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 brimming 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 sturdy 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, blustering 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 assistance, 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 passionate 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.

The missionary sprang to meet his adversary like a charger rushing to battle. For an instant only they grappled, when Keith, seizing Pritchen by the throat, hurled him back over the bar with a sickening thud. The boaster was pinned as in a vise. He struggled in vain to free himself from that terrible grip. In his frantic clutches to release the hand from his throat he ripped away the coarse shirt from his neck and bosom, while his face became livid. Keith's hand was lifted; he was about to strike. Suddenly he paused, his fingers relaxed, and with the words, "The Lord judge thee, thou wretched man," he flung Pritchen from him as if he were a viper, then turned and left the building.

CHAPTER V

"FOR MY MOTHER'S SAKE"

Among the Indians in Perdue's store none watched the proceedings more intently than Yukon Jennie, the orphan, whose home was in every camp, but with no certain abiding place. Wrapped in her old shawl, she crouched on the floor, taking no part in the rough-and-tumble fight. Her eyes were constantly fixed upon Pritchen with a strange fascination, which seemed never to waver. Once, when he sprang at Amos, she half started from her place, moved by some sudden impulse. But it was only for an instant, and then she shrank back to her former position.

When, however, the wild scene had ended, and the missionary had left the building, her whole being roused to activity. With the agility and stealthiness of a young tigress she glided from the room into the darkness without, and made straight for the Indian village. Reaching this, she wound her way among the various lodges till, stopping before one larger than the rest, she drew back the skin from the door and entered.

With no light to guide her she went at once to a corner of the room, and drew from a bundle of rags a small parcel. Unwrapping this, she brought forth a formidable looking knife, and with intense eagerness ran her small finger over the keen edge and sharp point. So satisfied was she at the result of this performance that a low chuckle of pleasure escaped her lips. Then, hastily concealing the weapon within the folds of her