“God in heaven!” cried Judah, sinking on his knees beside the bed of skins. “It is true! But who has done it? Who could be so cruel? No one lives here but ourselves. Murdered! My father! My master!”
“Hush!” said Mr. Maybee, sternly. “Hush. ’Tain’t no time fer cryin’ nor makin’ a fuss. Tell us all you know about this business.”
“He went out after supper to look after the canoes. In a short time we heard a shout and then a cry, ‘Help! help!’ and we ran to him, Winona and I. He was leaning against a tree, and said nothing but, ‘Get me to the house; get a doctor, I am hurt.’ We flew to do his bidding. The rest you know.”
Maxwell’s brain was in a tumult of confusion. Thoughts flew rapidly through it. Suddenly he had been aroused from his solitary life in a strange land to become an actor in a local tragedy. The man lying on the bed of skins had certainly been murdered. Who then was the assassin?
Again he looked at Nokomis, who was intently watching him. She shook her head mournfully in answer to his unasked question. Mr. Maybee was nonplussed. “What’s to be done? Terrible! Murder! Why, it will kill the girl.”
Warren Maxwell started. For a moment he had forgotten the delicate child in the next room rendered so suddenly an orphan, and in so fearful a fashion.
“A doctor must be summoned to certify to cause of death, and the police authorities must be notified,” Warren said at length. “Right you are, pard,” returned Maybee. “I’m hanged ef this business hain’t knocked the spots out of yours truly. I’ll take the boat and Judah here, and be back by sunrise.”
He turned away, but Judah lingered, giving a wistful look into Maxwell’s face.
“Yes,” said Warren, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder, “I will tell her.”
With a gesture of thanks Judah followed Mr. Maybee out into the night.