Long before the return of the half-breed and his men Cameron was astir and to some purpose. A scouting expedition around the Indian camp rewarded him with a significant and useful discovery. In a bluff some distance away he found the skins and heads of four steers, and by examination of the brands upon the skins discovered two of them to be from his own herd.
“All right, my braves,” he muttered. “There will be a reckoning for this some day not so far away. Meantime this will help this day's work.”
A night's sleep and an hour's quiet consideration had shown him the folly of a straight frontal attack upon the Indians gathered for conspiracy. They were too deeply stirred for anything like the usual brusque manner of the Police to be effective. A slight indiscretion, indeed, might kindle such a conflagration as would sweep the whole country with the devastating horror of an Indian war. He recalled the very grave manner of Inspector Dickson and resolved upon an entirely new plan of action. At all costs he must allay suspicion that the Police were at all anxious about the situation in the North. Further, he must break the influence of the Sioux Chief over these Indians. Lastly, he was determined that this arch-plotter should not escape him again.
The sun was just visible over the lowest of the broken foothills when Jerry and the two constables made their appearance, bringing, with them Cameron's horse. After explaining to them fully his plan and emphasizing the gravity of the situation and the importance of a quiet, cool and resolute demeanor, they set off toward the Indian encampment.
“I have no intention of stirring these chaps up,” laid Cameron, “but I am determined to arrest old Copperhead, and at the right moment we must act boldly and promptly. He is too dangerous and much too clever to be allowed his freedom among these Indians of ours at this particular time. Now, then, Jerry and I will ride in looking for cattle and prepared to charge these Indians with cattle-stealing. This will put them on the defensive. Then the arrest will follow. You two will remain within sound of whistle, but failing specific direction let each man act on his own initiative.”
Jerry listened with delight. His Chief was himself again. Before the day was over he was to see him in an entirely new role. Nothing in life afforded Jerry such keen delight as a bit of cool daring successfully carried through. Hence with joyous heart he followed Cameron into the Indian camp.
The morning hour is the hour of coolest reason. The fires of emotion and imagination have not yet begun to burn. The reactions from anything like rash action previously committed under the stimulus of a heated imagination are caution and timidity, and upon these reactions Cameron counted when he rode boldly into the Indian camp.
With one swift glance his eye swept the camp and lighted upon the Sioux Chief in the center of a group of younger men, his tall commanding figure and haughty carriage giving him an outstanding distinction over those about him. At his side stood a young Piegan Chief, Eagle Feather by name, whom Cameron knew of old as a restless, talkative Indian, an ambitious aspirant for leadership without the qualities necessary to such a position. Straight to this group Cameron rode.
“Good morning!” he said, saluting the group. “Ah, good morning, Eagle Feather!”
Eagle Feather grunted an indistinct reply.
“Big Hunt, eh? Are you in command of this party, Eagle Feather? No? Who then is?”
The Piegan turned and pointed to a short thick set man standing by another fire, whose large well shaped head and penetrating eye indicated both force and discretion.
“Ah, Running Stream,” cried Cameron. “Come over here, Running Stream. I am glad to see you, for I wish to talk to a man of wisdom.”
Slowly and with dignified, almost unwilling step Running Stream approached. As he began to move, but not before, Cameron went to meet him.
“I wish to talk with you,” said Cameron in a quiet firm tone.
“Huh,” grunted Running Stream.
“I have a matter of importance to speak to you about,” continued Cameron.
Running Stream's keen glance searched his face somewhat anxiously.
“I find, Running Stream, that your young men are breaking faith with their friends, the Police.”
Again the Chief searched Cameron's face with that keen swift glance, but he said not a word, only waited.
“They are breaking the law as well, and I want to tell you they will be punished. Where did they get the meat for these kettles?”
A look of relief gleamed for one brief instant across the Indian's face, not unnoticed, however, by Cameron.
“Why do your young men steal my cattle?”
The Indian evinced indifference.
“Dunno—deer—mebbe—sheep.”
“My brother speaks like a child,” said Cameron quietly. “Do deer and sheep have steers' heads and hides with brands on? Four heads I find in the bluff. The Commissioner will ask you to explain these hides and heads, and let me tell you, Running Stream, that the thieves will spend some months in jail. They will then have plenty of time to think of their folly and their wickedness.”
An ugly glance shot from the Chief's eyes.
“Dunno,” he grunted again, then began speaking volubly in the Indian tongue.
“Speak English, Running Stream!” commanded Cameron. “I know you can speak English well enough.”
But Running Stream shook his head and continued his speech in Indian, pointing to a bluff near by.
Cameron looked toward Jerry, who interpreted:
“He say young men tak' deer and sheep and bear. He show you skins in bluff.”
“Come,” said Running Stream, supplementing Jerry's interpretation and making toward the bluff. Cameron followed him and came upon the skins of three jumping deer, of two mountain sheep and of two bear. They turned back again to the fire.
“My young men no take cattle,” said the Chief with haughty pride.
“Maybe so,” said Cameron, “but some of your party have, Running Stream, and the Commissioner will look to you. You are in command here. He will give you a chance to clear yourself.”
The Indian shrugged his shoulders and stood silent.
“My brother is not doing well,” continued Cameron. “The Government feed you if you are hungry. The Government protect you if you are wronged.”
