The Triumph of John Kars | Page 7

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."
CHAPTER III
THE LETTER
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