PRITCHEN GETS BUSY
Several days after the conversation in the school room, Pritchen was
striding along the trail, which wound through the Indian village.
Under his right arm he carried his long, narrow snow-shoes, while over
his left shoulder was a small rifle, pendant from which were a few
plump white ptarmigan. The trail ran close to the mission house, and,
drawing near, the hunter observed the missionary by the door splitting
fire wood.
For days Pritchen had steered clear of his hated opponent, and had not
met him face to face since the shooting affray in the saloon. His
anger, which burned like a fire in his heart, had become much
intensified since then by the change affairs had taken. The Reading
Room had proved a success, notwithstanding his jibes and sneers, and a
goodly number of men were spending their evenings there who formerly
haunted Perdue's place.
"D-- him!" muttered Pritchen half aloud. "I don't want to have any
words with the cur. I wish I had taken some other route."
Even then he was tempted to put on his snowshoes and cut off from the
trail. On second thought, however, this was abandoned, as his purpose
would be easily interpreted as the act of a coward.
With eyes straight forward he essayed to pass the house without
noticing the missionary, when a deep growl close by arrested his
attention, and caused him to glance quickly up. He stopped short and
over his face spread a look of surprise and then fear.
The cause of this change of attitude was the half-wolf dog Brisko, who
with his back to the door was growling in the most ferocious manner.
His teeth gleamed white, his eyes glowed, and the hair on his back
stood straight on end. Not since the terrible night of the fight with
the wolves had Keith seen the brute so much aroused.
"What's the matter with the cur?" growled Pritchen, trying to conceal
the apprehension he felt.
"I don't know," replied the missionary. "I never saw him greet any one
in that way before. He seems to be much exercised now anyway."
Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. He loved dogs dearly,
studied them most carefully, and had read much about their ways. Was
there not some good reason for Brisko's aversion to this man? Had he
seen him before? If so, where? Why that look of surprise and fear
upon Pritchen's face? Could it be possible that this was the very one,
the "Bill," whom that dying man in the Ibex cabin mentioned?
Lost in thought, he did not realize that he was staring hard at
Pritchen, as if he could read his very soul. The latter noticed the
look, surmised its meaning, and an ugly scowl passed over his face.
"What are you gazing at so mighty hard?" he blurted out.
"You," Keith calmly replied.
"Well, what do you see about me that's so interesting? I ain't much to
look at."
"You were a minute ago when you first saw that dog. Why were you so
surprised and startled?"
"Wouldn't anyone be startled to have a brute growl at him in that way?"
"And why did he growl? He never did so to anyone else since I've had
him."
"How in h--do you suppose I know? Am I responsible for the moods of a
d-- mission house cur?"
"Perhaps he knows you, though, as well as I do."
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps he has reason to growl. Look," and Keith pointed to an ugly
scar on the dog's side, over which the hair had not grown.
Pritchen did not reply, but stepped forward to obtain a better view, at
which Brisko retreated, still showing his teeth.
"I'd growl too," went on Keith, "if I were a dog, and met the man who
treated me that way, and left my master to die in the wilderness,
though God knows, Bill, that I have more cause than Brisko to show my
teeth when I think of what you have done to Nellie and the little ones."
At these words Pritchen threw off all semblance of pretension. A
terrible oath leaped from his lips, and his face became livid with rage.
"You insinuating dog," he cried. "Speak out. What in h-- do you mean?"
"You know very well what I mean about her, that sweet-faced little
woman, but you think I don't know about the other," and Keith looked
him full in the eyes. "I tell you I do, and that you, Bill Pritchen,
robbed young Kenneth Radhurst, your partner, and left him to die in the
lonely Ibex cabin. Deny it if you can."
"I do deny it, and I ask you to prove it. You can't do it, and what's
more, I'll make you eat your words, and a bitter dose they'll be, too."
Pritchen was making a bluff. His speech was fierce, but his courage
was failing. A fear of this strong, calm man was creeping over him.
