The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail by Ralph Connor (page 5)

Leaving Jerry to put up their horses, they went into the ranch- house and found the ladies in a state of suppressed excitement. Mandy met them at the door with an eager welcome, holding out to them trembling hands.

“Oh, I am so glad you have come!” she cried. “It was all I could do to hold him back from going to you even as he was. He was quite set on going and only lay down on promise that I should wake him in an hour. Sit down here by the fire. An hour, mind you,” she continued, talking rapidly and under obvious excitement, “and him so blind and exhausted that–” She paused abruptly, unable to command her voice.

“He ought to sleep twelve hours straight,” said the Superintendent with emphasis, “and twenty-four would be better, with suitable breaks for refreshment,” he added in a lighter tone, glancing at Mandy’s face.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied, “for he has had little enough to eat the last three days. And that reminds me–” she hurried to the pantry and returned with the teapot–“you must be cold, Superintendent. Ah, this terrible cold! A hot cup of tea will be just the thing. It will take only five minutes–and it is better than punch, though perhaps you men do not think so.” She laughed somewhat wildly.

“Why, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Superintendent in a shocked, bantering voice, “how can you imagine we should be guilty of such heresy–in this prohibition country, too?”

“Oh, I know you men,” replied Mandy. “We keep some Scotch in the house–beside the laudanum. Some people can’t take tea, you know,” she added with an uncertain smile, struggling to regain control of herself. “But all the same, I am a nurse, and I know that after exposure tea is better.”

“Ah, well,” replied the Superintendent, “I bow to your experience,” making a brave attempt to meet her mood and declining to note her unusual excitement.

In the specified five minutes the tea was ready.

“I could quite accept your tea-drinking theory, Mrs. Cameron,” said Inspector Dickson, “if–if, mark you–I should always get such tea as this. But I don’t believe Jerry here would agree.”

Jerry, who had just entered, stood waiting explanation.

“Mrs. Cameron has just been upholding the virtue of a good cup of tea, Jerry, over a hot Scotch after a cold ride. Now what’s your unbiased opinion?”

A slight grin wrinkled the cracks in Jerry’s leather-skin face.

“Hot whisky–good for fun–for cold no good. Whisky good for sleep–for long trail no good.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” cried Mandy enthusiastically.

“Oh, that’s all right, Jerry,” said the Inspector, joining in the general laugh that followed, “but I don’t think Miss Moira here would agree with you in regard to the merits of her national beverage.”

“Oh, I am not so sure,” cried the young lady, entering into the mood of the others. “Of course, I am Scotch and naturally stand up for my country and for its customs, but, to be strictly honest, I remember hearing my brother say that Scotch was bad training for football.”

“Good again!” cried Mandy. “You see, when anything serious is on, the wisest people cut out the Scotch, as the boys say.”

“You are quite right, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Superintendent, becoming grave. “On the long trail and in the bitter cold we drop the Scotch and bank on tea. As for whisky, the Lord knows it gives the Police enough trouble in this country. If it were not for the whisky half our work would be cut out. But tell me, how is Mr. Cameron?” he added, as he handed back his cup for another supply of tea.

“Done up, or more nearly done up than ever I have seen him, or than I ever want to see him again.” Mandy paused abruptly, handed him his cup of tea, passed into the pantry and for some moments did not appear again.

“Oh, it was terrible to see him,” said Moira, clasping her hands and speaking in an eager, excited voice. “He came, poor boy, stumbling toward the door. He had to leave his horse, you know, some miles away. Through the window we saw him coming along–and we did not know him–he staggered as if–as if–actually as if he were drunk.” Her laugh was almost hysterical. “And he could not find the latch–and when we opened the door his eyes were–oh!–so terrible!–wild–and bloodshot–and blind! Oh, I cannot tell you about it!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking and her tears falling fast. “And he could hardly speak to us. We had to cut off his snow-shoes–and his gauntlets and his clothes were like iron. He could not sit down–he just–just–lay on the floor–till–my sister–” Here the girl’s sobs interrupted her story.

