VI

ON THE TRAIL

"That's the trail. Loon Lake lies yonder."

Shock's Convener, who had charge for his Church of this district, stood
by the buck-board wheel pointing southwest. He was a man about middle
life, rather short but well set up, with a strong, honest face, tanned
and bearded, redeemed abundantly from commonness by the eye, deep blue
and fearless, that spoke of the genius in the soul. It was a kindly
face withal, and with humour lurking about the eyes and mouth. During
the day and night spent with him Shock had come to feel that in this
man there was anchorage for any who might feel themselves adrift, and
somehow the great West, with its long leagues of empty prairie through
which he had passed, travelling by the slow progress of construction
trains, would now seem a little less empty because of this man. Between
the new field toward which this trail led and the home and folk in the
far East there would always be this man who would know him, and would
sometimes be thinking of him. The thought heartened Shock more than a
little.

"That's the trail," repeated the Convener; "follow that; it will lead
you to your home."

"Home!" thought Shock with a tug at his heart and a queer little smile
on his face.

"Yes, a man's home is where his heart is, and his heart is where his
work lies."

Shock glanced quickly at the man's tanned face. Did he suspect, Shock
wondered, the homesickness and the longing in his heart?

Last night, as they had sat together in late talk, he had drawn from
Shock with cunning skill (those who knew him would recognise the trick)
the picture of his new missionary's home, and had interpreted aright
the thrill in the voice that told of the old lady left behind. But now,
as Shock glanced at his Convener's face, there was nothing to indicate
any hidden meaning in his words. The speaker's eyes were far down the
trail that wound like a wavering white ribbon over the yellow-green
billows of prairie that reached to the horizon before and up to the
great mountains on the right.

"Twenty miles will bring you to Spruce Creek stopping-place; twenty
miles more and you are at Big River--not so very big either. You will
see there a little school and beside it, on the left, a little
house--you might call it a shack, but we make the most of things out
here. That's Mr. McIntyre's manse, and proud of it they all are, I can
tell you. You will stay with him over night--a fine fellow you will
find