That was all, and without a word Keith followed his deliverer, who strode on before, leaving the rest of the Indians quarrelling over the articles they had filched. He was conducted to a building rather larger than the others, composed entirely of logs. Within, several women were sitting on wolf and bear-skin rugs, who gazed with silent curiosity upon the pale-face stranger.
"Stay here," said the guide, motioning him to a place on one of the rugs. "I will be back soon."
The interior of the lodge was similar to many others Keith had seen, and interested him not. The women, he concluded, were the Indian's wives. He noticed that they were superior in appearance to the ones he had seen outside, and of a pleasing cast of countenance.
One of them was quite young, and good to look upon. Her long black hair parted in the middle exposed a noble forehead. She was busily engaged upon a pair of moccasins, weaving in a delicate pattern of bead-work. Occasionally she shot a glance at the stranger, and then Keith noted how bright were her eyes, while upon her face was an expression of sadness and weariness.
Presently his eye rested upon something which made him start. By the side of the young woman, and fastened to the wall, he beheld a prospector's pick and shovel. How had they come there? Had some poor, unfortunate man ventured into this camp, been slain by the Quelchies, while only these tools remained to tell the tale? He was about to break the silence, and question the woman, when the Indian returned and motioned him out of the building.
He was at once taken to a large lodge standing somewhat apart, which Keith concluded must belong to the chief. Nor was he mistaken, for he soon found himself in the presence of the aged patriarch of the Quelchie band. Squatting on the floor, surrounded by a motley group of women and children, he presented a weird spectacle. Coarse gray hair flowing down over his shoulders allowed only a portion of his withered, wrinkled face to be exposed to view. His eyes, more like holes in a piece of leather than anything else, peered straight at the visitor.
Keith involuntarily shuddered as he looked upon the pitiable object before him. This, then, was the man of whom he had heard so much. How often he had listened as the Tukudhs related tales of his fierce jealousy, insane rage, and inhuman cruelty, when thwarted by friend or foe. In days gone by he had heard men dilate in glowing terms of the free, beautiful life of the Indians in their wild, uncivilized condition. They had pictured them roaming the woods and mountains, skimming along grassy lakes or gliding down the rapid streams. But of the sterner, sadder side they knew nothing, and how he longed to show those very men the difference between Klassan, where the light of Christ had come, and this wretched Quelchie village in heathen darkness.
"Oh, Lord," he prayed, "help me, give me power to say the right word and to bring the Spirit into these miserable lives."
Advancing to the old chief, he bowed low, and detecting a faint sign of pleasure upon the dusky face, he felt somewhat encouraged.
"Great Quelchie chief," he began, "I am a stranger in your midst. I have come a long way over a hard trail to bear to you a message from my own Chief, whom I have served from a child. May I speak?"