Superintendent Strong was in a pleasant mood, and the reason was not far to seek. The distracting period of inaction, of doubt, of hesitation was past, and now at last something would be done. His term of service along the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway construction had been far from congenial to him. There had been too much of the work of the ordinary patrol-officer about it. True, he did his duty faithfully and thoroughly, so faithfully, indeed, as to move the great men of the railway company to outspoken praise, a somewhat unusual circumstance. But now he was called back to the work that more properly belonged to an officer of Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police and his soul glowed with the satisfaction of those who, having been found faithful in uncongenial duty, are rewarded with an opportunity to do a bit of work which they particularly delight to do.
With his twenty-five men, whom for the past year he had been polishing to a high state of efficiency in the trying work of police-duty in the railway construction-camp, he arrived in Calgary on the evening of the tenth of April, to find that post throbbing with military ardor and thrilling with rumors of massacres and sieges, of marching columns and contending forces. Small wonder that Superintendent Strong's face took on an appearance of grim pleasure. Straight to the Police headquarters he went, but there was no Superintendent there to welcome him. That gentleman had gone East to meet the troops and was by now under appointment as Chief of Staff to that dashing soldier, Colonel Otter.
But meantime, though the Calgary Police Post was bare of men, there were other men as keen and as daring, if not so thoroughly disciplined for war, thronging the streets of the little town and asking only a leader whom they could follow.
It was late evening, but Calgary was an “all night” town, and every minute was precious, for minutes might mean lives of women and children. So down the street rode Superintendent Strong toward the Royal Hotel. At the hitching post of that hostelry a sad-looking broncho was tied, whose calm, absorbed and detached appearance struck a note of discord with his environment; for everywhere about him men and horses seemed to be in a turmoil of excitement. Everywhere men in cow-boy garb were careering about the streets or grouped in small crowds about the saloon doors. There were few loud voices, but the words of those who were doing the speaking came more rapidly than usual.
Such a group was gathered in the rear of the sad-looking broncho before the door of the Royal Hotel. As the Superintendent loped up upon his big brown horse the group broke apart and, like birds disturbed at their feeding, circled about and closed again.
“Hello, here's Superintendent Strong,” said a voice. “He'll know.”
“Know what?” inquired the Superintendent.
“Why, what's doing?”
“Where are the troops?”
“Is Prince Albert down?”
“Where's Middleton?”
“What's to be done here?”
There were many voices, all eager, and in them just a touch of anxiety.
“Not a thing do I know,” said Superintendent Strong somewhat gravely. “I have been up in the mountains and have heard little. I know that the Commissioner has gone north to Prince Albert.”
“Have you heard about Duck Lake?” inquired a voice.
“Yes, I heard we had a reverse there, and I know that General Middleton has arrived at Qu'Appelle and has either set out for the north or is about to set out.”
“Heard about Frog Lake?”
“Frog Lake? No. That is up near Fort Pitt. What about it?”
For a moment there was silence, then a deep voice replied:
“A ghastly massacre, women and children and priests.”
Then another period of silence.
“Indians?” murmured the Superintendent in a low voice.
“Yes, half-breeds and Indians,” replied the deep voice. And again there was silence. The men waited for Superintendent Strong to speak.
The Superintendent sat on his big horse looking at them quietly, then he said sharply:
“Men, there are some five or six thousand Indians in this district.” They were all thinking the same thing. “I have twenty-five men with me. Superintendent Cotton at Macleod has less than a hundred.”
The men sat their horses in silence looking at him. One could hear their deep breathing and see the quiver of the horses under the gripping knees of their riders. Their minds were working swiftly. Ever since the news of the Frog Lake massacre had spread like a fire across the country these men had been carrying in their minds—rather, in their hearts—pictures that started them up in their beds at night broad awake and all in a cold sweat.
The Superintendent lowered his voice. The men leaned forward to listen. He had only a single word to say, a short sharp word it was—
“Who will join me?”
It was as if his question had released a spring drawn to its limit. From twenty different throats in twenty different tones, but with a single throbbing impulse, came the response, swift, full-throated, savage, “Me!” “I!” “Here you are!” “You bet!” “Count me!” “Rather!” and in three minutes Superintendent Strong had secured the nucleus of his famous scouts.
“To-morrow at nine at the Barracks!” said this grim and laconic Superintendent, and was about turning away when a man came out from the door of the Royal Hotel, drawn forth by that sudden savage yell.
“Hello, Cameron!” said the Superintendent, as the man moved toward the sad-appearing broncho, “I want you.”
“All right, sir. I am with you,” was the reply as Cameron swung on to his horse. “Wake up, Ginger!” he said to his horse, touching him with his heel. Ginger woke up with an indignant snort and forthwith fell into line with the Superintendent's big brown horse.
