A wild country. A country less
known than it was sixty years ago, when there was a gold rush up over
the old telegraph trail. Tavish has told me a lot about it. A queer
man--this Tavish. We hit his cabin on our way to God's Lake."
"Did he ever tell you," said David, with an odd quiver in his
throat--"Did he ever tell you of a stream, a tributary stream, called
Firepan Creek?"
"Firepan Creek--Firepan Creek," mumbled the Little Missioner. "He has
told me a great many things, this Tavish, but I can't remember that.
_Firepan Creek_! Yes, he did! I remember, now. He had a cabin on it one
year, the year he had small-pox. He almost died there. I want you to
meet Tavish, David. We will stay overnight at his cabin. He is a strange
character--a great object lesson." Suddenly he came back to David's
question. "What do you want to know about Stikine River and Firepan
Creek?" he asked.
"I was reading something about them that interested me," replied David.
"A _very_ wild country, I take it, from what Tavish has told you.
Probably no white people."
"Always, everywhere, there are a few white people," said Father Roland.
"Tavish is white, and he was there. Sixty years ago, in the gold rush,
there must have been many.
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