The Triumph of John Kars | Page 9

had desired. Therefore he
came to the boy's side in the friendliest fashion, his smile once more
restored to the features so made for smiling.
"Say, Alec," he cried, "will you bear a hand with the arms and stuff? I
need to get right away quick."
And strangely enough the young man choked back his disappointment,
and the memory of the trader's overbearing manner. He acquiesced
without further demur. But then this spoilt boy was only spoiled and
weak. His temper was hot, volcanic. His reckless disposition was the
outcome of a generous, unthinking courage. In his heart the one thing

that mattered was his father's peril, and the sadness in his mother's eyes.
Then he had read that letter.
"Yes," he said. "Tell me, and I'll do all you need. But for God's sake
don't treat me like a silly kid."
"It was you who treated yourself as one," put in Father José, before
Murray could reply. "Remember, my son, men don't put women-folk
into the care of 'silly kids.'"
It was characteristic of Murray McTavish that the loaded canoes cast
off from the Mission landing at the appointed time. For all the haste
nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected. 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."
It was an excellent relief force. It was a force trimmed down to the
bone. Not one detail of spare equipment was allowed. This was a
fighting dash, calculating for its success upon its rapidity of movement.
There had been no farewell or verbal "Godspeed." The old priest had
watched them go.
He saw the round figure of Murray in the stern of the rear boat. He
watched it out of sight. The figure had made no movement. There had
been no looking back. Then the old man, with a shake of the head,
betook himself back through the avenue of lank trees to the Mission.
He was troubled.
The glowing eyes of Murray gazed out straight ahead of him. He sat
silent, immovable, it seemed, in the boat. That curious burning light, so
noticeable when his strange eyes became concentrated, was more
deeply lurid than ever. It gave him now an intense aspect of fierceness,
even ferocity. He looked more than capable, as he had said, of driving

his men, the whole expedition, to the "limit."
CHAPTER IV
ON BELL RIVER
It was an old log shanty. Its walls were stout and aged. Its roof was flat,
and sloped back against the hillside on which it stood. Its setting was an
exceedingly limited plateau, thrusting upon the precipitous incline
which overlooked the gorge of the Bell River.
The face of the plateau was sheer. The only approaches to it were right
and left, and from the hill above, where the dark woods crowded. A
stockade of heavy trunks, felled on the spot, and adapted where they
fell, had been hastily set up. It was primitive, but in addition to the
natural defences, and with men of resolution behind it, it formed an
almost adequate fortification.
The little fortress was high above the broad river. It was like an eyrie of
creatures of the air rather than the last defences of a party of human
beings. Yet such it was. It was the last hope of its defenders, faced by a
horde of blood-crazed savages who lusted only for slaughter.
Five grimly silent men lined the stockade at the most advantageous
points. Five more lay about, huddled under blankets for warmth, asleep.
A single watcher had screened himself upon the roof of the shack,
whence his keen eyes could sweep the gorge from end to end. All these
were dusky creatures of a superior Indian race. Every one of them was
a descendant of the band of Sioux Indians which fled to Canada after
the Custer massacre. Inside the hut was the only white man of the
party.
A perfect silence reigned just now. There was a lull in the attack. The
Indians crowding the woods below had ceased their futile fire. Perhaps
they were holding a council. Perhaps they were making new
dispositions for a fresh attack. The men at the defences relaxed no
vigilance. The man on the roof noted and renoted every detail of
importance to the defence which the scene presented. The man inside

the hut alone seemed, at the moment, to be taking no part in the
enactment of the little drama.
Yet it was he who was the genius of