The Superintendent was silent till the Barracks were gained, then, giving the horses into the care of an orderly, he led Cameron into the office and after they had settled themselves before the fire he began without preliminaries.
“Cameron, I am more anxious than I can say about the situation here in this part of the country. I have been away from the center of things for some months and I have lost touch. I want you to let me know just what is doing from our side.”
“I do not know much, sir,” replied Cameron. “I, too, have just come in from a long parley with Crowfoot and his Chiefs.”
“Ah, by the way, how is the old boy?” inquired the Superintendent. “Will he stick by us?”
“At present he is very loyal, sir,—too loyal almost,” said Cameron in a doubtful tone. “Duck Lake sent some of his young men off their heads a bit, and Frog Lake even more. The Sarcees went wild over Frog Lake, you know.”
“Oh, I don't worry about the Sarcees so much. What of Crowfoot?”
“Well, he has managed to hold down his younger Chiefs so far. He made light of the Frog Lake affair, but he was most anxious to get from me the fullest particulars of the Duck Lake fight. He made careful inquiries as to just how many Police were in the fight. I could see that it gave him a shock to learn that the Police had to retire. This was a new experience for him. He was intensely anxious to learn also—though he would not allow himself to appear so—just what the Government was doing.”
“And what are the last reports from headquarters? You see I have not been kept fully in touch. I know that the Commissioner has gone north to Prince Albert and that General Middleton has taken command of the forces in the West and has gone North with them from Qu'Appelle, but what troops he has I have not heard.”
“I understand,” replied Cameron, “that he has three regiments of infantry from Toronto and three from Winnipeg, with the Winnipeg Field Battery. A regiment from Quebec has arrived and one from Montreal and there are more to follow. The plan of campaign I know nothing about.”
“Ah, well,” replied the Superintendent, “I know something about the plan, I believe. There are three objective points, Prince Albert and Battleford, both of which are now closely besieged, and Edmonton, which is threatened with a great body of rebel Crees and Salteaux under leadership of Little Pine and Big Bear. The Police at these points can hardly be expected to hold out long against the overwhelming numbers that are besieging them, and I expect that relief columns will be immediately dispatched. Now, in regard to this district here, do you know what is being done?”
“Well, General Strange has come in from his ranch and has offered his services in raising a local force.”
“Yes, I was glad to hear that his offer had been accepted and that he has been appointed to lead an expeditionary force from here to Edmonton. He is an experienced officer and I am sure will do us fine service. I hope to see him to-morrow. Now, about the South,” continued the Superintendent, “what about Fort Macleod?”
“The Superintendent there has offered himself and his whole force for service in the North, but General Middleton, I understand, has asked him to remain where he is and keep guard in this part of the country.”
“Good! I am glad of that. In my judgment this country holds the key. The Crees I do not fear so much. They are more restless and uncertain, but God help us if the Blackfeet and the Bloods rise! That is why I called for volunteers to-night. We cannot afford to be without a strong force here a single day.”
“I gathered that you got some volunteers to-night. I hope, sir,” said Cameron, “you will have a place for me in your troop?”
“My dear fellow, nothing would please me better, I assure you,” said the Superintendent cordially. “And as proof of my confidence in you I am going to send you through the South country to recruit men for my troop. I can rely upon your judgment and tact. But as for you, you cannot leave your present beat. The Sun Dance Trail cannot be abandoned for one hour. From it you keep an eye upon the secret movements of all the tribes in this whole region and you can do much to counteract if not to wholly check any hostile movement that may arise. Indeed, you have already done more than any one will ever know to hold this country safe during these last months. And you must stay where you are. Remember, Cameron,” added the Superintendent impressively, “your work lies along the Sun Dance Trail. On no account and for no reason must you be persuaded to abandon that post. I shall get into touch with General Strange to-morrow and shall doubtless get something to do, but if possible I should like you to give me a day or two for this recruiting business before you take up again your patrol work along the Sun Dance.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Cameron quietly, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I shall do my best.”
“That is right,” said the Superintendent. “By the way, what are the Piegans doing?”
“The Piegans,” replied Cameron, “are industriously stealing cattle and horses. I cannot quite make out just how they can manage to get away with them. Eagle Feather is apparently running the thing, but there is someone bigger than Eagle Feather in the game. An additional month or two in the guardroom would have done that gentleman no harm.”
“Ah, has he been in the guard-room? How did he get there?”
“Oh, I pulled him out of the Sun Dance, where I found he had been killing cattle, and the Superintendent at Macleod gave him two months to meditate upon his crimes.”