It was an unfortunate word of Cameron's. A sudden cloud of anger darkened the Indian's face.
“No!” he cried aloud. “My children—my squaw and my people go hungry—go cold in winter—no skin—no meat.”
“My brother knows—” replied Cameron with patient firmness—“You translate this, Jerry”—and Jerry proceeded to translate with eloquence and force—“the Government never refuse you meat. Last winter your people would have starved but for the Government.”
“No,” cried the Indian again in harsh quick reply, the rage in his face growing deeper, “my children cry—Indian cannot sleep—my white brother's ears are closed. He hear only the wind—the storm—he sound sleep. For me no sleep—my children cry too loud.”
“My brother knows,” replied Cameron, “that the Government is far away, that it takes a long time for answer to come back to the Indian cry. But the answer came and the Indian received flour and bacon and tea and sugar, and this winter will receive them again. But how can my brother expect the Government to care for his people if the Indians break the law? That is not good. These Indians are bad Indians and the Police will punish the thieves. A thief is a bad man and ought to be punished.”
Suddenly a new voice broke in abruptly upon the discourse.
“Who steal the Indian's hunting-ground? Who drive away the buffalo?” The voice rang with sharp defiance. It was the voice of Onawata, the Sioux Chief.
Cameron paid no heed to the ringing voice. He kept his back turned upon the Sioux.
“My brother knows,” he continued, addressing himself to Running Stream, “that the Indian's best friend is the Government, and the Police are the Government's ears and eyes and hands and are ready always to help the Indians, to protect them from fraud, to keep away the whisky-peddlers, to be to them as friends and brothers. But my brother has been listening to a snake that comes from another country and that speaks with a forked tongue. Our Government bought the land by treaty. Running Stream knows this to be no lie, but the truth. Nor did the Government drive away the buffalo from the Indians. The buffalo were driven away by the Sioux from the country of the snake with the forked tongue. My brother remembers that only a few years ago when the people to which this lying snake belongs came over to this country and tried to drive away from their hunting-grounds the Indians of this country, the Police protected the Indians and drove back the hungry thieving Sioux to their own land. And now a little bird has been telling me that this lying snake has been speaking into the ears of our Indian brothers and trying to persuade them to dig up the hatchet against their white brothers, their friends. The Police know all about this and laugh at it. The Police know about the foolish man at Batoche, the traitor Louis Riel. They know he is a liar and a coward. He leads brave men astray and then runs away and leaves them to suffer. This thing he did many years ago.” And Cameron proceeded to give a brief sketch of the fantastic and futile rebellion of 1870 and of the ignoble part played by the vain and empty-headed Riel.
The effect of Cameron's words upon the Indians was an amazement even to himself. They forgot their breakfast and gathered close to the speaker, their eager faces and gleaming eyes showing how deeply stirred were their hearts.
Cameron was putting into his story an intensity of emotion and passion that not only surprised himself, but amazed his interpreter. Indeed so amazed was the little half-breed at Cameron's quite unusual display of oratorical power that his own imagination took fire and his own tongue was loosened to such an extent that by voice, look, tone and gesture he poured into his officer's harangue a force and fervor all his own.
“And now,” continued Cameron, “this vain and foolish Frenchman seeks again to lead you astray, to lead you into war that will bring ruin to you and to your children; and this lying snake from your ancient enemies, the Sioux, thinking you are foolish children, seeks to make you fight against the great White Mother across the seas. He has been talking like a babbling old man, from whom the years have taken wisdom, when he says that the half-breeds and Indians can drive the white man from these plains. Has he told you how many are the children of the White Mother, how many are the soldiers in her army? Listen to me, and look! Get me many branches from the trees,” he commanded sharply to some young Indians standing near.
So completely were the Indians under the thrall of his speech that a dozen of them sprang at once to get branches from the poplar trees near by.
“I will show you,” said Cameron, “how many are the White Mother's soldiers. See,”—he held up both hands and then stuck up a small twig in the sand to indicate the number ten. Ten of these small twigs he set in a row and by a larger stick indicated a hundred, and so on till he had set forth in the sandy soil a diagrammatic representation of a hundred thousand men, the Indians following closely his every movement. “And all these men,” he continued, “are armed with rifles and with great big guns that speak like thunder. And these are only a few of the White Mother's soldiers. How many Indians and half-breeds do you think there are with rifles?” He set in a row sticks to represent a thousand men. “See,” he cried, “so many.” Then he added another similar row. “Perhaps, if all the Indians gathered, so many with rifles. No more. Now look,” he said, “no big guns, only a few bullets, a little powder, a little food. Ha, ha!” he laughed contemptuously. “The Sioux snake is a fool. His tongue must be stopped. My Indian brothers here will not listen to him, but there are others whose hearts are like the hearts of little children who may listen to his lying words. The Sioux snake must be caught and put in a cage, and this I do now.”
As he uttered the words Cameron sprang for the Sioux, but quicker than his leap the Sioux darted through the crowding Indians who, perceiving Cameron's intent, thrust themselves in his path and enabled the Sioux to get away into the brush behind.
“Head him off, Jerry,” yelled Cameron, whistling sharply at the same time for his men, while he darted for his horse and threw himself upon it. The whole camp was in a seething uproar.
