The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail Part 12

"He needs the doctor, however," said Cameron.

"Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor."

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

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

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

"Halt there, Chief! Don't move or you die!"

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

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

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

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

"No," said Trotting Wolf, in a loud voice, "he no bad man. He my friend.

Come here many days." He held up both hands. "No teef--my friend."

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

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

Trotting Wolf hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

"That's sensible," said the Inspector, moving toward him. "You will get full justice. Come along!"

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

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

"Good!" said the Indian, and, turning on his heel, he pa.s.sed into the teepee where his boy lay.

Through the teepee wall their voices could be heard in quiet conversation. In a few minutes the old squaw pa.s.sed out on an errand and then in again, eying the Inspector as she pa.s.sed with malevolent hate.

Again she pa.s.sed out, this time bowed down under a load of blankets and articles of Indian household furniture, and returned no more. Still the conversation within the teepee continued, the boy's voice now and again rising high, clear, the other replying in low, even, deep tones.

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

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

Cameron stepped to the door of the teepee.

"Come along, Chief, we must be going," he said, putting his head inside the teepee door. "h.e.l.lo!" he cried, "Where the deuce--where is he gone?"

He sprang quickly out of the teepee. "Has he pa.s.sed out?"

"Pa.s.sed out?" said the Inspector. "No. Is he not inside?"

"He's not here."

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

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

"Hee! hee!" she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he pa.s.sed.

"Did no one enter?" asked Cameron.

"Not a soul."

"Nor go out?"

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

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

And so indeed it proved. Through every teepee they searched in hot haste, tumbling out squalling squaws and papooses. But all in vain.

Copperhead had as completely disappeared as if he had vanished into thin air. With faces stolid and unmoved by a single gleam of satisfaction the Indians watched their hurried search.

"We will take a turn around this camp," said Cameron, swinging on to his pony. "You hear me!" he continued, riding up close to Trotting Wolf, "We haven't got our man but we will come back again. And listen carefully!

If I lose a single steer this fall I shall come and take you, Trotting Wolf, to the Fort, if I have to bring you by the hair of the head."

But Trotting Wolf only shrugged his shoulders, saying:

"No see cow."

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

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

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

"Where now?" inquired the Inspector.

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