The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail by Ralph Connor (page 6)

“What? Where?” said the doctor, kneeling down beside him and tearing open his coat and vest. “Oh, my God!” cried the doctor. “He is–” The doctor paused abruptly.

“What do you say? Oh, Dr. Martin, he is not badly wounded?” Moira threw herself on her knees beside the wounded man and caught his hand. “Oh, it is cold, cold,” she cried through rushing tears. “Can you not help him? Oh, you must not let him die.”

“Surely he is not dying?” said Cameron.

The doctor was silently and swiftly working with his syringe.

“How long, Doctor?” inquired Raven in a quiet voice.

“Half an hour, perhaps less,” said the doctor brokenly. “Have you any pain?”

“No, very little. It is quite easy. Cameron,” he said, his voice beginning to fail, “I want you to send a letter which you will find in my pocket addressed to my brother. Tell no one the name. And add this, that I forgive him. It was really not worth while,” he added wearily, “to hate him so. And say to the Superintendent I was on the straight with him, with you all, with my country in this rebellion business. I heard about this raid; and I fancy I have rather spoiled their pemmican. I have run some cattle in my time, but you know, Cameron, a fellow who has worn the uniform could not mix in with these beastly breeds against the Queen, God bless her!”

“Oh, Dr. Martin,” cried the girl piteously, shaking him by the arm, “do not tell me you can do nothing. Try–try something.” She began again to chafe the cold hand, her tears falling upon it.

Raven looked up quickly at her.

“You are weeping for me, Miss Moira?” he said, surprise and wonder in his face. “For me? A horse-thief, an outlaw, for me? I thank you. And forgive me–may I kiss your hand?” He tried feebly to lift her hand to his lips.

“No, no,” cried the girl. “Not my hand!” and leaning over him she kissed him on the brow. His eyes were still upon her.

“Thank you,” he said feebly, a rare, beautiful smile lighting up the white face. “You make me believe in God’s mercy.”

There was a quick movement in the group and Smith was kneeling beside the dying man.

“God’s mercy, Mr. Raven,” he said in an eager voice, “is infinite. Why should you not believe in it?”

Raven looked at him curiously.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a quaintly humorous smile, “you are the chap that chucked Jerry away from the door?”

Smith nodded, then said earnestly:

“Mr. Raven, you must believe in God’s mercy.”

“God’s mercy,” said the dying man slowly. “Yes, God’s mercy. What is it again? ‘God–be–merciful–to me–a sinner.'” Once more he opened his eyes and let them rest upon the face of the girl bending over him. “Yes,” he said, “you helped me to believe in God’s mercy.” With a sigh as of content he settled himself quietly against the shoulders of his dead horse.

“Good old comrade,” he said, “good-by!” He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. They waited for another, but there was no more.

“He is gone,” said the doctor.

“Gone?” cried Moira. “Gone? Ochone, but he was the gallant gentleman!” she wailed, lapsing into her Highland speech. “Oh, but he had the brave heart and the true heart. Ochone! Ochone!” She swayed back and forth upon her knees with hands clasped and tears running down her cheeks, bending over the white face that lay so still in the moonlight and touched with the majesty of death.

“Come, Moira! Come, Moira!” said her brother surprised at her unwonted display of emotion. “You must control yourself.”

“Leave her alone. Let her cry. She is in a hard spot,” said Dr. Martin in a sharp voice in which grief and despair were mingled.

Cameron glanced at his friend’s face. It was the face of a haggard old man.

“You are used up, old boy,” he said kindly, putting his hand on the doctor’s arm. “You need rest.”

“Rest?” said the doctor. “Rest? Not I. But you do. And you too, Miss Moira,” he added gently. “Come,” giving her his hand, “you must get home.” There was in his voice a tone of command that made the girl look up quickly and obey.

“And you?” she said. “You must be done.”

“Done? Yes, but what matter? Take her home, Cameron.”

“And what about you?” inquired Cameron.

“Smith, the constable and I will look after–him–and the horse. Send a wagon to-morrow morning.”

Without further word the brother and sister mounted their horses.

“Good-by, old man. See you to-morrow,” said Cameron.

“Good-night,” said the doctor shortly.

The girl gave him her hand.

“Good-night,” she said simply, her eyes full of a dumb pain.

“Good-by, Miss Moira,” said the doctor, who held her hand for just a moment as if to speak again, then abruptly he turned his back on her without further word and so stood with never a glance more after her. It was for him a final farewell to hopes that had lived with him and had warmed his heart for the past three years. Now they were dead, dead as the dead man upon whose white still face he stood looking down.

“Thief, murderer, outlaw,” he muttered to himself. “Sure enough– sure enough. And yet you could not help it, nor could she.” But he was not thinking of the dead man’s record in the books of the Mounted Police.

CHAPTER XIX

THE GREAT CHIEF

On the rampart of hills overlooking the Piegan encampment the sun was shining pleasantly. The winter, after its final savage kick, had vanished and summer, crowding hard upon spring, was wooing the bluffs and hillsides on their southern exposures to don their summer robes of green. Not yet had the bluffs and hillsides quite yielded to the wooing, not yet had they donned the bright green apparel of summer, but there was the promise of summer’s color gleaming through the neutral browns and grays of the poplar bluffs and the sunny hillsides. The crocuses with reckless abandon had sprung forth at the first warm kiss of the summer sun and stood bravely, gaily dancing in their purple and gray, till whole hillsides blushed for them. And the poplars, hesitating with dainty reserve, shivered in shy anticipation and waited for a surer call, still wearing their neutral tints, except where they stood sheltered by the thick spruces from the surly north wind. There they had boldly cast aside all prudery and were flirting in all their gallant trappings with the ardent summer.

Seeing none of all this, but dimly conscious of the good of it, Cameron and his faithful attendant Jerry lay grimly watching through the poplars. Three days had passed since the raid, and as yet there was no sign at the Piegan camp of the returning raiders. Not for one hour had the camp remained unwatched. Just long enough to bury his new-made friend, the dead outlaw, did Cameron himself quit the post, leaving Jerry on guard meantime, and now he was back again, with his glasses searching every corner of the Piegan camp and watching every movement. There was upon his face a look that filled with joy his watchful companion, a look that proclaimed his set resolve that when Eagle Feather and his young men should appear in camp there would speedily be swift and decisive action. For three days his keen eyes had looked forth through the delicate green-brown screen of poplar upon the doings of the Piegans, the Mounted Police meantime ostentatiously beating up the Blood Reserve with unwonted threats of vengeance for the raiders, the bruit of which had spread through all the reserves.

“Don’t do anything rash,” the Superintendent had admonished, as Cameron appeared demanding three troopers and Jerry, with whom to execute vengeance upon those who had brought death to a gallant gentleman and his gallant steed, for both of whom there had sprung up in Cameron’s heart a great and admiring affection.

“No, sir,” Cameron had replied, “nothing rash; we will do a little justice, that is all,” but with so stern a face that the Superintendent had watched him away with some anxiety and had privately ordered a strong patrol to keep the Piegan camp under surveillance till Cameron had done his work. But there was no call for aid from any patrol, as it turned out; and before this bright summer morning had half passed away Cameron shut up his glasses, ready for action.

“I think they are all in now, Jerry, he said. “We will go down. Go and bring in the men. There is that devil Eagle Feather just riding in.” Cameron’s teeth went hard together on the name of the Chief, in whom the leniency of Police administration of justice had bred only a deeper treachery.

Within half an hour Cameron with his three troopers and Jerry rode jingling into the Piegan camp and disposed themselves at suitable points of vantage. Straight to the Chief’s tent Cameron rode, and found Trotting Wolf standing at its door.

“I want that cattle-thief, Eagle Feather,” he announced in a clear, firm voice that rang through the encampment from end to end.

“Eagle Feather not here,” was Trotting Wolf’s sullen but disturbed reply.

“Trotting Wolf, I will waste no time on you,” said Cameron, drawing his gun. “I take Eagle Feather or you. Make your choice and quick about it!” There was in Cameron’s voice a ring of such compelling command that Trotting Wolf weakened visibly.

“I know not where Eagle Feather–“

“Halt there!” cried Cameron to an Indian who was seen to be slinking away from the rear of the line of tents.

The Indian broke into a run. Like a whirlwind Cameron was on his trail and before he had gained the cover of the woods had overtaken him.

“Halt!” cried Cameron again as he reached the Indian’s side. The Indian stopped and drew a knife. “You would, eh? Take that, will you?” Leaning down over his horse’s neck Cameron struck the Indian with the butt of his gun. Before he could rise the three constables in a converging rush were upon him and had him handcuffed.

“Now then, where is Eagle Feather?” cried Cameron in a furious voice, riding his horse into the crowd that had gathered thick about him. “Ah, I see you,” he cried, touching his horse with his heel as on the farther edge of the crowd he caught sight of his man. With a single bound his horse was within touch of the shrinking Indian. “Stand where you are!” cried Cameron, springing from his horse and striding to the Chief. “Put up your hands!” he said, covering him with his gun. “Quick, you dog!” he added, as Eagle Feather stood irresolute before him. Upon the uplifted hands Cameron slipped the handcuffs. “Come with me, you cattle-thief,” he said, seizing him by the gaudy handkerchief that adorned his neck, and giving him a quick jerk.

“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron in a terrible voice, wheeling furiously upon the Chief, “this cattle-thieving of your band must stop. I want the six men who were in that cattle-raid, or you come with me. Speak quick!” he added.

“By Gar!” said Jerry, hugging himself in his delight, to the trooper who was in charge of the first Indian. “Look lak’ he tak’ de whole camp.”

“By Jove, Jerry, it looks so to me, too! He has got the fear of death on these chappies. Look at his face. He looks like the very devil.”

