"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.