“Back!” yelled Cameron, drawing his gun. The Indians fell away from him like waves from a speeding vessel. On the other side of the little bluff he caught sight of a mounted Indian flying toward the mountains and with a cry he started in pursuit. It took only a few minutes for Cameron to discover that he was gaining rapidly upon his man. But the rough rocky country was not far away in front of them, and here was abundant chance for hiding. Closer and closer he drew to his flying enemy—a hundred yards—seventy-five yards—fifty yards only separated them.
“Halt!” cried Cameron, “or I shoot.”
But the Indian, throwing himself on the far side of his pony, urged him to his topmost speed.
Cameron steadied himself for a moment, took careful aim and fired. The flying pony stumbled, recovered himself, stumbled again and fell. But even before he reached the earth his rider had leaped free, and, still some thirty yards in advance, sped onward. Half a dozen strides and Cameron's horse was upon him, and, giving him the shoulder, hurled the Indian senseless to earth. In a flash Cameron was at his side, turned him over and discovered not the Sioux Chief but another Indian quite unknown to him.
His rage and disappointment were almost beyond his control. For an instant he held his gun poised as if to strike, but the blow did not fall. His self command came back. He put up his gun, turned quickly away from the prostrate Indian, flung himself upon his horse and set off swiftly for the camp. It was but a mile distant, but in the brief time consumed in reaching it he had made up his mind as to his line of action. Unless his men had captured the Sioux it was almost certain that he had made his escape to the canyon, and once in the canyon there was little hope of his being taken. It was of the first importance that he should not appear too deeply concerned over his failure to take his man.
With this thought in his mind Cameron loped easily into the Indian camp. He found the young braves in a state of feverish excitement. Armed with guns and clubs, they gathered about their Chiefs clamoring to be allowed to wipe out these representatives of the Police who had dared to attempt an arrest of this distinguished guest of theirs. As Cameron appeared the uproar quieted somewhat and the Indians gathered about him, eagerly waiting his next move.
Cameron cantered up to Running Stream and, looking round upon the crowding and excited braves, he said, with a smile of cool indifference:
“The Sioux snake has slid away in the grass. He has missed his breakfast. My brother was about to eat. After he has eaten we will have some quiet talk.”
So saying, he swung himself from his saddle, drew the reins over his horse's ears and, throwing himself down beside a camp fire, he pulled out his pipe and proceeded to light it as calmly as if sitting in a council-lodge.
The Indians were completely nonplussed. Nothing appeals more strongly to the Indian than an exhibition of steady nerve. For some moments they stood regarding Cameron with looks of mingled curiosity and admiration with a strong admixture of impatience, for they had thought of being done out of their great powwow with its attendant joys of dance and feast, and if this Policeman should choose to remain with them all day there could certainly be neither dancing nor feasting for them. In the meantime, however, there was nothing for it but to accept the situation created for them. This cool-headed Mounted Policeman had planted himself by their camp-fire. They could not very well drive him from their camp, nor could they converse with him till he was ready.
As they were thus standing about in uncertainty of mind and temper Jerry, the interpreter, came in and, with a grunt of recognition, threw himself down by Cameron beside the fire. After some further hesitation the Indians began to busy themselves once more with their breakfast. In the group about the campfire beside which Cameron had placed himself was the Chief, Running Stream. The presence of the Policeman beside his fire was most embarrassing to the Chief, for no man living has a keener sense of the obligations of hospitality than has the Indian. But the Indian hates to eat in the presence of a white man unless the white man shares his meal. Hence Running Stream approached Cameron with a courteous request that he would eat with them.
“Thanks, Running Stream, I have eaten, but I am sure Jerry here will be glad of some breakfast,” said Cameron cordially, who had no desire whatever to dip out of the very doubtful mess in the pot which had been set down on the ground in the midst of the group around the fire. Jerry, however, had no scruples in the matter and, like every Indian and half-breed, was always ready for a meal. Having thus been offered hospitality and having by proxy accepted it, Cameron was in position to discuss with the Chief in a judicial if not friendly spirit the matter he had in hand.
Breakfast over, Cameron offered his tobacco-pouch to the Chief, who, gravely helping himself to a pipeful, passed it on to his neighbor who, having done likewise, passed it in turn to the man next him till the tobacco was finished and the empty pouch returned with due gravity to the owner.
Relations of friendly diplomacy being thus established, the whole party sat smoking in solemn silence until the pipes were smoked out. Then Cameron, knocking the ashes from his pipe, opened up the matter in hand, with Jerry interpreting.
“The Sioux snake,” he began quietly, “will be hungry for his breakfast. Honest men do not run away before breakfast.”
“Huh,” grunted Running Stream, non-committal.
“The Police will get him in due time,” continued Cameron in a tone of quiet indifference. “He will cease to trouble our Indian brothers with foolish lies. The prison gates are strong and will soon close upon this stranger with the forked tongue.”
Again the Chief grunted, still non-committal.
“It would be a pity if any of your young men should give heed to these silly tales. None of your wise men have done so. In the Sioux country there is frequent war between the soldiers and the Indians because bad men wish to wrong the Indians and the Indians grow angry and fight, but in this country white men are punished who do wrong to Indians. This Running Stream knows to be true.”
“Huh,” grunted Running Stream acquiescing.
“When Indians do wrong to white men it is just that the Indians should be punished as well. The Police do justly between the white man and the Indian. My brother knows this to be true.”
“Huh,” again grunted Running Stream with an uneasy look on his face.