It was true. Cameron’s face was gray, with purple blotches, and distorted with passion, his eyes were blazing with fury, his manner one of reckless savage abandon. There was but little delay. The rumors of vengeance stored up for the raiders, the paralyzing effect of the failure of the raid, the condemnation of a guilty conscience, but above all else the overmastering rage of Cameron, made anything like resistance simply impossible. In a very few minutes Cameron had his prisoners in line and was riding to the Fort, where he handed them over to the Superintendent for justice.

That business done, he found his patrol-work pressing upon him with a greater insistence than ever, for the runners from the half- breeds and the Northern Indians were daily arriving at the reserves bearing reports of rebel victories of startling magnitude. But even without any exaggeration tales grave enough were being carried from lip to lip throughout the Indian tribes. Small wonder that the irresponsible young Chiefs, chafing under the rule of the white man and thirsting for the mad rapture of fight, were straining almost to the breaking point the authority of the cooler older heads, so that even that subtle redskin statesman, Crowfoot, began to fear for his own position in the Blackfeet confederacy.

As the days went on the Superintendent at Macleod, whose duty it was to hold in statu quo that difficult country running up into the mountains and down to the American boundary-line, found his task one that would have broken a less cool-headed and stout-hearted officer.

The situation in which he found himself seemed almost to invite destruction. On the eighteenth of March he had sent the best of his men, some twenty-five of them, with his Inspector, to join the Alberta Field Force at Calgary, whence they made that famous march to Edmonton of over two hundred miles in four and a half marching days. From Calgary, too, had gone a picked body of Police with Superintendent Strong and his scouts as part of the Alberta Field Force under General Strange. Thus it came that by the end of April the Superintendent at Fort Macleod had under his command only a handful of his trained Police, supported by two or three companies of Militia–who, with all their ardor, were unskilled in plain- craft, strange to the country, new to war, ignorant of the habits and customs and temper of the Indians with whom they were supposed to deal–to hold the vast extent of territory under his charge, with its little scattered hamlets of settlers, safe in the presence of the largest and most warlike of the Indian tribes in Western Canada.

Every day the strain became more intense. A crisis appeared to be reached when the news came that on the twenty-fourth of April General Middleton had met a check at Fish Creek, which, though not specially serious in itself, revealed the possibilities of the rebel strategy and gave heart to the enemy immediately engaged.

And, though Fish Creek was no great fight, the rumor of it ran through the Western reserves like red fire through prairie-grass, blowing almost into flame the war-spirit of the young braves of the Bloods, Piegans and Sarcees and even of the more stable Blackfeet. Three days after that check, the news of it was humming through every tepee in the West, and for a week or more it took all the cool courage and steady nerve characteristic of the Mounted Police to enable them to ride without flurry or hurry their daily patrols through the reserves.

At this crisis it was that the Superintendent at Macleod gathered together such of his officers and non-commissioned officers as he could in council at Fort Calgary, to discuss the situation and to plan for all possible emergencies. The full details of the Fish Creek affair had just come in. They were disquieting enough, although the Superintendent made light of them. On the wall of the barrack-room where the council was gathered there hung a large map of the Territories. The Superintendent, a man of small oratorical powers, undertook to set forth the disposition of the various forces now operating in the West.

“Here you observe the main line running west from Regina to the mountains, some five hundred and fifty miles,” he said. “And here, roughly, two hundred and fifty miles north, is the northern boundary line of our settlements, Prince Albert at the east, Battleford at the center, Edmonton at the west, each of these points the center of a country ravaged by half-breeds and bands of Indians. To each of these points relief-expeditions have been sent.

“This line represents the march of Commissioner Irvine from Regina to Prince Albert–a most remarkable march that was too, gentlemen, nearly three hundred miles over snow-bound country in about seven days. That march will be remembered, I venture to say. The Commissioner still holds Prince Albert, and we may rely upon it will continue to hold it safe against any odds. Meantime he is scouting the country round about, preventing Indians from reinforcing the enemy in any large numbers.

“Next, to the west is Battleford, which holds the central position and is the storm-center of the rebellion at present. This line shows the march of Colonel Otter with Superintendent Herchmer from Swift Current to that point. We have just heard that Colonel Otter has arrived at Battleford and has raised the siege. But large bands of Indians are in the vicinity of Battleford and the situation there is extremely critical. I understand that old Oo- pee-too-korah-han-apee-wee-yin–” the Superintendent prided himself upon his mastery of Indian names and ran off this polysyllabic cognomen with the utmost facility–“the Pond-maker, or Pound-maker as he has come to be called, is in the neighborhood. He is not a bad fellow, but he is a man of unusual ability, far more able than of the Willow Crees, Beardy, as he is called, though not so savage, and he has a large and compact body of Indians under him.

“Then here straight north from us some two hundred miles is Edmonton, the center of a very wide district sparsely settled, with a strong half-breed element in the immediate neighborhood and Big Bear and Little Pine commanding large bodies of Indians ravaging the country round about. Inspector Griesbach is in command of this district, located at Fort Saskatchewan, which is in close touch with Edmonton. General Strange, commanding the Alberta Field Force and several companies of Militia, together with our own men under Superintendent Strong and Inspector Dickson, are on the way to relieve this post. Inspector Dickson, I understand, has successfully made the crossing of the Red Deer with his nine pr. gun, a quite remarkable feat I assure you.

“But, gentlemen, you see the position in which we are placed in this section of the country. From the Cypress Hills here away to the southeast, westward to the mountains and down to the boundary- line, you have a series of reserves almost completely denuded of Police supervision. True, we are fortunate in having at the Blackfoot Crossing, at Fort Calgary and at Fort Macleod, companies of Militia; but the very presence of these troops incites the Indians, and in some ways is a continual source of unrest among them.

“Every day runners from the North and East come to our reserves with extraordinary tales of rebel victories. This Fish Creek business has had a tremendous influence upon the younger element. On every reserve there are scores of young braves eager to rise. What a general uprising would mean you know, or think you know. An Indian war of extermination is a horrible possibility. The question before us all is–what is to be done?”

After a period of conversation the Superintendent summed up the results of the discussion in a few short sentences:

“It seems, gentlemen, there is not much more to be done than what we are already doing. But first of all I need not say that we must keep our nerve. I do not believe any Indian will see any sign of doubt or fear in the face of any member of this Force. Our patrols must be regularly and carefully done. There are a lot of things which we must not see, a certain amount of lawbreaking which we must not notice. Avoid on every possible occasion pushing things to extremes; but where it is necessary to act we must act with promptitude and fearlessness, as Mr. Cameron here did at the Piegan Reserve a week or so ago. I mention this because I consider that action of Cameron’s a typically fine piece of Police work. We must keep on good terms with the Chiefs, tell them what good news there is to tell. We must intercept every runner possible. Arrest them and bring them to the barracks. The situation is grave, but not hopeless. Great responsibilities rest upon us, gentlemen. I do not believe that we shall fail.”

The little company broke up with resolute and grim determination stamped on every face. There would be no weakening at any spot where a Mounted Policeman was on duty.

“Cameron, just a moment,” said the Superintendent as he was passing out. “Sit down. You were quite right in that Eagle Feather matter. You did the right thing in pushing that hard.”

“I somehow felt I could do it, sir,” replied Cameron simply. “I had the feeling in my bones that we could have taken the whole camp that day.”

The Superintendent nodded. “I understand. And that is the way we should feel. But don’t do anything rash this week. This is a week of crisis. If any further reverse should happen to our troops it will be extremely difficult, if indeed possible, to hold back the younger braves. If there should be a rising–which may God forbid– my plan then would be to back right on to the Blackfeet Reserve. If old Crowfoot keeps steady–and with our presence to support him I believe he would–we could hold things safe for a while. But, Cameron, that Sioux devil Copperhead must be got rid of. It is he that is responsible for this restless spirit among the younger Chiefs. He has been in the East, you say, for the last three weeks, but he will soon be back. His runners are everywhere. His work lies here, and the only hope for the rebellion lies here, and he knows it. My scouts inform me that there is something big immediately on. A powwow is arranged somewhere before final action. I have reason to suspect that if we sustain another reverse and if the minor Chiefs from all the reserves come to an agreement, Crowfoot will yield. That is the game that the Sioux is working on now.”

“I know that quite well, sir,” replied Cameron. “Copperhead has captured practically all the minor Chiefs.”

“The checking of that big cattle-run, Cameron, was a mighty good stroke for us. You did that magnificently.”

“No, sir,” replied Cameron firmly. “We owe that to Raven.”

“Yes, yes, we do owe a good deal to–to–that–to Raven. Fine fellow gone wrong. Yes, we owe a lot to him, but we owe a lot to you as well, Cameron. I am not saying you will ever get any credit for it, but–well–who cares so long as the thing is done? But this Sioux must be got at all costs–at all costs, Cameron, remember. I have never asked you to push this thing to the limit, but now at all costs, dead or alive, that Sioux must be got rid of.”

“I could have potted him several times,” replied Cameron, “but did not wish to push matters to extremes.”

“Quite right. Quite right. That has been our policy hitherto, but now things have reached such a crisis that we can take no further chances. The Sioux must be eliminated.”

“All right, sir,” said Cameron, and a new purpose shaped itself in his heart. At all costs he would get the Sioux, alive if possible, dead if not.

Plainly the first thing was to uncover his tracks, and with this intention Cameron proceeded to the Blackfeet Reserve, riding with Jerry down the Bow River from Fort Calgary, until, as the sun was setting on an early May evening, he came in sight of the Blackfoot Crossing.

Not wishing to visit the Militia camp at that point, and desiring to explore the approaches of the Blackfeet Reserve with as little ostentation as possible, he sent Jerry on with the horses, with instructions to meet him later on in the evening on the outside of the Blackfeet camp, and took a side trail on foot leading to the reserve through a coulee. Through the bottom of the coulee ran a little stream whose banks were packed tight with alders, willows and poplars. Following the trail to where it crossed the stream, Cameron left it for the purpose of quenching his thirst, and proceeded up-stream some little way from the usual crossing. Lying there prone upon his face he caught the sound of hoofs, and, peering through the alders, he saw a line of Indians riding down the opposite bank. Burying his head among the tangled alders and hardly breathing, he watched them one by one cross the stream not more than thirty yards away and clamber up the bank.