Superintendent Strong expressed his satisfaction.
“But now he is at his old habits again,” continued Cameron. “But his is not the brain planning these raids. They are cleverly done and are getting serious. For instance, I must have lost a score or two of steers within the last three months.”
“A score or two?” exclaimed the Superintendent. “What are they doing with them all?”
“That is what I find difficult to explain. Either they are running them across the border—though the American Police know nothing of it—or they are making pemmican.”
“Pemmican? Aha! that looks serious,” said the Superintendent gravely.
“Yes, indeed,” said Cameron. “It makes me think that some one bigger than Eagle Feather is at the bottom of all this cattle-running. Sometimes I have thought that perhaps that chap Raven has a hand in it.”
“Raven?” exclaimed the Superintendent. “He has brain enough and nerve in plenty for any dare-devil exploit.”
“But,” continued Cameron in a hesitating voice, “I cannot bring myself to lay this upon him.”
“Why not?” inquired the Superintendent sharply. “He is a cool hand and desperate. I know his work fairly well. He is a first-class villain.”
“Yes, I know he is all that, and yet—well—in this rebellion, sir, I believe he is with us and against them.” In proof of this Cameron proceeded to relate the story of Raven's visit to the Big Horn Ranch. “So you see,” he concluded, “he would not care to work in connection with the Piegans just now.”
“I don't know about that—I don't know about that,” replied the Superintendent. “Of course he would not work against us directly, but he might work for himself in this crisis. It would furnish him with a good opportunity, you see. It would give him plenty of cover.”
“Yes, that is true, but still—I somehow cannot help liking the chap.”
“Liking the chap?” echoed the Superintendent. “He is a cold-blooded villain and cattle-thief, a murderer, as you know. If ever I get my hand on him in this rumpus—Why, he's an outlaw pure and simple! I have no use for that kind of man at all. I should like to hang him!” The Superintendent was indignant at the suggestion that any but the severest measures should be meted out to a man of Raven's type. It was the instinct and training of the Police officer responsible for the enforcement of law and order in the land moving within him. “But,” continued the Superintendent, “let us get back to our plans. There must be a strong force raised in this district immediately. We have the kind of men best suited for the work all about us in this ranching country, and I know that if you ride south throughout the ranges you can bring me back fifty men, and there would be no finer anywhere.”
“I shall do what I can, sir,” replied Cameron, “but I am not sure about the fifty men.”
Long they talked over the plans, till it was far past midnight, when Cameron took his leave and returned to his hotel. He put up his own horse, looking after his feeding and bedding.
“You have some work to do, Ginger, for your Queen and country to-morrow, and you must be fit,” he said as he finished rubbing the horse down.
And Ginger had work to do, but not that planned for him by his master, as it turned out. At the door of the Royal Hotel, Cameron found waiting him in the shadow a tall slim Indian youth.
“Hello!” said Cameron. “Who are you and what do you want?”
As the youth stepped into the light there came to Cameron a dim suggestion of something familiar about the lad, not so much in his face as in his figure and bearing.
“Who are you?” said Cameron again somewhat impatiently.
The young man pulled up his trouser leg and showed a scarred ankle.
“Ah! Now I get you. You are the young Piegan?”
“Not” said the youth, throwing back his head with a haughty movement. “No Piegan.”
“Ah, no, of course. Onawata's son, eh?”
The lad grunted.
“What do you want?” inquired Cameron.
The young man stood silent, evidently finding speech difficult.
“Eagle Feather,” at length he said, “Little Thunder—plenty Piegan—run much cattle.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm to indicate the extent of the cattle raid proposed.
“They do, eh? Come in, my boy.”
The boy shook his head and drew back. He shared with all wild things the fear of inclosed places.
“Are you hungry?”
The boy nodded his head.
“Come with me.”
Together they walked down the street and came to a restaurant.
“Come in and eat. It is all right,” said Cameron, offering his hand.
The Indian took the offered hand, laid it upon his heart, then for a full five seconds with his fierce black eye he searched Cameron's face. Satisfied, he motioned Cameron to enter and followed close on his heel. Never before had the lad been within four walls.
“Eat,” said Cameron when the ordered meal was placed before them. The lad was obviously ravenous and needed no further urging.
“How long since you left the reserve?” inquired Cameron.
The youth held up three fingers.
“Good going,” said Cameron, letting his eye run down the lines of the Indian's lithe figure.
“Smoke?” inquired Cameron when the meal was finished.
The lad's eye gleamed, but he shook his head.
“No pipe, eh?” said Cameron. “Come, we will mend that. Here, John,” he said to the Chinese waiter, “bring me a pipe. There,” said Cameron, passing the Indian the pipe after filling it, “smoke away.”