“Therefore when young and foolish braves steal and kill cattle they must be punished. They must be taught to keep the law.” Here Cameron's voice grew gentle as a child's, but there was in its tone something that made the Chief glance quickly at his face.
“Huh, my young men no steal cattle,” he said sullenly.
“No? I am glad to hear that. I believe that is true, and that is why I smoke with my brother beside his camp fire. But some young men in this band have stolen cattle, and I want my brother to find them that I might take them with me to the Commissioner.”
“Not know any Indian take cattle,” said Running Stream in surly defiance.
“There are four skins and four heads lying in the bluff up yonder, Running Stream. I am going to take those with me to the Commissioner and I am sure he would like to see you about those skins.” Cameron's manner continued to be mild but there ran through his speech an undertone of stern resolution that made the Indian squirm a bit.
“Not know any Indian take cattle,” repeated Running Stream, but with less defiance.
“Then it would be well for my brother to find out the thieves, for,” and here Cameron paused and looked the Chief steadily in the face for a few moments, “for we are to take them back with us or we will ask the Chief to come and explain to the Commissioner why he does not know what his young men are doing.”
“No Blackfeet Indian take cattle,” said the Chief once more.
“Good,” said Cameron. “Then it must be the Bloods, or the Piegans or the Stonies. We will call their Chiefs together.”
There was no hurry in Cameron's manner. He had determined to spend the day if necessary in running down these thieves. At his suggestion Running Stream called together the Chiefs of the various bands of Indians represented. From his supplies Cameron drew forth some more tobacco and, passing it round the circle of Chiefs, calmly waited until all had smoked their pipes out, after which he proceeded to lay the case before them.
“My brothers are not thieves. The Police believe them to be honest men, but unfortunately among them there have crept in some who are not honest. In the bluff yonder are four hides and four heads of steers, two of them from my own herd. Some bad Indians have stolen and killed these steers and they are here in this camp to-day, and I am going to take them with me to the Commissioner. Running Stream is a great Chief and speaks no lies and he tells me that none of his young men have taken these cattle. Will the Chief of the Stonies, the Chief of the Bloods, the Chief of the Piegans say the same for their young men?”
“The Stonies take no cattle,” answered an Indian whom Cameron recognized as the leading representative of that tribe present.
“How many Stonies here?”
The Indian held up six fingers.
“Ha, only six. What about the Bloods and the Piegans?” demanded Cameron. “It is not for me,” he continued, when there was no reply, “to discover the cattle-thieves. It is for the Big Chief of this camp, it is for you, Running Stream, and when you have found the thieves I shall arrest them and bring them to the Commissioner, for I will not return without them. Meantime I go to bring here the skins.”
So saying, Cameron rode leisurely away, leaving Jerry to keep an eye upon the camp. For more than an hour they talked among themselves, but without result. Finally they came to Jerry, who, during his years with the Police, had to a singular degree gained the confidence of the Indians. But Jerry gave them little help. There had been much stealing of cattle by some of the tribes, not by all. The Police had been patient, but they had become weary. They had their suspicions as to the thieves.
Eagle Feather was anxious to know what Indians were suspected.
“Not the Stonies and not the Blackfeet,” replied Jerry quietly. It was a pity, he continued, that innocent men should suffer for the guilty. He knew Running Stream was no thief, but Running Stream must find out the thieves in the band under his control. How would Running Stream like to have the great Chief of the Blackfeet, Crowfoot, know that he could not control the young men under his command and did not know what they were doing?
This suggestion of Jerry had a mighty effect upon the Blackfeet Chief, for old Crowfoot was indeed a great Chief and a mighty power with his band, and to fall into disfavor with him would be a serious matter for any junior Chief in the tribe.
Again they withdrew for further discussion and soon it became evident that Jerry's cunning suggestions had sown seeds of discord among them. The dispute waxed hot and fierce, not as to the guilty parties, who were apparently acknowledged to be the Piegans, but as to the course to be pursued. Running Stream had no intention that his people and himself should become involved in the consequences of the crimes of other tribes whom the Blackfeet counted their inferiors. Eagle Feather and his Piegans must bear the consequences of their own misdeeds. On the other hand Eagle Feather pleaded hard that they should stand together in this matter, that the guilty parties could not be disclosed. The Police could not punish them all, and all the more necessary was it that they should hold together because of the larger enterprise into which they were about to enter.
The absence of the Sioux Chief Onawata, however, weakened the bond of unity which he more than any other had created and damped the ardor of the less eager of the conspirators. It was likewise a serious blow to their hopes of success that the Police knew all their plans. Running Stream finally gave forth his decision, which was that the thieves should be given up, and that they all should join in a humble petition to the Police for leniency, pleading the necessity of hunger on their hunting-trip, and, as for the larger enterprise, that they should apparently abandon it until suspicion had been allayed and until the plans of their brothers in the North were more nearly matured. The time for striking had not yet come.
In this decision all but the Piegans agreed. In vain Eagle Feather contended that they should stand together and defy the Police to prove any of them guilty. In vain he sought to point out that if in this crisis they surrendered the Piegans to the Police never again could they count upon the Piegans to support them in any enterprise. But Running Stream and the others were resolved. The thieves must be given up.
At the very moment in which this decision had been reached Cameron rode in, carrying with him the incriminating hides.