“Something doing here, sure enough,” he said to himself as he noted their faces. Three of them he knew, Red Crow of the Bloods, Trotting Wolf of the Piegans, Running Stream of the Blackfeet, then came three others unknown to Cameron, and last in the line Cameron was startled to observe Copperhead himself, while close at his side could be seen the slim figure of his son. As the Sioux passed by Cameron’s hiding-place he paused and looked steadily down into the alders for a moment or two, then rode on.

“Saved yourself that time, old man,” said Cameron as the Sioux disappeared, following the others up the trail. “We will see just which trail you take,” he continued, following them at a safe distance and keeping himself hidden by the brush till they reached the open and disappeared over the hill. Swiftly Cameron ran to the top, and, lying prone among the prairie grass, watched them for some time as they took the trail that ran straight westward.

“Sarcee Reserve more than likely,” he muttered to himself. “If Jerry were only here! But he is not, so I must let them go in the meantime. Later, however, we shall come up with you, gentlemen. And now for old Crowfoot and with no time to lose.”

He had only a couple of miles to go and in a few minutes he had reached the main trail from the Militia camp at the Crossing. In the growing darkness he could not discern whether Jerry had passed with the horses or not, so he pushed on rapidly to the appointed place of meeting and there found Jerry waiting for him.

“Listen, Jerry!” said he. “Copperhead is back. I have just seen him and his son with Red Crow, Trotting Wolf and Running Stream. There were three others–Sioux I think they are; at any rate I did not know them. They passed me in the coulee and took the Sarcee trail. Now what do you think is up?”

Jerry pondered. “Come from Crowfoot, heh?”

“From the reserve here anyway,” answered Cameron.

“Trotting Wolf beeg Chief–Red Crow beeg Chief–ver’ bad! ver’ bad! Dunno me–look somet’ing–beeg powwow mebbe. Ver’ bad! Ver’ bad! Go Sarcee Reserve, heh?” Again Jerry pondered. “Come from h’east– by Blood–Piegan–den Blackfeet–go Sarcee. What dey do? Where go den?”

“That is the question, Jerry,” said Cameron.

“Sout’ to Weegwam? No, nord to Ghost Reever–Manitou Rock–dunno– mebbe.”

“By Jove, Jerry, I believe you may be right. I don’t think they would go to the Wigwam–we caught them there once–nor to the canyon. What about this Ghost River? I don’t know the trail. Where is it?”

“Nord from Bow Reever by Kananaskis half day to Ghost Reever–bad trail–small leetle reever–ver’ stony–ver’ cold–beeg tree wit’ long beard.”

“Long beard?”

“Yes–long, long gray moss lak’ beard–ver’ strange place dat–from Ghost Reever west one half day to beeg Manitou Rock–no trail. Beeg medicine-dance dere–see heem once long tam’ ‘go–leetle boy me–beeg medicine–Indian debbil stay dere–Indian much scare’– only go when mak’ beeg tam’–beeg medicine.”

“Let me see if I get you, Jerry. A bad trail leads half a day north from the Bow at Kananaskis to Ghost River, eh?”

Jerry nodded.

“Then up the Ghost River westward through the bearded trees half a day to the Manitou Rock? Is that right?”

Again Jerry nodded.

“How shall I know the rock?”

“Beeg rock,” said Jerry. “Beeg dat tree,” pointing to a tall poplar, “and cut straight down lak some knife–beeg rock–black rock.”

“All right,” said Cameron. “What I want to know just now is does Crowfoot know of this thing? I fancy he must. I am going in to see him. Copperhead has just come from the reserve. He has Running Stream with him. It is possible, just possible, that he may not have seen Crowfoot. This I shall find out. Now, Jerry, you must follow Copperhead, find out where he has gone and all you can about this business, and meet me where the trail reaches the Ghost River. Call in at Fort Calgary. Take a trooper with you to look after the horses. I shall follow you to-morrow. If you are not at the Ghost River I shall go right on–that is if I see any signs.”

“Bon! Good!” said Jerry. And without further word he slipped on to his horse and disappeared into the darkness, taking the cross- trail through the coulee by which Cameron had come.

Crowfoot’s camp showed every sign of the organization and discipline of a master spirit. The tents and houses in which his Indians lived were extended along both sides of a long valley flanked at both ends by poplar-bluffs. At the bottom of the valley there was a series of “sleughs” or little lakes, affording good grazing and water for the herds of cattle and ponies that could be seen everywhere upon the hillsides. At a point farthest from the water and near to a poplar-bluff stood Crowfoot’s house. At the first touch of summer, however, Crowfoot’s household had moved out from their dwelling, after the manner of the Indians, and had taken up their lodging in a little group of tents set beside the house.

Toward this little group of tents Cameron rode at an easy lope. He found Crowfoot alone beside his fire, except for the squaws that were cleaning up after the evening meal and the papooses and older children rolling about on the grass. As Cameron drew near, all vanished, except Crowfoot and a youth about seventeen years of age, whose strongly marked features and high, fearless bearing proclaimed him Crowfoot’s son. Dismounting, Cameron dropped the reins over his horse’s head and with a word of greeting to the Chief sat down by the fire. Crowfoot acknowledged his salutation with a suspicious look and grunt.

“Nice night, Crowfoot,” said Cameron cheerfully. “Good weather for the grass, eh?”

“Good,” said Crowfoot gruffly.

Cameron pulled out his tobacco pouch and passed it to the Chief. With an air of indescribable condescension Crowfoot took the pouch, knocked the ashes from his pipe, filled it from the pouch and handed it back to the owner.

“Boy smoke?” inquired Cameron, holding out the pouch toward the youth.

“Huh!” grunted Crowfoot with a slight relaxing of his face. “Not yet–too small.”

The lad stood like a statue, and, except for a slight stiffening of his tall lithe figure, remained absolutely motionless, after the Indian manner. For some time they smoked in silence.

“Getting cold,” said Cameron at length, as he kicked the embers of the fire together.

Crowfoot spoke to his son and the lad piled wood on the fire till it blazed high, then, at a sign from his father, he disappeared into the tent.

“Ha! That is better,” said Cameron, stretching out his hands toward the fire and disposing himself so that the old Chief’s face should be set clearly in its light.

“The Police ride hard these days?” said Crowfoot in his own language, after a long silence.

“Oh, sometimes,” replied Cameron carelessly, “when cattle-thieves ride too.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot innocently.

“Yes, some Indians forget all that the Police have done for them, and like coyotes steal upon the cattle at night and drive them over cut-banks.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot again, apparently much interested.

“Yes,” continued Cameron, fully aware that he was giving the old Chief no news, “Eagle Feather will be much wiser when he rides over the plains again.”

“Huh!” ejaculated the Chief in agreement.

“But Eagle Feather,” continued Cameron, “is not the worst Indian. He is no good, only a little boy who does what he is told.”

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot with childlike simplicity.

“Yes, he is an old squaw serving his Chief.”

“Huh?” again inquired Crowfoot, moving his pipe from his mouth in his apparent anxiety to learn the name of this unknown master of Eagle Feather.

“Onawata, the Sioux, is a great Chief,” said Cameron.

Crowfoot grunted his indifference.

“He makes all the little Chiefs, Blood, Piegan, Sarcee, Blackfeet obey him,” said Cameron in a scornful voice, shading his face from the fire with his hand.

This time Crowfoot made no reply.

“But he has left this country for a while?” continued Cameron.

Crowfoot grunted acquiescence.

“My brother has not seen this Sioux for some weeks?” Again Cameron’s hand shaded his face from the fire while his eyes searched the old Chief’s impassive countenance.

“No,” said Crowfoot. “Not for many days. Onawata bad man–make much trouble.”

“The big war is going on good,” said Cameron, abruptly changing the subject.

“Huh?” inquired Crowfoot, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” said Cameron. “At Fish Creek the half-breeds and Indians had a good chance to wipe out General Middleton’s column.” And he proceeded to give a graphic account of the rebels’ opportunity at that unfortunate affair. “But,” he concluded, “the half-breeds and Indians have no Chief.”

“No Chief,” agreed Crowfoot with emphasis, his old eyes gleaming in the firelight. “No Chief,” he repeated. “Where Big Bear–Little Pine–Kah-mee-yes-too-waegs and Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin?”

“Oh,” said Cameron, “here, there, everywhere.”

“Huh! No big Chief,” grunted Crowfoot in disgust. “One big Chief make all Indians one.”

It seemed worth while to Cameron to take a full hour from his precious time to describe fully the operations of the troops and to make clear to the old warrior the steady advances which the various columns were making, the points they had relieved and the ultimate certainty of victory.

“Six thousand men now in the West,” he concluded, “besides the Police. And ten thousand more waiting to come.”

Old Crowfoot was evidently much impressed and was eager to learn more.

“I must go now,” said Cameron, rising. “Where is Running Stream?” he asked, suddenly facing Crowfoot.

“Huh! Running Stream he go hunt–t’ree day–not come back,” answered Crowfoot quickly.

Cameron sat down again by the fire, poked up the embers till the blaze mounted high.

“Crowfoot,” he said solemnly, “this day Onawata was in this camp and spoke with you. Wait!” he said, putting up his hand as the old Chief was about to speak. “This evening he rode away with Running Stream, Red Crow, Trotting Wolf. The Sioux for many days has been leading about your young men like dogs on a string. To-day he has put the string round the necks of Red Crow, Running Stream, Trotting Wolf. I did not think he could lead Crowfoot too like a little dog.