“Great Heavens!” cried the Superintendent. “What a mercy he reached home!”

The Inspector had risen and came round to Moira’s side.

“Don’t try to tell me any more,” he said in a husky voice, patting her gently on the shoulder. “He is here with us, safe, poor chap. My God!” he cried in an undertone, “what he must have gone through!”

At this point Mandy returned and took her place again quietly by the fire.

“It was this sudden spell of cold that nearly killed him,” she said in a quiet voice. “He was not fully prepared for it, and it caught him at the end of his trip, too, when he was nearly played out. You see, he was five weeks away and he had only expected to be three.”

“Yes, I know, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Inspector.

“An unexpected emergency seems to have arisen.”

“I don’t know what it was,” replied Mandy. “He could tell me little, but he was determined to go on to the fort.”

“I know something about his plans,” said the Inspector. “He had proposed a tour of the reserves, beginning with the Piegans and ending with the Bloods.”

“And we know something of his work, too, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Superintendent. “Superintendent Strong has sent us a very fine report indeed of your husband’s work. We do not talk about these things, you know, in the Police, but we can appreciate them all the same. Superintendent Strong’s letter is one you would like to keep. I shall send it to you. Knowing Superintendent Strong as I do–“

“I know him too,” said Mandy with a little laugh.

“Well, then, you will be able to appreciate all the more any word of commendation he would utter. He practically attributes the present state of quiet and the apparent collapse of this conspiracy business to your husband’s efforts. This, of course, is no compensation for his sufferings or yours, but I think it right that you should know the facts.” The Superintendent had risen to his feet and had delivered his little speech in his very finest manner.

“Thank you,” said Mandy simply.

“We had expected him back a week ago,” said the Inspector. “We know he must have had some serious cause for delay.”

“I do not know about that,” replied Mandy, “but I do know he was most anxious to go on to the fort. He had some information to give, he said, which was of the first importance. And I am glad you are here. He will be saved that trip, which would really be dangerous in his present condition. And I don’t believe I could have stopped him, but I should have gone with him. His hour will soon be up.”

“Don’t think of waking him,” said the Superintendent. “We can wait two hours, or three hours, or more if necessary. Let him sleep.”

“He would waken himself if he were not so fearfully done up. He has a trick of waking at any hour he sets,” said Mandy.

A few minutes later Cameron justified her remarks by appearing from the inner room. The men, accustomed as they were to the ravages of the winter trail upon their comrades, started to their feet in horror. Blindly Cameron felt his way to them, shading his blood- shot eyes from the light. His face was blistered and peeled as if he had come through a fire, his lips swollen and distorted, his hands trembling and showing on every finger the marks of frost bite, and his feet dragging as he shuffled across the floor.

“My dear fellow, my dear fellow,” cried the Inspector, springing up to meet him and grasping him by both arms to lead him to a chair. “You ran it too close that time. Here is the Superintendent to lecture you. Sit down, old man, sit down right here.” The Inspector deposited him in the chair, and, striding hurriedly to the window, stood there looking out upon the bleak winter snow.

“Hello, Cameron,” said the Superintendent, shaking him by the hand with hearty cheerfulness. “Glad, awfully glad to see you. Fine bit of work, very fine bit of work. Very complimentary report about you.”

“I don’t know what you refer to, sir,” said Cameron, speaking thickly, “but I am glad you are here, for I have an important communication to make.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the Superintendent. “Don’t worry about that. And take your own time. First of all, how are you feeling? Snow-blind, I see,” he continued, critically examining him, “and generally used up.”

“Rather knocked up,” replied Cameron, his tongue refusing to move with its accustomed ease. “But shall be fit in a day or two. Beastly sleepy, but cannot sleep somehow. Shall feel better when my mind is at rest. I cannot report fully just now.”

“Oh, let the report rest. We know something already.”

“How is that?”

“Superintendent Strong has sent us in a report, and a very creditable report, too.”

“Oh,” replied Cameron indifferently. “Well, the thing I want to say is that though all looks quiet–there is less horse stealing this month, and less moving about from the reserves–yet I believe a serious outbreak is impending.”

