Title: The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail
Author: Connor, Ralph
Language: English
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THE PATROL OF THE SUN DANCE TRAIL


By Ralph Connor



CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I     THE TRAIL-RUNNER

II    HIS COUNTRY’S NEED

III   A-FISHING WE WILL GO

IV    THE BIG CHIEF

V     THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE

VI    THE ILLUSIVE COPPERHEAD

VII   THE SARCEE CAMP

VIII  THE GIRL ON NO. 1

IX    THE RIDE UP THE BOW

X     RAVEN TO THE RESCUE

XI    SMITH’S WORK

XII   IN THE SUN DANCE CANYON

XIII  IN THE BIG WIGWAM

XIV   “GOOD MAN--GOOD SQUAW”

XV    THE OUTLAW

XVI   WAR

XVII  TO ARMS!

XVIII AN OUTLAW, BUT A MAN

XIX   THE GREAT CHIEF

XX    THE LAST PATROL

XXI   WHY THE DOCTOR STAYED



THE PATROL OF THE SUN DANCE TRAIL



CHAPTER I

THE TRAIL-RUNNER


High up on the hillside in the midst of a rugged group of jack pines the
Union Jack shook out its folds gallantly in the breeze that swept down
the Kicking Horse Pass. That gallant flag marked the headquarters of
Superintendent Strong, of the North West Mounted Police, whose special
duty it was to preserve law and order along the construction line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway Company, now pushed west some scores of miles.

Along the tote-road, which ran parallel to the steel, a man, dark of
skin, slight but wiry, came running, his hard panting, his streaming
face, his open mouth proclaiming his exhaustion. At a little trail that
led to the left he paused, noted its course toward the flaunting flag,
turned into it, then struggled up the rocky hillside till he came to the
wooden shack, with a deep porch running round it, and surrounded by
a rustic fence which enclosed a garden whose neatness illustrated a
characteristic of the British soldier. The runner passed in through the
gate and up the little gravel walk and began to ascend the steps.

“Halt!” A quick sharp voice arrested him. “What do you want here?” From
the side of the shack an orderly appeared, neat, trim and dandified in
appearance, from his polished boots to his wide cowboy hat.

“Beeg Chief,” panted the runner. “Me--see--beeg Chief--queeck.”

The orderly looked him over and hesitated.

“What do you want Big Chief for?”

“Me--want--say somet’ing,” said the little man, fighting to recover his
breath, “somet’ing beeg--sure beeg.” He made a step toward the door.

“Halt there!” said the orderly sharply. “Keep out, you half-breed!”

“See--beeg Chief--queeck,” panted the half-breed, for so he was, with
fierce insistence.

The orderly hesitated. A year ago he would have hustled him off the
porch in short order. But these days were anxious days. Rumors wild
and terrifying were running through the trails of the dark forest.
Everywhere were suspicion and unrest. The Indian tribes throughout the
western territories and in the eastern part of British Columbia, under
cover of an unwonted quiet, were in a state of excitement, and this none
knew better than the North West Mounted Police. With stoical unconcern
the Police patroled their beats, rode in upon the reserves, careless,
cheery, but with eyes vigilant for signs and with ears alert for
sounds of the coming storm. Only the Mounted Police, however, and a
few old-timers who knew the Indians and their half-breed kindred gave
a single moment’s thought to the bare possibility of danger. The
vast majority of the Canadian people knew nothing of the tempestuous
gatherings of French half-breed settlers in little hamlets upon the
northern plains along the Saskatchewan. The fiery resolutions reported
now and then in the newspapers reciting the wrongs and proclaiming the
rights of these remote, ignorant, insignificant, half-tamed pioneers
of civilization roused but faint interest in the minds of the people of
Canada. Formal resolutions and petitions of rights had been regularly
sent during the past two years to Ottawa and there as regularly
pigeon-holed above the desks of deputy ministers. The politicians had
a somewhat dim notion that there was some sort of row on among the
“breeds” about Prince Albert and Battleford, but this concerned them
little. The members of the Opposition found in the resolutions and
petitions of rights useful ammunition for attack upon the Government. In
purple periods the leader arraigned the supineness and the indifference
of the Premier and his Government to “the rights and wrongs of our
fellow-citizens who, amid the hardships of a pioneer civilization, were
laying broad and deep the foundations of Empire.” But after the smoke
and noise of the explosion had passed both Opposition and Government
speedily forgot the half-breed and his tempestuous gatherings in the
stores and schoolhouses, at church doors and in open camps, along the
banks of the far away Saskatchewan.

There were a few men, however, that could not forget. An Indian agent
here and there with a sense of responsibility beyond the pickings of his
post, a Hudson Bay factor whose long experience in handling the affairs
of half-breeds and Indians instructed him to read as from a printed page
what to others were meaningless and incoherent happenings, and above all
the officers of the Mounted Police, whose duty it was to preserve the
“pax Britannica” over some three hundred thousand square miles of Her
Majesty’s dominions in this far northwest reach of Empire, these carried
night and day an uneasiness in their minds which found vent from time
to time in reports and telegraphic messages to members of Government and
other officials at headquarters, who slept on, however, undisturbed. But
the word was passed along the line of Police posts over the plains and
far out into British Columbia to watch for signs and to be on guard. The
Police paid little heed to the high-sounding resolutions of a few angry
excitable half-breeds, who, daring though they were and thoroughly able
to give a good account of themselves in any trouble that might arise,
were quite insignificant in number; but there was another peril, so
serious, so terrible, that the oldest officer on the force spoke of it
with face growing grave and with lowered voice--the peril of an Indian
uprising.

All this and more made the trim orderly hesitate. A runner with news was
not to be kicked unceremoniously off the porch in these days, but to be
considered.

“You want to see the Superintendent, eh?”

“Oui, for sure--queeck--run ten mile,” replied the half-breed with angry
impatience.

“All right,” said the orderly, “what’s your name?”

“Name? Me, Pinault--Pierre Pinault. Ah, sacr-r-e! Beeg Chief know
me--Pinault.” The little man drew himself up.

“All right! Wait!” replied the orderly, and passed into the shack. He
had hardly disappeared when he was back again, obviously shaken out of
his correct military form.

“Go in!” he said sharply. “Get a move on! What are you waiting for?”

The half-breed threw him a sidelong glance of contempt and passed
quickly into the “Beeg Chief’s” presence.

Superintendent Strong was a man prompt in decision and prompt in action,
a man of courage, too, unquestioned, and with that bulldog spirit that
sees things through to a finish. To these qualities it was that he owed
his present command, for it was no insignificant business to keep the
peace and to make the law run along the line of the Canadian Pacific
Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass during construction days.

The half-breed had been but a few minutes with the Chief when the
orderly was again startled out of his military decorum by the
bursting open of the Superintendent’s door and the sharp rattle of the
Superintendent’s orders.

“Send Sergeant Ferry to me at once and have my horse and his brought
round immediately!” The orderly sprang to attention and saluted.

“Yes, sir!” he replied, and swiftly departed.

A few minutes’ conference with Sergeant Ferry, a few brief commands to
the orderly, and the Superintendent and Sergeant were on their way down
the steep hillside toward the tote-road that led eastward through the
pass. A half-hour’s ride brought them to a trail that led off to the
south, into which the Superintendent, followed by the Sergeant,
turned his horse. Not a word was spoken by either man. It was not the
Superintendent’s custom to share his plans with his subordinate officers
until it became necessary. “What you keep behind your teeth,” was a
favorite maxim with the Superintendent, “will harm neither yourself nor
any other man.” They were on the old Kootenay Trail, for a hundred years
and more the ancient pathway of barter and of war for the Indian tribes
that hunted the western plains and the foothill country and brought
their pelts to the coast by way of the Columbia River. Along the lower
levels the old trail ran, avoiding, with the sure instinct of a skilled
engineer, nature’s obstacles, and taking full advantage of every sloping
hillside and every open stretch of woods. Now and then, however, the
trail must needs burrow through a deep thicket of spruce and jack pine
and scramble up a rocky ridge, where the horses, trained as they were in
mountain climbing, had all they could do to keep their feet.

Ten miles and more they followed the tortuous trail, skirting mountain
peaks and burrowing through underbrush, scrambling up rocky ridges and
sliding down their farther sides, till they came to a park-like country
where from the grassy sward the big Douglas firs, trimmed clear of lower
growth and standing spaced apart, lifted on red and glistening trunks
their lofty crowns of tufted evergreen far above the lesser trees.

As they approached the open country the Superintendent proceeded with
greater caution, pausing now and then to listen.

“There ought to be a big powwow going on somewhere near,” he said to his
Sergeant, “but I can hear nothing. Can you?”

The Sergeant leaned over his horse’s ears.

“No, sir, not a sound.”

“And yet it can’t be far away,” growled the Superintendent.

The trail led through the big firs and dipped into a little grassy
valley set round with thickets on every side. Into this open glade they
rode. The Superintendent was plainly disturbed and irritated; irritated
because surprised and puzzled. Where he had expected to find a big
Indian powwow he found only a quiet sunny glade in the midst of a silent
forest. Sergeant Ferry waited behind him in respectful silence, too wise
to offer any observation upon the situation. Hence in the Superintendent
grew a deeper irritation.

“Well, I’ll be--!” He paused abruptly. The Superintendent rarely used
profanity. He reserved this form of emphasis for supreme moments. He was
possessed of a dramatic temperament and appreciated at its full value
the effect of a climax. The climax had not yet arrived, hence his
self-control.

“Exactly so,” said the Sergeant, determined to be agreeable.

“What’s that?”

“They don’t seem to be here, sir,” replied the Sergeant, staring up into
the trees.

“Where?” cried the Superintendent, following the direction of the
Sergeant’s eyes. “Do you suppose they’re a lot of confounded monkeys?”

“Exactly--that is--no, sir, not at all, sir. But--”

“They were to have been here,” said the Superintendent angrily. “My
information was most positive and trustworthy.”

“Exactly so, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “But they haven’t been here at
all!” The Superintendent impatiently glared at the Sergeant, as if he
were somehow responsible for this inexplicable failure upon the part of
the Indians.

“Exactly--that is--no, sir. No sign. Not a sign.” The Sergeant was most
emphatic.

“Well, then, where in--where--?” The Superintendent felt himself rapidly
approaching an emotional climax and took himself back with a jerk.
“Well,” he continued, with obvious self-control, “let’s look about a
bit.”

With keen and practised eyes they searched the glade, and the forest
round about it, and the trails leading to it.

“Not a sign,” said the Superintendent emphatically, “and for the first
time in my experience Pinault is wrong--the very first time. He was dead
sure.”

“Pinault--generally right, sir,” observed the Sergeant.

“Always.”

“Exactly so. But this time--”

“He’s been fooled,” declared the Superintendent. “A big sun dance was
planned for this identical spot. They were all to be here, every tribe
represented, the Stonies even had been drawn into it, some of the young
bloods I suppose. And, more than that, the Sioux from across the line.”

“The Sioux, eh?” said the Sergeant. “I didn’t know the Sioux were in
this.”

“Ah, perhaps not, but I have information that the Sioux--in fact--” here
the Superintendent dropped his voice and unconsciously glanced about
him, “the Sioux are very much in this, and old Copperhead himself is the
moving spirit of the whole business.”

“Copperhead!” exclaimed the Sergeant in an equally subdued tone.

“Yes, sir, that old devil is taking a hand in the game. My information
was that he was to have been here to-day, and, by the Lord Harry! if
he had been we would have put him where the dogs wouldn’t bite him. The
thing is growing serious.”

“Serious!” exclaimed the Sergeant in unwonted excitement. “You
just bet--that is exactly so, sir. Why the Sioux must be good for a
thousand.”

“A thousand!” exclaimed the Superintendent. “I’ve the most positive
information that the Sioux could place in the war path two thousand
fighting-men inside of a month. And old Copperhead is at the bottom
of it all. We want that old snake, and we want him badly.” And the
Superintendent swung on to his horse and set off on the return trip.

“Well, sir, we generally get what we want in that way,” volunteered the
Sergeant, following his chief.

“We do--in the long run. But in this same old Copperhead we have the
acutest Indian brain in all the western country. Sitting Bull was a
fighter, Copperhead is a schemer.”

They rode in silence, the Sergeant busy with a dozen schemes whereby
he might lay old Copperhead by the heels; the Superintendent planning
likewise. But in the Superintendent’s plans the Sergeant had no place.
The capture of the great Sioux schemer must be entrusted to a cooler
head than that of the impulsive, daring, loyal-hearted Sergeant.



CHAPTER II

HIS COUNTRY’S NEED


For full five miles they rode in unbroken silence, the Superintendent
going before with head pressed down on his breast and eyes fixed upon
the winding trail. A heavy load lay upon him. True, his immediate sphere
of duty lay along the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway, but as an
officer of Her Majesty’s North West Mounted Police he shared with the
other officers of that force the full responsibility of holding in
steadfast loyalty the tribes of Western Indians. His knowledge of the
presence in the country of the arch-plotter of the powerful and warlike
Sioux from across the line entailed a new burden. Well he knew that his
superior officer would simply expect him to deal with the situation in
a satisfactory manner. But how, was the puzzle. A mere handful of men
he had under his immediate command and these dispersed in ones and twos
along the line of railway, and not one of them fit to cope with the
cunning and daring Sioux.

With startling abruptness he gave utterance to his thoughts.

“We must get him--and quick. Things are moving too rapidly for any
delay. The truth is,” he continued, with a deepening impatience in his
voice, “the truth is we are short-handed. We ought to be able to patrol
every trail in this country. That old villain has fooled us to-day and
he’ll fool us again. And he has fooled Pinault, the smartest breed we’ve
got. He’s far too clever to be around loose among our Indians.”

Again they rode along in silence, the Superintendent thinking deeply.

“I know where he is!” he exclaimed suddenly, pulling up his horse. “I
know where he is--this blessed minute. He’s on the Sun Dance Trail
and in the Sun Dance Canyon, and they’re having the biggest kind of a
powwow.”

“The Sun Dance!” echoed the Sergeant. “By Jove, if only Sergeant Cameron
were on this job! He knows the Sun Dance inside and out, every foot.”

The Superintendent swung his horse sharply round to face his Sergeant.

“Cameron!” he exclaimed thoughtfully. “Cameron! I believe you’re right.
He’s the man--the very man. But,” he added with sudden remembrance,
“he’s left the Force.”

“Left the Force, sir. Yes, sir,” echoed the Sergeant with a grin. “He
appeared to have a fairly good reason, too.”

“Reason!” snorted the Superintendent. “Reason! What in--? What did he--?
Why did he pull off that fool stunt at this particular time? A kid like
him has no business getting married.”

“Mighty fine girl, sir,” suggested the Sergeant warmly. “Mighty lucky
chap. Not many fellows could resist such a sharp attack as he had.”

“Fine girl! Oh, of course, of course--fine girl certainly. Fine girl.
But what’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, sir,” ventured the Sergeant in a tone of surprise, “a good deal,
sir, I should say. By Jove, sir, I could have--if I could have pulled it
off myself--but of course she was an old flame of Cameron’s and I’d no
chance.”

“But the Service, sir!” exclaimed the Superintendent with growing
indignation. “The Service! Why! Cameron was right in line for promotion.
He had the making of a most useful officer. And with this trouble coming
on it was--it was--a highly foolish, indeed a highly reprehensible
proceeding, sir.” The Superintendent was rapidly mounting his pet hobby,
which was the Force in which he had the honor to be an officer, the
far-famed North West Mounted Police. For the Service he had sacrificed
everything in life, ease, wealth, home, yes, even wife and family, to
a certain extent. With him the Force was a passion. For it he lived and
breathed. That anyone should desert it for any cause soever was to him
an act unexplainable. He almost reckoned it treason.

But the question was one that touched the Sergeant as well, and deeply.
Hence, though he well knew his Chief’s dominant passion, he ventured an
argument.

“A mighty fine girl, sir, something very special. She saw me through a
mountain fever once, and I know--”

“Oh, the deuce take it, Sergeant! The girl is all right. I grant you all
that. But is that any reason why a man should desert the Force? And now
of all times? He’s only a kid. So is she. She can’t be twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five? Good Lord, no!” exclaimed the shocked Sergeant. “She isn’t
a day over twenty. Why, look at her. She’s--”

“Oh, tut-tut! If she’s twenty it makes it all the worse. Why couldn’t
they wait till this fuss was over? Why, sir, when I was twenty--” The
Superintendent paused abruptly.

“Yes, sir?” The Sergeant’s manner was respectful and expectant.

“Never mind,” said the Superintendent. “Why rush the thing, I say?”

“Well, sir, I did hear that there was a sudden change in Cameron’s
home affairs in Scotland, sir. His father died suddenly, I believe. The
estate was sold up and his sister, the only other child, was left all
alone. Cameron felt it necessary to get a home together--though I don’t
suppose he needed any excuse. Never saw a man so hard hit myself.”

“Except yourself, Sergeant, eh?” said the Superintendent, relaxing into
a grim smile.

“Oh, well, of course, sir, I’m not going to deny it. But you see,”
 continued the Sergeant, his pride being touched, “he had known her
down East--worked on her father’s farm--young gentleman--fresh from
college--culture, you know, manner--style and that sort of thing--rushed
her clean off her feet.”

“I thought you said it was Cameron who was the one hard hit?”

“So it was, sir. Hadn’t seen her for a couple of years or so. Left her a
country lass, uncouth, ignorant--at least so they say.”

“Who say?”

“Well, her friends--Dr. Martin and the nurse at the hospital. But I
can’t believe them, simply impossible. That this girl two years
ago should have been an ignorant, clumsy, uncouth country lass is
impossible. However, Cameron came on her here, transfigured, glorified
so to speak, consequently fell over neck in love, went quite batty in
fact. A secret flame apparently smoldering all these months suddenly
burst into a blaze--a blaze, by Jove!--regular conflagration. And no
wonder, sir, when you look at her, her face, her form, her style--”

“Oh, come, Sergeant, we’ll move on. Let’s keep at the business in hand.
The question is what’s to do. That old snake Copperhead is three hundred
miles from here on the Sun Dance, plotting hell for this country, and
we want him. As you say, Cameron’s our man. I wonder,” continued the
Superintendent after a pause, “I wonder if we could get him.”

“I should say certainly not!” replied the Sergeant promptly. “He’s only
a few months married, sir.”

“He might,” mused the Superintendent, “if it were properly put to him.
It would be a great thing for the Service. He’s the man. By the Lord
Harry, he’s the only man! In short,” with a resounding whack upon his
thigh, “he has got to come. The situation is too serious for trifling.”

“Trifling?” said the Sergeant to himself in undertone.

“We’ll go for him. We’ll send for him.” The Superintendent turned and
glanced at his companion.

“Not me, sir, I hope. You can quite see, sir, I’d be a mighty poor
advocate. Couldn’t face those blue eyes, sir. They make me grow quite
weak. Chills and fever--in short, temporary delirium.”

“Oh, well, Sergeant,” replied the Superintendent, “if it’s as bad as
that--”

“You don’t know her, sir. Those eyes! They can burn in blue flame or
melt in--”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’ve no doubt.” The Superintendent’s voice had a touch of
pity, if not contempt. “We won’t expose you, Sergeant. But all the same
we’ll make a try for Cameron.” His voice grew stern. His lips drew to a
line. “And we’ll get him.”

The Sergeant’s horse took a sudden plunge forward.

“Here, you beast!” he cried, with a fierce oath. “Come back here! What’s
the matter with you?” He threw the animal back on his haunches with a
savage jerk, a most unaccustomed thing with the Sergeant.

“Yes,” pursued the Superintendent, “the situation demands it. Cameron’s
the man. It’s his old stamping-ground. He knows every twist of its
trails. And he’s a wonder, a genius for handling just such a business as
this.”

The Sergeant made no reply. He was apparently having some trouble with
his horse.

“Of course,” continued the Superintendent, with a glance at his
Sergeant’s face, “it’s hard on her, but--” dismissing that feature of
the case lightly--“in a situation like this everything must give way.
The latest news is exceedingly grave. The trouble along the Saskatchewan
looks to me exceedingly serious. These half-breeds there have real
grievances. I know them well, excitable, turbulent in their spirits,
uncontrollable, but easily handled if decently treated. They’ve sent
their petitions again and again to Ottawa, and here are these Members
of Parliament making fool speeches, and the Government pooh-poohing the
whole movement, and meantime Riel orating and organizing.”

“Riel? Who’s he?” inquired the Sergeant.

“Riel? You don’t know Riel? That’s what comes of being an island-bred
Britisher. You people know nothing outside your own little two by four
patch on the world’s map. Haven’t you heard of Riel?”

“Oh, yes, by the way, I’ve heard about the Johnny. Mixed up in something
before in this country, wasn’t he?”

“Well, rather! The rebel leader of 1870. Cost us some considerable
trouble, too. There’s bound to be mischief where that hair-brained
four-flusher gets a crowd to listen to him. For egoist though he is, he
possesses a wonderful power over the half-breeds. He knows how to work.
And somehow, too, they’re suspicious of all Canadians, as they call the
new settlers from the East, ready to believe anything they’re told, and
with plenty of courage to risk a row.”

“What’s the row about, anyway?” inquired the Sergeant. “I could never
quite get it.”

“Oh, there are many causes. These half-breeds are squatters, many of
them. They have introduced the same system of survey on the Saskatchewan
as their ancestors had on the St. Lawrence, and later on the Red, the
system of ‘Strip Farms.’ That is, farms with narrow fronts upon the
river and extending back from a mile to four miles, a poor arrangement
for farming but mighty fine for social purposes. I tell you, it takes
the loneliness and isolation out of pioneer life. I’ve lived among them,
and the strip-farm survey possesses distinct social advantages. You
have two rows of houses a few rods apart, and between them the river,
affording an ice roadway in the winter and a waterway in the summer.
And to see a flotilla of canoes full of young people, with fiddles and
concertinas going, paddle down the river on their way to a neighbor’s
house for a dance, is something to remember. For my part I don’t wonder
that these people resent the action of the Government in introducing
a completely new survey without saying ‘by your leave.’ There are
troubles, too, about their land patents.”

“How many of these half-breeds are there anyway?”

“Well, only a few hundreds I should say. But it isn’t the half-breeds we
fear. The mischief of it is they have been sending runners all through
this country to their red-skin friends and relatives, holding out all
sorts of promises, the restoration of their hunting grounds to the
Indians, the establishing of an empire of the North, from which the
white race shall be excluded. I’ve heard them. Just enough truth and
sense in the whole mad scheme to appeal to the Indian mind. The older
men, the chiefs, are quiet so far, but the young braves are getting out
of hand. You see they have no longer their ancient excitement of war and
the chase. Life has grown monotonous, to the young men especially, on
the reserves. They are chafing under control, and the prospect of a
fight appeals to them. In every tribe sun dances are being held,
braves are being made, and from across the other side weapons are being
introduced. And now that this old snake Copperhead has crossed the
line the thing takes an ugly look. He’s undeniably brainy, a fearless
fighter, an extraordinary organizer, has great influence with his own
people and is greatly respected among our tribes. If an Indian war
should break out with Copperhead running it--well--! That’s why it’s
important to get this old devil. And it must be done quietly. Any
movement in force on our part would set the prairie on fire. The thing
has got to be done by one or two men. That’s why we must have Cameron.”

In spite of his indignation the Sergeant was impressed. Never had he
heard his Chief discourse at such length, and never had he heard
his Chief use the word “danger.” It began to dawn upon his mind that
possibly it might not be such a crime as he had at first considered it
to lure Cameron away from his newly made home and his newly wedded wife
to do this bit of service for his country in an hour of serious if not
desperate need.



CHAPTER III

A-FISHING WE WILL GO


But Sergeant Cameron was done with the Service for ever. An accumulating
current of events had swept him from his place in the Force, as an
unheeding traveler crossing a mountain torrent is swept from his feet
by a raging freshet. The sudden blazing of his smoldering love into a
consuming flame for the clumsy country girl, for whom two years ago he
had cherished a pitying affection, threw up upon the horizon of his life
and into startling clearness a new and absorbing objective. In one brief
quarter of an hour his life had gathered itself into a single purpose; a
purpose, to wit, to make a home to which he might bring this girl he had
come to love with such swift and fierce intensity, to make a home for
her where she could be his own, and for ever. All the vehement passion
of his Highland nature was concentrated upon the accomplishing of
this purpose. That he should ever have come to love Mandy Haley, the
overworked slattern on her father’s Ontario farm, while a thing of
wonder, was not the chief wonder to him. His wonder now was that he
should ever have been so besottedly dull of wit and so stupidly unseeing
as to allow the unlovely exterior of the girl to hide the radiant soul
within. That in two brief years she had transformed herself into a woman
of such perfectly balanced efficiency in her profession as nurse, and a
creature of such fascinating comeliness, was only another proof of his
own insensate egotism, and another proof, too, of those rare powers that
slumbered in the girl’s soul unknown to herself and to her world. Small
wonder that with her unfolding Cameron’s whole world should become new.

Hard upon this experience the unexpected news of his father’s death and
of the consequent winding up of the tangled affairs of the estate threw
upon Cameron the responsibility of caring for his young sister, now left
alone in the Homeland, except for distant kindred of whom they had but
slight knowledge.

A home was immediately and imperatively necessary, and hence he must at
once, as a preliminary, be married. Cameron fortunately remembered that
young Fraser, whom he had known in his Fort Macleod days, was dead keen
to get rid of the “Big Horn Ranch.” This ranch lay nestling cozily among
the foothills and in sight of the towering peaks of the Rockies, and was
so well watered with little lakes and streams that when his eyes fell
upon it Cameron was conscious of a sharp pang of homesickness, so
suggestive was it of the beloved Glen Cuagh Oir of his own Homeland.
There would be a thousand pounds or more left from his father’s estate.
Everybody said it was a safe, indeed a most profitable investment.

A week’s leave of absence sufficed for Cameron to close the deal with
Fraser, a reckless and gallant young Highlander, whose chivalrous soul,
kindling at Cameron’s romantic story, prompted a generous reduction
in the price of the ranch and its outfit complete. Hence when Mandy’s
shrewd and experienced head had scanned the contract and cast up the
inventory of steers and horses, with pigs and poultry thrown in, and had
found nothing amiss with the deal--indeed it was rather better than she
had hoped--there was no holding of Cameron any longer. Married he would
be and without delay.

The only drag in the proceedings had come from the Superintendent, who,
on getting wind of Cameron’s purpose, had thought, by promptly promoting
him from Corporal to Sergeant, to tie him more tightly to the Service
and hold him, if only for a few months, “till this trouble should blow
over.” But Cameron knew of no trouble. The trouble was only in the
Superintendent’s mind, or indeed was only a shrewd scheme to hold
Cameron to his duty. A rancher he would be, and a famous rancher’s
wife Mandy would make. And as for his sister Moira, had she not highly
specialized in pigs and poultry on the old home farm at the Cuagh Oir?
There was no stopping the resistless rush of his passionate purpose.
Everything combined to urge him on. Even his college mate and one time
football comrade of the old Edinburgh days, the wise, cool-headed Dr.
Martin, now in charge of the Canadian Pacific Railway Hospital, as
also the little nurse who, through those momentous months of Mandy’s
transforming, had been to her guide, philosopher and friend, both had
agreed that there was no good reason for delay. True, Cameron had no
means of getting inside the doctor’s mind and therefore had no knowledge
of the vision that came nightly to torment him in his dreams and the
memory that came daily to haunt his waking hours; a vision and a memory
of a trim little figure in a blue serge gown, of eyes brown, now sunny
with laughing light, now soft with unshed tears, of hair that got itself
into a most bewildering perplexity of waves and curls, of lips curving
deliciously, of a voice with a wonderfully soft Highland accent; the
vision and memory of Moira, Cameron’s sister, as she had appeared to him
in the Glen Cuagh Oir at her father’s door. Had Cameron known of this
tormenting vision and this haunting memory he might have questioned
the perfect sincerity of his friend’s counsel. But Dr. Martin kept his
secret well and none shared with him his visions and his dreams.

So there had been only the Superintendent to oppose.

Hence, because no really valid objection could be offered, the marriage
was made. And with much shrieking of engines--it seemed as if all the
engines with their crews within a hundred miles had gathered to the
celebration--with loud thunder of exploding torpedoes, with tumultuous
cheering of the construction gangs hauled thither on gravel trains,
with congratulations of railroad officials and of the doctor, with the
tearful smiles of the little nurse, and with grudging but finally hearty
good wishes of the Superintendent, they had ridden off down the Kootenay
Trail for their honeymoon, on their way to the Big Horn Ranch some
hundreds of miles across the mountains.

There on the Big Horn Ranch through the long summer days together they
rode the ranges after the cattle, cooking their food in the open and
camping under the stars where night found them, care-free and deeply
happy, drinking long full draughts of that mingled wine of life into
which health and youth and love and God’s sweet sun and air poured their
rare vintage. The world was far away and quite forgotten.

Summer deepened into autumn, the fall round-up was approaching, and
there came a September day of such limpid light and such nippy sprightly
air as to suggest to Mandy nothing less than a holiday.

“Let’s strike!” she cried to her husband, as she looked out toward
the rolling hills and the overtopping peaks shining clear in the early
morning light. “Let’s strike and go a-fishing.”

Her husband let his eyes wander over the full curves of her strong and
supple body and rest upon the face, brown and wholesome, lit with her
deep blue eyes and crowned with the red-gold masses of her hair, and
exclaimed:

“You need a holiday, Mandy. I can see it in the drooping lines of your
figure, and in the paling of your cheeks. In short,” moving toward her,
“you need some one to care for you.”

“Not just at this moment, young man,” she cried, darting round the
table. “But, come, what do you say to a day’s fishing away up the Little
Horn?”

“The Little Horn?”

“Yes, you know the little creek running into the Big Horn away up the
gulch where we went one day in the spring. You said there were fish
there.”

“Yes, but why ‘Little Horn,’ pray? And who calls it so? I suppose you
know that the Big Horn gets its name from the Big Horn, the mountain
sheep that once roamed the rocks yonder, and in that sense there’s no
Little Horn.”

“Well, ‘Little Horn’ I call it,” said his wife, “and shall. And if
the big stream is the Big Horn, surely the little stream should be the
Little Horn. But what about the fishing? Is it a go?”

“Well, rather! Get the grub, as your Canadian speech hath it.”

“My Canadian speech!” echoed his wife scornfully. “You’re just as much
Canadian as I am.”

“And I shall get the ponies. Half an hour will do for me.”

“And less for me,” cried Mandy, dancing off to her work.

And she was right. For, clever housekeeper that she was, she stood with
her hamper packed and the fishing tackle ready long before her husband
appeared with the ponies.

The trail led steadily upward through winding valleys, but for the most
part along the Big Horn, till as it neared a scraggy pine-wood it bore
sharply to the left, and, clambering round an immense shoulder of rock,
it emerged upon a long and comparatively level ridge of land that rolled
in gentle undulations down into a wide park-like valley set out with
clumps of birch and poplar, with here and there the shimmer of a lake
showing between the yellow and brown of the leaves.

“Oh, what a picture!” cried Mandy, reining up her pony. “What a ranch
that would make, Allan! Who owns it? Why did we never come this way
before?”

“Piegan Reserve,” said her husband briefly.

“How beautiful! How did they get this particular bit?”

“They gave up a lot for it,” said Cameron drily.

“But think, such a lovely bit of country for a few Indians! How many are
there?”

“Some hundreds. Five hundred or so. And a tricky bunch they are. They’re
over-fond of cattle to be really desirable neighbors.”

“Well, I think it rather a pity!”

“Look yonder!” cried her husband, sweeping his arm toward the eastern
horizon. From the height on which they stood a wonderful panorama of
hill and valley, river, lake and plain lay spread out before them. “All
that and for nine hundred miles beyond that line these Indians and their
kin gave up to us under persuasion. There was something due them, eh?
Let’s move on.”

For a mile or more the trail ran along the high plateau skirting the
Piegan Reserve, where it branched sharply to the right. Cameron paused.

“You see that trail?” pointing to the branch that led to the left and
downward into the valley. “That is one of the oldest and most famous
of all Indian trails. It strikes down through the Crow’s Nest Pass and
beyond the pass joins the ancient Sun Dance Trail. That’s my old beat.
And weird things are a-doing along that same old Sun Dance Trail this
blessed minute or I miss my guess. I venture to say that this old trail
has often been marked with blood from end to end in the fierce old
days.”

“Let’s go,” said Mandy, with a shudder, and, turning her pony to the
right, she took the trail that led them down from the plateau, plunged
into a valley, wound among rocks and thickets of pine till it reached a
tumbling mountain torrent of gray-blue water, fed from glaciers high up
between the great peaks beyond.

“My Little Horn!” cried Mandy with delight.

Down by its rushing water they scrambled till they came to a sunny glade
where the little fretful torrent pitched itself headlong into a deep
shady pool, whence, as if rested in those quiet deeps, it issued at
first with gentle murmuring till, out of earshot of the pool, it broke
again into turbulent raging, brawling its way to the Big Horn below.

Mandy could hardly wait for the unloading and tethering of the ponies.

“Now,” she cried, when all was ready, “for my very first fish. How shall
I fling this hook and where?”

“Try a cast yonder, just beside that overhanging willow. Don’t splash!
Try again--drop it lightly. That’s better. Don’t tell me you’ve never
cast a fly before.”

“Never in my life.”

“Let it float down a bit. Now back. Hold it up and let it dance there.
I’ll just have a pipe.”

But next moment Cameron’s pipe was forgotten. With a shout he sprang to
his wife’s side.

“By Jove, you’ve got him!”

“No! No! Leave me alone! Just tell me what to do. Go away! Don’t touch
me! Oh-h-h! He’s gone!”

“Not a bit. Reel him up--reel him up a little.”

“Oh, I can’t reel the thing! Oh! Oh-h-h! Is he gone?”

“Hold up. Don’t haul him too quickly--keep him playing. Wait till I get
the net.” He rushed for the landing net.

“Oh, he’s gone! He’s gone! Oh, I’m so mad!” She stamped savagely on the
grass. “He was a monster.”

“They always are,” said her husband gravely. “The fellows that get off,
I mean.”

“Now you’re just laughing at me, and I won’t have it! I could just sit
down and cry! My very first fish!”

“Never mind, Mandy, we’ll get him or just as good a one again.”

“Never! He’ll never bite again. He isn’t such a fool.”

“Well, they do. They’re just like the rest of us. They keep nibbling
till they get caught; else there would be no fun in fishing or in--Now
try another throw--same place--a little farther down. Ah! That was a
fine cast. Once more. No, no, not that way. Flip it lightly and if you
ever get a bite hold your rod so. See? Press the end against your body
so that you can reel your fish in. And don’t hurry these big fellows.
You lose them and you lose your fun.”

“I don’t want the fun,” cried Mandy, “but I do want that fish and I’m
going to get him.”

“By Jove, I believe you just will!” The young man’s dark eyes flashed an
admiring glance over the strong, supple, swaying figure of the girl
at his side, whose every move, as she cast her fly, seemed specially
designed to reveal some new combination of the graceful curves of her
well-knit body.

“Keep flicking there. You’ll get him. He’s just sulking. If he only
knew, he’d hurry up.”

“Knew what?”

“Who was fishing for him.”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve got him.” The girl was dancing excitedly along the bank.
“No! Oh, what a wretch! He’s gone. Now if I get him you tell me what to
do, but don’t touch me.”

“All you have to do is to hold him steady at the first. Keep your line
fairly tight. If he begins to plunge, give him line. If he slacks, reel
in. Keep him nice and steady, just like a horse on the bit.”

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me before? I know exactly what that means--just
like a colt, eh? I can handle a colt.”

“Exactly! Now try lower down--let your fly float down a bit--there.”

Again there was a wild shriek from the girl.

“Oh, I’ve got him sure! Now get the net.”

“Don’t jump about so! Steady now--steady--that’s better. Fine! Fine
work! Let him go a bit--no, check--wind him up. Look out! Not too quick!
Fine! Oh! Look out! Get him away from that jam! Reel him up! Quick! Now
play him! Let me help you.”

“Don’t you dare touch this rod, Allan Cameron, or there’ll be trouble!”

“Quite right--pardon me--quite right. Steady! You’ll get him sure. And
he’s a beauty, a perfect Rainbow beauty.”

“Keep quiet, now,” admonished Mandy. “Don’t shout so. Tell me quietly
what to do.”

“Do as you like. You can handle him. Just watch and wait--feel him all
the time. Ah-h-h! For Heaven’s sake don’t let him into that jam! There
he goes up stream! That’s better! Good!”

“Don’t get so excited! Don’t yell so!” again admonished Mandy. “Tell me
quietly.”

“Quietly? Who’s yelling, I’d like to know? Who’s excited? I won’t say
another word. I’ll get the landing-net ready for the final act.”

“Don’t leave me! Tell me just what to do. He’s getting tired, I think.”

“Watch him close. Wind him up a bit. Get all the line in you can.
Steady! Let go! Let go! Let him run! Now wind him again. Wait, hold him
so, just a moment--a little nearer! Hurrah! Hurrah! I’ve got him and
he’s a beauty--a perfectly typical Rainbow trout.”

“Oh, you beauty!” cried Mandy, down on her knees beside the trout that
lay flapping on the grass. “What a shame! Oh, what a shame! Oh, put him
in again, Allan, I don’t want him. Poor dear, what a shame.”

“But we must weigh him, you see,” remonstrated her husband. “And we need
him for tea, you know. He really doesn’t feel it much. There are lots
more. Try another cast. I’ll attend to this chap.”

“I feel just like a murderer,” said Mandy. “But isn’t it glorious? Well,
I’ll just try one more. Aren’t you going to get your rod out too?”

“Well, rather! What a pool, all unspoiled, all unfished!”

“Does no one fish up here?”

“Yes, the Police come at times from the Fort. And Wyckham, our neighbor.
And old man Thatcher, a born angler, though he says it’s not sport, but
murder.”

“Why not sport?”

“Why? Old Thatcher said to me one day, ‘Them fish would climb a tree to
get at your hook. That ain’t no sport.’”

But sport, and noble sport, they found it through the long afternoon,
so that, when through the scraggy pines the sun began to show red in the
western sky, a score or more lusty, glittering, speckled Rainbow trout
lay on the grass beside the shady pool.

Tired with their sport, they lay upon the grassy sward, luxuriating in
the warm sun.

“Now, Allan,” cried Mandy, “I’ll make tea ready if you get some wood for
the fire. You ought to be thankful I taught you how to use the ax. Do
you remember?”

“Thankful? Well, I should say. Do YOU remember that day, Mandy?”

“Remember!” cried the girl, with horror in her tone. “Oh, don’t speak of
it. It’s too awful to think of.”

“Awful what?”

“Ugh!” she shuddered, “I can’t bear to think of it. I wish you could
forget.”

“Forget what?”

“What? How can you ask? That awful, horrid, uncouth, sloppy girl.” Again
Mandy shuddered. “Those hands, big, coarse, red, ugly.”

“Yes,” cried Allan savagely, “the badge of slavery for a whole household
of folk too ignorant to know the price that was being paid for the
service rendered them.”

“And the hair,” continued Mandy relentlessly, “uncombed, filthy, horrid.
And the dress, and--”

“Stop it!” cried Allan peremptorily.

“No, let me go on. The stupid face, the ignorant mind, the uncouth
speech, the vulgar manners. Oh, I loathe the picture, and I wonder you
can ever bear to look at her again. And, oh, I wish you could forget.”

“Forget!” The young man’s lean, swarthy face seemed to light up with the
deep glowing fires in his dark eyes. His voice grew vibrant. “Forget!
Never while I live. Do you know what _I_ remember?”

“Ah, spare me!” moaned his wife, putting her hands over his mouth.

“Do you know what _I_ remember?” he repeated, pulling her hands away and
holding them fast. “A girl with hands, face, hair, form, dress, manners
damned to coarseness by a cruel environment? That? No! No! To-day as
I look back I remember only two blue eyes, deep, deep as wells, soft,
blue, and wonderfully kind. And I remember all through those days--and
hard days they were to a green young fool fresh from the Old Country
trying to keep pace with your farm-bred demon-worker Perkins--I remember
all through those days a girl that never was too tired with her own
unending toil to think of others, and especially to help out with many
a kindness a home-sick, hand-sore, foot-sore stranger who hardly knew a
buck-saw from a turnip hoe, and was equally strange to the uses of both,
a girl that feared no shame nor harm in showing her kindness. That’s
what I remember. A girl that made life bearable to a young fool, too
proud to recognize his own limitations, too blind to see the gifts the
gods were flinging at him. Oh, what a fool I was with my silly pride of
family, of superior education and breeding, and with no eye for the
pure gold of as true and loyal a soul as ever offered itself in daily
unmurmuring sacrifice for others, and without a thought of sacrifice.
Fool and dolt! A self-sufficient prig! That’s what I remember.”

The girl tore her hands away from him.

“Ah, Allan, my boy,” she cried with a shrill and scornful laugh that
broke at the end, “how foolishly you talk! And yet I love to hear
you talk so. I love to hear you. But, oh, let me tell you what else I
remember of those days!”

“No, no, I will not listen. It’s all nonsense.”

“Nonsense! Ah, Allan! Let me tell you this once.” She put her hands upon
his shoulders and looked steadily into his eyes. “Let me tell you. I’ve
never told you once during these six happy months--oh, how happy, I fear
to think how happy, too much joy, too deep, too wonderful, I’m afraid
sometimes--but let me tell you what I see, looking back into those old
days--how far away they seem already and not yet three years past--I
see a lad so strange, so unlike all I had known, a gallant lad, a very
knight for grace and gentleness, strong and patient and brave, not
afraid--ah, that caught me--nothing could make him afraid, not Perkins,
the brutal bully, not big Mack himself. And this young lad, beating them
all in the things men love to do, running, the hammer--and--and fighting
too!--Oh, laddie, laddie, how often did I hold my hands over my heart
for fear it would burst for pride in you! How often did I check back my
tears for very joy of loving you! How often did I find myself sick with
the agony of fear that you should go away from me forever! And then you
went away, oh, so kindly, so kindly pitiful, your pity stabbing my heart
with every throb. Why do I tell you this to-day? Let me go through it.
But it was this very pity stabbing me that awoke in me the resolve that
one day you would not need to pity me. And then, then I fled from the
farm and all its dreadful surroundings. And the nurse and Dr. Martin,
oh how good they were! And all of them helped me. They taught me.
They scolded me. They were never tired telling me. And with that
flame burning in my soul all that outer, horrid, awful husk seemed to
disappear and I escaped, I became all new.”

“You became yourself, yourself, your glorious, splendid, beautiful
self!” shouted Allan, throwing his arms around her. “And then I found
you again. Thank God, I found you! And found you for keeps, mine
forever. Think of that!”

“Forever.” Mandy shuddered again. “Oh, Allan, I’m somehow afraid. This
joy is too great.”

“Yes, forever,” said Allan again, but more quietly, “for love will last
forever.”

Together they sat upon the grass, needing no words to speak the joy that
filled their souls to overflowing. Suddenly Mandy sprang to her feet.

“Now, let me go, for within an hour we must be away. Oh, what a day
we’ve had, Allan, one of the very best days in all my life! You know
I’ve never been able to talk of the past to you, but to-day somehow I
could not rest till I had gone through with it all.”

“Yes, it’s been a great day,” said Allan, “a wonderful day, a day
we shall always remember.” Then after a silence, “Now for a fire and
supper. You’re right. In an hour we must be gone, for we are a long way
from home. But, think of it, Mandy, we’re going HOME. I can’t quite get
used to that!”

And in an hour, riding close as lovers ride, they took the trail to
their home ten miles away.



CHAPTER IV

THE BIG CHIEF


When on the return journey they arrived upon the plateau skirting the
Piegan Reserve the sun’s rays were falling in shafts of slanting light
upon the rounded hilltops before them and touching with purple the great
peaks behind them. The valleys were full of shadows, deep and blue. The
broad plains that opened here and there between the rounded hills were
still bathed in the mellow light of the westering sun.

“We will keep out a bit from the Reserve,” said Cameron, taking a trail
that led off to the left. “These Piegans are none too friendly. I’ve had
to deal with them a few times about my straying steers in a way which
they are inclined to resent. This half-breed business is making them all
restless and a good deal too impertinent.”

“There’s not any real danger, is there?” inquired his wife. “The Police
can handle them quite well, can’t they?”

“If you were a silly hysterical girl, Mandy, I would say ‘no danger’ of
course. But the signs are ominous. I don’t fear anything immediately,
but any moment a change may come and then we shall need to act quickly.”

“What then?”

“We shall ride to the Fort, I can tell you, without waiting to take our
stuff with us. I take no chances now.”

“Now? Meaning?”

“Meaning my wife, that’s all. I never thought to fear an Indian, but, by
Jove! since I’ve got you, Mandy, they make me nervous.”

“But these Piegans are such--”

“The Piegans are Indians, plain Indians, deprived of the privilege of
war by our North West Mounted Police regulations and of the excitement
of the chase by our ever approaching civilization, and the younger
bloods would undoubtedly welcome a ‘bit of a divarshun,’ as your friend
Mike would say. At present the Indians are simply watching and waiting.”

“What for?”

“News. To see which way the cat jumps. Then--Steady, Ginger! What the
deuce! Whoa, I say! Hold hard, Mandy.”

“What’s the matter with them?”

“There’s something in the bushes yonder. Coyote, probably. Listen!”

There came from a thick clump of poplars a low, moaning cry.

“What’s that?” cried Mandy. “It sounds like a man.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll ride in.”

In a few moments she heard his voice calling.

“Come along! Hurry up!”

A young Indian lad of about seventeen, ghastly under his copper skin
and faint from loss of blood, lay with his ankle held in a powerful
wolf-trap, a bloody knife at his side. With a cry Mandy was off her
horse and beside him, the instincts of the trained nurse rousing her to
action.

“Good Heavens! What a mess!” cried Cameron, looking helplessly upon the
bloody and mangled leg.

“Get a pail of water and get a fire going, Allan,” she cried. “Quick!”

“Well, first this trap ought to be taken off, I should say.”

“Quite right,” she cried. “Hurry!”

Taking his ax from their camp outfit, he cut down a sapling, and, using
it as a lever, soon released the foot.

“How did all this mangling come?” said Mandy, gazing at the limb, the
flesh and skin of which were hanging in shreds about the ankle.

“Cutting it off, weren’t you?” said Allan.

The Indian nodded.

Mandy lifted the foot up.

“Broken, I should say.”

The Indian uttered not a sound.

“Run,” she continued. “Bring a pail of water and get a fire going.”

Allan was soon back with the pail of water.

“Me--water,” moaned the Indian, pointing to the pail. Allan held it
to his lips and he drank long and deep. In a short time the fire was
blazing and the tea pail slung over it.

“If I only had my kit here!” said Mandy. “This torn flesh and skin ought
to be all cut away.”

“Oh, I say, Mandy, you can’t do that. We’ll get the Police doctor!” said
Allan in a tone of horrified disgust.

But Mandy was feeling the edge of the Indian’s knife.

“Sharp enough,” she said to herself. “These ragged edges are just
reeking with poison. Can you stand it if I cut these bits off?” she said
to the Indian.

“Huh!” he replied with a grunt of contempt. “No hurt.”

“Mandy, you can’t do this! It makes me sick to see you,” said her
husband.

The Indian glanced with scorn at him, caught the knife out of Mandy’s
hand, took up a flap of lacerated flesh and cut it clean away.

“Huh! No-t’ing.”

Mandy took the knife from him, and, after boiling it for a few minutes,
proceeded to cut away the ragged, mangled flesh and skin. The Indian
never winced. He lay with eyes closed, and so pallid was his face and so
perfectly motionless his limbs that he might have been dead. With deft
hands she cleansed the wounds.

“Now, Allan, you must help me. We must have splints for this ankle.”

“How would birch-bark do?” he suggested.

“No, it’s too flimsy.”

“The heavy inner rind is fairly stiff.” He ran to a tree and hacked off
a piece.

“Yes, that will do splendidly. Get some about so long.”

Half an hour’s work, and the wounded limb lay cleansed, bandaged, packed
in soft moss and bound in splints.

“That’s great, Mandy!” exclaimed her husband. “Even to my untutored eyes
that looks like an artistic bit of work. You’re a wonder.”

“Huh!” grunted the Indian. “Good!” His piercing black eyes were lifted
suddenly to her face with such a look of gratitude as is seen in the
eyes of dumb brutes or of men deprived of speech.

“Good!” echoed Allan. “You’re just right, my boy. I couldn’t have done
it, I assure you.”

“Huh!” grunted the Indian in eloquent contempt. “No good,” pointing
to the man. “Good,” pointing to the woman. “Me--no--forget.” He lifted
himself upon his elbow, and, pointing to the sun like a red eye glaring
in upon them through a vista of woods and hills, said, “Look--He
see--me no forget.”

There was something truly Hebraic in the exultant solemnity of his tone
and gesture.

“By Jove! He won’t either, I truly believe,” said Allan. “You’ve made a
friend for life, Mandy. Now, what’s next? We can’t carry this chap. It’s
three miles to their camp. We can’t leave him here. There are wolves all
around and the brutes always attack anything wounded.”

The Indian solved the problem.

“Huh!” he grunted contemptuously. He took up his long hunting-knife.
“Wolf--this!” He drove the knife to the hilt into the ground.

“You go--my fadder come. T’ree Indian,” holding up three fingers. “All
right! Good!” He sank back upon the ground exhausted.

“Come on then, Mandy, we shall have to hurry.”

“No, you go. I’ll wait.”

“I won’t have that. It will be dark soon and I can’t leave you here
alone with--”

“Nonsense! This poor boy is faint with hunger and pain. I’ll feed him
while you’re gone. Get me afresh pail of water and I can do for myself.”

“Well,” replied her husband dubiously, “I’ll get you some wood and--”

“Come, now,” replied Mandy impatiently, “who taught you to cut wood? I
can get my own wood. The main thing is to get away and get back. This
boy needs shelter. How long have you been here?” she inquired of the
Indian.

The boy opened his eyes and swung his arm twice from east to west,
indicating the whole sweep of the sky.

“Two days?”

He nodded.

“You must be starving. Want to eat?”

“Good!”

“Hurry, then, Allan, with the water. By the time this lad has been fed
you will be back.”

It was not long before Allan was back with the water.

“Now, then,” he said to the Indian, “where’s your camp?”

The Indian with his knife drew a line upon the ground. “River,” he said.
Another line parallel, “Trail.” Then, tracing a branching line from
the latter, turning sharply to the right, “Big Hill,” he indicated.
“Down--down.” Then, running the line a little farther, “Here camp.”

“I know the spot,” cried Allan. “Well, I’m off. Are you quite sure,
Mandy, you don’t mind?”

“Run off with you and get back soon. Go--good-by! Oh! Stop, you foolish
boy! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself before--?”

Cameron laughed in happy derision.

“Ashamed? No, nor before his whole tribe.” He swung himself on his pony
and was off down the trail at a gallop.

“You’ man?” inquired the Indian lad.

“Yes,” she said, “my man,” pride ringing in her voice.

“Huh! Him Big Chief?”

“Oh, no! Yes.” She corrected herself hastily. “Big Chief. Ranch, you
know--Big Horn Ranch.”

“Huh!” He closed his eyes and sank back again upon the ground.

“You’re faint with hunger, poor boy,” said Mandy. She hastily cut a
large slice of bread, buttered it, laid upon it some bacon and handed it
to him.

“Here, take this in the meantime,” she said. “I’ll have your tea in a
jiffy.”

The boy took the bread, and, faint though he was with hunger, sternly
repressing all sign of haste, he ate it with grave deliberation.

In a few minutes more the tea was ready and Mandy brought him a cup.

“Good!” he said, drinking it slowly.

“Another?” she smiled.

“Good!” he replied, drinking the second cup more rapidly.

“Now, we’ll have some fish,” cried Mandy cheerily, “and then you’ll be
fit for your journey home.”

In twenty minutes more she brought him a frying pan in which two large
beautiful trout lay, browned in butter. Mandy caught the wolf-like look
in his eyes as they fell upon the food. She cut several thick slices of
bread, laid them in the pan with the fish and turned her back upon him.
The Indian seized the bread, and, noting that he was unobserved, tore
it apart like a dog and ate ravenously, the fish likewise, ripping the
flesh off the bones and devouring it like some wild beast.

“There, now,” she said, when he had finished, “you’ve had enough to keep
you going. Indeed, you have had all that’s good for you. We don’t want
any fever, so that will do.”

Her gestures, if not her words, he understood, and again as he watched
her there gleamed in his eyes that dumb animal look of gratitude.

“Huh!” he grunted, slapping himself on the chest and arms. “Good! Me
strong! Me sleep.” He lay back upon the ground and in half a dozen
breaths was dead asleep, leaving Mandy to her lonely watch in the
gathering gloom of the falling night.

The silence of the woods deepened into a stillness so profound that a
dead leaf, fluttering from its twig and rustling to the ground, made her
start in quick apprehension.

“What a fool I am!” she muttered angrily. She rose to pile wood upon the
fire. At her first movement the Indian was broad awake and half on his
knees with his knife gleaming in his hand. As his eyes fell upon the
girl at the fire, with a grunt, half of pain and half of contempt, he
sank back again upon the ground and was fast asleep before the fire was
mended, leaving Mandy once more to her lonely watch.

“I wish he would come,” she muttered, peering into the darkening woods
about her. A long and distant howl seemed to reply to her remark.

It was answered by a series of short, sharp yelps nearer at hand.

“Coyote,” she said disdainfully, for she had learned to despise the
cowardly prairie wolf.

But again that long distant howl. In spite of herself she shuddered.
That was no coyote, but a gray timber wolf.

“I wish Allan would come,” she said again, thinking of wakening the
Indian. But her nurse’s instincts forbade her breaking his heavy sleep.

“Poor boy, he needs the rest! I’ll wait a while longer.”

She took her ax and went bravely at some dead wood lying near, cutting
it for the fire. The Indian never made a sound. He lay dead in sleep.
She piled the wood on the fire till the flames leaped high, shining
ruddily upon the golden and yellow leaves of the surrounding trees.

But again that long-drawn howl, and quite near, pierced the silence
like the thrust of a spear. Before she was aware Mandy was on her feet,
determined to waken the sleeping Indian, but she had no more than taken
a single step toward him when he was awake and listening keenly. A soft
padding upon the dead leaves could be heard like the gentle falling
of raindrops. The Indian rolled over on his side, swept away some dead
leaves and moss, and drew toward him a fine Winchester rifle.

“Huh! Wolf,” he said, with quiet unconcern. “Here,” he continued,
pointing to a rock beside him. Mandy took the place indicated. As she
seated herself he put up his hand with a sharp hiss. Again the pattering
feet could be heard. Suddenly the Indian leaned forward, gazing intently
into the gloom beyond the rim of the firelight, then with a swift
gliding movement he threw his rifle up and fired. There was a sharp
yelp, followed by a gurgling snarl. His shot was answered by a loud
shout.

“Huh!” said the lad with quiet satisfaction, holding up one finger, “One
wolf. Big Chief come.”

At the shout Mandy had sprung to her feet, answering with a loud glad
halloo. Immediately, as if in response to her call, an Indian swung
his pony into the firelight, slipped off and stood looking about him.
Straight, tall and sinewy, he stood, with something noble in his face
and bearing.

“He looks like a gentleman,” was the thought that leaped into Mandy’s
mind. A swift glance he swept round the circle of the light. Mandy
thought she had never seen so piercing an eye.

The Indian lad uttered a low moaning sound. With a single leap the man
was at his side, holding him in his arms and kissing him on both cheeks,
with eager guttural speech. A few words from the lad and the Indian was
on his feet again, his eyes gleaming, but his face immobile as a death
mask.

“My boy,” he said, pointing to the lad. “My boy--my papoose.” His voice
grew soft and tender.

Before Mandy could reply there was another shout and Allan, followed by
four Indians, burst into the light. With a glad cry Mandy rushed into
his arms and clung to him.

“Hello! What’s up? Everything all right?” cried Allan. “I was a deuce of
a time, I know. Took the wrong trail. You weren’t frightened, eh? What?
What’s happened?” His voice grew anxious, then stern. “Anything wrong?
Did he--? Did anyone--?”

“No, no, Allan!” cried his wife, still clinging to him. “It was only a
wolf and I was a little frightened.”

“A wolf!” echoed her husband aghast.

The Indian lad spoke a few words and pointed to the dark. The Indians
glided into the woods and in a few minutes one of them returned,
dragging by the leg a big, gray timber wolf. The lad’s bullet had gone
home.

“And did this brute attack you?” cried Allan in alarm.

“No, no. I heard him howling a long way off, and then--then--he came
nearer, and--then--I could hear his feet pattering.” Cameron drew
her close to him. “And then he saw him right in the dark. Wasn’t it
wonderful?”

“In the dark?” said Allan, turning to the lad. “How did you do it?”

“Huh!” grunted the lad in a tone of indifference. “See him eyes.”

Already the Indians were preparing a stretcher out of blankets and two
saplings. Here Mandy came to their help, directing their efforts so that
with the least hurt to the boy he was lifted to his stretcher.