“Wait!” he said again as Crowfoot rose to his feet in indignation. “Listen! The Police will get that Sioux. And the Police will take the Chiefs that he led round like little dogs and send them away. The Great Mother cannot have men as Chiefs whom she cannot trust. For many years the Police have protected the Indians. It was Crowfoot himself who once said when the treaty was being made– Crowfoot will remember–‘If the Police had not come to the country where would we all be now? Bad men and whisky were killing us so fast that very few indeed of us would have been left to-day. The Police have protected us as the feathers of the bird protect it from the frosts of winter.’ This is what Crowfoot said to the Great Mother’s Councilor when he made a treaty with the Great Mother.”

Here Cameron rose to his feet and stood facing the Chief.

“Is Crowfoot a traitor? Does he give his hand and draw it back again? It is not good that, when trouble comes, the Indians should join the enemies of the Police and of the Great Mother across the sea. These enemies will be scattered like dust before the wind. Does Crowfoot think when the leaves have fallen from the trees this year there will be any enemies left? Bah! This Sioux dog does not know the Great Mother, nor her soldiers, nor her Police. Crowfoot knows. Why does he talk to the enemies of the Great Mother and of his friends the Police? What does Crowfoot say? I go to-night to take Onawata. Already my men are upon his trail. Where does Crowfoot stand? With Onawata and the little Chiefs he leads around or with the Great Mother and the Police? Speak! I am waiting.”

The old Chief was deeply stirred. For some moments while Cameron was speaking he had been eagerly seeking an opportunity to reply, but Cameron’s passionate torrent of words prevented him breaking in without discourtesy. When Cameron ceased, however, the old Chief stretched out his hand and in his own language began:

“Many years ago the Police came to this country. My people then were poor–“

At this point the sound of a galloping horse was heard, mingled with the loud cries of its rider. Crowfoot paused and stood intently listening. Cameron could get no meaning from the shouting. From every tent men came running forth and from the houses along the trail on every hand, till before the horse had gained Crowfoot’s presence there had gathered about the Chief’s fire a considerable crowd of Indians, whose numbers were momentarily augmented by men from the tents and houses up and down the trail.

In calm and dignified silence the old Chief waited the rider’s word. He was an Indian runner and he bore an important message.

Dismounting, the runner stood, struggling to recover his breath and to regain sufficient calmness to deliver his message in proper form to the great Chief of the Blackfeet confederacy. While he stood thus struggling with himself Cameron took the opportunity to closely scrutinize his face.

“A Sarcee,” he muttered. “I remember him–an impudent cur.” He moved quietly toward his horse, drew the reins up over his head, and, leading him back toward the fire, took his place beside Crowfoot again.

The Sarcee had begun his tale, speaking under intense excitement which he vainly tried to control. He delivered his message. Such was the rapidity and incoherence of his speech, however, that Cameron could make nothing of it. The effect upon the crowd was immediate and astounding. On every side rose wild cries of fierce exultation, while at Cameron angry looks flashed from every eye. Old Crowfoot alone remained quiet, calm, impassive, except for the fierce gleaming of his steady eyes.

When the runner had delivered his message he held up his hand and spoke but a single word. Immediately there was silence as of the grave. Nothing was heard, not even the breathing of the Indians close about him. In sharp, terse sentences the old Chief questioned the runner, who replied at first eagerly, then, as the questions proceeded, with some hesitation. Finally, with a wave of the hand Crowfoot dismissed him and stood silently pondering for some moments. Then he turned to his people and said with quiet and impressive dignity:

“This is a matter for the Council. To-morrow we will discuss it.” Then turning to Cameron he said in a low voice and with grave courtesy, “It is wise that my brother should go while the trails are open.”

“The trails are always open to the Great Mother’s Mounted Police,” said Cameron, looking the old Chief full in the eye.

Crowfoot stood silent, evidently thinking deeply.

“It is right that my brother should know,” he said at length, “what the runner tells,” and in his deep guttural voice there was a ring of pride.

“Good news is always welcome,” said Cameron, as he coolly pulled out his pipe and offered his pouch once more to Crowfoot, who, however, declined to see it.

“The white soldiers have attacked the Indians and have been driven back,” said Crowfoot with a keen glance at Cameron’s face.

“Ah!” said Cameron, smiling. “What Indians? What white soldiers?”

“The soldiers that marched to Battleford. They went against Oo- pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin and the Indians did not run away.” No words could describe the tone and attitude of exultant and haughty pride with which the old Chief delivered this information.

“Crowfoot,” said Cameron with deliberate emphasis, “it was Colonel Otter and Superintendent Herchmer of the Mounted Police that went north to Battleford. You do not know Colonel Otter, but you do know Superintendent Herchmer. Tell me, would Superintendent Herchmer and the Police run away?”

“The runner tells that the white soldiers ran away,” said Crowfoot stubbornly.

“Then the runner lies!” Cameron’s voice rang out loud and clear.

Swift as a lightning flash the Sarcee sprang at Cameron, knife in hand, crying in the Blackfeet tongue that terrible cry so long dreaded by settlers in the Western States of America, “Death to the white man!” Without apparently moving a muscle, still holding by the mane of his horse, Cameron met the attack with a swift and well-placed kick which caught the Indian’s right wrist and flung his knife high in the air. Following up the kick, Cameron took a single step forward and met the murderous Sarcee with a straight left-hand blow on the jaw that landed the Indian across the fire and deposited him kicking amid the crowd.

Immediately there was a quick rush toward the white man, but the rush halted before two little black barrels with two hard, steady, gray eyes gleaming behind them.

“Crowfoot!” said Cameron sharply. “I hold ten dead Indians in my hands.”

With a single stride Crowfoot was at Cameron’s side. A single sharp stern word of command he uttered and the menacing Indians slunk back into the shadows, but growling like angry beasts.

“Is it wise to anger my young men?” said Crowfoot in a low voice.

“Is it wise,” replied Cameron sternly, “to allow mad dogs to run loose? We kill such mad dogs in my country.”

“Huh,” grunted Crowfoot with a shrug of his shoulders. “Let him die!” Then in a lower voice he added earnestly, “It would be good to take the trail before my young men can catch their horses.”

“I was just going, Crowfoot,” said Cameron, stooping to light his pipe at the fire. “Good-night. Remember what I have said.” And Cameron cantered away with both hands low before him and guiding his broncho with his knees, and so rode easily till safely beyond the line of the reserve. Once out of the reserve he struck his spurs hard into his horse and sent him onward at headlong pace toward the Militia camp.

Ten minutes after his arrival at the camp every soldier was in his place ready to strike, and so remained all night, with pickets thrown far out listening with ears attent for the soft pad of moccasined feet.

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST PATROL

It was still early morning when Cameron rode into the barrack-yard at Fort Calgary. To the Sergeant in charge, the Superintendent of Police having departed to Macleod, he reported the events of the preceding night.

“What about that rumor, Sergeant?” he inquired after he had told his tale.

“Well, I had the details yesterday,” replied the Sergeant. “Colonel Otter and a column of some three hundred men with three guns went out after Pound-maker. The Indians were apparently strongly posted and could not be dislodged, and I guess our men were glad to get out of the scrape as easily as they did.”

“Great Heavens!” cried Cameron, more to himself than to the officer, “what will this mean to us here?”

The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“The Lord only knows!” he said.

“Well, my business presses all the more,” said Cameron. “I’m going after this Sioux. Jerry is already on his trail. I suppose you cannot let me have three or four men? There is liable to be trouble and we cannot afford to make a mess of this thing.”

“Jerry came in last night asking for a man,” replied the Sergeant, “but I could not spare one. However, we will do our best and send you on the very first men that come in.”

“Send on half a dozen to-morrow at the very latest,” replied Cameron. “I shall rely upon you. Let me give you my trail.”

He left a plan of the Ghost River Trail with the Sergeant and rode to look up Dr. Martin. He found the doctor still in bed and wrathful at being disturbed.

“I say, Cameron,” he growled, “what in thunder do you mean by roaming round this way at night and waking up Christian people out of their sleep?”

“Sorry, old boy,” replied Cameron, “but my business is rather important.”

And then while the doctor sat and shivered in his night clothes upon the side of the bed Cameron gave him in detail the history of the previous evening and outlined his plan for the capture of the Sioux.

Dr. Martin listened intently, noting the various points and sketching an outline of the trail as Cameron described it.

“I wanted you to know, Martin, in case anything happened. For, well, you know how it is with my wife just now. A shock might kill her.”

The doctor growled an indistinct reply.

“That is all, old chap. Good-by,” said Cameron, pressing his hand. “This I feel is my last go with old Copperhead.”

“Your last go?”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed,” he replied lightly. “I am going to get him this time. There will be no trifling henceforth. Well, good-by, I am off. By the way, the Sergeant at the barracks has promised to send on half a dozen men to-morrow to back me up. You might just keep him in mind of that, for things are so pressing here that he might quite well imagine that he could not spare the men.”

“Well, that is rather better,” said Martin. “The Sergeant will send those men all right, or I will know the reason why. Hope you get your game. Good-by, old man.”

A day’s ride brought Cameron to Kananaskis, where the Sun Dance Trail ends on one side of the Bow River and the Ghost River Trail begins on the other. There he found signs to indicate that Jerry was before him on his way to the Manitou Rock. As Cameron was preparing to camp for the night there came over him a strong but unaccountable presentiment of approaching evil, an irresistible feeling that he ought to press forward.

“Pshaw! I will be seeing spooks next!” he said impatiently to himself. “I suppose it is the Highlander in me that is seeing visions and dreaming dreams. I must eat, however, no matter what is going to happen.”

Leaving his horse saddled, but removing the bridle, he gave him his feed of oats, then he boiled his tea and made his own supper. As he was eating the feeling grew more strongly upon him that he should not camp but go forward at once. At the same time he made the discovery that the weariness that had almost overpowered him during the last half-hour of his ride had completely vanished. Hence, with the feeling of half contemptuous anger at himself for yielding to his presentiment, he packed up his kit again, bridled his horse, and rode on.