“Here, Jerry,” he said. “You take charge of these and bring them to the Commissioner.”
“All right,” said Jerry, taking the hides from Cameron's horse.
“What is up, Jerry?” said Cameron in a low voice as the half-breed was untying the bundle.
“Beeg row,” whispered Jerry. “Eagle Feather t'ief.”
“All right, keep close.”
Quietly Cameron walked over to the group of excited Indians. As he approached they opened their circle to receive him.
“My brother has discovered the thief,” he said. “And after all a thief is easily found among honest men.”
Slowly and deliberately his eye traveled round the circle of faces, keenly scrutinizing each in turn. When he came to Eagle Feather he paused, gazed fixedly at him, took a single step in his direction, and, suddenly leveling an accusing finger at him, cried in a loud voice:
“I have found him. This man is the thief.”
Slowly he walked up to the Indian, who remained stoically motionless, laid his hand upon his wrist and said in a clear ringing voice heard over the encampment:
“Eagle Feather, I arrest you in the name of the Queen!” And before another word could be spoken or a movement made Eagle Feather stood handcuffed, a prisoner.
“That boy is worse, Mrs. Cameron, decidedly worse, and I wash my hands of all responsibility.” The old army surgeon was clearly annoyed.
Mandy sat silent, weary with watching and weary with the conflict that had gone on intermittently during the past three days. The doctor was determined to have the gangrenous foot off. That was the simplest solution of the problem before him and the foot would have come off days ago if he had had his way. But the Indian boy had vehemently opposed this proposal. “One foot—me go die,” was his ultimatum, and through all the fever and delirium this was his continuous refrain. In this determination his nurse supported him, for she could not bring herself to the conviction that amputation was absolutely necessary, and, besides, of all the melancholy and useless driftwood that drives hither and thither with the ebb and flow of human life, she could imagine none more melancholy and more useless than an Indian crippled of a foot. Hence she supported the boy in his ultimatum, “One foot—me go die.”
“That foot ought to come off,” repeated the doctor, beginning the controversy anew. “Otherwise the boy will die.”
“But, doctor,” said Mandy wearily, “just think how pitiable, how helpless that boy will be. Death is better. And, besides, I have not quite given up hope that—”
The doctor snorted his contempt for her opinion; and only his respect for her as Cameron's wife and for the truly extraordinary powers and gifts in her profession which she had displayed during the past three days held back the wrathful words that were at his lips. It was late in the afternoon and the doctor had given many hours to this case, riding back and forward from the fort every day, but all this he would not have grudged could he have had his way with his patient.
“Well, I have done my best,” he said, “and now I must go back to my work.”
“I know, doctor, I know,” pleaded Mandy. “You have been most kind and I thank you from my heart.” She rose and offered him her hand. “Don't think me too awfully obstinate, and please forgive me if you do.”
The doctor took the outstretched hand grudgingly.
“Obstinate!” he exclaimed. “Of all the obstinate creatures—”
“Oh, I am afraid I am. But I don't want to be unreasonable. You see, the boy is so splendidly plucky and such a fine chap.”
The doctor grunted.
“He is a fine chap, doctor, and I can't bear to have him crippled, and—” She paused abruptly, her lips beginning to quiver. She was near the limit of her endurance.
“You would rather have him dead, eh? All right, if that suits you better it makes no difference to me,” said the doctor gruffly, picking up his bag. “Good-by.”
“Doctor, you will come back again to-morrow?”
“To-morrow? Why should I come back to-morrow? I can do no more—unless you agree to amputation. There is no use coming back to-morrow. I have other cases waiting on me. I can't give all my time to this Indian.” The contempt in the doctor's voice for a mere Indian stung her like a whip. On Mandy's cheek, pale with her long vigil, a red flush appeared and in her eye a light that would have warned the doctor had he known her better.
“Is not this Indian a human being?” she asked quietly.
But the doctor was very impatient and anxious to be gone.
“A human being? Yes, of course, a human being, but there are human beings and human beings. But if you mean an Indian is as good as a white man, frankly I don't agree with you.”
“You have given a great deal of your time, doctor,” said Mandy with quiet deliberation, “and I am most grateful. I can ask no more for THIS INDIAN. I only regret that I have been forced to ask so much of your time. Good-by.” There was a ring as of steel in her voice. The doctor became at once apologetic.
“What—eh?—I beg your pardon,” he stammered.
“It is not at all necessary. Thank you again for all your service. Good-by.”
“Eh? I don't quite—”
“Good-by, doctor, and again thank you.”
“Well, you know quite well I can't do any more,” said the old doctor crossly.
“No, I don't think you can.”
“Eh—what? Well, good-by.” And awkwardly the doctor walked away, rather uncertain as to her meaning but with a feeling that he had been dismissed.
“Most impossible person!” he muttered as he left the tent door, indignant with himself that no fitting reply would come to his lips. And not until he had mounted his horse and taken the trail was he able to give full and adequate expression to his feelings, and even then it took him some considerable time to do full justice to himself and to the situation.
Meantime the nurse had turned back to her watch, weary and despairing. In a way that she could not herself understand the Indian boy had awakened her interest and even her affection. His fine stoical courage, his warm and impulsive gratitude excited her admiration and touched her heart. Again arose to her lips a cry that had been like a refrain in her heart for the past three days, “Oh, if only Dr. Martin were here!” Her experience and training under Dr. Martin had made it only too apparent that the old army surgeon was archaic in his practice and method.
