The Frontiersman Part 23

"Very strange," muttered Pritchen. "A chest in the cabin, a strong one at that--locked, and the owner unable to find the key! What do you keep in such a precious box?"

Keith heard him, but heeded not. He was trying to think. Yes, he had placed the picture there before he left the building, and closed the lid down without turning the key. He was sure of that.

He was aroused from his reverie by Pritchen asking for an axe.

"There," and Keith pointed to a corner of the room.

At first an attempt was made to pry up the cover, by forcing the axe under the edge, but in this they failed.

"Let's smash the d-- thing!" cried Pritchen. "We can't waste the whole night here, and we must see into this box."

Suiting the action to the word, he drove the blade into the smooth lid, and in a short time the cover was in splinters.

In silence Keith beheld the work of destruction. What could he do?

Every blow seemed to strike at his own heart, telling him of impending trouble.

"h.e.l.lo! what's this? A woman's face! Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned! Look, boys," and Pritchen pointed to the sketch lying in full view.

The weak candle light fell tremblingly upon the fair face as Perdue bent over the box to examine the picture more closely. Then he seized it roughly in his hand, and held it up for a better inspection. It was not the little laugh given by one of the men which stirred Keith so intensely, but the wink he caught Pritchen tipping to Perdue. It was that quick telegraphic message, the base innuendo which stung and lashed him more than a thousand words. The hot blood, recoiling at the silent insult, surged back to the body's secret depths, leaving the face as white as drifted snow. Keith's eyes flashed danger as he reached out one long tense arm.

"Give that to me," he demanded, restraining himself with a great effort. "It has nothing to do with your business here."

"It's interesting, though," replied Perdue.

"Innocent and pure as the flower of the field," sneered Pritchen, quoting the missionary's own words.

Scarcely had he ceased when Keith, throwing discretion to the wind, leaped upon him, and with one blow sent him reeling back over a small bench standing near. Regaining his feet as quickly as possible, with a terrible oath, Pritchen rushed for his antagonist, only to go down again before that clinched sledge-hammer fist. This time he did not attempt to rise, but lay on the floor, giving vent to the most blood-curdling oaths. Keith towered above him, awaiting his further movement.

"Lie there, then, you serpent!" he cried, spurning him with his foot.

"It's your natural position, anyway."

An exclamation of surprise from Perdue caused him to glance quickly around, and the sight which met his gaze was one never to be forgotten.

Over the chest stood the saloonkeeper, holding in his hand a well-filled moose-skin poke, which he had just lifted from the bottom of the box.

"Is that yours, Tim?" he asked.

"Yes," came the reply. "Don't you see my initials, 'T. F.' worked in the poke? I did it myself, and could swear to it anywhere."

"And what's this?" exclaimed Mickie O'Toole, holding up another poke, which was empty. "See, and here are letters, too, 'K. R.', so, Tim, you're not the only one who's been pinched."

"Maybe the parson kin throw some light on the subject," and Perdue turned towards the missionary with a malicious light in his eye.

But Keith did not answer. He stood as if rooted to the floor. What did it all mean? Was he dreaming? He placed his hand to his forehead.

No, no, it was no dream, but a terrible reality. A base, cowardly trick had been imposed upon him; he felt sure of that.

"G.o.d help me!" he inwardly groaned. "What am I to do?"

"No wonder the box was locked and the key gone," he heard some one say, but it moved him not. His thoughts were elsewhere. What would she think? What would his flock think? Their pastor a base thief! It was terrible. Why had such a cross been laid upon him? What had he done to deserve it all? He thought of another, of One, sinless and pure, who had borne His cross alone; who had been mocked, laughed at, and spit upon. He would not desert him now, anyway, in his time of trial.

The idea comforted him somewhat. A new feeling took possession of him, a strength which he had seldom experienced before. He felt a Presence very near, some unseen influence giving him a marvellous calmness and courage. He looked at the men, and listened to their cruel words unmoved. He saw Pritchen standing by, with Satanic delight stamped upon his features, but it affected him not.

Base and sordid though they were, his companions could not fail to recognize the dignified, lofty bearing of the man before them, and the new light which illumined his face. Mickie O'Toole paused in the midst of a jocular remark, reverently crossed himself, and forgot to finish his sentence. Perdue remained silent, and even Pritchen failed to pour forth his quota of filth and blasphemy. They all felt, though none would have acknowledged it, that some mysterious power was in that room, before which their guilty souls shrank and feared. Keith, alone, knew that One who said, "Lo, I am with you alway," had not deserted him in the hour of distress.