The Inspector, who had come around and taken a seat beside him, touched his knee at this point with an admonishing pressure.

“Eh?” said Cameron, turning toward him. “Oh, my people here know. You need not have any fear about them.” A little smile distorted his face as he laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. “But–where was I? I cannot get the hang of things.” He was as a man feeling his way through a maze.

“Oh, let it go,” said the Inspector. “Wait till you have had some sleep.”

“No, I must–I must get this out. Well, anyway, the principal thing is that Big Bear, Beardy, Poundmaker–though I am not sure about Poundmaker–have runners on every reserve and they are arranging for a big meeting in the spring, to which every tribe North and West is to send representatives. That Frenchman–what’s his name?–I’ll forget my own next–“

“Riel?” suggested the Inspector.

“Yes, Riel. That Frenchman is planning a big coup in the spring. You know they presented him with a house the other day, ready furnished, at Batoche, to keep him in the country. Oh, the half- breeds are very keen on this. And what is worse, I believe a lot of whites are in with them too. A chap named Jackson, and another named Scott, and Isbister and some others. These names are spoken of on every one of our reserves. I tell you, sir,” he said, turning his blind eyes toward the Superintendent, “I consider it very serious indeed. And worst of all, the biggest villain of the lot, Little Pine, Cree Chief you know, our bitterest enemy–except Little Thunder, who fortunately is cleared out of the country–you remember, sir, that chap Raven saw about that.”

The Superintendent nodded.

“Well–where was I?–Oh, yes, Little Pine, the biggest villain of them all, is somewhere about here. I got word of him when I was at the Blood Reserve on my way home some ten days ago. I heard he was with the Blackfeet, but I found no sign of him there. But he is in the neighborhood, and he is specially bound to see old Crowfoot. I understand he is a particularly successful pleader, and unusually cunning, and I am afraid of Crowfoot. I saw the old Chief. He was very cordial and is apparently loyal enough as yet, but you know, sir, how much that may mean. I think that is all,” said Cameron, putting his hand up to his head. “I have a great deal more to tell you, but it will not come back to me now. Little Pine must be attended to, and for a day or two I am sorry I am hardly fit– awfully sorry.” His voice sank into a kind of undertone.

“Sorry?” cried the Superintendent, deeply stirred at the sight of his obvious collapse. “Sorry? Don’t you use that word again. You have nothing to be sorry for, but everything to be proud of. You have done a great service to your country, and we will not forget it. In a few days you will be fit and we shall show our gratitude by calling upon you to do something more. Hello, who’s that?” A horseman had ridden past the window toward the stables. Moira ran to look out.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is that Mr. Raven. I would know his splendid horse anywhere.”

“Raven!” said Cameron sharply and wide awake.

“Raven, by Jove!” muttered the Inspector.

“Raven! Well, I call that cool!” said the Superintendent, a hard look upon his face.

But the laws of hospitality are nowhere so imperative as on the western plains. Cameron rose from his chair muttering, “Must look after his horse.”

“You sit down,” said Mandy firmly. “You are not going out.”

“Well, hardly,” said the Inspector. “Here, Jerry, go and show him where to get things, and–” He hesitated.

“Bring him in,” cried Mandy heartily. The men stood silent, looking at Cameron.

“Certainly, bring him in,” he said firmly, “a day like this,” he added, as if in apology.

“Why, of course,” cried Mandy, looking from one to the other in surprise. “Why not? He is a perfectly splendid man.”

“Oh, he is really splendid!” replied Moira, her cheeks burning and her eyes flashing. “You remember,” she cried, addressing the Inspector, “how he saved my life the day I arrived at this ranch.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Inspector briefly, “I believe I did hear that.” But there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

“Well, I think he is splendid,” repeated Moira. “Do not you think so?”

The Inspector had an awkward moment.

“Eh?–well–I can’t say I know him very well.”

“And his horse! What a beauty it is!” continued the girl.