After another swift and searching look the lad took the pipe from Cameron's hand and with solemn gravity began to smoke. It was to him far more than a mere luxurious addendum to his meal. It was a solemn ceremonial sealing a compact of amity between them.
“Now, tell me,” said Cameron, when the smoke had gone on for some time.
Slowly and with painful difficulty the youth told his story in terse, brief sentences.
“T'ree day,” he began, holding up three fingers, “me hear Eagle Feather—many Piegans—talk—talk—talk. Go fight—keel—keel—keel all white man, squaw, papoose.”
“When?” inquired Cameron, keeping his face steady.
“Come Cree runner—soon.”
“You mean they are waiting for a runner from the North?” inquired Cameron. “If the Crees win the fight then the Piegans will rise? Is that it?”
The Indian nodded. “Come Cree Indian—then Piegan fight.”
“They will not rise until the runner comes, eh?”
“No.”
Cameron breathed more easily.
“Is that all?” he inquired carelessly.
“This day Eagle Feather run much cattle—beeg—beeg run.” The young man again swept the room with his arm.
“Bah! Eagle Feather is no good. He is an old squaw,” said Cameron.
“Huh!” agreed the Indian quickly. “Little Thunder go too.”
“Little Thunder, eh?” said Cameron, controlling his voice with an effort.
The lad nodded, his piercing eye upon Cameron's face.
For some minutes Cameron smoked quietly.
“And Onawata?” With startling suddenness he shot out the question.
Not a line of the Indian's face moved. He ignored the question, smoking steadily and looking before him.
“Ah, it is a strange way for Onawata to repay the white man's kindness to his son,” said Cameron. The contemptuous voice pierced the Indian's armor of impassivity. Cameron caught the swift quiver in the face that told that his stab had reached the quick. There is nothing in the Indian's catalogue of crimes so base as the sin of ingratitude.
“Onawata beeg Chief—beeg Chief,” at length the boy said proudly. “He do beeg—beeg t'ing.”
“Yes, he steals my cattle,” said Cameron with stinging scorn.
“No!” replied the Indian sharply. “Little Thunder—Eagle Feather steal cattle—Onawata no steal.”
“I am glad to hear it, then,” said Cameron. “This is a big run of cattle, eh?”
“Yes—beeg—beeg run.” Again the Indian's arm swept the room.
“What will they do with all those cattle?” inquired Cameron.
But again the Indian ignored his question and remained silently smoking.
“Why does the son of Onawata come to me?” inquired Cameron.
A soft and subtle change transformed the boy's face. He pulled up his trouser leg and, pointing to the scarred ankle, said:
“You' squaw good—me two leg—me come tell you take squaw 'way far—no keel. Take cattle 'way—no steal.” He rose suddenly to his feet. “Me go now,” he said, and passed out.
“Hold on!” cried Cameron, following him out to the door. “Where are you going to sleep to-night?”
The boy waved his hand toward the hills surrounding the little town.
“Here,” said Cameron, emptying his tobacco pouch into the boy's hand. “I will tell my squaw that Onawata's son is not ungrateful, that he remembered her kindness and has paid it back to me.”
For the first time a smile broke on the grave face of the Indian. He took Cameron's hand, laid it upon his own heart, and then on Cameron's.
“You' squaw good—good—much good.” He appeared to struggle to find other words, but failing, and with a smile still lingering upon his handsome face, he turned abruptly away and glided silent as a shadow into the starlit night. Cameron watched him out of sight.
“Not a bad sort,” he said to himself as he walked toward the hotel. “Pretty tough thing for him to come here and give away his dad's scheme like that—and I bet you he is keen on it himself too.”
The news brought by the Indian lad changed for Cameron all his plans. This cattle-raid was evidently a part of and preparation for the bigger thing, a general uprising and war of extermination on the part of the Indians. From his recent visit to the reserves he was convinced that the loyalty of even the great Chiefs was becoming somewhat brittle and would not bear any sudden strain put upon it. A successful raid of cattle such as was being proposed escaping the notice of the Police, or in the teeth of the Police, would have a disastrous effect upon the prestige of the whole Force, already shaken by the Duck Lake reverse. The effect of that skirmish was beyond belief. The victory of the half-breeds was exaggerated in the wildest degree. He must act and act quickly. His home and his family and those of his neighbors were in danger of the most horrible fate that could befall any human being. If the cattle-raid were carried through by the Piegan Indians its sweep would certainly include the Big Horn Ranch, and there was every likelihood that his home might be destroyed, for he was an object of special hate to Eagle Feather and to Little Thunder; and if Copperhead were in the business he had even greater cause for anxiety.