“I know something could be done!” she said aloud, as she bent over her patient. “If only Dr. Martin were here! Poor boy! Oh! I wish he were here!”
As if in answer to her cry there was outside a sound of galloping horses. She ran to the tent door and before her astonished eyes there drew up at her tent Dr. Martin, her sister-in-law and the ever-faithful Smith.
“Oh, oh, Dr. Martin!” she cried, running to him with both hands outstretched, and could say no more.
“Hello, what's up? Say, what the deuce have they been doing to you?” The doctor was quite wrathful.
“Oh, I am glad, that's all.”
“Glad? Well, you show your joy in a mighty queer way.”
“She's done out, Doctor,” cried Moira, springing from her horse and running to her sister-in-law. “I ought to have come before to relieve her,” she continued penitently, with her arms round Mandy, “but I knew so little, and besides I thought the doctor was here.”
“He was here,” said Mandy, recovering herself. “He has just gone, and oh, I am glad. He wanted to cut his foot off.”
“Cut his foot off? Whose foot off? His own?” said Dr. Martin.
“But I am glad! How did you get here in all the world?”
“Your telegram came when I was away,” said the doctor. “I did not get it for a day, then I came at once.”
“My telegram?”
“Yes, your telegram. I have it here—no, I've left it somewhere—but I certainly got a telegram from you.”
“From me? I never sent a telegram.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cameron. I understood you to desire Dr. Martin's presence, and—I ventured to send a wire in your name. I hope you will forgive the liberty,” said Smith, red to his hair-roots and looking over his horse's neck with a most apologetic air.
“Forgive the liberty?” cried Mandy. “Why, bless you, Mr. Smith, you are my guardian angel,” running to him and shaking him warmly by the hand.
“And he brought, us here, too,” cried Moira. “He has been awfully good to me these days. I do not know what I should have done without him.”
Meantime Smith was standing first on one foot and then on the other in a most unhappy state of mind.
“Guess I will be going back,” he said in an agony of awkwardness and confusion. “It is getting kind of late.”
“What? Going right away?” exclaimed Mandy.
“I've got some chores to look after, and I guess none of you are coming back now anyway.”
“Well, hold on a bit,” said the doctor. “We'll see what's doing inside. Let's get the lie of things.”
“Guess you don't need me any more,” continued Smith. “Good-by.” And he climbed on to his horse. “I have got to get back. So long.”
No one appeared to have any good reason why Smith should remain, and so he rode away.
“Good-by, Mr. Smith,” called out Mandy impulsively. “You have really saved my life, I assure you. I was in utter despair.”
“Good-by, Mr. Smith,” cried Moira, waving her hand with a bright smile. “You have saved me too from dying many a time these three days.”
With an awkward wave Smith answered these farewells and rode down the trail.
“He is really a fine fellow,” said Mandy. “Always doing something for people.”
“That is just it,” cried Moira. “He has spent his whole time these three days doing things for me.”
“Ah, no wonder,” said the doctor. “A most useful chap. But what's the trouble here? Let's get at the business.”
Mandy gave him a detailed history of the case, the doctor meanwhile making an examination of the patient's general condition.
“And the doctor would have his foot off, but I would not stand for that,” cried Mandy indignantly as she closed her history.
“H'm! Looks bad enough to come off, I should say. I wish I had been here a couple of days ago. It may have to come off all right.”
“Oh, Dr. Martin!”
“But not just to-night.”
“Oh, I knew it.”
“Not to-night,” I said. “I don't know what the outcome may be, but it looks as bad as it well can.”
“Oh, that's all right,” cried Mandy cheerfully. Her burden of responsibility was lifted. Her care was gone. “I knew it would be all right.”
“Well, whether it will or not I cannot say. But one thing I do know, you've got to trot off to sleep. Show me the ropes and then off you go. Who runs this camp anyway?”
“Oh, the Chief does, Chief Trotting Wolf. I will call him,” cried Mandy. “He has been very good to me. I will get him.” And she ran from the tent to find the Chief.
“Isn't she wonderful?” said Moira.
“Wonderful? I should say so. But she is played right out I can see,” replied the doctor. “I must get comfortable quarters for you both.”
“But do you not want some one?” said Moira. “Do you not want me?”
“Do I want you?” echoed the doctor, looking at her as she stood in the glow of the westering sun shining through the canvas tent. “Do I want you?” he repeated with deliberate emphasis. “Well, you can just bet that is just what I do want.”
A slight flush appeared on the girl's face.
“I mean,” she said hurriedly, “cannot I be of some help?”
“Most certainly, most certainly,” said the doctor, noting the flush. “Your help will be invaluable after a bit. But first you must get Mrs. Cameron to sleep. She has been on this job, I understand, for three days. She is quite played out. And you, too, need sleep.”
“Oh, I am quite fit. I do not need sleep. I am quite ready to take my sister-in-law's place, that is, as far as I can. And you will surely need some one—to help you I mean.” The doctor's eyes were upon her face. Under his gaze her voice faltered. The glow of the sunset through the tent walls illumined her face with a wonderful radiance.
“Miss Moira,” said the doctor with abrupt vehemence, “I wish I had the nerve to tell you just how much—”
“Hush!” cried the girl, her glowing face suddenly pale, “they are coming.”
