"I've had a more than usually successful trip, till I came here. Now things are not so good."
He glanced up out of the doorway, and 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."