But what was to be done? The Indian boy had taken three days to bring the news. It would take a day and a night of hard riding to reach his home. Quickly he made his plans. He passed into the hotel, found the room of Billy the hostler and roused him up.
“Billy,” he said, “get my horse out quick and hitch him up to the post where I can get him. And Billy, if you love me,” he implored, “be quick!”
Billy sprang from his bed.
“Don't know what's eatin' you, boss,” he said, “but quick's the word.”
In another minute Cameron was pounding at Dr. Martin's door upstairs. Happily the doctor was in.
“Martin, old man,” cried Cameron, gripping him hard by the shoulder. “Wake up and listen hard! That Indian boy you and Mandy pulled through has just come all the way from the Piegan Reserve to tell me of a proposed cattle-raid and a possible uprising of the Piegans in that South country. The cattle-raid is coming on at once. The uprising depends upon news from the Crees. Listen! I have promised Superintendent Strong to spend the next two days recruiting for his new troop. Explain to him why I cannot do this. He will understand. Then ride like blazes to Macleod and tell the Inspector all that I have told you and get him to send what men he can spare along with you. You can't get a man here. The raid starts from the Piegan Reserve. It will likely finish where the old Porcupine Trail joins the Sun Dance. At least so I judge. Ride by the ranch and get some of them there to show you the shortest trail. Both Mandy and Moira know it well.”
“Hold on, Cameron! Let me get this clear,” cried the doctor, holding him fast by the arm. “Two things I have gathered,” said the doctor, speaking rapidly, “first, a cattle-raid, then a general uprising, the uprising dependent upon the news from the North. You want to block the cattle-raid? Is that right?”
“Right,” said Cameron.
“Then you want me to settle with Superintendent Storm, ride to Macleod for men, then by your ranch and have them show me the shortest trail to the junction of the Porcupine and the Sun Dance?”
“You are right, Martin, old boy. It is a great thing to have a head like yours. I shall meet you somewhere at that point. I have been thinking this thing over and I believe they mean to make pemmican in preparation for their uprising, and if so they will make it somewhere on the Sun Dance Trail. Now I am off. Let me go, Martin.”
“Tell me your own movements now.”
“First, the ranch,” said Cameron. “Then straight for the Sun Dance.”
“All right, old boy. By-by and good-luck!”
Cameron found Billy waiting with Ginger at the door of the hotel.
“Thank you, Billy,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “Hang it, I can't find my purse.”
“You go hang yourself!” said Billy. “Never mind your purse.”
“All right, then,” said Cameron, giving him his hand. “Good-by. You are a trump, Billy.” He caught Ginger by the mane and threw himself on the saddle.
“Now, then, Ginger, you must not fail me this trip, if it is your last. A hundred and twenty miles, old boy, and you are none too fresh either. But, Ginger, we must beat them this time. A hundred and twenty miles to the Big Horn and twenty miles farther to the Sun Dance, that makes a hundred and forty, Ginger, and you are just in from a hard two days' ride. Steady, boy! Not too hard at the first.” For Ginger was showing signs of eagerness beyond his wont. “At all costs this raid must be stopped,” continued Cameron, speaking, after his manner, to his horse, “not for the sake of a few cattle—we could all stand that loss—but to balk at its beginning this scheme of old Copperhead's, for I believe in my soul he is at the bottom of it. Steady, old boy! We need every minute, but we cannot afford to make any miscalculations. The last quarter of an hour is likely to be the worst.”
So on they went through the starry night. Steadily Ginger pounded the trail, knocking off the miles hour after hour. There was no pause for rest or for food. A few mouthfuls of water in the fording of a running stream, a pause to recover breath before plunging into an icy river, or on the taking of a steep coulee side, but no more. Hour after hour they pressed forward toward the Big Horn Ranch. The night passed into morning and the morning into the day, but still they pressed the trail.
Toward the close of the day Cameron found himself within an hour's ride of his own ranch with Ginger showing every sign of leg weariness and almost of collapse.
“Good old chap!” cried Cameron, leaning over him and patting his neck. “We must make it. We cannot let up, you know. Stick to it, old boy, a little longer.”
A little snort and a little extra spurt of speed was the gallant Ginger's reply, but soon he was forced to sink back again into his stumbling stride.
“One hour more, Ginger, that is all—one hour only.”
As he spoke he leapt from his saddle to ease his horse in climbing a long and lofty hill. As he surmounted the hill he stopped and swiftly backed his horse down the hill. Upon the distant skyline his eye had detected what he judged to be a horseman. His horse safely disposed of, he once more crawled to the top of the hill.