As they were departing the father came close to Mandy, and, holding out
his hand, said in fairly good English:

“You--good to my boy. You save him--to-day. All alone maybe he die. You
give him food--drink. Sometime--perhaps soon--me pay you.”

“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I want no pay.”

“No money--no!” cried the Indian, with scorn in his voice. “Me save
you perhaps--sometime. Save you--save you, man. Me Big Chief.” He drew
himself up his full height. “Much Indian follow me.” He shook hands with
Mandy again, then with her husband.

“Big Piegan Chief?” inquired her husband.

“Piegan!” said the Indian with hearty contempt. “Me no Piegan--me
Big Chief. Me--” He paused abruptly, turned on his heel and, flinging
himself on to his pony, disappeared in the shadows.

“He’s jolly well pleased with himself, isn’t he?” said Cameron.

“He’s splendid,” cried Mandy enthusiastically. “Why, he’s just like
one of Cooper’s Indians. He’s certainly like none of the rest I’ve seen
about here.”

“That’s true enough,” replied her husband. “He’s no Piegan. Who is he, I
wonder? I don’t remember seeing him. He thinks no end of himself, at any
rate.”

“And looks as if he had a right to.”

“Right you are! Well, let’s away. You must be dog tired and used up.”

“Never a bit,” cried Mandy. “I’m fresh as a daisy. What a wonderful
ending to a wonderful day!”

They extinguished the fire carefully and made their way out to the
trail.

But the end of this wonderful day had not yet come.



CHAPTER V

THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE


The moon was riding high in the cloudless blue of the heavens, tricked
out with faintly shining stars, when they rode into the “corral” that
surrounded the ranch stable. A horse stood tethered at the gate.

“Hello, a visitor!” cried Cameron. “A Police horse!” his eyes falling
upon the shining accouterments.

“A Policeman!” echoed Mandy, a sudden foreboding at her heart. “What can
he want?”

“Me, likely,” replied her husband with a laugh, “though I can’t think
for which of my crimes it is. It’s Inspector Dickson, by his horse. You
know him, Mandy, my very best friend.”

“What does he want, Allan?” said Mandy, anxiety in her voice.

“Want? Any one of a thousand things. You run in and see while I put up
the ponies.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mandy, walking with him toward the stable. “Do
you know, I feel there is something--I have felt all day a kind of dread
that--”

“Nonsense, Mandy! You’re not that style of girl. Run away into the
house.”

But still Mandy waited beside him.

“We’ve had a great day, Allan,” she said again. “Many great days, and
this, one of the best. Whatever comes nothing can take those happy days
from us.” She put her arms about his neck and drew him toward her.
“I don’t know why, Allan, I know it’s foolish, but I’m afraid,” she
whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“Now, Mandy,” said her husband, with his arms round about her, “don’t
say you’re going to get like other girls, hysterical and that sort of
thing. You are just over-tired. We’ve had a big day, but an exhausting
day, an exciting day. What with that Piegan and the wolf business and
all, you are done right up. So am I and--by Jove! That reminds me, I am
dead famished.”

No better word could he have spoken.

“You poor boy,” she cried. “I’ll have supper ready by the time you
come in. I am silly, but now it’s all over. I shall go in and face the
Inspector and dare him to arrest you, no matter what you have done.”

“That’s more like the thing! That’s more like my girl. I shall be with
you in a very few minutes. He can’t take us both, can he? Run in and
smile at him.”

Mandy found the Inspector in the cozy ranch kitchen, calmly smoking his
pipe, and deep in the London Graphic. As she touched the latch he sprang
to his feet and saluted in his best style.

“Never heard you ride up, Mrs. Cameron, I assure you. You must think me
rather cool to sit tight here and ignore your coming.”

“I am very glad to see you, Inspector Dickson, and Allan will be
delighted. He is putting up your horse. You will of course stay the
night with us.”

“Oh, that’s awfully kind, but I really can’t, you know. I shall tell
Cameron.” He took his hat from the peg.

“We should be delighted if you could stay with us. We see very few
people and you have not been very neighborly, now confess.”

“I have not been, and to my sorrow and loss. If any man had told me that
I should have been just five weeks to a day within a few hours’ ride of
my friend Cameron, not to speak of his charming wife, without visiting
him, well I should have--well, no matter--to my joy I am here to-night.
But I can’t stay this trip. We are rather hard worked just now, to tell
the truth.”

“Hard worked?” she asked.

“Yes. Patrol work rather heavy. But I must stop Cameron in his
hospitable design,” he added, as he passed out of the door.

It was a full half hour before the men returned, to find supper spread
and Mandy waiting. It was a large and cheerful apartment that did both
for kitchen and living room. The sides were made of logs hewn smooth,
plastered and whitewashed. The oak joists and planking above were
stained brown. At one end of the kitchen two doors led to as many rooms,
at the other a large stone fireplace, with a great slab for mantelpiece.
On this slab stood bits of china bric-a-brac, and what not, relics
abandoned by the gallant and chivalrous Fraser for the bride and her
house furnishing. The prints, too, upon the wall, hunting scenes of the
old land, sea-scenes, moorland and wild cattle, with many useful
and ornamental bits of furniture, had all been handed over with true
Highland generosity by the outgoing owner.

In the fireplace, for the night had a touch of frost in it, a log fire
blazed and sparked, lending to the whole scene an altogether delightful
air of comfort.

“I say, this does look jolly!” cried the Inspector as he entered.
“Cameron, you lucky dog, do you really imagine you know how jolly well
off you are, coddled thus in the lap of comfort and surrounded with all
the enervating luxuries of an effete and forgotten civilization?
Come now, own up, you are beginning to take this thing as a matter of
course.”

But Cameron stood with his back to the light, busying himself with his
fishing tackle and fish, and ignoring the Inspector’s cheerful chatter.
And thus he remained without a word while the Inspector talked on in a
voluble flow of small talk quite unusual with him.

Throughout the supper Cameron remained silent, rallying spasmodically
with gay banter to the Inspector’s chatter, or answering at random, but
always falling silent again, and altogether was so unlike himself that
Mandy fell to wondering, then became watchful, then anxious. At length
the Inspector himself fell silent, as if perceiving the uselessness of
further pretense.

“What is it, Allan?” said Mandy quietly, when silence had fallen upon
them all. “You might as well let me know.”

“Tell her, for God’s sake,” said her husband to the Inspector.

“What is it?” inquired Mandy.

The Inspector handed her a letter.

“From Superintendent Strong to my Chief,” he said.

She took it and as she read her face went now white with fear, now red
with indignation. At length she flung the letter down.

“What a man he is to be sure!” she cried scornfully. “And what nonsense
is this he writes. With all his men and officers he must come for my
husband! What is HE doing? And all the others? It’s just his own stupid
stubbornness. He always did object to our marriage.”

The Inspector was silent. Cameron was silent too. His boyish face, for
he was but a lad, seemed to have grown old in those few minutes. The
Inspector wore an ashamed look, as if detected in a crime.

“And because he is not clever enough to catch this man they must come
for my husband to do it for them. He is not a Policeman. He has nothing
to do with the Force.”

And still the Inspector sat silent, as if convicted of both crime and
folly.

At length Cameron spoke.

“It is quite impossible, Inspector. I can’t do it. You quite see how
impossible it is.”

“Most certainly you can’t,” eagerly agreed the Inspector. “I knew from
the first it was a piece of--sheer absurdity--in fact brutal inhumanity.
I told the Commissioner so.”

“It isn’t as if I was really needed, you know. The Superintendent’s idea
is, as you say, quite absurd.”

The Inspector gravely nodded.

“You don’t think for a moment,” continued Cameron, “there is any
need--any real need I mean--for me to--” Cameron’s voice died away.

The Inspector hesitated and cleared his throat. “Well--of course, we
are desperately short-handed, you know. Every man is overworked. Every
reserve has to be closely patroled. Every trail ought to be watched.
Runners are coming in every day. We ought to have a thousand men instead
of five hundred, this very minute. Of course one can never tell. The
chances are this will all blow over.”

“Certainly,” said Cameron. “We’ve heard these rumors for the past year.”

“Of course,” agreed the Inspector cheerfully.

“But if it does not,” asked Mandy, suddenly facing the Inspector, “what
then?”

“If it does not?”

“If it does not?” she insisted.

The Inspector appeared to turn the matter over in his mind.

“Well,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, “if it does not there will be a
deuce of an ugly time.”

“What do you mean?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. But Mandy waited, her eyes fixed
on his face demanding answer.

“Well, there are some hundreds of settlers and their families scattered
over this country, and we can hardly protect them all. But,” he added
cheerfully, as if dismissing the subject, “we have a trick of worrying
through.”

Mandy shuddered. One phrase in the Superintendent’s letter to the
Commissioner which she had just read kept hammering upon her brain,
“Cameron is the man and the only man for the job.”

They turned the talk to other things, but the subject would not be
dismissed. Like the ghost at the feast it kept ever returning. The
Inspector retailed the most recent rumors, and together he and his host
weighed their worth. The Inspector disclosed the Commissioner’s plans
as far as he knew them. These, too, were discussed with approval or
condemnation. The consequences of an Indian uprising were hinted at, but
quickly dropped. The probabilities of such an uprising were touched upon
and pronounced somewhat slight.

But somehow to the woman listening as in a maze this pronouncement and
all the reassuring talk rang hollow. She sat staring at the Inspector
with eyes that saw him not. What she did see was a picture out of an
old book of Indian war days which she had read when a child, a smoking
cabin, with mangled forms of women and children lying in the blackened
embers. By degrees, slow, painful, but relentlessly progressive, certain
impressions, at first vague and passionately resisted, were wrought into
convictions in her soul. First, the Inspector, in spite of his light
talk, was undeniably anxious, and in this anxiety her husband shared.
Then, the Force was clearly inadequate to the duty required of it. At
this her indignation burned. Why should it be that a Government should
ask of brave men what they must know to be impossible? Hard upon this
conviction came the words of the Superintendent, “Cameron is the man and
the only man for the job.” Finally, the Inspector was apologizing for
her husband. It roused a hot resentment in her to hear him. That thing
she could not and would not bear. Never should it be said that her
husband had needed a friend to apologize for him.

As these convictions grew in clearness she found herself brought
suddenly and sharply to face the issue. With a swift contraction of the
heart she realized that she must send her husband on this perilous duty.
Ah! Could she do it? It was as if a cold hand were steadily squeezing
drop by drop the life-blood from her heart. In contrast, and as if with
one flash of light, the long happy days of the last six months passed
before her mind. How could she give him up? Her breathing came in short
gasps, her lips became dry, her eyes fixed and staring. She was fighting
for what was dearer to her than life. Suddenly she flung her hands to
her face and groaned aloud.

“What is it, Mandy?” cried her husband, starting from his place.

His words seemed to recall her. The agonizing agitation passed from her
and a great quiet fell upon her soul. The struggle was done. She had
made the ancient sacrifice demanded of women since ever the first man
went forth to war. It remained only to complete with fitting ritual this
ancient sacrifice. She rose from her seat and faced her husband.

“Allan,” she said, and her voice was of indescribable sweetness, “you
must go.”

Her husband took her in his arms without a word, then brokenly he said:

“My girl! My own brave girl! I knew you must send me.”

“Yes,” she replied, gazing into his face with a wan smile, “I knew it
too, because I knew you would expect me to.”

The Inspector had risen from his chair at her first cry and was standing
with bent head, as if in the presence of a scene too sacred to witness.
Then he came to her, and, with old time and courtly grace of the fine
gentleman he was, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“Dear lady,” he said, “for such as you brave men would gladly give their
lives.”

“Give their lives!” cried Mandy. “I would much rather they would save
them. But,” she added, her voice taking a practical tone, “sit down and
let us talk. Now what’s the work and what’s the plan?”

The men glanced at each other in silent admiration of this woman who,
without moan or murmur, could surrender her heart’s dearest treasure for
her country’s good. This was a spirit of their own type.

They sat down before the fire and discussed the business before them.
But as they discussed ever and again Mandy would find her mind wandering
back over the past happy days. Ever and again a word would recall her,
but only for a brief moment and soon she was far away again.

A phrase of the Inspector, however, arrested and held her.

“He’s really a fine looking Indian, in short a kind of aristocrat among
the Indians,” he was saying.

“An aristocrat?” she exclaimed, remembering her own word about the
Indian Chief they had met that very evening. “Why, that is like our
Chief, Allan.”

“By Jove! You’re right!” exclaimed her husband. “What’s your man like,
again? Describe him, Inspector.”

The Inspector described him in detail.

“The very man we saw to-night!” cried Mandy, and gave her description of
the “Big Chief.”

When she had finished the Inspector sat looking into the fire.

“Among the Piegans, too,” he mused. “That fits in. There was a big
powwow the other day in the Sun Dance Canyon. The Piegans’ is the
nearest reserve, and a lot of them were there. The Superintendent says
he is somewhere along the Sun Dance.”

“Inspector,” said Allan, with sudden determination, “we will drop in on
the Piegans to-morrow morning by sun-up.”

Mandy started. This pace was more rapid than she had expected, but,
having made the sacrifice, there was with her no word of recall.

The Inspector pondered the suggestion.

“Well,” he said, “it would do no harm to reconnoiter at any rate. But we
can’t afford to make any false move, and we can’t afford to fail.”

“Fail!” said Cameron quietly. “We won’t fail. We’ll get him.” And the
lines in his face reminded his wife of how he looked that night three
years before when he cowed the great bully Perkins into submission at
her father’s door.

Long they sat and planned. As the Inspector said, there must be no
failure; hence the plan must provide for every possible contingency. By
far the keenest of the three in mental activity was Mandy. By a curious
psychological process the Indian Chief, who an hour before had awakened
in her admiration and a certain romantic interest, had in a single
moment become an object of loathing, almost of hatred. That he should be
in this land planning for her people, for innocent and defenseless women
and children, the horrors of massacre filled her with a fierce anger.
But a deeper analysis would doubtless have revealed a personal element
in her anger and loathing. The Indian had become the enemy for whose
capture and for whose destruction her husband was now enlisted. Deep
down in her quiet, strong, self-controlled nature there burned a passion
in which mingled the primitive animal instincts of the female, mate for
mate, and mother for offspring. Already her mind had leaped forward to
the moment when this cunning, powerful plotter would be at death-grips
with her husband and she not there to help. With intensity of purpose
and relentlessness of determination she focused the powers of her
forceful and practical mind upon the problem engaging their thought.

With mind whetted to its keenest she listened to the men as they made
and unmade their plans. In ordinary circumstances the procedure of
arrest would have been extremely simple. The Inspector and Cameron would
have ridden into the Piegan camp, and, demanding their man, would have
quietly and without even a show of violence carried him off. It would
have been like things they had each of them done single-handed within
the past year.

“When once we make a start, you see, Mrs. Cameron, we never turn back.
We could not afford to,” said the Inspector. There was no suspicion
of boasting in the Inspector’s voice. He was simply enunciating the
traditional code of the Police. “And if we should hesitate with this
man or fail to land him every Indian in these territories would have
it within a week and our prestige would receive a shock. We dare not
exhibit any sign of nerves. On the other hand we dare not make any
movement in force. In short, anything unusual must be avoided.”

“I quite see,” replied Mandy with keen appreciation of the delicacy of
the situation.

“So that I fancy the simpler the plan the better. Cameron will ride
into the Piegan camp inquiring about his cattle, as, fortunately for the
present situation, he has cause enough to in quite an ordinary way.
I drop in on my regular patrol looking up a cattle-thief in quite the
ordinary way. Seeing this strange chief, I arrest him on suspicion.
Cameron backs me up. The thing is done. Luckily Trotting Wolf, who is
the Head Chief now of the Piegans, has a fairly thorough respect for
the Police, and unless things have gone much farther in his band than I
think he will not resist. He is, after all, rather harmless.”

“I don’t like your plan at all, Inspector,” said Mandy promptly. “The
moment you suggest arrest that moment the younger men will be up. They
are just back from a big brave-making powwow, you say. They are all
worked up, and keen for a chance to prove that they are braves in more
than in name. You give them the very opportunity you wish to avoid.
Now hear my plan,” she continued, her voice eager, keen, hard, in the
intensity of her purpose. “I ride into camp to-morrow morning to see
the sick boy. I promised I would and I really want to. I find him in a
fever, for a fever he certainly will have. I dress his wounded ankle and
discover he must have some medicine. I get old Copperhead to ride back
with me for it. You wait here and arrest him without trouble.”

The two men looked at each other, then at her, with a gentle admiring
pity. The plan was simplicity itself and undoubtedly eliminated the
elements of danger which the Inspector’s possessed. It had, however, one
fatal defect.

“Fine, Mandy!” said her husband, reaching across the table and patting
her hand that lay clenched upon the cloth. “But it won’t do.”

“And why not, pray?” she demanded.

“We do not use our women as decoys in this country, nor do we expose
them to dangers we men dare not face.”

“Allan,” cried his wife with angry impatience, “you miss the whole
point. For a woman to ride into the Piegan camp, especially on this
errand of mercy, involves her in no danger. And what possible danger
would there be in having the old villain ride back with me for
medicine? And as to the decoy business,” here she shrugged her shoulders
contemptuously, “do you think I care a bit for that? Isn’t he planning
to kill women and children in this country? And--and--won’t he do his
best to kill you?” she panted. “Isn’t it right for me to prevent him?
Prevent him! To me he is like a snake. I would--would--gladly kill
him--myself.” As she spoke these words her eyes were indeed, in Sergeant
Ferry’s words, “like little blue flames.”

But the men remained utterly unmoved. To their manhood the plan
was repugnant, and in spite of Mandy’s arguments and entreaties was
rejected.

“It is the better plan, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Inspector kindly, “but
we cannot, you must see we cannot, adopt it.”

“You mean you will not,” cried Mandy indignantly, “just because you are
stupid stubborn men!” And she proceeded to argue the matter all over
again with convincing logic, but with the same result. There are
propositions which do not lend themselves to the arbitrament of logic
with men. When the safety of their women is at stake they refuse to
discuss chances. In such a case they may be stupid, but they are quite
immovable.

Blocked by this immovable stupidity, Mandy yielded her ground, but only
to attempt a flank movement.

“Let me go with you on your reconnoitering expedition,” she pleaded.
“Rather, let US go, Allan, you and I together, to see the boy. I am
really sorry for that boy. He can’t help his father, can he?”

“Quite true,” said the Inspector gravely.

“Let us go and find out all we can and next day make your attempt.
Besides, Allan,” she cried under a sudden inspiration of memory, “you
can’t possibly go. You forget your sister arrives at Calgary this week.
You must meet her.”

“By Jove! Is that so? I had forgotten,” said Cameron, turning to study
the calendar on the wall, a gorgeous work of art produced out of
the surplus revenues of a Life Insurance Company. “Let’s see,” he
calculated. “This week? Three days will take us in. We are still all
right. We have five. That gives us two days clear for this job. I feel
like making this try, Mandy,” he continued earnestly. “We have this chap
practically within our grasp. He will be off guard. The Piegans are not
yet worked up to the point of resistance. Ten days from now our man may
be we can’t tell where.”

Mandy remained silent. The ritual of her sacrifice was not yet complete.

“I think you are right, Allan,” at length she said slowly with a twisted
smile. “I’m afraid you are right. It’s hard not to be in it, though.
But,” she added, as if moved by a sudden thought, “I may be in it yet.”

“You will certainly be with us in spirit, Mandy,” he replied, patting
the firm brown hand that lay upon the table.

“Yes, truly, and in our hearts,” added the Inspector with a bow.

But Mandy made no reply. Already she was turning over in her mind a
half-formed plan which she had no intention of sharing with these men,
who, after the manner of their kind, would doubtless block it.

Early morning found Cameron and the Inspector on the trail toward the
Piegan Reserve, riding easily, for they knew not what lay before them
nor what demand they might have to make upon their horses that day. The
Inspector rode a strongly built, stocky horse of no great speed but good
for an all-day run. Cameron’s horse was a broncho, an unlovely
brute, awkward and ginger-colored--his name was Ginger--sad-eyed
and wicked-looking, but short-coupled and with flat, rangy legs that
promised speed. For his sad-eyed, awkward broncho Cameron professed a
deep affection and defended him stoutly against the Inspector’s jibes.

“You can’t kill him,” he declared. “He’ll go till he drops, and then
twelve miles more. He isn’t beautiful to look at and his manners are
nothing to boast of, but he will hang upon the fence the handsome skin
of that cob of yours.”

When still five or six miles from camp they separated.

“The old boy may, of course, be gone,” said the Inspector as he was
parting from his friend. “By Superintendent Strong’s report he seems to
be continually on the move.”

“I rather think his son will hold him for a day or two,” replied
Cameron. “Now you give me a full half hour. I shall look in upon the
boy, you know. But don’t be longer. I don’t as a rule linger among these
Piegan gentry, you know, and a lengthened stay would certainly arouse
suspicion.”

Cameron’s way lay along the high plateau, from which a descent could
be made by a trail leading straight south into the Piegan camp. The
Inspector’s course carried him in a long detour to the left, by which
he should enter from the eastern end the valley in which lay the Indian
camp. Cameron’s trail at the first took him through thick timber, then,
as it approached the level floor of the valley, through country that
became more open. The trees were larger and with less undergrowth
between them. In the valley itself a few stubble fields with fences
sadly in need of repair gave evidence of the partial success of the
attempts of the farm instructor to initiate the Piegans into the science
and art of agriculture. A few scattering log houses, which the Indians
had been induced by the Government to build for themselves, could be
seen here and there among the trees. But during the long summer days,
and indeed until driven from the open by the blizzards of winter, not
one of these children of the free air and open sky could be persuaded to
enter the dismal shelter afforded by the log houses. They much preferred
the flimsy teepee or tent. And small wonder. Their methods of sanitation
did not comport with a permanent dwelling. When the teepee grew foul,
which their habits made inevitable, a simple and satisfactory remedy
was discovered in a shift to another camp-ground. Not so with the log
houses, whose foul corners, littered with the accumulated filth of a
winter’s occupation, became fertile breeding places for the germs of
disease and death. Irregularly strewn upon the grassy plain in
the valley bottom some two dozen teepees marked the Piegan summer
headquarters. Above the camp rose the smoke of their camp-fires, for it
was still early and their morning meal was yet in preparation.



CHAPTER VI

THE ILLUSIVE COPPERHEAD


Cameron’s approach to the Piegan camp was greeted by a discordant
chorus of yelps and howls from a pack of mangy, half-starved curs of all
breeds, shapes and sizes, the invariable and inevitable concomitants of
an Indian encampment. The squaws, who had been busy superintending the
pots and pans in which simmered the morning meal of their lords and
masters, faded from view at Cameron’s approach, and from the teepees on
every side men appeared and stood awaiting with stolid faces the white
man’s greeting. Cameron was known to them of old.

“Good-day!” he cried briefly, singling out the Chief.

“Huh!” replied the Chief, and awaited further parley.

“No grub yet, eh? You sleep too long, Chief.”

The Chief smiled grimly.

“I say, Chief,” continued Cameron, “I have lost a couple of steers--big
fellows, too--any of your fellows seen them?”

Trotting Wolf turned to the group of Indians who had slouched toward
them in the meantime and spoke to them in the singsong monotone of the
Indian.

“No see cow,” he replied briefly.

Cameron threw himself from his horse and, striding to a large pot
simmering over a fire, stuck his knife into the mass and lifted up a
large piece of flesh, the bones of which looked uncommonly like ribs of
beef.

“What’s this, Trotting Wolf?” he inquired with a stern ring in his
voice.

“Deer,” promptly and curtly replied the Chief.

“Who shot him?”

The Chief consulted the group of Indians standing near.

“This man,” he replied, indicating a young Indian.

“What’s your name?” said Cameron sharply. “I know you.”

The young Indian shook his head.

“Oh, come now, you know English all right. What’s your name?”

Still the Indian shook his head, meeting Cameron’s look with a fearless
eye.

“He White Cloud,” said the Chief.

“White Cloud! Big Chief, eh?” said Cameron.

“Huh!” replied Trotting Wolf, while a smile appeared on several faces.

“You shot this deer?”

“Huh!” replied the Indian, nodding.

“I thought you could speak English all right.”

Again a smile touched the faces of some of the group.

“Where did you shoot him?”

White Cloud pointed vaguely toward the mountains.

“How far? Two, three, four miles?” inquired Cameron, holding up his
fingers.

“Huh!” grunted the Indian, holding up five fingers.

“Five miles, eh? Big deer, too,” said Cameron, pointing to the ribs.

“Huh!”

“How did you carry him home?”

The Indian shook his head.

“How did he carry him these five miles?” continued Cameron, turning to
Trotting Wolf.

“Pony,” replied Trotting Wolf curtly.

“Good!” said Cameron. “Now,” said he, turning swiftly upon the young
Indian, “where is the skin?”

The Indian’s eyes wavered for a fleeting instant. He spoke a few words
to Trotting Wolf. Conversation followed.

“Well?” said Cameron.

“He says dogs eat him up.”

“And the head? This big fellow had a big head. Where is it?”

Again the Indian’s eyes wavered and again the conversation followed.

“Left him up in bush,” replied the chief.

“We will ride up and see it, then,” said Cameron.

The Indians became voluble among themselves.

“No find,” said the Chief. “Wolf eat him up.”

Cameron raised the meat to his nose, sniffed its odor and dropped it
back into the pot. With a single stride he was close to White Cloud.

“White Cloud,” he said sternly, “you speak with a forked tongue. In
plain English, White Cloud, you lie. Trotting Wolf, you know that is no
deer. That is cow. That is my cow.”

Trotting Wolf shrugged his shoulders.

“No see cow me,” he said sullenly.

“White Cloud,” said Cameron, swiftly turning again upon the young
Indian, “where did you shoot my cow?”

The young Indian stared back at Cameron, never blinking an eyelid.
Cameron felt his wrath rising, but kept himself well in hand,
remembering the purpose of his visit. During this conversation he had
been searching the gathering crowd of Indians for the tall form of his
friend of the previous night, but he was nowhere to be seen. Cameron
felt he must continue the conversation, and, raising his voice as if in
anger--and indeed there was no need of pretense for he longed to seize
White Cloud by the throat and shake the truth out of him--he said:

“Trotting Wolf, your young men have been killing my cattle for many
days. You know that this is a serious offense with the Police. Indians
go to jail for this. And the Police will hold you responsible. You are
the Chief on this reserve. The Police will ask why you cannot keep your
young men from stealing cattle.”

The number of Indians was increasing every moment and still Cameron’s
eyes searched the group, but in vain. Murmurs arose from the Indians,
which he easily interpreted to mean resentment, but he paid no heed.

“The Police do not want a Chief,” he cried in a still louder voice, “who
cannot control his young men and keep them from breaking the law.”

He paused abruptly. From behind a teepee some distance away there
appeared the figure of the “Big Chief” whom he so greatly desired to
see. Giving no sign of his discovery, he continued his exhortation to
Trotting Wolf, to that worthy’s mingled rage and embarrassment. The
suggestion of jail for cattle-thieves the Chief knew well was no empty
threat, for two of his band even at that moment were in prison for this
very crime. This knowledge rendered him uneasy. He had no desire himself
to undergo a like experience, and it irked his tribe and made them
restless and impatient of his control that their Chief could not protect
them from these unhappy consequences of their misdeeds. They knew
that with old Crowfoot, the Chief of the Blackfeet band, such untoward
consequences rarely befell the members of that tribe. Already Trotting
Wolf could distinguish the murmurs of his young men, who were resenting
the charge against White Cloud, as well as the tone and manner in
which it was delivered. Most gladly would he have defied this truculent
rancher to do his worst, but his courage was not equal to the plunge,
and, besides, the circumstances for such a break were not yet favorable.

At this juncture Cameron, facing about, saw within a few feet of him the
Indian whose capture he was enlisted to secure.

“Hello!” he cried, as if suddenly recognizing him. “How is the boy?”

“Good,” said the Indian with grave dignity. “He sick here,” touching his
head.

“Ah! Fever, I suppose,” replied Cameron. “Take me to see him.”

The Indian led the way to the teepee that stood slightly apart from the
others.

Inside the teepee upon some skins and blankets lay the boy, whose bright
eyes and flushed cheeks proclaimed fever. An old squaw, bent in form and
wrinkled in face, crouched at the end of the couch, her eyes gleaming
like beads of black glass in her mahogany face.

“How is the foot to-day?” cried Allan. “Pain bad?”

“Huh!” grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the
restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.

“You want the doctor here,” said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling
beside the couch. “That boy is in a high fever. And you can’t get him
too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How
did you sleep last night?” he inquired of the lad.

“No sleep,” said his father. “Go this way--this way,” throwing his arms
about his head. “Talk, talk, talk.”

But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs
and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had
arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes
swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron,
glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.

“Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of
blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot.” And he continued to
describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound.
As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.

“You’ squaw good. Come see me,” he said. “Good--good.” The eager look in
the fevered eye touched Cameron.

“All right, boy, I shall tell her,” he said. “Good-by!” He took the
boy’s hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.

“You’ squaw come--sure. Hurt here--bad.” He struck his forehead with his
hand. “You’ squaw come--make good.”

“All right,” said Cameron. “I shall bring her myself. Good-by!”

Together they passed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the
Indian’s side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy’s
condition, all the while listening to the Inspector’s voice from behind
the row of teepees.

“Ah!” he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted
on his horse. “Here is my friend, Inspector Dickson. Hello, Inspector!”
 he called out. “Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to
help us.”

“Hello, Cameron!” cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting.
“What’s up?”

Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.

“There is a sick boy in here,” said Cameron, pointing to the teepee
behind him. “He is the son of this man, Chief--” He paused. “I don’t
know your name.”

Without an instant’s hesitation the Indian replied:

“Chief Onawata.”

“His boy got his foot in a trap. My wife dressed the wound last night,”
 continued Cameron. “Come in and see him.”

But the Indian put up his hand.

“No,” he said quietly. “My boy not like strange man. Bad head--here.
Want sleep--sleep.”

“Ah!” said the Inspector. “Quite right. Let him sleep. Nothing better
than sleep. A good long sleep will fix him up.”

“He needs the doctor, however,” said Cameron.

“Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor.”

“Everything all right, Inspector?” said Cameron, throwing his friend a
significant glance.

“Quite right!” replied the Inspector. “But I must be going. Good-by,
Chief!” As his one hand closed on the Indian’s his other slid down upon
his wrist. “I want you, Chief,” he said in a quiet stern voice. “I want
you to come along with me.”

His hand had hardly closed upon the wrist than with a single motion,
swift, snake-like, the Indian wrenched his hand from the Inspector’s
iron grasp and, leaping back a space of three paces, stood with body
poised as if to spring.

“Halt there, Chief! Don’t move or you die!”

The Indian turned to see Cameron covering him with two guns. At once
he relaxed his tense attitude and, drawing himself up, he demanded in a
voice of indignant scorn:

“Why you touch me? Me Big Chief! You little dog!”

As he stood, erect, tall, scornful, commanding, with his head thrown
back and his arm outstretched, his eyes glittering and his face eloquent
of haughty pride, he seemed the very incarnation of the wild unconquered
spirit of that once proud race he represented. For a moment or two a
deep silence held the group of Indians, and even the white men were
impressed. Then the Inspector spoke.

“Trotting Wolf,” he said, “I want this man. He is a horse-thief. I know
him. I am going to take him to the Fort. He is a bad man.”

“No,” said Trotting Wolf, in a loud voice, “he no bad man. He my friend.
Come here many days.” He held up both hands. “No teef--my friend.”

A loud murmur rose from the Indians, who in larger numbers kept crowding
nearer. At this ominous sound the Inspector swiftly drew two revolvers,
and, backing toward the man he was seeking to arrest, said in a quiet,
clear voice:

“Trotting Wolf, this man goes with me. If he is no thief he will be
back again very soon. See these guns? Six men die,” shaking one of them,
“when this goes off. And six more die,” shaking the other, “when
this goes off. The first man will be you, Trotting Wolf, and this man
second.”

Trotting Wolf hesitated.

“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron. “See these guns? Twelve men die if you
make any fuss. You steal my cattle. You cannot stop your young men. The
Piegans need a new Chief. If this man is no thief he will be back again
in a few days. The Inspector speaks truth. You know he never lies.”

Still Trotting Wolf stood irresolute. The Indians began to shuffle and
crowd nearer.

“Trotting Wolf,” said the Inspector sharply, “tell your men that the
first man that steps beyond that poplar-tree dies. That is my word.”

The Chief spoke to the crowd. There was a hoarse guttural murmur in
response, but those nearest to the tree backed away from it. They knew
the Police never showed a gun except when prepared to use it. For
years they had been accustomed to the administration of justice and the
enforcement of law at the hands of the North West Mounted Police, and
among the traditions of that Force the Indians had learned to accept two
as absolutely settled: the first, that they never failed to get the man
they wanted; the second, that their administration of law was marked
by the most rigid justice. It was Chief Onawata himself that found the
solution.

“Me no thief. Me no steal horse. Me Big Chief. Me go to your Fort. My
heart clean. Me see your Big Chief.” He uttered these words with an air
of quiet but impressive dignity.

“That’s sensible,” said the Inspector, moving toward him. “You will get
full justice. Come along!”

“I go see my boy. My boy sick.” His voice became low, soft, almost
tremulous.

“Certainly,” said Cameron. “Go in and see the lad. And we will see that
you get fair play.”

“Good!” said the Indian, and, turning on his heel, he passed into the
teepee where his boy lay.

Through the teepee wall their voices could be heard in quiet
conversation. In a few minutes the old squaw passed out on an errand and
then in again, eying the Inspector as she passed with malevolent hate.
Again she passed out, this time bowed down under a load of blankets and
articles of Indian household furniture, and returned no more. Still the
conversation within the teepee continued, the boy’s voice now and again
rising high, clear, the other replying in low, even, deep tones.

“I will just get my horse, Inspector,” said Cameron, making his way
through the group of Indians to where Ginger was standing with sad and
drooping head.

“Time’s up, I should say,” said the Inspector to Cameron as he returned
with his horse. “Just give him a call, will you?”

Cameron stepped to the door of the teepee.

“Come along, Chief, we must be going,” he said, putting his head inside
the teepee door. “Hello!” he cried, “Where the deuce--where is he gone?”
 He sprang quickly out of the teepee. “Has he passed out?”

“Passed out?” said the Inspector. “No. Is he not inside?”

“He’s not here.”

Both men rushed into the teepee. On the couch the boy still lay, his
eyes brilliant with fever but more with hate. At the foot of the couch
still crouched the old crone, but there was no sign of the Chief.

“Get up!” said the Inspector to the old squaw, turning the blankets and
skins upside down.

“Hee! hee!” she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he
passed.

“Did no one enter?” asked Cameron.

“Not a soul.”

“Nor go out?”

“No one except the old squaw here. I saw her go out with a pack.”

“With a pack!” echoed Cameron. And the two men stood looking at each
other. “By Jove!” said Cameron in deep disgust, “We’re done. He is
rightly named Copperhead. Quick!” he cried, “Let us search this camp,
though it’s not much use.”

And so indeed it proved. Through every teepee they searched in hot
haste, tumbling out squalling squaws and papooses. But all in vain.
Copperhead had as completely disappeared as if he had vanished into thin
air. With faces stolid and unmoved by a single gleam of satisfaction the
Indians watched their hurried search.

“We will take a turn around this camp,” said Cameron, swinging on to his
pony. “You hear me!” he continued, riding up close to Trotting Wolf, “We
haven’t got our man but we will come back again. And listen carefully!
If I lose a single steer this fall I shall come and take you, Trotting
Wolf, to the Fort, if I have to bring you by the hair of the head.”

But Trotting Wolf only shrugged his shoulders, saying:

“No see cow.”

“Is there any use taking a look around this camp?” said the Inspector.

“What else can we do?” said Cameron. “We might as well. There is a faint
chance we might come across a trace.”

But no trace did they find, though they spent an hour and more in close
and minute scrutiny of the ground about the camp and the trails leading
out from it.

“Where now?” inquired the Inspector.

“Home for me,” said Cameron. “To-morrow to Calgary. Next week I take up
this trail. You may as well come along with me, Inspector. We can talk
things over as we go.”

They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve
toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau
above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein
with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his
knee examining a fresh track.

“A pony-track, by all that’s holy! And within an hour. It is our man,”
 he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and
out on to the plateau. “It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this
trail.”

For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt
to cover them. The rider was evidently pushing hard.

“Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?”

“Well,” said the Inspector, “this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot
Reserve by way of your ranch.”

“My ranch!” cried Cameron. “My God! Look there!”

As he spoke the ginger-colored broncho leaped into a gallop. Five miles
away a thin column of smoke could be seen rising up into the air. Every
mile made it clearer to Cameron that the smoke rising from behind the
round-topped hill before him was from his ranch-buildings, and every
mile intensified his anxiety. His wife was alone on the ranch at the
mercy of that fiend. That was the agonizing thought that tore at his
heart as his panting broncho pounded along the trail. From the top
of the hill overlooking the ranch a mile away his eye swept the scene
below, swiftly taking in the details. The ranch-house was in flames and
burning fiercely. The stables were untouched. A horse stood tied to
the corral and two figures were hurrying to and fro about the blazing
building. As they neared the scene it became clear that one of the
figures was that of a woman.

“Mandy!” he shouted from afar. “Mandy, thank God it’s you!”

But they were too absorbed in their business of fighting the fire. They
neither heard nor saw him till he flung himself off his broncho at their
side.

“Oh, thank God, Mandy!” he panted, “you are safe.” He gathered her into
his arms.

“Oh, Allan, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry? Why?”

“Our beautiful house!”

“House?”

“And all our beautiful things!”

“Things!” He laughed aloud. “House and things! Why, Mandy, I have YOU
safe. What else matters?” Again he laughed aloud, holding her off from
him at arm’s length and gazing at her grimy face. “Mandy,” he said, “I
believe you are improving every day in your appearance, but you never
looked so stunning as this blessed minute.” Again he laughed aloud. He
was white and trembling.

“But the house, Allan!”

“Oh, yes, by the way,” he said, “the house. And who’s the Johnny
carrying water there?”

“Oh, I quite forgot. That’s Thatcher’s new man.”

“Rather wobbly about the knees, isn’t he?” cried Cameron. “By Jove,
Mandy! I feared I should never see you again,” he said in a voice that
trembled and broke. “And what’s the chap’s name?” he inquired.

“Smith, I think,” said Mandy.

“Smith? Fine fellow! Most useful name!” cried Cameron.

“What’s the matter, Allan?”

“The matter? Nothing now, Mandy. Nothing matters. I was afraid that--but
no matter. Hello, here’s the Inspector!”

“Dear Mrs. Cameron,” cried the Inspector, taking both her hands in his,
“I’m awfully glad there’s nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong? Look at that house!”

“Oh, yes, awfully sorry. But we were afraid--of that--eh--that is--”

“Yes, Mandy,” said her husband, making visible efforts to control his
voice, “we frankly were afraid that that old devil Copperhead had come
this way and--”

“He did!” cried Mandy.

“What?”

“He did. Oh, Allan, I was going to tell you just as the Inspector came,
and I am so sorry. When you left I wanted to help. I was afraid of what
all those Indians might do to you, so I thought I would ride up the
trail a bit. I got near to where it branches off toward the Reserve near
by those pine trees. There I saw a man come tearing along on a pony. It
was this Indian. I drew aside. He was just going past when he glanced at
me. He stopped and came rushing at me, waving a pistol in his hand. Oh,
such a face! I wonder I ever thought him fine-looking. He caught me by
the arm. I thought his fingers would break the bone. Look!” She pulled
up her sleeve, and upon the firm brown flesh blue and red finger marks
could be seen. “He caught me and shook me and fairly yelled at me, ‘You
save my boy once. Me save you to-day. Next time me see your man me kill
him.’ He flung me away from him and nearly off my horse--such eyes! such
a face!--and went galloping off down the trail. I feared I was going to
be ill, so I came on homeward. When I reached the top of the hill I saw
the smoke and by the time I arrived the house was blazing and Smith was
carrying water to put out the fire where it had caught upon the smoke
house and stables.”

The men listened to her story with tense white faces. When she had
finished Cameron said quietly:

“Mandy, roll me up some grub in a blanket.”

“Where are you going, Allan?” her face pale as his own.

“Going? To get my hands on that Indian’s throat.”

“But not now?”

“Yes, now,” he said, moving toward his horse.

“What about me, Allan?”

The word arrested him as if a hand had gripped him.

“You,” he said in a dazed manner. “Why, Mandy, of course, there’s you.
He might have killed you.” Then, shaking his shoulders as if throwing
off a load, he said impatiently, “Oh, I am a fool. That devil has sent
me off my head. I tell you what, Mandy, we will feed first, then we will
make new plans.”

“And there is Moira, too,” said Mandy.

“Yes, there is Moira. We will plan for her too. After all,”
 he continued, with a slight laugh and with slow deliberation,
“there’s--lots--of time--to--get him!”



CHAPTER VII

THE SARCEE CAMP


The sun had reached the peaks of the Rockies far in the west, touching
their white with red, and all the lesser peaks and all the rounded
hills between with great splashes of gold and blue and purple. It is the
sunset and the sunrise that make the foothill country a world of mystery
and of beauty, a world to dream about and long for in later days.

Through this mystic world of gold and blue and purple drove Cameron and
his wife, on their way to the little town of Calgary, three days after
the ruthless burning of their home. As the sun dipped behind the western
peaks they reached the crossing of the Elbow and entered the wide Bow
Valley, upon whose level plain was situated the busy, ambitious and
would-be wicked little pioneer town. The town and plain lay bathed in
a soft haze of rosy purple that lent a kind of Oriental splendor to
the tawdry, unsightly cluster of shacks that sprawled here and there in
irregular bunches on the prairie.

“What a picture it makes!” cried Mandy. “How wonderful this great plain
with its encircling rivers, those hills with the great peaks beyond!
What a site for a town!”

“There is no finer,” replied her husband, “anywhere in the world that I
know, unless it be that of ‘Auld Reekie.’”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning!” he echoed indignantly. “What else but the finest of all the
capitals of Europe?”

“London?” inquired Mandy.

“London!” echoed her husband contemptuously. “You ignorant Colonial!
Edinburgh, of course. But this is perfectly splendid,” he continued. “I
never get used to the wonder of Calgary. You see that deep cut between
those peaks in the far west? That is where ‘The Gap’ lies, through which
the Bow flows toward us. A great site this for a great town some day.
But you ought to see these peaks in the morning with the sunlight coming
up from the east across the foothills and falling upon them. Whoa,
there! Steady, Pepper!” he cried to the broncho, which owed its name to
the speckled appearance of its hide, and which at the present moment
was plunging and kicking at a dog that had rushed out from an Indian
encampment close by the trail. “Did you never see an Indian dog before?”

“Oh, Allan,” cried Mandy with a shudder, “do you know I can’t bear to
look at an Indian since last week, and I used to like them.”

“Hardly fair, though, to blame the whole race for the deviltry of one
specimen.”

“I know that, but--”

“This is a Sarcee camp, I fancy. They are a cunning lot and not the most
reliable of the Indians. Let me see--three--four teepees. Ought to be
fifteen or twenty in that camp. Only squaws about. The braves apparently
are in town painting things up a bit.”

A quarter of a mile past the Indian encampment the trail made a sharp
turn into what appeared to be the beginning of the main street of the
town.

“By Jove!” cried Cameron. “Here they come. Sit tight, Mandy.” He pointed
with his whip down the trail to what seemed to be a rolling cloud of
dust, vocal with wild whoops and animated with plunging figures of men
and ponies.

“Steady, there, boys! Get on!” cried Cameron to his plunging, jibing
bronchos, who were evidently unwilling to face that rolling cloud of
dust with its mass of shrieking men and galloping ponies thundering down
upon them. Swift and fierce upon their flanks fell the hissing lash.
“Stand up to them, you beggars!” he shouted to his bronchos, which
seemed intent upon turning tail and joining the approaching cavalcade.
“Hie, there! Hello! Look out!” he yelled, standing up in his wagon,
waving his whip and holding his bronchos steadily on the trail. The
next moment the dust cloud enveloped them and the thundering cavalcade,
parting, surged by on either side. Cameron was wild with rage.

“Infernal cheeky brutes!” he cried. “For two shillings I’d go back and
break some of their necks. Ride me down, would they?” he continued,
grinding his teeth in fury.

He pulled up his bronchos with half a mind to turn them about and pursue
the flying Indians. His experience and training with the Mounted Police
made it difficult for him to accept with equal mind what he called the
infernal cheek of a bunch of Indians. At the entreaties of his wife,
however, he hesitated in carrying his purpose into effect.

“Let them go,” said Mandy. “They didn’t hurt us, after all.”

“Didn’t? No thanks to them. They might have killed you. Well, I shall
see about this later.” He gave his excited bronchos their head and
sailed into town, drawing up in magnificent style at the Royal Hotel.

An attendant in cowboy garb came lounging up.

“Hello, Billy!” cried Cameron. “Still blooming?”

“Sure! And rosebuds ain’t in it with you, Colonel.” Billy was from the
land of colonels. “You’ve got a whole garden with you this trip, eh?”

“My wife, Billy,” replied Cameron, presenting her.

Billy pulled off his Stetson.

“Proud to meet you, madam. Hope I see you well and happy.”

“Yes, indeed, well and happy,” cried Mandy emphatically.

“Sure thing, if looks mean anything,” said Billy, admiration glowing in
his eyes.

“Take the horses, Billy. They have come a hundred and fifty miles.”

“Hundred and fifty, eh? They don’t look it. But I’ll take care of ‘em
all right. You go right in.”

“I shall be back presently, Billy,” said Cameron, passing into the dingy
sitting-room that opened off the bar.

In a few minutes he had his wife settled in a frowsy little eight-by-ten
bedroom, the best the hotel afforded, and departed to attend to his
team, make arrangements for supper and inquire about the incoming train.
The train he found to be three hours late. His team he found in the
capable hands of Billy, who was unharnessing and rubbing them down.
While ordering his supper a hand gripped his shoulder and a voice
shouted in his ear:

“Hello, old sport! How goes it?”

“Martin, old boy!” shouted Cameron in reply. “It’s awfully good to see
you. How did you get here? Oh, yes, of course, I remember. You left the
construction camp and came here to settle down.” All the while Cameron
was speaking he was shaking his friend’s hand with both of his. “By
Jove, but you’re fit!” he continued, running his eye over the slight but
athletic figure of his friend.

“Fit! Never fitter, not even in the old days when I used to pass the
pigskin to you out of the scrimmage. But you? You’re hardly up to the
mark.” The keen gray eyes searched Cameron’s face. “What’s up with you?”

“Oh, nothing. A little extra work and a little worry, but I’ll tell you
later.”

“Well, what are you on to now?” inquired Martin.

“Ordering our supper. We’ve just come in from a hundred and fifty miles’
drive.”

“Supper? Your wife here too? Glory! It’s up to me, old boy! Look here,
Connolly,” he turned to the proprietor behind the bar, “a bang-up supper
for three. All the season’s delicacies and all the courses in order. As
you love me, Connolly, do us your prettiest. And soon, awfully soon. A
hundred and fifty miles, remember. Now, then, how’s my old nurse?” he
continued, turning back to Cameron. “She was my nurse, remember, till
you came and stole her.”

“She was, eh? Ask her,” laughed Cameron. “But she will be glad to see
you. Where’s MY nurse, then, my little nurse, who saw me through a fever
and a broken leg?”

“Oh, she’s up in the mountains still, in the construction camp. I
proposed to bring her down here with me, but there was a riot. I barely
escaped. If ever she gets out from that camp it will be when they are
all asleep or when she is in a box car.”

“Come along, then,” cried Cameron. “I have much to tell you, and my wife
will be glad to see you. My sister comes in by No. 1, do you know?”

“Your sister? By No. 1? You don’t say! Why, I never thought your
sister--by No. 1, eh?”

“Yes, by No. 1.”

“Say, Doc,” said the hotel man, breaking into the conversation. “There’s
a bunch of ‘em comin’ in, ain’t there? Who’s the lady you was expectin’
yourself on No. 1?”

“Lady?” said Cameron. “What’s this, Martin?”

“Me? Wake up, Connolly, you’re walking in your sleep,” violently
signaling to the hotel man.

“Oh, it won’t do, Martin,” said Cameron with grave concern. “You may
as well own up. Who is it? Come. By Jove! What? A blush? And on that
asbestos cheek? Something here, sure enough.”

“Oh, rot, Cameron! Connolly is a well-known somnambulist.”

“Sure thing!” said Connolly. “Is it catchin,’ for I guess you had the
same thing last night?”

“Connolly, you’ve gone batty! You need a nurse.”

“A nurse? Maybe so. Maybe so. But I guess you’ve got to the point where
you need a preacher. Ha! ha! Got you that time, Doc!” laughed the hotel
man, winking at Cameron.

“Oh, let it out, Martin. You’ll feel better afterward. Who is it?”

“Cameron, so help me! Connolly is an infernal ass. He’s batty, I tell
you. I’m treating him for it right now.”

“All right,” said Cameron, “never mind. I shall run up and tell my wife
you are here. Wait for me,” he cried, as he ran up the stairs.

“Connolly, you fool! I’ll knock your wooden block off!” said the doctor
in a fury.

“But, Doc, you did say--”

“Oh, confound you! Shut up! It was--”

“But you did say--”

“Will you shut up?”

“Certain, sure I’ll shut up. But you said--”

“Look here!” broke in the doctor impatiently. “He’ll be down in a
minute. I don’t want him to know.”

“Aw, Doc, cut it out! He ain’t no Lady Clara.”

“Connolly, close that trap of yours and listen to me. This is serious.
He’ll be back in a jiffy. It’s the same lady as he is going to meet.”

“Same lady? But she’s his sister.”

“Yes, of course, you idiot! She’s his sister. And now you’ve queered me
with him and he will think--”

“Aw, Doc, let me be. I’ll straighten that tangle out.”

“Sh-h! Here he is. Not a word, on your life!”

“Aw, get out!” replied Connolly with generous enthusiasm. “I don’t leave
no pard of mine in a hole. Say,” he cried, turning to Cameron, “about
that lady. Ha! ha!”

“Shut your ugly mug!” said the doctor savagely.

“It’s the same lady. Ha! ha! Good joke, eh, Sergeant?”

“Same lady?” echoed Cameron.

“Sure, same lady.”

“What does he mean, Martin?”

“The man’s drunk, Cameron. He got a permit last week and he hasn’t been
sober for a day since.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Connolly again. “Wish I had a chance.”

“But the lady?” said Cameron, looking at his friend suspiciously. “And
these blushes?”

“Oh, well, hang it!” said Martin. “I suppose I might as well tell you.
I found out that your sister was to be in on this train, and in case you
should not turn up I told Connolly here to have a room ready.”

“Oh,” said Cameron, with his eyes upon his friend’s face. “You found
out? And how did you find out that Moira was coming?”

“Well,” said Martin, his face growing hotter with every word of
explanation, “you have a wife and we have a mutual friend in our little
nurse, and that’s how I learned. And so I thought I’d be on hand
anyway. You remember I met your sister up at your Highland home with the
unpronounceable name.”

“Ah, yes! Cuagh Oir. Dear old spot!” said Cameron reminiscently. “Moira
will be heart broken every day when she sees the Big Horn Ranch, I’m
afraid. But here comes Mandy.”

The meeting between the doctor and Cameron’s wife was like that between
old comrades in arms, as indeed they had been through many a hard fight
with disease, accident and death during the construction days along the
line of the Canadian Pacific Railway through the Rocky Mountains.

A jolly hour they had together at supper, exchanging news and retailing
the latest jokes. And then Cameron told his friend the story of old
Copperhead and of the task laid upon him by Superintendent Strong.
Martin listened in grave silence till the tale was done, then said with
quiet gravity:

“Cameron, this is a serious business. Why! It’s--it’s terrible.”

“Yes,” replied Mandy quickly, “but you can see that he must do it. We
have quite settled that. You see there are the women and children.”

“And is there no one else? Surely--”

“No, there is no one else quite so fit to do it,” said Mandy.

“By Jove, you’re a wonder!” cried Martin, his face lighting up with
sudden enthusiasm.

“Not much of a wonder,” she replied, a quick tremor in her voice. “Not
much of a wonder, I’m afraid. But how could I keep him? I couldn’t keep
him, could I,” she said, “if his country needs him?”

The doctor glanced at her face with its appealing deep blue eyes.

“No, by Jove! You couldn’t keep him, not you.”

“Now, Mandy,” said Cameron, “you must upstairs and to bed.” He read
aright the signs upon her face. “You are tired and you will need all the
sleep you can get. Wait for me, Martin, I’ll be down in a few moments.”

When they reached their room Cameron turned and took his wife in his
arms.

“Mandy! as Martin says, you are wonderful. You are a brave woman. You
have nerve enough for both of us, and you will need to have nerve for
both, for how I am going to leave you I know not. But now you must to
bed. I have a little business to attend to.”

“Business?” inquired his wife.

“Yes. Oh, I won’t try to hide it from you, Mandy. It’s ‘The Big
Business.’ We are--Dr. Martin and I--going up to the Barracks.
Superintendent Strong has come down for a consultation.” He paused and
looked into his wife’s face. “I must go, dear.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Allan. You must go. But--do you know--it’s foolish
to say it, but as those Indians passed us I fancied I saw the face of
Copperhead.”

“Hardly, I fancy,” said her husband with a laugh. “He’d know better than
run into this town in open day just now. All Indians will look to you
like old Copperhead for a while.”

“It may be so. I fancy I’m a little nervous. But come back soon.”

“You may be sure of that, sweetheart. Meantime sleep well.”

The little town of Calgary stands on one of the most beautiful
town-sites in all the world. A great plain with ramparts of hills on
every side, encircled by the twin mountain rivers, the Bow and the
Elbow, overlooked by rolling hills and far away to the west by the
mighty peaks of the Rockies, it holds at once ample space and unusual
picturesque beauty. The little town itself was just emerging from its
early days as a railway construction-camp and was beginning to develop
ambitions toward a well-ordered business activity and social stability.
It was an all-night town, for the simple and sufficient reason that its
communications with the world lying to the east and to the west began
with the arrival of No. 2 at half-past twelve at night and No. 1 at
five o’clock next morning. Few of its citizens thought it worth while
to settle down for the night until after the departure of No. 2 on its
westward journey.

Through this “all-night” little town Cameron and the doctor took their
way. The sidewalks were still thronged, the stores still doing business,
the restaurants, hotels, pool-rooms all wide open. It kept
Sergeant Crisp busy enough running out the “tin-horn” gamblers and
whisky-peddlers, keeping guard over the fresh and innocent lambs
that strayed in from the East and across from the old land ready for
shearing, and preserving law and order in this hustling frontier town.
Money was still easy in the town, and had Sergeant Crisp been minded
for the mere closing of his eyes or turning of his back upon occasion he
might have retired early from the Force with a competency. Unhappily for
Sergeant Crisp, however, there stood in the pathway of his fortune the
awkward fact of his conscience and his oath of service. Consequently
he was forced to grub along upon the munificent bounty of the daily pay
with which Her Majesty awarded the faithful service of the non-coms.
in her North West Mounted Police Force. And indeed through all the wide
reaches of that great West land during those pioneer days and among all
the officers of that gallant force no record can be found of an officer
who counted fortune dearer than honor.

Through this wide awake, wicked, but well-watched little town Cameron
with his friend made his way westward toward the Barracks to keep his
appointment with his former Chief, Superintendent Strong. The Barracks
stood upon the prairie about half a mile distant from the town. They
found Superintendent Strong fuming with impatience, which he controlled
with difficulty while Cameron presented his friend.

“Well, Cameron, you’ve come at last,” was his salutation when the
introduction was completed. “When did you get into town? I have been
waiting all day to see you. Where have you been?”

“Arrived an hour ago,” said Cameron shortly, for he did not half like
the Superintendent’s brusque manner. “The trail was heavy owing to the
rain day before yesterday.”

“When did you leave the ranch?” inquired Sergeant Crisp.

“Yesterday morning,” said Cameron. “The colts were green and I couldn’t
send them along.”

“Yesterday morning!” exclaimed Sergeant Crisp. “You needn’t apologize
for the colts, Cameron.”

“I wasn’t apologizing for anybody or anything. I was making a statement
of fact,” replied Cameron curtly.

“Ah, yes, very good going, Cameron. Very good going, indeed, I should
say,” said the Superintendent, conscious of his own brusqueness and
anxious to appease. “Did Mrs. Cameron come with you?”

“She did.”

“Indeed. That is a long drive for a lady to make, Cameron. Too long a
drive, I should say. I hope she is quite well, not--eh--over-fatigued?”

“She is quite well, thank you.”

