words. He held out his letter. The Indian took it. He turned it
over. Then from his shirt pocket he withdrew a piece of buckskin. He
carefully wrapped it about the paper, and bestowed it somewhere within
his shirt.

The white man watched him in silence. When the operation was complete
he abruptly thrust out one powerful hand. Just for an instant a gleam
of pleasure lit the Indian's dark eyes. He gingerly responded. Then,
as the two men gripped, the "spat" of rifle-fire began again. There
was a moment in which the two men stood listening. Then their hands
fell apart.

"Great feller--Keewin!" said Mowbray kindly.

Nor was the white man speaking for the benefit of a lesser
intelligence, nor in the manner of the patronage of a faithful servant.
He meant his words literally. He meant more--much more than he said.

The rifle fire rattled up from below. The bullets whistled in every
direction. The firing was wild, as is most Indian firing. A bullet
struck the lintel of the door, and embedded itself deeply in the
woodwork just above Keewin's head.

Keewin glanced up. He pointed with a long, brown finger.

"Neche damn fool. No shoot. Keewin go. Keewin laugh. Bell River
Indian all damn fool. So."

It was the white man who had replaced the Indian at the lookout on the
roof. He was squatting behind a roughly constructed shelter. His
rifle was beside him and a belt full of ammunition was strapped about
his waist.

The wintry sky was steely in the waning daylight. Snow had fallen.
Only a slight fall for the region, but it had covered everything to the
depth of nearly a foot. The whole aspect of the world had changed.
The dark, forbidding gorge of the Bell River no longer frowned up at
the defenders of the plateau. It was glistening, gleaming white, and
the dreary pine trees bowed their tousled heads under a burden of snow.
The murmur of the river no longer came up to them. Already three
inches of ice had imprisoned it, stifling its droning voice under its
merciless grip.

Attack on attack had been hurled against the white man and his little
band of Indians. For days there had been no respite. The attacks had
come from below, from the slopes of the hill above, from the approach
on either side. Each attack had been beaten off. Each attack had
taken its heavy toll of the enemy. But there had been toll taken from
the defenders, a toll they could ill afford. There were only eight
souls all tol