“An Indian, by Jove!” he cried. “I wonder if he has seen me.”
Carefully his eye swept the intervening valley and the hillside beyond, but only this solitary figure could he see. As his eye rested on him the Indian began to move toward the west. Cameron lay watching him for some minutes. From his movements it was evident that the Indian's pace was being determined by some one on the other side of the hill, for he advanced now swiftly, now slowly. At times he halted and turned back upon his track, then went forward again.
“What the deuce is he doing?” said Cameron to himself. “By Jove! I have got it! The drive is begun. I am too late.”
Swiftly he considered the whole situation. He was too late now to be of any service at his ranch. The raid had already swept past it. He wrung his hands in agony to think of what might have happened. He was torn with anxiety for his family—and yet here was the raid passing onward before his eyes. One hour would bring him to the ranch, but if this were the outside edge of the big cattle raid the loss of an hour would mean the loss of everything.
“Oh, my God! What shall I do?” he cried.
With his eyes still upon the Indian he forced himself to think more quietly. The secrecy with which the raid was planned made it altogether likely that the homes of the settlers would not at this time be interfered with. This consideration finally determined him. At all costs he must do what he could to head off the raid or to break the herd in some way. But that meant in the first place a ride of twenty or twenty-five miles over rough country. Could Ginger do it?
He crawled back to his horse and found him with his head close to the ground and trembling in every limb.
“If he goes this twenty miles,” he said, “he will go no more. But it looks like our only hope, old boy. We must make for our old beat, the Sun Dance Trail.”
He mounted his horse and set off toward the west, taking care never to appear above the skyline and riding as rapidly as the uncertain footing of the untrodden prairie would allow. At short intervals he would dismount and crawl to the top of the hill in order to keep in touch with the Indian, who was heading in pretty much the same direction as himself. A little further on his screening hill began to flatten itself out and finally it ran down into a wide valley which crossed his direction at right angles. He made his horse lie down, still in the shelter of the hill, and with most painful care he crawled on hands and knees out to the open and secured a point of vantage from which he could command the valley which ran southward for some miles till it, in turn, was shut in by a further range of hills.
He was rewarded for his patience and care. Far down before him at the bottom of the valley a line of cattle was visible and hurrying them along a couple of Indian horsemen. As he lay watching these Indians he observed that a little farther on this line was augmented by a similar line from the east driven by the Indian he had first observed, and by two others who emerged from a cross valley still further on. Prone upon his face he lay, with his eyes on that double line of cattle and its hustling drivers. The raid was surely on. What could one man do to check it? Similar lines of cattle were coming down the different valleys and would all mass upon the old Porcupine Trail and finally pour into the Sun Dance with its many caves and canyons. There was much that was mysterious in this movement still to Cameron. What could these Indians do with this herd of cattle? The mere killing of them was in itself a vast undertaking. He was perfectly familiar with the Indian's method of turning buffalo meat, and later beef, into pemmican, but the killing, and the dressing, and the rendering of the fat, and the preparing of the bags, all this was an elaborate and laborious process. But one thing was clear to his mind. At all costs he must get around the head of these converging lines.
He waited there till the valley was clear of cattle and Indians, then, mounting his horse, he pushed hard across the valley and struck a parallel trail upon the farther side of the hills. Pursuing this trail for some miles, he crossed still another range of hills farther to the west and so proceeded till he came within touch of the broken country that marks the division between the Foothills and the Mountains. He had not many miles before him now, but his horse was failing fast and he himself was half dazed with weariness and exhaustion. Night, too, was falling and the going was rough and even dangerous; for now hillsides suddenly broke off into sharp cut-banks, twenty, thirty, forty feet high.
It was one of these cut-banks that was his undoing, for in the dim light he failed to note that the sheep track he was following ended thus abruptly till it was too late. Had his horse been fresh he could easily have recovered himself, but, spent as he was, Ginger stumbled, slid and finally rolled headlong down the steep hillside and over the bank on to the rocks below. Cameron had just strength to throw himself from the saddle and, scrambling on his knees, to keep himself from following his horse. Around the cut-bank he painfully made his way to where his horse lay with his leg broken, groaning like a human being in his pain.
“Poor old boy! You are done at last,” he said.
But there was no time to indulge regrets. Those lines of cattle were swiftly and steadily converging upon the Sun Dance. He had before him an almost impossible achievement. Well he knew that a man on foot could do little with the wild range cattle. They would speedily trample him into the ground. But he must go on. He must make the attempt.
But first there was a task that it wrung his heart to perform. His horse must be put out of pain. He took off his coat, rolled it over his horse's head, inserted his gun under its folds to deaden the sound and to hide those luminous eyes turned so entreatingly upon him.
