ied silence, though never for
a moment did his eye leave the missionary's face. He seemed to be
studying every line and expression of that bronzed countenance. The
effect of this close scrutiny Keith could not tell, though he somehow
felt that it meant life or death.

"Come," said the Indian at length. "Come with me."

That was all, and without a word Keith followed his deliverer, who
strode on before, leaving the rest of the Indians quarrelling over the
articles they had filched. He was conducted to a building rather
larger than the others, composed entirely of logs. Within, several
women were sitting on wolf and bear-skin rugs, who gazed with silent
curiosity upon the pale-face stranger.

"Stay here," said the guide, motioning him to a place on one of the
rugs. "I will be back soon."

The interior of the lodge was similar to many others Keith had seen,
and interested him not. The women, he concluded, were the Indian's
wives. He noticed that they were superior in appearance to the ones he
had seen outside, and of a pleasing cast of countenance.

One of them was quite young, and good to look upon. Her long black
hair parted in the middle exposed a noble forehead. She was busily
engaged upon a pair of moccasins, weaving in a delicate pattern of
bead-work. Occasionally she shot a glance at the stranger, and then
Keith noted how bright were her eyes, while upon her face was an
expression of sadness and weariness.

Presently his eye rested upon something which made him start. By the
side of the young woman, and fastened to the wall, he beheld a
prospector's pick and shovel. How had they come there? Had some poor,
unfortunate man ventured into this camp, been slain by the Quelchies,
while only these tools remained to tell the tale? He was about to
break the silence, and question the woman, when the Indian returned and
motioned him out of the building.

He was at once taken to a large lodge standing somewhat apart, which
Keith concluded must belong to the chief. Nor was he mistaken, for he
soon found himself in the presence of the aged patriarch of the
Quelchie band. Squatting on the floor, surrounded by a motley group of
women and children, he presented a weird spectacle. Coarse gray hair
flowing down over his shoulders allowed only a portion of his withered,
wrinkled face to be exposed to view. His eyes, more like holes in a
piece of leather than anything else, peered straight at the visitor.

K