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Ever since I saw you that wild night at Siwash Creek your image has been enshrined in my heart. Through that terrible trial, on the long trail, and out in the Quelchie camp, the story of which I have told you over and over again, you were ever with me. My love has intensified; it has become a burning fire. And oh, Constance! tell me, is there any response? Dare I hope for any return of my love?"
Mothers hushed their children to rest by the one word "Quelchie," and nothing startled a camp more quickly than the mere mention of that dreaded name. To this tribe the message must be carried, and he was the one to go. Thus, so near the object of his desire, and the end of the long trail, he rested for a while on the mountain's brow, and gazed down upon the village nestling beneath.
But of the sterner, sadder side they knew nothing, and how he longed to show those very men the difference between Klassan, where the light of Christ had come, and this wretched Quelchie village in heathen darkness. "Oh, Lord," he prayed, "help me, give me power to say the right word and to bring the Spirit into these miserable lives."
The conjurer thrilled with joy as he noticed the effect of his words, and saw the Indians quietly leave the lodge to spread the news to those without. The old spell had still its influence, and he gave a low chuckle of delight. Knowing nothing of what was taking place at the Quelchie camp, Keith returned with Shrahegan after two days' absence.
Advancing to the old chief, he bowed low, and detecting a faint sign of pleasure upon the dusky face, he felt somewhat encouraged. "Great Quelchie chief," he began, "I am a stranger in your midst. I have come a long way over a hard trail to bear to you a message from my own Chief, whom I have served from a child. May I speak?" "The pale-face is welcome," came the reply.
The afternoon sun was flooding the whole landscape with the golden glory of a burnished shield as Keith Steadman, the outcast, sat on a mountain ridge looking down upon the village of the fierce Quelchie Indians. His clothes were torn and tattered, his bronzed face and hands scratched and bleeding. Gaunt, footsore and hungry, he presented a forlorn figure, a mere speck on the mountain's brow.
"You would have been put to death. No paleface ever entered the Quelchie camp and lived to tell about it." "So other white men have come here, then, and you cruelly killed them?" "They came to steal our land, and to find out what you call gold." "Ah, now I see. That is why you have the prospector's pick and shovel there. You killed the man and kept these."
For several hours Keith sat in the vestry of the church, which had been his dwelling place since his return from the Quelchie camp. He was surrounded by his mail. Papers and parcels of books strewed the floor, while on the table was a liberal supply of letters. He had been busily engaged upon the latter, and they brought him varied news; this of joy, that of sorrow.
Now for the first time in the world's history it was being trodden by the weary foot of a messenger of peace. The Quelchie village lay in a valley, surrounded by frowning mountains, well protected from the fierce northern winds. A small stream flowed hard by, frozen in winter, gently babbling in summer, and flooded in springtime from its own countless tributaries.
And besides, have you not great plans in store for the Quelchie Indians, and the new mining town, of which we have talked so often. I think you have much in store." "There is much," came the slow reply. "There is vast work yet to be done. But a letter has filled me with serious thoughts, and I have come to you for advice." "To me! For advice!" "Yes. Here is the letter, a fair-sized one, is it not?
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