“Old boy, you have done your duty, and so must I. Good-by, old chap!” He pulled the fatal trigger and Ginger's work was done.
He took up his coat and set off once more upon the winding sheep trail that he guessed would bring him to the Sun Dance. Dazed, half asleep, numbed with weariness and faint with hunger, he stumbled on, while the stars came out overhead and with their mild radiance lit up his rugged way.
Suddenly he found himself vividly awake. Diagonally across the face of the hill in front of him, a few score yards away and moving nearer, a horse came cantering. Quickly Cameron dropped behind a jutting rock. Easily, daintily, with never a slip or slide came the horse till he became clearly visible in the starlight. There was no mistaking that horse or that rider. No other horse in all the territories could take that slippery, slithery hill with a tread so light and sure, and no other rider in the Western country could handle his horse with such easy, steady grace among the rugged rocks of that treacherous hillside. It was Nighthawk and his master.
“Raven!” breathed Cameron to himself. “Raven! Is it possible? By Jove! I would not have believed it. The Superintendent was right after all. He is a villain, a black-hearted villain too. So, HE is the brains behind this thing. I ought to have known it. Fool that I was! He pulled the wool over my eyes all right.”
The rage that surged up through his heart stimulated his dormant energies into new life. With a deep oath Cameron pulled out both his guns and set off up the hill on the trail of the disappearing horseman. His weariness fell from him like a coat, the spring came back to his muscles, clearness to his brain. He was ready for his best fight and he knew it lay before him. Swiftly, lightly he ran up the hillside. At the top he paused amazed. Before him lay a large Indian encampment with rows upon rows of tents and camp fires with kettles swinging, and everywhere Indians and squaws moving about. Skirting the camp and still keeping to the side of the hill, he came upon a stout new-built fence that ran straight down an incline to a steep cut-bank with a sheer drop of thirty feet or more. Like a flash the meaning of it came upon him. This was to be the end of the drive. Here the cattle were to meet their death. Here it was that the pemmican was to be made. On the hillside opposite there was doubtless a similar fence and these two would constitute the fatal funnel down which the cattle were to be stampeded over the cut-bank to their destruction. This was the nefarious scheme planned by Raven and his treacherous allies.
Swiftly Cameron turned and followed the fence up the incline some three or four hundred yards from the cut-bank. At its upper end the fence curved outward for some distance upon a wide upland valley, then ceased altogether. Such was the slope of the hill that no living man could turn a herd of cattle once entered upon that steep incline.
Down the hill, across the valley and up the other side ran Cameron, keeping low and carefully picking his way among the loose stones till he came to the other fence which, curving similarly outward, made with its fellow a perfectly completed funnel. Once between the curving lips of this funnel nothing could save the rushing, crowding cattle from the deadly cut-bank below.
“Oh, if I only had my horse,” groaned Cameron, “I might have a chance to turn them off just here.”
At the point at which he stood the slope of the hillside fell somewhat toward the left and away slightly from the mouth of the funnel. A skilled cowboy with sufficient nerve, on a first-class horse, might turn the herd away from the cut-bank into the little coulee that led down from the end of the fence, but for a man on foot the thing was quite impossible. He determined, however, to make the effort. No man can certainly tell how cattle will behave when excited and at night.
As he stood there rapidly planning how to divert the rush of cattle from that deadly funnel, there rose on the still night air a soft rumbling sound like low and distant thunder. That sound Cameron knew only too well. It was the pounding of two hundred steers upon the resounding prairie. He rushed back again to the right side of the fenced runway, and then forward to meet the coming herd. A half moon rising over the round top of the hill revealed the black surging mass of steers, their hoofs pounding like distant artillery, their horns rattling like a continuous crash of riflery. Before them at a distance of a hundred yards or more a mounted Indian rode toward the farther side of the funnel and took his stand at the very spot at which there was some hope of diverting the rushing herd from the cut-bank down the side coulee to safety.
“That man has got to go,” said Cameron to himself, drawing his gun. But before he could level it there shot out from the dim light behind the Indian a man on horseback. Like a lion on its prey the horse leaped with a wicked scream at the Indian pony. Before that furious leap both man and pony went down and rolled over and over in front of the pounding herd. Over the prostrate pony leaped the horse and up the hillside fair in the face of that rushing mass of maddened steers. Straight across their face sped the horse and his rider, galloping lightly, with never a swerve or hesitation, then swiftly wheeling as the steers drew almost level with him he darted furiously on their flank and rode close at their noses. “Crack! Crack!” rang the rider's revolver, and two steers in the far flank dropped to the earth while over them surged the following herd. Again the revolver rang out, once, twice, thrice, and at each crack a leader on the flank farthest away plunged down and was submerged by the rushing tide behind. For an instant the column faltered on its left and slowly began to swerve in that direction. Then upon the leaders of the right flank the black horse charged furiously, biting, kicking, plunging like a thing possessed of ten thousand devils. Steadily, surely the line continued to swerve.
