miles of the trip made reviews of the past, and plans for the future. At one time the bearded lips said : "We have made the riffle — the debts are all paid, and we are fully ripe for the change." At another : "I'm glad you have Jud's company; you'll find him a true friend, a man to depend upon."

They made a great effort to give the home-coming the same glad character it had ever had; they met each loved-one as if no sad cloud hung over them.

Chapter XVI — A Voice Still Calling.

Busy days followed that home-coming. Ben and his father labored in their might to prepare the household for winter, by supplying provisions and fire-wood, and looking to the needs of each loved one.

Their task was scarcely finished .when a slight ailment con- fined Fred Rojer to the house, and then to his bed. It came about all naturally enough, apparantly the result of old causes ; and the devoted circle of friends felt no alarm for more than a week. Their only uneasiness came from the sick man's lack of hopes for him- self.

But Fred Rojer did not give way to despair, as a man who sees nothing ahead ; he simply expressed no desire or expectation of recovery. Sometimes he seemed to improve, and hope rose slightly in the minds of enquiring friends, but always he sank low- er than before, dragging their hopes with him. And as he drooped, and grew more feeble from day to day, Ben was at his bed-side more regularly; till at length the youth scarcely left at all — watching like a fixture, the ebbing flow of his father's life. And the father watched too, when not distracted with pain, and noted how the malady cut away the tissues which once made him strong and vigorous.

Oh those long, long, days and longer nights, when sleep had flown from that suffering bed ! Sometimes talking became a re- lief, and sometimes a burden which the father avoided. For hours and hours together he wanted simply to hold Ben's hands, and look quietly into the strong young face, or try to beguile him- self to sleep. When he became talkative, young Rojer perceived

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it at once, and roused himself to become as interesting as pos- sible.

"Do you still hear the voice, Pa? Is there any joyful whis- pering now ?" Ben once asked.

"Yes son, I still hear the voice — I still have hope. The joy born of grief is the sweetest of all. Of course, when I'm dis- tracted with pain, I know only the pain. You see if the bitter were made sweet, it would fail of its mission to teach us the value of sweet. With every breathing spell, as this ordeal progresses I am assured of the light beyond it. With those ears, of which I have told you, I hear sweet voices that comfort me and brace me up to meet all the necessary torture.

"Oh tell me everything, Pa. I've never been more ready to hear every word you might say."

"I can't say just how soon, but I shall surely pass out of this world, and it will be a timely and fitting change. You are budding into manhood, and you long for the full power and de- velopment of that condition ; I am maturing my labors among mortal men, and I look forward with great anticipation to an- other world, and hosts of other friends. Son, I know of that other world, I have assurances of it which you are not yet able to hear. You'll join me there after awhile, and when I meet you, I. want to meet a man — not a thing — a true man, who has stood every test the Lord prepared. My greatest worry is for you ; of course, I shall suffer more pain, but my work is too nearly finished to fail. You have years of earth ahead of you yet, and those years will be as full of temptation as the past has been, yet I shall not be near to restrain you. You'll stand alone to succeed or fail on your own merits."

"But won't you come if I'm in great danger?"

"I can't promise. I'll remember you always. If I could — I suppose I'd help you out of all your troubles, but I was left alone, and it is likely you will be."

"What is it you most fear in me?"

Your temper. And son, you're proud ; when you get your full strength, I tremble for what you may do. And you're a hater — you like revenge. I have watched these dangerous tend- encies all these years, and now that I am going away, I tell you plainly what they are, and warn you to watch them. They are your enemies, and you must go up against them alone."

Ben heard these things, and many more, like a man hears when he is stupid from want of sleep; but they found lodgment in his mind, and in calmer days he sought them out with care, and cherished them as precious words.

In all the long period of watching, young Rojer felt no desire to tell what he had seemed to foresee ; for while life remained, the

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soul-communion continued, inviting certain things and repelling others, and he understood and respected it to the last.

Towards the end, when the dim eyes and toiling soul de- pended on the hand-grip for communion, there was little said. And then at last, like the bright light which breaks clearly through the dark clouds after we thought the sun below the horizon, those eyes opened clearly and resolutely, and the bearded lips moved again :

"Now, son, remember what I've said."

The communion ceased. The tired eyes fell peacefully shut, and the dear old hands relaxed their loving grip. Fred Rojer was no longer there. No, the form remained somewhat the same but the glorious, immortal something, that had looked at Ben through those now closed eyes — the sacred intelligence that drew him as a magnet and communed with his soul without words, it was gone — gone silently and invisibly away into the great un- known.

The house swarmed with friends eager to give every possible assistance, and to them Ben left the rest. He could do no more, his soul was full to overflowing with the whole lingering scene.

In spite of our warnings and our consolation, death still leaves a sting, and its tidings fall on to the mind with a painful misfit. Young Rojer could hardly adjust his soul to the change — could hardly conceive that nowhere in the whole extent of earth might be found that friend upon whom he had leaned as the more reliable part of himself.

Where he wandered, or what the hour of night, made little difference to him. He knew in a subconscious way that the night was dark and still, that a solitary cricket chirped lonesomely from somewhere in the garden, and that the stars had a far-away glim- mer above, with the big dipper in place among them ; but all those things knocked vainly at the door of his attention.

"I must meet it alone," he whispered, "already alone — and Soorowits will come out of the distance and do some terrible thing."

(This thrilling story of life on the ranges of the Pagahrit region in southern Utah, will be continued in ten chapters, Improvement Era, Vol. 17, beginning Nov. 1, 1913.)