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.
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