ent of the little drama.

Yet it was he who was the genius of it all. It was he who claimed the
devotion of these lean, fighting Indians. It was he who had contrived
thus far to hold at bay a force of at least five hundred Indians,
largely armed with modern firearms. It was he who had led the faithful
remnant of his outfit, in a desperate night sortie, from his
indefensible camp on the river, and, by a reckless dash, had succeeded
in reaching this temporary haven.

But he had been supported by his half civilized handful of creatures
who well enough knew what mercy to expect from the enemy. And, anyway,
they had been bred of a stock with a fighting history second to no race
in the world. To a man, the defenders were prepared to sell their
lives at a heavy price. And they would die rifle in hand and facing
the enemy.

The man inside called to the watcher on the roof.

"Anything doing, Keewin?"

"Him quiet. Him see no man. Maybe him make heap pow-wow."

"No sign, eh?"

"Not nothin', boss."

Allan Mowbray turned again to the sheet of paper spread out on the lid
of an ammunition box which was laid across his knees. He was sitting
on a sack of flour. All about him the stores they had contrived to
bring away were lying on the ground. It was small enough supply. But
they had not dared to overload in the night rush to their present
quarters.

He read over what he had written. Then he turned appraisingly to the
stores. His blue eyes were steady and calculating. There was no other
expression in them.

There was a suggestion of the Viking of old about this northern trader.
His fair hair, quite untouched with the gray due to his years, his
fair, curling beard, and whiskers, and moustache, his blue eyes and
strong aquiline nose. These things, combined with a massive physique,
without an ounce of spare flesh, left an impression in the mind of
fearless courage and capacity. He was a fighting man to his fingers'
tips--when need demanded.

He turned back to his writing. It was a labored effort, not for want
of skill, but for the reason he had no desire to fret the heart of the
wife to whom it was addressed.

At last the letter was completed. He signed it, and read it carefully
through, considering each sentence as to effect.

"_Bell River_.

"MY DEAREST WIFE:

"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