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 Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose, 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 d