Some men and some scenes so fasten themselves into one's memory that theyears, with their crowding scenes and men, have no power to displacethem. I can never forget "Ould Michael" and the scene of my firstknowing him. All day long I rode, driving in front my pack-pony ladenwith my photograph kit, tent and outfit, following the trail that wouldend somewhere on the Pacific Coast, some hundreds of miles away. I wasweary enough of dodging round the big trees, pushing through underbrush,scrambling up and down mountain-sides, hugging cliffs where the trailcut in and wading warily through the roaring torrent of "Sixty-mileCreek." As the afternoon wore on, the trail left the creek and woundaway over a long slope up the mountain-side.
"Ginger," said I to my riding pony, "we are getting somewhere"—for ourtrail began to receive other trails from the side valleys and the goingwas better. At last it pushed up into the open, circled round a shoulder[Pg 4]of the mountain, clinging tight, for the drop was sheer two hundredfeet, and—there before us stretched the great Fraser Valley! From myfeet the forest rolled its carpet of fir-tops—dark-green, soft,luxurious. Far down to the bottom and up again, in waving curves itswept, to the summit of the distant mountains opposite, and through thisdark-green mass the broad river ran like a silver ribbon gleaming in thesunlight.
Following the line of the trail, my eye fell upon that which has oftenmade men's hearts hard and lured them on to joyous death. There, abovethe green tree-tops, in a clearing, stood a tall white mast and from thepeak, flaunting its lazy, proud defiance, flew a Union Jack.
"Now, Ginger, how in the name of the Empire comes that brave rag to beshaking itself out over these valleys!"
Ginger knew not, but, in answer to my heels, set off at a canter downthe slope and, in a few minutes, we reached a grassy bench thatstretched down to the river-bank. On the bench was huddled an irregulargroup of shacks and cabins and, in front of the first and most imposingof them, stood the tall mast with its floating flag. On the wideplatform that ran in front of this log cabin a man was sitting, smokinga short bull-dog pipe. By his dress and style I saw at once that he had[Pg 5]served in Her Majesty's army. As I rode up under the flag I lifted mycap, held it high and called out: "God save the Queen!" Instantly he wason his feet and, coming to attention with a military salute, repliedwith great fervor: "God bless her!" From that moment he took me to hisheart.
That was my introduction to "Ould Michael," as everyone in the Valleycalled him, and as he called himself.
After his fifth glass, when he would become dignified, "Ould Michael"would drop his brogue and speak of himself as "Sergeant McGrath, late ofHer Majesty's Ninety-third Highlanders," Irishman though he was.
Though he had passed his sixtieth year, he was still erect and briskenough in his movement, save for a slight hitch in his left leg. "Atouch of a knife," he explained, "in the Skoonder Bag."
"The where?"
"Skoonder Bag, forninst the walls the Lucknow—to the left over, yeunderstand."
"I'm