“Ah, yes, a most beautiful animal, quite remarkable horse, splendid horse; in fact one of the finest, if not the very finest, in this whole country. And that is saying a good deal, too, Miss Moira. You see, this country breeds good horses.” And the Inspector went on to discourse in full detail and with elaborate illustration upon the various breeds of horses the country could produce, and to classify the wonderful black stallion ridden by Raven, and all with such diligence and enthusiasm that no other of the party had an opportunity to take part in the conversation till Raven, in the convoy of Jerry, was seen approaching the house. Then the Superintendent rose.

“Well, Mrs. Cameron, I fear we must take our departure. These are rather crowded days with us.”

“What?” exclaimed Mandy. “Within an hour of dinner? We can hardly allow that, you know. Besides, Mr. Cameron wants to have a great deal more talk with you.”

The Superintendent attempted to set forth various other reasons for a hasty departure, but they all seemed to lack sincerity, and after a few more ineffective trials he surrendered and sat down again in silence.

The next moment the door opened and Raven, followed by Jerry, stepped into the room. As his eye fell upon the Superintendent, instinctively he dropped his hands to his hips and made an involuntary movement backward, but only for an instant. Immediately he came forward and greeted Mandy with fine, old-fashioned courtesy.

“So delighted to meet you again, Mrs. Cameron, and also to meet your charming sister.” He shook hands with both the ladies very warmly. “Ah, Superintendent,” he continued, “delighted to see you. And you, Inspector,” he said, giving them a nod as he laid off his outer leather riding coat. “Hope I see you flourishing,” he continued. His debonair manner had in it a quizzical touch of humor. “Ah, Cameron, home again I see. I came across your tracks the other day.”

The men, who had risen to their feet upon his entrance, stood regarding him stiffly and made no other sign of recognition than a curt nod and a single word of greeting.

“You have had quite a trip,” he continued, addressing himself to Cameron, and taking the chair offered by Mandy. “I followed you part way, but you travel too fast for me. Much too strenuous work I found it. Why,” he continued, looking narrowly at Cameron, “you are badly punished. When did you get in?”

“Two hours ago, Mr. Raven,” said Mandy quickly, for her husband sat gazing stupidly into the fire. “And he is quite done up.”

“Two hours ago?” exclaimed Raven in utter surprise. “Do you mean to say that you have been traveling these last three days?”

Cameron nodded.

“Why, my dear sir, not even the Indians face such cold. Only the Mounted Police venture out in weather like this–and those who want to get away from them. Ha! ha! Eh? Inspector? Ha! ha!” His gay, careless laugh rang out in the most cheery fashion. But only the ladies joined. The men stood grimly silent.

Mandy could not understand their grim and gloomy silence. By her cordiality she sought to cover up and atone for the studied and almost insulting indifference of her husband and her other guests. In these attempts she was loyally supported by her sister-in-law, whose anger was roused by the all too obvious efforts on the part of her brother and his friends to ignore this stranger, if not to treat him with contempt. There was nothing in Raven’s manner to indicate that he observed anything amiss in the bearing of the male members of the company about the fire. He met the attempt of the ladies at conversation with a brilliancy of effort that quite captivated them, and, in spite of themselves, drew the Superintendent and the Inspector into the flow of talk.

As the hour of the midday meal approached Mandy rose from her place by the fire and said:

“You will stay with us to dinner, Mr. Raven? We dine at midday. It is not often we have such a distinguished and interesting company.”

“Thank you, no,” said Raven. “I merely looked in to give your husband a bit of interesting information. And, by the way, I have a bit of information that might interest the Superintendent as well.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “we are to have the pleasure of the Superintendent and the Inspector to dinner with us to-day, and you can give them all the information you think necessary while you are waiting.”

Raven hesitated while he glanced at the faces of the men beside him. What he read there drew from him a little hard smile of amused contempt.