“Well, she is an old campaigner,” said the Superintendent with a smile,
“and not easily knocked up if I remember her aright. But I ought to
say, Cameron, how very deeply I appreciate your very fine--indeed very
handsome conduct in volunteering to come to our assistance in this
matter. Very handsome indeed I call it. It will have a good effect upon
the community. I appreciate the sacrifice. The Commissioner and the
whole Force will appreciate it. But,” he added, as if to himself,
“before we are through with this business I fear there will be more
sacrifice demanded from all of us. I trust none of us will be found
wanting.” The Superintendent’s voice was unduly solemn, his manner
almost somber. Cameron was impressed with this manifestation of feeling
so unusual with the Superintendent.

“Any more news, sir?” he inquired.

“Yes, every post brings news of seditious meetings up north along the
Saskatchewan and of indifference on the part of the Government. And
further, I have the most conclusive evidence that our Indians are being
tampered with, and successfully too. There is no reason to doubt that
the head chiefs have been approached and that many of the minor chiefs
are listening to the proposals of Riel and his half-breeds. But you
have some news to give, I understand? Dickson said you would give me
particulars.”

Thereupon Cameron briefly related the incidents in connection with the
attempted arrest of the Sioux Chief, and closed with a brief account of
the burning of his home.

“That is most daring, most serious,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “But
you are quite certain that it was the Sioux that was responsible for the
outrage?”

“Well,” said Cameron, “he met my wife on a trail five miles away,
threatened her, and--”

“Good God, Cameron! Threatened your wife?”

“Yes, nearly flung her off her horse,” replied Cameron, his voice quiet
and even, but his eyes glowing like fires in his white face.

“Flung her off her horse? But--he didn’t injure her?” replied the
Superintendent.

“Only that he terrified her with his threats and then went on toward the
house, which he left in flames.”

“My God, Cameron!” said the Superintendent, rising in his excitement.
“This is really terrible. You must have suffered awful anxiety. I
apologize for my abrupt manner a moment ago,” he added, offering his
hand. “I’m awfully sorry.”

“It’s all right, Superintendent,” replied Cameron. “I’m afraid I am a
little upset myself.”

“But what a God’s mercy she escaped! How came that, I wonder?”

Then Cameron told the story of the rescue of the Indian boy.

“That undoubtedly explains it,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “That
was a most fortunate affair. Do an Indian a good turn and he will never
forget it. I shudder to think of what might have happened, for I assure
you that this Copperhead will stick at nothing. We have an unusually
able man to deal with, and we shall put our whole Force on this business
of arresting this man. Have you any suggestions yourself?”

“No,” said Cameron, “except that it would appear to be a mistake to give
any sign that we were very specially anxious to get him just now. So
far we have not shown our hand. Any concentrating of the Force upon his
capture would only arouse suspicion and defeat our aim, while my going
after him, no matter how keenly, will be accounted for on personal
grounds.”

“There is something in that, but do you think you can get him?”

“I am going to get him,” said Cameron quietly.

The superintendent glanced at his face.

“By Jove, I believe you will! But remember, you can count on me and on
my Force to a man any time and every time to back you up, and there’s my
hand on it. And now, let’s get at this thing. We have a cunning devil
to do with and he has gathered about him the very worst elements on the
reserves.”

Together they sat and made their plans till far on into the night. But
as a matter of fact they could make little progress. They knew well it
would be extremely difficult to discover their man. Owing to the state
of feeling throughout the reserves the source of information upon
which the Police ordinarily relied had suddenly dried up or become
untrustworthy. A marked change had come over the temper of the Indians.
While as yet they were apparently on friendly terms and guilty of no
open breach of the law, a sullen and suspicious aloofness marked the
bearing of the younger braves and even of some of the chiefs toward the
Police. Then, too, among the Piegans in the south and among the
Sarcees whose reserve was in the neighborhood of Calgary an epidemic
of cattle-stealing had broken out and the Police were finding it
increasingly difficult to bring the criminals to justice. Hence with
this large increase in crime and with the changed attitude and temper of
the Indians toward the Police, such an amount of additional patrol-work
was necessary that the Police had almost reached the limit of their
endurance.

“In fact, we have really a difficult proposition before us, short-handed
as we are,” said the Superintendent as they closed their interview.
“Indeed, if things become much worse we may find it necessary to
organize the settlers as Home Guards. An outbreak on the Saskatchewan
might produce at any moment the most serious results here and in British
Columbia. Meantime, while we stand ready to help all we can, it looks to
me, Cameron, that you are right and that in this business you must go it
alone pretty much.”

“I realize that, sir,” replied Cameron. “But first I must get my house
built and things in shape, then I hope to take this up.”

“Most certainly,” replied the Superintendent. “Take a month. He can’t do
much more harm in a month, and meantime we shall do our utmost to obtain
information and we shall keep you informed of anything we discover.”

The Superintendent and Sergeant accompanied Cameron and his friend to
the door.

“It is a black night,” said Sergeant Crisp. “I hope they’re not running
any ‘wet freight’ in to-night.”

“It’s a good night for it, Sergeant,” said Dr. Martin. “Do you expect
anything to come in?”

“I have heard rumors,” replied the Sergeant, “and there is a freight
train standing right there now which I have already gone through but
upon which it is worth while still to keep an eye.”

“Well, good-night,” said the Superintendent, shaking Cameron by
the hand. “Keep me posted and when within reach be sure and see me.
Good-night, Dr. Martin. We may want you too before long.”

“All right, sir, you have only to say the word.”

The night was so black that the trail which in the daylight was worn
smooth and plainly visible was quite blotted out. The light from the
Indian camp fire, which was blazing brightly a hundred yards away,
helped them to keep their general direction.

“For a proper black night commend me to the prairie,” said the doctor.
“It is the dead level does it, I believe. There is nothing to cast a
reflection or a shadow.”

“It will be better in a few minutes,” said Cameron, “when we get our
night sight.”

“You are off the trail a bit, I think,” said the doctor.

“Yes, I know. I am hitting toward the fire. The light makes it better
going that way.”

“I say, that chap appears to be going some. Quite a song and dance he’s
giving them,” said the doctor, pointing to an Indian who in the full
light of the camp fire was standing erect and, with hand outstretched,
was declaiming to the others, who, kneeling or squatting about the fire,
were giving him rapt attention. The erect figure and outstretched arm
arrested Cameron. A haunting sense of familiarity floated across his
memory.

“Let’s go nearer,” he said, “and quietly.”

With extreme caution they made about two-thirds of the distance when a
howl from an Indian dog revealed their presence. At once the speaker
who had been standing in the firelight sank crouching to the ground.
Instantly Cameron ran forward a few swift steps and, like a hound upon
a deer, leapt across the fire and fair upon the crouching Indian, crying
“Call the Police, Martin!”

With a loud cry of “Police! Police! Help here!” Martin sprang into the
middle of an excited group of Indians. Two of them threw themselves
upon him, but with a hard right and left he laid them low and, seizing
a stick of wood, sprang toward two others who were seeking to batter the
life out of Cameron as he lay gripping his enemy by the throat with one
hand and with the other by the wrist to check a knife thrust. Swinging
his stick around his head and repeating his cry for help, Martin made
Cameron’s assailants give back a space and before they could renew the
attack Sergeant Crisp burst open the door of the Barracks, and, followed
by a Slim young constable and the Superintendent, came rushing with
shouts upon the scene. Immediately upon the approach of the Police the
Indians ceased the fight and all that could faded out of the light into
the black night around them, while the Indian who continued to struggle
with incredible fury to free himself from Cameron’s grip suddenly became
limp and motionless.

“Now, what’s all this?” demanded the Sergeant. “Why, it’s you, doctor,
and where--? You don’t mean that’s Cameron there? Hello, Cameron!” he
said, leaning over him. “Let go! He’s safe enough. We’ve got him all
right. Let go! By Jove! Are they both dead?”

Here the Superintendent came up. The incidents leading up to the present
situation were briefly described by the doctor.

“I can’t get this fellow free,” said the Sergeant, who was working hard
to release the Indian’s throat from the gripping fingers. He turned
Cameron over on his back. He was quite insensible. Blood was pouring
from his mouth and nose, but his fingers like steel clamps were gripping
the wrist and throat of his foe. The Indian lay like dead.

“Good Lord, doctor! What shall we do?” cried the Superintendent. “Is he
dead?”

“No,” said Martin, with his hand upon Cameron’s heart. “Bring water.
You can’t loosen his fingers till he revives. The blow that knocked him
senseless set those fingers as they are and they will stay set thus till
released by returning consciousness.”

“Here then, get water quick!” shouted the Superintendent to the slim
young constable.

Gradually as the water was splashed upon his face Cameron came back to
life and, relaxing his fingers, stretched himself with a sigh as of vast
relief and lay still.

“Here, take that, you beast!” cried the Sergeant, dashing the rest of
the water into the face of the Indian lying rigid and motionless on the
ground. A long shudder ran through the Indian’s limbs. Clutching at
his throat with both hands, he raised himself to a sitting posture, his
breath coming in raucous gasps, glared wildly upon the group, then sank
back upon the ground, rolled over upon his side and lay twitching and
breathing heavily, unheeded by the doctor and Police who were working
hard over Cameron.

“No bones broken, I think,” said the doctor, feeling the battered head.
“Here’s where the blow fell that knocked him out,” pointing to a ridge
that ran along the side of Cameron’s head. “A little lower, a little
more to the front and he would never have moved. Let’s get him in.”

Cameron opened his eyes, struggled to speak and sank back again.

“Don’t stir, old chap. You’re all right. Don’t move for a bit. Could you
get a little brandy, Sergeant?”

Again the slim young constable rushed toward the Barracks and in a few
moments returned with the spirits. After taking a sip of the brandy
Cameron again opened his eyes and managed to say “Don’t--”

“All right, old chap,” said the doctor. “We won’t move you yet. Just lie
still a bit.” But as once more Cameron opened his eyes the agony of the
appeal in them aroused the doctor’s attention. “Something wrong, eh?” he
said. “Are you in pain, old boy?”

The appealing eyes closed, then, opening again, turned toward the
Superintendent.

“Copperhead,” he whispered.

“What do you say?” said the Superintendent kneeling down.

Once more with painful effort Cameron managed to utter the word
“Copperhead.”

“Copperhead!” ejaculated the Superintendent in a low tense voice,
springing to his feet and turning toward the unconscious Indian. “He’s
gone!” he cried with a great oath. “He’s gone! Sergeant Crisp!” he
shouted, “Call out the whole Force! Surround this camp and hold every
Indian. Search every teepee for this fellow who was lying here. Quick!
Quick!” Leaving Cameron to the doctor, who in a few minutes became
satisfied that no serious injury had been sustained, he joined in the
search with fierce energy. The teepees were searched, the squaws and
papooses were ruthlessly bundled out from their slumbers and with the
Indians were huddled into the Barracks. But of the Sioux Chief there was
no sign. He had utterly vanished. The black prairie had engulfed him.

But the Police had their own methods. Within a quarter of an hour half
a dozen mounted constables were riding off in different directions to
cover the main trails leading to the Indian reserves and to sweep a wide
circle about the town.

“They will surely get him,” said Dr. Martin confidently.

“Not much chance of it,” growled Cameron, to whom with returning
consciousness had come the bitter knowledge of the escape of the man
he had come to regard as his mortal enemy. “I had him fast enough,” he
groaned, “in spite of the best he could do, and I would have choked his
life out had it not been for these other devils.”

“They certainly jumped in savagely,” said Martin. “In fact I cannot
understand how they got at the thing so quickly.”

“Didn’t you hear him call?” said Cameron. “It was his call that did it.
Something he said turned them into devils. They were bound to do for me.
I never saw Indians act like that.”

“Yes, I heard that call, and it mighty near did the trick for you. Thank
Heaven your thick Hielan’ skull saved you.”

“How did they let him go?” again groaned Cameron.

“How? Because he was too swift for us,” said the Superintendent, who had
come in, “and we too slow. I thought it was an ordinary Indian row,
you see, but I might have known that you would not have gone in in that
style without good reason. Who would think that this old devil should
have the impudence to camp right here under our nose? Where did he come
from anyway, do you suppose?”

“Been to the Blackfoot Reserve like enough and was on his way to the
Sarcees when he fell in with this little camp of theirs.”

“That’s about it,” replied the Superintendent gloomily. “And to think
you had him fast and we let him go!”

The thought brought small comfort to any of them, least of all to
Cameron. In that vast foothill country with all the hidings of the hills
and hollows there was little chance that the Police would round up the
fugitive, and upon Cameron still lay the task of capturing this cunning
and resourceful foe.

“Never mind,” said Martin cheerily. “Three out, all out. You’ll get him
next time.”

“I don’t know about that. But I’ll get him some time or he’ll get me,”
 replied Cameron as his face settled into grim lines. “Let’s get back.”

“Are you quite fit?” inquired the Superintendent.

“Fit enough. Sore a bit in the head, but can navigate.”

“I can’t tell you how disappointed and chagrined I feel. It isn’t often
that my wits are so slow but--” The Superintendent’s jaws here cut off
his speech with a snap. The one crime reckoned unpardonable in the men
under his own command was that of failure and his failure to capture old
Copperhead thus delivered into his hands galled him terribly.

“Well, good-night, Cameron,” said the Superintendent, looking out into
the black night. “We shall let you know to-morrow the result of our
scouting, though I don’t expect much from it. He is much too clever to
be caught in the open in this country.”

“Perhaps he’ll skidoo,” said Dr. Martin hopefully.

“No, he’s not that kind,” replied the Superintendent. “You can’t scare
him out. You have got to catch him or kill him.”

“I think you are right, sir,” said Cameron. “He will stay till his work
is done or till he is made to quit.”

“That is true, Cameron--till he is made to quit--and that’s your job,”
 said the Superintendent solemnly.

“Yes, that is my job, sir,” replied Cameron simply and with equal
solemnity. “I shall do my best.”

“We have every confidence in you, Cameron,” replied the Superintendent.
“Good-night,” he said again, shutting the door.

“Say, old man, this is too gruesome,” said Martin with fierce
impatience. “I can’t see why it’s up to you more than any other.”

“The Sun Dance Trail is the trail he must take to do his work. That was
my patrol last year--I know it best. God knows I don’t want this--”
 his breath came quick--“I am not afraid--but--but there’s--We have been
together for such a little while, you know.” He could get no farther for
a moment or two, then added quietly, “But somehow I know--yes and she
knows--bless her brave heart--it is my job. I must stay with it.”



CHAPTER VIII

THE GIRL ON NO. 1.


By the time they had reached the hotel Cameron was glad enough to go to
his bed.

“You need not tell your wife, I suppose,” said the doctor.

“Tell her? Certainly!” said Cameron. “She is with me in this. I play
fair with her. Don’t you fear, she is up to it.”

And so she was, and, though her face grew white as she listened to the
tale, never for a moment did her courage falter.

“Doctor, is Allan all right? Tell me,” she said, her big blue eyes
holding his in a steady gaze.

“Right enough, but he must have a long sleep. You must not let him stir
at five.”

“Then,” said Mandy, “I shall go to meet the train, Allan.”

“But you don’t know Moira.”

“No, but I shall find her out.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Martin in a deprecating tone, “I know Miss
Cameron, but--”

“Of course you do,” cried Mandy. “Why, that is splendid! You will go
and Allan need not be disturbed. She will understand. Not a word, now,
Allan. We will look after this, the doctor and I, eh, Doctor?”

“Why--eh--yes--yes certainly, of course. Why not?”

“Why not, indeed?” echoed Mandy briskly. “She will understand.”

And thus it was arranged. Under the influence of a powder left by Dr.
Martin, Cameron, after an hour’s tossing, fell into a heavy sleep.

“I am so glad you are here,” said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in
upon her. “You are sure there is no injury?”

“No, nothing serious. Shock, that’s all. A day’s quiet will fix him up.”

“I am so thankful,” said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, “and I am
so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira.”

“You are not going to the train?” said the doctor.

“No, no, there is no need, and I don’t like to leave him. Besides you
don’t need me.”

“N-o-o, no, not at all--certainly not,” said the doctor with growing
confidence. “Good-night. I shall show her to her room.”

“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much.
So glad you are here,” she added with a tremulous smile.

The doctor passed down the stairs.

“By Jove, she’s a brick!” he said to himself. “She has about all she
can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what
about this thing? It’s up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and
I’m scared--plain scared to death. She won’t know me from a goat. Let’s
see. I’ve got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I’ll have a pipe to
start with.”

He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in
a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The
dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of
Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages,
moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny
loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue
of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified,
and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet,
in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the
little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he
pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and
the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the
golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.

“Oh, pshaw!” he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from
his pipe. “She has forgotten me. It was only one single day. But what a
day!”

He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that
day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country
stay. Not even the day when he stood to receive his parchment and the
special commendation of the Senatus and of his own professor for his
excellent work lived with him like that day in the Glen. Every detail of
the picture he could recall and ever in the foreground the maiden. With
deliberate purpose he settled himself in his chair and set himself to
fill in those fine and delicate touches that were necessary to make
perfect the foreground of his picture, the pale olive face with its
bewildering frame of golden waves and curls, the clear brown eyes, now
soft and tender, now flashing with wrath, and the voice with its soft
Highland cadence.

“By Jove, I’m dotty! Clean dotty! I’ll make an ass of myself, sure
thing, when I see her to-day.” He sprang from his chair and shook
himself together. “Besides, she has forgotten all about me.” He looked
at his watch. It was twenty minutes to train-time. He opened the door
and looked out. The chill morning air struck him sharply in the face. He
turned quickly, snatched his overcoat from a nail in the hall and put it
on.

At this point Billy, who combined in his own person the offices of
ostler, porter and clerk, appeared, his lantern shining with a dim
yellow glare in the gray light of the dawn.

“No. 1 is about due, Doc,” he said.

“She is, eh? I say, Billy,” said the Doctor, “want to do something for
me?” He pushed a dollar at Billy over the counter.

“Name it, Doc, without further insult,” replied Billy, shoving the
dollar back with a lordly scorn.

“All right, Billy, you’re a white little soul. Now listen. I want your
ladies’ parlor aired.”

“Aired?” gasped Billy.

“Yes, open the windows. Put on a fire. I have a lady coming--I
have--that is--Sergeant Cameron’s sister is coming--”

“Say no more,” said Billy with a wink. “I get you, Doc. But what about
the open window, Doc? It’s rather cold.”

“Open it up and put on a fire. Those Old Country people are mad about
fresh air.”

“All right, Doc,” replied Billy with another knowing wink. “The best is
none too good for her, eh?”

“Look here, now, Billy--” the doctor’s tone grew severe--“let’s have no
nonsense. This is Sergeant Cameron’s sister. He is knocked out, unable
to meet her. I am taking his place. Do you get me? Now be quick. If you
have any think juice in that block of yours turn it on.”

Billy twisted one ear as if turning a cock, and tapped his forehead with
his knuckles.

“Doc,” he said solemnly, “she’s workin’ like a watch, full jewel, patent
lever.”

“All right. Now get on to this. Sitting-room aired, good fire going,
windows open and a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee? Say, Doc, there ain’t time. What about tea?”

“You know well enough, Billy, you haven’t got any but that infernal
green stuff fit to tan the stomach of a brass monkey.”

“There’s another can, Doc. I know where it is. Leave it to me.”

“All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old
Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?”

“Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly.
You keep her out a-viewin’ the scenery for half an hour.”

“And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can’t live without hot
water in the morning, those Old Country people.”

“Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like.”

“No, a pitcher will do.”

At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning
air.

“There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc--”

But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.

“Say, he’s a sprinter,” said Billy to himself. “He ain’t takin’ no
chances on bein’ late. Shouldn’t be surprised if the Doc got there all
right.”

He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies’ parlor. The air was
heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied
a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the
furniture in confusion. The ladies’ parlor was perfectly familiar to
Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.

“Say, the Doc ain’t fair. He’s too swift in his movements,” he muttered
to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised
the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many
fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. “Say, the
Doc ain’t fair,” he muttered again. “Them ashes ought to have been out
of there long ago.” This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as
there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet
it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending
accumulation of many days’ neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He
was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the
train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid
and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and,
leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran
down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had
a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an
ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung
it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the
station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a
standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.

“Roy--al Ho--tel!” shouted Billy. “Best in town! All the comforts and
conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks!
That’s all right, leave ‘em to me. I’ll get your baggage all right.”

He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.

“Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the
First Class. Say, Doc,” he added in a lower voice, coming near to the
doctor, “what’s that behind you?”

The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black
dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat
with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o’
shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.

“I know you, Mr. Martin,” she said in a voice that indicated immense
relief.

“You?” he cried. “Is it you? And to think I didn’t know you. And to
think you should remember me.”

“Remember! Well do I remember you--and that day in the Cuagh Oir--but
you have forgotten all about that day.” A little flush appeared on her
pale cheek.

“Forgotten?” cried Martin.

“But you didn’t know me,” she added with a slight severity in her tone.

“I was not looking for you.”

“Not looking for me?” cried the girl. “Then who--?” She paused in a
sudden confusion, and with a little haughty lift of her head said,
“Where is Allan, my brother?”

But the doctor ignored her question. He was gazing at her in stupid
amazement.

“I was looking for a little girl,” he said, “in a blue serge dress and
tangled hair, brown, and all curls, with brown eyes and--”

“And you found a grown up woman with all the silly curls in their proper
place--much older--very much older. It is a habit we have in Scotland of
growing older.”

“Older?”

“Yes, older, and more sober and sensible--and plainer.”

“Plainer?” The doctor’s mind was evidently not working with its usual
ease and swiftness, partly from amazement at the transformation that had
resulted in this tall slender young lady standing before him with
her stately air, and partly from rage at himself and his unutterable
stupidity.

“But you have not answered me,” said the girl, obviously taken aback at
the doctor’s manner. “Where is my brother? He was to meet me. This is
Cal--gar--ry, is it not?”

“It’s Calgary all right,” cried the doctor, glad to find in this fact a
solid resting place for his mind.

“And my brother? There is nothing wrong?” The alarm in her voice brought
him to himself.

“Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much.”

“Not much? Tell me at once, please.” With an imperious air the young
lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown
eyes.

“Well,” said the doctor in halting confusion, “you see, he met with an
accident.”

“An accident?” she cried. “You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin.
My brother is ill, or--”

“No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head,” said the doctor,
rendered desperate by her face.

“An Indian?” Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at
her heart, roused the doctor’s professional instincts and banished his
confusion.

“He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was
better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet
you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered
to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day’s rest, believe me,
will make him quite fit.” The doctor’s manner was briskly professional
and helped to quiet the girl’s alarm.

“Can I see him?” she asked.

“Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested.
Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron’s checks. Look sharp.”

“Say, Doc,” said Billy in an undertone, “about that tea and toast--”

“What the deuce--?” said the doctor impatiently. “Oh, yes--all right!
Only look lively.”

“Keep her a-viewin’ the scenery, Doc, a bit,” continued Billy under his
breath.

“Oh, get a move on, Billy! What are you monkeying about?” said the
doctor quite crossly. He was anxious to escape from a position that had
become intolerable to him. For months he had been looking forward to
this meeting and now he had bungled it. In the first place he had begun
by not knowing the girl who for three years and more had been in his
dreams day and night, then he had carried himself like a schoolboy
in her presence, and lastly had frightened her almost to death by his
clumsy announcement of her brother’s accident. The young lady at his
side, with the quick intuition of her Celtic nature, felt his mood, and,
not knowing the cause, became politely distant.

On their walk to the hotel Dr. Martin pointed out the wonderful pearly
gray light stealing across the plain and beginning to brighten on the
tops of the rampart hills that surrounded the town.

“You will see the Rockies in an hour, Miss Cameron, in the far west
there,” he said. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

“Ah, yes, how beautiful!” said the young lady. But her tone, too, was
lifeless.

Desperately the doctor strove to make conversation during their short
walk and with infinite relief did he welcome the appearance of Mandy at
her bedroom door waiting their approach.

“Your brother’s wife, Miss Cameron,” said he.

For a single moment they stood searching each other’s souls. Then by
some secret intuition known only to the female mind they reached a
conclusion, an entirely satisfactory conclusion, too, for at once they
were in each other’s arms.

“You are Moira?” cried Mandy.

“Yes,” said the girl in an eager, tremulous voice. “And my brother? Is
he well?”

“Well? Of course he is--perfectly fine. He is sleeping now. We will not
wake him. He has had none too good a night.”

“No, no,” cried Moira, “don’t wake him. Oh, I am so glad. You see, I was
afraid.”

“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” inquired Mandy, looking indignantly at
the doctor, who stood back, a picture of self condemnation.

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cameron, blame me. I deserve it all. I bungled the whole
thing this morning and frightened Miss Cameron nearly into a fit, for
no other reason than that I am all ass. Now I shall retire. Pray deal
gently with me. Good-by!” he added abruptly, lifted his hat and was
gone.

“What’s the matter with him?” said Mandy, looking at her sister-in-law.

“I do not know, I am sure,” replied Moira indifferently. “Is there
anything the matter?”

“He is not like himself a bit. But come, my dear, take off your things.
As the doctor says, a sleep for a couple of hours will do you good.
After that you will see Allan. You are looking very weary, dear, and no
wonder, no wonder,” said Mandy, “with all that journey and--and all you
have gone through.” She gathered the girl into her strong arms. “My, I
could just pick you up like a babe!” She held her close and kissed her.

The caressing touch was too much for the girl. With a rush the tears
came.

“Och, oh,” she cried, lapsing into her Highland speech, “it iss
ashamed of myself I am, but no one has done that to me for many a day
since--since--my father--”

“There, there, you poor darling,” said Mandy, comforting her as if she
were a child, “you will not want for love here in this country. Cry
away, it will do you good.” There was a sound of feet on the stairs.
“Hush, hush, Billy is coming.” She swept the girl into her bedroom as
Billy appeared.

“Oh, I am just silly,” said Moira impatiently, as she wiped her eyes.
“But you are so good, and I will never be forgetting your kindness to me
this day.”

“Hot water,” said Billy, tapping at the door.

“Hot water! What for?” cried Mandy.

“For the young lady. The doctor said she was used to it.”

“The doctor? Well, that is very thoughtful. Do you want hot water,
Moira?”

“Yes, the very thing I do want to get the dust out of my eyes and the
grime off my face.”

“And the tea is in the ladies’ parlor,” added Billy.

“Tea!” cried Mandy, “the very thing!”

“The doctor said tea and toast.”

“The doctor again!”

“Sure thing! Said they were all stuck on tea in the Old Country.”

“Oh, he did, eh? Will you have tea, Moira?”

“No tea, thank you. I shall lie down, I think, for a little.”

“All right, dear, we will see you at breakfast. Don’t worry. I shall
call you.”

Again she kissed the girl and left her to sleep. She found Billy
standing in the ladies’ parlor with a perplexed and disappointed look on
his face.

“The Doc said she’d sure want some tea,” he said.

“And you made the tea yourself?” inquired Mandy.

“Sure thing! The Doc--”

“Well, Billy, I’d just love a cup of tea if you don’t mind wasting it on
me.”

“Sure thing, ma’m! The Doc won’t mind, bein’ as she turned it down.”

“Where is Dr. Martin gone, Billy? He needs a cup of tea; he’s been up
all night. He must be feeling tough.”

“Judgin’ by his langwidge I should surmise yes,” said Billy judicially.

“Would you get him, Billy, and bring him here?”

“Get him? S’pose I could. But as to bringin’ him here, I’d prefer wild
cats myself. The last I seen of him he was hikin’ for the Rockies with a
blue haze round his hair.”

“But what in the world is wrong with him, Billy?” said Mandy anxiously.
“I’ve never seen him this way.”

“No, nor me,” said Billy. “The Doc’s a pretty level headed cuss. There’s
somethin’ workin’ on him, if you ask me.”

“Billy, you get him and tell him we want to see him at breakfast, will
you?”

Billy shook his head.

“Tell him, Billy, I want him to see my husband then.”

“Sure thing! That’ll catch him, I guess. He’s dead stuck on his work.”

And it did catch him, for, after breakfast was over, clean-shaven, calm
and controlled, and in his very best professional style, Dr. Martin made
his morning call on his patient. Rigidly he eliminated from his manner
anything beyond a severe professional interest. Mandy, who for two years
had served with him as nurse, and who thought she knew his every mood,
was much perplexed. Do what she could, she was unable to break through
the barrier of his professional reserve. He was kindly courteous and
perfectly correct.

“I would suggest a quiet day for him, Mrs. Cameron,” was his verdict
after examining the patient. “He will be quite able to get up in the
afternoon and go about, but not to set off on a hundred and fifty mile
drive. A quiet day, sleep, cheerful company, such as you can furnish
here, will fix him up.”

“Doctor, we will secure the quiet day if you will furnish the cheerful
company,” said Mandy, beaming on him.

“I have a very busy day before me, and as for cheerful company, with you
two ladies he will have all the company that is good for him.”

“CHEERFUL company, you said, Doctor. If you desert us how can we be
cheerful?”

“Exactly for that reason,” replied the doctor.

“Say, Martin,” interposed Cameron, “take them out for a drive this
afternoon and leave me in peace.”

“A drive!” cried Mandy, “with one hundred and fifty miles behind me and
another hundred and fifty miles before me!”

“A ride then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you used to be fond of riding.”

“And am still,” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.

“A ride!” cried Mandy. “Great! This is the country for riding. But have
you a habit?”

“My habit is in one of my boxes,” replied Moira.

“I can get a habit,” said the doctor, “and two of them.”

“That’s settled, then,” cried Mandy. “I am not very keen. We shall do
some shopping, Allan, you and I this afternoon and you two can go off
to the hills. The hills! th--ink of that, Moira, for a highlander!” She
glanced at Moira’s face and read refusal there. “But I insist you must
go. A whole week in an awful stuffy train. This is the very thing for
you.”

“Yes, the very thing, Moira,” cried her brother. “We will have a long
talk this morning then in the afternoon we will do some business here,
Mandy and I, and you can go up the Bow.”

“The Bow?”

“The Bow River. A glorious ride. Nothing like it even in Scotland, and
that’s saying a good deal,” said her brother with emphasis.

This arrangement appeared to give complete satisfaction to all parties
except those most immediately interested, but there seemed to be no very
sufficient reason with either to decline, hence they agreed.



CHAPTER IX

THE RIDE UP THE BOW


Having once agreed to the proposal of a ride up the Bow, the doctor
lost no time in making the necessary preparations. Half an hour later he
found himself in the stable consulting with Billy. His mood was gloomy
and his language reflected his mood. Gladly would he have escaped what
to him, he felt, would be a trying and prolonged ordeal. But he could
not do this without exciting the surprise of his friends and possibly
wounding the sensitive girl whom he would gladly give his life to serve.
He resolved that at all costs he would go through with the thing.

“I’ll give her a good time, by Jingo! if I bust something,” he muttered
as he walked up and down the stable picking out his mounts. “But for a
compound, double-opposed, self-adjusting jackass, I’m your choice. Lost
my first chance. Threw it clean away and queered myself with her first
shot. I say, Billy,” he called, “come here.”

“What’s up, Doc?” said Billy.

“Kick me, Billy,” said the doctor solemnly.

“Well now, Doc, I--”

“Kick me, Billy, good and swift.”

“Don’t believe I could give no satisfaction, Doc. But there’s that Hiram
mule, he’s a high class artist. You might back up to him.”

“No use being kicked, Billy, by something that wouldn’t appreciate it,”
 said Martin.

“Don’t guess that way, Doc. He’s an ornery cuss, he’d appreciate it all
right, that old mule. But Doc, what’s eatin’ you?”

“Oh, nothing, Billy, except that I’m an ass, an infernal ass.”

“An ass, eh? Then I guess I couldn’t give you no satisfaction. You
better try that mule.”

“Well, Billy, the horses at two,” said the doctor briskly, “the broncho
and that dandy little pinto.”

“All serene, Doc. Hope you’ll have a good time. Brace up, Doc, it’s
comin’ to you.” Billy’s wink conveyed infinitely more than his words.

“Look here, Billy, you cut that all out,” said the doctor.

“All right, Doc, if that’s the way you feel. You’ll see no monkey-work
on me. I’ll make a preacher look like a sideshow.”

And truly Billy’s manner was irreproachable as he stood with the ponies
at the hotel door and helped their riders to mount. There was an almost
sad gravity in his demeanor that suggested a mind preoccupied with
solemn and unworldly thoughts with which the doctor and his affairs had
not even the remotest association.

As Cameron who, with his wife, watched their departure from the balcony
above, waved them farewell, he cried, “Keep your eyes skinned for an
Indian, Martin. Bring him in if you find him.”

“I’ve got no gun on me,” replied the doctor, “and if I get sight of him,
you hear me, I’ll make for the timber quick. No heroic captures for me
this trip.”

“What is all this about the Indian, Dr. Martin?” inquired the girl at
his side as they cantered down the street.

“Didn’t your brother tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve done enough to you with that Indian already to-day.”

“To me?”

“Didn’t I like a fool frighten you nearly to death with him?”

“Well, I was startled. I was silly to show it. But an Indian to an Old
Country person familiar with Fenimore Cooper, well--”

“Oh, I was a proper idiot all round this morning,” grumbled the doctor.
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

The brown eyes were open wide upon him.

“You see,” continued the doctor desperately, “I’d looked forward to
meeting you for so long.” The brown eyes grew wider. “And then to think
that I actually didn’t know you.”

“You didn’t look at me,” cried Moira.

“No, I was looking for the girl I saw that day, almost three years ago,
in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day.”

“No, nor I,” replied the girl softly. “That is how I knew you. It was
a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and
under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it
all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have
often thought, Mr. Martin--Dr. Martin you are now, of course--that I
never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have
often wished to do it. I should like to do it now.”

“Get at it,” cried the doctor with great emphasis, “I need it. It might
help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was
completely knocked out, flabbergasted.”

“Was that it?” cried Moira with a bright smile. “I thought--” A faint
color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. “But tell me about
the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He
thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things.”

“He doesn’t know you, then,” said the doctor.

She laughed gayly. “And do you?”

“I know you better than that, at least.”

“What can you know about me?”

“I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls
for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian.
Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it
will be better going.”

The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up.
But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached
the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of
the girl’s hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned
on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite
shook the heart of Dr. Martin.

“Now you look a little more like yourself,” he cried, his eyes fastened
upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, “more like the girl I
remember.”

“Oh,” she said, “it is my bonnet. I put on this old thing for the ride.”

“No,” said the doctor, “you wore no bonnet that day. It is your face,
your hair, you are not quite--so--so proper.”

“My hair!” Her hands went up to her head. “Oh, my silly curls, I
suppose. They are my bane.” (“My joy,” the doctor nearly had said.) “But
now for the Indian story.”

Then the doctor grew grave.

“It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with,” he said, “but you
must know it and I may as well give it to you. And, mind you, this is
altogether a new thing with us.”

For the next half hour as they rode westward toward the big hills,
steadily climbing as they went, the story of the disturbance in the
north country, of the unrest among the Indians, of the part played in
it by the Indian Copperhead, and of the appeal by the Superintendent to
Cameron for assistance, furnished the topic for conversation. The girl
listened with serious face, but there was no fear in the brown eyes, nor
tremor in the quiet voice, as they talked it over.

“Now let us forget it for a while,” cried the doctor. “The Police have
rarely, if ever, failed to get their man. That is their boast. And they
will get this chap, too. And as for the row on the Saskatchewan, I don’t
take much stock in that. Now we’re coming to a view in a few minutes,
one of the finest I have seen anywhere.”

For half a mile farther they loped along the trail that led them to the
top of a hill that stood a little higher than the others round about.
Upon the hilltop they drew rein.

“What do you think of that for a view?” said the doctor.

Before them stretched the wide valley of the Bow for many miles,
sweeping up toward the mountains, with rounded hills on either side, and
far beyond the hills the majestic masses of the Rockies some fifty miles
away, snow-capped, some of them, and here and there upon their faces
the great glaciers that looked like patches of snow. Through this wide
valley wound the swift flowing Bow, and up from it on either side the
hills, rough with rocks and ragged masses of pine, climbed till they
seemed to reach the very bases of the mountains beyond. Over all the
blue arch of sky spanned the wide valley and seemed to rest upon the
great ranges on either side, like the dome of a vast cathedral.

Silent, with lips parted and eyes alight with wonder, Moira sat and
gazed upon the glory of that splendid scene.

“What do you think--” began the doctor.

She put out her hand and touched his arm.

“Please don’t speak,” she breathed, “this is not for words, but for
worship.”

Long she continued to gaze in rapt silence upon the picture spread out
before her. It was, indeed, a place for worship. She pointed to a hill
some distance in front of them.

“You have been beyond that?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes, I have been all through this country. I know it well. From the top
of that hill we get a magnificent sweep toward the south.”

“Let us go!” she cried.

Down the hillside they scrambled, across a little valley and up the
farther side, following the trail that wound along the hill but declined
to make the top. As they rounded the shoulder of the little mountain
Moira cried:

“It would be a great view from the top there beyond the trees. Can we
reach it?”

“Are you good for a climb?” replied the doctor. “We could tie the
horses.”

For answer she flung herself from her pinto and, gathering up her habit,
began eagerly to climb. By the time the doctor had tethered the ponies
she was half way to the top. Putting forth all his energy he raced after
her, and together they parted a screen of brushwood and stepped out on
a clear rock that overhung the deep canyon that broadened into a great
valley sweeping toward the south.

“Beats Scotland, eh?” cried the doctor, as they stepped out together.

She laid her hand upon his arm and drew him back into the bushes.

“Hush,” she whispered. Surprised into silence, he stood gazing at her.
Her face was white and her eyes gleaming. “An Indian down there,” she
whispered.

“An Indian? Where? Show me.”

“He was looking up at us. Come this way. I think he heard us.”

She led him by a little detour and on their hands and knees they crept
through the brushwood. They reached the open rock and peered down
through a screen of bushes into the canyon below.

“There he is,” cried Moira.

Across the little stream that flowed at the bottom of the canyon, and
not more than a hundred yards away, stood an Indian, tall, straight and
rigidly attent, obviously listening and gazing steadily at the point
where they had first stood. For many minutes he stood thus rigid while
they watched him. Then his attitude relaxed. He sat down upon the rocky
ledge that sloped up from the stream toward a great overhanging crag
behind him, laid his rifle beside him and, calmly filling his pipe,
began to smoke. Intently they followed his every movement.

“I do believe it is our Indian,” whispered the doctor.

“Oh, if we could only get him!” replied the girl.

The doctor glanced swiftly at her. Her face was pale but firm set with
resolve. Quickly he revolved in his mind the possibilities.

“If I only had a gun,” he said to himself, “I’d risk it.”

“What is he going to do?”

The Indian was breaking off some dead twigs from the standing pines
about him.

“He’s going to light a fire,” replied the doctor, “perhaps camp for the
night.”

“Then,” cried the girl in an excited whisper, “we could get him.”

The doctor smiled at her. The Indian soon had his fire going and,
unrolling his blanket pack, he took thence what looked like a lump of
meat, cut some strips from it and hung them from pointed sticks over the
fire. He proceeded to gather some poles from the dead wood lying about.

“What now is he going to do?” inquired Moira.

“Wait,” replied the doctor.

The Indian proceeded to place the poles in order against the rock,
keeping his eye on the toasting meat the while and now and again turning
it before the fire. Then he began to cut branches of spruce and balsam.

“By the living Jingo!” cried the doctor, greatly excited, “I declare
he’s going to camp.”

“To sleep?” said Moira.

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “He had no sleep last night.”

“Then,” cried the girl, “we can get him.”

The doctor gazed at her in admiration.

“You are a brick,” he said. “How can we get him? He’d double me up like
a jack-knife. Remember I only played quarter,” he added.

“No, no,” she cried quickly, “you stay here to watch him. Let me go back
for the Police.”

“I say,” cried the doctor, “you are a wonder. There’s something in
that.” He thought rapidly, then said, “No, it won’t do. I can’t allow
you to risk it.”

“Risk? Risk what?”

A year ago the doctor would not have hesitated a moment to allow her
to go, but now he thought of the roving bands of Indians and the
possibility of the girl falling into their hands.

“No, Miss Cameron, it will not do.”

“But think,” she cried, “we might get him and save Allan all the trouble
and perhaps his life. You must not stop me. You cannot stop me. I am
going. You wait and watch. Don’t move. I can find my way.”

He seized her by the arm.

“Wait,” he said, “let me think.”

“What danger can there be?” she pleaded. “It is broad daylight. The road
is good. I cannot possibly lose my way. I am used to riding alone among
the hills at home.”

“Ah, yes, at home,” said the doctor gloomily.

“But there is no danger,” she persisted. “I am not afraid. Besides, you
cannot keep me.” She stood up among the bushes looking down at him with
a face so fiercely resolved that he was constrained to say, “By Jove! I
don’t believe I could. But I can go with you.”

“You would not do that,” she cried, stamping her foot, “if I forbade
you. It is your duty to stay here and watch that Indian. It is mine to
go and get the Police. Good-by.”

He rose to follow her.

“No,” she said, “I forbid you to come. You are not doing right. You are
to stay. We will save my brother.”

She glided through the bushes from his sight and was gone.

“Am I a fool or what?” said the doctor to himself. “She is taking a
chance, but after all it is worth while.”

It was now the middle of the afternoon and it would take Moira an hour
and a half over that rocky winding trail to make the ten miles that
lay before her. Ten minutes more would see the Police started on their
return. The doctor settled himself down to his three hours’ wait,
keeping his eye fixed upon the Indian. The latter was now busy with his
meal, which he ate ravenously.

“The beggar has me tied up tight,” muttered the doctor ruefully. “My
grub is on my saddle, and I guess I dare not smoke till he lights up
himself.”

A hand touched his arm. Instantly he was on his feet. It was Moira.

“Great Caesar, you scared me! Thought it was the whole Blackfoot tribe.”

“You will be the better for something to eat,” she said simply, handing
him the lunch basket. “Good-by.”

“Hold up!” he cried. But she was gone.

“Say, she’s a regular--” He paused and thought for a moment. “She’s an
angel, that’s what--and a mighty sight better than most of them. She’s
a--” He turned back to his watch, leaving his thought unspoken. In the
presence of the greater passions words are woefully inadequate.

The Indian was still eating as ravenously as ever.

“He’s filling up, I guess. He ought to be full soon at that rate. Wish
he’d get his pipe agoing.”

In due time the Indian finished eating, rolled up the fragments
carefully in a rag, and then proceeded to construct with the poles and
brush which he had cut, a penthouse against the rock. At one end his
little shelter thus constructed ran into a spruce tree whose thick
branches reached right to the ground. When he had completed this shelter
to his satisfaction he sat down again on the rock beside his smoldering
fire and pulled out his pipe.

“Thanks be!” said the doctor to himself fervently. “Go on, old boy, hit
her up.”

A pipe and then another the Indian smoked, then, taking his gun, blanket
and pack, he crawled into his brush wigwam out of sight.

“There, you old beggar!” said the doctor with a sigh of relief. “You are
safe for an hour or two, thank goodness. You had no sleep last night and
you’ve got to make up for it now. Sleep tight, old boy. We’ll give you a
call.” The doctor hugged himself with supreme satisfaction and continued
to smoke with his eye fixed upon the hole into which the Indian had
disappeared.

Through the long hours he sat and smoked while he formulated the plan
of attack which he proposed to develop when his reinforcements should
arrive.

“We will work up behind him from away down the valley, a couple of us
will cover him from the front and the others go right in.”

He continued with great care to make and revise his plans, and while
in the midst of his final revision a movement in the bushes behind
him startled him to his feet. The bushes parted and the face of Moira
appeared with that of her brother over her shoulder.

“Is he still there?” she whispered eagerly.

“Asleep, snug as a bug. Never moved,” said the doctor exultantly, and
proceeded to explain his plan of attack. “How many have you?” he asked
Cameron.

“Crisp and a constable.”

“Just two?” said the doctor.

“Two,” replied Cameron briefly. “That’s plenty. Here they are.” He
stepped back through the bushes and brought forward Crisp and the
constable. “Now, then, here’s our plan,” he said. “You, Crisp, will go
down the canyon, cross the stream and work up on the other side right to
that rock. When you arrive at the rock the constable and I will go in.
The doctor will cover him from this side.”

“Fine!” said the doctor. “Fine, except that I propose to go in myself
with you. He’s a devil to fight. I could see that last night.”

Cameron hesitated.

“There’s really no use, you know, Doctor. The constable and I can handle
him.”

Moira stood looking eagerly from one to the other.

“All right,” said the doctor, “‘nuff said. Only I’m going in. If you
want to come along, suit yourself.”

“Oh, do be careful,” said Moira, clasping her hands. “Oh, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?” said the doctor, looking at her quickly. “You? Not much fear
in you, I guess.”

“Come on, then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you stay here and keep your eye
on him. You are safe enough here.”

She pressed her lips tight together till they made a thin red line in
her white face.

“Can you let me have a gun?” she asked.

“A gun?” exclaimed the doctor.

“Oh, she can shoot--rabbits, at least,” said her brother with a smile.
“I shall bring you one, Moira, but remember, handle it carefully.”

With a gun across her knees Moira sat and watched the development of the
attack. For many minutes there was no sign or sound, till she began to
wonder if a change had been made in the plan. At length some distance
down the canyon and on the other side Sergeant Crisp was seen working
his way with painful care step by step toward the rock of rendezvous.
There was no sign of her brother or Dr. Martin. It was for them she
watched with an intensity of anxiety which she could not explain to
herself. At length Sergeant Crisp reached the crag against whose base
the penthouse leaned in which the sleeping Indian lay. Immediately she
saw her brother, quickly followed by Dr. Martin, leap the little stream,
run lightly up the sloping rock and join Crisp at the crag. Still there
was no sign from the Indian. She saw her brother motion the Sergeant
round to the farther corner of the penthouse where it ran into the
spruce tree, while he himself, with a revolver in each hand, dropped on
one knee and peered under the leaning poles. With a loud exclamation he
sprang to his feet.

“He’s gone!” he shouted. “Stand where you are!” Like a hound on a scent
he ran to the back of the spruce tree and on his knees examined the
earth there. In a few moments his search was rewarded. He struck the
trail and followed it round the rock and through the woods till he
came to the hard beaten track. Then he came back, pale with rage and
disappointment. “He’s gone!” he said.

“I swear he never came out of that hole!” said Dr. Martin. “I kept my
eye on it every minute of the last three hours.”

“There’s another hole,” said Crisp, “under the tree here.”

Cameron said not a word. His disappointment was too keen. Together they
retraced their steps across the little stream. On the farther bank they
found Moira, who had raced down to meet them.

“He’s gone?” she cried.

“Gone!” echoed her brother. “Gone for this time--but--some day--some
day,” he added below his breath.

But many things were to happen before that day came.



CHAPTER X

RAVEN TO THE RESCUE


Overhead the stars were still twinkling far in the western sky.
The crescent moon still shone serene, marshaling her attendant
constellations. Eastward the prairie still lay in deep shadow, its long
rolls outlined by the deeper shadows lying in the hollows between. Over
the Bow and the Elbow mists hung like white veils swathing the faces
of the rampart hills north and south. In the little town a stillness
reigned as of death, for at length Calgary was asleep, and sound asleep
would remain for hours to come.

Not so the world about. Through the dead stillness of the waning night
the liquid note of the adventurous meadow lark fell like the dropping
of a silver stream into the pool below. Brave little heart, roused from
slumber perchance by domestic care, perchance by the first burdening
presage of the long fall flight waiting her sturdy careless brood,
perchance stirred by the first thrill of the Event approaching from
the east. For already in the east the long round tops of the prairie
undulations are shining gray above the dark hollows and faint bars of
light are shooting to the zenith, fearless forerunners of the dawn,
menacing the retreating stars still bravely shining their pale defiance
to the oncoming of their ancient foe. Far toward the west dark masses
still lie invincible upon the horizon, but high above in the clear
heavens white shapes, indefinite and unattached, show where stand the
snow-capped mountain peaks. Thus the swift and silent moments mark the
fortunes of this age-long conflict. But sudden all heaven and all earth
thrill tremulous in eager expectancy of the daily miracle when, all
unaware, the gray light in the eastern horizon over the roll of the
prairie has grown to silver, and through the silver a streamer of palest
rose has flashed up into the sky, the gay and gallant ‘avant courier’ of
an advancing host, then another and another, then by tens and hundreds,
till, radiating from a center yet unseen, ten thousand times ten
thousand flaming flaunting banners flash into orderly array and possess
the utmost limits of the heavens, sweeping before them the ever paling
stars, that indomitable rearguard of the flying night, proclaiming
to all heaven and all earth the King is come, the Monarch of the Day.
Flushed in the new radiance of the morning, the long flowing waves of
the prairie, the tumbling hills, the mighty rocky peaks stand surprised,
as if caught all unprepared by the swift advance, trembling and blushing
in the presence of the triumphant King, waiting the royal proclamation
that it is time to wake and work, for the day is come.

All oblivious of this wondrous miracle stands Billy, his powers of mind
and body concentrated upon a single task, that namely of holding down
to earth the game little bronchos, Mustard and Pepper, till the party
should appear. Nearby another broncho, saddled and with the knotted
reins hanging down from his bridle, stood viewing with all too obvious
contempt the youthful frolics of the colts. Well he knew that life would
cure them of all this foolish waste of spirit and of energy. Meantime
on his part he was content to wait till his master--Dr. Martin, to
wit--should give the order to move. His master meantime was busily
engaged with clever sinewy fingers packing in the last parcels that
represented the shopping activities of Cameron and his wife during the
past two days. There was a whole living and sleeping outfit for the
family to gather together. Already a heavily laden wagon had gone on
before them. The building material for the new house was to follow,
for it was near the end of September and a tent dwelling, while quite
endurable, does not lend itself to comfort through a late fall in the
foothill country. Besides, there was upon Cameron, and still more upon
his wife, the ever deepening sense of a duty to be done that could not
wait, and for the doing of that duty due preparation must be made. Hence
the new house must be built and its simple appointments and furnishings
set in order without delay, and hence the laden wagon gone before and
the numerous packages in the democrat, covered with a new tent and roped
securely into place.

This packing and roping the doctor made his peculiar care, for he was
a true Canadian, born and bred in the atmosphere of pioneer days in
old Ontario, and the packing and roping could be trusted to no amateur
hands, for there were hills to go up and hills to go down, sleughs to
cross and rivers to ford with all their perilous contingencies before
they should arrive at the place where they would be.

“All secure, Martin?” said Cameron, coming out from the hotel with hand
bags and valises.

“They’ll stay, I think,” replied the doctor, “unless those bronchos of
yours get away from you.”

“Aren’t they dears, Billy?” cried Moira, coming out at the moment and
dancing over to the bronchos’ heads.

“Well, miss,” said Billy with judicial care, “I don’t know about that.
They’re ornery little cusses and mean-actin.’ They’ll go straight enough
if everything is all right, but let anythin’ go wrong, a trace or a
line, and they’ll put it to you good and hard.”

“I do not think I would be afraid of them,” replied the girl, reaching
out her hand to stroke Pepper’s nose, a movement which surprised that
broncho so completely that he flew back violently upon the whiffle-tree,
carrying Billy with him.

“Come up here, you beast!” said Billy, giving him a fierce yank.

“Oh, Billy!” expostulated Moira.

“Oh, he ain’t no lady’s maid, miss. You would, eh, you young
devil,”--this to Pepper, whose intention to walk over Billy was only
too obvious--“Get back there, will you! Now then, take that, and stand
still!” Billy evidently did not rely solely upon the law of love in
handling his broncho.

Moira abandoned him and climbed to her place in the democrat between
Cameron and his wife.

By a most singular and fortunate coincidence Dr. Martin had learned that
a patient of his at Big River was in urgent need of a call, so, to the
open delight of the others and to the subdued delight of the doctor, he
was to ride with them thus far on their journey.

“All set, Billy?” cried Cameron. “Let them go.”

“Good-by, Billy,” cried both ladies, to which Billy replied with a wave
of his Stetson.

Away plunged the bronchos on a dead gallop, as if determined to end the
journey during the next half hour at most, and away with them went the
doctor upon his steady broncho, the latter much annoyed at being thus
ignominiously outdistanced by these silly colts and so induced to strike
a somewhat more rapid pace than he considered wise at the beginning of
an all-day journey. Away down the street between the silent shacks and
stores and out among the straggling residences that lined the trail.
Away past the Indian encampment and the Police Barracks. Away across the
echoing bridge, whose planks resounded like the rattle of rifles
under the flying hoofs. Away up the long stony hill, scrambling and
scrabbling, but never ceasing till they reached the level prairie at the
top. Away upon the smooth resilient trail winding like a black ribbon
over the green bed of the prairie. Away down long, long slopes to low,
wide valleys, and up long, long slopes to the next higher prairie level.
Away across the plain skirting sleughs where ducks of various kinds, and
in hundreds, quacked and plunged and fought joyously and all unheeding.
Away with the morning air, rare and wondrously exhilarating, rushing
at them and past them and filling their hearts with the keen zest of
living. Away beyond sight and sound of the great world, past little
shacks, the brave vanguard of civilization, whose solitary loneliness
only served to emphasize their remoteness from the civilization which
they heralded. Away from the haunts of men and through the haunts
of wild things where the shy coyote, his head thrown back over his
shoulder, loped laughing at them and their futile noisy speed. Away
through the wide rich pasture lands where feeding herds of cattle
and bands of horses made up the wealth of the solitary rancher, whose
low-built wandering ranch house proclaimed at once his faith and his
courage. Away and ever away, the shining morning hours and the fleeting
miles racing with them, till by noon-day, all wet but still unweary, the
bronchos drew up at the Big River Stopping Place, forty miles from the
point of their departure.

Close behind the democrat rode Dr. Martin, the steady pace of his wise
old broncho making up upon the dashing but somewhat erratic gait of the
colts.

While the ladies passed into the primitive Stopping Place, the men
unhitched the ponies, stripped off their harness and proceeded to rub
them down from head to heel, wash out their mouths and remove from them
as far as they could by these attentions the travel marks of the last
six hours.

Big River could hardly be called even by the generous estimate of the
optimistic westerner a town. It consisted of a blacksmith’s shop, with
which was combined the Post Office, a little school, which did for
church--the farthest outpost of civilization--and a manse, simple, neat
and tiny, but with a wondrous air of comfort about it, and very like the
little Nova Scotian woman inside, who made it a very vestibule of heaven
for many a cowboy and rancher in the district, and last, the Stopping
Place run by a man who had won the distinction of being well known to
the Mounted Police and who bore the suggestive name of Hell Gleeson,
which appeared, however, in the old English Registry as Hellmuth Raymond
Gleeson. The Mounted Police thought it worth while often to run in upon
Hell at unexpected times, and more than once they had found it necessary
to invite him to contribute to Her Majesty’s revenue as compensation for
Hell’s objectionable habit of having in possession and of retailing to
his friends bad whisky without attending to the little formality of a
permit.

The Stopping Place was a rambling shack, or rather a series of shacks,
loosely joined together, whose ramifications were found by Hell and his
friends to be useful in an emergency. The largest room in the building
was the bar, as it was called. Behind the counter, however, instead of
the array of bottles and glasses usually found in rooms bearing this
name, the shelf was filled with patent medicines, chiefly various
brands of pain-killer. Off the bar was the dining-room, and behind the
dining-room another and smaller room, while the room most retired in the
collection of shacks constituting the Stopping Place was known in
the neighborhood as the “snake room,” a room devoted to those unhappy
wretches who, under the influence of prolonged indulgence in Hell’s bad
whisky, were reduced to such a mental and nervous condition that the
landscape of their dreams became alive with snakes of various sizes,
shapes and hues.

To Mandy familiarity had hardened her sensibilities to endurance of all
the grimy uncleanness of the place, but to Moira the appearance of
the house and especially of the dining-room filled her with loathing
unspeakable.

“Oh, Mandy,” she groaned, “can we not eat outside somewhere? This is
terrible.”

Mandy thought for a moment.

“No,” she cried, “but we will do better. I know Mrs. Macintyre in the
manse. I nursed her once last spring. We will go and see her.”

“Oh, that would not do,” said Moira, her Scotch shy independence
shrinking from such an intrusion.

“And why not?”

“She doesn’t know me--and there are four of us.”

“Oh, nonsense, you don’t know this country. You don’t know what our
visit will mean to the little woman, what a joy it will be to her to see
a new face, and I declare when she hears you are new out from Scotland
she will simply revel in you. We are about to confer a great favor upon
Mrs. Macintyre.”

If Moira had any lingering doubts as to the soundness of her
sister-in-law’s opinion they vanished before the welcome she had from
the minister’s wife.

“Mr. Cameron’s sister?” she cried, with both hands extended, “and just
out from Scotland? And where from? From near Braemar? And our folk came
from near Inverness. Mhail Gaelic heaibh?”

“Go dearbh ha.”

And on they went for some minutes in what Mrs. Macintyre called “the
dear old speech,” till Mrs. Macintyre, remembering herself, said to
Mandy:

“But you do not understand the Gaelic? Well, well, you will forgive us.
And to think that in this far land I should find a young lady like this
to speak it to me! Do you know, I am forgetting it out here.” All the
while she was speaking she was laying the cloth and setting the table.
“And you have come all the way from Calgary this morning? What a drive
for the young lady! You must be tired out. Would you lie down upon the
bed for an hour? Then come away in to the bedroom and fresh yourselves
up a bit. Come away in. I’ll get Mr. Cameron over.”

“We are a big party,” said Mandy, “for your wee house. We have a friend
with us--Dr. Martin.”

“Dr. Martin? Indeed I know him well, and a fine man he is and that kind
and clever. I’ll get him too.”

“Let me go for them,” said Mandy.

“Very well, go then. I’ll just hurry the dinner.”

“But are you quite sure,” asked Mandy, “you can--you have everything
handy? You know, Mrs. Macintyre, I know just how hard it is to keep a
stock of everything on hand.”

“Well, we have bread and molasses--our butter is run out, it is hard to
get--and some bacon and potatoes and tea. Will that do?”

“Oh, that will do fine. And we have some things with us, if you don’t
mind.”

“Mind? Not a bit, my dear. You can just suit yourself.”

The dinner was a glorious success. The clean linen, the shining dishes,
the silver--for Mrs. Macintyre brought out her wedding presents--gave
the table a brilliantly festive appearance in the eyes of those who had
lived for some years in the western country.

“You don’t appreciate the true significance of a table napkin, I venture
to say, Miss Cameron,” said the doctor, “until you have lived a year in
this country at least, or how much an unspotted table cloth means, or
shining cutlery and crockery.”

“Well, I have been two days at the Royal Hotel, whatever,” replied
Moira.

“The Royal Hotel!” exclaimed the doctor aghast. “Our most palatial
Western hostelry--all the comforts and conveniences of civilization!”

“Anyway, I like this better,” said Moira. “It is like home.”

“Is it, indeed, my dear?” said the minister’s wife greatly delighted.
“You have paid me a very fine tribute.”

The hour lengthened into two, for when a departure was suggested the
doctor grew eloquent in urging delay. The horses would be all the better
for the rest. It would be fine driving in the evening. They could easily
make the Black Dog Ford before dark. After that the trail was good for
twenty miles, where they would camp. But like all happy hours these
hours fled past, and all too swiftly, and soon the travelers were ready
to depart.

Before the Stopping Place door Hell was holding down the bronchos, while
Cameron was packing in the valises and making all secure again. Near the
wagon stood the doctor waiting their departure.

“You are going back from here, Dr. Martin?” said Moira.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “I am going back.”

“It has been good to see you,” she said. “I hope next time you will know
me.”

“Ah, now, Miss Cameron, don’t rub it in. You see--but what’s the use?”
 continued the doctor. “You had changed. My picture of the girl I had
seen in the Highlands that day never changed and never will change.” The
doctor’s keen gray eyes burned into hers for a moment. A slight flush
came to her cheek and she found herself embarrassed for want of words.
Her embarrassment was relieved by the sound of hoofs pounding down the
trail.

“Hello, who’s this?” said the doctor, as they stood watching the
horseman approaching at a rapid pace and accompanied by a cloud of dust.
Nearer and nearer he came, still on the gallop till within a few yards
of the group.

“My!” cried Moira. “Whoever he is he will run us down!” and she sprang
into her place in the democrat.

Without slackening rein the rider came up to the Stopping Place door
at a full gallop, then at a single word his horse planted his four feet
solidly on the trail, and, plowing up the dirt, came to a standstill;
then, throwing up his magnificent head, he gave a loud snort and stood,
a perfect picture of equine beauty.

“Oh, what a horse!” breathed Moira. “How perfectly splendid! And what a
rider!” she added. “Do you know him?”

“I do not,” said the doctor, conscious of a feeling of hostility to
the stranger, and all the more because he was forced to acknowledge to
himself that the rider and his horse made a very striking picture. The
man was tall and sinewy, with dark, clean-cut face, thin lips, firm chin
and deep-set, brown-gray eyes that glittered like steel, and with that
unmistakable something in his bearing that suggested the breeding of a
gentleman. His horse was as distinguished as its rider. His coal black
skin shone like silk, his flat legs, sloping hips, well-ribbed barrel,
small head, large, flashing eyes, all proclaimed his high breeding.

“What a beauty! What a beauty!” breathed Moira again to the doctor.

As if in answer to her praise the stranger, raising his Stetson, swept
her an elaborate bow, and, touching his horse, moved nearer to the door
of the Stopping Place and swung himself to the ground.

“Ah, Cameron, it’s you, sure enough. I can hardly believe my good
fortune.”

“Hello, Raven, that you?” said Cameron indifferently. “Hope you are
fit?” But he made no motion to offer his hand nor did he introduce him
to the company. At the sound of his name Dr. Martin started and swept
his keen eyes over the stranger’s face. He had heard that name before.

“Fit?” inquired the stranger whom Cameron had saluted as Raven. “Fit
as ever,” a hard smile curling his lips as he noted Cameron’s omission.
“Hello, Hell!” he continued, his eyes falling upon that individual, who
was struggling with the restive ponies, “how goes it with your noble
self?”

Hastily Hell, leaving the bronchos for the moment, responded, “Hello,
Mr. Raven, mighty glad to see you!”

Meantime the bronchos, freed from Hell’s supervision, and apparently
interested in the strange horse who was viewing them with lordly
disdain, turned their heads and took the liberty of sniffing at the
newcomer. Instantly, with mouth wide open and ears flat on his head, the
black horse rushed at the bronchos. With a single bound they were off,
the lines trailing in the dust. Together Hell, Cameron and the doctor
sprang for the wagon, but before they could touch it it was whisked from
underneath their fingers as the bronchos dashed in a mad gallop down the
trail, Moira meantime clinging desperately to the seat of the pitching
wagon. After them darted Cameron and for some moments it seemed as if
he could overtake the flying ponies, but gradually they drew away and he
gave up the chase. After him followed the whole company, his wife, the
doctor, Hell, all in a blind horror of helplessness.

“My God! My God!” cried Cameron, his breath coming in sobbing gasps.
“The cut bank!”

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when Raven came up at an easy
canter.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly to Mandy, who was wringing her hands in
despair, “I’ll get them.”

Like a swallow for swiftness and for grace, the black stallion sped
away, flattening his body to the trail as he gathered speed. The
bronchos had a hundred yards of a start, but they had not run another
hundred until the agonized group of watchers could see that the stallion
was gaining rapidly upon them.

“He’ll get ‘em,” cried Hell, “he’ll get ‘em, by gum!”

“But can he turn them from the bank?” groaned Mandy.

“If anything in horse-flesh or man-flesh can do it,” said Hell, “it’ll
be done.”

But a tail-race is a long race and a hundred yards’ start is a serious
handicap in a quarter of a mile. Down the sloping trail the bronchos
were running savagely, their noses close to earth, their feet on the
hard ground like the roar of a kettledrum, their harness and trappings
fluttering over their backs, the wagon pitching like a ship in a gale,
the girl clinging to its high seat as a sailor to a swaying mast.
Behind, and swiftly drawing level with the flying bronchos, sped the
black horse, still with that smooth grace of a skimming swallow and
with such ease of motion as made it seem as if he could readily have
increased his speed had he so chosen.

“My God! why doesn’t he send the brute along?” cried Dr. Martin, his
stark face and staring eyes proclaiming his agony.

“He is up! He is up!” cried Cameron.

The agonized watchers saw the rider lean far over the bronchos and seize
one line, then gradually begin to turn the flying ponies away from the
cut bank and steer them in a wide circle across the prairie.

“Thank God! Thank God! Oh, thank God!” cried the doctor brokenly, wiping
the sweat from his face.

“Let us go to head them off,” said Cameron, setting off at a run,
leaving the doctor and his wife to follow.

As they watched with staring eyes the racing horses they saw Raven bring
back the line to the girl clinging to the wagon seat, then the black
stallion, shooting in front of the ponies, began to slow down upon them,
hampering their running till they were brought to an easy canter, and,
under the more active discipline of teeth and hoofs, were forced to a
trot and finally brought to a standstill, and so held till Cameron and
the doctor came up to them.

“Raven,” gasped Cameron, fighting for his breath and coming forward with
hand outstretched, “you have--done--a great thing--to-day--for me. I
shall not--forget it.”

“Tut tut, Cameron, simple thing. I fancy you are still a few points
ahead,” said Raven, taking his hand in a strong grip. “After all, it was
Night Hawk did it.”

“You saved--my sister’s life,” continued Cameron, still struggling for
breath.

“Perhaps, perhaps, but I don’t forget,” and here Raven leaned over his
saddle and spoke in a lower voice, “I don’t forget the day you saved
mine, my boy.”

“Come,” said Cameron, “let me present you to my sister.”

Instantly Raven swung himself from his horse.

“Stand, Night Hawk!” he commanded, and the horse stood like a soldier on
guard.

“Moira,” said Cameron, still panting hard, “this is--my friend--Mr.
Raven.”

Raven stood bowing before her with his hat in his hand, but the girl
leaned far down from her seat with both hands outstretched.

“I thank you, Mr. Raven,” she said in a quiet voice, but her brown eyes
were shining like stars in her white face. “You are a wonderful rider.”

“I could not have done it, Miss Cameron,” said Raven, a wonderfully
sweet smile lighting up his hard face, “I could not have done it had you
ever lost your nerve.”

“I had no fear after I saw your face,” said the girl simply. “I knew you
could do it.”

“Ah, and how did you know that?” His gray-brown eyes searched her face
more keenly.

“I cannot tell. I just knew.”

“Let me introduce my friend, Dr. Martin,” said Cameron as the doctor
came up.

“I--too--want to thank you--Mr. Raven,” said the doctor, seizing him
with both hands. “I never can--we never can forget it--or repay you.”

“Oh,” said Raven, with a careless laugh, “what else could I do? After
all it was Night Hawk did the trick.” He lifted his hat again to Moira,
bowed with a beautiful grace, threw himself on his horse and stood till
the two men, after carefully examining the harness and securing the
reins, had climbed to their places on the wagon seat.

Then he trotted on before toward the Stopping Place, where the
minister’s wife and indeed the whole company of villagers awaited them.

“Oh, isn’t he wonderful!” cried Moira, with her eyes upon the rider in
front of them. “And he did it so easily.” But the men sat silent. “Who
is he, Allan? You know him.”

“Yes--he is--he is a chap I met when I was on the Force.”

“A Policeman?”

“No, no,” replied her brother hastily.

“What then? Does he live here?”

“He lives somewhere south. Don’t know exactly where he lives.”

“What is he? A rancher?”

“A rancher? Ah--yes, yes, he is a rancher I fancy. Don’t know very well.
That is--I have seen little of him--in fact--only a couple of times--or
so.”

“He seems to know you, Allan,” said his sister a little reproachfully.
“Anyway,” she continued with a deep breath, “he is just splendid.” Dr.
Martin glanced at her face glowing with enthusiasm and was shamefully
conscious of a jealous pang at his heart. “He is just splendid,”
 continued Moira, with growing enthusiasm, “and I mean to know more of
him.”

“What?” said her brother sharply, as if waking from a dream. “Nonsense,
Moira! You do not know what you are talking about. You must not speak
like that.”

“And why, pray?” asked his sister in surprise.

“Oh, never mind just now, Moira. In this country we don’t take up with
strangers.”

“Strangers?” echoed the girl, pain mingling with her surprise. “And yet
he saved my life!”

“Yes, thank God, he saved your life,” cried her brother, “and we shall
never cease to be grateful to him, but--but--oh, drop it just now
please, Moira. You don’t know and--here we are. How white Mandy is. What
a terrible experience for us all!”

“Terrible indeed,” echoed the doctor.

“Terrible?” said Moira. “It might have been worse.”

To this neither made reply, but there came a day when both doubted such
a possibility.



CHAPTER XI

SMITH’S WORK


The short September day was nearly gone. The sun still rode above the
great peaks that outlined the western horizon. Already the shadows were
beginning to creep up the eastern slope of the hills that clambered till
they reached the bases of the great mountains. A purple haze hung over
mountain, hill and rolling plain, softening the sharp outlines that
ordinarily defined the features of the foothill landscape.

With the approach of evening the fierce sun heat had ceased and a
fresh cooling western breeze from the mountain passes brought welcome
refreshment alike to the travelers and their beasts, wearied with their
three days’ drive.

“That is the last hill, Moira,” cried her sister-in-law, pointing to a
long slope before them. “The very last, I promise you. From the top
we can see our home. Our home, alas, I had forgotten! There is no home
there, only a black spot on the prairie.”

Her husband grunted savagely and cut sharply at the bronchos.

“But the tent will be fine, Mandy. I just long for the experience,” said
Moira.

“Yes, but just think of all my pretty things, and some of Allan’s too,
all gone.”

“Were the pipes burned, Allan?” cried Moira with a sudden anxiety.

“Were they, Mandy? I never thought,” said Cameron.

“The pipes? Let me see. No--no--you remember, Allan, young--what’s his
name?--that young Highlander at the Fort wanted them.”

“Sure enough--Macgregor,” said her husband in a tone of immense relief.

“Yes, young Mr. Macgregor.”

“My, but that is fine, Allan,” said his sister. “I should have grieved
if we could not hear the pipes again among these hills. Oh, it is all so
bonny; just look at the big Bens yonder.”

It was, as she said, all bonny. Far toward their left the low hills
rolled in soft swelling waves toward the level prairie, and far away to
the right the hills climbed by sharper ascents, flecked here and
there with dark patches of fir, and broken with jutting ledges of gray
limestone, climbed till they reached the great Rockies, majestic in
their massive serried ranges that pierced the western sky. And all that
lay between, the hills, the hollows, the rolling prairie, was bathed
in a multitudinous riot of color that made a scene of loveliness beyond
power of speech to describe.

“Oh, Allan, Allan,” cried his sister, “I never thought to see anything
as lovely as the Cuagh Oir, but this is up to it I do believe.”

“It must indeed be lovely, then,” said her brother with a smile, “if
you can say that. And I am glad you like it. I was afraid that you might
not.”

“Here we are, just at the top,” cried Mandy. “In a minute beyond the
shoulder there we shall see the Big Horn Valley and the place where our
home used to be. There, wait Allan.”

The ponies came to a stand. Exclamations of amazement burst from Cameron
and his wife.

“Why, Allan? What? Is this the trail?”

“It is the trail all right,” said her husband in a low voice, “but what
in thunder does this mean?”

“It is a house, Allan, a new house.”

“It looks like it--but--”

“And there are people all about!”

For some breathless moments they gazed upon the scene. A wide valley,
flanked by hills and threaded by a gleaming river, lay before them and
in a bend of the river against the gold and yellow of a poplar bluff
stood a log house of comfortable size gleaming in all its newness fresh
from the ax and saw.

“What does it all mean, Allan?” inquired his wife.

“Blest if I know!”

“Look at the people. I know now, Allan. It’s a ‘raising bee.’ A raising
bee!” she cried with growing enthusiasm. “You remember them in Ontario.
It’s a bee, sure enough. Oh, hurry, let’s go!”

The bronchos seemed to catch her excitement, their weariness
disappeared, and, pulling hard on the bit, they tore down the winding
trail as if at the beginning rather than at the end of their hundred and
fifty mile drive.

“What a size!” cried Mandy.

“And a cook house, too!”

“And a verandah!”

“And a shingled roof!”

“And all the people! Where in the world can they have come from?”

“There’s the Inspector, anyway,” said Cameron. “He is at the bottom of
this, I’ll bet you.”

“And Mr. Cochrane! And that young Englishman, Mr. Newsome!”

“And old Thatcher!”

“And Mrs. Cochrane, and Mr. Dent, and, oh, there’s my friend Smith! You
remember he helped me put out the fire.”

Soon they were at the gate of the corral where a group of men and women
stood awaiting them. Inspector Dickson was first:

“Hello, Cameron! Got back, eh? Welcome home, Mrs. Cameron,” he said as
he helped her to alight.

Smith stood at the bronchos’ heads.

“Now, Inspector,” said Cameron, holding him by hand and collar, “now
what does this business mean?”

“Mean?” cried the Inspector with a laugh. “Means just what you see. But
won’t you introduce us all?”

After all had been presented to his sister Cameron pursued his question.
“What does it mean, Inspector?”

“Mean? Ask Cochrane.”

“Mr. Cochrane, tell me,” cried Mandy, “who began this?”

“Ask Mr. Thatcher there,” replied Mr. Cochrane.

“Who is responsible for this, Mr. Thatcher?” cried Mandy.

“Don’t rightly know how the thing started. First thing I knowed they was
all at it.”

“See here, Thatcher, you might as well own up. I am going to know
anyway. Where did the logs come from, for instance?” said Cameron in a
determined voice.

“Logs? Guess Bracken knows,” replied Cochrane, turning to a tall, lanky
rancher who was standing at a little distance.

“Bracken,” cried Cameron, striding to him with hand outstretched, “what
about the logs for the house? Where did they come from?”

“Well, I dunno. Smith was sayin’ somethin’ about a bee and gettin’ green
logs.”

“Smith?” cried Cameron, glancing at that individual now busy unhitching
the bronchos.

“And of course,” continued Bracken, “green logs ain’t any use for a real
good house, so--and then--well, I happened to have a bunch of logs up
the Big Horn. I guess the boys floated ‘em down.”

“Come away, Mrs. Cameron, and inspect your house,” cried a stout,
red-faced matron. “I said they ought to await your coming to get your
plans, but Mr. Smith said he knew a little about building and that they
might as well go on with it. It was getting late in the season, and so
they went at it. Come away, we’re having a great time over it. Indeed, I
think we’ve enjoyed it more than ever you will.”

“But you haven’t told us yet who started it,” cried Mandy.

“Where did you get the lumber?” said Cameron.

“Well, the lumber,” replied Cochrane, “came from the Fort, I guess.
Didn’t it, Inspector?”

“Yes,” replied the Inspector. “We had no immediate use for it, and Smith
told us just how much it would take.”

“Smith?” said Cameron again. “Hello, Smith!” But Smith was already
leading the bronchos away to the stable.

“Yes,” continued the Inspector, “and Smith was wondering how a notice
could be sent up to the Spruce Creek boys and to Loon Lake, so I sent a
man with the word and they brought down the lumber without any trouble.
But,” continued the Inspector, “come along, Cameron, let us follow the
ladies.”

“But this is growing more and more mysterious,” protested Cameron. “Can
no one tell me how the thing originated? The sash and doors now, where
did they come from?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Cochrane. “I was at the Post Office, and,
hearin’ Smith talkin’ ‘bout this raisin’ bee and how they were stuck for
sash and door, so seein’ I wasn’t goin’ to build this fall I told him he
might as well have the use of these. My team was laid up and Smith got
Jim Bracken to haul ‘em down.”

“Well, this gets me,” said Cameron. “It appears no one started this
thing. Everything just happened. Now the shingles, I suppose they just
tumbled up into their place there.”

“The shingles?” said Cochrane. “I dunno ‘bout them. Didn’t know there
were any in the country.”

“Oh, they just got up into place there of themselves I have no doubt,”
 said Cameron.

“The shingles? Ah, bay Jove! Rawthah! Funny thing, don’t-che-naow,”
 chimed in a young fellow attired in rather emphasized cow-boy style,
“funny thing! A Johnnie--quite a strangah to me, don’t-che-naow, was
riding pawst my place lawst week and mentioned about this--ah--raisin’
bee he called it I think, and in fact abaout the blawsted Indian, and
the fire, don’t-che-naow, and all the rest of it, and how the chaps were
all chipping in as he said, logs and lumbah and so fowth. And then, bay
Jove, he happened to mention that they were rathah stumped for shingles,
don’t-che-naow, and, funny thing, there chawnced to be behind my
stable a few bunches, and I was awfully glad to tu’n them ovah, and
this--eh--pehson--most extraordinary chap I assuah you--got ‘em down
somehow.”

“Who was it inquired?” asked Cameron.

“Don’t naow him in the least. But it’s the chap that seems to be bossing
the job.”

“Oh, that’s Smith,” said Cochrane.

“Smith!” said Cameron, in great surprise. “I don’t even know the man. He
was good enough to help my wife to beat back the fire. I don’t believe I
even spoke to him. Who is he anyway?”

“Oh, he’s Thatcher’s man.”

“Yes, but--”

“Come away, Mr. Cameron,” cried Mrs. Cochrane from the door of the new
house. “Come away in and look at the result of our bee.”

“This beats me,” said Cameron, obeying the invitation, “but, say,
Dickson, it is mighty good of all these men. I have no claim--”

“Claim?” said Mr. Cochrane. “It might have been any of us. We must stand
together in this country, and especially these days, eh, Inspector?
Things are gettin’ serious.”

The Inspector nodded his head gravely.

“Yes,” he said. “But, Mr. Cochrane,” he added in a low voice, “it is
very necessary that as little as possible should be said about these
things just now. No occasion for any excitement or fuss. The quieter
things are kept the better.”

“All right, Inspector, I understand, but--”

“What do you think of your new house, Mr. Cameron?” cried Mrs. Cochrane.
“Come in. Now what do you think of this for three days’ work?”

“Oh, Allan, I have been all through it and it’s perfectly wonderful,”
 said his wife.

“Oh nothing very wonderful, Mrs. Cameron,” said Cochrane, “but it will
do for a while.”

“Perfectly wonderful in its whole plan, and beautifully complete,”
 insisted Mandy. “See, a living-room, a lovely large one, two bedrooms
off it, and, look here, cupboards and closets, and a pantry, and--” here
she opened the door in the corner--“a perfectly lovely up-stairs! Not to
speak of the cook-house out at the back.”

“Wonderful is the word,” said Cameron, “for why in all the world should
these people--?”

“And look, Allan, at Moira! She’s just lost in rapture over that
fireplace.”

“And I don’t wonder,” said her husband. “It is really fine. Whose idea
was it?” he continued, moving toward Moira’s side, who was standing
before a large fireplace of beautiful masonry set in between the two
doors that led to the bedrooms at the far end of the living-room.

“It was Andy Hepburn from Loon Lake that built it,” said Mr. Cochrane.

“I wish I could thank him,” said Moira fervently.

“Well, there he is outside the window, Miss Moira,” said a young fellow
who was supposed to be busy putting up a molding round the wainscoting,
but who was in reality devoting himself to the young lady at the present
moment with open admiration. “Here, Andy,” he cried through the window,
“you’re wanted. Hurry up.”

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Dent. What will he think?”

A hairy little man, with a face dour and unmistakably Scotch, came in.

“What’s want-it, then?” he asked, with a deliberate sort of gruffness.

“It’s yourself, Andy, me boy,” said young Dent, who, though Canadian
born, needed no announcement of his Irish ancestry. “It is yourself,
Andy, and this young lady, Miss Moira Cameron--Mr. Hepburn--” Andy made
reluctant acknowledgment of her smile and bow--“wants to thank you for
this fireplace.”

“It is very beautiful indeed, Mr. Hepburn, and very thankful I am to you
for building it.”

“Aw, it’s no that bad,” admitted Andy. “But ye need not thank me.”

“But you built it?”

“Aye did I. But no o’ ma ain wull. A fireplace is a feckless thing in
this country an’ I think little o’t.”

“Whose idea was it then?”

“It was yon Smith buddie. He juist keepit dingin’ awa’ till A promised
if he got the lime--A kent o’ nane in the country--A wud build the
thing.”

“And he got the lime, eh, Andy?” said Dent.

“Aye, he got it,” said Andy sourly. “Diel kens whaur.”

“But I am sure you did it beautifully, Mr. Hepburn,” said Moira, moving
closer to him, “and it will be making me think of home.” Her soft
Highland accent and the quaint Highland phrasing seemed to reach a soft
spot in the little Scot.

“Hame? An’ whaur’s that?” he inquired, manifesting a grudging interest.

“Where? Where but in the best of all lands, in Scotland,” said Moira.
“Near Braemar.”

“Braemar?”

“Aye, Braemar. I have only come four days ago.”

“Aye, an’ did ye say, lassie!” said Andy, with a faint accession of
interest. “It’s a bonny country ye’ve left behind, and far enough frae
here.”

“Far indeed,” said Moira, letting her shining brown eyes rest upon his
face. “And it is myself that knows it. But when the fire burns yonder,”
 she added, pointing to the fireplace, “I will be seeing the hills and
the glens and the moors.”

“‘Deed, then, lassie,” said Andy in a low hurried voice, moving toward
the door, “A’m gled that Smith buddie gar’t me build it.”

“Wait, Mr. Hepburn,” said Moira, shyly holding out her hand, “don’t you
think that Scotties in this far land should be friends?”

“An’ prood I’d be, Miss Cameron,” replied Andy, and, seizing her hand,
he gave it a violent shake, flung it from him and fled through the door.

“He’s a cure, now, isn’t he!” said Dent.

“I think he is fine,” said Moira with enthusiasm. “It takes a Scot to
understand a Scot, you see, and I am glad I know him. Do you know, he
is a little like the fireplace himself,” she said, “rugged, a wee bit
rough, but fine.”

“The real stuff, eh?” said Dent. “The pure quill.”

“Yes, that is it. Solid and steadfast, with no pretense.”

Meanwhile the work of inspecting the new house was going on. Everywhere
appeared fresh cause for delighted wonder, but still the origin of the
raising bee remained a mystery.

Balked by the men, Cameron turned in his search to the women and
proceeded to the tent where preparations were being made for the supper.

“Tut tut, Mr. Cameron,” said Mrs. Cochrane, her broad good-natured face
beaming with health and good humor, “what difference does it make?
Your neighbors are only too glad of a chance to show their goodwill for
yourself, and more for your wife.”

“I am sure you are right there,” said Cameron.

“And it is the way of the country. We must stick together, John says.
It’s your turn to-day, it may be ours to-morrow and that’s all there
is to it. So clear out of this tent and make yourself busy. By the way,
where’s the pipes? The folk will soon be asking for a tune.”

“But I want to know, Mrs. Cochrane,” persisted Cameron.

“Where’s the pipes, I’m saying. John,” she cried, lifting her voice, to
her husband, who was standing at the other side of the house. “Where’s
the pipes? They’re not burned, I hope,” she continued, turning to
Cameron. “The whole settlement would feel that a loss.”

“Fortunately no. Young Macgregor at the Fort has them.”

“Then I wonder if they are here. John, find out from the Inspector
yonder where the pipes are. We will be wanting them this evening.”

To her husband’s inquiry the Inspector replied that if Macgregor ever
had the pipes it was a moral certainty that he had carried them with him
to the raising, “for it is my firm belief,” he added, “that he sleeps
with them.”

“Do go and see now, like a dear man,” said Mrs. Cochrane to Cameron.

From group to group of the workers Cameron went, exchanging greetings,
but persistently seeking to discover the originator of the raising
bee. But all in vain, and in despair he came back to his wife with the
question “Who is this Smith, anyway?”

“Mr. Smith,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “is my friend, my
particular friend. I found him a friend when I needed one badly.”

“Yes, but who is he?” inquired Moira, who, with Mr. Dent in attendance,
had sauntered up. “Who is he, Mr. Dent? Do you know?”

“No, not from Adam’s mule. He’s old Thatcher’s man. That’s all I know
about him.”

“He is Mr. Thatcher’s man? Oh!” said Moira, “Mr. Thatcher’s servant.” A
subtle note of disappointment sounded in her voice.

“Servant, Moira?” said Allan in a shocked tone. “Wipe out the thought.
There is no such thing as servant west of the Great Lakes in this
country. A man may help me with my work for a consideration, but he is
no servant of mine as you understand the term, for he considers himself
just as good as I am and he may be considerably better.”

“Oh, Allan,” protested his sister with flushing face, “I know. I know
all that, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know perfectly,” said her brother, “for I had the same notion.
For instance, for six months I was a ‘servant’ in Mandy’s home, eh,
Mandy?”

“Nonsense!” cried Mandy indignantly. “You were our hired man and just
like the rest of us.”

“Do you get that distinction, Moira? There is no such thing as servant
in this country,” continued Cameron. “We are all the same socially and
stand to help each other. Rather a fine idea that.”

“Yes, fine,” cried Moira, “but--” and she paused, her face still
flushed.

“Who’s Smith? is the great question,” interjected Dent. “Well, then,
Miss Cameron, between you and me we don’t ask that question in this
country. Smith is Smith and Jones is Jones and that’s the first and last
of it. We all let it go at that.”

But now the last row of shingles was in place, the last door hung, the
last door-knob set. The whole house stood complete, inside and out, top
and bottom, when a tattoo beat upon a dish pan gave the summons to the
supper table. The table was spread in all its luxurious variety and
abundance beneath the poplar trees. There the people gathered all upon
the basis of pure democratic equality, “Duke’s son and cook’s son,” each
estimated at such worth as could be demonstrated was in him. Fictitious
standards of values were ignored. Every man was given his fair
opportunity to show his stuff and according to his showing was his place
in the community. A generous good fellowship and friendly good-will
toward the new-comer pervaded the company, but with all this a kind of
reserve marked the intercourse of these men with each other. Men were
taken on trial at face value and no questions asked.

This evening, however, the dominant note was one of generous and
enthusiastic sympathy with the young rancher and his wife, who had come
so lately among them and who had been made the unfortunate victim of
a sinister and threatening foe, hitherto, it is true, regarded with
indifference or with friendly pity but lately assuming an ominous
importance. There was underneath the gay hilarity of the gathering an
undertone of apprehension until the Inspector made his speech. It was
short and went straight at the mark. There was danger, he acknowledged.
It would be idle to ignore that there were ugly rumors flying. There was
need for watchfulness, but there was no need for alarm. The Police Force
was charged with the responsibility of protecting the lives and property
of the people. They assumed to the full this responsibility, though they
were very short-handed at present, but if they ever felt they needed
assistance they knew they could rely upon the steady courage of the men
of the district such as he saw before him.

There was need of no further words and the Inspector’s speech passed
with no response. It was not after the manner of these men to make
demonstration either of their loyalty or of their courage.

Cameron’s speech at the last came haltingly. On the one hand his
Highland pride made it difficult for him to accept gifts from any source
whatever. On the other hand his Highland courtesy forbade his giving
offense to those who were at once his hosts and his guests, but none
suspected the reason for the halting in his speech. As Western men they
rather approved than otherwise the hesitation and reserve that marked
his words.

Before they rose from the supper table, however, there were calls for
Mrs. Cameron, calls so insistent and clamorous that, overcoming her
embarrassment, she made reply. “We have not yet found out who was
responsible for the originating of this great kindness. But no matter.
We forgive him, for otherwise my husband and I would never have come to
know how rich we are in true friends and kind neighbors, and now that
you have built this house let me say that henceforth by day or by night
you are welcome to it, for it is yours.”

After the storm of applause had died down, a voice was heard gruffly and
somewhat anxiously protesting, “But not all at one time.”

“Who was that?” asked Mandy of young Dent as the supper party broke up.

“That’s Smith,” said Dent, “and he’s a queer one.”

“Smith?” said Cameron. “The chap meets us everywhere. I must look him
up.”

But there was a universal and insistent demand for “the pipes.”

“You look him up, Mandy,” cried her husband as he departed in response
to the call.

“I shall find him, and all about him,” said Mandy with determination.

The next two hours were spent in dancing to Cameron’s reels, in which
all, with more or less grace, took part till the piper declared he was
clean done.

“Let Macgregor have the pipes, Cameron,” cried the Inspector. “He is
longing for a chance, I am sure, and you give us the Highland Fling.”

“Come Moira,” cried Cameron gaily, handing the pipes to Macgregor and,
taking his sister by the hand, he led her out into the intricacies of
the Highland Reel, while the sides of the living-room, the doors and
the windows, were thronged with admiring onlookers. Even Andy Hepburn’s
rugged face lost something of its dourness; and as the brother and
sister together did that most famous of all the ancient dances of
Scotland, the Highland Fling, his face relaxed into a broad smile.

“There’s Smith,” said young Dent to Mandy in a low voice as the reel was
drawing to a close.

“Where?” she cried. “I have been looking for him everywhere.”

“There, at the window, outside.”

Even in the dim light of the lanterns and candles hung here and there
upon the walls and stuck on the window sills, Smith’s face, pale, stern,
sad, shone like a specter out of the darkness behind.

“What’s the matter with the man?” cried Mandy. “I must find out.”

Suddenly the reel came to an end and Cameron, taking the pipes from
young Macgregor, cried, “Now, Moira, we will give them our way of it,”
 and, tuning the pipes anew, he played over once and again their own Glen
March, known only to the piper of the Cuagh Oir. Then with cunning
skill making atmosphere, he dropped into a wild and weird lament, Moira
standing the while like one seeing a vision. With a swift change the
pipes shrilled into the true Highland version of the ancient reel,
enriched with grace notes and variations all his own. For a few moments
the girl stood as if unwilling to yield herself to the invitation of the
pipes. Suddenly, as if moved by another spirit than her own, she stepped
into the circle and whirled away into the mazes of the ancient style of
the Highland Fling, such as is mastered by comparatively few even of the
Highland folk. With wonderful grace and supple strength she passed from
figure to figure and from step to step, responding to the wild mad music
as to a master spirit.

In the midst of the dance Mandy made her way out of the house and round
to the window where Smith stood gazing in upon the dancer. She quietly
approached him from behind and for a few moments stood at his side. He
was breathing heavily like a man in pain.

“What is it, Mr. Smith?” she said, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He sprang from her touch as from a stab and darted back from the crowd
about the window.

“What is it, Mr. Smith?” she said again, following him. “You are not
well. You are in pain.”

He stood a moment or two gazing at her with staring eyes and parted
lips, pain, grief and even rage distorting his pale face.

“It is wicked,” at length he panted. “It is just terrible wicked--a
young girl like that.”

“Wicked? Who? What?”

“That--that girl--dancing like that.”

“Dancing? That kind of dancing?” cried Mandy, astonished. “I was brought
up a Methodist myself,” she continued, “but that kind of dancing--why, I
love it.”

“It is of the devil. I am a Methodist--a preacher--but I could not
preach, so I quit. But that is of the world, the flesh, and the devil
and--and I have not the courage to denounce it. She is--God help
me--so--so wonderful--so wonderful.”

“But, Mr. Smith,” said Mandy, laying her hand upon his arm, and seeking
to sooth his passion, “surely this dancing is--”

Loud cheers and clapping of hands from the house interrupted her. The
man put his hands over his eyes as if to shut out a horrid vision,
shuddered violently, and with a weird sound broke from her touch and
fled into the bluff behind the house just as the party came streaming
from the house preparatory to departing. It seemed to Mandy as if she
had caught a glimpse of the inner chambers of a soul and had seen things
too sacred to be uttered.

Among the last to leave were young Dent and the Inspector.

“We have found out the culprit,” cried Dent, as he was saying
good-night.

“The culprit?” said Mandy. “What do you mean?”

“The fellow who has engineered this whole business.”

“Who is it?” said Cameron.

“Why, listen,” said Dent. “Who got the logs from Bracken? Smith. Who
got the Inspector to send men through the settlement? Smith. Who got the
lumber out of the same Inspector? Smith. And the sash and doors out of
Cochrane? Smith. And wiggled the shingles out of Newsome? And euchred
old Scotty Hepburn into building the fireplace? And planned and bossed
the whole job? Who? Smith. This whole business is Smith’s work.”

“And where is Smith? Have you seen him, Mandy? We have not thanked him,”
 said Cameron.

“He is gone, I think,” said Mandy. “He left some time ago. We shall
thank him later. But I am sure we owe a great deal to you, Inspector
Dickson, to you, Mr. Dent, and indeed to all our friends,” she added, as
she bade them good-night.

For some moments they lingered in the moonlight.

“To think that this is Smith’s work!” said Cameron, waving his hand
toward the house. “That queer chap! One thing I have learned, never to
judge a man by his legs again.”

“He is a fine fellow,” said Mandy indignantly, “and with a fine soul in
spite of--”

“His wobbly legs,” said her husband smiling.

“It’s a shame, Allan. What difference does it make what kind of legs a
man has?”

“Very true,” replied her husband smiling, “and if you knew your Bible
better, Mandy, you would have found excellent authority for your
position in the words of the psalmist, ‘The Lord taketh no pleasure in
the legs of a man.’ But, say, it is a joke,” he added, “to think of this
being Smith’s work.”



CHAPTER XII

IN THE SUN DANCE CANYON


But they were not yet done with Smith, for as they turned to pass into
the house a series of shrill cries from the bluff behind pierced the
stillness of the night.

“Help! Help! Murder! Help! I’ve got him! Help! I’ve got him!”

Shaking off the clutching hands of his wife and sister, Cameron darted
into the bluff and found two figures frantically struggling upon the
ground. The moonlight trickling through the branches revealed the man
on top to be an Indian with a knife in his hand, but he was held in such
close embrace that he could not strike.

“Hold up!” cried Cameron, seizing the Indian by the wrist. “Stop that!
Let him go!” he cried to the man below. “I’ve got him safe enough. Let
him go! Let him go, I tell you! Now, then, get up! Get up, both of you!”

The under man released his grip, allowed the Indian to rise and got
himself to his feet.

“Come out into the light!” said Cameron sharply, leading the Indian
out of the bluff, followed by the other, still panting. Here they were
joined by the ladies. “Now, then, what the deuce is all this row?”
 inquired Cameron.

“Why, it’s Mr. Smith!” cried Mandy.

“Smith again! More of Smith’s work, eh? Well, this beats me,” said her
husband. For some moments Cameron stood surveying the group, the Indian
silent and immobile as one of the poplar trees beside him, the ladies
with faces white, Smith disheveled in garb, pale and panting and
evidently under great excitement. Cameron burst into a loud laugh.
Smith’s pale face flushed a swift red, visible even in the moonlight,
then grew pale again, his excited panting ceased as he became quiet.

“Now what is the row?” asked Cameron again. “What is it, Smith?”

“I found this Indian in the bush here and I seized him. I thought--he
might--do something.”

“Do something?”

“Yes--some mischief--to some of you.”

“What? You found this Indian in the bluff here and you just jumped on
him? You might better have jumped on a wild cat. Are you used to this
sort of thing? Do you know the ways of these people?”

“I never saw an Indian before.”

“Good Heavens, man! He might have killed you. And he would have in two
minutes more.”

“He might have killed--some of you,” said Smith.

Cameron laughed again.

“Now what were you doing in the bluff?” he said sharply, turning to the
Indian.

“Chief Trotting Wolf,” said the Indian in the low undertone common to
his people, “Chief Trotting Wolf want you’ squaw--boy seeck bad--leg
beeg beeg. Boy go die. Come.” He turned to Mandy and repeated
“Come--queeek--queeek.”

“Why didn’t you come earlier?” said Cameron sharply. “It is too late
now. We are going to sleep.”

“Me come dis.” He lowered his hand toward the ground. “Too much mans--no
like--Indian wait all go ‘way--dis man much beeg fight--no good. Come
queeek--boy go die.”

Already Mandy had made up her mind.

“Let us hurry, Allan,” she said.

“You can’t go to-night,” he replied. “You are dead tired. Wait till
morning.”

“No, no, we must go.” She turned into the house, followed by her
husband, and began to rummage in her bag. “Lucky thing I got these
supplies in town,” she said, hastily putting together her nurse’s
equipment and some simple remedies. “I wonder if that boy has fever.
Bring that Indian in.”

“Have you had the doctor?” she inquired, when he appeared.

“Huh! Doctor want cut off leg--dis,” his action was sufficiently
suggestive. “Boy say no.”

“Has the boy any fever? Does he talk-talk-talk?” The Indian nodded his
head vigorously.

“Talk much--all day--all night.”

“He is evidently in a high fever,” said Mandy to her husband. “We must
try to check that. Now, my dear, you hurry and get the horses.”

“But what shall we do with Moira?” said Cameron suddenly.

“Why,” cried Moira, “let me go with you. I should love to go.”

But this did not meet with Cameron’s approval.

“I can stay here,” suggested Smith hesitatingly, “or Miss Cameron can go
over with me to the Thatchers’.”

“That is better,” said Cameron shortly. “We can drop her at the
Thatchers’ as we pass.”

In half an hour Cameron returned with the horses and the party proceeded
on their way.

At the Piegan Reserve they were met by Chief Trotting Wolf himself and,
without more than a single word of greeting, were led to the tent in
which the sick boy lay. Beside him sat the old squaw in a corner of the
tent, crooning a weird song as she swayed to and fro. The sick boy lay
on a couch of skins, his eyes shining with fever, his foot festering
and in a state of indescribable filth and his whole condition one of
unspeakable wretchedness. Cameron found his gorge rise at the sight of
the gangrenous ankle.

“This is a horrid business, Mandy,” he exclaimed. “This is not for you.
Let us send for the doctor. That foot will surely have to come off.
Don’t mess with it. Let us have the doctor.”

But his wife, from the moment of her first sight of the wounded foot,
forgot all but her mission of help.

“We must have a clean tent, Allan,” she said, “and plenty of hot water.
Get the hot water first.”

Cameron turned to the Chief and said, “Hot water, quick!”

“Huh--good,” replied the Chief, and in a few moments returned with a
small pail of luke-warm water.

“Oh,” cried Mandy, “it must be hot and we must have lots of it.”

“Hot,” cried Cameron to the Chief. “Big pail--hot--hot.”

“Huh,” grunted the Chief a second time with growing intelligence, and
in an incredibly short space returned with water sufficiently hot and in
sufficient quantity.

All unconscious of the admiring eyes that followed the swift and skilled
movements of her capable hands, Mandy worked over the festering and
fevered wound till, cleansed, soothed, wrapped in a cooling lotion, the
limb rested easily upon a sling of birch bark and skins suggested and
prepared by the Chief. Then for the first time the boy made a sound.

“Huh,” he grunted feebly. “Doctor--no good. Squaw--heap good. Me two
foot--live--one foot--” he held up one finger--“die.” His eyes were
shining with something other than the fever that drove the blood racing
through his veins. As a dog’s eyes follow every movement of his master
so the lad’s eyes, eloquent with adoring gratitude, followed his nurse
as she moved about the wigwam.

“Now we must get that clean tent, Allan.”

“All right,” said her husband. “It will be no easy job, but we shall do
our best. Here, Chief,” he cried, “get some of your young men to pitch
another tent in a clean place.”

The Chief, eager though he was to assist, hesitated.

“No young men,” he said. “Get squaw,” and departed abruptly.

“No young men, eh?” said Cameron to his wife. “Where are they, then? I
notice there are no bucks around.”

And so while the squaws were pitching a tent in a spot somewhat removed
from the encampment, Cameron poked about among the tents and wigwams of
which the Indian encampment consisted, but found for the most part
only squaws and children and old men. He came back to his wife greatly
disturbed.

“The young bucks are gone, Mandy. I must get after this thing quickly. I
wish I had Jerry here. Let’s see? You ask for a messenger to be sent
to the fort for the doctor and medicine. I shall enclose a note to the
Inspector. We want the doctor here as soon as possible and we want Jerry
here at the earliest possible moment.”

With a great show of urgency a messenger was requisitioned and
dispatched, carrying a note from Cameron to the Commissioner requesting
the presence of the doctor with his medicine bag, but also requesting
that Jerry, the redoubtable half-breed interpreter and scout, with
a couple of constables, should accompany the doctor, the constables,
however, to wait outside the camp until summoned.

During the hours that must elapse before any answer could be had from
the fort, Cameron prepared a couch in a corner of the sick boy’s tent
for his wife, and, rolling himself in his blanket, he laid himself
down at the door outside where, wearied with the long day and its many
exciting events, he slept without turning, till shortly after daybreak
he was awakened by a chorus of yelping curs which heralded the arrival
of the doctor from the fort with the interpreter Jerry in attendance.

After breakfast, prepared by Jerry with dispatch and skill, the product
of long experience, there was a thorough examination of the sick boy’s
condition through the interpreter, upon the conclusion of which a long
consultation followed between the doctor, Cameron and Mandy. It was
finally decided that the doctor should remain with Mandy in the Indian
camp until a change should become apparent in the condition of the boy,
and that Cameron with the interpreter should pick up the two constables
and follow in the trail of the young Piegan braves. In order to allay
suspicion Cameron and his companion left the camp by the trail which led
toward the fort. For four miles or so they rode smartly until the trail
passed into a thick timber of spruce mixed with poplar. Here Cameron
paused, and, making a slight sign in the direction from which they had
come, he said:

“Drop back, Jerry, and see if any Indian is following.”

“Good,” grunted Jerry. “Go slow one mile,” and, slipping from his
pony, he handed the reins to Cameron and faded like a shadow into the
brushwood.

For a mile Cameron rode, pausing now and then to listen for the sound of
anyone following, then drew rein and waited for his companion. After a
few minutes of eager listening he suddenly sat back in his saddle and
felt for his pipe.

“All right, Jerry,” he said softly, “come out.”

Grinning somewhat shamefacedly Jerry parted a bunch of spruce boughs and
stood at Cameron’s side.

“Good ears,” he said, glancing up into Cameron’s face.

“No, Jerry,” replied Cameron, “I saw the blue-jay.”

“Huh,” grunted Jerry, “dat fool bird tell everyt’ing.”

“Any Indian following?”

Jerry held up two fingers.

“Two Indian run tree mile--find notting--go back.”

“Good! Where are our men?”

“Down Coulee Swampy Creek.”

“All right, Jerry. Any news at the fort last two or three days?”

“Beeg meetin’ St. Laurent. Much half-breed. Some Indian too. Louis Riel
mak beeg spik--beeg noise--blood! blood! blood! Much beeg fool.”
 Jerry’s tone indicated the completeness of his contempt for the whole
proceedings at St. Laurent.

“Something doing, eh, Jerry?”

“Bah!” grunted Jerry contemptuously.

“Well, there’s something doing here,” continued Cameron. “Trotting
Wolf’s young men have left the reserve and Trotting Wolf is very
anxious that we should not know it. I want you to go back, find out what
direction they have taken, how far ahead they are, how many. We camp
to-night at the Big Rock at the entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. You
remember?”

Jerry nodded.

“There’s something doing, Jerry, or I am much mistaken. Got any grub?”

“Grub?” asked Jerry. “Me--here--t’ree day,” tapping his rolled blanket
at the back of his saddle. “Odder fellers--grub--Jakes--t’ree men--t’ree
day. Come Beeg Rock to-night--mebbe to-morrow.” So saying, Jerry climbed
on to his pony and took the back trail, while Cameron went forward to
meet his men at the Swampy Creek Coulee.

Making a somewhat wide detour to avoid the approaches to the Indian
encampment, Cameron and his two men rode for the Big Rock at the
entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. They gave themselves no concern about
Trotting Wolf’s band of young men. They knew well that what Jerry could
not discover would not be worth finding out. A year’s close association
with Jerry had taught Cameron something of the marvelous powers of
observation, of the tenacity and courage possessed by the little
half-breed that made him the keenest scout in the North West Mounted
Police.

At the Big Rock they arrived late in the afternoon and there waited
for Jerry’s appearing; but night had fallen and had broken into morning
before the scout came into camp with a single word of report:

“Notting.”

“No Piegans?” exclaimed Cameron.

“No--not dis side Blood Reserve.”

“Eat something, Jerry, then we will talk,” said Cameron.

Jerry had already broken his fast, but was ready for more. After the
meal was finished he made his report. His report was clear and concise.
On leaving Cameron in the morning he had taken the most likely direction
to discover traces of the Piegan band, namely that suggested by Cameron,
and, fetching a wide circle, had ridden toward the mountains, but he
had come upon no sign. Then he had penetrated into the canyon and ridden
down toward the entrance, but still had found no trace. He had then
ridden backward toward the Piegan Reserve and, picking up a trail of one
or two ponies, had followed it till he found it broaden into that of a
considerable band making eastward. Then he knew he had found the trail
he wanted.

“How many, Jerry?” asked Cameron.

The half-breed held up both hands three times.

“Mebbe more.”

“Thirty or forty?” exclaimed Cameron. “Any Squaws?

“No.”

“Hunting-expedition?”

“No.”

“Where were they going?”

“Blood Reserve t’ink--dunno.”

Cameron sat smoking in silence. He was completely at a loss.

“Why go to the Bloods?” he asked of Jerry.

“Dunno.”

Jerry was not strong in his constructive faculty. His powers were those
of observation.

“There is no sense in them going to the Blood Reserve, Jerry,” said
Cameron impatiently. “The Bloods are a pack of thieves, we know, but our
people are keeping a close watch on them.”

Jerry grunted acquiescence.

“There is no big Indian camping ground on the Blood Reserve. You
wouldn’t get the Blackfeet to go to any pow-wow there.”

Again Jerry grunted.

“How far did you follow their trail, Jerry?”

“Two--t’ree mile.”

Cameron sat long and smoked. The thing was extremely puzzling. It seemed
unlikely that if the Piegan band were going to a rendezvous of Indians
they should select a district so closely under the inspection of the
Police. Furthermore there was no great prestige attaching to the Bloods
to make their reserve a place of meeting.

“Jerry,” said Cameron at length, “I believe they are up this Sun Dance
Canyon somewhere.”

“No,” said Jerry decisively. “No sign--come down mesef.” His tone was
that of finality.

“I believe, Jerry, they doubled back and came in from the north end
after you had left. I feel sure they are up there now and we will go and
find them.”

Jerry sat silent, smoking thoughtfully. Finally he took his pipe from
his mouth, pressed the tobacco hard down with his horny middle finger
and stuck it in his pocket.

“Mebbe so,” he said slowly, a slight grin distorting his wizened little
face, “mebbe so, but t’ink not--me.”

“Well, Jerry, where could they have gone? They might ride straight
to Crowfoot’s Reserve, but I think that is extremely unlikely. They
certainly would not go to the Bloods, therefore they must be up this
canyon. We will go up, Jerry, for ten miles or so and see what we can
see.”

“Good,” said Jerry with a grunt, his tone conveying his conviction that
where the chief scout of the North West Mounted Police had said it was
useless to search, any other man searching would have nothing but his
folly for his pains.

“Have a sleep first, Jerry. We need not start for a couple of hours.”

Jerry grunted his usual reply, rolled himself in his blanket and, lying
down at the back of a rock, was asleep in a minute’s time.

In two hours to the minute he stood beside his pony waiting for Cameron,
who had been explaining his plan to the two constables and giving them
his final orders.

The orders were very brief and simple. They were to wait where they were
till noon. If any of the band of Piegans appeared one of the men was
to ride up the canyon with the information, the other was to follow
the band till they camped and then ride back till he should meet his
comrades. They divided up the grub into two parts and Cameron and the
interpreter took their way up the canyon.

The canyon consisted of a deep cleft across a series of ranges of hills
or low mountains. Through it ran a rough breakneck trail once used by
the Indians and trappers but now abandoned since the building of the
Canadian Pacific Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass and the opening
of the Government trail through the Crow’s Nest. From this which had
once been the main trail other trails led westward into the Kootenays
and eastward into the Foothill country. At times the canyon widened into
a valley, rich in grazing and in streams of water, again it narrowed
into a gorge, deep and black, with rugged sides above which only the
blue sky was visible, and from which led cavernous passages that wound
into the heart of the mountains, some of them large enough to hold a
hundred men or more without crowding. These caverns had been and
still were found to be most convenient and useful for the purpose of
whisky-runners and of cattle-rustlers, affording safe hiding-places for
themselves and their spoil. With this trail and all its ramifications
Jerry was thoroughly familiar. The only other man in the Force who
knew it better than Jerry was Cameron himself. For many months he had
patroled the main trail and all its cross leaders, lived in its caves
and explored its caverns in pursuit of those interesting gentlemen whose
activities more than anything else had rendered necessary the existence
of the North West Mounted Police. In ancient times the caves along the
Sun Dance Trail had been used by the Indian Medicine-Men for their pagan
rites, and hence in the eyes of the Indians to these caves attached a
dreadful reverence that made them places to be avoided in recent years
by the various tribes now gathered on the reserves. But during these
last months of unrest it was suspected by the Police that the ancient
uses of these caves had been revived and that the rites long since
fallen into desuetude were once more being practised.

For the first few miles of the canyon the trail offered good footing
and easy going, but as the gorge deepened and narrowed the difficulties
increased until riding became impossible, and only by the most strenuous
efforts on the part of both men and beasts could any advance be made.
And so through the day and into the late evening they toiled on, ever
alert for sight or sound of the Piegan band. At length Cameron broke the
silence.

“We must camp, Jerry,” he said. “We are making no time and we may spoil
things. I know a good camp-ground near by.”

“Me too,” grunted Jerry, who was as tired as his wiry frame ever allowed
him to become.

They took a trail leading eastward, which to all eyes but those familiar
with it would have been invisible, for a hundred yards or so and came
to the bed of a dry stream which issued from between two great rocks.
Behind one of these rocks there opened out a grassy plot a few yards
square, and beyond the grass a little lifted platform of rock against a
sheer cliff. Here they camped, picketing their horses on the grass and
cooking their supper upon the platform of rock over a tiny fire of dry
twigs, for the wind was blowing down the canyon and they knew that they
could cook their meal and have their smoke without fear of detection.
For some time after supper they sat smoking in that absolute silence
which is the characteristic of the true man of the woods. The gentle
breeze blowing down the canyon brought to their ears the rustling of
the dry poplar-leaves and the faint murmur of the stream which, tumbling
down the canyon, accompanied the main trail a hundred yards away.

Suddenly Cameron’s hand fell upon the knee of the half-breed with a
swift grip.

“Listen!” he said, bending forward.

With mouths slightly open and with hands to their ears they both sat
motionless, breathless, every nerve on strain. Gradually the dead
silence seemed to resolve itself into rhythmic waves of motion rather
than of sound--“TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM.” It was
the throb of the Indian medicine-drum, which once heard can never be
forgotten or mistaken. Without a word to each other they rose, doused
their fire, cached their saddles, blankets and grub, and, taking only
their revolvers, set off up the canyon. Before they had gone many yards
Cameron halted.

“What do you think, Jerry?” he said. “I take it they have come in the
back way over the old Porcupine Trail.”

Jerry grunted approval of the suggestion.

“Then we can go in from the canyon. It is hard going, but there is less
fear of detection. They are sure to be in the Big Wigwam.”

Jerry shook his head, with a puzzled look on his face.

“Dunno me.”

“That is where they are,” said Cameron. “Come on! Only two miles from
here.”

Steadily the throb of the medicine-drum grew more distinct as they moved
slowly up the canyon, rising and falling upon the breeze that came down
through the darkness to meet them. The trail, which was bad enough in
the light, became exceedingly dangerous and difficult in the blackness
of the night. On they struggled painfully, now clinging to the sides of
the gorge, now mounting up over a hill and again descending to the level
of the foaming stream.

“Will they have sentries out, I wonder?” whispered Cameron in Jerry’s
ear.

“No--beeg medicine going on--no sentry.”

“All right, then, we will walk straight in on them.”

“What you do?” inquired Jerry.

“We will see what they are doing and send them about their business,”
 said Cameron shortly.

“No,” said Jerry firmly. “S’pose Indian mak beeg medicine--bes’ leave
him go till morning.”

“Well, Jerry, we will take a look at them at any rate,” said Cameron.
“But if they are fooling around with any rebellion nonsense I am going
to step in and stop it.”

“No,” said Jerry again very gravely. “Beeg medicine mak’ Indian man
crazy--fool--dance--sing--mak’ brave--then keel--queeck!”

“Come along, then, Jerry,” said Cameron impatiently. And on they went.
The throb of the drum grew clearer until it seemed that the next turn in
the trail should reveal the camp, while with the drum throb they began
to catch, at first faintly and then more clearly, the monotonous chant
“Hai-yai-kai-yai, Hai-yai-kai-yai,” that ever accompanies the Indian
dance. Suddenly the drums ceased altogether and with it the chanting,
and then there arose upon the night silence a low moaning cry that
gradually rose into a long-drawn penetrating wail, almost a scream, made
by a single voice.

Jerry’s hand caught Cameron’s arm with a convulsive grip.

“What the deuce is that?” asked Cameron.

“Sioux Indian--he mak’ dat when he go keel.”

Once more the long weird wailing scream pierced the night and, echoing
down the canyon, was repeated a hundred times by the black rocky sides.
Cameron could feel Jerry’s hand still quivering on his arm.

“What’s up with you, Jerry?” said Cameron impatiently.

“Me hear dat when A’m small boy--me.”

Then Cameron remembered that it was Sioux blood that colored the
life-stream in Jerry’s veins.

“Oh, pshaw!” said Cameron with gruff impatience. “Come on!” But he was
more shaken than he cared to acknowledge by that weird unearthly cry
and by its all too obvious effect upon the iron nerves of that little
half-breed at his side.

“Dey mak’ dat cry when dey go meet Custer long ‘go,” said Jerry, making
no motion to go forward.

“What are you waiting for?” said Cameron harshly. “Come along, unless
you want to go back.”

His words stung the half-breed into action. Cameron could feel him in
the dark jerk his hand away and hear him grit his teeth.

“Bah! You go hell!” he muttered between his clenched teeth.

“That is better,” said Cameron cheerfully. “Now we will look in upon
these fire-eaters.”

