"I'd growl too," went on Keith, "if I were a dog, and met the man who treated me that way, and left my master to die in the wilderness, though God knows, Bill, that I have more cause than Brisko to show my teeth when I think of what you have done to Nellie and the little ones."
At these words Pritchen threw off all semblance of pretension. A terrible oath leaped from his lips, and his face became livid with rage.
"You insinuating dog," he cried. "Speak out. What in h— do you mean?"
"You know very well what I mean about her, that sweet-faced little woman, but you think I don't know about the other," and Keith looked him full in the eyes. "I tell you I do, and that you, Bill Pritchen, robbed young Kenneth Radhurst, your partner, and left him to die in the lonely Ibex cabin. Deny it if you can."
"I do deny it, and I ask you to prove it. You can't do it, and what's more, I'll make you eat your words, and a bitter dose they'll be, too."
Pritchen was making a bluff. His speech was fierce, but his courage was failing. A fear of this strong, calm man was creeping over him. How much did he know? What had he found out?
"Bill," said Keith quietly, "just a word more. For Nellie's sake I have borne with you for some time. You imposed a mean trick upon me, of which I have said nothing. You have tried to break up my mission work, and I have let you alone. Now I know that you are capable of the lowest degree of baseness, so I advise you to do one of two things while there is time."
"And what in h— is that?" came the surly response.
"Leave my Indians alone, or go away from this camp, and do not cross my path again."
"And what if I don't take your d— advice?"