"You'll see how honest they are, Tim Murphy. I never saw an honest Injun yet. Only dead Injuns are honest. Then look at their d--n superst.i.tion. Such psalm singing would be stopped in some camps as quick as h--l."

To this conversation Jim Perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most interested listener. He hated Amos and the loyal members of the band, who kept aloof from his store and filthy poison. He determined, therefore, to use Pritchen as an instrument to further his evil designs upon the natives.

"So you think you can stop that bell from ringing, do you?" he asked.

"Well, then, I'll bet a drink all around that you can't do it."

"I'll do it for one night," answered Pritchen guardedly.

"Oh, ye might fix the bell so it wouldn't ring fer one night, that'd be no trouble. But ye can't make them leave their service, and come here fer a drink. If ye kin I'll supply the stuff free."

"Free poison," laughed one of the men. "Say, Jim, ye'd better go easy.

The ground's too mighty tough, and we don't want to spend a month digging graves."

"Never ye fear, d.i.c.k," replied Perdue good naturedly. "You've stood the stuff all right, so I guess the Injuns are safe."

During this conversation Pritchen was thinking hard. When the laugh which followed the saloon-keeper's retort had subsided, he turned to him and said:

"Jim, I'll take your bet."

"What, to stop the bell, and to bring the Injuns here fer a drink?"

"Yes, but only for to-morrow night, remember."

"Oh, that'll do," replied Perdue. "I'll do the rest."

The next day Pritchen was unusually busy. Having obtained the aid of a native interpreter, he visited the Indians and set before them the plan he had carefully concocted during the night. The Great White Chief at Ottawa, so he told them, had heard of the Takudhs, and how they attended the services of his Church. So pleased was he with their faithfulness that he had sent him, Pritchen, all the way to Kla.s.san to carry his message of good will, and to give a present to each one. He had only lately arrived, and would like as soon as possible to carry out the Great White Chief's command. If the Indians would come over to the store in the evening he would be pleased to distribute the presents.

This harangue was received with evident approval by most of the natives, and bright visions danced before their eyes. There were others who were not so easily persuaded, of whom was the aged, wrinkled, and gray-haired chief of the band. He wished to know more, and asked for some token to show that the white man was telling the truth.

Pritchen was prepared for this, and at once brought forth a fair-sized poke of gold and held it up in his hand.

"Look," he said. "Much gold; the White Chief's gold. With this I will buy the presents in yonder store."

The various "ah, ah's" which pa.s.sed from one to another revealed the effect his words produced. But still the old man was not convinced.

Any miner might have that much gold, he told him. What else could he show?

Pritchen did not expect this, and felt somewhat confused. He fumbled in his pockets for some trinket to appease the suspicious chief. He was about to abandon the search when his hand struck a note book, in a pocket he had overlooked, on the inside of his rough jacket. He quickly drew it forth, and from its pages produced a small photograph.

That it was the face of a young man, handsome and fair, did not signify. It would serve his purpose, Pritchen felt sure of that.

"See," he said, holding it in his hand. "The white chief sends his picture to the chief of the Takudhs."

This was enough. All doubt was at once removed, and as the old man stretched out a scrawny hand for the treasure, a smile of triumph pa.s.sed over Pritchen's hard face.

"I caught the rascal at last," he said to himself as he left the lodge.

"It was mighty lucky for me that I had that photo. I had forgotten all about it. But I must get it back some way or else there may be trouble."

At the appointed hour of six the simple-minded Indians emerged from their various lodges and filed silently toward Perdue's store. Here they squatted on the floor, with their backs to the wall, awaiting proceedings.

A number of miners entered and stood or sat chatting with one another, apparently unconscious of the dusky figures in their midst. At length Pritchen arrived, and after conversing for a while in a low tone with Perdue he turned to the Indians. He told them again, through the same interpreter, of the great chief's love for them, and his interest in their welfare. He lengthened his speech as much as possible before distributing the presents. These were cheap articles he had purchased from the store during the day; bright pieces of cloth for the women, pipes, tobacco, and knives for the men, while sugar was doled out to the children. This performance took some time, and a triumphant light gleamed in Pritchen's eye as he glanced at the small clock in the room.

"Now for the stuff," he cried.

At once, cups br.i.m.m.i.n.g with vile hootch were placed upon the rough bar.