Sharp to the right they turned behind a cliff, and then back almost upon
their trail, still to the right, through a screen of spruce and poplar,
and found themselves in a hole of a rock that lengthened into a tunnel
blacker than the night outside. Pursuing this tunnel some little
distance they became aware of a light that grew as they moved toward
it into a fire set in the middle of a wide cavern. The cavern was of
irregular shape, with high-vaulted roof, open to the sky at the apex and
hung with glistening stalactites. The floor of this cavern lay slightly
below them, and from their position they could command a full view of
its interior.

The sides of the cavern round about were crowded with tawny faces of
Indians arranged rank upon rank, the first row seated upon the ground,
those behind crouching upon their haunches, those still farther back
standing. In the center of the cavern and with his face lit by the fire
stood the Sioux Chief, Onawata.

“Copperhead! By all that’s holy!” cried Cameron.

“Onawata!” exclaimed the half-breed. “What he mak’ here?”

“What is he saying, Jerry? Tell me everything--quick!” commanded Cameron
sharply.

Jerry was listening with eager face.

“He mak’ beeg spik,” he said.

“Go on!”

“He say Indian long tam’ ‘go have all country when his fadder small boy.
Dem day good hunting--plenty beaver, mink, moose, buffalo like leaf on
tree, plenty hit (eat), warm wigwam, Indian no seeck, notting wrong. Dem
day Indian lak’ deer go every place. Dem day Indian man lak’ bear ‘fraid
notting. Good tam’, happy, hunt deer, keel buffalo, hit all day. Ah-h-h!
ah-h-h!” The half-breed’s voice faded in two long gasps.

The Sioux’s chanting voice rose and fell through the vaulted cavern like
a mighty instrument of music. His audience of crowding Indians gazed
in solemn rapt awe upon him. A spell held them fixed. The whole circle
swayed in unison with his swaying form as he chanted the departed
glories of those happy days when the red man roamed free those plains
and woods, lord of his destiny and subject only to his own will. The
mystic magic power of that rich resonant voice, its rhythmic cadence
emphasized by the soft throbbing of the drum, the uplifted face glowing
as with prophetic fire, the tall swaying form instinct with exalted
emotion, swept the souls of his hearers with surging tides of passion.
Cameron, though he caught but little of its meaning, felt himself
irresistibly borne along upon the torrent of the flowing words. He
glanced at Jerry beside him and was startled by the intense emotion
showing upon his little wizened face.

Suddenly there was a swift change of motif, and with it a change of
tone and movement and color. The marching, vibrant, triumphant chant
of freedom and of conquest subsided again into the long-drawn wail of
defeat, gloom and despair. Cameron needed no interpreter. He knew the
singer was telling the pathetic story of the passing of the day of the
Indian’s glory and the advent of the day of his humiliation. With sharp
rising inflections, with staccato phrasing and with fierce passionate
intonation, the Sioux wrung the hearts of his hearers. Again Cameron
glanced at the half-breed at his side and again he was startled to note
the transformation in his face. Where there had been glowing pride there
was now bitter savage hate. For that hour at least the half-breed was
all Sioux. His father’s blood was the water in his veins, the red was
only his Indian mother’s. With face drawn tense and lips bared into
a snarl, with eyes gleaming, he gazed fascinated upon the face of the
singer. In imagination, in instinct, in the deepest emotions of his soul
Jerry was harking back again to the savage in him, and the savage in him
thirsting for revenge upon the white man who had wrought this ruin upon
him and his Indian race. With a fine dramatic instinct the Sioux reached
his climax and abruptly ceased. A low moaning murmur ran round the
circle and swelled into a sobbing cry, then ceased as suddenly as there
stepped into the circle a stranger, evidently a half-breed, who began to
speak. He was a French Cree, he announced, and delivered his message in
the speech, half Cree, half French, affected by his race.

He had come fresh from the North country, from the disturbed district,
and bore, as it appeared, news of the very first importance from those
who were the leaders of his people in the unrest. At his very first
word Jerry drew a long deep breath and by his face appeared to drop from
heaven to earth. As the half-breed proceeded with his tale his speech
increased in rapidity.

“What is he saying, Jerry?” said Cameron after they had listened for
some minutes.

“Oh he beeg damfool!” said Jerry, whose vocabulary had been learned
mostly by association with freighters and the Police. “He tell ‘bout
beeg meeting, beeg man Louis Riel mak’ beeg noise. Bah! Beeg damfool!”
 The whole scene had lost for Jerry its mystic impressiveness and had
become contemptibly commonplace. But not so to Cameron. This was the
part that held meaning for him. So he pulled up the half-breed with a
quick, sharp command.

“Listen close,” he said, “and let me know what he says.”

And as Jerry interpreted in his broken English the half-breed’s speech
it appeared that there was something worth learning. At this big
meeting held in Batoche it seemed a petition of rights, to the Dominion
Parliament no less, had been drawn up, and besides this many plans had
been formed and many promises made of reward for all those who dared to
stand for their rights under the leadership of the great Riel, while
for the Indians very special arrangements had been made and the most
alluring prospects held out. For they were assured that, when in the far
North country the new Government was set up, the old free independent
life of which they had been hearing was to be restored, all hampering
restrictions imposed by the white man were to be removed, and the
good old days were to be brought back. The effect upon the Indians was
plainly evident. With solemn faces they listened, nodding now and
then grave approval, and Cameron felt that the whole situation held
possibilities of horror unspeakable in the revival of that ancient
savage spirit which had been so very materially softened and tamed
by years of kindly, patient and firm control on the part of those
who represented among them British law and civilization. His original
intention had been to stride in among these Indians, to put a stop to
their savage nonsense and order them back to their reserves with never a
thought of anything but obedience on their part. But as he glanced about
upon the circle of faces he hesitated. This was no petty outbreak of
ill temper on the part of a number of Indians dissatisfied with their
rations or chafing under some new Police regulation. As his eye traveled
round the circle he noted that for the most part they were young men.
A few of the councilors of the various tribes represented were present.
Many of them he knew, but many others he could not distinguish in the
dim light of the fire.

“Who are those Indians, Jerry?” he asked.

And as Jerry ran over the names he began to realize how widely
representative of the various tribes in the western country the
gathering was. Practically every reserve in the West was represented:
Bloods, Piegans and Blackfeet from the foothill country, Plain Crees and
Wood Crees from the North. Even a few of the Stonies, who were supposed
to have done with all pagan rites and to have become largely civilized,
were present. Nor were these rank and file men only. They were the
picked braves of the tribes, and with them a large number of the younger
chiefs.

At length the half-breed Cree finished his tale, and in a few brief
fierce sentences he called the Indians of the West to join their
half-breed and Indian brothers of the North in one great effort to
regain their lost rights and to establish themselves for all time in
independence and freedom.

Then followed grave discussion carried on with deliberation and courtesy
by those sitting about the fire, and though gravity and courtesy marked
every utterance there thrilled through every speech an ever deepening
intensity of feeling. The fiery spirit of the red man, long subdued by
those powers that represented the civilization of the white man, was
burning fiercely within them. The insatiable lust for glory formerly won
in war or in the chase, but now no longer possible to them, burned in
their hearts like a consuming fire. The life of monotonous struggle for
a mere existence to which they were condemned had from the first been
intolerable to them. The prowess of their fathers, whether in the
slaughter of foes or in the excitement of the chase, was the theme of
song and story round every Indian camp-fire and at every sun dance.
For the young braves, life, once vivid with color and thrilling with
tingling emotions, had faded into the somber-hued monotony of a dull and
spiritless existence, eked out by the charity of the race who had robbed
them of their hunting-grounds and deprived them of their rights as free
men. The lust for revenge, the fury of hate, the yearning for the return
of the days of the red man’s independence raged through their speeches
like fire in an open forest; and, ever fanning yet ever controlling the
flame, old Copperhead presided till the moment should be ripe for such
action as he desired. Back and forward the question was deliberated.
Should they there and then pledge themselves to their Northern brothers
and commit themselves to this great approaching adventure?

Quietly and with an air of judicial deliberation the Sioux put the
question to them. There was something to be lost and something to be
gained. But the loss, how insignificant it seemed! And the gain, how
immeasurable! And after all success was almost certain. What could
prevent it? A few scattered settlers with no arms nor ammunition, with
no means of communication, what could they effect? A Government nearly
three thousand miles away, with the nearest base of military operations
a thousand miles distant, what could they do? The only real difficulty
was the North West Mounted Police. But even as the Sioux uttered the
words a chill silence fell upon the excited throng. The North West
Mounted Police, who for a dozen years had guarded them and cared for
them and ruled them without favor and without fear! Five hundred red
coats of the Great White Mother across the sea, men who had never been
known to turn their backs upon a foe, who laughed at noisy threats and
whose simple word their greatest chief was accustomed unhesitatingly to
obey! Small wonder that the mere mention of the name of those gallant
“Riders of the Plains” should fall like a chill upon their fevered
imaginations. The Sioux was conscious of that chill and set himself to
counteract it.

“The Police!” he cried with unspeakable scorn, “the Police! They will
flee before the Indian braves like leaves before the autumn wind.”

“What says he?” cried Cameron eagerly. And Jerry swiftly interpreted.

Without a moment’s hesitation Cameron sprang to his feet and, standing
in the dim light at the entrance to the cave, with arm outstretched and
finger pointed at the speaker, he cried:

“Listen!” With a sudden start every face was turned in his direction.
“Listen!” he repeated. “The Sioux dog lies. He speaks with double
tongue. Never have the Indians seen a Policeman’s back turned in
flight.”

His unexpected appearance, his voice ringing like the blare of a trumpet
through the cavern, his tall figure with the outstretched accusing arm
and finger, the sharp challenge of the Sioux’s lie with what they all
knew to be the truth, produced an effect utterly indescribable. For
some brief seconds they gazed upon him stricken into silence as with a
physical blow, then with a fierce exclamation the Sioux snatched a rifle
from the cave side and quicker than words can tell fired straight at
the upright accusing figure. But quicker yet was Jerry’s panther-spring.
With a backhand he knocked Cameron flat, out of range. Cameron dropped
to the floor as if dead.

“What the deuce do you mean, Jerry?” he cried. “You nearly knocked the
wind out of me!”

“Beeg fool you!” grunted Jerry fiercely, dragging him back into the
tunnel out of the light.

“Let me go, Jerry!” cried Cameron in a rage, struggling to free himself
from the grip of the wiry half-breed.

“Mak’ still!” hissed Jerry, laying his hand over Cameron’s mouth.
“Indian mad--crazy--tak’ scalp sure queeck.”

“Let me go, Jerry, you little fool!” said Cameron. “I’ll kill you if you
don’t! I want that Sioux, and, by the eternal God, I am going to have
him!” He shook himself free of the half-breed’s grasp and sprang to his
feet. “I am going to get him!” he repeated.

“No!” cried Jerry again, flinging himself upon him and winding his
arms about him. “Wait! Nodder tam’. Indian mad crazy--keel quick--no
talk--now.”

Up and down the tunnel Cameron dragged him about as a mastiff might
a terrier, striving to free himself from those gripping arms. Even as
Jerry spoke, through the dim light the figure of an Indian could be seen
passing and repassing the entrance to the cave.

“We get him soon,” said Jerry in an imploring whisper. “Come back
now--queeck--beeg hole close by.”

With a great effort Cameron regained his self-control.

“By Jove, you are right, Jerry,” he said quietly. “We certainly can’t
take him now. But we must not lose him. Now listen to me quick. This
passage opens on to the canyon about fifty yards farther down. Follow,
and keep your eye on the Sioux. I shall watch here. Go!”

Without an instant’s hesitation Jerry obeyed, well aware that his master
had come to himself and again was in command.

Cameron meantime groped to the mouth of the tunnel by which he had
entered and peered out into the dim light. Close to his hand stood an
Indian in the cavern. Beyond him there was a confused mingling of forms
as if in bewilderment. The Council was evidently broken up for the time.
The Indians were greatly shaken by the vision that had broken in upon
them. That it was no form of flesh and blood was very obvious to them,
for the Sioux’s bullet had passed through it and spattered against the
wall leaving no trail of blood behind it. There was no holding them
together, and almost before he was aware of it Cameron saw the cavern
empty of every living soul. Quickly but warily he followed, searching
each nook as he went, but the dim light of the dying fire showed him
nothing but the black walls and gloomy recesses of the great cave. At
the farther entrance he found Jerry awaiting him.

“Where are they gone?” he asked.

“Beeg camp close by,” replied Jerry. “Beeg camp--much Indian. Some
talk-talk, then go sleep. Chief Onawata he mak’ more talk--talk all
night--then go sleep. We get him morning.”

Cameron thought swiftly.

“I think you are right, Jerry. Now you get back quick for the men
and come to me here in the morning. We must not spoil the chance of
capturing this old devil. He will have these Indians worked up into
rebellion before we know where we are.”

So saying, Cameron set forward that he might with his own eyes look upon
the camp and might the better plan his further course. Upon two things
he was firmly resolved. First, that he should break up this council
which held such possibilities of danger to the peace of the country. And
secondly, and chiefly, he must lay hold of this Sioux plotter, not only
because of the possibilities of mischief that lay in him, but because of
the injury he had done him and his.

Forward, then, he went and soon came upon the camp, and after observing
the lay of it, noting especially the tent in which the Sioux Chief had
disposed himself, he groped back to his cave, in a nook of which--for
he was nearly done out with weariness, and because much yet lay before
him--he laid himself down and slept soundly till the morning.



CHAPTER XIII

IN THE BIG WIGWAM


Long before the return of the half-breed and his men Cameron was astir
and to some purpose. A scouting expedition around the Indian camp
rewarded him with a significant and useful discovery. In a bluff some
distance away he found the skins and heads of four steers, and by
examination of the brands upon the skins discovered two of them to be
from his own herd.

“All right, my braves,” he muttered. “There will be a reckoning for this
some day not so far away. Meantime this will help this day’s work.”

A night’s sleep and an hour’s quiet consideration had shown him the
folly of a straight frontal attack upon the Indians gathered for
conspiracy. They were too deeply stirred for anything like the usual
brusque manner of the Police to be effective. A slight indiscretion,
indeed, might kindle such a conflagration as would sweep the whole
country with the devastating horror of an Indian war. He recalled the
very grave manner of Inspector Dickson and resolved upon an entirely
new plan of action. At all costs he must allay suspicion that the Police
were at all anxious about the situation in the North. Further, he must
break the influence of the Sioux Chief over these Indians. Lastly, he
was determined that this arch-plotter should not escape him again.

The sun was just visible over the lowest of the broken foothills when
Jerry and the two constables made their appearance, bringing, with them
Cameron’s horse. After explaining to them fully his plan and emphasizing
the gravity of the situation and the importance of a quiet, cool and
resolute demeanor, they set off toward the Indian encampment.

“I have no intention of stirring these chaps up,” laid Cameron, “but I
am determined to arrest old Copperhead, and at the right moment we must
act boldly and promptly. He is too dangerous and much too clever to be
allowed his freedom among these Indians of ours at this particular time.
Now, then, Jerry and I will ride in looking for cattle and prepared to
charge these Indians with cattle-stealing. This will put them on the
defensive. Then the arrest will follow. You two will remain within sound
of whistle, but failing specific direction let each man act on his own
initiative.”

Jerry listened with delight. His Chief was himself again. Before the
day was over he was to see him in an entirely new role. Nothing in life
afforded Jerry such keen delight as a bit of cool daring successfully
carried through. Hence with joyous heart he followed Cameron into the
Indian camp.

The morning hour is the hour of coolest reason. The fires of emotion and
imagination have not yet begun to burn. The reactions from anything
like rash action previously committed under the stimulus of a heated
imagination are caution and timidity, and upon these reactions Cameron
counted when he rode boldly into the Indian camp.

With one swift glance his eye swept the camp and lighted upon the Sioux
Chief in the center of a group of younger men, his tall commanding
figure and haughty carriage giving him an outstanding distinction over
those about him. At his side stood a young Piegan Chief, Eagle Feather
by name, whom Cameron knew of old as a restless, talkative Indian, an
ambitious aspirant for leadership without the qualities necessary to
such a position. Straight to this group Cameron rode.

“Good morning!” he said, saluting the group. “Ah, good morning, Eagle
Feather!”

Eagle Feather grunted an indistinct reply.

“Big Hunt, eh? Are you in command of this party, Eagle Feather? No? Who
then is?”

The Piegan turned and pointed to a short thick set man standing by
another fire, whose large well shaped head and penetrating eye indicated
both force and discretion.

“Ah, Running Stream,” cried Cameron. “Come over here, Running Stream. I
am glad to see you, for I wish to talk to a man of wisdom.”

Slowly and with dignified, almost unwilling step Running Stream
approached. As he began to move, but not before, Cameron went to meet
him.

“I wish to talk with you,” said Cameron in a quiet firm tone.

“Huh,” grunted Running Stream.

“I have a matter of importance to speak to you about,” continued
Cameron.

Running Stream’s keen glance searched his face somewhat anxiously.

“I find, Running Stream, that your young men are breaking faith with
their friends, the Police.”

Again the Chief searched Cameron’s face with that keen swift glance, but
he said not a word, only waited.

“They are breaking the law as well, and I want to tell you they will be
punished. Where did they get the meat for these kettles?”

A look of relief gleamed for one brief instant across the Indian’s face,
not unnoticed, however, by Cameron.

“Why do your young men steal my cattle?”

The Indian evinced indifference.

“Dunno--deer--mebbe--sheep.”

“My brother speaks like a child,” said Cameron quietly. “Do deer and
sheep have steers’ heads and hides with brands on? Four heads I find
in the bluff. The Commissioner will ask you to explain these hides and
heads, and let me tell you, Running Stream, that the thieves will spend
some months in jail. They will then have plenty of time to think of
their folly and their wickedness.”

An ugly glance shot from the Chief’s eyes.

“Dunno,” he grunted again, then began speaking volubly in the Indian
tongue.

“Speak English, Running Stream!” commanded Cameron. “I know you can
speak English well enough.”

But Running Stream shook his head and continued his speech in Indian,
pointing to a bluff near by.

Cameron looked toward Jerry, who interpreted:

“He say young men tak’ deer and sheep and bear. He show you skins in
bluff.”

“Come,” said Running Stream, supplementing Jerry’s interpretation and
making toward the bluff. Cameron followed him and came upon the skins of
three jumping deer, of two mountain sheep and of two bear. They turned
back again to the fire.

“My young men no take cattle,” said the Chief with haughty pride.

“Maybe so,” said Cameron, “but some of your party have, Running Stream,
and the Commissioner will look to you. You are in command here. He will
give you a chance to clear yourself.”

The Indian shrugged his shoulders and stood silent.

“My brother is not doing well,” continued Cameron. “The Government feed
you if you are hungry. The Government protect you if you are wronged.”

It was an unfortunate word of Cameron’s. A sudden cloud of anger
darkened the Indian’s face.

“No!” he cried aloud. “My children--my squaw and my people go hungry--go
cold in winter--no skin--no meat.”

“My brother knows--” replied Cameron with patient firmness--“You
translate this, Jerry”--and Jerry proceeded to translate with eloquence
and force--“the Government never refuse you meat. Last winter your
people would have starved but for the Government.”

“No,” cried the Indian again in harsh quick reply, the rage in his
face growing deeper, “my children cry--Indian cannot sleep--my white
brother’s ears are closed. He hear only the wind--the storm--he sound
sleep. For me no sleep--my children cry too loud.”

“My brother knows,” replied Cameron, “that the Government is far away,
that it takes a long time for answer to come back to the Indian cry.
But the answer came and the Indian received flour and bacon and tea and
sugar, and this winter will receive them again. But how can my brother
expect the Government to care for his people if the Indians break the
law? That is not good. These Indians are bad Indians and the Police will
punish the thieves. A thief is a bad man and ought to be punished.”

Suddenly a new voice broke in abruptly upon the discourse.

“Who steal the Indian’s hunting-ground? Who drive away the buffalo?” The
voice rang with sharp defiance. It was the voice of Onawata, the Sioux
Chief.

Cameron paid no heed to the ringing voice. He kept his back turned upon
the Sioux.

“My brother knows,” he continued, addressing himself to Running Stream,
“that the Indian’s best friend is the Government, and the Police are the
Government’s ears and eyes and hands and are ready always to help the
Indians, to protect them from fraud, to keep away the whisky-peddlers,
to be to them as friends and brothers. But my brother has been listening
to a snake that comes from another country and that speaks with a forked
tongue. Our Government bought the land by treaty. Running Stream knows
this to be no lie, but the truth. Nor did the Government drive away the
buffalo from the Indians. The buffalo were driven away by the Sioux from
the country of the snake with the forked tongue. My brother remembers
that only a few years ago when the people to which this lying snake
belongs came over to this country and tried to drive away from their
hunting-grounds the Indians of this country, the Police protected the
Indians and drove back the hungry thieving Sioux to their own land. And
now a little bird has been telling me that this lying snake has been
speaking into the ears of our Indian brothers and trying to persuade
them to dig up the hatchet against their white brothers, their friends.
The Police know all about this and laugh at it. The Police know about
the foolish man at Batoche, the traitor Louis Riel. They know he is
a liar and a coward. He leads brave men astray and then runs away and
leaves them to suffer. This thing he did many years ago.” And Cameron
proceeded to give a brief sketch of the fantastic and futile rebellion
of 1870 and of the ignoble part played by the vain and empty-headed
Riel.

The effect of Cameron’s words upon the Indians was an amazement even to
himself. They forgot their breakfast and gathered close to the speaker,
their eager faces and gleaming eyes showing how deeply stirred were
their hearts.

Cameron was putting into his story an intensity of emotion and passion
that not only surprised himself, but amazed his interpreter. Indeed so
amazed was the little half-breed at Cameron’s quite unusual display of
oratorical power that his own imagination took fire and his own tongue
was loosened to such an extent that by voice, look, tone and gesture he
poured into his officer’s harangue a force and fervor all his own.

“And now,” continued Cameron, “this vain and foolish Frenchman seeks
again to lead you astray, to lead you into war that will bring ruin
to you and to your children; and this lying snake from your ancient
enemies, the Sioux, thinking you are foolish children, seeks to make
you fight against the great White Mother across the seas. He has been
talking like a babbling old man, from whom the years have taken wisdom,
when he says that the half-breeds and Indians can drive the white man
from these plains. Has he told you how many are the children of the
White Mother, how many are the soldiers in her army? Listen to me, and
look! Get me many branches from the trees,” he commanded sharply to some
young Indians standing near.

So completely were the Indians under the thrall of his speech that a
dozen of them sprang at once to get branches from the poplar trees near
by.

“I will show you,” said Cameron, “how many are the White Mother’s
soldiers. See,”--he held up both hands and then stuck up a small twig in
the sand to indicate the number ten. Ten of these small twigs he set in
a row and by a larger stick indicated a hundred, and so on till he had
set forth in the sandy soil a diagrammatic representation of a hundred
thousand men, the Indians following closely his every movement. “And all
these men,” he continued, “are armed with rifles and with great big guns
that speak like thunder. And these are only a few of the White Mother’s
soldiers. How many Indians and half-breeds do you think there are with
rifles?” He set in a row sticks to represent a thousand men. “See,” he
cried, “so many.” Then he added another similar row. “Perhaps, if all
the Indians gathered, so many with rifles. No more. Now look,” he said,
“no big guns, only a few bullets, a little powder, a little food. Ha,
ha!” he laughed contemptuously. “The Sioux snake is a fool. His tongue
must be stopped. My Indian brothers here will not listen to him, but
there are others whose hearts are like the hearts of little children who
may listen to his lying words. The Sioux snake must be caught and put in
a cage, and this I do now.”

As he uttered the words Cameron sprang for the Sioux, but quicker than
his leap the Sioux darted through the crowding Indians who, perceiving
Cameron’s intent, thrust themselves in his path and enabled the Sioux to
get away into the brush behind.

“Head him off, Jerry,” yelled Cameron, whistling sharply at the same
time for his men, while he darted for his horse and threw himself upon
it. The whole camp was in a seething uproar.

“Back!” yelled Cameron, drawing his gun. The Indians fell away from him
like waves from a speeding vessel. On the other side of the little bluff
he caught sight of a mounted Indian flying toward the mountains and with
a cry he started in pursuit. It took only a few minutes for Cameron to
discover that he was gaining rapidly upon his man. But the rough rocky
country was not far away in front of them, and here was abundant chance
for hiding. Closer and closer he drew to his flying enemy--a hundred
yards--seventy-five yards--fifty yards only separated them.

“Halt!” cried Cameron, “or I shoot.”

But the Indian, throwing himself on the far side of his pony, urged him
to his topmost speed.

Cameron steadied himself for a moment, took careful aim and fired. The
flying pony stumbled, recovered himself, stumbled again and fell. But
even before he reached the earth his rider had leaped free, and, still
some thirty yards in advance, sped onward. Half a dozen strides and
Cameron’s horse was upon him, and, giving him the shoulder, hurled the
Indian senseless to earth. In a flash Cameron was at his side, turned
him over and discovered not the Sioux Chief but another Indian quite
unknown to him.

His rage and disappointment were almost beyond his control. For an
instant he held his gun poised as if to strike, but the blow did not
fall. His self command came back. He put up his gun, turned quickly
away from the prostrate Indian, flung himself upon his horse and set off
swiftly for the camp. It was but a mile distant, but in the brief
time consumed in reaching it he had made up his mind as to his line of
action. Unless his men had captured the Sioux it was almost certain that
he had made his escape to the canyon, and once in the canyon there was
little hope of his being taken. It was of the first importance that he
should not appear too deeply concerned over his failure to take his man.

With this thought in his mind Cameron loped easily into the Indian camp.
He found the young braves in a state of feverish excitement. Armed with
guns and clubs, they gathered about their Chiefs clamoring to be allowed
to wipe out these representatives of the Police who had dared to attempt
an arrest of this distinguished guest of theirs. As Cameron appeared
the uproar quieted somewhat and the Indians gathered about him, eagerly
waiting his next move.

Cameron cantered up to Running Stream and, looking round upon the
crowding and excited braves, he said, with a smile of cool indifference:

“The Sioux snake has slid away in the grass. He has missed his
breakfast. My brother was about to eat. After he has eaten we will have
some quiet talk.”

So saying, he swung himself from his saddle, drew the reins over his
horse’s ears and, throwing himself down beside a camp fire, he pulled
out his pipe and proceeded to light it as calmly as if sitting in a
council-lodge.

The Indians were completely nonplussed. Nothing appeals more strongly
to the Indian than an exhibition of steady nerve. For some moments they
stood regarding Cameron with looks of mingled curiosity and admiration
with a strong admixture of impatience, for they had thought of being
done out of their great powwow with its attendant joys of dance and
feast, and if this Policeman should choose to remain with them all day
there could certainly be neither dancing nor feasting for them. In the
meantime, however, there was nothing for it but to accept the situation
created for them. This cool-headed Mounted Policeman had planted himself
by their camp-fire. They could not very well drive him from their camp,
nor could they converse with him till he was ready.

As they were thus standing about in uncertainty of mind and temper
Jerry, the interpreter, came in and, with a grunt of recognition, threw
himself down by Cameron beside the fire. After some further hesitation
the Indians began to busy themselves once more with their breakfast. In
the group about the campfire beside which Cameron had placed himself was
the Chief, Running Stream. The presence of the Policeman beside his fire
was most embarrassing to the Chief, for no man living has a keener sense
of the obligations of hospitality than has the Indian. But the Indian
hates to eat in the presence of a white man unless the white man shares
his meal. Hence Running Stream approached Cameron with a courteous
request that he would eat with them.

“Thanks, Running Stream, I have eaten, but I am sure Jerry here will
be glad of some breakfast,” said Cameron cordially, who had no desire
whatever to dip out of the very doubtful mess in the pot which had been
set down on the ground in the midst of the group around the fire.
Jerry, however, had no scruples in the matter and, like every Indian
and half-breed, was always ready for a meal. Having thus been offered
hospitality and having by proxy accepted it, Cameron was in position to
discuss with the Chief in a judicial if not friendly spirit the matter
he had in hand.

Breakfast over, Cameron offered his tobacco-pouch to the Chief, who,
gravely helping himself to a pipeful, passed it on to his neighbor who,
having done likewise, passed it in turn to the man next him till the
tobacco was finished and the empty pouch returned with due gravity to
the owner.

Relations of friendly diplomacy being thus established, the whole party
sat smoking in solemn silence until the pipes were smoked out. Then
Cameron, knocking the ashes from his pipe, opened up the matter in hand,
with Jerry interpreting.

“The Sioux snake,” he began quietly, “will be hungry for his breakfast.
Honest men do not run away before breakfast.”

“Huh,” grunted Running Stream, non-committal.

“The Police will get him in due time,” continued Cameron in a tone of
quiet indifference. “He will cease to trouble our Indian brothers with
foolish lies. The prison gates are strong and will soon close upon this
stranger with the forked tongue.”

Again the Chief grunted, still non-committal.

“It would be a pity if any of your young men should give heed to these
silly tales. None of your wise men have done so. In the Sioux country
there is frequent war between the soldiers and the Indians because bad
men wish to wrong the Indians and the Indians grow angry and fight, but
in this country white men are punished who do wrong to Indians. This
Running Stream knows to be true.”

“Huh,” grunted Running Stream acquiescing.

“When Indians do wrong to white men it is just that the Indians should
be punished as well. The Police do justly between the white man and the
Indian. My brother knows this to be true.”

“Huh,” again grunted Running Stream with an uneasy look on his face.

“Therefore when young and foolish braves steal and kill cattle they must
be punished. They must be taught to keep the law.” Here Cameron’s voice
grew gentle as a child’s, but there was in its tone something that made
the Chief glance quickly at his face.

“Huh, my young men no steal cattle,” he said sullenly.

“No? I am glad to hear that. I believe that is true, and that is why I
smoke with my brother beside his camp fire. But some young men in this
band have stolen cattle, and I want my brother to find them that I might
take them with me to the Commissioner.”

“Not know any Indian take cattle,” said Running Stream in surly
defiance.

“There are four skins and four heads lying in the bluff up yonder,
Running Stream. I am going to take those with me to the Commissioner and
I am sure he would like to see you about those skins.” Cameron’s manner
continued to be mild but there ran through his speech an undertone of
stern resolution that made the Indian squirm a bit.

“Not know any Indian take cattle,” repeated Running Stream, but with
less defiance.

“Then it would be well for my brother to find out the thieves, for,” and
here Cameron paused and looked the Chief steadily in the face for a few
moments, “for we are to take them back with us or we will ask the Chief
to come and explain to the Commissioner why he does not know what his
young men are doing.”

“No Blackfeet Indian take cattle,” said the Chief once more.

“Good,” said Cameron. “Then it must be the Bloods, or the Piegans or the
Stonies. We will call their Chiefs together.”

There was no hurry in Cameron’s manner. He had determined to spend
the day if necessary in running down these thieves. At his suggestion
Running Stream called together the Chiefs of the various bands of
Indians represented. From his supplies Cameron drew forth some more
tobacco and, passing it round the circle of Chiefs, calmly waited until
all had smoked their pipes out, after which he proceeded to lay the case
before them.

“My brothers are not thieves. The Police believe them to be honest
men, but unfortunately among them there have crept in some who are not
honest. In the bluff yonder are four hides and four heads of steers, two
of them from my own herd. Some bad Indians have stolen and killed these
steers and they are here in this camp to-day, and I am going to take
them with me to the Commissioner. Running Stream is a great Chief and
speaks no lies and he tells me that none of his young men have taken
these cattle. Will the Chief of the Stonies, the Chief of the Bloods,
the Chief of the Piegans say the same for their young men?”

“The Stonies take no cattle,” answered an Indian whom Cameron recognized
as the leading representative of that tribe present.

“How many Stonies here?”

The Indian held up six fingers.

“Ha, only six. What about the Bloods and the Piegans?” demanded Cameron.
“It is not for me,” he continued, when there was no reply, “to discover
the cattle-thieves. It is for the Big Chief of this camp, it is for you,
Running Stream, and when you have found the thieves I shall arrest them
and bring them to the Commissioner, for I will not return without them.
Meantime I go to bring here the skins.”

So saying, Cameron rode leisurely away, leaving Jerry to keep an eye
upon the camp. For more than an hour they talked among themselves, but
without result. Finally they came to Jerry, who, during his years
with the Police, had to a singular degree gained the confidence of the
Indians. But Jerry gave them little help. There had been much stealing
of cattle by some of the tribes, not by all. The Police had been
patient, but they had become weary. They had their suspicions as to the
thieves.

Eagle Feather was anxious to know what Indians were suspected.

“Not the Stonies and not the Blackfeet,” replied Jerry quietly. It was
a pity, he continued, that innocent men should suffer for the guilty. He
knew Running Stream was no thief, but Running Stream must find out the
thieves in the band under his control. How would Running Stream like to
have the great Chief of the Blackfeet, Crowfoot, know that he could not
control the young men under his command and did not know what they were
doing?

This suggestion of Jerry had a mighty effect upon the Blackfeet Chief,
for old Crowfoot was indeed a great Chief and a mighty power with his
band, and to fall into disfavor with him would be a serious matter for
any junior Chief in the tribe.

Again they withdrew for further discussion and soon it became evident
that Jerry’s cunning suggestions had sown seeds of discord among them.
The dispute waxed hot and fierce, not as to the guilty parties, who were
apparently acknowledged to be the Piegans, but as to the course to be
pursued. Running Stream had no intention that his people and himself
should become involved in the consequences of the crimes of other
tribes whom the Blackfeet counted their inferiors. Eagle Feather and his
Piegans must bear the consequences of their own misdeeds. On the other
hand Eagle Feather pleaded hard that they should stand together in this
matter, that the guilty parties could not be disclosed. The Police could
not punish them all, and all the more necessary was it that they should
hold together because of the larger enterprise into which they were
about to enter.

The absence of the Sioux Chief Onawata, however, weakened the bond of
unity which he more than any other had created and damped the ardor of
the less eager of the conspirators. It was likewise a serious blow to
their hopes of success that the Police knew all their plans. Running
Stream finally gave forth his decision, which was that the thieves
should be given up, and that they all should join in a humble petition
to the Police for leniency, pleading the necessity of hunger on their
hunting-trip, and, as for the larger enterprise, that they should
apparently abandon it until suspicion had been allayed and until the
plans of their brothers in the North were more nearly matured. The time
for striking had not yet come.

In this decision all but the Piegans agreed. In vain Eagle Feather
contended that they should stand together and defy the Police to prove
any of them guilty. In vain he sought to point out that if in this
crisis they surrendered the Piegans to the Police never again could they
count upon the Piegans to support them in any enterprise. But Running
Stream and the others were resolved. The thieves must be given up.

At the very moment in which this decision had been reached Cameron rode
in, carrying with him the incriminating hides.

“Here, Jerry,” he said. “You take charge of these and bring them to the
Commissioner.”

“All right,” said Jerry, taking the hides from Cameron’s horse.

“What is up, Jerry?” said Cameron in a low voice as the half-breed was
untying the bundle.

“Beeg row,” whispered Jerry. “Eagle Feather t’ief.”

“All right, keep close.”

Quietly Cameron walked over to the group of excited Indians. As he
approached they opened their circle to receive him.

“My brother has discovered the thief,” he said. “And after all a thief
is easily found among honest men.”

Slowly and deliberately his eye traveled round the circle of faces,
keenly scrutinizing each in turn. When he came to Eagle Feather he
paused, gazed fixedly at him, took a single step in his direction, and,
suddenly leveling an accusing finger at him, cried in a loud voice:

“I have found him. This man is the thief.”

Slowly he walked up to the Indian, who remained stoically motionless,
laid his hand upon his wrist and said in a clear ringing voice heard
over the encampment:

“Eagle Feather, I arrest you in the name of the Queen!” And before
another word could be spoken or a movement made Eagle Feather stood
handcuffed, a prisoner.



CHAPTER XIV

“GOOD MAN--GOOD SQUAW”


“That boy is worse, Mrs. Cameron, decidedly worse, and I wash my hands
of all responsibility.” The old army surgeon was clearly annoyed.

Mandy sat silent, weary with watching and weary with the conflict that
had gone on intermittently during the past three days. The doctor
was determined to have the gangrenous foot off. That was the simplest
solution of the problem before him and the foot would have come off days
ago if he had had his way. But the Indian boy had vehemently opposed
this proposal. “One foot--me go die,” was his ultimatum, and through
all the fever and delirium this was his continuous refrain. In this
determination his nurse supported him, for she could not bring herself
to the conviction that amputation was absolutely necessary, and,
besides, of all the melancholy and useless driftwood that drives hither
and thither with the ebb and flow of human life, she could imagine none
more melancholy and more useless than an Indian crippled of a foot.
Hence she supported the boy in his ultimatum, “One foot--me go die.”

“That foot ought to come off,” repeated the doctor, beginning the
controversy anew. “Otherwise the boy will die.”

“But, doctor,” said Mandy wearily, “just think how pitiable, how
helpless that boy will be. Death is better. And, besides, I have not
quite given up hope that--”

The doctor snorted his contempt for her opinion; and only his respect
for her as Cameron’s wife and for the truly extraordinary powers and
gifts in her profession which she had displayed during the past three
days held back the wrathful words that were at his lips. It was late in
the afternoon and the doctor had given many hours to this case, riding
back and forward from the fort every day, but all this he would not have
grudged could he have had his way with his patient.

“Well, I have done my best,” he said, “and now I must go back to my
work.”

“I know, doctor, I know,” pleaded Mandy. “You have been most kind and
I thank you from my heart.” She rose and offered him her hand. “Don’t
think me too awfully obstinate, and please forgive me if you do.”

The doctor took the outstretched hand grudgingly.

“Obstinate!” he exclaimed. “Of all the obstinate creatures--”

“Oh, I am afraid I am. But I don’t want to be unreasonable. You see, the
boy is so splendidly plucky and such a fine chap.”

The doctor grunted.

“He is a fine chap, doctor, and I can’t bear to have him crippled,
and--” She paused abruptly, her lips beginning to quiver. She was near
the limit of her endurance.

“You would rather have him dead, eh? All right, if that suits you better
it makes no difference to me,” said the doctor gruffly, picking up his
bag. “Good-by.”

“Doctor, you will come back again to-morrow?”

“To-morrow? Why should I come back to-morrow? I can do no more--unless
you agree to amputation. There is no use coming back to-morrow. I have
other cases waiting on me. I can’t give all my time to this Indian.” The
contempt in the doctor’s voice for a mere Indian stung her like a whip.
On Mandy’s cheek, pale with her long vigil, a red flush appeared and
in her eye a light that would have warned the doctor had he known her
better.

“Is not this Indian a human being?” she asked quietly.

But the doctor was very impatient and anxious to be gone.

“A human being? Yes, of course, a human being, but there are human
beings and human beings. But if you mean an Indian is as good as a white
man, frankly I don’t agree with you.”

“You have given a great deal of your time, doctor,” said Mandy with
quiet deliberation, “and I am most grateful. I can ask no more for THIS
INDIAN. I only regret that I have been forced to ask so much of your
time. Good-by.” There was a ring as of steel in her voice. The doctor
became at once apologetic.

“What--eh?--I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

“It is not at all necessary. Thank you again for all your service.
Good-by.”

“Eh? I don’t quite--”

“Good-by, doctor, and again thank you.”

“Well, you know quite well I can’t do any more,” said the old doctor
crossly.

“No, I don’t think you can.”

“Eh--what? Well, good-by.” And awkwardly the doctor walked away,
rather uncertain as to her meaning but with a feeling that he had been
dismissed.

“Most impossible person!” he muttered as he left the tent door,
indignant with himself that no fitting reply would come to his lips. And
not until he had mounted his horse and taken the trail was he able to
give full and adequate expression to his feelings, and even then it
took him some considerable time to do full justice to himself and to the
situation.

Meantime the nurse had turned back to her watch, weary and despairing.
In a way that she could not herself understand the Indian boy had
awakened her interest and even her affection. His fine stoical courage,
his warm and impulsive gratitude excited her admiration and touched her
heart. Again arose to her lips a cry that had been like a refrain in her
heart for the past three days, “Oh, if only Dr. Martin were here!” Her
experience and training under Dr. Martin had made it only too apparent
that the old army surgeon was archaic in his practice and method.

“I know something could be done!” she said aloud, as she bent over her
patient. “If only Dr. Martin were here! Poor boy! Oh! I wish he were
here!”

As if in answer to her cry there was outside a sound of galloping
horses. She ran to the tent door and before her astonished eyes there
drew up at her tent Dr. Martin, her sister-in-law and the ever-faithful
Smith.

“Oh, oh, Dr. Martin!” she cried, running to him with both hands
outstretched, and could say no more.

“Hello, what’s up? Say, what the deuce have they been doing to you?” The
doctor was quite wrathful.

“Oh, I am glad, that’s all.”

“Glad? Well, you show your joy in a mighty queer way.”

“She’s done out, Doctor,” cried Moira, springing from her horse and
running to her sister-in-law. “I ought to have come before to relieve
her,” she continued penitently, with her arms round Mandy, “but I knew
so little, and besides I thought the doctor was here.”

“He was here,” said Mandy, recovering herself. “He has just gone, and
oh, I am glad. He wanted to cut his foot off.”

“Cut his foot off? Whose foot off? His own?” said Dr. Martin.

“But I am glad! How did you get here in all the world?”

“Your telegram came when I was away,” said the doctor. “I did not get it
for a day, then I came at once.”

“My telegram?”

“Yes, your telegram. I have it here--no, I’ve left it somewhere--but I
certainly got a telegram from you.”

“From me? I never sent a telegram.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cameron. I understood you to desire Dr.
Martin’s presence, and--I ventured to send a wire in your name. I hope
you will forgive the liberty,” said Smith, red to his hair-roots and
looking over his horse’s neck with a most apologetic air.

“Forgive the liberty?” cried Mandy. “Why, bless you, Mr. Smith, you are
my guardian angel,” running to him and shaking him warmly by the hand.

“And he brought, us here, too,” cried Moira. “He has been awfully good
to me these days. I do not know what I should have done without him.”

Meantime Smith was standing first on one foot and then on the other in a
most unhappy state of mind.

“Guess I will be going back,” he said in an agony of awkwardness and
confusion. “It is getting kind of late.”

“What? Going right away?” exclaimed Mandy.

“I’ve got some chores to look after, and I guess none of you are coming
back now anyway.”

“Well, hold on a bit,” said the doctor. “We’ll see what’s doing inside.
Let’s get the lie of things.”

“Guess you don’t need me any more,” continued Smith. “Good-by.” And he
climbed on to his horse. “I have got to get back. So long.”

No one appeared to have any good reason why Smith should remain, and so
he rode away.

“Good-by, Mr. Smith,” called out Mandy impulsively. “You have really
saved my life, I assure you. I was in utter despair.”

“Good-by, Mr. Smith,” cried Moira, waving her hand with a bright smile.
“You have saved me too from dying many a time these three days.”

With an awkward wave Smith answered these farewells and rode down the
trail.

“He is really a fine fellow,” said Mandy. “Always doing something for
people.”

“That is just it,” cried Moira. “He has spent his whole time these three
days doing things for me.”

“Ah, no wonder,” said the doctor. “A most useful chap. But what’s the
trouble here? Let’s get at the business.”

Mandy gave him a detailed history of the case, the doctor meanwhile
making an examination of the patient’s general condition.

“And the doctor would have his foot off, but I would not stand for
that,” cried Mandy indignantly as she closed her history.

“H’m! Looks bad enough to come off, I should say. I wish I had been here
a couple of days ago. It may have to come off all right.”

“Oh, Dr. Martin!”

“But not just to-night.”

“Oh, I knew it.”

“Not to-night,” I said. “I don’t know what the outcome may be, but it
looks as bad as it well can.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” cried Mandy cheerfully. Her burden of
responsibility was lifted. Her care was gone. “I knew it would be all
right.”

“Well, whether it will or not I cannot say. But one thing I do know,
you’ve got to trot off to sleep. Show me the ropes and then off you go.
Who runs this camp anyway?”

“Oh, the Chief does, Chief Trotting Wolf. I will call him,” cried Mandy.
“He has been very good to me. I will get him.” And she ran from the tent
to find the Chief.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” said Moira.

“Wonderful? I should say so. But she is played right out I can see,”
 replied the doctor. “I must get comfortable quarters for you both.”

“But do you not want some one?” said Moira. “Do you not want me?”

“Do I want you?” echoed the doctor, looking at her as she stood in the
glow of the westering sun shining through the canvas tent. “Do I want
you?” he repeated with deliberate emphasis. “Well, you can just bet that
is just what I do want.”

A slight flush appeared on the girl’s face.

“I mean,” she said hurriedly, “cannot I be of some help?”

“Most certainly, most certainly,” said the doctor, noting the flush.
“Your help will be invaluable after a bit. But first you must get Mrs.
Cameron to sleep. She has been on this job, I understand, for three
days. She is quite played out. And you, too, need sleep.”

“Oh, I am quite fit. I do not need sleep. I am quite ready to take my
sister-in-law’s place, that is, as far as I can. And you will surely
need some one--to help you I mean.” The doctor’s eyes were upon her
face. Under his gaze her voice faltered. The glow of the sunset through
the tent walls illumined her face with a wonderful radiance.

“Miss Moira,” said the doctor with abrupt vehemence, “I wish I had the
nerve to tell you just how much--”

“Hush!” cried the girl, her glowing face suddenly pale, “they are
coming.”

“Here is the Chief, Dr. Martin,” cried Mandy, ushering in that stately
individual. The doctor saluted the Chief in due form and said:

“Could we have another tent, Chief, for these ladies? Just beside this
tent here, so that they can have a little sleep.”

The Chief grunted a doubtful acquiescence, but in due time a tent very
much dilapidated was pitched upon the clean dry ground close beside
that in which the sick boy lay. While this was being done the doctor was
making a further examination of his patient. With admiring eyes,
Moira followed the swift movements of his deft fingers. There was no
hesitation. There was no fumbling. There was the sure indication
of accurate knowledge, the obvious self-confidence of experience in
everything he did. Even to her untutored eyes the doctor seemed to be
walking with a very firm tread.

At length, after an hour’s work, he turned to Mandy who was assisting
him and said:

“Now you can both go to sleep. I shall need you no more till morning. I
shall keep an eye on him. Off you go. Good-night.”

“You will be sure to call me if I can be of service,” said Mandy.

“I shall do no such thing. I expect you to sleep. I shall look after
this end of the job.”

“He is very sure of himself, is he not?” said Moira in a low tone to her
sister-in-law as they passed out of the tent.

“He has a right to be,” said Mandy proudly. “He knows his work, and now
I feel as if I can sleep in peace. What a blessed thing sleep is,” she
added, as, without undressing, she tumbled on to the couch prepared for
her.

“Is Dr. Martin very clever? I mean, is he an educated man?”

“What?” cried Mandy. “Dr. Martin what?”

“Is he very clever? Is he--an educated man?”

“Eh, what?” she repeated, yawning desperately. “Oh, I was asleep.”

“Is he clever?”

“Clever? Well, rather--” Her voice was trailing off again into slumber.

“And is he an educated man?”

“Educated? Knows his work if that’s what you mean. Oh-h--but I’m
sleepy.”

“Is he a gentleman?”

“Eh? What?” Mandy sat up straight. “A gentleman? I should say so! That
is, he is a man all through right to his toe-tips. And gentle--more
gentle than any woman I ever saw. Will that do? Good-night.” And before
Moira could make reply she was sound asleep.

Before the night was over the opportunity was given the doctor to
prove his manhood, and in a truly spectacular manner. For shortly
after midnight Moira found herself sitting bolt upright, wide-awake and
clutching her sister-in-law in wild terror. Outside their tent the night
was hideous with discordant noises, yells, whoops, cries, mingled with
the beating of tom-toms. Terrified and trembling, the two girls sprang
to the door, and, lifting the flap, peered out. It was the party of
braves returning from the great powwow so rudely interrupted by Cameron.
They were returning in an evil mood, too, for they were enraged at the
arrest of Eagle Feather and three accomplices in his crime, disappointed
in the interruption of their sun dance and its attendant joys of feast
and song, and furious at what appeared to them to be the overthrow of
the great adventure for which they had been preparing and planning for
the past two months. This was indeed the chief cause of their rage, for
it seemed as if all further attempts at united effort among the Western
tribes had been frustrated by the discovery of their plans, by the
flight of their leader, and by the treachery of the Blackfeet Chief,
Running Stream, in surrendering their fellow-tribesmen to the Police.
To them that treachery rendered impossible any coalition between the
Piegans and the Blackfeet. Furthermore, before their powwow had been
broken up there had been distributed among them a few bottles of
whisky provided beforehand by the astute Sioux as a stimulus to their
enthusiasm against a moment of crisis when such stimulus should be
necessary. These bottles, in the absence of their great leader, were
distributed among the tribes by Running Stream as a peace-offering, but
for obvious reason not until the moment came for their parting from each
other.

Filled with rage and disappointment, and maddened with the bad whisky
they had taken, they poured into the encampment with wild shouting
accompanied by the discharge of guns and the beating of drums. In terror
the girls clung to each other, gazing out upon the horrid scene.

“Whatever is this, Mandy?” cried Moira.

But her sister-in-law could give her little explanation. The moonlight,
glowing bright as day, revealed a truly terrifying spectacle. A band
of Indians, almost naked and hideously painted, were leaping, shouting,
beating drums and firing guns. Out from the tents poured the rest of the
band to meet them, eagerly inquiring into the cause of their excitement.
Soon fires were lighted and kettles put on, for the Indian’s happiness
is never complete unless associated with feasting, and the whole band
prepared itself for a time of revelry.

As the girls stood peering out upon this terrible scene they became
aware of the doctor standing at their side.

“Say, they seem to be cutting up rather rough, don’t they?” he said
coolly. “I think as a precautionary measure you had better step over
into the other tent.”

Hastily gathering their belongings, they ran across with the doctor to
his tent, from which they continued to gaze upon the weird spectacle
before them.

About the largest fire in the center of the camp the crowd gathered,
Chief Trotting Wolf in the midst, and were harangued by one of
the returning braves who was evidently reciting the story of their
experiences and whose tale was received with the deepest interest and
was punctuated by mad cries and whoops. The one English word that could
be heard was the word “Police,” and it needed no interpreter to
explain to the watchers that the chief object of fury to the crowding,
gesticulating Indians about the fire was the Policeman who had been the
cause of their humiliation and disappointment. In a pause of the uproar
a loud exclamation from an Indian arrested the attention of the band.
Once more he uttered his exclamation and pointed to the tent lately
occupied by the ladies. Quickly the whole band about the fire appeared
to bunch together preparatory to rush in the direction indicated, but
before they could spring forward Trotting Wolf, speaking rapidly and
with violent gesticulation, stood in their path. But his voice was
unheeded. He was thrust aside and the whole band came rushing madly
toward the tent lately occupied by the ladies.

“Get back from the door,” said the doctor, speaking rapidly. “These
chaps seem to be somewhat excited. I wish I had my gun,” he continued,
looking about the tent for a weapon of some sort. “This will do,” he
said, picking up a stout poplar pole that had been used for driving the
tent pegs. “Stay inside here. Don’t move till I tell you.”

“But they will kill you,” cried Moira, laying her hand upon his arm.
“You must not go out.”

“Nonsense!” said the doctor almost roughly. “Kill me? Not much. I’ll
knock some of their blocks off first.” So saying, he lifted the flap of
the tent and passed out just as the rush of maddened Indians came.

Upon the ladies’ tent they fell, kicked the tent poles down, and,
seizing the canvas ripped it clear from its pegs. Some moments they
spent searching the empty bed, then turned with renewed cries toward the
other tent before which stood the doctor, waiting, grim, silent, savage.
For a single moment they paused, arrested by the silent figure, then
with a whoop a drink-maddened brave sprang toward the tent, his rifle
clubbed to strike. Before he could deliver his blow the doctor, stepping
swiftly to one side, swung his poplar club hard upon the uplifted arms,
sent the rifle crashing to the ground and with a backward swing caught
the astonished brave on the exposed head and dropped him to the earth as
if dead.

“Take that, you dog!” he cried savagely. “Come on, who’s next?” he
shouted, swinging his club as a player might a baseball bat.

Before the next rush, however, help came in an unexpected form. The tent
flap was pushed back and at the doctor’s side stood an apparition that
checked the Indians’ advance and stilled their cries. It was the Indian
boy, clad in a white night robe of Mandy’s providing, his rifle in his
hand, his face ghastly in the moonlight and his eyes burning like flames
of light. One cry he uttered, weird, fierce, unearthly, but it seemed
to pierce like a knife through the stillness that had fallen. Awed,
sobered, paralyzed, the Indians stood motionless. Then from their ranks
ran Chief Trotting Wolf, picked up the rifle of the Indian who still lay
insensible on the ground, and took his place beside the boy.

A few words he spoke in a voice that rang out fiercely imperious. Still
the Indians stood motionless. Again the Chief spoke in short, sharp
words of command, and, as they still hesitated, took one swift stride
toward the man that stood nearest, swinging his rifle over his head.
Forward sprang the doctor to his side, his poplar club likewise swung up
to strike. Back fell the Indians a pace or two, the Chief following them
with a torrential flow of vehement invective. Slowly, sullenly the crowd
gave back, cowed but still wrathful, and beginning to mutter in angry
undertones. Once more the tent flap was pushed aside and there issued
two figures who ran to the side of the Indian boy, now swaying weakly
upon his rifle.

“My poor boy!” cried Mandy, throwing her arms round about him, and,
steadying him as he let his rifle fall, let him sink slowly to the
ground.

“You cowards!” cried Moira, seizing the rifle that the boy had dropped
and springing to the doctor’s side. “Look at what you have done!” She
turned and pointed indignantly to the swooning boy.

With an exclamation of wrath the doctor stepped back to Mandy’s aid,
forgetful of the threatening Indians and mindful only of his patient.
Quickly he sprang into the tent, returning with a stimulating remedy,
bent over the boy and worked with him till he came back again to life.

Once more the Chief, who with the Indians had been gazing upon this
scene, turned and spoke to his band, this time in tones of quiet
dignity, pointing to the little group behind him. Silent and subdued the
Indians listened, their quick impulses like those of children stirred
to sympathy for the lad and for those who would aid him. Gradually the
crowd drew off, separating into groups and gathering about the various
fires. For the time the danger was over.

Between them Dr. Martin and the Chief carried the boy into the tent and
laid him on his bed.

“What sort of beasts have you got out there anyway?” said the doctor,
facing the Chief abruptly.

“Him drink bad whisky,” answered the Chief, tipping up his hand. “Him
crazee,” touching his head with his forefinger.

“Crazy! Well, I should say. What they want is a few ounces of lead.”

The Chief made no reply, but stood with his eyes turned admiringly upon
Moira’s face.

“Squaw--him good,” he said, pointing to the girl. “No ‘fraid--much
brave--good.”

“You are right enough there, Chief,” replied the doctor heartily.

“Him you squaw?” inquired the Chief, pointing to Moira.

“Well--eh? No, not exactly,” replied the doctor, much confused, “that
is--not yet I mean--”

“Huh! Him good squaw. Him good man,” replied the Chief, pointing first
to Moira, then to the doctor.

Moira hurried to the tent door.

“They are all gone,” she exclaimed. “Thank God! How awful they are!”

“Huh!” replied the Chief, moving out past her. “Him drink, him
crazee--no drink, no crazee.” At the door he paused, and, looking back,
said once more with increased emphasis, “Huh! Him good squaw,” and
finally disappeared.

“By Jove!” said the doctor with a delighted chuckle. “The old boy is a
man of some discernment I can see. But the kid and you saved the day,
Miss Moira.”

“Oh, what nonsense you are talking. It was truly awful, and how
splendidly you--you--”

“Well, I caught him rather a neat one, I confess. I wonder if the brute
is sleeping yet. But you did the trick finally, Miss Moira.”

“Huh,” grunted Mandy derisively, “Good man--good squaw, eh?”



CHAPTER XV

THE OUTLAW


The bitter weather following an autumn of unusual mildness had set in
with the New Year and had continued without a break for fifteen days. A
heavy fall of snow with a blizzard blowing sixty miles an hour had made
the trails almost impassable, indeed quite so to any but to those bent
on desperate business or to Her Majesty’s North West Mounted Police. To
these gallant riders all trails stood open at all seasons of the year,
no matter what snow might fall or blizzard blow, so long as duty called
them forth.

The trail from the fort to the Big Horn Ranch, however, was so
wind-swept that the snow was blown away, which made the going fairly
easy, and the Superintendent, Inspector Dickson and Jerry trotted along
freely enough in the face of a keen southwester that cut to the bone.
It was surely some desperate business indeed that sent them out into
the face of that cutting wind which made even these hardy riders, burned
hard and dry by scorching suns and biting blizzards, wince and shelter
their faces with their gauntleted hands.

“Deuce of a wind, this!” said the Superintendent.

“It is the raw southwester that gets to the bone,” replied Inspector
Dickson. “This will blow up a chinook before night.”

“I wonder if he has got into shelter,” said the Superintendent. “This
has been an unusually hard fortnight, and I am afraid he went rather
light.”

“Oh, he’s sure to be all right,” replied the Inspector quickly. “He was
riding, but he took his snowshoes with him for timber work. He’s hardly
the man to get caught and he won’t quit easily.”

