"Gal, did ye see that man put the bags of gold in the missionary's cabin? Tell me that."

"Yes. Me see 'um."

"How did you see 'im do it?"

"Jennie see in windee. Heem look all around. Heem see box. Heem take wan poke, heem take two poke, all same dis," and the girl drew her hand twice from beneath her shawl, and stooped to the ground to show how it had been done.

"You lie!" snarled Pritchen. But it was easy to see from his pallid face that the girl's words were having their effect.

"Jennie no lie!" and the maiden, with fear all gone and an indignant mien, looked unwaveringly into the villain's eyes. "Me tell true. Me Clistin. Me no lie! You laugh at peegee in box. You put down cover lak dat," and she slapped her hands together. "You lock box. You trow key in stove. You laugh, bad, ugh!"

During this disclosure Pritchen had stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, to all outward appearance abashed and confounded. But such was not the case. He was thinking hard and fast, while from the corner of his left eye he beheld a sight which filled him with a new determination. He was a desperate man, in a desperate position, and though hope had fled his heart, the spirit of revenge rankled deep. He had played his game and lost, but at any rate he would leave a mark which would be felt.

Scarcely had Jennie finished speaking, when, quick as thought, he leaped towards the pile of rifles lying on the ground, and seizing one turned fiercely upon Old Pete. The rifle was raised, his finger pressed the trigger, and the report rang out. Instead, however, of the ball touching the prospector, it bored its way into the earth, while the rifle flew from Pritchen's grasp, and a dozen hands were laid roughly upon him. He struggled, fought, and tore like a wildcat, but all to no avail. The blood in the miners' veins ran fire. They surged around their victim, overpowered him, and with a leathern belt bound his hands firmly behind his back.

"A rope! A rope!" shouted one. "There, in my cabin you'll find a strong one!"

"That tree!" yelled another. "We'll sling him up!"

Old Pete tried his best to stop them in their mad design. He shouted, pleaded, and even fought to free the captive.

"Drive 'im from Kla.s.san!" he roared, "but don't let his blood be on our heads!"

He might as well have spoken to the wind which was roaring around them.

The men were besides themselves, demented. They had reached the limit of their patience, and the wild pa.s.sions surged within their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

In their eyes the cowardly deeds of Pritchen were without parallel.

What dastardly tricks! What base, underhanded work! What designs of h.e.l.l! The rope, and rope only, was the proper punishment!

Half dragged and half stumbling, the wretched man reached the tree, Nature's solid gallows, standing ghost-like and grim in the deepening darkness. He looked wildly around, and tried to free his hands.

"Mercy! For G.o.d's sake, mercy!" he cried, as the noose was slipped around his neck. "Let me go! Give me another chance, and I'll leave the country!"

"The rope'll take you to a new country, and a hot one at that, quicker than you can mush," jeered one.

"Mercy! Mercy!" pleaded the wretched man. "Spare me this once! I'll tell you all, and get out!"

"Did ye kill that Injun woman?" asked Pete, stepping near.

"Yes."

"Did ye lave young Radhurst to die in the Ibex cabin, an' stole his gold?"

"Yes."

"An' did ye steal Tim Fleeters' gold an' put it in the mission house?"

"Yes. Yes, I did it all. For G.o.d's sake, forgive me! I'm a bad man!

O G.o.d, help me!"

A yell of rage was the only response to his wild pleadings, for a dozen hands had seized the rope, which had been thrown over one of the large projecting branches.

"All together, pull!" was the shout, and with a terrible, gurgling cry, Pritchen swung from the ground into the air.

And even as the men pulled, dead set upon their fearful deed, there was sweeping down upon their own heads the mighty flood of ice and water.

The jam had given way and, sweeping down, was bearing all before it.

The excitement of the men and the roaring of the wind up-stream prevented the noise from reaching their ears. Thus, unconscious of destruction to themselves, they were all intent upon their efforts to hurl a comrade into eternity.

CHAPTER XXV

THE LIGHT OF THE CROSS

The afternoon sun was flooding the whole landscape with the golden glory of a burnished shield as Keith Steadman, the outcast, sat on a mountain ridge looking down upon the village of the fierce Quelchie Indians. His clothes were torn and tattered, his bronzed face and hands scratched and bleeding. Gaunt, footsore and hungry, he presented a forlorn figure, a mere speck on the mountain's brow.

Behind him Kla.s.san lay, two hundred and fifty miles off. For ten days he had been on the trail, along the Kaslo River, then up an unnamed branch, through forests, over valleys and plains, and across a high mountain pa.s.s.

