A strange group met his eye under the flickering light of the tallow candle—a lad in Indian garb and a girl not more than fourteen, but appearing younger, who was weeping bitterly. She had the sweetest and most innocent of faces, Warren thought, that he had ever seen. A pair of large, soft brown eyes gazed up at him piteously.
“It’s White Eagle’s son and daughter. Something has happened him and they want me to go with them to the island. You see I’m a sort of justice of the peace and town constable an’ I’ve done the Injuns in these parts some few favors and they think now I can do anything. But no man can be expected to turn out of a dry bed and brave the lake on sech a night as this. I ain’t chicken-hearted myself, but I draw the line thar.”
In spite of his hard words and apparent reluctance to leave home, Mr. Maybee had lighted two lanterns and was pulling on his boots preparatory for a struggle with the elements.
“Who is White Eagle?” asked Warren.
“He’s a white man; a sort of chief of the few Injuns ’roun’ hyar, and he lives out on a small island in the lake with a half-breed squaw and these two children. They’re poor—very poor.”
“What seems to be the trouble with your father?” asked Warren, turning to the stoical lad and weeping girl.
“I believe he’s shot himself, sir,” returned the boy respectfully, in good English. “O, come, Mr. Maybee. My father—oh, my father!” exclaimed the girl between her sobs, clinging to the landlord’s hand.
The anguish of the tone, the sweet girlish presence, as well as the lad’s evident anxiety under his calmness, aroused Warren’s compassion.
“If you will wait a moment I will go with you. I know something of medicine, and delay may be dangerous.”
Uttering a pleased cry the girl turned to him. “Oh, sir! Will you? Will you come? Do not let us lose time then—poor papa!”