“No, he won’t quit, but there are times when human endurance fails. Not
that I fear anything like that for Cameron,” added the Superintendent
hastily.

“Oh, he’s not the man to fall down,” replied the Inspector. “He goes the
limit, but he keeps his head. He’s no reckless fool.”

“Well, you ought to know him,” said the Superintendent. “You have been
through some things together, but this last week has been about the
worst that I have known. This fortnight will be remembered in the annals
of this country. And it came so unexpectedly. What do you think about
it, Jerry?” continued the Superintendent, turning to the half-breed.

“He good man--cold ver’ bad--ver’ long. S’pose catch heem on
plains--ver’ bad.”

The Inspector touched his horse to a canter. The vision that floated
before his mind’s eye while the half-breed was speaking he hated to
contemplate.

“He’s all right. He has come through too many tight places to fail
here,” said the Inspector in a tone almost of defiance, and refused to
talk further upon the subject. But he kept urging the pace till they
drew up at the stables of the Big Horn Ranch.

The Inspector’s first glance upon opening the stable door swept the
stall where Ginger was wont to conduct his melancholy ruminations. It
gave him a start to see the stall empty.

“Hello, Smith!” he cried as that individual appeared with a bundle of
hay from the stack in the yard outside. “Boss home?”

“Has Mr. Cameron returned?” inquired the Superintendent in the same
breath, and in spite of himself a note of anxiety had crept into his
voice. The three men stood waiting, their tense attitude expressing the
anxiety they would not put into words. The deliberate Smith, who had
transferred his services from old Thatcher to Cameron and who had taken
the ranch and all persons and things belonging to it into his immediate
charge, disposed of his bundle in a stall, and then facing them said
slowly:

“Guess he’s all right.”

“Is he home?” asked the Inspector sharply.

“Oh, he’s home all right. Gone to bed, I think,” answered Smith with
maddening calmness.

The Inspector cursed him between his teeth and turned away from the
others till his eyes should be clear again.

“We will just look in on Mrs. Cameron for a few minutes,” said the
Superintendent. “We won’t disturb him.”

Leaving Jerry to put up their horses, they went into the ranch-house and
found the ladies in a state of suppressed excitement. Mandy met them at
the door with an eager welcome, holding out to them trembling hands.

“Oh, I am so glad you have come!” she cried. “It was all I could do
to hold him back from going to you even as he was. He was quite set on
going and only lay down on promise that I should wake him in an hour.
Sit down here by the fire. An hour, mind you,” she continued, talking
rapidly and under obvious excitement, “and him so blind and exhausted
that--” She paused abruptly, unable to command her voice.

“He ought to sleep twelve hours straight,” said the Superintendent with
emphasis, “and twenty-four would be better, with suitable breaks for
refreshment,” he added in a lighter tone, glancing at Mandy’s face.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied, “for he has had little enough to eat the
last three days. And that reminds me--” she hurried to the pantry and
returned with the teapot--“you must be cold, Superintendent. Ah, this
terrible cold! A hot cup of tea will be just the thing. It will take
only five minutes--and it is better than punch, though perhaps you men
do not think so.” She laughed somewhat wildly.

“Why, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Superintendent in a shocked, bantering
voice, “how can you imagine we should be guilty of such heresy--in this
prohibition country, too?”

“Oh, I know you men,” replied Mandy. “We keep some Scotch in the
house--beside the laudanum. Some people can’t take tea, you know,” she
added with an uncertain smile, struggling to regain control of herself.
“But all the same, I am a nurse, and I know that after exposure tea is
better.”

“Ah, well,” replied the Superintendent, “I bow to your experience,”
 making a brave attempt to meet her mood and declining to note her
unusual excitement.

In the specified five minutes the tea was ready.

“I could quite accept your tea-drinking theory, Mrs. Cameron,” said
Inspector Dickson, “if--if, mark you--I should always get such tea as
this. But I don’t believe Jerry here would agree.”

Jerry, who had just entered, stood waiting explanation.

“Mrs. Cameron has just been upholding the virtue of a good cup of tea,
Jerry, over a hot Scotch after a cold ride. Now what’s your unbiased
opinion?”

A slight grin wrinkled the cracks in Jerry’s leather-skin face.

“Hot whisky--good for fun--for cold no good. Whisky good for sleep--for
long trail no good.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” cried Mandy enthusiastically.

“Oh, that’s all right, Jerry,” said the Inspector, joining in the
general laugh that followed, “but I don’t think Miss Moira here would
agree with you in regard to the merits of her national beverage.”

“Oh, I am not so sure,” cried the young lady, entering into the mood
of the others. “Of course, I am Scotch and naturally stand up for my
country and for its customs, but, to be strictly honest, I remember
hearing my brother say that Scotch was bad training for football.”

“Good again!” cried Mandy. “You see, when anything serious is on, the
wisest people cut out the Scotch, as the boys say.”

“You are quite right, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Superintendent, becoming
grave. “On the long trail and in the bitter cold we drop the Scotch and
bank on tea. As for whisky, the Lord knows it gives the Police enough
trouble in this country. If it were not for the whisky half our work
would be cut out. But tell me, how is Mr. Cameron?” he added, as he
handed back his cup for another supply of tea.

“Done up, or more nearly done up than ever I have seen him, or than I
ever want to see him again.” Mandy paused abruptly, handed him his
cup of tea, passed into the pantry and for some moments did not appear
again.

“Oh, it was terrible to see him,” said Moira, clasping her hands and
speaking in an eager, excited voice. “He came, poor boy, stumbling
toward the door. He had to leave his horse, you know, some miles away.
Through the window we saw him coming along--and we did not know him--he
staggered as if--as if--actually as if he were drunk.” Her laugh was
almost hysterical. “And he could not find the latch--and when we opened
the door his eyes were--oh!--so terrible!--wild--and bloodshot--and
blind! Oh, I cannot tell you about it!” she exclaimed, her voice
breaking and her tears falling fast. “And he could hardly speak to us.
We had to cut off his snow-shoes--and his gauntlets and his clothes
were like iron. He could not sit down--he just--just--lay on the
floor--till--my sister--” Here the girl’s sobs interrupted her story.

“Great Heavens!” cried the Superintendent. “What a mercy he reached
home!”

The Inspector had risen and came round to Moira’s side.

“Don’t try to tell me any more,” he said in a husky voice, patting her
gently on the shoulder. “He is here with us, safe, poor chap. My God!”
 he cried in an undertone, “what he must have gone through!”

At this point Mandy returned and took her place again quietly by the
fire.

“It was this sudden spell of cold that nearly killed him,” she said in a
quiet voice. “He was not fully prepared for it, and it caught him at
the end of his trip, too, when he was nearly played out. You see, he was
five weeks away and he had only expected to be three.”

“Yes, I know, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Inspector.

“An unexpected emergency seems to have arisen.”

“I don’t know what it was,” replied Mandy. “He could tell me little, but
he was determined to go on to the fort.”

“I know something about his plans,” said the Inspector. “He had proposed
a tour of the reserves, beginning with the Piegans and ending with the
Bloods.”

“And we know something of his work, too, Mrs. Cameron,” said the
Superintendent. “Superintendent Strong has sent us a very fine report
indeed of your husband’s work. We do not talk about these things,
you know, in the Police, but we can appreciate them all the same.
Superintendent Strong’s letter is one you would like to keep. I shall
send it to you. Knowing Superintendent Strong as I do--”

“I know him too,” said Mandy with a little laugh.

“Well, then, you will be able to appreciate all the more any word of
commendation he would utter. He practically attributes the present state
of quiet and the apparent collapse of this conspiracy business to
your husband’s efforts. This, of course, is no compensation for his
sufferings or yours, but I think it right that you should know the
facts.” The Superintendent had risen to his feet and had delivered his
little speech in his very finest manner.

“Thank you,” said Mandy simply.

“We had expected him back a week ago,” said the Inspector. “We know he
must have had some serious cause for delay.”

“I do not know about that,” replied Mandy, “but I do know he was most
anxious to go on to the fort. He had some information to give, he said,
which was of the first importance. And I am glad you are here. He will
be saved that trip, which would really be dangerous in his present
condition. And I don’t believe I could have stopped him, but I should
have gone with him. His hour will soon be up.”

“Don’t think of waking him,” said the Superintendent. “We can wait two
hours, or three hours, or more if necessary. Let him sleep.”

“He would waken himself if he were not so fearfully done up. He has a
trick of waking at any hour he sets,” said Mandy.

A few minutes later Cameron justified her remarks by appearing from
the inner room. The men, accustomed as they were to the ravages of
the winter trail upon their comrades, started to their feet in horror.
Blindly Cameron felt his way to them, shading his blood-shot eyes from
the light. His face was blistered and peeled as if he had come through a
fire, his lips swollen and distorted, his hands trembling and showing
on every finger the marks of frost bite, and his feet dragging as he
shuffled across the floor.

“My dear fellow, my dear fellow,” cried the Inspector, springing up to
meet him and grasping him by both arms to lead him to a chair. “You ran
it too close that time. Here is the Superintendent to lecture you. Sit
down, old man, sit down right here.” The Inspector deposited him in the
chair, and, striding hurriedly to the window, stood there looking out
upon the bleak winter snow.

“Hello, Cameron,” said the Superintendent, shaking him by the hand with
hearty cheerfulness. “Glad, awfully glad to see you. Fine bit of work,
very fine bit of work. Very complimentary report about you.”

“I don’t know what you refer to, sir,” said Cameron, speaking thickly,
“but I am glad you are here, for I have an important communication to
make.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the Superintendent. “Don’t worry about
that. And take your own time. First of all, how are you feeling?
Snow-blind, I see,” he continued, critically examining him, “and
generally used up.”

“Rather knocked up,” replied Cameron, his tongue refusing to move with
its accustomed ease. “But shall be fit in a day or two. Beastly sleepy,
but cannot sleep somehow. Shall feel better when my mind is at rest. I
cannot report fully just now.”

“Oh, let the report rest. We know something already.”

“How is that?”

“Superintendent Strong has sent us in a report, and a very creditable
report, too.”

“Oh,” replied Cameron indifferently. “Well, the thing I want to say is
that though all looks quiet--there is less horse stealing this month,
and less moving about from the reserves--yet I believe a serious
outbreak is impending.”

The Inspector, who had come around and taken a seat beside him, touched
his knee at this point with an admonishing pressure.

“Eh?” said Cameron, turning toward him. “Oh, my people here know. You
need not have any fear about them.” A little smile distorted his face as
he laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. “But--where was I? I cannot
get the hang of things.” He was as a man feeling his way through a maze.

“Oh, let it go,” said the Inspector. “Wait till you have had some
sleep.”

“No, I must--I must get this out. Well, anyway, the principal thing
is that Big Bear, Beardy, Poundmaker--though I am not sure about
Poundmaker--have runners on every reserve and they are arranging for
a big meeting in the spring, to which every tribe North and West is to
send representatives. That Frenchman--what’s his name?--I’ll forget my
own next--”

“Riel?” suggested the Inspector.

“Yes, Riel. That Frenchman is planning a big coup in the spring. You
know they presented him with a house the other day, ready furnished, at
Batoche, to keep him in the country. Oh, the half-breeds are very keen
on this. And what is worse, I believe a lot of whites are in with them
too. A chap named Jackson, and another named Scott, and Isbister and
some others. These names are spoken of on every one of our reserves.
I tell you, sir,” he said, turning his blind eyes toward the
Superintendent, “I consider it very serious indeed. And worst of all,
the biggest villain of the lot, Little Pine, Cree Chief you know, our
bitterest enemy--except Little Thunder, who fortunately is cleared out
of the country--you remember, sir, that chap Raven saw about that.”

The Superintendent nodded.

“Well--where was I?--Oh, yes, Little Pine, the biggest villain of them
all, is somewhere about here. I got word of him when I was at the
Blood Reserve on my way home some ten days ago. I heard he was with
the Blackfeet, but I found no sign of him there. But he is in the
neighborhood, and he is specially bound to see old Crowfoot. I
understand he is a particularly successful pleader, and unusually
cunning, and I am afraid of Crowfoot. I saw the old Chief. He was very
cordial and is apparently loyal enough as yet, but you know, sir, how
much that may mean. I think that is all,” said Cameron, putting his hand
up to his head. “I have a great deal more to tell you, but it will not
come back to me now. Little Pine must be attended to, and for a day or
two I am sorry I am hardly fit--awfully sorry.” His voice sank into a
kind of undertone.

“Sorry?” cried the Superintendent, deeply stirred at the sight of
his obvious collapse. “Sorry? Don’t you use that word again. You have
nothing to be sorry for, but everything to be proud of. You have done a
great service to your country, and we will not forget it. In a few days
you will be fit and we shall show our gratitude by calling upon you to
do something more. Hello, who’s that?” A horseman had ridden past the
window toward the stables. Moira ran to look out.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is that Mr. Raven. I would know his splendid horse
anywhere.”

“Raven!” said Cameron sharply and wide awake.

“Raven, by Jove!” muttered the Inspector.

“Raven! Well, I call that cool!” said the Superintendent, a hard look
upon his face.

But the laws of hospitality are nowhere so imperative as on the western
plains. Cameron rose from his chair muttering, “Must look after his
horse.”

“You sit down,” said Mandy firmly. “You are not going out.”

“Well, hardly,” said the Inspector. “Here, Jerry, go and show him where
to get things, and--” He hesitated.

“Bring him in,” cried Mandy heartily. The men stood silent, looking at
Cameron.

“Certainly, bring him in,” he said firmly, “a day like this,” he added,
as if in apology.

“Why, of course,” cried Mandy, looking from one to the other in
surprise. “Why not? He is a perfectly splendid man.”

“Oh, he is really splendid!” replied Moira, her cheeks burning and her
eyes flashing. “You remember,” she cried, addressing the Inspector, “how
he saved my life the day I arrived at this ranch.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Inspector briefly, “I believe I did hear that.”
 But there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

“Well, I think he is splendid,” repeated Moira. “Do not you think so?”

The Inspector had an awkward moment.

“Eh?--well--I can’t say I know him very well.”

“And his horse! What a beauty it is!” continued the girl.

“Ah, yes, a most beautiful animal, quite remarkable horse, splendid
horse; in fact one of the finest, if not the very finest, in this whole
country. And that is saying a good deal, too, Miss Moira. You see, this
country breeds good horses.” And the Inspector went on to discourse in
full detail and with elaborate illustration upon the various breeds of
horses the country could produce, and to classify the wonderful black
stallion ridden by Raven, and all with such diligence and enthusiasm
that no other of the party had an opportunity to take part in the
conversation till Raven, in the convoy of Jerry, was seen approaching
the house. Then the Superintendent rose.

“Well, Mrs. Cameron, I fear we must take our departure. These are rather
crowded days with us.”

“What?” exclaimed Mandy. “Within an hour of dinner? We can hardly allow
that, you know. Besides, Mr. Cameron wants to have a great deal more
talk with you.”

The Superintendent attempted to set forth various other reasons for a
hasty departure, but they all seemed to lack sincerity, and after a few
more ineffective trials he surrendered and sat down again in silence.

The next moment the door opened and Raven, followed by Jerry, stepped
into the room. As his eye fell upon the Superintendent, instinctively he
dropped his hands to his hips and made an involuntary movement backward,
but only for an instant. Immediately he came forward and greeted Mandy
with fine, old-fashioned courtesy.

“So delighted to meet you again, Mrs. Cameron, and also to meet your
charming sister.” He shook hands with both the ladies very warmly.
“Ah, Superintendent,” he continued, “delighted to see you. And you,
Inspector,” he said, giving them a nod as he laid off his outer leather
riding coat. “Hope I see you flourishing,” he continued. His debonair
manner had in it a quizzical touch of humor. “Ah, Cameron, home again I
see. I came across your tracks the other day.”

The men, who had risen to their feet upon his entrance, stood regarding
him stiffly and made no other sign of recognition than a curt nod and a
single word of greeting.

“You have had quite a trip,” he continued, addressing himself to
Cameron, and taking the chair offered by Mandy. “I followed you part
way, but you travel too fast for me. Much too strenuous work I found
it. Why,” he continued, looking narrowly at Cameron, “you are badly
punished. When did you get in?”

“Two hours ago, Mr. Raven,” said Mandy quickly, for her husband sat
gazing stupidly into the fire. “And he is quite done up.”

“Two hours ago?” exclaimed Raven in utter surprise. “Do you mean to say
that you have been traveling these last three days?”

Cameron nodded.

“Why, my dear sir, not even the Indians face such cold. Only the Mounted
Police venture out in weather like this--and those who want to get away
from them. Ha! ha! Eh? Inspector? Ha! ha!” His gay, careless laugh rang
out in the most cheery fashion. But only the ladies joined. The men
stood grimly silent.

Mandy could not understand their grim and gloomy silence. By her
cordiality she sought to cover up and atone for the studied and almost
insulting indifference of her husband and her other guests. In these
attempts she was loyally supported by her sister-in-law, whose anger was
roused by the all too obvious efforts on the part of her brother and
his friends to ignore this stranger, if not to treat him with contempt.
There was nothing in Raven’s manner to indicate that he observed
anything amiss in the bearing of the male members of the company about
the fire. He met the attempt of the ladies at conversation with a
brilliancy of effort that quite captivated them, and, in spite of
themselves, drew the Superintendent and the Inspector into the flow of
talk.

As the hour of the midday meal approached Mandy rose from her place by
the fire and said:

“You will stay with us to dinner, Mr. Raven? We dine at midday. It is
not often we have such a distinguished and interesting company.”

“Thank you, no,” said Raven. “I merely looked in to give your husband
a bit of interesting information. And, by the way, I have a bit of
information that might interest the Superintendent as well.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “we are to have the pleasure of the Superintendent
and the Inspector to dinner with us to-day, and you can give them all
the information you think necessary while you are waiting.”

Raven hesitated while he glanced at the faces of the men beside him.
What he read there drew from him a little hard smile of amused contempt.

“Please do not ask me again, Mrs. Cameron,” he said. “You know not how
you strain my powers of resistance when I really dare not--may not,” he
corrected himself with a quick glance at the Superintendent, “stay in
this most interesting company and enjoy your most grateful hospitality
any longer. And now my information is soon given. First of all for you,
Cameron--I shall not apologize to you, Mrs. Cameron, for delivering
it in your presence. I do you the honor to believe that you ought to
know--briefly my information is this. Little Pine, in whose movements
you are all interested, I understand, is at this present moment lodging
with the Sarcee Indians, and next week will move on to visit old
Crowfoot. The Sarcee visit amounts to little, but the visit to old
Crowfoot--well, I need say no more to you, Cameron. Probably you know
more about the inside workings of old Crowfoot’s mind than I do.”

“Visiting Crowfoot?” exclaimed Cameron. “Then I was there too soon.”

“That is his present intention, and I have no doubt the program will
be carried out,” said Raven. “My information is from the inside. Of
course,” he continued, “I know you have run across the trail of the
North Cree and Salteaux runners from Big Bear and Beardy. They are
not to be despised. But Little Pine is a different person from these
gentlemen. The big game is scheduled for the early spring, will probably
come off in about six weeks. And now,” he said, rising from his chair,
“I must be off.”

At this point Smith came in and quietly took a seat beside Jerry near
the door.

“And what’s your information for me, Mr. Raven?” inquired the
Superintendent. “You are not going to deprive me of my bit of news?”

“Ah, yes--news,” replied Raven, sitting down again. “Briefly this.
Little Thunder has yielded to some powerful pressure and has again
found it necessary to visit this country, I need hardly add, against my
desire.”

“Little Thunder?” exclaimed the Superintendent, and his tone indicated
something more than surprise. “Then there will be something doing.
And where does this--ah--this--ah--friend of yours propose to locate
himself?”

“This friend of mine,” replied Raven, with a hard gleam in his eye and
a bitter smile curling his lips, “who would gladly adorn his person with
my scalp if he might, will not ask my opinion as to his location, and
probably not yours either, Mr. Superintendent.” As Raven ceased speaking
he once more rose from his chair, put on his leather riding coat and
took up his cap and gauntlets. “Farewell, Mrs. Cameron,” he said,
offering her his hand. “Believe me, it has been a rare treat to see you
and to sit by your fireside for one brief half-hour.”

“Oh, but Mr. Raven, you are not to think of leaving us before dinner.
Why this haste?”

“The trail I take,” said Raven in a grave voice, “is full of pitfalls
and I must take it when I can. The Superintendent knows,” he added.
But his smile awoke no response in the Superintendent, who sat rigidly
silent.

“It’s a mighty cold day outside,” interjected Smith, “and blowing up
something I think.”

“Oh, hang it, Raven!” blurted out Cameron, who sat stupidly gazing into
the fire, “Stay and eat. This is no kind of day to go out hungry. It is
too beastly cold.”

“Thanks, Cameron, it IS a cold day, too cold to stay.”

“Do stay, Mr. Raven,” pleaded Moira.

He turned swiftly and looked into her soft brown eyes now filled with
warm kindly light.

“Alas, Miss Cameron,” he replied in a low voice, turning his back upon
the others, his voice and his attitude seeming to isolate the girl from
the rest of the company, “believe me, if I do not stay it is not because
I do not want to, but because I cannot.”

“You cannot?” echoed Moira in an equally low tone.

“I cannot,” he replied. Then, raising his voice, “Ask the
Superintendent. He knows that I cannot.”

“Do you know?” said Moira, turning upon the Superintendent, “What does
he mean?”

The Superintendent rose angrily.

“Mr. Raven chooses to be mysterious,” he said. “If he cannot remain here
he knows why without appealing to me.”

“Ah, my dear Superintendent, how unfeeling! You hardly do yourself
justice,” said Raven, proceeding to draw on his gloves. His drawling
voice seemed to irritate the Superintendent beyond control.

“Justice?” he exclaimed sharply. “Justice is a word you should hesitate
to use.”

“You see, Miss Cameron,” said Raven with an injured air, “why I cannot
remain.”

“No, I do not!” cried Moira in hot indignation. “I do not see,” she
repeated, “and if the Superintendent does I think he should explain.”
 Her voice rang out sharp and clear. It wakened her brother as if from a
daze.

“Tut, tut, Moira!” he exclaimed. “Do not interfere where you do not
understand.”

“Then why make insinuations that cannot be explained?” cried his sister,
standing up very straight and looking the Superintendent fair in the
face.

“Explained?” echoed the Superintendent in a cool, almost contemptuous,
voice. “There are certain things best not explained, but believe me if
Mr. Raven desires explanation he can have it.”

The men were all on their feet. Quickly Moira turned to Raven with a
gesture of appeal and a look of loyal confidence in her eyes. For a
moment the hard, cynical face was illumined with a smile of rare beauty,
but only for a moment. The gleam passed and the old, hard, cynical face
turned in challenge to the Superintendent.

“Explain!” he said bitterly, defiantly. “Go on if you can.”

The Superintendent stood silent.

“Ah!” breathed Moira, a thrill of triumphant relief in her voice, “he
cannot explain.”

With dramatic swiftness the explanation came. It was from Jerry.

“H’explain?” cried the little half-breed, quivering with rage.
“H’explain? What for he can no h’explain? Dem horse he steal de
night-tam’--dat whiskee he trade on de Indian. Bah! He no good--he one
beeg tief. Me--I put him one sure place he no steal no more!”

A few moments of tense silence held the group rigid. In the center stood
Raven, his face pale, hard, but smiling, before him Moira, waiting,
eager, with lips parted and eyes aglow with successive passions,
indignation, doubt, fear, horror, grief. Again that swift and subtle
change touched Raven’s face as his eyes rested upon the face of the girl
before him.

“Now you know why I cannot stay,” he said gently, almost sadly.

“It is not true,” murmured Moira, piteous appeal in voice and eyes. A
spasm crossed the pale face upon which her eyes rested, then the old
cynical look returned.

“Once more, thank you, Mrs. Cameron,” he said with a bow to Mandy, “for
a happy half-hour by your fireside, and farewell.”

“Good-by,” said Mandy sadly.

He turned to Moira.

“Oh, good-by, good-by,” cried the girl impulsively, reaching out her
hand.

“Good-by,” he said simply. “I shall not forget that you were kind to
me.” He bent low before her, but did not touch her outstretched hand. As
he turned toward the door Jerry slipped in before him.

“You let him go?” he cried excitedly, looking at the Superintendent; but
before the latter could answer a hand caught him by the coat collar
and with a swift jerk landed him on the floor. It was Smith, his face
furiously red. Before Jerry could recover himself Raven had opened the
door and passed out.

“Oh, how awful!” said Mandy in a hushed, broken voice.

Moira stood for a moment as if dazed, then suddenly turned to Smith and
said:

“Thank you. That was well done.”

And Smith, red to his hair roots, murmured, “You wanted him to go?”

“Yes,” said Moira, “I wanted him to go.”



CHAPTER XVI

WAR


Commissioner Irvine sat in his office at headquarters in the little town
of Regina, the capital of the North West Territories of the Dominion. A
number of telegrams lay before him on the table. A look of grave anxiety
was on his face. The cause of his anxiety was to be found in the news
contained in the telegrams. An orderly stood behind his chair.

“Send Inspector Sanders to me!” commanded the Commissioner.

The orderly saluted and retired.

In a few moments Inspector Sanders made his appearance, a tall,
soldierlike man, trim in appearance, prompt in movement and somewhat
formal in speech.

“Well, the thing has come,” said the Commissioner, handing Inspector
Sanders one of the telegrams before him. Inspector Sanders took the
wire, read it and stood very erect.

“Looks like it, sir,” he replied. “You always said it would.”

“It is just eight months since I first warned the government that
trouble would come. Superintendent Crozier knows the situation
thoroughly and would not have sent this wire if outbreak were not
imminent. Then here is one from Superintendent Gagnon at Carlton. He
also is a careful man.”

Inspector Sanders gravely read the second telegram.

“We ought to have five hundred men on the spot this minute,” he said.

“I have asked that a hundred men be sent up at once,” said the
Commissioner, “but I am doubtful if we can get the Government to agree.
It seems almost impossible to make the authorities feel the gravity
of the situation. They cannot realize, for one thing, the enormous
distances that separate points that look comparatively near together
upon the map.” He spread a map out upon the table. “And yet,” he
continued, “they have these maps before them, and the figures, but
somehow the facts do not impress them. Look at this vast area lying
between these four posts that form an almost perfect quadrilateral.
Here is the north line running from Edmonton at the northwest corner
to Prince Albert at the northeast, nearly four hundred miles away;
then here is the south line running from Macleod at the southwest four
hundred and fifty miles to Regina at the southeast; while the sides of
this quadrilateral are nearly three hundred miles long. Thus the four
posts forming our quadrilateral are four hundred miles apart one way by
three hundred another, and, if we run the lines down to the boundary and
to the limit of the territory which we patrol, the disturbed area may
come to be about five hundred miles by six hundred; and we have some
five hundred men available.”

“It is a good thing we have established the new post at Carlton,”
 suggested Inspector Sanders.

“Ah, yes, there is Carlton. It is true we have strengthened up that
district recently with two hundred men distributed between Battleford,
Prince Albert, Fort Pitt and Fort Carlton. But Carlton is naturally a
very weak post and is practically of little use to us. True, it guards
us against those Willow Crees and acts as a check upon old Beardy.”

“A troublesome man, that Kah-me-yes-too-waegs--old Beardy, I mean. It
took me some time to master that one,” said Inspector Sanders, “but then
I have studied German. He always has been a nuisance,” continued the
Inspector. “He was a groucher when the treaty was made in ‘76 and he has
been a groucher ever since.”

“If we only had the men, just another five hundred,” replied the
Commissioner, tapping the map before him with his finger, “we should
hold this country safe. But what with these restless half-breeds led by
this crack-brained Riel, and these ten thousand Indians--”

“Not to speak of a couple of thousand non-treaty Indians roaming the
country and stirring up trouble,” interjected the Inspector.

“True enough,” replied the Commissioner, “but I would have no fear
of the Indians were it not for these half-breeds. They have real
grievances, remember, Sanders, real grievances, and that gives force to
their quarrel and cohesion to the movement. Men who have a conviction
that they are suffering injustice are not easily turned aside. And
these men can fight. They ride hard and shoot straight and are afraid of
nothing. I confess frankly it looks very serious to me.”

“For my part,” said Inspector Sanders, “it is the Indians I fear most.”

“The Indians?” said the Commissioner. “Yes, if once they rise. Really,
one wonders at the docility of the Indians, and their response to fair
and decent treatment. Why, just think of it! Twenty years ago, no,
fifteen years ago, less than fifteen years ago, these Indians whom we
have been holding in our hand so quietly were roaming these plains,
living like lords on the buffalo and fighting like fiends with each
other, free from all control. Little wonder if, now feeling the pinch of
famine, fretting under the monotony of pastoral life, and being
incited to war by the hot-blooded half-breeds, they should break out
in rebellion. And what is there to hold them back? Just this, a feeling
that they have been justly treated, fairly and justly dealt with by the
Government, and a wholesome respect for Her Majesty’s North West Mounted
Police, if I do say it myself. But the thing is on, and we must be
ready.”

“What is to be done, sir?” inquired Sanders.

“Well, thank God, there is not much to be done in the way of
preparation,” replied the Commissioner. “Our fellows are ready to a man.
For the past six months we have been on the alert for this emergency,
but we must strike promptly. When I think of these settlers about Prince
Albert and Battleford at the mercy of Beardy and that restless and
treacherous Salteaux, Big Bear, I confess to a terrible anxiety.”

“Then there is the West, sir, as well,” said Sanders, “the Blackfeet and
the Bloods.”

“Ah, yes, Sanders! You know them well. So do I. It is a great matter
that Crowfoot is well disposed toward us, that he has confidence in our
officers and that he is a shrewd old party as well. But Crowfoot is an
Indian and the head of a great tribe with warlike traditions and with
ambitions, and he will find it difficult to maintain his own loyalty,
and much more that of his young men, in the face of any conspicuous
successes by his Indian rivals, the Crees. But,” added the Commissioner,
rolling up the map, “I called you in principally to say that I wish you
to have every available man and gun ready for a march at a day’s notice.
Further, I wish you to wire Superintendent Herchmer at Calgary to
send at the earliest possible moment twenty-five men at least, fully
equipped. We shall need every man we can spare from every post in the
West to send North.”

“Very good, sir. They will be ready,” said Inspector Sanders, and,
saluting, he left the room.

Two days later, on the 18th of March, long before the break of day, the
Commissioner set out on his famous march to Prince Albert, nearly three
hundred miles away. And the great game was on. They were but a small
company of ninety men, but every man was thoroughly fit for the part
he was expected to play in the momentous struggle before him; brave, of
course, trained in prompt initiative, skilled in plaincraft, inured to
hardship, oblivious of danger, quick of eye, sure of hand and rejoicing
in fight. Commissioner Irvine knew he could depend upon them to see
through to a finish, to their last ounce of strength and their last
blood-drop, any bit of work given them to do. Past Pie-a-pot’s Reserve
and down the Qu’Appelle Valley to Misquopetong’s, through the Touchwood
Hills and across the great Salt Plain, where he had word by wire from
Crozier of the first blow being struck at the south branch of the
Saskatchewan where some of Beardy’s men gave promise of their future
conduct by looting a store, Irvine pressed his march. Onward along the
Saskatchewan, he avoided the trap laid by four hundred half-breeds at
Batoche’s Crossing, and, making the crossing at Agnew’s, further down,
arrived at Prince Albert all fit and sound on the eve of the 24th,
completing his two hundred and ninety-one miles in just seven days; and
that in the teeth of the bitter weather of a rejuvenated winter, without
loss of man or horse, a feat worthy of the traditions of the Force of
which he was the head, and of the Empire whose most northern frontier it
was his task to guard.

Twenty-four hours to sharpen their horses’ calks and tighten up their
cinches, and Irvine was on the trail again en route for Fort Carlton,
where he learned serious disturbances were threatening. Arrived at Fort
Carlton in the afternoon of the same day, the Commissioner found there a
company of men, sad, grim and gloomy. In the fort a dozen of the gallant
volunteers from Prince Albert and Crozier’s Mounted Police lay groaning,
some of them dying, with wounds. Others lay with their faces covered,
quiet enough; while far down on the Duck Lake trail still others lay
with the white snow red about them. The story was told the Commissioner
with soldierlike brevity by Superintendent Crozier. The previous day a
storekeeper from Duck Lake, Mitchell by name, had ridden in to report
that his stock of provisions and ammunition was about to be seized by
the rebels. Immediately early next morning a Sergeant of the Police with
some seventeen constables had driven off to prevent these provisions and
ammunition falling into the hands of the enemy. At ten o’clock a scout
came pounding down the trail with the announcement that Sergeant Stewart
was in trouble and that a hundred rebels had disputed his advance.
Hard upon the heels of the scout came the Sergeant himself with his
constables to tell their tale to a body of men whose wrath grew as
they listened. More and more furious waxed their rage as they heard
the constables tell of the threats and insults heaped upon them by the
half-breeds and Indians. The Prince Albert volunteers more especially
were filled with indignant rage. To think that half-breeds and
Indians--Indians, mark you!--whom they had been accustomed to regard
with contempt, should have dared to turn back upon the open trail a
company of men wearing the Queen’s uniform! The insult was intolerable.

The Police officers received the news with philosophic calm. It was
merely an incident in the day’s work to them. Sooner or later they would
bring these bullying half-breeds and yelling Indians to task for their
temerity.

But the volunteers were undisciplined in the business of receiving
insults. Hence they were for an immediate attack. The Superintendent
pointed out that the Commissioner was within touch bringing
reinforcements. It might be wise to delay matters a few hours till his
arrival. But meantime the provisions and ammunition would be looted
and distributed among the enemy, and that was a serious matter. The
impetuous spirit of the volunteers prevailed. Within an hour a hundred
men with a seven-pr. gun, eager to exact punishment for the insults
they had suffered, took the Duck Lake trail. Ambushed by a foe who,
regardless of the conventions of war, made treacherous use of the white
flag, overwhelmed by more than twice their number, hampered in their
evolutions by the deep crusted snow, the little company, after a
half-hour’s sharp engagement with the strongly posted enemy, were forced
to retire, bearing their wounded and some of their dead with them,
leaving others of their dead lying in the snow behind them.

And now the question was what was to be done? The events of the day
had taught them their lesson, a lesson that experience has taught all
soldiers, the lesson, namely, that it is never safe to despise a foe.
A few miles away from them were between three hundred and four hundred
half-breeds and Indians who, having tasted blood, were eager for more.
The fort at Carlton was almost impossible of defense. The whole South
country was in the hands of rebels. Companies of half-breeds breathing
blood and fire, bands of Indians, marauding and terrorizing, were
roaming the country, wrecking homesteads, looting stores, threatening
destruction to all loyal settlers and direst vengeance upon all who
should dare to oppose them. The situation called for quick thought and
quick action. Every hour added to the number of the enemy. Whole tribes
of Indians were wavering in their allegiance. Another victory such as
Duck Lake and they would swing to the side of the rebels. The strategic
center of the English settlements in all this country was undoubtedly
Prince Albert. Fort Carlton stood close to the border of the half-breed
section and was difficult of defense.

After a short council of war it was decided to abandon Fort Carlton.
Thereupon Irvine led his troops, together with the gallant survivors of
the bloody fight at Duck Lake, bearing their dead and wounded with
them, to Prince Albert, there to hold that post with its hundreds of
defenseless women and children gathered in from the country round about,
against hostile half-breeds without and treacherous half-breeds within
the stockade, and against swarming bands of Indians hungry for loot and
thirsting for blood. And there Irvine, chafing against inactivity, eager
for the joyous privilege of attack, spent the weary anxious days of the
next six weeks, held at his post by the orders of his superior officer
and by the stern necessities of the case, and meantime finding some
slight satisfaction in scouting and scouring the country for miles on
every side, thus preventing any massing of the enemy’s forces.

The affair at Duck Lake put an end to all parley. Riel had been
clamoring for “blood! blood! blood!” At Duck Lake he received his first
taste, but before many days were over he was to find that for every drop
of blood that reddened the crusted snow at Duck Lake a thousand Canadian
voices would indignantly demand vengeance. The rifle-shots that rang out
that winter day from the bluffs that lined the Duck Lake trail echoed
throughout Canada from ocean to ocean, and everywhere men sprang to
offer themselves in defense of their country. But echoes of these
rifle-shots rang, too, in the teepees on the Western plains where the
Piegans, the Bloods and the Blackfeet lay crouching and listening.
By some mysterious system of telegraphy known only to themselves old
Crowfoot and his braves heard them almost as soon as the Superintendent
at Fort Macleod. Instantly every teepee was pulsing with the fever of
war. The young braves dug up their rifles from their bedding, gathered
together their ammunition, sharpened their knives and tomahawks in eager
anticipation of the call that would set them on the war-path against the
white man who had robbed them of their ancient patrimony and who held
them in such close leash. The great day had come, the day they had been
dreaming of in their hearts, talking over at their council-fires and
singing about in their sun dances during the past year, the day promised
by the many runners from their brother Crees of the North, the day
foretold by the great Sioux orator and leader, Onawata. The war of
extermination had begun and the first blood had gone to the Indian and
to his brother half-breed.

Two days after Duck Lake came the word that Fort Carlton had been
abandoned and Battleford sacked. Five days later the news of the bloody
massacre of Frog Lake cast over every English settlement the shadow of
a horrible fear. From the Crow’s Nest to the Blackfoot Crossing bands of
braves broke loose from the reserves and began to “drive cattle” for the
making of pemmican in preparation for the coming campaign.

It was a day of testing for all Canadians, but especially a day of
testing for the gallant little force of six or seven hundred riders who,
distributed in small groups over a vast area of over two hundred and
fifty thousand square miles, were entrusted with the responsibility of
guarding the lives and property of Her Majesty’s subjects scattered in
lonely and distant settlements over these wide plains.

And the testing found them ready. For while the Ottawa authorities with
late but frantic haste were hustling their regiments from all parts of
Canada to the scene of war, the Mounted Police had gripped the situation
with a grip so stern that the Indian allies of the half-breed rebels
paused in their leap, took a second thought and decided to wait till
events should indicate the path of discretion.

And, to the blood-lusting Riel, Irvine’s swift thrust Northward to
Prince Albert suggested caution, while his resolute stand at that
distant fort drove hard down in the North country a post of Empire that
stuck fast and sure while all else seemed to be sliding to destruction.

Inspector Dickens, too, another of that fearless band of Police
officers, holding with his heroic little company of twenty-two
constables Fort Pitt in the far North, stayed the panic consequent upon
the Frog Lake massacre and furnished food for serious thought to the
cunning Chief, Little Pine, and his four hundred and fifty Crees, as
well as to the sullen Salteaux, Big Bear, with his three hundred braves.
And to the lasting credit of Inspector Dickens it stands that he brought
his little company of twenty-two safe through a hostile country
overrun with excited Indians and half-breeds to the post of Battleford,
ninety-eight miles away.

At Battleford, also, after the sacking of the town, Inspector Morris
with two hundred constables behind his hastily-constructed barricade
kept guard over four hundred women and children and held at bay a horde
of savages yelling for loot and blood.

Griesbach, in like manner, with his little handful, at Fort
Saskatchewan, held the trail to Edmonton, and materially helped to bar
the way against Big Bear and his marauding band.

And similarly at other points the promptness, resource, wisdom and
dauntless resolution of the gallant officers of the Mounted Police
and of the men they commanded saved Western Canada from the complete
subversion of law and order in the whole Northern part of the
territories and from the unspeakable horrors of a general Indian
uprising.

But while in the Northern and Eastern part of the Territories the Police
officers rendered such signal service in the face of open rebellion, it
was in the foothill country in the far West that perhaps even greater
service was rendered to Canada and the Empire in this time of peril by
the officers and men of the Mounted Police.

It was due to the influence of such men as the Superintendents and
Inspectors of the Police in charge of the various posts throughout
the foothill country more than to anything else that the Chiefs of
the “great, warlike, intelligent and untractable tribes” of Blackfeet,
Blood, Piegan, Sarcee and Stony Indians were prevented from breaking
their treaties and joining with the rebel Crees, Salteaux and
Assiniboines of the North and East. For fifteen years the Chiefs of
these tribes had lived under the firm and just rule of the Police, had
been protected from the rapacity of unscrupulous traders and saved from
the ravages of whisky-runners. It was the proud boast of a Blood Chief
that the Police never broke a promise to the Indian and never failed to
exact justice either for his punishment or for his protection.

Hence when the reserves were being overrun by emissaries from the
turbulent Crees and from the plotting half-breeds, in the face of the
impetuous demands of their own young men and of their minor Chiefs to
join in the Great Adventure, the great Chiefs, Red Crow and Rainy Chief
of the Bloods, Bull’s Head of the Sarcees, Trotting Wolf of the Piegans,
and more than all, Crowfoot, the able, astute, wise old head of
the entire Blackfeet confederacy, held these young braves back from
rebellion and thus gave time and opportunity to Her Majesty’s Forces
operating in the East and North to deal with the rebels.

And during those days of strain, strain beyond the estimate of all
not immediately involved, it was the record of such men as the
Superintendents and Inspectors in charge at Fort Macleod, at Fort
Calgary and on the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway construction
in the mountains, and their steady bearing that more than anything else
weighed with the great Chiefs and determined for them their attitude.
For with calm, cool courage the Police patrols rode in and out of the
reserves, quietly reasoning with the big Chiefs, smiling indulgently
upon the turbulent minor Chiefs, checking up with swift, firm, but
tactful justice the many outbreaks against law and order, presenting
even in their most desperate moments such a front of resolute
self-confidence to the Indians, and refusing to give any sign by look
or word or act of the terrific anxiety they carried beneath their gay
scarlet coats. And the big Chiefs, reading the faces of these cool,
careless, resolute, smiling men who had a trick of appearing at
unexpected times in their camps and refused to be hurried or worried,
finally decided to wait a little longer. And they waited till the fatal
moment of danger was past and the time for striking--and in the heart
of every Chief of them the desire to strike for larger freedom and
independence lay deep--was gone. To these guardians of Empire who fought
no fight, who endured no siege, who witnessed no massacre, the Dominion
and the Empire owe more than none but the most observing will ever know.

Paralleling these prompt measures of the North West Mounted Police, the
Government dispatched from both East and West of Canada regiments of
militia to relieve the beleaguered posts held by the Police, to prevent
the spread of rebellion and to hold the great tribes of the Indians of
the far West true to their allegiance.

Already on the 27th of March, before Irvine had decided to abandon Fort
Carlton and to make his stand at Prince Albert, General Middleton had
passed through Winnipeg on his way to take command of the Canadian
Forces operating in the West; and before two weeks more had gone the
General was in command of a considerable body of troops at Qu’Appelle,
his temporary headquarters. From all parts of Canada these men gathered,
from Quebec and Montreal, from the midland counties of Ontario, from
the city of Toronto and from the city of Winnipeg, till some five or six
thousand citizen-soldiers were under arms. They were needed, too, every
man, not so much because of the possible weight of numbers of the enemy
opposing them, nor because of the tactical skill of those leading the
hostile forces, but because of the enemy’s advantage of position, owing
to the nature of the country which formed the scene of the Rebellion,
and because of the character of the warfare adopted by their cunning
foe.

The record of the brief six weeks’ campaign constitutes a creditable
page in Canadian history, a page which no Canadian need blush to read
aloud in the presence of any company of men who know how to estimate at
their highest value those qualities of courage and endurance that are
the characteristics of the British soldier the world over.



CHAPTER XVII

TO ARMS!


Superintendent Strong was in a pleasant mood, and the reason was not far
to seek. The distracting period of inaction, of doubt, of hesitation was
past, and now at last something would be done. His term of service along
the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway construction had been far from
congenial to him. There had been too much of the work of the ordinary
patrol-officer about it. True, he did his duty faithfully and
thoroughly, so faithfully, indeed, as to move the great men of the
railway company to outspoken praise, a somewhat unusual circumstance.
But now he was called back to the work that more properly belonged to an
officer of Her Majesty’s North West Mounted Police and his soul glowed
with the satisfaction of those who, having been found faithful in
uncongenial duty, are rewarded with an opportunity to do a bit of work
which they particularly delight to do.

With his twenty-five men, whom for the past year he had been polishing
to a high state of efficiency in the trying work of police-duty in the
railway construction-camp, he arrived in Calgary on the evening of the
tenth of April, to find that post throbbing with military ardor and
thrilling with rumors of massacres and sieges, of marching columns and
contending forces. Small wonder that Superintendent Strong’s face took
on an appearance of grim pleasure. Straight to the Police headquarters
he went, but there was no Superintendent there to welcome him. That
gentleman had gone East to meet the troops and was by now under
appointment as Chief of Staff to that dashing soldier, Colonel Otter.

But meantime, though the Calgary Police Post was bare of men, there were
other men as keen and as daring, if not so thoroughly disciplined for
war, thronging the streets of the little town and asking only a leader
whom they could follow.

It was late evening, but Calgary was an “all night” town, and every
minute was precious, for minutes might mean lives of women and children.
So down the street rode Superintendent Strong toward the Royal Hotel. At
the hitching post of that hostelry a sad-looking broncho was tied, whose
calm, absorbed and detached appearance struck a note of discord with his
environment; for everywhere about him men and horses seemed to be in
a turmoil of excitement. Everywhere men in cow-boy garb were careering
about the streets or grouped in small crowds about the saloon doors.
There were few loud voices, but the words of those who were doing the
speaking came more rapidly than usual.

Such a group was gathered in the rear of the sad-looking broncho before
the door of the Royal Hotel. As the Superintendent loped up upon his
big brown horse the group broke apart and, like birds disturbed at their
feeding, circled about and closed again.

“Hello, here’s Superintendent Strong,” said a voice. “He’ll know.”

“Know what?” inquired the Superintendent.

“Why, what’s doing?”

“Where are the troops?”

“Is Prince Albert down?”

“Where’s Middleton?”

“What’s to be done here?”

There were many voices, all eager, and in them just a touch of anxiety.

“Not a thing do I know,” said Superintendent Strong somewhat gravely.
“I have been up in the mountains and have heard little. I know that the
Commissioner has gone north to Prince Albert.”

“Have you heard about Duck Lake?” inquired a voice.

“Yes, I heard we had a reverse there, and I know that General Middleton
has arrived at Qu’Appelle and has either set out for the north or is
about to set out.”

“Heard about Frog Lake?”

“Frog Lake? No. That is up near Fort Pitt. What about it?”

For a moment there was silence, then a deep voice replied:

“A ghastly massacre, women and children and priests.”

Then another period of silence.

“Indians?” murmured the Superintendent in a low voice.

“Yes, half-breeds and Indians,” replied the deep voice. And again there
was silence. The men waited for Superintendent Strong to speak.

The Superintendent sat on his big horse looking at them quietly, then he
said sharply:

“Men, there are some five or six thousand Indians in this district.”
 They were all thinking the same thing. “I have twenty-five men with me.
Superintendent Cotton at Macleod has less than a hundred.”

The men sat their horses in silence looking at him. One could hear their
deep breathing and see the quiver of the horses under the gripping knees
of their riders. Their minds were working swiftly. Ever since the news
of the Frog Lake massacre had spread like a fire across the country
these men had been carrying in their minds--rather, in their
hearts--pictures that started them up in their beds at night broad awake
and all in a cold sweat.

The Superintendent lowered his voice. The men leaned forward to listen.
He had only a single word to say, a short sharp word it was--

“Who will join me?”

It was as if his question had released a spring drawn to its limit. From
twenty different throats in twenty different tones, but with a single
throbbing impulse, came the response, swift, full-throated, savage,
“Me!” “I!” “Here you are!” “You bet!” “Count me!” “Rather!” and in three
minutes Superintendent Strong had secured the nucleus of his famous
scouts.

“To-morrow at nine at the Barracks!” said this grim and laconic
Superintendent, and was about turning away when a man came out from the
door of the Royal Hotel, drawn forth by that sudden savage yell.

“Hello, Cameron!” said the Superintendent, as the man moved toward the
sad-appearing broncho, “I want you.”

“All right, sir. I am with you,” was the reply as Cameron swung on to
his horse. “Wake up, Ginger!” he said to his horse, touching him with
his heel. Ginger woke up with an indignant snort and forthwith fell into
line with the Superintendent’s big brown horse.

The Superintendent was silent till the Barracks were gained, then,
giving the horses into the care of an orderly, he led Cameron into the
office and after they had settled themselves before the fire he began
without preliminaries.

“Cameron, I am more anxious than I can say about the situation here in
this part of the country. I have been away from the center of things for
some months and I have lost touch. I want you to let me know just what
is doing from our side.”

“I do not know much, sir,” replied Cameron. “I, too, have just come in
from a long parley with Crowfoot and his Chiefs.”

“Ah, by the way, how is the old boy?” inquired the Superintendent. “Will
he stick by us?”

“At present he is very loyal, sir,--too loyal almost,” said Cameron in
a doubtful tone. “Duck Lake sent some of his young men off their heads a
bit, and Frog Lake even more. The Sarcees went wild over Frog Lake, you
know.”

“Oh, I don’t worry about the Sarcees so much. What of Crowfoot?”

“Well, he has managed to hold down his younger Chiefs so far. He made
light of the Frog Lake affair, but he was most anxious to get from
me the fullest particulars of the Duck Lake fight. He made careful
inquiries as to just how many Police were in the fight. I could see that
it gave him a shock to learn that the Police had to retire. This was a
new experience for him. He was intensely anxious to learn also--though
he would not allow himself to appear so--just what the Government was
doing.”

“And what are the last reports from headquarters? You see I have not
been kept fully in touch. I know that the Commissioner has gone north to
Prince Albert and that General Middleton has taken command of the forces
in the West and has gone North with them from Qu’Appelle, but what
troops he has I have not heard.”

“I understand,” replied Cameron, “that he has three regiments of
infantry from Toronto and three from Winnipeg, with the Winnipeg Field
Battery. A regiment from Quebec has arrived and one from Montreal and
there are more to follow. The plan of campaign I know nothing about.”

“Ah, well,” replied the Superintendent, “I know something about the
plan, I believe. There are three objective points, Prince Albert and
Battleford, both of which are now closely besieged, and Edmonton,
which is threatened with a great body of rebel Crees and Salteaux under
leadership of Little Pine and Big Bear. The Police at these points can
hardly be expected to hold out long against the overwhelming numbers
that are besieging them, and I expect that relief columns will be
immediately dispatched. Now, in regard to this district here, do you
know what is being done?”

“Well, General Strange has come in from his ranch and has offered his
services in raising a local force.”

“Yes, I was glad to hear that his offer had been accepted and that he
has been appointed to lead an expeditionary force from here to Edmonton.
He is an experienced officer and I am sure will do us fine service.
I hope to see him to-morrow. Now, about the South,” continued the
Superintendent, “what about Fort Macleod?”

“The Superintendent there has offered himself and his whole force for
service in the North, but General Middleton, I understand, has asked him
to remain where he is and keep guard in this part of the country.”

“Good! I am glad of that. In my judgment this country holds the key. The
Crees I do not fear so much. They are more restless and uncertain, but
God help us if the Blackfeet and the Bloods rise! That is why I called
for volunteers to-night. We cannot afford to be without a strong force
here a single day.”

“I gathered that you got some volunteers to-night. I hope, sir,” said
Cameron, “you will have a place for me in your troop?”

“My dear fellow, nothing would please me better, I assure you,” said
the Superintendent cordially. “And as proof of my confidence in you I am
going to send you through the South country to recruit men for my troop.
I can rely upon your judgment and tact. But as for you, you cannot leave
your present beat. The Sun Dance Trail cannot be abandoned for one hour.
From it you keep an eye upon the secret movements of all the tribes in
this whole region and you can do much to counteract if not to wholly
check any hostile movement that may arise. Indeed, you have already done
more than any one will ever know to hold this country safe during these
last months. And you must stay where you are. Remember, Cameron,” added
the Superintendent impressively, “your work lies along the Sun Dance
Trail. On no account and for no reason must you be persuaded to abandon
that post. I shall get into touch with General Strange to-morrow and
shall doubtless get something to do, but if possible I should like you
to give me a day or two for this recruiting business before you take up
again your patrol work along the Sun Dance.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Cameron quietly, trying hard to keep the
disappointment out of his voice. “I shall do my best.”

“That is right,” said the Superintendent. “By the way, what are the
Piegans doing?”

“The Piegans,” replied Cameron, “are industriously stealing cattle and
horses. I cannot quite make out just how they can manage to get away
with them. Eagle Feather is apparently running the thing, but there is
someone bigger than Eagle Feather in the game. An additional month or
two in the guardroom would have done that gentleman no harm.”

“Ah, has he been in the guard-room? How did he get there?”

“Oh, I pulled him out of the Sun Dance, where I found he had been
killing cattle, and the Superintendent at Macleod gave him two months to
meditate upon his crimes.”

Superintendent Strong expressed his satisfaction.

“But now he is at his old habits again,” continued Cameron. “But his
is not the brain planning these raids. They are cleverly done and are
getting serious. For instance, I must have lost a score or two of steers
within the last three months.”

“A score or two?” exclaimed the Superintendent. “What are they doing
with them all?”

“That is what I find difficult to explain. Either they are running them
across the border--though the American Police know nothing of it--or
they are making pemmican.”

“Pemmican? Aha! that looks serious,” said the Superintendent gravely.

“Yes, indeed,” said Cameron. “It makes me think that some one bigger
than Eagle Feather is at the bottom of all this cattle-running.
Sometimes I have thought that perhaps that chap Raven has a hand in it.”

“Raven?” exclaimed the Superintendent. “He has brain enough and nerve in
plenty for any dare-devil exploit.”

“But,” continued Cameron in a hesitating voice, “I cannot bring myself
to lay this upon him.”

“Why not?” inquired the Superintendent sharply. “He is a cool hand and
desperate. I know his work fairly well. He is a first-class villain.”

“Yes, I know he is all that, and yet--well--in this rebellion, sir,
I believe he is with us and against them.” In proof of this Cameron
proceeded to relate the story of Raven’s visit to the Big Horn Ranch.
“So you see,” he concluded, “he would not care to work in connection
with the Piegans just now.”

“I don’t know about that--I don’t know about that,” replied the
Superintendent. “Of course he would not work against us directly, but he
might work for himself in this crisis. It would furnish him with a good
opportunity, you see. It would give him plenty of cover.”

“Yes, that is true, but still--I somehow cannot help liking the chap.”

“Liking the chap?” echoed the Superintendent. “He is a cold-blooded
villain and cattle-thief, a murderer, as you know. If ever I get my hand
on him in this rumpus--Why, he’s an outlaw pure and simple! I have
no use for that kind of man at all. I should like to hang him!” The
Superintendent was indignant at the suggestion that any but the severest
measures should be meted out to a man of Raven’s type. It was the
instinct and training of the Police officer responsible for the
enforcement of law and order in the land moving within him. “But,”
 continued the Superintendent, “let us get back to our plans. There must
be a strong force raised in this district immediately. We have the kind
of men best suited for the work all about us in this ranching country,
and I know that if you ride south throughout the ranges you can bring me
back fifty men, and there would be no finer anywhere.”

“I shall do what I can, sir,” replied Cameron, “but I am not sure about
the fifty men.”

Long they talked over the plans, till it was far past midnight, when
Cameron took his leave and returned to his hotel. He put up his own
horse, looking after his feeding and bedding.

“You have some work to do, Ginger, for your Queen and country to-morrow,
and you must be fit,” he said as he finished rubbing the horse down.

And Ginger had work to do, but not that planned for him by his master,
as it turned out. At the door of the Royal Hotel, Cameron found waiting
him in the shadow a tall slim Indian youth.

“Hello!” said Cameron. “Who are you and what do you want?”

As the youth stepped into the light there came to Cameron a dim
suggestion of something familiar about the lad, not so much in his face
as in his figure and bearing.

“Who are you?” said Cameron again somewhat impatiently.

The young man pulled up his trouser leg and showed a scarred ankle.

“Ah! Now I get you. You are the young Piegan?”

“Not” said the youth, throwing back his head with a haughty movement.
“No Piegan.”

“Ah, no, of course. Onawata’s son, eh?”

The lad grunted.

“What do you want?” inquired Cameron.

The young man stood silent, evidently finding speech difficult.

“Eagle Feather,” at length he said, “Little Thunder--plenty Piegan--run
much cattle.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm to indicate the
extent of the cattle raid proposed.

“They do, eh? Come in, my boy.”

The boy shook his head and drew back. He shared with all wild things the
fear of inclosed places.

“Are you hungry?”

The boy nodded his head.

“Come with me.”

Together they walked down the street and came to a restaurant.

“Come in and eat. It is all right,” said Cameron, offering his hand.

The Indian took the offered hand, laid it upon his heart, then for a
full five seconds with his fierce black eye he searched Cameron’s face.
Satisfied, he motioned Cameron to enter and followed close on his heel.
Never before had the lad been within four walls.

“Eat,” said Cameron when the ordered meal was placed before them. The
lad was obviously ravenous and needed no further urging.

