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!”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg