"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.