“How long since you left the reserve?” inquired Cameron.

The youth held up three fingers.

“Good going,” said Cameron, letting his eye run down the lines of the
Indian’s lithe figure.

“Smoke?” inquired Cameron when the meal was finished.

The lad’s eye gleamed, but he shook his head.

“No pipe, eh?” said Cameron. “Come, we will mend that. Here, John,”
 he said to the Chinese waiter, “bring me a pipe. There,” said Cameron,
passing the Indian the pipe after filling it, “smoke away.”

After another swift and searching look the lad took the pipe from
Cameron’s hand and with solemn gravity began to smoke. It was to him
far more than a mere luxurious addendum to his meal. It was a solemn
ceremonial sealing a compact of amity between them.

“Now, tell me,” said Cameron, when the smoke had gone on for some time.

Slowly and with painful difficulty the youth told his story in terse,
brief sentences.

“T’ree day,” he began, holding up three fingers, “me hear Eagle
Feather--many Piegans--talk--talk--talk. Go fight--keel--keel--keel all
white man, squaw, papoose.”

“When?” inquired Cameron, keeping his face steady.

“Come Cree runner--soon.”

“You mean they are waiting for a runner from the North?” inquired
Cameron. “If the Crees win the fight then the Piegans will rise? Is that
it?”

The Indian nodded. “Come Cree Indian--then Piegan fight.”

“They will not rise until the runner comes, eh?”

“No.”

Cameron breathed more easily.

“Is that all?” he inquired carelessly.

“This day Eagle Feather run much cattle--beeg--beeg run.” The young man
again swept the room with his arm.

“Bah! Eagle Feather is no good. He is an old squaw,” said Cameron.

“Huh!” agreed the Indian quickly. “Little Thunder go too.”

“Little Thunder, eh?” said Cameron, controlling his voice with an
effort.

The lad nodded, his piercing eye upon Cameron’s face.

For some minutes Cameron smoked quietly.

“And Onawata?” With startling suddenness he shot out the question.

Not a line of the Indian’s face moved. He ignored the question, smoking
steadily and looking before him.

“Ah, it is a strange way for Onawata to repay the white man’s kindness
to his son,” said Cameron. The contemptuous voice pierced the Indian’s
armor of impassivity. Cameron caught the swift quiver in the face
that told that his stab had reached the quick. There is nothing in the
Indian’s catalogue of crimes so base as the sin of ingratitude.

“Onawata beeg Chief--beeg Chief,” at length the boy said proudly. “He do
beeg--beeg t’ing.”

“Yes, he steals my cattle,” said Cameron with stinging scorn.

“No!” replied the Indian sharply. “Little Thunder--Eagle Feather steal
cattle--Onawata no steal.”

“I am glad to hear it, then,” said Cameron. “This is a big run of
cattle, eh?”

“Yes--beeg--beeg run.” Again the Indian’s arm swept the room.

“What will they do with all those cattle?” inquired Cameron.

But again the Indian ignored his question and remained silently smoking.

“Why does the son of Onawata come to me?” inquired Cameron.

A soft and subtle change transformed the boy’s face. He pulled up his
trouser leg and, pointing to the scarred ankle, said:

“You’ squaw good--me two leg--me come tell you take squaw ‘way far--no
keel. Take cattle ‘way--no steal.” He rose suddenly to his feet. “Me go
now,” he said, and passed out.

“Hold on!” cried Cameron, following him out to the door. “Where are you
going to sleep to-night?”

The boy waved his hand toward the hills surrounding the little town.

“Here,” said Cameron, emptying his tobacco pouch into the boy’s hand.
“I will tell my squaw that Onawata’s son is not ungrateful, that he
remembered her kindness and has paid it back to me.”

For the first time a smile broke on the grave face of the Indian. He
took Cameron’s hand, laid it upon his own heart, and then on Cameron’s.

“You’ squaw good--good--much good.” He appeared to struggle to find
other words, but failing, and with a smile still lingering upon his
handsome face, he turned abruptly away and glided silent as a shadow
into the starlit night. Cameron watched him out of sight.

“Not a bad sort,” he said to himself as he walked toward the hotel.
“Pretty tough thing for him to come here and give away his dad’s scheme
like that--and I bet you he is keen on it himself too.”



CHAPTER XVIII

AN OUTLAW, BUT A MAN


The news brought by the Indian lad changed for Cameron all his plans.
This cattle-raid was evidently a part of and preparation for the bigger
thing, a general uprising and war of extermination on the part of the
Indians. From his recent visit to the reserves he was convinced that the
loyalty of even the great Chiefs was becoming somewhat brittle and would
not bear any sudden strain put upon it. A successful raid of cattle such
as was being proposed escaping the notice of the Police, or in the teeth
of the Police, would have a disastrous effect upon the prestige of the
whole Force, already shaken by the Duck Lake reverse. The effect of
that skirmish was beyond belief. The victory of the half-breeds was
exaggerated in the wildest degree. He must act and act quickly. His home
and his family and those of his neighbors were in danger of the most
horrible fate that could befall any human being. If the cattle-raid were
carried through by the Piegan Indians its sweep would certainly include
the Big Horn Ranch, and there was every likelihood that his home might
be destroyed, for he was an object of special hate to Eagle Feather and
to Little Thunder; and if Copperhead were in the business he had even
greater cause for anxiety.

But what was to be done? The Indian boy had taken three days to bring
the news. It would take a day and a night of hard riding to reach his
home. Quickly he made his plans. He passed into the hotel, found the
room of Billy the hostler and roused him up.

“Billy,” he said, “get my horse out quick and hitch him up to the
post where I can get him. And Billy, if you love me,” he implored, “be
quick!”

Billy sprang from his bed.

“Don’t know what’s eatin’ you, boss,” he said, “but quick’s the word.”

In another minute Cameron was pounding at Dr. Martin’s door upstairs.
Happily the doctor was in.

“Martin, old man,” cried Cameron, gripping him hard by the shoulder.
“Wake up and listen hard! That Indian boy you and Mandy pulled through
has just come all the way from the Piegan Reserve to tell me of a
proposed cattle-raid and a possible uprising of the Piegans in that
South country. The cattle-raid is coming on at once. The uprising
depends upon news from the Crees. Listen! I have promised Superintendent
Strong to spend the next two days recruiting for his new troop. Explain
to him why I cannot do this. He will understand. Then ride like blazes
to Macleod and tell the Inspector all that I have told you and get him
to send what men he can spare along with you. You can’t get a man here.
The raid starts from the Piegan Reserve. It will likely finish where the
old Porcupine Trail joins the Sun Dance. At least so I judge. Ride by
the ranch and get some of them there to show you the shortest trail.
Both Mandy and Moira know it well.”

“Hold on, Cameron! Let me get this clear,” cried the doctor, holding him
fast by the arm. “Two things I have gathered,” said the doctor, speaking
rapidly, “first, a cattle-raid, then a general uprising, the uprising
dependent upon the news from the North. You want to block the
cattle-raid? Is that right?”

“Right,” said Cameron.

“Then you want me to settle with Superintendent Storm, ride to Macleod
for men, then by your ranch and have them show me the shortest trail to
the junction of the Porcupine and the Sun Dance?”

“You are right, Martin, old boy. It is a great thing to have a head like
yours. I shall meet you somewhere at that point. I have been thinking
this thing over and I believe they mean to make pemmican in preparation
for their uprising, and if so they will make it somewhere on the Sun
Dance Trail. Now I am off. Let me go, Martin.”

“Tell me your own movements now.”

“First, the ranch,” said Cameron. “Then straight for the Sun Dance.”

“All right, old boy. By-by and good-luck!”

Cameron found Billy waiting with Ginger at the door of the hotel.

“Thank you, Billy,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “Hang it, I can’t
find my purse.”

“You go hang yourself!” said Billy. “Never mind your purse.”

“All right, then,” said Cameron, giving him his hand. “Good-by. You are
a trump, Billy.” He caught Ginger by the mane and threw himself on the
saddle.

“Now, then, Ginger, you must not fail me this trip, if it is your last.
A hundred and twenty miles, old boy, and you are none too fresh either.
But, Ginger, we must beat them this time. A hundred and twenty miles
to the Big Horn and twenty miles farther to the Sun Dance, that makes
a hundred and forty, Ginger, and you are just in from a hard two days’
ride. Steady, boy! Not too hard at the first.” For Ginger was showing
signs of eagerness beyond his wont. “At all costs this raid must be
stopped,” continued Cameron, speaking, after his manner, to his horse,
“not for the sake of a few cattle--we could all stand that loss--but to
balk at its beginning this scheme of old Copperhead’s, for I believe
in my soul he is at the bottom of it. Steady, old boy! We need every
minute, but we cannot afford to make any miscalculations. The last
quarter of an hour is likely to be the worst.”

So on they went through the starry night. Steadily Ginger pounded the
trail, knocking off the miles hour after hour. There was no pause for
rest or for food. A few mouthfuls of water in the fording of a running
stream, a pause to recover breath before plunging into an icy river, or
on the taking of a steep coulee side, but no more. Hour after hour they
pressed forward toward the Big Horn Ranch. The night passed into morning
and the morning into the day, but still they pressed the trail.

Toward the close of the day Cameron found himself within an hour’s ride
of his own ranch with Ginger showing every sign of leg weariness and
almost of collapse.

“Good old chap!” cried Cameron, leaning over him and patting his neck.
“We must make it. We cannot let up, you know. Stick to it, old boy, a
little longer.”

A little snort and a little extra spurt of speed was the gallant
Ginger’s reply, but soon he was forced to sink back again into his
stumbling stride.

“One hour more, Ginger, that is all--one hour only.”

As he spoke he leapt from his saddle to ease his horse in climbing a
long and lofty hill. As he surmounted the hill he stopped and swiftly
backed his horse down the hill. Upon the distant skyline his eye had
detected what he judged to be a horseman. His horse safely disposed of,
he once more crawled to the top of the hill.

“An Indian, by Jove!” he cried. “I wonder if he has seen me.”

Carefully his eye swept the intervening valley and the hillside beyond,
but only this solitary figure could he see. As his eye rested on him the
Indian began to move toward the west. Cameron lay watching him for some
minutes. From his movements it was evident that the Indian’s pace was
being determined by some one on the other side of the hill, for he
advanced now swiftly, now slowly. At times he halted and turned back
upon his track, then went forward again.

“What the deuce is he doing?” said Cameron to himself. “By Jove! I have
got it! The drive is begun. I am too late.”

Swiftly he considered the whole situation. He was too late now to be of
any service at his ranch. The raid had already swept past it. He wrung
his hands in agony to think of what might have happened. He was torn
with anxiety for his family--and yet here was the raid passing onward
before his eyes. One hour would bring him to the ranch, but if this were
the outside edge of the big cattle raid the loss of an hour would mean
the loss of everything.

“Oh, my God! What shall I do?” he cried.

With his eyes still upon the Indian he forced himself to think more
quietly. The secrecy with which the raid was planned made it altogether
likely that the homes of the settlers would not at this time be
interfered with. This consideration finally determined him. At all costs
he must do what he could to head off the raid or to break the herd
in some way. But that meant in the first place a ride of twenty or
twenty-five miles over rough country. Could Ginger do it?

He crawled back to his horse and found him with his head close to the
ground and trembling in every limb.

“If he goes this twenty miles,” he said, “he will go no more. But it
looks like our only hope, old boy. We must make for our old beat, the
Sun Dance Trail.”

He mounted his horse and set off toward the west, taking care never to
appear above the skyline and riding as rapidly as the uncertain footing
of the untrodden prairie would allow. At short intervals he would
dismount and crawl to the top of the hill in order to keep in touch
with the Indian, who was heading in pretty much the same direction as
himself. A little further on his screening hill began to flatten
itself out and finally it ran down into a wide valley which crossed
his direction at right angles. He made his horse lie down, still in the
shelter of the hill, and with most painful care he crawled on hands and
knees out to the open and secured a point of vantage from which he could
command the valley which ran southward for some miles till it, in turn,
was shut in by a further range of hills.

He was rewarded for his patience and care. Far down before him at the
bottom of the valley a line of cattle was visible and hurrying them
along a couple of Indian horsemen. As he lay watching these Indians he
observed that a little farther on this line was augmented by a similar
line from the east driven by the Indian he had first observed, and by
two others who emerged from a cross valley still further on. Prone upon
his face he lay, with his eyes on that double line of cattle and its
hustling drivers. The raid was surely on. What could one man do to check
it? Similar lines of cattle were coming down the different valleys and
would all mass upon the old Porcupine Trail and finally pour into the
Sun Dance with its many caves and canyons. There was much that was
mysterious in this movement still to Cameron. What could these Indians
do with this herd of cattle? The mere killing of them was in itself a
vast undertaking. He was perfectly familiar with the Indian’s method of
turning buffalo meat, and later beef, into pemmican, but the killing,
and the dressing, and the rendering of the fat, and the preparing of the
bags, all this was an elaborate and laborious process. But one thing
was clear to his mind. At all costs he must get around the head of these
converging lines.

He waited there till the valley was clear of cattle and Indians, then,
mounting his horse, he pushed hard across the valley and struck a
parallel trail upon the farther side of the hills. Pursuing this trail
for some miles, he crossed still another range of hills farther to the
west and so proceeded till he came within touch of the broken country
that marks the division between the Foothills and the Mountains. He had
not many miles before him now, but his horse was failing fast and he
himself was half dazed with weariness and exhaustion. Night, too, was
falling and the going was rough and even dangerous; for now hillsides
suddenly broke off into sharp cut-banks, twenty, thirty, forty feet
high.

It was one of these cut-banks that was his undoing, for in the dim
light he failed to note that the sheep track he was following ended thus
abruptly till it was too late. Had his horse been fresh he could easily
have recovered himself, but, spent as he was, Ginger stumbled, slid and
finally rolled headlong down the steep hillside and over the bank on
to the rocks below. Cameron had just strength to throw himself from the
saddle and, scrambling on his knees, to keep himself from following his
horse. Around the cut-bank he painfully made his way to where his horse
lay with his leg broken, groaning like a human being in his pain.

“Poor old boy! You are done at last,” he said.

But there was no time to indulge regrets. Those lines of cattle were
swiftly and steadily converging upon the Sun Dance. He had before him an
almost impossible achievement. Well he knew that a man on foot could do
little with the wild range cattle. They would speedily trample him into
the ground. But he must go on. He must make the attempt.

But first there was a task that it wrung his heart to perform. His
horse must be put out of pain. He took off his coat, rolled it over his
horse’s head, inserted his gun under its folds to deaden the sound and
to hide those luminous eyes turned so entreatingly upon him.

“Old boy, you have done your duty, and so must I. Good-by, old chap!” He
pulled the fatal trigger and Ginger’s work was done.

He took up his coat and set off once more upon the winding sheep trail
that he guessed would bring him to the Sun Dance. Dazed, half asleep,
numbed with weariness and faint with hunger, he stumbled on, while the
stars came out overhead and with their mild radiance lit up his rugged
way.

Suddenly he found himself vividly awake. Diagonally across the face of
the hill in front of him, a few score yards away and moving nearer, a
horse came cantering. Quickly Cameron dropped behind a jutting rock.
Easily, daintily, with never a slip or slide came the horse till he
became clearly visible in the starlight. There was no mistaking that
horse or that rider. No other horse in all the territories could take
that slippery, slithery hill with a tread so light and sure, and no
other rider in the Western country could handle his horse with such
easy, steady grace among the rugged rocks of that treacherous hillside.
It was Nighthawk and his master.

“Raven!” breathed Cameron to himself. “Raven! Is it possible? By Jove!
I would not have believed it. The Superintendent was right after all. He
is a villain, a black-hearted villain too. So, HE is the brains behind
this thing. I ought to have known it. Fool that I was! He pulled the
wool over my eyes all right.”

The rage that surged up through his heart stimulated his dormant
energies into new life. With a deep oath Cameron pulled out both his
guns and set off up the hill on the trail of the disappearing horseman.
His weariness fell from him like a coat, the spring came back to his
muscles, clearness to his brain. He was ready for his best fight and he
knew it lay before him. Swiftly, lightly he ran up the hillside. At the
top he paused amazed. Before him lay a large Indian encampment with rows
upon rows of tents and camp fires with kettles swinging, and everywhere
Indians and squaws moving about. Skirting the camp and still keeping
to the side of the hill, he came upon a stout new-built fence that ran
straight down an incline to a steep cut-bank with a sheer drop of thirty
feet or more. Like a flash the meaning of it came upon him. This was to
be the end of the drive. Here the cattle were to meet their death. Here
it was that the pemmican was to be made. On the hillside opposite there
was doubtless a similar fence and these two would constitute the fatal
funnel down which the cattle were to be stampeded over the cut-bank to
their destruction. This was the nefarious scheme planned by Raven and
his treacherous allies.

Swiftly Cameron turned and followed the fence up the incline some three
or four hundred yards from the cut-bank. At its upper end the fence
curved outward for some distance upon a wide upland valley, then ceased
altogether. Such was the slope of the hill that no living man could turn
a herd of cattle once entered upon that steep incline.

Down the hill, across the valley and up the other side ran Cameron,
keeping low and carefully picking his way among the loose stones till he
came to the other fence which, curving similarly outward, made with its
fellow a perfectly completed funnel. Once between the curving lips of
this funnel nothing could save the rushing, crowding cattle from the
deadly cut-bank below.

“Oh, if I only had my horse,” groaned Cameron, “I might have a chance to
turn them off just here.”

At the point at which he stood the slope of the hillside fell somewhat
toward the left and away slightly from the mouth of the funnel. A
skilled cowboy with sufficient nerve, on a first-class horse, might turn
the herd away from the cut-bank into the little coulee that led down
from the end of the fence, but for a man on foot the thing was quite
impossible. He determined, however, to make the effort. No man can
certainly tell how cattle will behave when excited and at night.

As he stood there rapidly planning how to divert the rush of cattle from
that deadly funnel, there rose on the still night air a soft rumbling
sound like low and distant thunder. That sound Cameron knew only too
well. It was the pounding of two hundred steers upon the resounding
prairie. He rushed back again to the right side of the fenced runway,
and then forward to meet the coming herd. A half moon rising over the
round top of the hill revealed the black surging mass of steers, their
hoofs pounding like distant artillery, their horns rattling like a
continuous crash of riflery. Before them at a distance of a hundred
yards or more a mounted Indian rode toward the farther side of the
funnel and took his stand at the very spot at which there was some hope
of diverting the rushing herd from the cut-bank down the side coulee to
safety.

“That man has got to go,” said Cameron to himself, drawing his gun. But
before he could level it there shot out from the dim light behind the
Indian a man on horseback. Like a lion on its prey the horse leaped with
a wicked scream at the Indian pony. Before that furious leap both man
and pony went down and rolled over and over in front of the pounding
herd. Over the prostrate pony leaped the horse and up the hillside fair
in the face of that rushing mass of maddened steers. Straight across
their face sped the horse and his rider, galloping lightly, with never
a swerve or hesitation, then swiftly wheeling as the steers drew almost
level with him he darted furiously on their flank and rode close at
their noses. “Crack! Crack!” rang the rider’s revolver, and two steers
in the far flank dropped to the earth while over them surged the
following herd. Again the revolver rang out, once, twice, thrice, and
at each crack a leader on the flank farthest away plunged down and was
submerged by the rushing tide behind. For an instant the column faltered
on its left and slowly began to swerve in that direction. Then upon the
leaders of the right flank the black horse charged furiously, biting,
kicking, plunging like a thing possessed of ten thousand devils.
Steadily, surely the line continued to swerve.

“My God!” cried Cameron, unable to believe his eyes. “They are turning!
They are turned!”

With wild cries and discharging his revolver fair in the face of the
leaders, Cameron rushed out into the open and crossed the mouth of the
funnel.

“Go back, you fool! Go back!” yelled the man on horseback. “Go back! I
have them!” He was right. Cameron’s sudden appearance gave the final and
necessary touch to the swerving movement. Across the mouth of the funnel
with its yawning deadly cut-bank, and down the side coulee, carrying
part of the fence with them, the herd crashed onward, with the black
horse hanging on their flank still biting and kicking with a kind of
joyous fury.

“Raven! Raven!” cried Cameron in glad accents. “It is Raven! Thank God,
he is straight after all!” A great tide of gratitude and admiration
for the outlaw was welling up in his heart. But even as he ran there
thundered past him an Indian on horseback, the reins flying loose and a
rifle in his hands. As he flashed past a gleam of moonlight caught his
face, the face of a demon.

“Little Thunder!” cried Cameron, whipping out his gun and firing, but
with no apparent effect, at the flying figure.

With his gun still in his hand, Cameron ran on down the coulee in the
wake of Little Thunder. Far away could be heard the roar of the rushing
herd, but nothing could be seen of Raven. Running as he had never run in
his life, Cameron followed hard upon the Indian’s track, who was by this
time some hundred yards in advance. Suddenly in the moonlight, and far
down the coulee, Raven could be seen upon his black horse cantering
easily up the slope and toward the swiftly approaching Indian.

“Raven! Raven!” shouted Cameron, firing his gun. “On guard! On guard!”

Raven heard, looked up and saw the Indian bearing down upon him. His
horse, too, saw the approaching foe and, gathering himself, in two short
leaps rushed like a whirlwind at him, but, swerving aside, the Indian
avoided the charging stallion. Cameron saw his rifle go up to his
shoulder, a shot reverberated through the coulee, Raven swayed in his
saddle. A second shot and the black horse was fair upon the Indian pony,
hurling him to the ground and falling himself upon him. As the Indian
sprang to his feet Raven was upon him. He gripped him by the throat and
shook him as a dog shakes a rat. Once, twice, his pistol fell upon the
snarling face and the Indian crumpled up and lay still, battered to
death.

“Thank God!” cried Cameron, as he came up, struggling with his sobbing
breath. “You have got the beast.”

“Yes, I have got him,” said Raven, with his hand to his side, “but I
guess he has got me too. And--” he paused. His eye fell upon his horse
lying upon his side and feebly kicking--“ah, I fear he has got you as
well, Nighthawk, old boy.” As he staggered over toward his horse the
sound of galloping hoofs was heard coming down the coulee.

“Here are some more of them!” cried Cameron, drawing out his guns.

“All right, Cameron, my boy, just back up here beside me,” said Raven,
as he coolly loaded his empty revolver. “We can send a few more of these
devils to hell. You are a good sport, old chap, and I want to go out in
no better company.”

“Hold up!” cried Cameron. “There is a woman. Why, there is a Policeman.
They are friends, Raven. It is the doctor and Moira. Hurrah! Here you
are, Martin. Quick! Quick! Oh, my God! He is dying!”

Raven had sunk to his knees beside his horse. They gathered round him, a
Mounted Police patrol picked up on the way by Dr. Martin, Moira who had
come to show them the trail, and Smith.

“Nighthawk, old boy,” they heard Raven say, his hand patting the
shoulder of the noble animal, “he has done for you, I fear.” His voice
came in broken sobs. The great horse lifted his beautiful head and
looked round toward his master. “Ah, my boy, we have done many a journey
together!” cried Raven as he threw his arm around the glossy neck, “and
on this last one too we shall not be far apart.” The horse gave a slight
whinny, nosed into his master’s hand and laid his head down again. A
slight quiver of the limbs and he was still for ever. “Ah, he has gone!”
 cried Raven, “my best, my only friend.”

“No, no,” cried Cameron, “you are with friends now, Raven, old man.” He
offered his hand. Raven took it wonderingly.

“You mean it, Cameron?”

“Yes, with all my heart. You are a true man, if God ever made one, and
you have shown it to-night.”

“Ah!” said Raven, with a kind of sigh as he sank back and leaned up
against his horse. “That is good to hear. It is long since I have had a
friend.”

“Quick, Martin!” said Cameron. “He is wounded.”

“What? Where?” said the doctor, kneeling down beside him and tearing
open his coat and vest. “Oh, my God!” cried the doctor. “He is--” The
doctor paused abruptly.

“What do you say? Oh, Dr. Martin, he is not badly wounded?” Moira threw
herself on her knees beside the wounded man and caught his hand. “Oh, it
is cold, cold,” she cried through rushing tears. “Can you not help him?
Oh, you must not let him die.”

“Surely he is not dying?” said Cameron.

The doctor was silently and swiftly working with his syringe.

“How long, Doctor?” inquired Raven in a quiet voice.

“Half an hour, perhaps less,” said the doctor brokenly. “Have you any
pain?”

“No, very little. It is quite easy. Cameron,” he said, his voice
beginning to fail, “I want you to send a letter which you will find in
my pocket addressed to my brother. Tell no one the name. And add this,
that I forgive him. It was really not worth while,” he added wearily,
“to hate him so. And say to the Superintendent I was on the straight
with him, with you all, with my country in this rebellion business. I
heard about this raid; and I fancy I have rather spoiled their pemmican.
I have run some cattle in my time, but you know, Cameron, a fellow who
has worn the uniform could not mix in with these beastly breeds against
the Queen, God bless her!”

“Oh, Dr. Martin,” cried the girl piteously, shaking him by the arm, “do
not tell me you can do nothing. Try--try something.” She began again to
chafe the cold hand, her tears falling upon it.

Raven looked up quickly at her.

“You are weeping for me, Miss Moira?” he said, surprise and wonder in
his face. “For me? A horse-thief, an outlaw, for me? I thank you. And
forgive me--may I kiss your hand?” He tried feebly to lift her hand to
his lips.

“No, no,” cried the girl. “Not my hand!” and leaning over him she kissed
him on the brow. His eyes were still upon her.

“Thank you,” he said feebly, a rare, beautiful smile lighting up the
white face. “You make me believe in God’s mercy.”

There was a quick movement in the group and Smith was kneeling beside
the dying man.

“God’s mercy, Mr. Raven,” he said in an eager voice, “is infinite. Why
should you not believe in it?”

Raven looked at him curiously.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a quaintly humorous smile, “you are the chap
that chucked Jerry away from the door?”

Smith nodded, then said earnestly:

“Mr. Raven, you must believe in God’s mercy.”

“God’s mercy,” said the dying man slowly. “Yes, God’s mercy. What is it
again? ‘God--be--merciful--to me--a sinner.’” Once more he opened his
eyes and let them rest upon the face of the girl bending over him.
“Yes,” he said, “you helped me to believe in God’s mercy.” With a sigh
as of content he settled himself quietly against the shoulders of his
dead horse.

“Good old comrade,” he said, “good-by!” He closed his eyes and drew a
deep breath. They waited for another, but there was no more.

“He is gone,” said the doctor.

“Gone?” cried Moira. “Gone? Ochone, but he was the gallant gentleman!”
 she wailed, lapsing into her Highland speech. “Oh, but he had the brave
heart and the true heart. Ochone! Ochone!” She swayed back and forth
upon her knees with hands clasped and tears running down her cheeks,
bending over the white face that lay so still in the moonlight and
touched with the majesty of death.

“Come, Moira! Come, Moira!” said her brother surprised at her unwonted
display of emotion. “You must control yourself.”

“Leave her alone. Let her cry. She is in a hard spot,” said Dr. Martin
in a sharp voice in which grief and despair were mingled.

Cameron glanced at his friend’s face. It was the face of a haggard old
man.

“You are used up, old boy,” he said kindly, putting his hand on the
doctor’s arm. “You need rest.”

“Rest?” said the doctor. “Rest? Not I. But you do. And you too, Miss
Moira,” he added gently. “Come,” giving her his hand, “you must get
home.” There was in his voice a tone of command that made the girl look
up quickly and obey.

“And you?” she said. “You must be done.”

“Done? Yes, but what matter? Take her home, Cameron.”

“And what about you?” inquired Cameron.

“Smith, the constable and I will look after--him--and the horse. Send a
wagon to-morrow morning.”

Without further word the brother and sister mounted their horses.

“Good-by, old man. See you to-morrow,” said Cameron.

“Good-night,” said the doctor shortly.

The girl gave him her hand.

“Good-night,” she said simply, her eyes full of a dumb pain.

“Good-by, Miss Moira,” said the doctor, who held her hand for just a
moment as if to speak again, then abruptly he turned his back on her
without further word and so stood with never a glance more after her.
It was for him a final farewell to hopes that had lived with him and had
warmed his heart for the past three years. Now they were dead, dead as
the dead man upon whose white still face he stood looking down.

“Thief, murderer, outlaw,” he muttered to himself. “Sure enough--sure
enough. And yet you could not help it, nor could she.” But he was not
thinking of the dead man’s record in the books of the Mounted Police.



CHAPTER XIX

THE GREAT CHIEF


On the rampart of hills overlooking the Piegan encampment the sun
was shining pleasantly. The winter, after its final savage kick, had
vanished and summer, crowding hard upon spring, was wooing the bluffs
and hillsides on their southern exposures to don their summer robes of
green. Not yet had the bluffs and hillsides quite yielded to the wooing,
not yet had they donned the bright green apparel of summer, but there
was the promise of summer’s color gleaming through the neutral browns
and grays of the poplar bluffs and the sunny hillsides. The crocuses
with reckless abandon had sprung forth at the first warm kiss of the
summer sun and stood bravely, gaily dancing in their purple and gray,
till whole hillsides blushed for them. And the poplars, hesitating with
dainty reserve, shivered in shy anticipation and waited for a surer
call, still wearing their neutral tints, except where they stood
sheltered by the thick spruces from the surly north wind. There they
had boldly cast aside all prudery and were flirting in all their gallant
trappings with the ardent summer.

Seeing none of all this, but dimly conscious of the good of it, Cameron
and his faithful attendant Jerry lay grimly watching through the
poplars. Three days had passed since the raid, and as yet there was no
sign at the Piegan camp of the returning raiders. Not for one hour
had the camp remained unwatched. Just long enough to bury his new-made
friend, the dead outlaw, did Cameron himself quit the post, leaving
Jerry on guard meantime, and now he was back again, with his glasses
searching every corner of the Piegan camp and watching every movement.
There was upon his face a look that filled with joy his watchful
companion, a look that proclaimed his set resolve that when Eagle
Feather and his young men should appear in camp there would speedily be
swift and decisive action. For three days his keen eyes had looked forth
through the delicate green-brown screen of poplar upon the doings of the
Piegans, the Mounted Police meantime ostentatiously beating up the Blood
Reserve with unwonted threats of vengeance for the raiders, the bruit of
which had spread through all the reserves.

“Don’t do anything rash,” the Superintendent had admonished, as Cameron
appeared demanding three troopers and Jerry, with whom to execute
vengeance upon those who had brought death to a gallant gentleman and
his gallant steed, for both of whom there had sprung up in Cameron’s
heart a great and admiring affection.

“No, sir,” Cameron had replied, “nothing rash; we will do a little
justice, that is all,” but with so stern a face that the Superintendent
had watched him away with some anxiety and had privately ordered a
strong patrol to keep the Piegan camp under surveillance till Cameron
had done his work. But there was no call for aid from any patrol, as it
turned out; and before this bright summer morning had half passed away
Cameron shut up his glasses, ready for action.

“I think they are all in now, Jerry,” he said. “We will go down. Go and
bring in the men. There is that devil Eagle Feather just riding in.”
 Cameron’s teeth went hard together on the name of the Chief, in whom
the leniency of Police administration of justice had bred only a deeper
treachery.

Within half an hour Cameron with his three troopers and Jerry rode
jingling into the Piegan camp and disposed themselves at suitable
points of vantage. Straight to the Chief’s tent Cameron rode, and found
Trotting Wolf standing at its door.

“I want that cattle-thief, Eagle Feather,” he announced in a clear, firm
voice that rang through the encampment from end to end.

“Eagle Feather not here,” was Trotting Wolf’s sullen but disturbed
reply.

“Trotting Wolf, I will waste no time on you,” said Cameron, drawing his
gun. “I take Eagle Feather or you. Make your choice and quick about
it!” There was in Cameron’s voice a ring of such compelling command that
Trotting Wolf weakened visibly.

“I know not where Eagle Feather--”

“Halt there!” cried Cameron to an Indian who was seen to be slinking
away from the rear of the line of tents.

The Indian broke into a run. Like a whirlwind Cameron was on his trail
and before he had gained the cover of the woods had overtaken him.

“Halt!” cried Cameron again as he reached the Indian’s side. The Indian
stopped and drew a knife. “You would, eh? Take that, will you?” Leaning
down over his horse’s neck Cameron struck the Indian with the butt of
his gun. Before he could rise the three constables in a converging rush
were upon him and had him handcuffed.

“Now then, where is Eagle Feather?” cried Cameron in a furious voice,
riding his horse into the crowd that had gathered thick about him. “Ah,
I see you,” he cried, touching his horse with his heel as on the farther
edge of the crowd he caught sight of his man. With a single bound his
horse was within touch of the shrinking Indian. “Stand where you are!”
 cried Cameron, springing from his horse and striding to the Chief. “Put
up your hands!” he said, covering him with his gun. “Quick, you dog!” he
added, as Eagle Feather stood irresolute before him. Upon the uplifted
hands Cameron slipped the handcuffs. “Come with me, you cattle-thief,”
 he said, seizing him by the gaudy handkerchief that adorned his neck,
and giving him a quick jerk.

“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron in a terrible voice, wheeling furiously
upon the Chief, “this cattle-thieving of your band must stop. I want the
six men who were in that cattle-raid, or you come with me. Speak quick!”
 he added.

“By Gar!” said Jerry, hugging himself in his delight, to the trooper who
was in charge of the first Indian. “Look lak’ he tak’ de whole camp.”

“By Jove, Jerry, it looks so to me, too! He has got the fear of death on
these chappies. Look at his face. He looks like the very devil.”

It was true. Cameron’s face was gray, with purple blotches, and
distorted with passion, his eyes were blazing with fury, his manner one
of reckless savage abandon. There was but little delay. The rumors
of vengeance stored up for the raiders, the paralyzing effect of the
failure of the raid, the condemnation of a guilty conscience, but
above all else the overmastering rage of Cameron, made anything like
resistance simply impossible. In a very few minutes Cameron had his
prisoners in line and was riding to the Fort, where he handed them over
to the Superintendent for justice.

That business done, he found his patrol-work pressing upon him with a
greater insistence than ever, for the runners from the half-breeds and
the Northern Indians were daily arriving at the reserves bearing
reports of rebel victories of startling magnitude. But even without
any exaggeration tales grave enough were being carried from lip to lip
throughout the Indian tribes. Small wonder that the irresponsible young
Chiefs, chafing under the rule of the white man and thirsting for the
mad rapture of fight, were straining almost to the breaking point the
authority of the cooler older heads, so that even that subtle redskin
statesman, Crowfoot, began to fear for his own position in the Blackfeet
confederacy.

As the days went on the Superintendent at Macleod, whose duty it was to
hold in statu quo that difficult country running up into the mountains
and down to the American boundary-line, found his task one that would
have broken a less cool-headed and stout-hearted officer.

The situation in which he found himself seemed almost to invite
destruction. On the eighteenth of March he had sent the best of his men,
some twenty-five of them, with his Inspector, to join the Alberta Field
Force at Calgary, whence they made that famous march to Edmonton of over
two hundred miles in four and a half marching days. From Calgary, too,
had gone a picked body of Police with Superintendent Strong and his
scouts as part of the Alberta Field Force under General Strange. Thus
it came that by the end of April the Superintendent at Fort Macleod had
under his command only a handful of his trained Police, supported by two
or three companies of Militia--who, with all their ardor, were unskilled
in plain-craft, strange to the country, new to war, ignorant of the
habits and customs and temper of the Indians with whom they were
supposed to deal--to hold the vast extent of territory under his charge,
with its little scattered hamlets of settlers, safe in the presence of
the largest and most warlike of the Indian tribes in Western Canada.

Every day the strain became more intense. A crisis appeared to be
reached when the news came that on the twenty-fourth of April General
Middleton had met a check at Fish Creek, which, though not specially
serious in itself, revealed the possibilities of the rebel strategy and
gave heart to the enemy immediately engaged.

And, though Fish Creek was no great fight, the rumor of it ran through
the Western reserves like red fire through prairie-grass, blowing almost
into flame the war-spirit of the young braves of the Bloods, Piegans
and Sarcees and even of the more stable Blackfeet. Three days after that
check, the news of it was humming through every tepee in the West,
and for a week or more it took all the cool courage and steady nerve
characteristic of the Mounted Police to enable them to ride without
flurry or hurry their daily patrols through the reserves.

At this crisis it was that the Superintendent at Macleod gathered
together such of his officers and non-commissioned officers as he could
in council at Fort Calgary, to discuss the situation and to plan for all
possible emergencies. The full details of the Fish Creek affair had just
come in. They were disquieting enough, although the Superintendent made
light of them. On the wall of the barrack-room where the council was
gathered there hung a large map of the Territories. The Superintendent,
a man of small oratorical powers, undertook to set forth the disposition
of the various forces now operating in the West.

“Here you observe the main line running west from Regina to the
mountains, some five hundred and fifty miles,” he said. “And here,
roughly, two hundred and fifty miles north, is the northern boundary
line of our settlements, Prince Albert at the east, Battleford at the
center, Edmonton at the west, each of these points the center of a
country ravaged by half-breeds and bands of Indians. To each of these
points relief-expeditions have been sent.

“This line represents the march of Commissioner Irvine from Regina to
Prince Albert--a most remarkable march that was too, gentlemen, nearly
three hundred miles over snow-bound country in about seven days. That
march will be remembered, I venture to say. The Commissioner still holds
Prince Albert, and we may rely upon it will continue to hold it safe
against any odds. Meantime he is scouting the country round about,
preventing Indians from reinforcing the enemy in any large numbers.

“Next, to the west is Battleford, which holds the central position and
is the storm-center of the rebellion at present. This line shows the
march of Colonel Otter with Superintendent Herchmer from Swift Current
to that point. We have just heard that Colonel Otter has arrived at
Battleford and has raised the siege. But large bands of Indians are
in the vicinity of Battleford and the situation there is extremely
critical. I understand that old Oo-pee-too-korah-han-apee-wee-yin--” the
Superintendent prided himself upon his mastery of Indian names and
ran off this polysyllabic cognomen with the utmost facility--“the
Pond-maker, or Pound-maker as he has come to be called, is in the
neighborhood. He is not a bad fellow, but he is a man of unusual
ability, far more able than of the Willow Crees, Beardy, as he is
called, though not so savage, and he has a large and compact body of
Indians under him.

“Then here straight north from us some two hundred miles is Edmonton,
the center of a very wide district sparsely settled, with a strong
half-breed element in the immediate neighborhood and Big Bear and Little
Pine commanding large bodies of Indians ravaging the country round
about. Inspector Griesbach is in command of this district, located
at Fort Saskatchewan, which is in close touch with Edmonton. General
Strange, commanding the Alberta Field Force and several companies of
Militia, together with our own men under Superintendent Strong and
Inspector Dickson, are on the way to relieve this post. Inspector
Dickson, I understand, has successfully made the crossing of the Red
Deer with his nine pr. gun, a quite remarkable feat I assure you.

“But, gentlemen, you see the position in which we are placed in
this section of the country. From the Cypress Hills here away to the
southeast, westward to the mountains and down to the boundary-line,
you have a series of reserves almost completely denuded of Police
supervision. True, we are fortunate in having at the Blackfoot Crossing,
at Fort Calgary and at Fort Macleod, companies of Militia; but the very
presence of these troops incites the Indians, and in some ways is a
continual source of unrest among them.

“Every day runners from the North and East come to our reserves with
extraordinary tales of rebel victories. This Fish Creek business has had
a tremendous influence upon the younger element. On every reserve there
are scores of young braves eager to rise. What a general uprising would
mean you know, or think you know. An Indian war of extermination is
a horrible possibility. The question before us all is--what is to be
done?”

After a period of conversation the Superintendent summed up the results
of the discussion in a few short sentences:

“It seems, gentlemen, there is not much more to be done than what we
are already doing. But first of all I need not say that we must keep our
nerve. I do not believe any Indian will see any sign of doubt or fear in
the face of any member of this Force. Our patrols must be regularly
and carefully done. There are a lot of things which we must not see, a
certain amount of lawbreaking which we must not notice. Avoid on every
possible occasion pushing things to extremes; but where it is necessary
to act we must act with promptitude and fearlessness, as Mr. Cameron
here did at the Piegan Reserve a week or so ago. I mention this because
I consider that action of Cameron’s a typically fine piece of Police
work. We must keep on good terms with the Chiefs, tell them what good
news there is to tell. We must intercept every runner possible. Arrest
them and bring them to the barracks. The situation is grave, but not
hopeless. Great responsibilities rest upon us, gentlemen. I do not
believe that we shall fail.”

The little company broke up with resolute and grim determination stamped
on every face. There would be no weakening at any spot where a Mounted
Policeman was on duty.

“Cameron, just a moment,” said the Superintendent as he was passing out.
“Sit down. You were quite right in that Eagle Feather matter. You did
the right thing in pushing that hard.”

“I somehow felt I could do it, sir,” replied Cameron simply. “I had the
feeling in my bones that we could have taken the whole camp that day.”

The Superintendent nodded. “I understand. And that is the way we should
feel. But don’t do anything rash this week. This is a week of crisis.
If any further reverse should happen to our troops it will be extremely
difficult, if indeed possible, to hold back the younger braves. If there
should be a rising--which may God forbid--my plan then would be to back
right on to the Blackfeet Reserve. If old Crowfoot keeps steady--and
with our presence to support him I believe he would--we could hold
things safe for a while. But, Cameron, that Sioux devil Copperhead must
be got rid of. It is he that is responsible for this restless spirit
among the younger Chiefs. He has been in the East, you say, for the last
three weeks, but he will soon be back. His runners are everywhere. His
work lies here, and the only hope for the rebellion lies here, and he
knows it. My scouts inform me that there is something big immediately
on. A powwow is arranged somewhere before final action. I have reason to
suspect that if we sustain another reverse and if the minor Chiefs from
all the reserves come to an agreement, Crowfoot will yield. That is the
game that the Sioux is working on now.”

“I know that quite well, sir,” replied Cameron. “Copperhead has captured
practically all the minor Chiefs.”

“The checking of that big cattle-run, Cameron, was a mighty good stroke
for us. You did that magnificently.”

“No, sir,” replied Cameron firmly. “We owe that to Raven.”

“Yes, yes, we do owe a good deal to--to--that--to Raven. Fine fellow
gone wrong. Yes, we owe a lot to him, but we owe a lot to you as
well, Cameron. I am not saying you will ever get any credit for it,
but--well--who cares so long as the thing is done? But this Sioux must
be got at all costs--at all costs, Cameron, remember. I have never
asked you to push this thing to the limit, but now at all costs, dead or
alive, that Sioux must be got rid of.”

“I could have potted him several times,” replied Cameron, “but did not
wish to push matters to extremes.”

“Quite right. Quite right. That has been our policy hitherto, but now
things have reached such a crisis that we can take no further chances.
The Sioux must be eliminated.”

“All right, sir,” said Cameron, and a new purpose shaped itself in his
heart. At all costs he would get the Sioux, alive if possible, dead if
not.

Plainly the first thing was to uncover his tracks, and with this
intention Cameron proceeded to the Blackfeet Reserve, riding with Jerry
down the Bow River from Fort Calgary, until, as the sun was setting on
an early May evening, he came in sight of the Blackfoot Crossing.

Not wishing to visit the Militia camp at that point, and desiring
to explore the approaches of the Blackfeet Reserve with as little
ostentation as possible, he sent Jerry on with the horses, with
instructions to meet him later on in the evening on the outside of the
Blackfeet camp, and took a side trail on foot leading to the reserve
through a coulee. Through the bottom of the coulee ran a little
stream whose banks were packed tight with alders, willows and poplars.
Following the trail to where it crossed the stream, Cameron left it for
the purpose of quenching his thirst, and proceeded up-stream some little
way from the usual crossing. Lying there prone upon his face he caught
the sound of hoofs, and, peering through the alders, he saw a line
of Indians riding down the opposite bank. Burying his head among the
tangled alders and hardly breathing, he watched them one by one cross
the stream not more than thirty yards away and clamber up the bank.

“Something doing here, sure enough,” he said to himself as he noted
their faces. Three of them he knew, Red Crow of the Bloods, Trotting
Wolf of the Piegans, Running Stream of the Blackfeet, then came three
others unknown to Cameron, and last in the line Cameron was startled to
observe Copperhead himself, while close at his side could be seen the
slim figure of his son. As the Sioux passed by Cameron’s hiding-place
he paused and looked steadily down into the alders for a moment or two,
then rode on.

“Saved yourself that time, old man,” said Cameron as the Sioux
disappeared, following the others up the trail. “We will see just which
trail you take,” he continued, following them at a safe distance and
keeping himself hidden by the brush till they reached the open and
disappeared over the hill. Swiftly Cameron ran to the top, and, lying
prone among the prairie grass, watched them for some time as they took
the trail that ran straight westward.

“Sarcee Reserve more than likely,” he muttered to himself. “If Jerry
were only here! But he is not, so I must let them go in the meantime.
Later, however, we shall come up with you, gentlemen. And now for old
Crowfoot and with no time to lose.”

He had only a couple of miles to go and in a few minutes he had reached
the main trail from the Militia camp at the Crossing. In the growing
darkness he could not discern whether Jerry had passed with the horses
or not, so he pushed on rapidly to the appointed place of meeting and
there found Jerry waiting for him.

“Listen, Jerry!” said he. “Copperhead is back. I have just seen him
and his son with Red Crow, Trotting Wolf and Running Stream. There were
three others--Sioux I think they are; at any rate I did not know them.
They passed me in the coulee and took the Sarcee trail. Now what do you
think is up?”

Jerry pondered. “Come from Crowfoot, heh?”

“From the reserve here anyway,” answered Cameron.

“Trotting Wolf beeg Chief--Red Crow beeg Chief--ver’ bad! ver’ bad!
Dunno me--look somet’ing--beeg powwow mebbe. Ver’ bad! Ver’ bad! Go
Sarcee Reserve, heh?” Again Jerry pondered. “Come from h’east--by
Blood--Piegan--den Blackfeet--go Sarcee. What dey do? Where go den?”

“That is the question, Jerry,” said Cameron.

“Sout’ to Weegwam? No, nord to Ghost Reever--Manitou
Rock--dunno--mebbe.”

“By Jove, Jerry, I believe you may be right. I don’t think they would go
to the Wigwam--we caught them there once--nor to the canyon. What about
this Ghost River? I don’t know the trail. Where is it?”

“Nord from Bow Reever by Kananaskis half day to Ghost Reever--bad
trail--small leetle reever--ver’ stony--ver’ cold--beeg tree wit’ long
beard.”

“Long beard?”

“Yes--long, long gray moss lak’ beard--ver’ strange place dat--from
Ghost Reever west one half day to beeg Manitou Rock--no trail. Beeg
medicine-dance dere--see heem once long tam’ ‘go--leetle boy me--beeg
medicine--Indian debbil stay dere--Indian much scare’--only go when mak’
beeg tam’--beeg medicine.”

“Let me see if I get you, Jerry. A bad trail leads half a day north from
the Bow at Kananaskis to Ghost River, eh?”

Jerry nodded.

“Then up the Ghost River westward through the bearded trees half a day
to the Manitou Rock? Is that right?”

Again Jerry nodded.

“How shall I know the rock?”

“Beeg rock,” said Jerry. “Beeg dat tree,” pointing to a tall poplar,
“and cut straight down lak some knife--beeg rock--black rock.”

“All right,” said Cameron. “What I want to know just now is does
Crowfoot know of this thing? I fancy he must. I am going in to see him.
Copperhead has just come from the reserve. He has Running Stream with
him. It is possible, just possible, that he may not have seen Crowfoot.
This I shall find out. Now, Jerry, you must follow Copperhead, find out
where he has gone and all you can about this business, and meet me
where the trail reaches the Ghost River. Call in at Fort Calgary. Take a
trooper with you to look after the horses. I shall follow you to-morrow.
If you are not at the Ghost River I shall go right on--that is if I see
any signs.”

“Bon! Good!” said Jerry. And without further word he slipped on to his
horse and disappeared into the darkness, taking the cross-trail through
the coulee by which Cameron had come.

Crowfoot’s camp showed every sign of the organization and discipline of
a master spirit. The tents and houses in which his Indians lived were
extended along both sides of a long valley flanked at both ends by
poplar-bluffs. At the bottom of the valley there was a series of
“sleughs” or little lakes, affording good grazing and water for the
herds of cattle and ponies that could be seen everywhere upon the
hillsides. At a point farthest from the water and near to a poplar-bluff
stood Crowfoot’s house. At the first touch of summer, however,
Crowfoot’s household had moved out from their dwelling, after the manner
of the Indians, and had taken up their lodging in a little group of
tents set beside the house.

Toward this little group of tents Cameron rode at an easy lope. He found
Crowfoot alone beside his fire, except for the squaws that were cleaning
up after the evening meal and the papooses and older children rolling
about on the grass. As Cameron drew near, all vanished, except Crowfoot
and a youth about seventeen years of age, whose strongly marked features
and high, fearless bearing proclaimed him Crowfoot’s son. Dismounting,
Cameron dropped the reins over his horse’s head and with a word of
greeting to the Chief sat down by the fire. Crowfoot acknowledged his
salutation with a suspicious look and grunt.

“Nice night, Crowfoot,” said Cameron cheerfully. “Good weather for the
grass, eh?”

“Good,” said Crowfoot gruffly.

Cameron pulled out his tobacco pouch and passed it to the Chief. With an
air of indescribable condescension Crowfoot took the pouch, knocked the
ashes from his pipe, filled it from the pouch and handed it back to the
owner.

“Boy smoke?” inquired Cameron, holding out the pouch toward the youth.

“Huh!” grunted Crowfoot with a slight relaxing of his face. “Not
yet--too small.”

The lad stood like a statue, and, except for a slight stiffening of
his tall lithe figure, remained absolutely motionless, after the Indian
manner. For some time they smoked in silence.

“Getting cold,” said Cameron at length, as he kicked the embers of the
fire together.

Crowfoot spoke to his son and the lad piled wood on the fire till it
blazed high, then, at a sign from his father, he disappeared into the
tent.

“Ha! That is better,” said Cameron, stretching out his hands toward the
fire and disposing himself so that the old Chief’s face should be set
clearly in its light.

“The Police ride hard these days?” said Crowfoot in his own language,
after a long silence.

“Oh, sometimes,” replied Cameron carelessly, “when cattle-thieves ride
too.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot innocently.

“Yes, some Indians forget all that the Police have done for them,
and like coyotes steal upon the cattle at night and drive them over
cut-banks.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot again, apparently much interested.

“Yes,” continued Cameron, fully aware that he was giving the old Chief
no news, “Eagle Feather will be much wiser when he rides over the plains
again.”

“Huh!” ejaculated the Chief in agreement.

“But Eagle Feather,” continued Cameron, “is not the worst Indian. He is
no good, only a little boy who does what he is told.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot with childlike simplicity.

“Yes, he is an old squaw serving his Chief.”

“Huh?” again inquired Crowfoot, moving his pipe from his mouth in his
apparent anxiety to learn the name of this unknown master of Eagle
Feather.

“Onawata, the Sioux, is a great Chief,” said Cameron.

Crowfoot grunted his indifference.

“He makes all the little Chiefs, Blood, Piegan, Sarcee, Blackfeet obey
him,” said Cameron in a scornful voice, shading his face from the fire
with his hand.

This time Crowfoot made no reply.

“But he has left this country for a while?” continued Cameron.

Crowfoot grunted acquiescence.

“My brother has not seen this Sioux for some weeks?” Again Cameron’s
hand shaded his face from the fire while his eyes searched the old
Chief’s impassive countenance.

“No,” said Crowfoot. “Not for many days. Onawata bad man--make much
trouble.”

“The big war is going on good,” said Cameron, abruptly changing the
subject.

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” said Cameron. “At Fish Creek the half-breeds and Indians had a
good chance to wipe out General Middleton’s column.” And he proceeded
to give a graphic account of the rebels’ opportunity at that unfortunate
affair. “But,” he concluded, “the half-breeds and Indians have no
Chief.”

“No Chief,” agreed Crowfoot with emphasis, his old eyes gleaming in
the firelight. “No Chief,” he repeated. “Where Big Bear--Little
Pine--Kah-mee-yes-too-waegs and Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin?”

“Oh,” said Cameron, “here, there, everywhere.”

“Huh! No big Chief,” grunted Crowfoot in disgust. “One big Chief make
all Indians one.”

It seemed worth while to Cameron to take a full hour from his precious
time to describe fully the operations of the troops and to make clear
to the old warrior the steady advances which the various columns were
making, the points they had relieved and the ultimate certainty of
victory.

“Six thousand men now in the West,” he concluded, “besides the Police.
And ten thousand more waiting to come.”

Old Crowfoot was evidently much impressed and was eager to learn more.

“I must go now,” said Cameron, rising. “Where is Running Stream?” he
asked, suddenly facing Crowfoot.

“Huh! Running Stream he go hunt--t’ree day--not come back,” answered
Crowfoot quickly.

Cameron sat down again by the fire, poked up the embers till the blaze
mounted high.

“Crowfoot,” he said solemnly, “this day Onawata was in this camp and
spoke with you. Wait!” he said, putting up his hand as the old Chief
was about to speak. “This evening he rode away with Running Stream, Red
Crow, Trotting Wolf. The Sioux for many days has been leading about your
young men like dogs on a string. To-day he has put the string round the
necks of Red Crow, Running Stream, Trotting Wolf. I did not think he
could lead Crowfoot too like a little dog.

“Wait!” he said again as Crowfoot rose to his feet in indignation.
“Listen! The Police will get that Sioux. And the Police will take the
Chiefs that he led round like little dogs and send them away. The Great
Mother cannot have men as Chiefs whom she cannot trust. For many years
the Police have protected the Indians. It was Crowfoot himself who once
said when the treaty was being made--Crowfoot will remember--‘If the
Police had not come to the country where would we all be now? Bad men
and whisky were killing us so fast that very few indeed of us would have
been left to-day. The Police have protected us as the feathers of the
bird protect it from the frosts of winter.’ This is what Crowfoot said
to the Great Mother’s Councilor when he made a treaty with the Great
Mother.”

Here Cameron rose to his feet and stood facing the Chief.

“Is Crowfoot a traitor? Does he give his hand and draw it back again?
It is not good that, when trouble comes, the Indians should join the
enemies of the Police and of the Great Mother across the sea. These
enemies will be scattered like dust before the wind. Does Crowfoot think
when the leaves have fallen from the trees this year there will be any
enemies left? Bah! This Sioux dog does not know the Great Mother, nor
her soldiers, nor her Police. Crowfoot knows. Why does he talk to the
enemies of the Great Mother and of his friends the Police? What does
Crowfoot say? I go to-night to take Onawata. Already my men are upon his
trail. Where does Crowfoot stand? With Onawata and the little Chiefs
he leads around or with the Great Mother and the Police? Speak! I am
waiting.”

The old Chief was deeply stirred. For some moments while Cameron was
speaking he had been eagerly seeking an opportunity to reply, but
Cameron’s passionate torrent of words prevented him breaking in without
discourtesy. When Cameron ceased, however, the old Chief stretched out
his hand and in his own language began:

“Many years ago the Police came to this country. My people then were
poor--”

At this point the sound of a galloping horse was heard, mingled with the
loud cries of its rider. Crowfoot paused and stood intently listening.
Cameron could get no meaning from the shouting. From every tent men came
running forth and from the houses along the trail on every hand, till
before the horse had gained Crowfoot’s presence there had gathered about
the Chief’s fire a considerable crowd of Indians, whose numbers were
momentarily augmented by men from the tents and houses up and down the
trail.

In calm and dignified silence the old Chief waited the rider’s word. He
was an Indian runner and he bore an important message.

Dismounting, the runner stood, struggling to recover his breath and to
regain sufficient calmness to deliver his message in proper form to the
great Chief of the Blackfeet confederacy. While he stood thus struggling
with himself Cameron took the opportunity to closely scrutinize his
face.

“A Sarcee,” he muttered. “I remember him--an impudent cur.” He moved
quietly toward his horse, drew the reins up over his head, and, leading
him back toward the fire, took his place beside Crowfoot again.

The Sarcee had begun his tale, speaking under intense excitement which
he vainly tried to control. He delivered his message. Such was the
rapidity and incoherence of his speech, however, that Cameron could make
nothing of it. The effect upon the crowd was immediate and astounding.
On every side rose wild cries of fierce exultation, while at Cameron
angry looks flashed from every eye. Old Crowfoot alone remained quiet,
calm, impassive, except for the fierce gleaming of his steady eyes.

When the runner had delivered his message he held up his hand and
spoke but a single word. Immediately there was silence as of the grave.
Nothing was heard, not even the breathing of the Indians close about
him. In sharp, terse sentences the old Chief questioned the runner, who
replied at first eagerly, then, as the questions proceeded, with some
hesitation. Finally, with a wave of the hand Crowfoot dismissed him and
stood silently pondering for some moments. Then he turned to his people
and said with quiet and impressive dignity:

“This is a matter for the Council. To-morrow we will discuss it.” Then
turning to Cameron he said in a low voice and with grave courtesy, “It
is wise that my brother should go while the trails are open.”