Seizing one in his hand Pritchen held it before the old chief's eyes.

"Drink," he said. "Good."

As the Indian looked in silence at the mixture, without offering to touch it, a stern voice rang out near the door. Some one was speaking in sharp, quick words in the Indian tongue, which produced an immediate effect. In an instant every eye was turned toward the speaker, when they beheld standing there the st.u.r.dy form of Amos, the catechist.

He had returned from his hunting trip, and, finding the church and the lodges deserted, suspected trouble. He made his way to the saloon, feeling quite certain that there he would find an explanation of it all. Neither was he mistaken. When he beheld the presents, and the cup of whiskey held so temptingly before the face of his revered chief, his wrath flared forth in righteous indignation. He lashed the Indians with a few stinging words of rebuke, and, springing forward, with blazing eyes confronted Pritchen.

The latter, seeing the catechist's anger, realized the purport of his words. He saw that his scheme was likely to be frustrated simply through this one man.

"You dog of an Injun," he cried. "You vile psalm singer, get out of this and go to h--l," at the same time giving him a sharp slap in the face.

Stung to the quick by the double insult of word and blow, in the presence of his own people, and upon his ancestral domain, with a yell Amos leaped for his insulter. Pritchen was prepared for this, and with a well-directed blow sent the Indian reeling backwards. Recovering himself, however, with great agility, the catechist again rushed forward, dodged a second blow, and grappled with his opponent. But Pritchen was too much for him, and with a powerful effort partly disengaged himself from the native's grasp, and seized him by the throat with a death-like grip. Amos endeavored to free himself, but the more he writhed and struggled, the tighter pressed those terrible fingers.

So quickly had all this taken place, that for a while the squatting Indians stared in amazement. Then they realized the whole situation.

Their leader, their chosen guide, was in danger, and had been grossly insulted by the white man. They leaped to their feet, bore down upon the struggling pair, and tore away the fingers from the catechist's throat.

Pritchen had over-stepped the mark, and had brought the storm upon his own head. He fought hard to free himself from the violent hands which were laid upon him. The women tore his face and hair, the men dealt him savage blows, and he staggered to and fro in an effort to keep his feet and to escape from the human wildcats.

During this performance the miners had remained stolidly silent, and when they beheld the tables turned upon Pritchen smiles of satisfaction flitted across their faces. They had little use for the big, bl.u.s.tering bully. He was not one of them, anyway, only an intruder, and whence he came or what his business no one seemed to know. But when they saw him in real danger they bestirred themselves, went to his a.s.sistance, and everything pointed to a free and general fight.

At that instant the saloon door was flung open, and a tall, stalwart figure sprang into the room. A subtle influence spread over the contestants, and, pausing in their struggle, turned to look upon the new arrival.

"Lord! who is it?" gasped Tim Murphy, shrinking back a step or two.

The stranger's eyes swept the room with one swift glance. In an instant he comprehended much.

"Comrades!" he cried in a voice of terrible intensity, "what does this mean?"

Receiving no answer to his pa.s.sionate appeal, he turned to Perdue, who was watching the proceedings with the keenest interest.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What are you doing with my Indians? Where is my flock which I left in peace and quietness?"

"Who in h--l are you, and what business is it of yours what we do with the Injuns?" replied Perdue in a surly manner, at the same time shrinking back from those searching blue eyes, which seemed to pierce his very soul.

"Man," came the response, as a yearning arm reached out toward the natives, "they are mine. Through long years of travail I have borne with them, and I love them. I am Keith Steadman, the missionary."

At these words Pritchen started. A look of fear came into his eyes, and he glanced round as if seeking some avenue of escape. Then his appearance changed. His face darkened like a stormy sky. He reached forward, seized a cup of whiskey from the bar, and strode up to Amos, who was quiet in the presence of his master.

"D--n the missionaries, and their flocks!" he cried. "As I offer this to your chosen cur, before long we will give it to every one of your Bible suckers, and they will drink."

Keith turned quickly at these insulting words, saw the outstretched hand, and with one blow of his clenched fist he struck the cup, and dashed its contents into Pritchen's leering face.

With an oath of rage the latter sprang for the missionary. But he was not dealing with Amos now, nor any common man. It was one hundred and seventy pounds of trained flesh, iron nerve, and sinewy muscle that he encountered.