Part 23 (1/2)

”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.