How much did he know? What had he found out?
"Bill," said Keith quietly, "just a word more. For Nellie's sake I
have borne with you for some time. You imposed a mean trick upon me,
of which I have said nothing. You have tried to break up my mission
work, and I have let you alone. Now I know that you are capable of the
lowest degree of baseness, so I advise you to do one of two things
while there is time."
"And what in h-- is that?" came the surly response.
"Leave my Indians alone, or go away from this camp, and do not cross my
path again."
"And what if I don't take your d-- advice?"
"The answer is there," and the missionary waved his hand towards the
Indian houses. "I hold the natives in leash. At a word from me they
will pour in from the mountains, those cabins will swarm with life,
and--oh, well, you know the rest. In the meantime touch me, and you
will answer to them. As for that dastardly deed to a young partner, if
the miners knew--and they will know if you don't do as I advise."
Pritchen waited to hear no more. With an oath upon his lips he sprang
for the trail, leaving the missionary gazing after him with a troubled
mind. Keith had thrust deep into the villain's heart. He had wounded
him sore, but he felt no sense of elation, for he knew he was
contending with a vile serpent in human guise.
Pritchen proceeded at a rapid pace through the Indian village, and down
to the miners' cabins. He did not enter Perdue's store as was his
wont, but made straight for his own log house beyond. A miserable,
half-starved cur was lying at the door. Giving the animal a brutal
kick, which sent it howling away, Pritchen entered the building.
Throwing his snow-shoes into one corner and the rifle with the
ptarmigan on a pile of rugs, he sat down upon a small stool. His
small, swinish eyes blazed, his brutal features twitched, and his hands
clinched together as he brooded over the interview.
"He warned me, d-- him, he warned me! Me--me, Bill Pritchen, the
lawless, who never took such words from any man which I have taken from
him! But I'll fix him! I'll bring him down from his high horse. He's
got the cinch on me now through those d-- Injuns, but my time'll come.
He told me to leave the camp, ha, ha!" Then he paused, and a light
broke over his countenance. He sprang to his feet. "I've got it!
I've got it!" he exclaimed. "He said he'd expose me; that the men
should know. Oh, yes, they'll know, ha, ha! But I must see first
what's happened to that kid. I'll leave the camp. Oh, yes, I'll take
your advice, my fine fellow, but I'll come back, yes, I'll come back,
and then beware!"
Early the next morning he left Klassan with a small pack on his back,
snow-shoes on his feet, and a rifle under his arm. For five days the
wilderness swallowed him up, and then he returned. It was night when
he came back, with the swinging stride and elastic step of a man who
has accomplished his purpose.
This time he did not go to his own cabin, but stopped at the store. He
was in high fettle when he entered the building. He nodded pleasantly
to the few men gathered at the table playing cards, and cracked a joke
with Perdue as he tossed off a draught of hootch.
"Give us a snack, Jim," he said, setting down the cup. "I'm dead beat,
and haven't had a mouthful since morning."
"Sure," returned the saloonkeeper. "There are some beans in the pan,
and I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Where's your game, Bill?" asked one of the men, looking up from his
cards.
"Out on the hill, where they'll stay for all I care."
"Why, I thought you were out hunting."
"So I was."
"And found nothing?"
"You're mistaken there, pard. I found more than I expected."
"What, gold?" asked several in chorus. "Been prospectin'?"
"No."
"A pretty squaw?"
"Ha, ha. No, not this time; they're too d-- scarce."
"Well, what did you find, man? Don't be so mysterious."
"I found this," and Pritchen drew from beneath his buckskin jacket a
small book, which had been kept in place by his leathern belt. "Look,"
he said, holding it up to view, "isn't that a find! 'Robert Browning's
Selected Poems,' that's what it is."
"Oh, is that all," replied one in disgust. "Deal the cards, Tim, and
let's have another game."