“The trails are always open to the Great Mother’s Mounted Police,” said
Cameron, looking the old Chief full in the eye.

Crowfoot stood silent, evidently thinking deeply.

“It is right that my brother should know,” he said at length, “what the
runner tells,” and in his deep guttural voice there was a ring of pride.

“Good news is always welcome,” said Cameron, as he coolly pulled out his
pipe and offered his pouch once more to Crowfoot, who, however, declined
to see it.

“The white soldiers have attacked the Indians and have been driven
back,” said Crowfoot with a keen glance at Cameron’s face.

“Ah!” said Cameron, smiling. “What Indians? What white soldiers?”

“The soldiers that marched to Battleford. They went against
Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin and the Indians did not run away.” No
words could describe the tone and attitude of exultant and haughty pride
with which the old Chief delivered this information.

“Crowfoot,” said Cameron with deliberate emphasis, “it was Colonel Otter
and Superintendent Herchmer of the Mounted Police that went north
to Battleford. You do not know Colonel Otter, but you do know
Superintendent Herchmer. Tell me, would Superintendent Herchmer and the
Police run away?”

“The runner tells that the white soldiers ran away,” said Crowfoot
stubbornly.

“Then the runner lies!” Cameron’s voice rang out loud and clear.

Swift as a lightning flash the Sarcee sprang at Cameron, knife in hand,
crying in the Blackfeet tongue that terrible cry so long dreaded by
settlers in the Western States of America, “Death to the white man!”
 Without apparently moving a muscle, still holding by the mane of his
horse, Cameron met the attack with a swift and well-placed kick which
caught the Indian’s right wrist and flung his knife high in the air.
Following up the kick, Cameron took a single step forward and met the
murderous Sarcee with a straight left-hand blow on the jaw that landed
the Indian across the fire and deposited him kicking amid the crowd.

Immediately there was a quick rush toward the white man, but the rush
halted before two little black barrels with two hard, steady, gray eyes
gleaming behind them.

“Crowfoot!” said Cameron sharply. “I hold ten dead Indians in my hands.”

With a single stride Crowfoot was at Cameron’s side. A single sharp
stern word of command he uttered and the menacing Indians slunk back
into the shadows, but growling like angry beasts.

“Is it wise to anger my young men?” said Crowfoot in a low voice.

“Is it wise,” replied Cameron sternly, “to allow mad dogs to run loose?
We kill such mad dogs in my country.”

“Huh,” grunted Crowfoot with a shrug of his shoulders. “Let him die!”
 Then in a lower voice he added earnestly, “It would be good to take the
trail before my young men can catch their horses.”

“I was just going, Crowfoot,” said Cameron, stooping to light his
pipe at the fire. “Good-night. Remember what I have said.” And Cameron
cantered away with both hands low before him and guiding his broncho
with his knees, and so rode easily till safely beyond the line of the
reserve. Once out of the reserve he struck his spurs hard into his horse
and sent him onward at headlong pace toward the Militia camp.

Ten minutes after his arrival at the camp every soldier was in his place
ready to strike, and so remained all night, with pickets thrown far out
listening with ears attent for the soft pad of moccasined feet.



CHAPTER XX

THE LAST PATROL


It was still early morning when Cameron rode into the barrack-yard at
Fort Calgary. To the Sergeant in charge, the Superintendent of Police
having departed to Macleod, he reported the events of the preceding
night.

“What about that rumor, Sergeant?” he inquired after he had told his
tale.

“Well, I had the details yesterday,” replied the Sergeant. “Colonel
Otter and a column of some three hundred men with three guns went out
after Pound-maker. The Indians were apparently strongly posted and could
not be dislodged, and I guess our men were glad to get out of the scrape
as easily as they did.”

“Great Heavens!” cried Cameron, more to himself than to the officer,
“what will this mean to us here?”

The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“The Lord only knows!” he said.

“Well, my business presses all the more,” said Cameron. “I’m going after
this Sioux. Jerry is already on his trail. I suppose you cannot let
me have three or four men? There is liable to be trouble and we cannot
afford to make a mess of this thing.”

“Jerry came in last night asking for a man,” replied the Sergeant, “but
I could not spare one. However, we will do our best and send you on the
very first men that come in.”

“Send on half a dozen to-morrow at the very latest,” replied Cameron. “I
shall rely upon you. Let me give you my trail.”

He left a plan of the Ghost River Trail with the Sergeant and rode to
look up Dr. Martin. He found the doctor still in bed and wrathful at
being disturbed.

“I say, Cameron,” he growled, “what in thunder do you mean by roaming
round this way at night and waking up Christian people out of their
sleep?”

“Sorry, old boy,” replied Cameron, “but my business is rather
important.”

And then while the doctor sat and shivered in his night clothes upon the
side of the bed Cameron gave him in detail the history of the previous
evening and outlined his plan for the capture of the Sioux.

Dr. Martin listened intently, noting the various points and sketching an
outline of the trail as Cameron described it.

“I wanted you to know, Martin, in case anything happened. For, well, you
know how it is with my wife just now. A shock might kill her.”

The doctor growled an indistinct reply.

“That is all, old chap. Good-by,” said Cameron, pressing his hand. “This
I feel is my last go with old Copperhead.”

“Your last go?”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed,” he replied lightly. “I am going to get him this
time. There will be no trifling henceforth. Well, good-by, I am off.
By the way, the Sergeant at the barracks has promised to send on half
a dozen men to-morrow to back me up. You might just keep him in mind of
that, for things are so pressing here that he might quite well imagine
that he could not spare the men.”

“Well, that is rather better,” said Martin. “The Sergeant will send
those men all right, or I will know the reason why. Hope you get your
game. Good-by, old man.”

A day’s ride brought Cameron to Kananaskis, where the Sun Dance Trail
ends on one side of the Bow River and the Ghost River Trail begins on
the other. There he found signs to indicate that Jerry was before him
on his way to the Manitou Rock. As Cameron was preparing to camp for
the night there came over him a strong but unaccountable presentiment
of approaching evil, an irresistible feeling that he ought to press
forward.

“Pshaw! I will be seeing spooks next!” he said impatiently to himself.
“I suppose it is the Highlander in me that is seeing visions and
dreaming dreams. I must eat, however, no matter what is going to
happen.”

Leaving his horse saddled, but removing the bridle, he gave him his
feed of oats, then he boiled his tea and made his own supper. As he was
eating the feeling grew more strongly upon him that he should not camp
but go forward at once. At the same time he made the discovery that the
weariness that had almost overpowered him during the last half-hour
of his ride had completely vanished. Hence, with the feeling of half
contemptuous anger at himself for yielding to his presentiment, he
packed up his kit again, bridled his horse, and rode on.

The trail was indeed, as Jerry said, “no trail.” It was rugged with
broken rocks and cumbered with fallen trees, and as it proceeded became
more indistinct. His horse, too, from sheer weariness, for he had
already done his full day’s journey, was growing less sure footed and
so went stumbling noisily along. Cameron began to regret his folly in
yielding to a mere unreasoning imagination and he resolved to spend the
night at the first camping-ground that should offer. The light of the
long spring day was beginning to fade from the sky and in the forest the
deep shadows were beginning to gather. Still no suitable camping-ground
presented itself and Cameron stubbornly pressed forward through the
forest that grew denser and more difficult at every step. After some
hours of steady plodding the trees began to be sensibly larger, the
birch and poplar gave place to spruce and pine and the underbrush almost
entirely disappeared. The trail, too, became better, winding between
the large trees which, with clean trunks, stood wide apart and arranged
themselves in stately high-arched aisles and long corridors. From the
lofty branches overhead the gray moss hung in long streamers, as Jerry
had said, giving to the trees an ancient and weird appearance. Along
these silent, solemn, gray-festooned aisles and corridors Cameron rode
with an uncanny sensation that unseen eyes were peering out upon him
from those dim and festooned corridors on either side. Impatiently he
strove to shake off the feeling, but in vain. At length, forced by
the growing darkness, he decided to camp, when through the shadowy and
silent forest there came to his ears the welcome sound of running water.
It was to Cameron like the sound of a human voice. He almost called
aloud to the running stream as to a friend. It was the Ghost River.

In a few minutes he had reached the water and after picketing his horse
some little distance down the stream and away from the trail, he
rolled himself in his blanket to sleep. The moon rising above the high
tree-tops filled the forest aisles with a soft unearthly light. As his
eye followed down the long dim aisles there grew once more upon him
the feeling that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Vainly he cursed
himself for his folly. He could not sleep. A twig broke near him. He
lay still listening with every nerve taut. He fancied he could hear soft
feet about him and stealing near. With his two guns in hand he sat bolt
upright. Straight before him and not more than ten feet away the form of
an Indian was plainly to be seen. A slight sound to his right drew his
eyes in that direction. There, too, stood the silent form of an Indian,
on his left also an Indian. Suddenly from behind him a deep, guttural
voice spoke, “Look this way!” He turned sharply and found himself gazing
into a rifle-barrel a few feet from his face. “Now look back!” said the
voice. He glanced to right and left, only to find rifles leveled at him
from every side.

“White man put down his guns on ground!” said the same guttural voice.

Cameron hesitated.

“Indian speak no more,” said the voice in a deep growl.

Cameron put his guns down.

“Stand up!” said the voice.

Cameron obeyed. Out from behind the Indian with the leveled rifle glided
another Indian form. It was Copperhead. Two more Indians appeared with
him. All thought of resistance passed from Cameron’s mind. It would mean
instant death, and, what to Cameron was worse than death, the certain
failure of his plans. While he lived he still had hope. Besides, there
would be the Police next day.

With savage, cruel haste Copperhead bound his hands behind his back and
as a further precaution threw a cord about his neck.

“Come!” he said, giving the cord a quick jerk.

“Copperhead,” said Cameron through his clenched teeth, “you will one day
wish you had never done this thing.”

“No speak!” said Copperhead gruffly, jerking the cord so heavily as
almost to throw Cameron off his feet.

Through the night Cameron stumbled on with his captors, Copperhead in
front and the others following. Half dead with sleeplessness and blind
with rage he walked on as if in a hideous nightmare, mechanically
watching the feet of the Indian immediately in front of him and thus
saving himself many a cruel fall and a more cruel jerking of the cord
about his neck, for such was Copperhead’s method of lifting him to his
feet when he fell. It seemed to him as if the night would never pass or
the journey end.

At length the throbbing of the Indian drum fell upon his ears. It was to
him a welcome sound. Nothing could be much more agonizing than what he
was at present enduring. As they approached the Indian camp one of his
captors raised a wild, wailing cry which resounded through the forest
with an unearthly sound. Never had such a cry fallen upon Cameron’s
ears. It was the old-time cry of the Indian warriors announcing that
they were returning in triumph bringing their captives with them.
The drum-beat ceased. Again the cry was raised, when from the Indian
encampment came in reply a chorus of similar cries followed by a rush
of braves to meet the approaching warriors and to welcome them and their
captives.

With loud and discordant exultation straight into the circle of the
firelight cast from many fires Copperhead and his companions marched
their captive. On every side naked painted Indians to the number of
several score crowded in tumultuous uproar. Not for many years had these
Indians witnessed their ancient and joyous sport of baiting a prisoner.

As Cameron came into the clear light of the fire instantly low murmurs
ran round the crowd, for to many of them he was well known. Then silence
fell upon them. His presence there was clearly a shock to many of
them. To take prisoner one of the Mounted Police and to submit him to
indignity stirred strange emotions in their hearts. The keen eye of
Copperhead noted the sudden change of the mood of the Indians and
immediately he gave orders to those who held Cameron in charge, with the
result that they hurried him off and thrust him into a little low hut
constructed of brush and open in front where, after tying his feet
securely, they left him with an Indian on guard in front.

For some moments Cameron lay stupid with weariness and pain till his
weariness overpowered his pain and he sank into sleep. He was recalled
to consciousness by the sensation of something digging into his ribs. As
he sat up half asleep a low “hist!” startled him wide awake. His heart
leaped as he heard out of the darkness a whispered word, “Jerry here.”
 Cameron rolled over and came close against the little half-breed, bound
as he was himself. Again came the “hist!”

“Me all lak’ youse’f,” said Jerry. “No spik any. Look out front.”

The Indian on guard was eagerly looking and listening to what was going
on before him beside the fire. At one side of the circle sat the Indians
in council. Copperhead was standing and speaking to them.

“What is he saying?” said Cameron, his mouth close to Jerry’s ear.

“He say dey keel us queeck. Indian no lak’ keel. Dey scare Police get
‘em. Copperhead he ver’ mad. Say he keel us heemse’f--queeck.”

Again and again and with ever increasing vehemence Copperhead urged his
views upon the hesitating Indians, well aware that by involving them in
such a deed of blood he would irrevocably commit them to rebellion. But
he was dealing with men well-nigh as subtle as himself, and for the very
same reason as he pressed them to the deed they shrank back from it.
They were not yet quite prepared to burn their bridges behind them.
Indeed some of them suggested the wisdom of holding the prisoners as
hostages in case of necessity arising in the future.

“What Indians are here?” whispered Cameron.

“Piegan, Sarcee, Blood,” breathed Jerry. “No Blackfeet come--not
yet--Copperhead he look, look, look all yesterday for Blackfeet
coming. Blackfeet come to-morrow mebbe--den Indian mak’ beeg medicine.
Copperhead he go meet Blackfeet dis day--he catch you--he go ‘gain
to-morrow mebbe--dunno.”

Meantime the discussion in the council was drawing to a climax. With
the astuteness of a true leader Copperhead ceased to urge his view, and,
unable to secure the best, wisely determined to content himself with the
second-best. His vehement tone gave place to one of persuasion. Finally
an agreement appeared to be reached by all. With one consent the council
rose and with hands uplifted they all appeared to take some solemn oath.

“What are they saying?” whispered Cameron.

“He say,” replied Jerry, “he go meet Blackfeet and when he bring ‘em
back den dey keel us sure t’ing. But,” added Jerry with a cheerful
giggle, “he not keel ‘em yet, by Gar!”

For some minutes they waited in silence, then they saw Copperhead with
his bodyguard of Sioux disappear from the circle of the firelight into
the shadows of the forest.

“Now you go sleep,” whispered Jerry. “Me keep watch.”

Even before he had finished speaking Cameron had lain back upon the
ground and in spite of the pain in his tightly bound limbs such was his
utter exhaustion that he fell fast asleep.

It seemed to him but a moment when he was again awakened by the touch
of a hand stealing over his face. The hand reached his lips and rested
there, when he started up wide-awake. A soft hiss from the back of the
hut arrested him.

“No noise,” said a soft guttural voice. Again the hand was thrust
through the brush wall, this time bearing a knife. “Cut string,”
 whispered the voice, while the hand kept feeling for the thongs that
bound Cameron’s hands. In a few moments Cameron was free from his bonds.

“Give me the knife,” he whispered. It was placed in his hands.

“Tell you squaw,” said the voice, “sick boy not forget.”

“I will tell her,” replied Cameron. “She will never forget you.” The boy
laid his hand on Cameron’s lips and was gone.

Soon Jerry too was free. Slowly they wormed their way through the flimsy
brush wall at the back, and, crouching low, looked about them. The camp
was deep in sleep. The fires were smoldering in their ashes. Not an
Indian was moving. Lying across the front of their little hut the
sleeping form of their guard could be seen. The forest was still black
behind them, but already there was in the paling stars the faint promise
of the dawn. Hardly daring to breathe, they rose and stood looking at
each other.

“No stir,” said Jerry with his lips at Cameron’s ear. He dropped on his
hands and knees and began carefully to remove every twig from his path
so that his feet might rest only upon the deep leafy mold of the
forest. Carefully Cameron followed his example, and, working slowly and
painfully, they gained the cover of the dark forest away from the circle
of the firelight.

Scarcely had they reached that shelter when an Indian rose from beside
a fire, raked the embers together, and threw some sticks upon it. As
Cameron stood watching him, his heart-beat thumping in his ears, a
rotten twig snapped under his feet. The Indian turned his face in their
direction, and, bending forward, appeared to be listening intently.
Instantly Jerry, stooping down, made a scrambling noise in the leaves,
ending with a thump upon the ground. Immediately the Indian relaxed his
listening attitude, satisfied that a rabbit was scurrying through the
forest upon his own errand bent. Rigidly silent they stood, watching him
till long after he had lain down again in his place, then once more they
began their painful advance, clearing treacherous twigs from every place
where their feet should rest. Fortunately for their going the forest
here was largely free from underbrush. Working carefully and painfully
for half an hour, and avoiding the trail by the Ghost River, they made
their way out of hearing of the camp and then set off at such speed as
their path allowed, Jerry in the lead and Cameron following.

“Where are you going, Jerry?” inquired Cameron as the little half-breed,
without halt or hesitation, went slipping through the forest.

“Kananaskis,” said Jerry. “Strike trail near Bow Reever.”

“Hold up for a moment, Jerry. I want to talk to you,” said Cameron.

“No! Mak’ speed now. Stop in brush.”

“All right,” said Cameron, following close upon his heels.

The morning broadened into day, but they made no pause till they had
left behind them the open timber and gained the cover of the forest
where the underbrush grew thick. Then Jerry, finding a dry and sheltered
spot, threw himself down and stretched himself at full length waiting
for Cameron’s word.

“Tired, Jerry?” said Cameron.

“Non,” replied the little man scornfully. “When lie down tak’ ‘em easy.”

“Good! Now listen! Copperhead is on his way to meet the Blackfeet, but
I fancy he is going to be disappointed.” Then Cameron narrated to Jerry
the story of his recent interview with Crowfoot. “So I don’t think,” he
concluded, “any Blackfeet will come. Copperhead and Running Stream are
going to be sold this time. Besides that the Police are on their way to
Kananaskis following our trail. They will reach Kananaskis to-night and
start for Ghost River to-morrow. We ought to get Copperhead between us
somewhere on the Ghost River trail and we must get him to-day. Where
will he be now?”

Jerry considered the matter, then, pointing straight eastward, he
replied:

“On trail Kananaskis not far from Ghost Reever.”

“Will he be that far?” inquired Cameron. “He would have to sleep and
eat, Jerry.”

“Non! No sleep--hit sam’ tam’ he run.”

“Then it is quite possible,” said Cameron, “that we may head him off.”

“Mebbe--dunno how fas’ he go,” said Jerry.

“By the way, Jerry, when do we eat?” inquired Cameron.

“Pull belt tight,” said Jerry with a grin. “Hit at cache on trail.”

“Do you mean to say you had the good sense to cache some grub, Jerry, on
your way down?”

“Jerry lak’ squirrel,” replied the half-breed. “Cache grub many
place--sometam come good.”

“Great head, Jerry. Now, where is the cache?”

“Halfway Kananaskis to Ghost Reever.”

“Then, Jerry, we must make that Ghost River trail and make it quick if
we are to intercept Copperhead.”

“Bon! We mus’ mak’ beeg speed for sure.” And “make big speed” they
did, with the result that by midday they struck the trail not far from
Jerry’s cache. As they approached the trail they proceeded with extreme
caution, for they knew that at any moment they might run upon Copperhead
and his band or upon some of their Indian pursuers who would assuredly
be following them hard. A careful scrutiny of the trail showed that
neither Copperhead nor their pursuers had yet passed by.

“Come now ver’ soon,” said Jerry, as he left the trail, and, plunging
into the brush, led the way with unerring precision to where he had made
his cache. Quickly they secured the food and with it made their way back
to a position from which they could command a view of the trail.

“Go sleep now,” said Jerry, after they had done. “Me watch one hour.”

Gladly Cameron availed himself of the opportunity to catch up his sleep,
in which he was many hours behind. He stretched himself on the ground
and in a moment’s time lay as completely unconscious as if dead. But
before half of his allotted time was gone he was awakened by Jerry’s
hand pressing steadily upon his arm.

“Indian come,” whispered the half-breed. Instantly Cameron was
wide-awake and fully alert.

“How many, Jerry?” he asked, lying with his ear to the ground.

“Dunno. T’ree--four mebbe.”

They had not long to wait. Almost as Jerry was speaking the figure of an
Indian came into view, running with that tireless trot that can wear out
any wild animal that roams the woods.

“Copperhead!” whispered Cameron, tightening his belt and making as if to
rise.

“Wait!” replied Jerry. “One more.”

Following Copperhead, and running not close upon him but at some
distance behind, came another Indian, then another, till three had
passed their hiding-place.

“Four against two, Jerry,” said Cameron. “That is all right. They have
their knives, I see, but only one gun. We have no guns and only one
knife. But Jerry, we can go in and kill them with our bare hands.”

Jerry nodded carelessly. He had fought too often against much greater
odds in Police battles to be unduly disturbed at the present odds.

Silently and at a safe distance behind they fell into the wake of the
running Indians, Jerry with his moccasined feet leading the way. Mile
after mile they followed the trail, ever on the alert for the doubling
back of those whom they were pursuing. Suddenly Cameron heard a sharp
hiss from Jerry in front. Swiftly he flung himself into the brush and
lay still. Within a minute he saw coming back upon the trail an Indian,
silent as a shadow and listening at every step. The Indian passed his
hiding-place and for some minutes Cameron lay watching until he saw him
return in the same stealthy manner. After some minutes had elapsed a
soft hiss from Jerry brought Cameron cautiously out upon the trail once
more.

“All right,” whispered Jerry. “All Indians pass on before.” And once
more they went forward.

A second time during the afternoon Jerry’s warning hiss sent Cameron
into the brush to allow an Indian to scout his back trail. It was clear
that the presence of Cameron and the half-breed upon the Ghost River
trail had awakened the suspicion in Copperhead’s mind that the plan to
hold a powwow at Manitou Rock was known to the Police and that they were
on his trail. It became therefore increasingly evident to Cameron that
any plan that involved the possibility of taking Copperhead unawares
would have to be abandoned. He called Jerry back to him.

“Jerry,” he said, “if that Indian doubles back on his track again I mean
to get him. If we get him the other chaps will follow. If I only had a
gun! But this knife is no use to me.”

“Give heem to me,” said Jerry eagerly. “I find heem good.”

It was toward the close of the afternoon when again Jerry’s hiss warned
Cameron that the Indian was returning upon his trail. Cameron stepped
into the brush at the side, and, crouching low, prepared for the
encounter, but as he was about to spring Jerry flashed past him, and,
hurling himself upon the Indian’s back, gripped him by the throat and
bore him choking to earth, knocking the wind out of him and rendering
him powerless. Jerry’s knife descended once bright, once red, and the
Indian with a horrible gasping cry lay still.

“Quick!” cried Cameron, seizing the dead man by the shoulders. “Lift him
up!”

Jerry sprang to seize the legs, and, taking care not to break down the
brush on either side of the trail, they lifted the body into the thick
underwood and concealing themselves beside it awaited events. Hardly
were they out of sight when they heard the soft pad of several feet
running down the trail. Opposite them the feet stopped abruptly.

“Huh!” grunted the Indian runner, and darted back by the way he had
come.

“Heem see blood,” whispered Jerry. “Go back tell Copperhead.”

With every nerve strung to its highest tension they waited, crouching,
Jerry tingling and quivering with the intensity of his excitement,
Cameron quiet, cool, as if assured of the issue.

“I am going to get that devil this time, Jerry,” he breathed. “He
dragged me by the neck once. I will show him something.”

Jerry laid his hand upon his arm. At a little distance from them there
was a sound of creeping steps. A few moments they waited and at their
side the brush began to quiver. A moment later beside Cameron’s face
a hand carrying a rifle parted the screen of spruce boughs. Quick as
a flash Cameron seized the wrist, gripping it with both hands, and,
putting his weight into the swing, flung himself backwards; at the same
time catching the body with his knee, he heaved it clear over their
heads and landed it hard against a tree. The rifle tumbled from the
Indian’s hand and he lay squirming on the ground. Immediately as Jerry
sprang for the rifle a second Indian thrust his face through the screen,
caught sight of Jerry with the rifle, darted back and disappeared with
Jerry hard upon his trail. Scarcely had they vanished into the brush
when Cameron, hearing a slight sound at his back, turned swiftly to
see a tall Indian charging upon him with knife raised to strike. He had
barely time to thrust up his arm and divert the blow from his neck to
his shoulder when the Indian was upon him like a wild cat.

“Ha! Copperhead!” cried Cameron with exultation, as he flung him off.
“At last I have you! Your time has come!”

The Sioux paused in his attack, looking scornfully at his antagonist.
He was dressed in a highly embroidered tight-fitting deerskin coat and
leggings.

“Huh!” he grunted in a voice of quiet, concentrated fury. “The white dog
will die.”

“No, Copperhead,” replied Cameron quietly. “You have a knife, I have
none, but I shall lead you like a dog into the Police guard-house.”

The Sioux said nothing in reply, but kept circling lightly on his toes
waiting his chance to spring. As the two men stood facing each other
there was little to choose between them in physical strength and agility
as well as in intelligent fighting qualities. There was this difference,
however, that the Indian’s fighting had ever been to kill, the white
man’s simply to win. But this difference to-day had ceased to exist.
There was in Cameron’s mind the determination to kill if need be. One
immense advantage the Indian held in that he possessed a weapon in
the use of which he was a master and by means of which he had already
inflicted a serious wound upon his enemy, a wound which as yet was but
slightly felt. To deprive the Indian of that knife was Cameron’s first
aim. That once achieved, the end could not long be delayed; for the
Indian, though a skillful wrestler, knows little of the art of fighting
with his hands.

As Cameron stood on guard watching his enemy’s movements, his mind
recalled in swift review the various wrongs he had suffered at his
hands, the fright and insult to his wife, the devastation of his home,
the cattle-raid involving the death of Raven, and lastly he remembered
with a deep rage his recent humiliation at the Indian’s hands and how
he had been hauled along by the neck and led like a dog into the Indian
camp. At these recollections he became conscious of a burning desire to
humiliate the redskin who had dared to do these things to him.

With this in mind he waited the Indian’s attack. The attack came swift
as a serpent’s dart, a feint to strike, a swift recoil, then like
a flash of light a hard drive with the knife. But quick as was the
Indian’s drive Cameron was quicker. Catching the knife-hand at the wrist
he drew it sharply down, meeting at the same time the Indian’s chin with
a short, hard uppercut that jarred his head so seriously that his grip
on the knife relaxed and it fell from his hand. Cameron kicked it behind
him into the brush while the Indian, with a mighty wrench, released
himself from Cameron’s grip and sprang back free. For some time the
Indian kept away out of Cameron’s reach as if uncertain of himself.
Cameron taunted him.

“Onawata has had enough! He cannot fight unless he has a knife! See! I
will punish the great Sioux Chief like a little child.”

So saying, Cameron stepped quickly toward him, made a few passes and
once, twice, with his open hand slapped the Indian’s face hard. In a mad
fury of passion the Indian rushed upon him. Cameron met him with blows,
one, two, three, the last one heavy enough to lay him on the ground
insensible.

“Oh, get up!” said Cameron contemptuously, kicking him as he might a
dog. “Get up and be a man!”

Slowly the Indian rose, wiping his bleeding lips, hate burning in his
eyes, but in them also a new look, one of fear.

“Ha! Onawata is a great fighter!” smiled Cameron, enjoying to the full
the humiliation of his enemy.

Slowly the Indian gathered himself together. He was no coward and he was
by no means beaten as yet, but this kind of fighting was new to him. He
apparently determined to avoid those hammering fists of the white man.
With extraordinary agility he kept out of Cameron’s reach, circling
about him and dodging in and out among the trees. While thus pressing
hard upon the Sioux Cameron suddenly became conscious of a sensation
of weakness. The bloodletting of the knife wound was beginning to tell.
Cameron began to dread that if ever this Indian made up his mind to run
away he might yet escape. He began to regret his trifling with him and
he resolved to end the fight as soon as possible with a knock-out blow.

The quick eye of the Indian perceived that Cameron’s breath was coming
quicker, and, still keeping carefully out of his enemy’s reach, he
danced about more swiftly than ever. Cameron realized that he must bring
the matter quickly to an end. Feigning a weakness greater than he felt,
he induced the Indian to run in upon him, but this time the Indian
avoided the smashing blow with which Cameron met him, and, locking his
arms about his antagonist and gripping him by the wounded shoulder,
began steadily to wear him to the ground. Sickened by the intensity
of the pain in his wounded shoulder, Cameron felt his strength rapidly
leaving him. Gradually the Indian shifted his hand up from the shoulder
to the neck, the fingers working their way toward Cameron’s face. Well
did Cameron know the savage trick which the Indian had in mind. In a
few minutes more those fingers would be in Cameron’s eyes pressing the
eyeballs from their sockets. It was now the Indian’s turn to jibe.

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “White man no good. Soon he see no more.”

The taunt served to stimulate every ounce of Cameron’s remaining
strength. With a mighty effort he wrenched the Indian’s hand from his
face, and, tearing himself free, swung his clenched fist with all his
weight upon the Indian’s neck. The blow struck just beneath the jugular
vein. The Indian’s grip relaxed, he staggered back a pace, half stunned.
Summoning all his force, Cameron followed up with one straight blow upon
the chin. He needed no other. As if stricken by an axe the Indian
fell to the earth and lay as if dead. Sinking on the ground beside him
Cameron exerted all his will-power to keep himself from fainting. After
a few minutes’ fierce struggle with himself he was sufficiently revived
to be able to bind the Indian’s hands behind his back with his belt.
Searching among the brushwood, he found the Indian’s knife, and cut from
his leather trousers sufficient thongs to bind his legs, working with
fierce and concentrated energy while his strength lasted. At length as
the hands were drawn tight darkness fell upon his eyes and he sank down
unconscious beside his foe.



“There, that’s better! He has lost a lot of blood, but we have checked
that flow and he will soon be right. Hello, old man! Just waking up,
are you? Lie perfectly still. Come, you must lie still. What? Oh,
Copperhead? Well, he is safe enough. What? No, never fear. We know the
old snake and we have tied him fast. Jerry has a fine assortment of
knots adorning his person. Now, no more talking for half a day. Your
wound is clean enough. A mighty close shave it was, but by to-morrow you
will be fairly fit. Copperhead? Oh, never mind Copperhead. I assure you
he is safe enough. Hardly fit to travel yet. What happened to him? Looks
as if a tree had fallen upon him.” To which chatter of Dr. Martin’s
Cameron could only make feeble answer, “For God’s sake don’t let him
go!”

After the capture of Copperhead the camp at Manitou Lake faded away, for
when the Police Patrol under Jerry’s guidance rode up the Ghost River
Trail they found only the cold ashes of camp-fires and the debris that
remains after a powwow.

Three days later Cameron rode back into Fort Calgary, sore but content,
for at his stirrup and bound to his saddle-horn rode the Sioux Chief,
proud, untamed, but a prisoner. As he rode into the little town his
quick eyes flashed scorn upon all the curious gazers, but in their
depths beneath the scorn there looked forth an agony that only Cameron
saw and understood. He had played for a great stake and had lost.

As the patrol rode into Fort Calgary the little town was in an uproar of
jubilation.

“What’s the row?” inquired the doctor, for Cameron felt too weary to
inquire.

“A great victory for the troops!” said a young chap dressed in cow-boy
garb. “Middleton has smashed the half-breeds at Batoche. Riel is
captured. The whole rebellion business is bust up.”

Cameron threw a swift glance at the Sioux’s face. A fierce anxiety
looked out of the gleaming eyes.

“Tell him, Jerry,” said Cameron to the half-breed who rode at his other
side.

As Jerry told the Indian of the total collapse of the rebellion and the
capture of its leader the stern face grew eloquent with contempt.

“Bah!” he said, spitting on the ground. “Riel he much fool--no good
fight. Indian got no Chief--no Chief.” The look on his face all too
clearly revealed that his soul was experiencing the bitterness of death.

Cameron almost pitied him, but he spoke no word. There was nothing that
one could say and besides he was far too weary for anything but rest.
At the gate of the Barrack yard his old Superintendent from Fort Macleod
met the party.

“You are wounded, Cameron?” exclaimed the Superintendent, glancing in
alarm at Cameron’s wan face.

“I have got him,” replied Cameron, loosing the lariat from the horn of
his saddle and handing the end to an orderly. “But,” he added, “it seems
hardly worth while now.”

“Worth while! Worth while!” exclaimed the Superintendent with as much
excitement as he ever allowed to appear in his tone. “Let me tell you,
Cameron, that if any one thing has kept me from getting into a blue funk
during these months it was the feeling that you were on patrol along the
Sun Dance Trail.”

“Funk?” exclaimed Cameron with a smile. “Funk?” But while he smiled he
looked into the cold, gray eyes of his Chief, and, noting the unwonted
glow in them, he felt that after all his work as the Patrol of the Sun
Dance Trail was perhaps worth while.



CHAPTER XXI

WHY THE DOCTOR STAYED


The Big Horn River, fed by July suns burning upon glaciers high up
between the mountain-peaks, was running full to its lips and gleaming
like a broad ribbon of silver, where, after rushing hurriedly out of the
rock-ribbed foothills, it settled down into a deep steady flow through
the wide valley of its own name. On the tawny undulating hillsides,
glorious in the splendid July sun, herds of cattle and horses were
feeding, making with the tawny hillsides and the silver river a picture
of luxurious ease and quiet security that fitted well with the mood of
the two men sitting upon the shady side of the Big Horn Ranch House.

Inspector Dickson was enjoying to the full his after-dinner pipe,
and with him Dr. Martin, who was engaged in judiciously pumping
the Inspector in regard to the happenings of the recent
campaign--successfully, too, except where he touched those events in
which the Inspector himself had played a part.

The war was over. Batoche had practically settled the Rebellion. Riel
was in his cell at Regina awaiting trial and execution. Pound-maker,
Little Pine, Big Bear and some of their other Chiefs were similarly
disposed of. Copperhead at Macleod was fretting his life out like an
eagle in a cage. The various regiments of citizen soldiers had gone back
to their homes to be received with vociferous welcome, except such of
them as were received in reverent silence, to be laid away among the
immortals with quiet falling tears. The Police were busily engaged in
wiping up the debris of the Rebellion. The Commissioner, intent upon his
duty, was riding the marches, bearing in grim silence the criticism of
empty-headed and omniscient scribblers, because, forsooth, he had
obeyed his Chief’s orders, and, resisting the greatest provocation to
do otherwise, had held steadfastly to his post, guarding with resolute
courage what was committed to his trust. The Superintendents and
Inspectors were back at their various posts, settling upon the reserves
wandering bands of Indians, some of whom were just awakening to the
fact that they had missed a great opportunity and were grudgingly
surrendering to the inevitable, and, under the wise, firm, judicious
handling of the Police, were slowly returning to their pre-rebellion
status.

The Western ranches were rejoicing in a sense of vast relief from the
terrible pall that like a death-cloud had been hanging over them for six
months and all Western Canada was thrilling with the expectation of a
new era of prosperity consequent upon its being discovered by the big
world outside.

Upon the two men thus discussing, Mrs. Cameron, carrying in her arms her
babe, bore down in magnificent and modest pride, wearing with matronly
grace her new glory of a great achievement, the greatest open to
womankind.

“He has just waked up from a very fine sleep,” she exclaimed, “to make
your acquaintance, Inspector. I hope you duly appreciate the honor done
you.”

The Inspector rose to his feet and saluted the new arrival with becoming
respect.

“Now,” said Mrs. Cameron, settling herself down with an air of
determined resolve, “I want to hear all about it.”

“Meaning?” said the Inspector.

“Meaning, to begin with, that famous march of yours from Calgary to the
far North land where you did so many heroic things.”

But the Inspector’s talk had a trick of fading away at the end of
the third sentence and it was with difficulty that they could get him
started again.

“You are most provoking!” finally exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, giving up the
struggle. “Isn’t he, baby?”

The latter turned upon the Inspector two steady blue eyes beaming with
the intelligence of a two months’ experience of men and things, and
announced his grave disapproval of the Inspector’s conduct in a distinct
“goo!”

“There!” exclaimed his mother triumphantly. “I told you so. What have
you now to say for yourself?”

The Inspector regarded the blue-eyed atom with reverent wonder.

“Most remarkable young person I ever saw in my life, Mrs. Cameron,” he
asserted positively.

The proud mother beamed upon him.

“Well, baby, he IS provoking, but we will forgive him since he is so
clever at discovering your remarkable qualities.”

“Pshaw!” said Dr. Martin. “That’s nothing. Any one could see them. They
stick right out of that baby.”

“DEAR Dr. Martin,” explained the mother with affectionate emphasis,
“what a way you have of putting things. But I wonder what keeps Allan?”
 continued Mrs. Cameron. “He promised faithfully to be home before
dinner.” She rose, and, going to the side of the house, looked long and
anxiously up toward the foothills. Dr. Martin followed her and stood at
her side gazing in the same direction.

“What a glorious view it is!” she said. “I never tire of looking over
the hills and up to the great mountains.”

“What the deuce is the fellow doing?” exclaimed the doctor, disgust and
rage mingling in his tone. “Great Heavens! She is kissing him!”

“Who? What?” exclaimed Mandy. “Oh!” she cried, her eyes following the
doctor’s and lighting upon two figures that stood at the side of the
poplar bluff in an attitude sufficiently compromising to justify the
doctor’s exclamation.

“What? It’s Moira--and--and--it’s Smith! What does it mean?” The
doctor’s language appeared unequal to his emotions. “Mean?” he cried,
after an exhausting interlude of expletives. “Mean? Oh, I don’t
know--and I don’t care. It’s pretty plain what it means. It makes no
difference to me. I gave her up to that other fellow who saved her life
and then picturesquely got himself killed. There now, forgive me, Mrs.
Cameron. I know I am a brute. I should not have said that. Don’t look
at me so. Raven was a fine chap and I don’t mind her losing her heart to
him--but really this is too much. Smith! Of all men under heaven--Smith!
Why, look at his legs!”

“His legs? Dr. Martin, I am ashamed of you. I don’t care what kind of
legs he has. Smith is an honorable fellow and--and--so good he was to
us. Why, when Allan and the rest of you were all away he was like a
brother through all those terrible days. I can never forget his splendid
kindness--but--”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cameron, I beg your pardon. Undoubtedly he is
a fine fellow. I am an ass, a jealous ass--might as well own it. But,
really, I cannot quite stand seeing her throw herself at Smith--Smith!
Oh, I know, I know, he is all right. But oh--well--at any rate thank
God I saw him at it. It will keep me from openly and uselessly abasing
myself to her and making a fool of myself generally. But Smith! Great
God! Smith! Well, it will help to cure me.”

Mrs. Cameron stood by in miserable silence.

“Oh, Dr. Martin,” at length she groaned tearfully, “I am
so disappointed. I was so hoping, and I was sure it was all
right--and--and--oh, what does it mean? Dear Dr. Martin, I cannot tell
you how I feel.”

“Oh, hang it, Mrs. Cameron, don’t pity me. I’ll get over it. A little
surgical operation in the region of the pericardium is all, that is
required.”

“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, vaguely listening
to him and busy with her own thoughts the while.

“Talking about, madam? Talking about? I am talking about that organ,
the central organ of the vascular system of animals, a hollow muscular
structure that propels the blood by alternate contractions and
dilatations, which in the mammalian embryo first appears as two tubes
lying under the head and immediately behind the first visceral arches,
but gradually moves back and becomes lodged in the thorax.”

“Oh, do stop! What nonsense are you talking now?” exclaimed Mrs.
Cameron, waking up as from a dream. “No, don’t go. You must not go.”

“I am going, and I am going to leave this country,” said the doctor. “I
am going East. No, this is no sudden resolve. I have thought of it for
some time, and now I will go.”

“Well, you must wait at least till Allan returns. You must say good-by
to him.” She followed the doctor anxiously back to his seat beside the
Inspector. “Here,” she cried, “hold baby a minute. There are some things
I must attend to. I would give him to the Inspector, but he would not
know how to handle him.”

“God forbid!” ejaculated the Inspector firmly.

“But I tell you I must get home,” said the doctor in helpless wrath.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron. “Look out! You are not holding him
properly. There now, you have made him cry.”

“Pinched him!” muttered the Inspector. “I call that most unfair. Mean
advantage to take of the young person.”

The doctor glowered at the Inspector and set himself with ready skill to
remedy the wrong he had wrought in the young person’s disposition while
the mother, busying herself ostentatiously with her domestic duties,
finally disappeared around the house, making for the bluff. As soon as
she was out of earshot she raised her voice in song.

“I must give the fools warning, I suppose,” she said to herself. In the
pauses of her singing, “Oh, what does she mean? I could just shake her.
I am so disappointed. Smith! Smith! Well, Smith is all right, but--oh, I
must talk to her. And yet, I am so angry--yes, I am disgusted. I was
so sure that everything was all right. Ah, there she is at last,
and--well--thank goodness he is gone.

“Oh-h-h-h-O, Moira!” she cried. “Now, I must keep my temper,” she added
to herself. “But I am so cross about this. Oh-h-h-h-O, Moira!”

“Oh-h-h-h-O!” called Moira in reply.

“She looks positively happy. Ugh! Disgusting! And so lovely too.”

“Did you want me, Mandy? I am so sorry I forgot all about the tea.”

“So I should suppose,” snapped Mandy crossly. “I saw you were too deeply
engaged to think.”

“You saw?” exclaimed the girl, a startled dismay in her face.

“Yes, and I would suggest that you select a less conspicuous stage for
your next scene. Certainly I got quite a shock. If it had been Raven,
Moira, I could have stood it.”

“Raven! Raven! Oh, stop! Not a word, Mandy.” Her voice was hushed and
there was a look of pain in her eyes.

“But Smith!” went on Mandy relentlessly. “I was too disgusted.”

“Well, what is wrong with Mr. Smith?” inquired Moira, her chin rising.

“Oh, there is nothing wrong with Smith,” replied her sister-in-law
crossly, “but--well--kissing him, you know.”

“Kissing him?” echoed Moira faintly. “Kissing him? I did not--”

“It looked to me uncommonly like it at any rate,” said Mandy. “You
surely don’t deny that you were kissing him?”

“I was not. I mean, it was Smith--perhaps--yes, I think Smith did--”

“Well, it was a silly thing to do.”

“Silly! If I want to kiss Mr. Smith, why is it anybody’s business?”

“That’s just it,” said Mandy indignantly. “Why should you want to?”

“Well, that is my affair,” said Moira in an angry tone, and with a high
head and lofty air she appeared in the doctor’s presence.

But Dr. Martin was apparently oblivious of both her lofty air and the
angle of her chin. He was struggling to suppress from observation a
tumult of mingled passions of jealousy, rage and humiliation. That this
girl whom for four years he had loved with the full strength of his
intense nature should have given herself to another was grief enough;
but the fact that this other should have been a man of Smith’s caliber
seemed to add insult to his grief. He felt that not only had she
humiliated him but herself as well.

“If she is the kind of girl that enjoys kissing Smith I don’t want her,”
 he said to himself savagely, and then cursed himself that he knew it was
a lie. For no matter how she should affront him or humiliate herself
he well knew he should take her gladly on his bended knees from Smith’s
hands. The cure somehow was not working, but he would allow no one to
suspect it. His voice was even and his manner cheerful as ever. Only
Mrs. Cameron, who held the key to his heart, suspected the agony through
which he was passing during the tea-hour. And it was to secure respite
for him that the tea was hurried and the doctor packed off to saddle
Pepper and round up the cows for the milking.

Pepper was by birth and breeding a cow-horse, and once set upon a trail
after a bunch of cows he could be trusted to round them up with little
or no aid from his rider. Hence once astride Pepper and Pepper with his
nose pointed toward the ranging cows, the doctor could allow his heart
to roam at will. And like a homing pigeon, his heart, after some faint
struggles in the grip of its owner’s will, made swift flight toward the
far-away Highland glen across the sea, the Cuagh Oir.

With deliberate purpose he set himself to live again the tender and
ineffaceable memories of that eventful visit to the glen when first his
eyes were filled with the vision of the girl with the sunny hair and the
sunny eyes who that day seemed to fill the very glen and ever since that
day his heart with glory.

With deliberate purpose, too, he set himself to recall the glen itself,
its lights and shadows, its purple hilltops, its emerald loch far down
at the bottom, the little clachan on the hillside and up above it the
old manor-house. But ever and again his heart would pause to catch anew
some flitting glance of the brown eyes, some turn of the golden head,
some cadence of the soft Highland voice, some fitful illusive sweetness
of the smile upon the curving lips, pause and return upon its tracks to
feel anew that subtle rapture of the first poignant thrill, lingering
over each separate memory as a drunkard lingers regretful over his last
sweet drops of wine.

Meantime Pepper’s intelligent diligence had sent every cow home to its
milking, and so, making his way by a short cut that led along the Big
Horn River and round the poplar bluff, the doctor, suddenly waking from
his dream of the past, faced with a fresh and sharper stab the reality
of the present. The suddenness and sharpness of the pain made him pull
his horse up short.

“I’ll cut this country and go East,” he said aloud, coming to a
conclusive decision upon a plan long considered, “I’ll go in for
specializing. I have done with all this nonsense.”

He sat his horse looking eastward over the hills that rolled far away to
the horizon. His eye wandered down the river gleaming now like gold in
the sunset glow. He had learned to love this land of great sunlit spaces
and fresh blowing winds, but this evening its very beauty appeared
intolerable to him. Ever since the death of Raven upon that tragic
night of the cattle-raid he had been fighting his bitter loss and
disappointment; with indifferent success, it is true, but still not
without the hope of attaining final peace of soul. This evening he knew
that, while he lived in this land, peace would never come to him, for
his heart-wound never would heal.

“I will go,” he said again. “I will say good-by to-night. By Jove! I
feel better already. Come along, Pepper! Wake up!”

Pepper woke up to some purpose and at a smart canter carried the doctor
on his way round the bluff toward a gate that opened into a lane leading
to the stables. At the gate a figure started up suddenly from the shadow
of a poplar. With a snort and in the midst of his stride Pepper swung on
his heels with such amazing abruptness that his rider was flung from his
saddle, fortunately upon his feet.

“Confound you for a dumb-headed fool! What are you up to anyway?” he
cried in a sudden rage, recognizing Smith, who stood beside the trail in
an abjectly apologetic attitude.

“Yes,” cried another voice from the shadow. “Is he not a fool? You would
think he ought to know Mr. Smith by this time. But Pepper is really very
stupid.”

The doctor stood speechless, surprise, disgust and rage struggling for
supremacy among his emotions. He stood gazing stupidly from one to the
other, utterly at a loss for words.

“You see, Mr. Smith,” began Moira somewhat lamely, “had something to say
to me and so we--and so we came--along to the gate.”

“So I see,” replied the doctor gruffly.

“You see Mr. Smith has come to mean a great deal to me--to us--”

“So I should imagine,” replied the doctor.

“His self-sacrifice and courage during those terrible days we can never
forget.”

“Exactly so--quite right,” replied the doctor, standing stiffly beside
his horse’s head.

“You do not know people all at once,” continued Moira.

“Ah! Not all at once,” the doctor replied.

“But in times of danger and trouble one gets to know them quickly.”

“Sure thing,” said the doctor.

“And it takes times of danger to bring out the hero in a man.”

“I should imagine so,” replied the doctor with his eyes on Smith’s
childlike and beaming face.

“And you see Mr. Smith was really our whole stay, and--and--we came
to rely upon him and we found him so steadfast.” In the face of the
doctor’s stolid brevity Moira was finding conversation difficult.

“Steadfast!” repeated the doctor. “Exactly so,” his eyes upon Smith’s
wobbly legs. “Mr. Smith I consider a very fortunate man. I congratulate
him on--”

“Oh, have you heard? I did not know that--”

“Yes. I mean--not exactly.”

“Who told you? Is it not splendid?” enthusiasm shining in her eyes.

“Splendid! Yes--that is, for him,” replied the doctor without emotion.
“I congratulate--”

“But how did you hear?”

“I did not exactly hear, but I had no difficulty in--ah--making the
discovery.”

“Discovery?”

“Yes, discovery. It was fairly plain; I might say it was the feature of
the view; in fact it stuck right out of the landscape--hit you in the
eye, so to speak.”

“The landscape? What can you mean?”

“Mean? Simply that I am at a loss as to whether Mr. Smith is to be
congratulated more upon his exquisite taste or upon his extraordinary
good fortune.”

“Good fortune, yes, is it not splendid?”

“Splendid is the exact word,” said the doctor stiffly.

“And I am so glad.”

“Yes, you certainly look happy,” replied the doctor with a grim attempt
at a smile, and feeling as if more enthusiasm were demanded from him.
“Let me offer you my congratulations and say good-by. I am leaving.”

“You will be back soon, though?”

“Hardly. I am leaving the West.”

“Leaving the West? Why? What? When?”

“To-night. Now. I must say good-by.”

“To-night? Now?” Her voice sank almost to a whisper. Her lips were white
and quivering. “But do they know at the house? Surely this is sudden.”

“Oh, no, not so sudden. I have thought of it for some time; indeed, I
have made my plans.”

“Oh--for some time? You have made your plans? But you never hinted such
a thing to--to any of us.”

“Oh, well, I don’t tell my plans to all the world,” said the doctor with
a careless laugh.

The girl shrank from him as if he had cut her with his riding whip. But,
swiftly recovering herself, she cried with gay reproach:

“Why, Mr. Smith, we are losing all our friends at once. It is cruel of
you and Dr. Martin to desert us at the same time. Mr. Smith, you
know,” she continued, turning to the doctor with an air of exaggerated
vivacity, “leaves for the East to-night too.”

“Smith--leaving?” The doctor gazed stupidly at that person.

“Yes, you know he has come into a big fortune and is going to be--”

“A fortune?”

“Yes, and he is going East to be married.”

“Going EAST to be married?”

“Yes, and I was--”

“Going EAST?” exclaimed the doctor. “I don’t understand. I thought
you--”

“Oh, yes, his young lady is awaiting him in the East. And he is going to
spend his money in such a splendid way.”

“Going EAST?” echoed the doctor, as if he could not fix the idea with
sufficient firmness in his brain to grasp it fully.

“Yes, I have just told you so,” replied the girl.

“Married?” shouted the doctor, suddenly rushing at Smith and gripping
him by both arms. “Smith, you shy dog--you lucky dog! Let me wish you
joy, old man. By Jove! You deserve your luck, every bit of it. Say,
that’s fine. Ha! ha! Jeerupiter! Smith, you are a good one and a sly
one. Shake again, old man. Say, by Jove! What a sell--I mean what a
joke! Look here, Smith, old chap, would you mind taking Pepper home?
I am rather tired--riding, I mean--beastly wild cows--no end of a run
after them. See you down at the house later. No, no, don’t wait, don’t
mind me. I am all right, fit as a fiddle--no, not a bit tired--I mean I
am tired riding. Yes, rather stiff--about the knees, you know. Oh, it’s
all right. Up you get, old man--there you are! So, Smith, you are going
to be married, eh? Lucky dog! Tell ‘em I am--tell ‘em we are coming. My
horse? Oh, well, never mind my horse till I come myself. So long, old
chap! Ha! ha! old man, good-by. Great Caesar! What a sell! Say, let’s
sit down, Moira,” he said, suddenly growing quiet and turning to the
girl, “till I get my wind. Fine chap that Smith. Legs a bit wobbly, but
don’t care if he had a hundred of ‘em and all wobbly. He’s all right.
Oh, my soul! What an ass! What an adjectival, hyphenated jackass! Don’t
look at me that way or I shall climb a tree and yell. I’m not mad, I
assure you. I was on the verge of it a few moments ago, but it is gone.
I am sane, sane as an old maid. Oh, my God!” He covered his face with
his hands and sat utterly still for some moments.

“Dr. Martin, what is the matter?” exclaimed the girl. “You terrify me.”

“No wonder. I terrify myself. How could I have stood it.”

“What is the matter? What is it?”

“Why, Moira, I thought you were going to marry that idiot.”

“Idiot?” exclaimed the girl, drawing herself up. “Idiot? Mr. Smith? I am
not going to marry him, Dr. Martin, but he is an honorable fellow and a
friend of mine, a dear friend of mine.”

“So he is, so he is, a splendid fellow, the finest ever, but thank God
you are not going to marry him!”

“Why, what is wrong with--”

“Why? Why? God help me! Why? Only because, Moira, I love you.” He threw
himself upon his knees beside her. “Don’t, don’t for God’s sake get
away! Give me a chance to speak!” He caught her hand in both of his. “I
have just been through hell. Don’t send me there again. Let me tell you.
Ever since that minute when I saw you in the glen I have loved you. In
my thoughts by day and in my dreams by night you have been, and this day
when I thought I had lost you I knew that I loved you ten thousand times
more than ever.” He was kissing her hand passionately, while she sat
with head turned away. “Tell me, Moira, if I may love you? And is it
any use? And do you think you could love me even a little bit? I am not
worthy to touch you. Tell me.” Still she sat silent. He waited a few
moments, his face growing gray. “Tell me,” he said at length in a
broken, husky voice. “I will try to bear it.”

She turned her face toward him. The sunny eyes were full of tears.

“And you were going away from me?” she breathed, leaning toward him.

“Sweetheart!” he cried, putting his arms around her and drawing her to
him, “tell me to stay.”

“Stay,” she whispered, “or take me too.”

The sun had long since disappeared behind the big purple mountains
and even the warm afterglow in the eastern sky had faded into a pearly
opalescent gray when the two reached the edge of the bluff nearest the
house.

“Oh! The milking!” cried Moira aghast, as she came in sight of the
house.

“Great Caesar! I was going to help,” exclaimed the doctor.

“Too bad,” said the girl penitently. “But, of course, there’s Smith.”

“Why, certainly there’s Smith. What a God-send that chap is. He is
always on the spot. But Cameron is home. I see his horse. Let us go in
and face the music.”

They found an excited group standing in the kitchen, Mandy with a letter
in her hand.

“Oh, here you are at last!” she cried. “Where have you--” She glanced at
Moira’s face and then at the doctor’s and stopped abruptly.

“Hello, what’s up?” cried the doctor.

“We have got a letter--such a letter!” cried Mandy. “Read it. Read it
aloud, Doctor.” She thrust the letter into his hand. The doctor cleared
his throat, struck an attitude, and read aloud:


“My dear Cameron:

“It gives me great pleasure to say for the officers of the Police Force
in the South West district and for myself that we greatly appreciate the
distinguished services you rendered during the past six months in your
patrol of the Sun Dance Trail. It was a work of difficulty and danger
and one of the highest importance to the country. I feel sure it will
gratify you to know that the attention of the Government has been
specially called to the creditable manner in which you have performed
your duty, and I have no doubt that the Government will suitably express
its appreciation of your services in due time. But, as you are aware,
in the Force to which we have the honor to belong, we do not look for
recognition, preferring to find a sufficient reward in duty done.

“Permit me also to say that we recognize and appreciate the spirit
of devotion showed by Mrs. Cameron during these trying months in so
cheerfully and loyally giving you up to this service.

“May I add that in this rebellion to my mind the most critical factor
was the attitude of the great Blackfeet Confederacy. Every possible
effort was made by the half-breeds and Northern Indians to seduce
Crowfoot and his people from their loyalty, and their most able and
unscrupulous agent in this attempt was the Sioux Indian known among
us as The Copperhead. That he failed utterly in his schemes and that
Crowfoot remained loyal I believe is due to the splendid work of the
officers and members of our Force in the South West district, but
especially to your splendid services as the Patrol of the Sun Dance
Trail.”


“And signed by the big Chief himself, the Commissioner,” cried Dr.
Martin. “What do you think of that, Baby?” he continued, catching the
baby from its mother’s arms. “What do you think of your daddy?” The
doctor pirouetted round the room with the baby in his arms, that
young person regarding the whole performance apparently with grave and
profound satisfaction.

“Your horse is ready,” said Smith, coming in at the door.

“Your horse?” cried Cameron.

“Oh--I forgot,” said the doctor. “Ah--I don’t think I want him to-night,
Smith.”

“You are not going to-night, then?” inquired Mandy in delighted
surprise.

“No--I--in fact, I believe I have changed my mind about that. I have,
been--ah--persuaded to remain.”

“Oh, I see,” cried Mandy in supreme delight. Then turning swiftly upon
her sister-in-law who stood beside the doctor, her face in a radiant
glow, she added, “Then what did you mean by--by--what we saw this
afternoon?”

A deeper red dyed the girl’s cheeks.

“What are you talking about?” cried Dr. Martin. “Oh, that kissing Smith
business.”

“I couldn’t just help it!” burst out Moira. “He was so happy.”

“Going to be married, you know,” interjected the doctor.

“And so--so--”

“Just so,” cried the doctor. “Oh, pshaw! that’s all right! I’d kiss
Smith myself. I feel like doing it this blessed minute. Where is he?
Smith! Where are you?” But Smith had escaped. “Smith’s all right, I say,
and so are we, eh, Moira?” He slipped his arm round the blushing girl.

“Oh, I am so glad,” cried Mandy, beaming upon them. “And you are not
going East after all?”

“East? Not I! The West for me. I am going to stay right in it--with the
Inspector here--and with you, Mrs. Cameron--and with my sweetheart--and
yes, certainly with the Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail.”





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