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Updated: June 9, 2025
The man's forehead was bound with a blood-stained bandage of dirty cloth. Ailsa Mowbray's gentle eyes widened. Her firm lips perceptibly tightened. Direct as a shot came her inquiry. "What's amiss?" she demanded. She was addressing the white man, but her eyes were steadily regarding the Indian. A moment later a second inquiry came. "Why is Keewin here? Why is he wounded?" The Padre replied.
The bullets whistled in every direction. The firing was wild, as is most Indian firing. A bullet struck the lintel of the door, and embedded itself deeply in the woodwork just above Keewin's head. Keewin glanced up. He pointed with a long, brown finger. "Neche damn fool. No shoot. Keewin go. Keewin laugh. Bell River Indian all damn fool. So."
Maybe Star-man him get kill. So him pow-wow. Keewin say, him go fetch help. Keewin go, not all be kill. So Keewin go. Indian find Keewin. They shoot plenty much. Keewin no care that," he flicked his tawny fingers in the air. "Indian no good shoot. Keewin laugh. So. Keewin come fort." The man ceased speaking, his attitude remaining precisely as it was before he began.
Him say, him show 'em dis Indian. So him fight big. Him kill heap plenty too. So one week. More Indian come. Boss Allan then call Keewin. Us make big pow-wow. Him say ten Indian kill. Good Indian. Ten still fight. Not 'nuff. No good ten fight whole tribe. Him get help, or all kill. So. Him call Star-man. Keewin say Star-man plenty good Indian. Him send Star-man to fort. So. No help come.
He turned to the priest. "Father, I need two crews for the big canoes right off now. You'll get 'em. Good crews for the paddle. Best let Keewin pick 'em. Eh, Keewin?" The Indian nodded. "Keewin'll take charge of one, and I the other. I can make Bell River under the week. I'll drive the crews to the limit, an' maybe make the place in four days.
The man inside called to the watcher on the roof. "Anything doing, Keewin?" "Him quiet. Him see no man. Maybe him make heap pow-wow." "No sign, eh?" "Not nothin', boss." Allan Mowbray turned again to the sheet of paper spread out on the lid of an ammunition box which was laid across his knees. He was sitting on a sack of flour.
His men were gathered, huddled in their blankets for warmth, about a small fire burning within the hut. Allan Mowbray imparted his tidings in the language of the men who served him. With silent stoicism the little band of defenders listened to the end. Keewin, he told them, had had time to get through. Full time to reach the Fort, and return with the help he had asked for.
"Be quiet, you mother dear," she cried, her ready blushes mounting again. "Don't you dare to say things. The mother only smiled the more deeply. "Best go and round Alec up. Supper's ready." But the girl hesitated. "He's at the barns fixing his outfit with Keewin," she said. "He reckons to break trail in a few days. Say, Murray's gone across to Father José with them. Will I get him, too?"
Keewin was Allan Mowbray's most trusted scout. The man answered at once, in a rapid flow of broken English. His one thought was succor for his great white boss. "Him trade," he began, adopting his own method of narrating events, which Murray was far too wise in his understanding of Indians to attempt to change. "Great boss. Him much trade. Big. Plenty. So we come by Bell River.
His eyes regarded the dusky face for some moments. Then he spoke with profound conviction. "You haven't a dog's chance gettin' through," he said. The information did not seem to require a reply, so far as the Indian was concerned. The white man went on: "It's mad crazy but it's our only chance." The persistence of his chief forced the Indian to reiterate his determination. "Keewin him go."
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