The Triumph of John Kars - Cullum Ridgwell

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the way of it—sure. Specially when you haven't cooked it," she said, with a smile that robbed her words of all reproach.

      She turned to pass within the rambling, log-built house. But at that moment two dogs raced round the angle of the building and fawned up to her, completely ignoring the others.

      "Guess Alec's—ready," was Murray's smiling comment.

      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?"

      It was Jessie who echoed the name. But her mother had ceased caressing the dogs. She stood very erect, and quite silent.

      Three men turned the corner of the house. Alec came first. He was tall, a fair edition of his mother, but without any of the strength of character so plainly written on her handsome features. Only just behind him came Father José and an Indian.

      The Padre of the Mission was a white-haired, white-browed man of many years and few enough inches. His weather-stained face, creased like parchment, was lit by a pair of piercing eyes, which were full of fire and mental energy. But, for the moment, no one had eyes for anything but the stoic placidity of the expressionless features of the Indian. 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. It was characteristic of the country in which they lived, the lives they lived, that he resorted to no subterfuge, although he knew his tidings were bad.

      "Keewin's got through from Bell River. It's a letter to you from—Allan."

      The woman had perfect command of herself. She paled slightly, but her lips were even firmer set. Jessie hurried to her side. It was as though the child had instinctively sought the mother's support in face of a blow which she knew was about to fall.

      Ailsa held out one hand.

      "Give it to me," she said authoritatively. Then, as the Padre handed the letter across to her, she added: "But first tell me what's amiss with him."

      The Padre cleared his throat.

      "He's held up," he said firmly. "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."

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       Table of Contents

      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. Jessie followed her mother. It was nature asserting itself. Danger was in the air, and the sex instinct at once became uppermost.

      The men were left alone.

      Murray turned on the Indian. Father José and Alec Mowbray waited attentively.

      "Tell me," Murray commanded. "Tell me quickly—while the missis and the other are gone. They got his words. You tell me yours."

      His words came sharply. 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. One week, two week, three week, by Bell River." He counted off the weeks on his fingers. "Bimeby Indian—him come plenty. No pow-wow. Him come by night. All around corrals. Him make big play. Him shoot plenty. Dead—dead—dead. Much dead." He pointed at the ground in many directions to indicate the fierceness of the attack. "Boss Allan—him big chief. Plenty big. Him say us fight plenty—too. 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. 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. He was without a sign of emotion. Neither the Padre nor Alec spoke. Both were waiting for Murray. The priest's eyes were on the trader's stern round face. He was watching and reading with profound insight. Alec continued to regard the Indian. But he chafed under Murray's delay.

      Before the silence was broken Ailsa Mowbray reappeared in the doorway. Jessie had remained behind.

      The wife's face was a study in strong courage battling with emotion. Her gray eyes, no longer soft, were steady, however. Her brows were markedly drawn. Her lips, too, were firm, heroically firm.

      She held out her letter to the Padre. It was noticeable she did not offer it to Murray.

      "Read it," she said. Then she added: "You can all read it. Alec, too."

      The two men closed in on either side of Father José. The woman looked on while the three pairs of eyes read the firm clear handwriting.

      "Well?" she demanded, as the men looked up from their reading, and the priest thoughtfully refolded the paper.

      Alec's tongue was the more ready to express his thoughts.

      "God!" he cried. "It means—massacre!"

      The priest turned on him in reproof. His keen eyes shone like burnished steel.

      "Keep silent—you," he cried, in a sharp, staccato way.

      The hot blood mounted to the boy's cheek, whether in abashment or in anger would be impossible to say. He was prevented from further word by Murray McTavish who promptly took command.

      "Say, there's no time for talk," he said, in his decisive fashion. "It's up to us to get busy right away." 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. I'll get right back to the store now for the arms and ammunition, and the grub. We start in an hour's time."

      Then he turned on Alec. There was no question in his mind. He had made his decisions clearly and promptly.

      "See, boy," he said. "You'll stay right here. I'm aware you don't fancy the store. But fer once you'll need to run it. But more than all you'll be responsible nothing goes amiss for the women-folk.

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