“Here is the Chief, Dr. Martin,” cried Mandy, ushering in that stately individual. The doctor saluted the Chief in due form and said:
“Could we have another tent, Chief, for these ladies? Just beside this tent here, so that they can have a little sleep.”
The Chief grunted a doubtful acquiescence, but in due time a tent very much dilapidated was pitched upon the clean dry ground close beside that in which the sick boy lay. While this was being done the doctor was making a further examination of his patient. With admiring eyes, Moira followed the swift movements of his deft fingers. There was no hesitation. There was no fumbling. There was the sure indication of accurate knowledge, the obvious self-confidence of experience in everything he did. Even to her untutored eyes the doctor seemed to be walking with a very firm tread.
At length, after an hour's work, he turned to Mandy who was assisting him and said:
“Now you can both go to sleep. I shall need you no more till morning. I shall keep an eye on him. Off you go. Good-night.”
“You will be sure to call me if I can be of service,” said Mandy.
“I shall do no such thing. I expect you to sleep. I shall look after this end of the job.”
“He is very sure of himself, is he not?” said Moira in a low tone to her sister-in-law as they passed out of the tent.
“He has a right to be,” said Mandy proudly. “He knows his work, and now I feel as if I can sleep in peace. What a blessed thing sleep is,” she added, as, without undressing, she tumbled on to the couch prepared for her.
“Is Dr. Martin very clever? I mean, is he an educated man?”
“What?” cried Mandy. “Dr. Martin what?”
“Is he very clever? Is he—an educated man?”
“Eh, what?” she repeated, yawning desperately. “Oh, I was asleep.”
“Is he clever?”
“Clever? Well, rather—” Her voice was trailing off again into slumber.
“And is he an educated man?”
“Educated? Knows his work if that's what you mean. Oh-h—but I'm sleepy.”
“Is he a gentleman?”
“Eh? What?” Mandy sat up straight. “A gentleman? I should say so! That is, he is a man all through right to his toe-tips. And gentle—more gentle than any woman I ever saw. Will that do? Good-night.” And before Moira could make reply she was sound asleep.
Before the night was over the opportunity was given the doctor to prove his manhood, and in a truly spectacular manner. For shortly after midnight Moira found herself sitting bolt upright, wide-awake and clutching her sister-in-law in wild terror. Outside their tent the night was hideous with discordant noises, yells, whoops, cries, mingled with the beating of tom-toms. Terrified and trembling, the two girls sprang to the door, and, lifting the flap, peered out. It was the party of braves returning from the great powwow so rudely interrupted by Cameron. They were returning in an evil mood, too, for they were enraged at the arrest of Eagle Feather and three accomplices in his crime, disappointed in the interruption of their sun dance and its attendant joys of feast and song, and furious at what appeared to them to be the overthrow of the great adventure for which they had been preparing and planning for the past two months. This was indeed the chief cause of their rage, for it seemed as if all further attempts at united effort among the Western tribes had been frustrated by the discovery of their plans, by the flight of their leader, and by the treachery of the Blackfeet Chief, Running Stream, in surrendering their fellow-tribesmen to the Police. To them that treachery rendered impossible any coalition between the Piegans and the Blackfeet. Furthermore, before their powwow had been broken up there had been distributed among them a few bottles of whisky provided beforehand by the astute Sioux as a stimulus to their enthusiasm against a moment of crisis when such stimulus should be necessary. These bottles, in the absence of their great leader, were distributed among the tribes by Running Stream as a peace-offering, but for obvious reason not until the moment came for their parting from each other.
Filled with rage and disappointment, and maddened with the bad whisky they had taken, they poured into the encampment with wild shouting accompanied by the discharge of guns and the beating of drums. In terror the girls clung to each other, gazing out upon the horrid scene.
“Whatever is this, Mandy?” cried Moira.
But her sister-in-law could give her little explanation. The moonlight, glowing bright as day, revealed a truly terrifying spectacle. A band of Indians, almost naked and hideously painted, were leaping, shouting, beating drums and firing guns. Out from the tents poured the rest of the band to meet them, eagerly inquiring into the cause of their excitement. Soon fires were lighted and kettles put on, for the Indian's happiness is never complete unless associated with feasting, and the whole band prepared itself for a time of revelry.
As the girls stood peering out upon this terrible scene they became aware of the doctor standing at their side.
“Say, they seem to be cutting up rather rough, don't they?” he said coolly. “I think as a precautionary measure you had better step over into the other tent.”
Hastily gathering their belongings, they ran across with the doctor to his tent, from which they continued to gaze upon the weird spectacle before them.
About the largest fire in the center of the camp the crowd gathered, Chief Trotting Wolf in the midst, and were harangued by one of the returning braves who was evidently reciting the story of their experiences and whose tale was received with the deepest interest and was punctuated by mad cries and whoops. The one English word that could be heard was the word “Police,” and it needed no interpreter to explain to the watchers that the chief object of fury to the crowding, gesticulating Indians about the fire was the Policeman who had been the cause of their humiliation and disappointment. In a pause of the uproar a loud exclamation from an Indian arrested the attention of the band. Once more he uttered his exclamation and pointed to the tent lately occupied by the ladies. Quickly the whole band about the fire appeared to bunch together preparatory to rush in the direction indicated, but before they could spring forward Trotting Wolf, speaking rapidly and with violent gesticulation, stood in their path. But his voice was unheeded. He was thrust aside and the whole band came rushing madly toward the tent lately occupied by the ladies.
