Silence reigned for a short time in the room, and the men looked at one another, and then at Keith. Twice now had they seen him and Pritchen meet, and each time there had been a scene, and blood narrowly averted. What power the missionary had over the boasting bully, they could not understand, and sought for an explanation of the mystery through many a long evening's conversation in the seclusion of their own cabins.
"Boys," said Keith, breaking the brief silence, "I am a medical man, as well as a missionary, so if you will lift this poor fellow on to the table, perhaps I can do something for him."
Without a word they obeyed, and stood quietly by as he examined the wound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood.
"Close call, that," they heard him say. "Concussion. The ball's in here yet; it must come out."
Presently he turned and looked toward Perdue. "Haven't you a private corner somewhere for this chap?" he asked.
The saloonkeeper's face was surly. "I don't want him here," he replied. "It's not my funeral. Why should I be bothered with him?"
Keith stared at him in amazement. He could hardly believe it possible that any one could be so hardened to human suffering. Before he could speak, an old man, with white hair and shaggy beard, stepped up to Perdue.
"You brute!" he roared. "You desarve to be strung up to the nearest tree. Ye're jist like most of yer set; ye strip us of our chink, and manhood, and when we've nothin' left ye fire us out. I've a son somewhar, God bless'm, and fer his sake this poor chap'll come to my cabin. B'ys, if y'll bear him tenderly, I'll lead the way. Will that do, sir?" he concluded, turning to the missionary.
"Just the thing," replied Keith, "and while you carry him, I'll slip over to my cabin for my instruments and bandages."