"No, it's not all by a d-- sight," and Pritchen helped himself to
another plateful of beans. "But then if you fellows don't want to hear
the rest, it's all right; it'll keep."
"Come, Bill," coaxed Perdue, "never mind Missouri; all he thinks about
is cards. Let's have yer yarn."
"Well, what would you think if you found a book like that miles from
nowhere?" replied Pritchen, who was most anxious to tell his story.
"'Tis queer, when ye come to think of it," soliloquized Perdue with a
characteristic nod of the head. "It's very much out of the ordinary, I
should say."
"And suppose you were out hunting," went on Pritchen, "and, reaching
the Ibex cabin late at night, found the place looking as if hell had
been let loose, and this book lying on the floor, what would you think?
You'd wonder a d-- lot, wouldn't you?"
"Sure," assented Perdue.
"And suppose in the morning, being somewhat suspicious, you nosed
around a bit outside, and found a steep rock with two letters and a
cross cut upon it, you would wonder some more, wouldn't you?"
"Y'bet," broke in Missouri, who had forgotten his cards in the story.
"Then when you saw wolf tracks on every hand, the snow all dug up at
the foot of the rock, torn pieces of clothes lying around, and other
things too terrible to mention, you would feel very sick, wouldn't you?"
"My God, yes!" exclaimed the men. "Did you find all that, and where?"
"And what would you think," continued Pritchen, thoroughly enjoying the
sensation he was causing, "if the man responsible for it all came to
Klassan and never said a word about it to any one?"
"That it looked mighty suspicious," replied Perdue. "But is there any
one here who knows about the matter?"
"Maybe this'll tell the tale," and Pritchen opened the book he was
holding in his hand. "See, look for yourselves; there's something to
think over."
"Read it, Bill; let's have it, quick."
Holding the volume to the flickering candle light, Pritchen read the
following, written in a firm hand:
"Keith Steadman,
"First Prize for proficiency in English Literature.
"Collegiate School,
"Windsor, N. S.
"Christmas, 18--."
"What, is that the parson?" asked Tim.
"Certainly, who else would it be?" replied Perdue.
Silence followed these words, and the men looked at one another.
Pritchen, noticing this, was vexed and puzzled.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out.
"I don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded Missouri. "You
can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death."
"But the book."
"Oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's
all."
"But the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?"
"Any man might have done that. And if the parson did find a sick man
in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the
snow, and put up some marks. It's all quite natural."
"But why didn't he say something about it when he came to Klassan?"
"Blamed if I know. Maybe he had some reason. Anyway it doesn't prove
anything."
"I didn't say it did," snapped Pritchen, who was feeling sore at this
man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. His
elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. They were
known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and
took only a passing interest in the events around them. They were
seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. He had
noticed that only these were in the store with Perdue, but had not
given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. Now he
wondered what had become of his own gang. He knew he could make an
impression upon them.
"Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to Perdue.
"Over at the Reading Room," replied the latter. "There's a big time on
there to-night."
"What's up?" and Pritchen's face darkened as various thoughts flashed
through his mind.
"Ye needn't worry," Perdue hastened to explain. "The boys are all
right. They're only after a little fun. Ye see, there's a debate on,
and that's why they're there."
"A debate! On what?"
"Ye'd never guess, Bill. It's a h-- of a subject. 'Which has caused
more misery in the world, war or whiskey?' that's what it is."
"Ha, ha," laughed Pritchen. "They're after you, Jim. Ain't you going
to hold up your end of the game?"
"Not much. The boys'll do that all right without me."
"And they mean business?"
"Who, the boys?"
"Yes."
"Sure, and I'm to give drinks all around when they're through, as my
part of the fun. Ye'd better go along."
"But I'll be too late."
"Not a bit of it. Some of the preliminaries, such as the prayers and
hymns, will be over, but you'll be in time fer the fun; they'll be in
no hurry."
"Good. I'll go. Take care of my gear, will you, till I come back."
With this Pritchen left the saloon and made his way over to the Indian
village.