Though an outcast, driven from home in disgrace, and the light of her he loved so dearly, no shadow of a doubt crossed his mind concerning the Father's goodness. He pictured his flock, which he had tended with such care, scattered upon the many hills. He saw vice rampant at Kla.s.san, the church closed, the school unattended, and the Indians exposed to every temptation. Nevertheless, he did not consume his strength in useless whining, or rail at the blow which had fallen. His soul was too large for that. He remembered the command his Master had given to His disciples long ago, "When they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another," and he felt it applied to him. Perhaps they had been too secure and too self-centred at Kla.s.san. For years no storms had come to bend them, no wind of adversity to sift the chaff from the wheat, and no fire of trial to purge the gold from the dross. Now, all had come at once, and was it not for the best? "O Lord," he prayed, "in the sifting and testing process may there be many who will stand the trial, and come forth stronger and purer for the fire of affliction?"

As for himself, he could not doubt the leading of the Divine hand. He had been so much centred in his own flock, wrapped up in their welfare, that he had neglected the sheep in the wilderness, who knew not the name of Christ. He had been, like many an earnest pastor, too parochial, unable to look beyond the bounds of his one field of labour.

He had forgotten that, though his work was of great value at Kla.s.san, after all "the field is the world," and that Christ's command was to "go into the village over against you." He imagined that his presence was absolutely necessary in his own circ.u.mscribed sphere of labour, and overlooked the fact that "He that keepeth Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps."

But when he had stood before his accusers and judges on that stormy day in the saloon, and later bade farewell to Caribou Sol at the door of the mission house, a new purpose burned in his soul, which shone forth in his face, so that even his enemies marvelled when they saw the light. It was the Lord's will, he realized that clearly, and as He used evil men in days gone by for the furtherance of His mighty plans, were not these men now to be used as instruments in spreading abroad the Gospel light?

His mind naturally turned toward the Quelchie Indians, the most cruel and savage band in the North, the dread and terror of the whole land.

Mothers hushed their children to rest by the one word "Quelchie," and nothing startled a camp more quickly than the mere mention of that dreaded name. To this tribe the message must be carried, and he was the one to go.

Thus, so near the object of his desire, and the end of the long trail, he rested for a while on the mountain's brow, and gazed down upon the village nestling beneath. He could see the smoke curling up from numerous lodges, and occasionally the cry of a child or the sharp bark of a dog fell upon his ears.

He drew forth the little locket, and gazed long and earnestly upon the face within. Through the time of trial, on the rough trail, and by the lonely camp fire at night, the thought of Constance had been as an inspiration. He longed to see her, to look into her eyes, and listen to her words as she told of her faith in him. He wondered what she was doing, and if she missed him much. He pictured her moving about the cabin, or sitting in her accustomed place by the window. Would he ever see her again? Into the new field ahead were dangers unknown, and what great changes might take place in a short time!

Thinking thus, he moved cautiously down the steep mountain side, where only the bighorn sheep could walk secure. He was on an old Indian trail which would lead him to the village. By that same pa.s.s the dreaded Quelchies had filed on various occasions to bring death and destruction to some unsuspecting bands of natives beyond. Now for the first time in the world's history it was being trodden by the weary foot of a messenger of peace.

The Quelchie village lay in a valley, surrounded by frowning mountains, well protected from the fierce northern winds. A small stream flowed hard by, frozen in winter, gently babbling in summer, and flooded in springtime from its own countless tributaries.

The Indians had recently returned from their various hunting grounds, and were enjoying life to the full in their wild, uncouth way when Keith entered the settlement. A lean, skulking cur gave the alarm, which was taken up by scores of his companions, who rushed upon the stranger, yelping and snarling in the most ferocious manner. From dozens of lodges men, women and children suddenly poured, and, beholding the cause of the disturbance, joined the dogs in their wild clamour. The rifle was wrenched from his hand by a large Indian, who was soon fighting with half a dozen more for the control of the prize.

Everything that Keith possessed was stolen; his knapsack, in which he kept a few treasures; the cap was torn from his head, while rough hands laid hold upon the very clothes he wore. He was hustled and pushed first one way and then another. At times he stumbled and fell, though endeavouring to maintain as dignified a mien as possible.

In the confusion his buck-skin shirt was parted at the neck, and the locket exposed to view. Instantly a scramble ensued for the trinket.

Then Keith's blood was aroused. They might lay hands upon anything else, but not upon that. Straightening himself up, he drove blow after blow at his dusky a.s.sailants with his clenched fist, knocking down two or three, and compelling the rest to fall back a few paces.

Seizing the opportunity which the lull in the storm afforded, he addressed a few words to them in the Tukudh tongue, which, although somewhat different from their own language, they were able to understand.

"Quelchies!" he shouted, above the din of the yelping dogs, "listen to what I have to say! I have a great message for your chief. Take me to him."

A yell of derision was the only response, and the savages were about to renew the onset when a strong, clear voice was heard commanding them to desist. The effect was magical, and looking around for the speaker, Keith beheld a stalwart Indian of more than ordinary height, with grace of movement and fine, intelligent face, advancing toward him.