"Comrades!" he cried in a voice of terrible intensity, "what does this mean?"
Receiving no answer to his passionate appeal, he turned to Perdue, who was watching the proceedings with the keenest interest.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What are you doing with my Indians? Where is my flock which I left in peace and quietness?"
"Who in h—l are you, and what business is it of yours what we do with the Injuns?" replied Perdue in a surly manner, at the same time shrinking back from those searching blue eyes, which seemed to pierce his very soul.
"Man," came the response, as a yearning arm reached out toward the natives, "they are mine. Through long years of travail I have borne with them, and I love them. I am Keith Steadman, the missionary."
At these words Pritchen started. A look of fear came into his eyes, and he glanced round as if seeking some avenue of escape. Then his appearance changed. His face darkened like a stormy sky. He reached forward, seized a cup of whiskey from the bar, and strode up to Amos, who was quiet in the presence of his master.
"D—n the missionaries, and their flocks!" he cried. "As I offer this to your chosen cur, before long we will give it to every one of your Bible suckers, and they will drink."
Keith turned quickly at these insulting words, saw the outstretched hand, and with one blow of his clenched fist he struck the cup, and dashed its contents into Pritchen's leering face.
With an oath of rage the latter sprang for the missionary. But he was not dealing with Amos now, nor any common man. It was one hundred and seventy pounds of trained flesh, iron nerve, and sinewy muscle that he encountered.
The missionary sprang to meet his adversary like a charger rushing to battle. For an instant only they grappled, when Keith, seizing Pritchen by the throat, hurled him back over the bar with a sickening thud. The boaster was pinned as in a vise. He struggled in vain to free himself from that terrible grip. In his frantic clutches to release the hand from his throat he ripped away the coarse shirt from his neck and bosom, while his face became livid. Keith's hand was lifted; he was about to strike. Suddenly he paused, his fingers relaxed, and with the words, "The Lord judge thee, thou wretched man," he flung Pritchen from him as if he were a viper, then turned and left the building.