a shadowy smile lurked in the
depths of his eyes. Then he turned again to the letter:

"I've already written Murray for help, but I guess the letter's kind of
miscarried. He hasn't sent the help. Star-man took the letter. So
now I'm writing you, and sending it by Keewin. If anybody can get
through it's Keewin. The Bell River Indians have turned on me. I
can't think why. Anyway, I need help. If it's to do any good it's got
to come along right away. I needn't say more to you. Tell Murray.
Give my love to Jessie and Alec. I'd like to see them again. Guess I
shall, if the help gets through--in time. God bless you, Ailsa, dear.
I shall make the biggest fight for it I know. It's five hundred or so
to ten. It'll be a tough scrap before we're through.

"Your loving

"ALLAN."

He folded the sheet of paper in an abstracted fashion. For some
seconds he held it in his fingers as though weighing the advisability
of sending it. Then his abstraction passed, and he summoned the man on
the roof.

A moment or two later Keewin appeared in the doorway, tall, wiry, his
broad, impassive face without a sign.

"Say, Keewin," the white chief began, "we need to get word through to
the Fort. Guess Star-man's dead, hey?"

"Star-man plenty good scout. Boss Murray him no come. Maybe Star-man
all kill dead. So."

"That's how I figger."

Allan Mowbray paused and glanced back at the trifling stores.

"No much food, hey? No much ammunition. One week--two weeks--maybe."

"Maybe."

The Indian looked squarely into his chief's eyes. The latter held up
his letter.

"Who's going? Indians kill him--sure. Who goes?"

"Keewin."

The reply came without a sign. Not a movement of a muscle, or the
flicker of an eyelid.

The white man breathed deeply. It was a sign of emotion which he was
powerless to deny. His eyes regarded the dusky face for some moments.
Then he spoke with profound conviction.

"You haven't a dog's chance--gettin' through," he said.

The information did not seem to require a reply, so far as the Indian
was concerned. The white man went on:

"It's mad--crazy--but it's our only chance."

The persistence of his chief forced the Indian to reiterate his
determination.

"Keewin--him go."

The tone of the reply was almost one of indifference. It suggested
that the white man was making quite an unnecessary fuss.

Allan Mowbray nodded. There was a look in his eyes that said far more
than