“Get back from the door,” said the doctor, speaking rapidly. “These chaps seem to be somewhat excited. I wish I had my gun,” he continued, looking about the tent for a weapon of some sort. “This will do,” he said, picking up a stout poplar pole that had been used for driving the tent pegs. “Stay inside here. Don't move till I tell you.”
“But they will kill you,” cried Moira, laying her hand upon his arm. “You must not go out.”
“Nonsense!” said the doctor almost roughly. “Kill me? Not much. I'll knock some of their blocks off first.” So saying, he lifted the flap of the tent and passed out just as the rush of maddened Indians came.
Upon the ladies' tent they fell, kicked the tent poles down, and, seizing the canvas ripped it clear from its pegs. Some moments they spent searching the empty bed, then turned with renewed cries toward the other tent before which stood the doctor, waiting, grim, silent, savage. For a single moment they paused, arrested by the silent figure, then with a whoop a drink-maddened brave sprang toward the tent, his rifle clubbed to strike. Before he could deliver his blow the doctor, stepping swiftly to one side, swung his poplar club hard upon the uplifted arms, sent the rifle crashing to the ground and with a backward swing caught the astonished brave on the exposed head and dropped him to the earth as if dead.
“Take that, you dog!” he cried savagely. “Come on, who's next?” he shouted, swinging his club as a player might a baseball bat.
Before the next rush, however, help came in an unexpected form. The tent flap was pushed back and at the doctor's side stood an apparition that checked the Indians' advance and stilled their cries. It was the Indian boy, clad in a white night robe of Mandy's providing, his rifle in his hand, his face ghastly in the moonlight and his eyes burning like flames of light. One cry he uttered, weird, fierce, unearthly, but it seemed to pierce like a knife through the stillness that had fallen. Awed, sobered, paralyzed, the Indians stood motionless. Then from their ranks ran Chief Trotting Wolf, picked up the rifle of the Indian who still lay insensible on the ground, and took his place beside the boy.
A few words he spoke in a voice that rang out fiercely imperious. Still the Indians stood motionless. Again the Chief spoke in short, sharp words of command, and, as they still hesitated, took one swift stride toward the man that stood nearest, swinging his rifle over his head. Forward sprang the doctor to his side, his poplar club likewise swung up to strike. Back fell the Indians a pace or two, the Chief following them with a torrential flow of vehement invective. Slowly, sullenly the crowd gave back, cowed but still wrathful, and beginning to mutter in angry undertones. Once more the tent flap was pushed aside and there issued two figures who ran to the side of the Indian boy, now swaying weakly upon his rifle.
“My poor boy!” cried Mandy, throwing her arms round about him, and, steadying him as he let his rifle fall, let him sink slowly to the ground.
“You cowards!” cried Moira, seizing the rifle that the boy had dropped and springing to the doctor's side. “Look at what you have done!” She turned and pointed indignantly to the swooning boy.
With an exclamation of wrath the doctor stepped back to Mandy's aid, forgetful of the threatening Indians and mindful only of his patient. Quickly he sprang into the tent, returning with a stimulating remedy, bent over the boy and worked with him till he came back again to life.
Once more the Chief, who with the Indians had been gazing upon this scene, turned and spoke to his band, this time in tones of quiet dignity, pointing to the little group behind him. Silent and subdued the Indians listened, their quick impulses like those of children stirred to sympathy for the lad and for those who would aid him. Gradually the crowd drew off, separating into groups and gathering about the various fires. For the time the danger was over.
Between them Dr. Martin and the Chief carried the boy into the tent and laid him on his bed.
“What sort of beasts have you got out there anyway?” said the doctor, facing the Chief abruptly.
“Him drink bad whisky,” answered the Chief, tipping up his hand. “Him crazee,” touching his head with his forefinger.
“Crazy! Well, I should say. What they want is a few ounces of lead.”
The Chief made no reply, but stood with his eyes turned admiringly upon Moira's face.
“Squaw—him good,” he said, pointing to the girl. “No 'fraid—much brave—good.”
“You are right enough there, Chief,” replied the doctor heartily.
“Him you squaw?” inquired the Chief, pointing to Moira.
“Well—eh? No, not exactly,” replied the doctor, much confused, “that is—not yet I mean—”
“Huh! Him good squaw. Him good man,” replied the Chief, pointing first to Moira, then to the doctor.
Moira hurried to the tent door.
“They are all gone,” she exclaimed. “Thank God! How awful they are!”
“Huh!” replied the Chief, moving out past her. “Him drink, him crazee—no drink, no crazee.” At the door he paused, and, looking back, said once more with increased emphasis, “Huh! Him good squaw,” and finally disappeared.
“By Jove!” said the doctor with a delighted chuckle. “The old boy is a man of some discernment I can see. But the kid and you saved the day, Miss Moira.”
“Oh, what nonsense you are talking. It was truly awful, and how splendidly you—you—”
“Well, I caught him rather a neat one, I confess. I wonder if the brute is sleeping yet. But you did the trick finally, Miss Moira.”
“Huh,” grunted Mandy derisively, “Good man—good squaw, eh?”