It was only after they had left the house and moved down the hill through the gloomy night that the miners recovered from their temporary fear. When at length they thrust Keith into the saloon among the astonished waiting men, the vilest words in the English language were none too strong with which to introduce the wretched man.

CHAPTER XVIII

YUKON JENNIE

On the afternoon preceding the miners' meeting, Yukon Jennie sat silently in the corner of the old chief's lodge. Her busy little fingers were arranging a number of small pictures, choosing out the best and laying them carefully by themselves. Her face was full of animation as she bent over her task, and her eyes sparkled with delight as she gazed tenderly upon some favourite sketch.

"The pale-face woman will like that," she said to herself. "When she sees the little stream running through the woods, playing with the sunbeams, laughing at the trees, kissing the flowers, and singing, singing all the time, she will be glad."

Since the night she had fled from the church, clutching the keen knife in her hand, a transformation had come over this dusky, wayward maiden.

As long as her terrible resolve was pent up in her little heart it possessed her whole being. But when she had given vent to feelings in pa.s.sionate words, the outcome was marvellous. It had proven a veritable safety-valve to her surcharged soul, a relief, which in others of a different disposition would have been effected by scalding tears.

To acknowledge any change to her faithful teacher was foreign to her proud nature. When once again, however, in the cold night air she looked for a time towards the dimly lighted saloon, and then made her way slowly to the Indian lodge which was her temporary home. The sight of the sad look on the missionary's face stood out clear and distinct as she lay that night beneath her blankets. Another Face, too, often came before her, weary, and blood-stained from the cruel crown of thorns.

No picture had affected her so much as the one she had often gazed upon, in the school room, of the Saviour hanging on the cross. Over and over again she had sketched it until every detail was indelibly impressed upon her heart. The weary face; the nail-pierced hands and feet; the mocking crowd, had mingled with her dreams, and her pa.s.sionate resolve, but never until this night had the meaning of it all stood out so real and distinct.

During the days that followed Jennie fought a stern battle. At times the old longing almost gained the mastery, and she would draw forth the knife, but always to return it to its hiding place among the bundle of rags. Sometimes she watched Pritchen's movements with a strange fascination, when the wild nature would rea.s.sert itself until crushed back again by a mighty effort.

The result of this stern struggle was very apparent on this bright afternoon as the maiden busied herself with the sketches. Her face, almost radiant, revealed the heart within, an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.

When the pictures had been arranged to her satisfaction, she arose and began to array herself in her finest dress, kept only for the most important occasions. It took her some time to complete her costume, and often she glanced at herself in a small broken mirror, with all the pride of some society belle preparing for a grand ball. Finally over her head and shoulders she threw a small bright-coloured shawl, a present from the Christmas tree two years before.

Seizing the pictures in her hand, and drawing the wrap firmly around her body, she left the lodge, glided swiftly and noiselessly down the trail leading to the white settlement, and after a while turned sharply to the left. A queer little bundle she presented as she mounted the hill leading to the Radhurst cabin. Timidly she knocked upon the door, and when Constance had thrown it open, she stepped into the building without a word and seated herself upon the edge of the first stool which caught her attention. Her little black eyes instinctively drank in every object in the room, from the pictures on the wall to the white-haired man sitting by the window with a book in his hand.

But Constance formed the chief attraction. White men were no novelty to her, but a pale-face woman was something new, and worth studying.

She had seen her every Sunday at the church, sitting at the little harmonium, and had been held spellbound by her sweet rich voice joining in the singing. She a.s.sociated Constance with that strange world, the glorious dreamland, which filled so much of her life, and of which the bell was an important factor. From her seat in the back of the church she would look at her own hands, and notice how dark they were, compared with the organist's fair white ones. Returning to the lodge she would gaze long and earnestly into the broken mirror, and wonder why her face was not like the white woman's. Much time did she spend in her efforts to arrange her hair in the same fluffy way with wavy tresses crowning cheek and brow like the object of her admiration.

But, poor child, the more she tried the less she succeeded, for her straight black hair proved too intractable, and refused any other method than the long braid, or its wild abandoned condition.

For a time Constance continued the sewing upon which she was engaged, and addressed no word to the maiden. She had often heard of this Indian characteristic of silence when first entering a building, and wished to prove it for herself. But when at length Jennie drew forth her treasure from beneath her shawl, and uttered the broken word "peejee," Constance looked up.

"What is it?" she asked kindly, going over to where the girl was sitting.

"Peejee. See, nice peejee," and Jennie held out her hand.

"Oh, pictures," laughed Constance, taking the sketches from the maiden.

"Did you bring them for me?"

"Me fetch 'm. Heem tell Jennie come."

"Who told you?"

"Gikhyi."