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 assailants 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.
In this man he thought he recognized his rescuer, one who had the power to save him from the surging horde.
"Great warrior!" he cried, addressing the stranger, "keep back the Indians! Take me to your chief. I have a message to deliver."
For a time the native maintained a dignified silence, though never for a moment did his eye leave the missionary's face. He seemed to be studying every line and expression of that bronzed countenance. The effect of this close scrutiny Keith could not tell, though he somehow felt that it meant life or death.
"Come," said the Indian at length. "Come with me."