The trail was indeed, as Jerry said, “no trail.” It was rugged with broken rocks and cumbered with fallen trees, and as it proceeded became more indistinct. His horse, too, from sheer weariness, for he had already done his full day’s journey, was growing less sure footed and so went stumbling noisily along. Cameron began to regret his folly in yielding to a mere unreasoning imagination and he resolved to spend the night at the first camping-ground that should offer. The light of the long spring day was beginning to fade from the sky and in the forest the deep shadows were beginning to gather. Still no suitable camping-ground presented itself and Cameron stubbornly pressed forward through the forest that grew denser and more difficult at every step. After some hours of steady plodding the trees began to be sensibly larger, the birch and poplar gave place to spruce and pine and the underbrush almost entirely disappeared. The trail, too, became better, winding between the large trees which, with clean trunks, stood wide apart and arranged themselves in stately high-arched aisles and long corridors. From the lofty branches overhead the gray moss hung in long streamers, as Jerry had said, giving to the trees an ancient and weird appearance. Along these silent, solemn, gray-festooned aisles and corridors Cameron rode with an uncanny sensation that unseen eyes were peering out upon him from those dim and festooned corridors on either side. Impatiently he strove to shake off the feeling, but in vain. At length, forced by the growing darkness, he decided to camp, when through the shadowy and silent forest there came to his ears the welcome sound of running water. It was to Cameron like the sound of a human voice. He almost called aloud to the running stream as to a friend. It was the Ghost River.

In a few minutes he had reached the water and after picketing his horse some little distance down the stream and away from the trail, he rolled himself in his blanket to sleep. The moon rising above the high tree-tops filled the forest aisles with a soft unearthly light. As his eye followed down the long dim aisles there grew once more upon him the feeling that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Vainly he cursed himself for his folly. He could not sleep. A twig broke near him. He lay still listening with every nerve taut. He fancied he could hear soft feet about him and stealing near. With his two guns in hand he sat bolt upright. Straight before him and not more than ten feet away the form of an Indian was plainly to be seen. A slight sound to his right drew his eyes in that direction. There, too, stood the silent form of an Indian, on his left also an Indian. Suddenly from behind him a deep, guttural voice spoke, “Look this way!” He turned sharply and found himself gazing into a rifle-barrel a few feet from his face. “Now look back!” said the voice. He glanced to right and left, only to find rifles leveled at him from every side.

“White man put down his guns on ground!” said the same guttural voice.

Cameron hesitated.

“Indian speak no more,” said the voice in a deep growl.

Cameron put his guns down.

“Stand up!” said the voice.

Cameron obeyed. Out from behind the Indian with the leveled rifle glided another Indian form. It was Copperhead. Two more Indians appeared with him. All thought of resistance passed from Cameron’s mind. It would mean instant death, and, what to Cameron was worse than death, the certain failure of his plans. While he lived he still had hope. Besides, there would be the Police next day.

With savage, cruel haste Copperhead bound his hands behind his back and as a further precaution threw a cord about his neck.

“Come!” he said, giving the cord a quick jerk.

“Copperhead,” said Cameron through his clenched teeth, “you will one day wish you had never done this thing.”

“No speak!” said Copperhead gruffly, jerking the cord so heavily as almost to throw Cameron off his feet.

Through the night Cameron stumbled on with his captors, Copperhead in front and the others following. Half dead with sleeplessness and blind with rage he walked on as if in a hideous nightmare, mechanically watching the feet of the Indian immediately in front of him and thus saving himself many a cruel fall and a more cruel jerking of the cord about his neck, for such was Copperhead’s method of lifting him to his feet when he fell. It seemed to him as if the night would never pass or the journey end.

At length the throbbing of the Indian drum fell upon his ears. It was to him a welcome sound. Nothing could be much more agonizing than what he was at present enduring. As they approached the Indian camp one of his captors raised a wild, wailing cry which resounded through the forest with an unearthly sound. Never had such a cry fallen upon Cameron’s ears. It was the old-time cry of the Indian warriors announcing that they were returning in triumph bringing their captives with them. The drum-beat ceased. Again the cry was raised, when from the Indian encampment came in reply a chorus of similar cries followed by a rush of braves to meet the approaching warriors and to welcome them and their captives.

With loud and discordant exultation straight into the circle of the firelight cast from many fires Copperhead and his companions marched their captive. On every side naked painted Indians to the number of several score crowded in tumultuous uproar. Not for many years had these Indians witnessed their ancient and joyous sport of baiting a prisoner.

As Cameron came into the clear light of the fire instantly low murmurs ran round the crowd, for to many of them he was well known. Then silence fell upon them. His presence there was clearly a shock to many of them. To take prisoner one of the Mounted Police and to submit him to indignity stirred strange emotions in their hearts. The keen eye of Copperhead noted the sudden change of the mood of the Indians and immediately he gave orders to those who held Cameron in charge, with the result that they hurried him off and thrust him into a little low hut constructed of brush and open in front where, after tying his feet securely, they left him with an Indian on guard in front.

For some moments Cameron lay stupid with weariness and pain till his weariness overpowered his pain and he sank into sleep. He was recalled to consciousness by the sensation of something digging into his ribs. As he sat up half asleep a low “hist!” startled him wide awake. His heart leaped as he heard out of the darkness a whispered word, “Jerry here.” Cameron rolled over and came close against the little half-breed, bound as he was himself. Again came the “hist!”

“Me all lak’ youse’f,” said Jerry. “No spik any. Look out front.”

The Indian on guard was eagerly looking and listening to what was going on before him beside the fire. At one side of the circle sat the Indians in council. Copperhead was standing and speaking to them.

“What is he saying?” said Cameron, his mouth close to Jerry’s ear.

“He say dey keel us queeck. Indian no lak’ keel. Dey scare Police get ’em. Copperhead he ver’ mad. Say he keel us heemse’f–queeck.”

Again and again and with ever increasing vehemence Copperhead urged his views upon the hesitating Indians, well aware that by involving them in such a deed of blood he would irrevocably commit them to rebellion. But he was dealing with men well-nigh as subtle as himself, and for the very same reason as he pressed them to the deed they shrank back from it. They were not yet quite prepared to burn their bridges behind them. Indeed some of them suggested the wisdom of holding the prisoners as hostages in case of necessity arising in the future.

“What Indians are here?” whispered Cameron.

“Piegan, Sarcee, Blood,” breathed Jerry. “No Blackfeet come–not yet–Copperhead he look, look, look all yesterday for Blackfeet coming. Blackfeet come to-morrow mebbe–den Indian mak’ beeg medicine. Copperhead he go meet Blackfeet dis day–he catch you– he go ‘gain to-morrow mebbe–dunno.”

Meantime the discussion in the council was drawing to a climax. With the astuteness of a true leader Copperhead ceased to urge his view, and, unable to secure the best, wisely determined to content himself with the second-best. His vehement tone gave place to one of persuasion. Finally an agreement appeared to be reached by all. With one consent the council rose and with hands uplifted they all appeared to take some solemn oath.

“What are they saying?” whispered Cameron.

“He say,” replied Jerry, “he go meet Blackfeet and when he bring ’em back den dey keel us sure t’ing. But,” added Jerry with a cheerful giggle, “he not keel ’em yet, by Gar!”

For some minutes they waited in silence, then they saw Copperhead with his bodyguard of Sioux disappear from the circle of the firelight into the shadows of the forest.

“Now you go sleep,” whispered Jerry. “Me keep watch.”

Even before he had finished speaking Cameron had lain back upon the ground and in spite of the pain in his tightly bound limbs such was his utter exhaustion that he fell fast asleep.

It seemed to him but a moment when he was again awakened by the touch of a hand stealing over his face. The hand reached his lips and rested there, when he started up wide-awake. A soft hiss from the back of the hut arrested him.

“No noise,” said a soft guttural voice. Again the hand was thrust through the brush wall, this time bearing a knife. “Cut string,” whispered the voice, while the hand kept feeling for the thongs that bound Cameron’s hands. In a few moments Cameron was free from his bonds.

“Give me the knife,” he whispered. It was placed in his hands.

“Tell you squaw,” said the voice, “sick boy not forget.”

“I will tell her,” replied Cameron. “She will never forget you.” The boy laid his hand on Cameron’s lips and was gone.

Soon Jerry too was free. Slowly they wormed their way through the flimsy brush wall at the back, and, crouching low, looked about them. The camp was deep in sleep. The fires were smoldering in their ashes. Not an Indian was moving. Lying across the front of their little hut the sleeping form of their guard could be seen. The forest was still black behind them, but already there was in the paling stars the faint promise of the dawn. Hardly daring to breathe, they rose and stood looking at each other.

“No stir,” said Jerry with his lips at Cameron’s ear. He dropped on his hands and knees and began carefully to remove every twig from his path so that his feet might rest only upon the deep leafy mold of the forest. Carefully Cameron followed his example, and, working slowly and painfully, they gained the cover of the dark forest away from the circle of the firelight.

Scarcely had they reached that shelter when an Indian rose from beside a fire, raked the embers together, and threw some sticks upon it. As Cameron stood watching him, his heart-beat thumping in his ears, a rotten twig snapped under his feet. The Indian turned his face in their direction, and, bending forward, appeared to be listening intently. Instantly Jerry, stooping down, made a scrambling noise in the leaves, ending with a thump upon the ground. Immediately the Indian relaxed his listening attitude, satisfied that a rabbit was scurrying through the forest upon his own errand bent. Rigidly silent they stood, watching him till long after he had lain down again in his place, then once more they began their painful advance, clearing treacherous twigs from every place where their feet should rest. Fortunately for their going the forest here was largely free from underbrush. Working carefully and painfully for half an hour, and avoiding the trail by the Ghost River, they made their way out of hearing of the camp and then set off at such speed as their path allowed, Jerry in the lead and Cameron following.

