Hay Stockard swore, harshly, in the rugged monosyllables of his mother tongue.  His wife lifted her gaze from the pots and pans, and followed his in a keen scrutiny of the river.  She was a woman of the Teslin Country, wise in the ways of her husband’s vernacular when it grew intensive.  From the slipping of a snow-shoe thong to the forefront of sudden death, she could gauge occasion by the pitch and volume of his blasphemy.  So she knew the present occasion merited attention.  A long canoe, with paddles flashing back the rays of the westering sun, was crossing the current from above and urging in for the eddy.  Hay Stockard watched it intently.  Three men rose and dipped, rose and dipped, in rhythmical precision; but a red bandanna, wrapped about the head of one, caught and held his eye.

“Bill!” he called.  “Oh, Bill!”

A shambling, loose-jointed giant rolled out of one of the tents, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  Then he sighted the strange canoe and was wide awake on the instant.

“By the jumping Methuselah!  That damned sky-pilot!”

Hay Stockard nodded his head bitterly, half-reached for his rifle, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Pot-shot him,” Bill suggested, “and settle the thing out of hand.  He’ll spoil us sure if we don’t.”  But the other declined this drastic measure and turned away, at the same time bidding the woman return to her work, and calling Bill back from the bank.  The two Indians in the canoe moored it on the edge of the eddy, while its white occupant, conspicuous by his gorgeous head-gear, came up the bank.

“Like Paul of Tarsus, I give you greeting.  Peace be unto you and grace before the Lord.”

His advances were met sullenly, and without speech.

“To you, Hay Stockard, blasphemer and Philistine, greeting.  In your heart is the lust of Mammon, in your mind cunning devils, in your tent this woman whom you live with in adultery; yet of these divers sins, even here in the wilderness, I, Sturges Owen, apostle to the Lord, bid you to repent and cast from you your iniquities.”

“Save your cant!  Save your cant!” Hay Stockard broke in testily.  “You’ll need all you’ve got, and more, for Red Baptiste over yonder.”

He waved his hand toward the Indian camp, where the half-breed was looking steadily across, striving to make out the newcomers.  Sturges Owen, disseminator of light and apostle to the Lord, stepped to the edge of the steep and commanded his men to bring up the camp outfit.  Stockard followed him.

“Look here,” he demanded, plucking the missionary by the shoulder and twirling him about.  “Do you value your hide?”

“My life is in the Lord’s keeping, and I do but work in His vineyard,” he replied solemnly.

“Oh, stow that!  Are you looking for a job of martyrship?”

“If He so wills.”

“Well, you’ll find it right here, but I’m going to give you some advice first.  Take it or leave it.  If you stop here, you’ll be cut off in the midst of your labors.  And not you alone, but your men, Bill, my wife—­”