esponse, and,
glancing quickly around, Keith looked into the scowling face of
Pritchen, with his revolver still in his hand. He was standing in a
defiant attitude, with his back to the wall, as if expecting an attack
for the deed he had committed. But there was nothing for him to fear,
as the youth, Joe Simkins, one of his own gang, had pulled his gun
first. It was only an act of self-defence, and this the miners well
knew.

It was a certain relief to Keith to see Pritchen standing there, and to
know that Jennie had not carried out her design. But he had little
time to think about it now. Stern work was on hand, and must be
attended to without delay.

"I know this much," Keith replied, looking Pritchen straight in the
eyes, "that if something isn't done for this man, and done at once, you
will have another life to answer for at the Judgment Day, and it is not
a poor, helpless Indian woman this time, either."

Stung to the quick by these words, spoken so deliberately by the man he
bitterly hated, with an oath, Pritchen grasped his revolver more firmly
than ever. His face was livid with rage, and his teeth ground
together. Just when the miners expected to see another dead or wounded
man in their midst, the weapon was suddenly dropped into its case, and,
without a word, Pritchen left the building.

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 ha