“Where are you going, Jerry?” inquired Cameron as the little half- breed, without halt or hesitation, went slipping through the forest.

“Kananaskis,” said Jerry. “Strike trail near Bow Reever.”

“Hold up for a moment, Jerry. I want to talk to you,” said Cameron.

“No! Mak’ speed now. Stop in brush.”

“All right,” said Cameron, following close upon his heels.

The morning broadened into day, but they made no pause till they had left behind them the open timber and gained the cover of the forest where the underbrush grew thick. Then Jerry, finding a dry and sheltered spot, threw himself down and stretched himself at full length waiting for Cameron’s word.

“Tired, Jerry?” said Cameron.

“Non,” replied the little man scornfully. “When lie down tak’ ’em easy.”

“Good! Now listen! Copperhead is on his way to meet the Blackfeet, but I fancy he is going to be disappointed.” Then Cameron narrated to Jerry the story of his recent interview with Crowfoot. “So I don’t think,” he concluded, “any Blackfeet will come. Copperhead and Running Stream are going to be sold this time. Besides that the Police are on their way to Kananaskis following our trail. They will reach Kananaskis to-night and start for Ghost River to-morrow. We ought to get Copperhead between us somewhere on the Ghost River trail and we must get him to-day. Where will he be now?”

Jerry considered the matter, then, pointing straight eastward, he replied:

“On trail Kananaskis not far from Ghost Reever.”

“Will he be that far?” inquired Cameron. “He would have to sleep and eat, Jerry.”

“Non! No sleep–hit sam’ tam’ he run.”

“Then it is quite possible,” said Cameron, “that we may head him off.”

“Mebbe–dunno how fas’ he go,” said Jerry.

“By the way, Jerry, when do we eat?” inquired Cameron.

“Pull belt tight,” said Jerry with a grin. “Hit at cache on trail.”

“Do you mean to say you had the good sense to cache some grub, Jerry, on your way down?”

“Jerry lak’ squirrel,” replied the half-breed. “Cache grub many place–sometam come good.”

“Great head, Jerry. Now, where is the cache?”

“Halfway Kananaskis to Ghost Reever.”

“Then, Jerry, we must make that Ghost River trail and make it quick if we are to intercept Copperhead.”

“Bon! We mus’ mak’ beeg speed for sure.” And “make big speed” they did, with the result that by midday they struck the trail not far from Jerry’s cache. As they approached the trail they proceeded with extreme caution, for they knew that at any moment they might run upon Copperhead and his band or upon some of their Indian pursuers who would assuredly be following them hard. A careful scrutiny of the trail showed that neither Copperhead nor their pursuers had yet passed by.

“Come now ver’ soon,” said Jerry, as he left the trail, and, plunging into the brush, led the way with unerring precision to where he had made his cache. Quickly they secured the food and with it made their way back to a position from which they could command a view of the trail.

“Go sleep now,” said Jerry, after they had done. “Me watch one hour.”

Gladly Cameron availed himself of the opportunity to catch up his sleep, in which he was many hours behind. He stretched himself on the ground and in a moment’s time lay as completely unconscious as if dead. But before half of his allotted time was gone he was awakened by Jerry’s hand pressing steadily upon his arm.

“Indian come,” whispered the half-breed. Instantly Cameron was wide-awake and fully alert.

“How many, Jerry?” he asked, lying with his ear to the ground.

“Dunno. T’ree–four mebbe.”

They had not long to wait. Almost as Jerry was speaking the figure of an Indian came into view, running with that tireless trot that can wear out any wild animal that roams the woods.

“Copperhead!” whispered Cameron, tightening his belt and making as if to rise.

“Wait!” replied Jerry. “One more.”

Following Copperhead, and running not close upon him but at some distance behind, came another Indian, then another, till three had passed their hiding-place.

“Four against two, Jerry,” said Cameron. “That is all right. They have their knives, I see, but only one gun. We have no guns and only one knife. But Jerry, we can go in and kill them with our bare hands.”

Jerry nodded carelessly. He had fought too often against much greater odds in Police battles to be unduly disturbed at the present odds.

Silently and at a safe distance behind they fell into the wake of the running Indians, Jerry with his moccasined feet leading the way. Mile after mile they followed the trail, ever on the alert for the doubling back of those whom they were pursuing. Suddenly Cameron heard a sharp hiss from Jerry in front. Swiftly he flung himself into the brush and lay still. Within a minute he saw coming back upon the trail an Indian, silent as a shadow and listening at every step. The Indian passed his hiding-place and for some minutes Cameron lay watching until he saw him return in the same stealthy manner. After some minutes had elapsed a soft hiss from Jerry brought Cameron cautiously out upon the trail once more.

“All right,” whispered Jerry. “All Indians pass on before.” And once more they went forward.

A second time during the afternoon Jerry’s warning hiss sent Cameron into the brush to allow an Indian to scout his back trail. It was clear that the presence of Cameron and the half-breed upon the Ghost River trail had awakened the suspicion in Copperhead’s mind that the plan to hold a powwow at Manitou Rock was known to the Police and that they were on his trail. It became therefore increasingly evident to Cameron that any plan that involved the possibility of taking Copperhead unawares would have to be abandoned. He called Jerry back to him.

“Jerry,” he said, “if that Indian doubles back on his track again I mean to get him. If we get him the other chaps will follow. If I only had a gun! But this knife is no use to me.”

“Give heem to me,” said Jerry eagerly. “I find heem good.”

It was toward the close of the afternoon when again Jerry’s hiss warned Cameron that the Indian was returning upon his trail. Cameron stepped into the brush at the side, and, crouching low, prepared for the encounter, but as he was about to spring Jerry flashed past him, and, hurling himself upon the Indian’s back, gripped him by the throat and bore him choking to earth, knocking the wind out of him and rendering him powerless. Jerry’s knife descended once bright, once red, and the Indian with a horrible gasping cry lay still.

“Quick!” cried Cameron, seizing the dead man by the shoulders. “Lift him up!”

Jerry sprang to seize the legs, and, taking care not to break down the brush on either side of the trail, they lifted the body into the thick underwood and concealing themselves beside it awaited events. Hardly were they out of sight when they heard the soft pad of several feet running down the trail. Opposite them the feet stopped abruptly.

“Huh!” grunted the Indian runner, and darted back by the way he had come.

“Heem see blood,” whispered Jerry. “Go back tell Copperhead.”

With every nerve strung to its highest tension they waited, crouching, Jerry tingling and quivering with the intensity of his excitement, Cameron quiet, cool, as if assured of the issue.

“I am going to get that devil this time, Jerry,” he breathed. “He dragged me by the neck once. I will show him something.”

Jerry laid his hand upon his arm. At a little distance from them there was a sound of creeping steps. A few moments they waited and at their side the brush began to quiver. A moment later beside Cameron’s face a hand carrying a rifle parted the screen of spruce boughs. Quick as a flash Cameron seized the wrist, gripping it with both hands, and, putting his weight into the swing, flung himself backwards; at the same time catching the body with his knee, he heaved it clear over their heads and landed it hard against a tree. The rifle tumbled from the Indian’s hand and he lay squirming on the ground. Immediately as Jerry sprang for the rifle a second Indian thrust his face through the screen, caught sight of Jerry with the rifle, darted back and disappeared with Jerry hard upon his trail. Scarcely had they vanished into the brush when Cameron, hearing a slight sound at his back, turned swiftly to see a tall Indian charging upon him with knife raised to strike. He had barely time to thrust up his arm and divert the blow from his neck to his shoulder when the Indian was upon him like a wild cat.

“Ha! Copperhead!” cried Cameron with exultation, as he flung him off. “At last I have you! Your time has come!”

The Sioux paused in his attack, looking scornfully at his antagonist. He was dressed in a highly embroidered tight-fitting deerskin coat and leggings.

“Huh!” he grunted in a voice of quiet, concentrated fury. “The white dog will die.”

“No, Copperhead,” replied Cameron quietly. “You have a knife, I have none, but I shall lead you like a dog into the Police guard- house.”

The Sioux said nothing in reply, but kept circling lightly on his toes waiting his chance to spring. As the two men stood facing each other there was little to choose between them in physical strength and agility as well as in intelligent fighting qualities. There was this difference, however, that the Indian’s fighting had ever been to kill, the white man’s simply to win. But this difference to-day had ceased to exist. There was in Cameron’s mind the determination to kill if need be. One immense advantage the Indian held in that he possessed a weapon in the use of which he was a master and by means of which he had already inflicted a serious wound upon his enemy, a wound which as yet was but slightly felt. To deprive the Indian of that knife was Cameron’s first aim. That once achieved, the end could not long be delayed; for the Indian, though a skillful wrestler, knows little of the art of fighting with his hands.

As Cameron stood on guard watching his enemy’s movements, his mind recalled in swift review the various wrongs he had suffered at his hands, the fright and insult to his wife, the devastation of his home, the cattle-raid involving the death of Raven, and lastly he remembered with a deep rage his recent humiliation at the Indian’s hands and how he had been hauled along by the neck and led like a dog into the Indian camp. At these recollections he became conscious of a burning desire to humiliate the redskin who had dared to do these things to him.

With this in mind he waited the Indian’s attack. The attack came swift as a serpent’s dart, a feint to strike, a swift recoil, then like a flash of light a hard drive with the knife. But quick as was the Indian’s drive Cameron was quicker. Catching the knife- hand at the wrist he drew it sharply down, meeting at the same time the Indian’s chin with a short, hard uppercut that jarred his head so seriously that his grip on the knife relaxed and it fell from his hand. Cameron kicked it behind him into the brush while the Indian, with a mighty wrench, released himself from Cameron’s grip and sprang back free. For some time the Indian kept away out of Cameron’s reach as if uncertain of himself. Cameron taunted him.

“Onawata has had enough! He cannot fight unless he has a knife! See! I will punish the great Sioux Chief like a little child.”