“My God!” cried Cameron, unable to believe his eyes. “They are turning! They are turned!”
With wild cries and discharging his revolver fair in the face of the leaders, Cameron rushed out into the open and crossed the mouth of the funnel.
“Go back, you fool! Go back!” yelled the man on horseback. “Go back! I have them!” He was right. Cameron's sudden appearance gave the final and necessary touch to the swerving movement. Across the mouth of the funnel with its yawning deadly cut-bank, and down the side coulee, carrying part of the fence with them, the herd crashed onward, with the black horse hanging on their flank still biting and kicking with a kind of joyous fury.
“Raven! Raven!” cried Cameron in glad accents. “It is Raven! Thank God, he is straight after all!” A great tide of gratitude and admiration for the outlaw was welling up in his heart. But even as he ran there thundered past him an Indian on horseback, the reins flying loose and a rifle in his hands. As he flashed past a gleam of moonlight caught his face, the face of a demon.
“Little Thunder!” cried Cameron, whipping out his gun and firing, but with no apparent effect, at the flying figure.
With his gun still in his hand, Cameron ran on down the coulee in the wake of Little Thunder. Far away could be heard the roar of the rushing herd, but nothing could be seen of Raven. Running as he had never run in his life, Cameron followed hard upon the Indian's track, who was by this time some hundred yards in advance. Suddenly in the moonlight, and far down the coulee, Raven could be seen upon his black horse cantering easily up the slope and toward the swiftly approaching Indian.
“Raven! Raven!” shouted Cameron, firing his gun. “On guard! On guard!”
Raven heard, looked up and saw the Indian bearing down upon him. His horse, too, saw the approaching foe and, gathering himself, in two short leaps rushed like a whirlwind at him, but, swerving aside, the Indian avoided the charging stallion. Cameron saw his rifle go up to his shoulder, a shot reverberated through the coulee, Raven swayed in his saddle. A second shot and the black horse was fair upon the Indian pony, hurling him to the ground and falling himself upon him. As the Indian sprang to his feet Raven was upon him. He gripped him by the throat and shook him as a dog shakes a rat. Once, twice, his pistol fell upon the snarling face and the Indian crumpled up and lay still, battered to death.
“Thank God!” cried Cameron, as he came up, struggling with his sobbing breath. “You have got the beast.”
“Yes, I have got him,” said Raven, with his hand to his side, “but I guess he has got me too. And—” he paused. His eye fell upon his horse lying upon his side and feebly kicking—“ah, I fear he has got you as well, Nighthawk, old boy.” As he staggered over toward his horse the sound of galloping hoofs was heard coming down the coulee.
“Here are some more of them!” cried Cameron, drawing out his guns.
“All right, Cameron, my boy, just back up here beside me,” said Raven, as he coolly loaded his empty revolver. “We can send a few more of these devils to hell. You are a good sport, old chap, and I want to go out in no better company.”
“Hold up!” cried Cameron. “There is a woman. Why, there is a Policeman. They are friends, Raven. It is the doctor and Moira. Hurrah! Here you are, Martin. Quick! Quick! Oh, my God! He is dying!”
Raven had sunk to his knees beside his horse. They gathered round him, a Mounted Police patrol picked up on the way by Dr. Martin, Moira who had come to show them the trail, and Smith.
“Nighthawk, old boy,” they heard Raven say, his hand patting the shoulder of the noble animal, “he has done for you, I fear.” His voice came in broken sobs. The great horse lifted his beautiful head and looked round toward his master. “Ah, my boy, we have done many a journey together!” cried Raven as he threw his arm around the glossy neck, “and on this last one too we shall not be far apart.” The horse gave a slight whinny, nosed into his master's hand and laid his head down again. A slight quiver of the limbs and he was still for ever. “Ah, he has gone!” cried Raven, “my best, my only friend.”
“No, no,” cried Cameron, “you are with friends now, Raven, old man.” He offered his hand. Raven took it wonderingly.
“You mean it, Cameron?”
“Yes, with all my heart. You are a true man, if God ever made one, and you have shown it to-night.”
“Ah!” said Raven, with a kind of sigh as he sank back and leaned up against his horse. “That is good to hear. It is long since I have had a friend.”
“Quick, Martin!” said Cameron. “He is wounded.”
“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.