The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail Part 50

"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 G.o.d's mercy."

"G.o.d's mercy," said the dying man slowly. "Yes, G.o.d's mercy. What is it again? 'G.o.d--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 G.o.d'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 antic.i.p.ation 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed away Cameron shut up his gla.s.ses, 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 b.u.t.t 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 pa.s.sion, 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.