So saying, Cameron stepped quickly toward him, made a few passes and once, twice, with his open hand slapped the Indian’s face hard. In a mad fury of passion the Indian rushed upon him. Cameron met him with blows, one, two, three, the last one heavy enough to lay him on the ground insensible.

“Oh, get up!” said Cameron contemptuously, kicking him as he might a dog. “Get up and be a man!”

Slowly the Indian rose, wiping his bleeding lips, hate burning in his eyes, but in them also a new look, one of fear.

“Ha! Onawata is a great fighter!” smiled Cameron, enjoying to the full the humiliation of his enemy.

Slowly the Indian gathered himself together. He was no coward and he was by no means beaten as yet, but this kind of fighting was new to him. He apparently determined to avoid those hammering fists of the white man. With extraordinary agility he kept out of Cameron’s reach, circling about him and dodging in and out among the trees. While thus pressing hard upon the Sioux Cameron suddenly became conscious of a sensation of weakness. The bloodletting of the knife wound was beginning to tell. Cameron began to dread that if ever this Indian made up his mind to run away he might yet escape. He began to regret his trifling with him and he resolved to end the fight as soon as possible with a knock-out blow.

The quick eye of the Indian perceived that Cameron’s breath was coming quicker, and, still keeping carefully out of his enemy’s reach, he danced about more swiftly than ever. Cameron realized that he must bring the matter quickly to an end. Feigning a weakness greater than he felt, he induced the Indian to run in upon him, but this time the Indian avoided the smashing blow with which Cameron met him, and, locking his arms about his antagonist and gripping him by the wounded shoulder, began steadily to wear him to the ground. Sickened by the intensity of the pain in his wounded shoulder, Cameron felt his strength rapidly leaving him. Gradually the Indian shifted his hand up from the shoulder to the neck, the fingers working their way toward Cameron’s face. Well did Cameron know the savage trick which the Indian had in mind. In a few minutes more those fingers would be in Cameron’s eyes pressing the eyeballs from their sockets. It was now the Indian’s turn to jibe.

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “White man no good. Soon he see no more.”

The taunt served to stimulate every ounce of Cameron’s remaining strength. With a mighty effort he wrenched the Indian’s hand from his face, and, tearing himself free, swung his clenched fist with all his weight upon the Indian’s neck. The blow struck just beneath the jugular vein. The Indian’s grip relaxed, he staggered back a pace, half stunned. Summoning all his force, Cameron followed up with one straight blow upon the chin. He needed no other. As if stricken by an axe the Indian fell to the earth and lay as if dead. Sinking on the ground beside him Cameron exerted all his will-power to keep himself from fainting. After a few minutes’ fierce struggle with himself he was sufficiently revived to be able to bind the Indian’s hands behind his back with his belt. Searching among the brushwood, he found the Indian’s knife, and cut from his leather trousers sufficient thongs to bind his legs, working with fierce and concentrated energy while his strength lasted. At length as the hands were drawn tight darkness fell upon his eyes and he sank down unconscious beside his foe.

“There, that’s better! He has lost a lot of blood, but we have checked that flow and he will soon be right. Hello, old man! Just waking up, are you? Lie perfectly still. Come, you must lie still. What? Oh, Copperhead? Well, he is safe enough. What? No, never fear. We know the old snake and we have tied him fast. Jerry has a fine assortment of knots adorning his person. Now, no more talking for half a day. Your wound is clean enough. A mighty close shave it was, but by to-morrow you will be fairly fit. Copperhead? Oh, never mind Copperhead. I assure you he is safe enough. Hardly fit to travel yet. What happened to him? Looks as if a tree had fallen upon him.” To which chatter of Dr. Martin’s Cameron could only make feeble answer, “For God’s sake don’t let him go!”

After the capture of Copperhead the camp at Manitou Lake faded away, for when the Police Patrol under Jerry’s guidance rode up the Ghost River Trail they found only the cold ashes of camp-fires and the debris that remains after a powwow.

Three days later Cameron rode back into Fort Calgary, sore but content, for at his stirrup and bound to his saddle-horn rode the Sioux Chief, proud, untamed, but a prisoner. As he rode into the little town his quick eyes flashed scorn upon all the curious gazers, but in their depths beneath the scorn there looked forth an agony that only Cameron saw and understood. He had played for a great stake and had lost.

As the patrol rode into Fort Calgary the little town was in an uproar of jubilation.

“What’s the row?” inquired the doctor, for Cameron felt too weary to inquire.

“A great victory for the troops!” said a young chap dressed in cow- boy garb. “Middleton has smashed the half-breeds at Batoche. Riel is captured. The whole rebellion business is bust up.”

Cameron threw a swift glance at the Sioux’s face. A fierce anxiety looked out of the gleaming eyes.

“Tell him, Jerry,” said Cameron to the half-breed who rode at his other side.

As Jerry told the Indian of the total collapse of the rebellion and the capture of its leader the stern face grew eloquent with contempt.

“Bah!” he said, spitting on the ground. “Riel he much fool–no good fight. Indian got no Chief–no Chief.” The look on his face all too clearly revealed that his soul was experiencing the bitterness of death.

Cameron almost pitied him, but he spoke no word. There was nothing that one could say and besides he was far too weary for anything but rest. At the gate of the Barrack yard his old Superintendent from Fort Macleod met the party.

“You are wounded, Cameron?” exclaimed the Superintendent, glancing in alarm at Cameron’s wan face.

“I have got him,” replied Cameron, loosing the lariat from the horn of his saddle and handing the end to an orderly. “But,” he added, “it seems hardly worth while now.”

“Worth while! Worth while!” exclaimed the Superintendent with as much excitement as he ever allowed to appear in his tone. “Let me tell you, Cameron, that if any one thing has kept me from getting into a blue funk during these months it was the feeling that you were on patrol along the Sun Dance Trail.”

“Funk?” exclaimed Cameron with a smile. “Funk?” But while he smiled he looked into the cold, gray eyes of his Chief, and, noting the unwonted glow in them, he felt that after all his work as the Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail was perhaps worth while.

CHAPTER XXI

WHY THE DOCTOR STAYED

The Big Horn River, fed by July suns burning upon glaciers high up between the mountain-peaks, was running full to its lips and gleaming like a broad ribbon of silver, where, after rushing hurriedly out of the rock-ribbed foothills, it settled down into a deep steady flow through the wide valley of its own name. On the tawny undulating hillsides, glorious in the splendid July sun, herds of cattle and horses were feeding, making with the tawny hillsides and the silver river a picture of luxurious ease and quiet security that fitted well with the mood of the two men sitting upon the shady side of the Big Horn Ranch House.

Inspector Dickson was enjoying to the full his after-dinner pipe, and with him Dr. Martin, who was engaged in judiciously pumping the Inspector in regard to the happenings of the recent campaign– successfully, too, except where he touched those events in which the Inspector himself had played a part.

The war was over. Batoche had practically settled the Rebellion. Riel was in his cell at Regina awaiting trial and execution. Pound-maker, Little Pine, Big Bear and some of their other Chiefs were similarly disposed of. Copperhead at Macleod was fretting his life out like an eagle in a cage. The various regiments of citizen soldiers had gone back to their homes to be received with vociferous welcome, except such of them as were received in reverent silence, to be laid away among the immortals with quiet falling tears. The Police were busily engaged in wiping up the debris of the Rebellion. The Commissioner, intent upon his duty, was riding the marches, bearing in grim silence the criticism of empty-headed and omniscient scribblers, because, forsooth, he had obeyed his Chief’s orders, and, resisting the greatest provocation to do otherwise, had held steadfastly to his post, guarding with resolute courage what was committed to his trust. The Superintendents and Inspectors were back at their various posts, settling upon the reserves wandering bands of Indians, some of whom were just awakening to the fact that they had missed a great opportunity and were grudgingly surrendering to the inevitable, and, under the wise, firm, judicious handling of the Police, were slowly returning to their pre-rebellion status.

The Western ranches were rejoicing in a sense of vast relief from the terrible pall that like a death-cloud had been hanging over them for six months and all Western Canada was thrilling with the expectation of a new era of prosperity consequent upon its being discovered by the big world outside.

Upon the two men thus discussing, Mrs. Cameron, carrying in her arms her babe, bore down in magnificent and modest pride, wearing with matronly grace her new glory of a great achievement, the greatest open to womankind.

“He has just waked up from a very fine sleep,” she exclaimed, “to make your acquaintance, Inspector. I hope you duly appreciate the honor done you.”

The Inspector rose to his feet and saluted the new arrival with becoming respect.

“Now,” said Mrs. Cameron, settling herself down with an air of determined resolve, “I want to hear all about it.”

“Meaning?” said the Inspector.

“Meaning, to begin with, that famous march of yours from Calgary to the far North land where you did so many heroic things.”

But the Inspector’s talk had a trick of fading away at the end of the third sentence and it was with difficulty that they could get him started again.

“You are most provoking!” finally exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, giving up the struggle. “Isn’t he, baby?”

The latter turned upon the Inspector two steady blue eyes beaming with the intelligence of a two months’ experience of men and things, and announced his grave disapproval of the Inspector’s conduct in a distinct “goo!”

“There!” exclaimed his mother triumphantly. “I told you so. What have you now to say for yourself?”

The Inspector regarded the blue-eyed atom with reverent wonder.

“Most remarkable young person I ever saw in my life, Mrs. Cameron,” he asserted positively.

The proud mother beamed upon him.

“Well, baby, he IS provoking, but we will forgive him since he is so clever at discovering your remarkable qualities.”

“Pshaw!” said Dr. Martin. “That’s nothing. Any one could see them. They stick right out of that baby.”

“DEAR Dr. Martin,” explained the mother with affectionate emphasis, “what a way you have of putting things. But I wonder what keeps Allan?” continued Mrs. Cameron. “He promised faithfully to be home before dinner.” She rose, and, going to the side of the house, looked long and anxiously up toward the foothills. Dr. Martin followed her and stood at her side gazing in the same direction.

