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 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. Their
care is up to you, in your father's absence. Get me? Father José'll
help you all he knows."
Then, without awaiting reply, he turned to Allan Mowbray's wife. His
tone changed to one of the deepest gravity.
"Ma'am," he said, "whatever man can do to help your husband now, I'll
do. I'll spare no one in the effort. Certainly not myself. That's my
word."
The wife's reply came in a voice that was no longer steady.
"Thank you, Murray--for myself and for Allan. God--bless you."
Murray had turned already to return to the Fort when Alec suddenly
burst out in protest. His eyes lit--the eyes of his mother. His fresh
young face was scarlet to the brow.
"And do you suppose I'm going to sit around while father's being done
to death by a lot of rotten Indians? Not on your life. See here,
Murray, if there's any one needed to hang around the store it's up to
you. Father José can look after mother and Jessie. My place is with
the outfit, and--I'm going with it. Besides, who are you to dictate
what I'm to do? You look after your business; I'll see to mine. You
get me? I'm going up there to Bell River. I----"
"You'll--stop--right--here!"
Murray had turned in a flash, and in his voice was a note none of those
looking on had ever heard before. It was a revelation of the man, and
even Father José was startled. The clash was sudden. Both the mother
and the priest realized for the first time in ten years the antagonism
underlying this outward display.
The mother had no understanding of it. The priest perhaps had some.
He knew Murray's energy and purpose. He knew that Alec had been
indulged to excess by his parents. It would have seemed impossible in
the midst of the stern life in which they all lived that the son of
such parents could have grown up other than in their image. But it was
not so, and no one knew it better than Father José, who had been
responsible for his education.
Alec was weak, reckless. Of his physical courage there was no
question. He had inherited his father's and his mother's to the full.
But he lacked their every other balance. He was idle, he loathed the
store and all belonging to it. He detested the life he was forced to
live in this desolate world, and craved, as only weak, virile youth can
crave, for the life and pleasure of the civilization he had read of,
heard of, dreamed of.
Murray followed up his words before the younger man could gather his
retort.
"When your father's in danger there's just one service you can do him,"
he went on, endeavoring to check his inclination to hot words. "If
there's a thing happens to you, and we can't help your father, why, I
guess your mother and sister are left without a hand to help 'em. Do
you get that? I'm thinking for Allan Mowbray the best I know. I can
run this outfit to the limit. I can do what any other man can do for
his help. Your place is your father's place--right here. Ask your
mother."
Murray looked across at Mrs. Mowbray, still standing in her doorway,
and her prompt support was forthcoming.
"Yes," she said, and her eyes sought those of her spoiled son. "For my
sake, Alec, for your father's, for your sister's."
Ailsa Mowbray was pleading where she had the right to command. And to
himself Father José mildly anathematized the necessity.
Alec turned away with a scarcely smothered imprecation. But his
mother's appeal had had the effect Murray 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."