“Please do not ask me again, Mrs. Cameron,” he said. “You know not how you strain my powers of resistance when I really dare not–may not,” he corrected himself with a quick glance at the Superintendent, “stay in this most interesting company and enjoy your most grateful hospitality any longer. And now my information is soon given. First of all for you, Cameron–I shall not apologize to you, Mrs. Cameron, for delivering it in your presence. I do you the honor to believe that you ought to know–briefly my information is this. Little Pine, in whose movements you are all interested, I understand, is at this present moment lodging with the Sarcee Indians, and next week will move on to visit old Crowfoot. The Sarcee visit amounts to little, but the visit to old Crowfoot–well, I need say no more to you, Cameron. Probably you know more about the inside workings of old Crowfoot’s mind than I do.”

“Visiting Crowfoot?” exclaimed Cameron. “Then I was there too soon.”

“That is his present intention, and I have no doubt the program will be carried out,” said Raven. “My information is from the inside. Of course,” he continued, “I know you have run across the trail of the North Cree and Salteaux runners from Big Bear and Beardy. They are not to be despised. But Little Pine is a different person from these gentlemen. The big game is scheduled for the early spring, will probably come off in about six weeks. And now,” he said, rising from his chair, “I must be off.”

At this point Smith came in and quietly took a seat beside Jerry near the door.

“And what’s your information for me, Mr. Raven?” inquired the Superintendent. “You are not going to deprive me of my bit of news?”

“Ah, yes–news,” replied Raven, sitting down again. “Briefly this. Little Thunder has yielded to some powerful pressure and has again found it necessary to visit this country, I need hardly add, against my desire.”

“Little Thunder?” exclaimed the Superintendent, and his tone indicated something more than surprise. “Then there will be something doing. And where does this–ah–this–ah–friend of yours propose to locate himself?”

“This friend of mine,” replied Raven, with a hard gleam in his eye and a bitter smile curling his lips, “who would gladly adorn his person with my scalp if he might, will not ask my opinion as to his location, and probably not yours either, Mr. Superintendent.” As Raven ceased speaking he once more rose from his chair, put on his leather riding coat and took up his cap and gauntlets. “Farewell, Mrs. Cameron,” he said, offering her his hand. “Believe me, it has been a rare treat to see you and to sit by your fireside for one brief half-hour.”

“Oh, but Mr. Raven, you are not to think of leaving us before dinner. Why this haste?”

“The trail I take,” said Raven in a grave voice, “is full of pitfalls and I must take it when I can. The Superintendent knows,” he added. But his smile awoke no response in the Superintendent, who sat rigidly silent.

“It’s a mighty cold day outside, “interjected Smith, “and blowing up something I think.”

“Oh, hang it, Raven!” blurted out Cameron, who sat stupidly gazing into the fire, “Stay and eat. This is no kind of day to go out hungry. It is too beastly cold.”

“Thanks, Cameron, it IS a cold day, too cold to stay.”

“Do stay, Mr. Raven,” pleaded Moira.

He turned swiftly and looked into her soft brown eyes now filled with warm kindly light.

“Alas, Miss Cameron,” he replied in a low voice, turning his back upon the others, his voice and his attitude seeming to isolate the girl from the rest of the company, “believe me, if I do not stay it is not because I do not want to, but because I cannot.”

“You cannot?” echoed Moira in an equally low tone.

“I cannot,” he replied. Then, raising his voice, “Ask the Superintendent. He knows that I cannot.”

“Do you know?” said Moira, turning upon the Superintendent, “What does he mean?”

The Superintendent rose angrily.

“Mr. Raven chooses to be mysterious,” he said. “If he cannot remain here he knows why without appealing to me.”

“Ah, my dear Superintendent, how unfeeling! You hardly do yourself justice,” said Raven, proceeding to draw on his gloves. His drawling voice seemed to irritate the Superintendent beyond control.

“Justice?” he exclaimed sharply. “Justice is a word you should hesitate to use.”

“You see, Miss Cameron,” said Raven with an injured air, “why I cannot remain.”

“No, I do not!” cried Moira in hot indignation. “I do not see,” she repeated, “and if the Superintendent does I think he should explain.” Her voice rang out sharp and clear. It wakened her brother as if from a daze.

“Tut, tut, Moira!” he exclaimed. “Do not interfere where you do not understand.”