“What a glorious view it is!” she said. “I never tire of looking over the hills and up to the great mountains.”

“What the deuce is the fellow doing?” exclaimed the doctor, disgust and rage mingling in his tone. “Great Heavens! She is kissing him!”

“Who? What?” exclaimed Mandy. “Oh!” she cried, her eyes following the doctor’s and lighting upon two figures that stood at the side of the poplar bluff in an attitude sufficiently compromising to justify the doctor’s exclamation.

“What? It’s Moira–and–and–it’s Smith! What does it mean?” The doctor’s language appeared unequal to his emotions. “Mean?” he cried, after an exhausting interlude of expletives. “Mean? Oh, I don’t know–and I don’t care. It’s pretty plain what it means. It makes no difference to me. I gave her up to that other fellow who saved her life and then picturesquely got himself killed. There now, forgive me, Mrs. Cameron. I know I am a brute. I should not have said that. Don’t look at me so. Raven was a fine chap and I don’t mind her losing her heart to him–but really this is too much. Smith! Of all men under heaven–Smith! Why, look at his legs!”

“His legs? Dr. Martin, I am ashamed of you. I don’t care what kind of legs he has. Smith is an honorable fellow and–and–so good he was to us. Why, when Allan and the rest of you were all away he was like a brother through all those terrible days. I can never forget his splendid kindness–but–“

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cameron, I beg your pardon. Undoubtedly he is a fine fellow. I am an ass, a jealous ass–might as well own it. But, really, I cannot quite stand seeing her throw herself at Smith–Smith! Oh, I know, I know, he is all right. But oh–well– at any rate thank God I saw him at it. It will keep me from openly and uselessly abasing myself to her and making a fool of myself generally. But Smith! Great God! Smith! Well, it will help to cure me.”

Mrs. Cameron stood by in miserable silence.

“Oh, Dr. Martin,” at length she groaned tearfully, “I am so disappointed. I was so hoping, and I was sure it was all right– and–and–oh, what does it mean? Dear Dr. Martin, I cannot tell you how I feel.”

“Oh, hang it, Mrs. Cameron, don’t pity me. I’ll get over it. A little surgical operation in the region of the pericardium is all, that is required.”

“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, vaguely listening to him and busy with her own thoughts the while.

“Talking about, madam? Talking about? I am talking about that organ, the central organ of the vascular system of animals, a hollow muscular structure that propels the blood by alternate contractions and dilatations, which in the mammalian embryo first appears as two tubes lying under the head and immediately behind the first visceral arches, but gradually moves back and becomes lodged in the thorax.”

“Oh, do stop! What nonsense are you talking now?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, waking up as from a dream. “No, don’t go. You must not go.”

“I am going, and I am going to leave this country,” said the doctor. “I am going East. No, this is no sudden resolve. I have thought of it for some time, and now I will go.”

“Well, you must wait at least till Allan returns. You must say good-by to him.” She followed the doctor anxiously back to his seat beside the Inspector. “Here,” she cried, “hold baby a minute. There are some things I must attend to. I would give him to the Inspector, but he would not know how to handle him.”

“God forbid!” ejaculated the Inspector firmly.

“But I tell you I must get home,” said the doctor in helpless wrath.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron. “Look out! You are not holding him properly. There now, you have made him cry.”

“Pinched him!” muttered the Inspector. “I call that most unfair. Mean advantage to take of the young person.”

The doctor glowered at the Inspector and set himself with ready skill to remedy the wrong he had wrought in the young person’s disposition while the mother, busying herself ostentatiously with her domestic duties, finally disappeared around the house, making for the bluff. As soon as she was out of earshot she raised her voice in song.

“I must give the fools warning, I suppose,” she said to herself. In the pauses of her singing, “Oh, what does she mean? I could just shake her. I am so disappointed. Smith! Smith! Well, Smith is all right, but–oh, I must talk to her. And yet, I am so angry– yes, I am disgusted. I was so sure that everything was all right. Ah, there she is at last, and–well–thank goodness he is gone.

“Oh-h-h-h-O, Moira!” she cried. “Now, I must keep my temper,” she added to herself. “But I am so cross about this. Oh-h-h-h-O, Moira!”

“Oh-h-h-h-O!” called Moira in reply.

“She looks positively happy. Ugh! Disgusting! And so lovely too.”

“Did you want me, Mandy? I am so sorry I forgot all about the tea.”

“So I should suppose,” snapped Mandy crossly. “I saw you were too deeply engaged to think.”

“You saw?” exclaimed the girl, a startled dismay in her face.

“Yes, and I would suggest that you select a less conspicuous stage for your next scene. Certainly I got quite a shock. If it had been Raven, Moira, I could have stood it.”

“Raven! Raven! Oh, stop! Not a word, Mandy.” Her voice was hushed and there was a look of pain in her eyes.

“But Smith!” went on Mandy relentlessly. “I was too disgusted.”

“Well, what is wrong with Mr. Smith?” inquired Moira, her chin rising.

“Oh, there is nothing wrong with Smith,” replied her sister-in-law crossly, “but–well–kissing him, you know.”

“Kissing him?” echoed Moira faintly. “Kissing him? I did not–“

“It looked to me uncommonly like it at any rate,” said Mandy. “You surely don’t deny that you were kissing him?”

“I was not. I mean, it was Smith–perhaps–yes, I think Smith did–“

“Well, it was a silly thing to do.”

“Silly! If I want to kiss Mr. Smith, why is it anybody’s business?”

“That’s just it,” said Mandy indignantly. “Why should you want to?”

“Well, that is my affair,” said Moira in an angry tone, and with a high head and lofty air she appeared in the doctor’s presence.

But Dr. Martin was apparently oblivious of both her lofty air and the angle of her chin. He was struggling to suppress from observation a tumult of mingled passions of jealousy, rage and humiliation. That this girl whom for four years he had loved with the full strength of his intense nature should have given herself to another was grief enough; but the fact that this other should have been a man of Smith’s caliber seemed to add insult to his grief. He felt that not only had she humiliated him but herself as well.

“If she is the kind of girl that enjoys kissing Smith I don’t want her,” he said to himself savagely, and then cursed himself that he knew it was a lie. For no matter how she should affront him or humiliate herself he well knew he should take her gladly on his bended knees from Smith’s hands. The cure somehow was not working, but he would allow no one to suspect it. His voice was even and his manner cheerful as ever. Only Mrs. Cameron, who held the key to his heart, suspected the agony through which he was passing during the tea-hour. And it was to secure respite for him that the tea was hurried and the doctor packed off to saddle Pepper and round up the cows for the milking.

Pepper was by birth and breeding a cow-horse, and once set upon a trail after a bunch of cows he could be trusted to round them up with little or no aid from his rider. Hence once astride Pepper and Pepper with his nose pointed toward the ranging cows, the doctor could allow his heart to roam at will. And like a homing pigeon, his heart, after some faint struggles in the grip of its owner’s will, made swift flight toward the far-away Highland glen across the sea, the Cuagh Oir.

With deliberate purpose he set himself to live again the tender and ineffaceable memories of that eventful visit to the glen when first his eyes were filled with the vision of the girl with the sunny hair and the sunny eyes who that day seemed to fill the very glen and ever since that day his heart with glory.

With deliberate purpose, too, he set himself to recall the glen itself, its lights and shadows, its purple hilltops, its emerald loch far down at the bottom, the little clachan on the hillside and up above it the old manor-house. But ever and again his heart would pause to catch anew some flitting glance of the brown eyes, some turn of the golden head, some cadence of the soft Highland voice, some fitful illusive sweetness of the smile upon the curving lips, pause and return upon its tracks to feel anew that subtle rapture of the first poignant thrill, lingering over each separate memory as a drunkard lingers regretful over his last sweet drops of wine.

Meantime Pepper’s intelligent diligence had sent every cow home to its milking, and so, making his way by a short cut that led along the Big Horn River and round the poplar bluff, the doctor, suddenly waking from his dream of the past, faced with a fresh and sharper stab the reality of the present. The suddenness and sharpness of the pain made him pull his horse up short.

“I’ll cut this country and go East,” he said aloud, coming to a conclusive decision upon a plan long considered, “I’ll go in for specializing. I have done with all this nonsense.”

He sat his horse looking eastward over the hills that rolled far away to the horizon. His eye wandered down the river gleaming now like gold in the sunset glow. He had learned to love this land of great sunlit spaces and fresh blowing winds, but this evening its very beauty appeared intolerable to him. Ever since the death of Raven upon that tragic night of the cattle-raid he had been fighting his bitter loss and disappointment; with indifferent success, it is true, but still not without the hope of attaining final peace of soul. This evening he knew that, while he lived in this land, peace would never come to him, for his heart-wound never would heal.

“I will go,” he said again. “I will say good-by to-night. By Jove! I feel better already. Come along, Pepper! Wake up!”

Pepper woke up to some purpose and at a smart canter carried the doctor on his way round the bluff toward a gate that opened into a lane leading to the stables. At the gate a figure started up suddenly from the shadow of a poplar. With a snort and in the midst of his stride Pepper swung on his heels with such amazing abruptness that his rider was flung from his saddle, fortunately upon his feet.

“Confound you for a dumb-headed fool! What are you up to anyway?” he cried in a sudden rage, recognizing Smith, who stood beside the trail in an abjectly apologetic attitude.

“Yes,” cried another voice from the shadow. “Is he not a fool? You would think he ought to know Mr. Smith by this time. But Pepper is really very stupid.”

The doctor stood speechless, surprise, disgust and rage struggling for supremacy among his emotions. He stood gazing stupidly from one to the other, utterly at a loss for words.

“You see, Mr. Smith,” began Moira somewhat lamely, “had something to say to me and so we–and so we came–along to the gate.”

“So I see,” replied the doctor gruffly.