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"The Bell River neches have got him surrounded. Keewin got through with great difficulty, and has been wounded. You best read the letter, and tell us." Ailsa Mowbray tore off the fastening which secured the outer cover of discolored buckskin. Inside was a small sheet of folded paper. She opened it, and glanced at the handwriting. Then, without a word, she turned back into the house.
So now I'm writing you, and sending it by Keewin. If anybody can get through it's Keewin. The Bell River Indians have turned on me. I can't think why. Anyway, I need help. If it's to do any good it's got to come along right away. I needn't say more to you. Tell Murray. Give my love to Jessie and Alec. I'd like to see them again. Guess I shall, if the help gets through in time.
The canoes were loaded down with arms and ammunition divided into thirty packs. There were also thirty packs of provisions, enough to last the necessary time. There were two canoes, long, narrow craft, built for speed on the swift flowing river. Keewin commanded the leading vessel. Murray sat in the stern of the other. In each boat there were fourteen paddles, and a man for bow "lookout."
"No much food, hey? No much ammunition. One week two weeks maybe." "Maybe." The Indian looked squarely into his chief's eyes. The latter held up his letter. "Who's going? Indians kill him sure. Who goes?" "Keewin." The reply came without a sign. Not a movement of a muscle, or the flicker of an eyelid. The white man breathed deeply. It was a sign of emotion which he was powerless to deny.
A moment or two later Keewin appeared in the doorway, tall, wiry, his broad, impassive face without a sign. "Say, Keewin," the white chief began, "we need to get word through to the Fort. Guess Star-man's dead, hey?" "Star-man plenty good scout. Boss Murray him no come. Maybe Star-man all kill dead. So." "That's how I figger." Allan Mowbray paused and glanced back at the trifling stores.
That night his canoe glided from the landing, and he was accompanied by Keewin, and two other Indians, who had been witnesses of Murray's movements on the day of the murder in Leaping Horse. The memory of these things carried him on to his journey's end where he encountered again the tawdry pretentiousness of Leaping Horse, seeking to hide its moral poverty under raiment of garish hue.
There was a moment in which the two men stood listening. Then their hands fell apart. "Great feller Keewin!" said Mowbray kindly. Nor was the white man speaking for the benefit of a lesser intelligence, nor in the manner of the patronage of a faithful servant. He meant his words literally. He meant more much more than he said. The rifle fire rattled up from below.
That help should have been with them three days ago. It had not come. Keewin, he assured them, must have been killed. Nothing could otherwise have prevented the help reaching them. He told them that if they remained there longer they would surely die of hunger and cold. They would die miserably. He paused for comment. None was forthcoming.
There was a shadow of irony in the man's words, which made the mother glance up quickly from the dogs she was impartially caressing. "Yes," she said simply, and without warmth. Her regard though momentary was very direct. Murray turned away as the sound of voices followed in the wake of the dogs. "Hello!" he cried, in a startled fashion. "Here's Father José, and Keewin!" "Keewin?"
When they learn what's doing they won't be yearning to screen Murray. Specially Keewin." "No. Keewin was Allan's best boy. Keewin would have given his life for Allan." Kars drew a deep breath. He sat up and struck a match. His pipe began to glow under his deep inhalations. He stood up and moved towards the door. "It's the foulest thing I've ever heard.
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