“Then why make insinuations that cannot be explained?” cried his sister, standing up very straight and looking the Superintendent fair in the face.

“Explained?” echoed the Superintendent in a cool, almost contemptuous, voice. “There are certain things best not explained, but believe me if Mr. Raven desires explanation he can have it.”

The men were all on their feet. Quickly Moira turned to Raven with a gesture of appeal and a look of loyal confidence in her eyes. For a moment the hard, cynical face was illumined with a smile of rare beauty, but only for a moment. The gleam passed and the old, hard, cynical face turned in challenge to the Superintendent.

“Explain!” he said bitterly, defiantly. “Go on if you can.”

The Superintendent stood silent.

“Ah!” breathed Moira, a thrill of triumphant relief in her voice, “he cannot explain.”

With dramatic swiftness the explanation came. It was from Jerry.

“H’explain?” cried the little half-breed, quivering with rage. “H’explain? What for he can no h’explain? Dem horse he steal de night-tam’–dat whiskee he trade on de Indian. Bah! He no good– he one beeg tief. Me–I put him one sure place he no steal no more!”

A few moments of tense silence held the group rigid. In the center stood Raven, his face pale, hard, but smiling, before him Moira, waiting, eager, with lips parted and eyes aglow with successive passions, indignation, doubt, fear, horror, grief. Again that swift and subtle change touched Raven’s face as his eyes rested upon the face of the girl before him.

“Now you know why I cannot stay,” he said gently, almost sadly.

“It is not true,” murmured Moira, piteous appeal in voice and eyes. A spasm crossed the pale face upon which her eyes rested, then the old cynical look returned.

“Once more, thank you, Mrs. Cameron,” he said with a bow to Mandy, “for a happy half-hour by your fireside, and farewell.”

“Good-by,” said Mandy sadly.

He turned to Moira.

“Oh, good-by, good-by,” cried the girl impulsively, reaching out her hand.

“Good-by,” he said simply. “I shall not forget that you were kind to me.” He bent low before her, but did not touch her outstretched hand. As he turned toward the door Jerry slipped in before him.

“You let him go?” he cried excitedly, looking at the Superintendent; but before the latter could answer a hand caught him by the coat collar and with a swift jerk landed him on the floor. It was Smith, his face furiously red. Before Jerry could recover himself Raven had opened the door and passed out.

“Oh, how awful!” said Mandy in a hushed, broken voice.

Moira stood for a moment as if dazed, then suddenly turned to Smith and said:

“Thank you. That was well done.”

And Smith, red to his hair roots, murmured, “You wanted him to go?”

“Yes,” said Moira, “I wanted him to go.”

CHAPTER XVI

WAR

Commissioner Irvine sat in his office at headquarters in the little town of Regina, the capital of the North West Territories of the Dominion. A number of telegrams lay before him on the table. A look of grave anxiety was on his face. The cause of his anxiety was to be found in the news contained in the telegrams. An orderly stood behind his chair.

“Send Inspector Sanders to me!” commanded the Commissioner.

The orderly saluted and retired.

In a few moments Inspector Sanders made his appearance, a tall, soldierlike man, trim in appearance, prompt in movement and somewhat formal in speech.

“Well, the thing has come,” said the Commissioner, handing Inspector Sanders one of the telegrams before him. Inspector Sanders took the wire, read it and stood very erect.

“Looks like it, sir,” he replied. “You always said it would.”

“It is just eight months since I first warned the government that trouble would come. Superintendent Crozier knows the situation thoroughly and would not have sent this wire if outbreak were not imminent. Then here is one from Superintendent Gagnon at Carlton. He also is a careful man.”

Inspector Sanders gravely read the second telegram.

“We ought to have five hundred men on the spot this minute,” he said.

