CHAPTER XXII
A FIGURE OF SPEECH
Carrying an empty tin pail from his mess outfit, to lend borrowing-color to his neighborly call, Seymour trudged openly to the mission. This proved to be a sizeable log structure without cross or belfry which served both as dwelling for the missionary and a place for the Indians to worship. It had been up several years, from the dead look of the logs. The outlook was upon Glacier Creek rather than upon the Cheena. A forest of scrubby cedar and fir skirted the back of it, while not far away was that misplaced rock spur which formed one flank of the closed cañon.
His coming was announced in chorus by several malamutes chained to individual dog houses in the front yard. The venerable sky-pilot himself was at the front door ready to admit him.
"You are welcome, brother—more than welcome," was his greeting. "Your arrival relieves my daughter of the necessity of riding to Gold to assure us that nothing has happened to you."
"Your daughter—— I thought I'd met your niece! Circumstances beyond my control made last night's appointment——"
Seymour's excuses were interrupted by the sudden entry, from what seemed to be the kitchen, of Moira, a radiant surprise in a blue gingham apron below the hem of which showed her riding boots, testimony that she, not the blond Ruth, had been about to ride to his rescue.
"When——?" was all he was able to gasp as he reached out for both her hands.
"Last night's stage— To think that you—— Oh! Ruth has told me all about how finely you've taken hold of the situation!"
"And Miss Ruth—where is she?" he asked.
"She's had a hard blow in the death of a man she had come to trust. Isn't it enough—glad enough that I'm here, Sergeant Scarlet? I know you must be hungry after that long ride from town. In a minute-and-a-half——"