in his mind.

"Sure."

"Then--the position's bad."

Bill Brudenell spoke for the first time.

"The post and Mission's safe--anyway. Murray'll see to that."

CHAPTER XV

FATHER JOSE PROBES

It was a startled community that awoke next morning at Fort Mowbray.
The news was abroad at the earliest hour, and it reached Jessie Mowbray
in the kitchen, as she made her appearance to superintend the
preparation of breakfast. The Indian wench told her, with picturesque
embellishments, such as are reserved for the native tongue. Jessie
listened to the story of the descent of the Bell River Indians to the
region of the Fort with feelings no less disturbed than those of the
colored woman. They were no longer mistress and servant. They were
just two women confronting a common danger.

But the news of the arrival of John Kars, wounded, swiftly overwhelmed
all other considerations in Jessie's mind. Breakfast was left in the
hands of the squaw while the girl hastened to her mother's room.

Ailsa Mowbray listened to the girl's story with no outward signs of
fear. She had passed through the worst fires that could assail her a
year ago. Nothing the warlike Indians could threaten now could
reproduce the terror of that time.

The story of it came in a rush. But it was not until Jessie told of
John Kars, and his wounded condition, that the real emotions of the
moment were revealed. She implored her mother to permit her to go at
once and minister to him, to learn the truth about his condition, to
hear, first hand, of the catastrophe that had happened. Nor did she
passively yield to her mother's kindly admonishment.

"Why, child," she said, in her steady smiling way, "this country's
surely got right into your veins. You're like an unbroken colt.
You're as wild as any of those kiddies you figger to teach over at the
Mission. It's not for a child of mine to wait around on any man
living. Not even John Kars. Guess he's got Dr. Bill and Father Jose,
anyway. Maybe they'll get along over later."

The girl flushed scarlet.

"Oh, mother," she cried in distress, "don't--just don't think that way
of me. I--love him, and wouldn't help it if I could. But he's sick.
Maybe he's sick to death. Men--men can't fix sick folk. They
can't--sure."

The mother looked into the girl's eyes with gentle tolerance, and a
certain amusement.

"Not even Dr. Bill, who's had sick folk on his hands most all his
life?" she demanded.