“I have asked that a hundred men be sent up at once,” said the Commissioner, “but I am doubtful if we can get the Government to agree. It seems almost impossible to make the authorities feel the gravity of the situation. They cannot realize, for one thing, the enormous distances that separate points that look comparatively near together upon the map.” He spread a map out upon the table. “And yet,” he continued, “they have these maps before them, and the figures, but somehow the facts do not impress them. Look at this vast area lying between these four posts that form an almost perfect quadrilateral. Here is the north line running from Edmonton at the northwest corner to Prince Albert at the northeast, nearly four hundred miles away; then here is the south line running from Macleod at the southwest four hundred and fifty miles to Regina at the southeast; while the sides of this quadrilateral are nearly three hundred miles long. Thus the four posts forming our quadrilateral are four hundred miles apart one way by three hundred another, and, if we run the lines down to the boundary and to the limit of the territory which we patrol, the disturbed area may come to be about five hundred miles by six hundred; and we have some five hundred men available.”

“It is a good thing we have established the new post at Carlton,” suggested Inspector Sanders.

“Ah, yes, there is Carlton. It is true we have strengthened up that district recently with two hundred men distributed between Battleford, Prince Albert, Fort Pitt and Fort Carlton. But Carlton is naturally a very weak post and is practically of little use to us. True, it guards us against those Willow Crees and acts as a check upon old Beardy.”

“A troublesome man, that Kah-me-yes-too-waegs–old Beardy, I mean. It took me some time to master that one,” said Inspector Sanders, “but then I have studied German. He always has been a nuisance,” continued the Inspector. “He was a groucher when the treaty was made in ’76 and he has been a groucher ever since.”

“If we only had the men, just another five hundred,” replied the Commissioner, tapping the map before him with his finger, “we should hold this country safe. But what with these restless half- breeds led by this crack-brained Riel, and these ten thousand Indians–“

“Not to speak of a couple of thousand non-treaty Indians roaming the country and stirring up trouble,” interjected the Inspector.

“True enough,” replied the Commissioner, “but I would have no fear of the Indians were it not for these half-breeds. They have real grievances, remember, Sanders, real grievances, and that gives force to their quarrel and cohesion to the movement. Men who have a conviction that they are suffering injustice are not easily turned aside. And these men can fight. They ride hard and shoot straight and are afraid of nothing. I confess frankly it looks very serious to me.”

“For my part,” said Inspector Sanders, “it is the Indians I fear most.”

“The Indians?” said the Commissioner. “Yes, if once they rise. Really, one wonders at the docility of the Indians, and their response to fair and decent treatment. Why, just think of it! Twenty years ago, no, fifteen years ago, less than fifteen years ago, these Indians whom we have been holding in our hand so quietly were roaming these plains, living like lords on the buffalo and fighting like fiends with each other, free from all control. Little wonder if, now feeling the pinch of famine, fretting under the monotony of pastoral life, and being incited to war by the hot- blooded half-breeds, they should break out in rebellion. And what is there to hold them back? Just this, a feeling that they have been justly treated, fairly and justly dealt with by the Government, and a wholesome respect for Her Majesty’s North West Mounted Police, if I do say it myself. But the thing is on, and we must be ready.”

“What is to be done, sir?” inquired Sanders.

“Well, thank God, there is not much to be done in the way of preparation,” replied the Commissioner. “Our fellows are ready to a man. For the past six months we have been on the alert for this emergency, but we must strike promptly. When I think of these settlers about Prince Albert and Battleford at the mercy of Beardy and that restless and treacherous Salteaux, Big Bear, I confess to a terrible anxiety.”

“Then there is the West, sir, as well,” said Sanders, “the Blackfeet and the Bloods.”

“Ah, yes, Sanders! You know them well. So do I. It is a great matter that Crowfoot is well disposed toward us, that he has confidence in our officers and that he is a shrewd old party as well. But Crowfoot is an Indian and the head of a great tribe with warlike traditions and with ambitions, and he will find it difficult to maintain his own loyalty, and much more that of his young men, in the face of any conspicuous successes by his Indian rivals, the Crees. But,” added the Commissioner, rolling up the map, “I called you in principally to say that I wish you to have every available man and gun ready for a march at a day’s notice. Further, I wish you to wire Superintendent Herchmer at Calgary to send at the earliest possible moment twenty-five men at least, fully equipped. We shall need every man we can spare from every post in the West to send North.”

“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.”