The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail Part 11

"Good!" said Cameron. "Now," said he, turning swiftly upon the young Indian, "where is the skin?"

The Indian's eyes wavered for a fleeting instant. He spoke a few words to Trotting Wolf. Conversation followed.

"Well?" said Cameron.

"He says dogs eat him up."

"And the head? This big fellow had a big head. Where is it?"

Again the Indian's eyes wavered and again the conversation followed.

"Left him up in bush," replied the chief.

"We will ride up and see it, then," said Cameron.

The Indians became voluble among themselves.

"No find," said the Chief. "Wolf eat him up."

Cameron raised the meat to his nose, sniffed its odor and dropped it back into the pot. With a single stride he was close to White Cloud.

"White Cloud," he said sternly, "you speak with a forked tongue. In plain English, White Cloud, you lie. Trotting Wolf, you know that is no deer. That is cow. That is my cow."

Trotting Wolf shrugged his shoulders.

"No see cow me," he said sullenly.

"White Cloud," said Cameron, swiftly turning again upon the young Indian, "where did you shoot my cow?"

The young Indian stared back at Cameron, never blinking an eyelid.

Cameron felt his wrath rising, but kept himself well in hand, remembering the purpose of his visit. During this conversation he had been searching the gathering crowd of Indians for the tall form of his friend of the previous night, but he was nowhere to be seen. Cameron felt he must continue the conversation, and, raising his voice as if in anger--and indeed there was no need of pretense for he longed to seize White Cloud by the throat and shake the truth out of him--he said:

"Trotting Wolf, your young men have been killing my cattle for many days. You know that this is a serious offense with the Police. Indians go to jail for this. And the Police will hold you responsible. You are the Chief on this reserve. The Police will ask why you cannot keep your young men from stealing cattle."

The number of Indians was increasing every moment and still Cameron's eyes searched the group, but in vain. Murmurs arose from the Indians, which he easily interpreted to mean resentment, but he paid no heed.

"The Police do not want a Chief," he cried in a still louder voice, "who cannot control his young men and keep them from breaking the law."

He paused abruptly. From behind a teepee some distance away there appeared the figure of the "Big Chief" whom he so greatly desired to see. Giving no sign of his discovery, he continued his exhortation to Trotting Wolf, to that worthy's mingled rage and embarra.s.sment. The suggestion of jail for cattle-thieves the Chief knew well was no empty threat, for two of his band even at that moment were in prison for this very crime. This knowledge rendered him uneasy. He had no desire himself to undergo a like experience, and it irked his tribe and made them restless and impatient of his control that their Chief could not protect them from these unhappy consequences of their misdeeds. They knew that with old Crowfoot, the Chief of the Blackfeet band, such untoward consequences rarely befell the members of that tribe. Already Trotting Wolf could distinguish the murmurs of his young men, who were resenting the charge against White Cloud, as well as the tone and manner in which it was delivered. Most gladly would he have defied this truculent rancher to do his worst, but his courage was not equal to the plunge, and, besides, the circ.u.mstances for such a break were not yet favorable.

At this juncture Cameron, facing about, saw within a few feet of him the Indian whose capture he was enlisted to secure.

"h.e.l.lo!" he cried, as if suddenly recognizing him. "How is the boy?"

"Good," said the Indian with grave dignity. "He sick here," touching his head.

"Ah! Fever, I suppose," replied Cameron. "Take me to see him."

The Indian led the way to the teepee that stood slightly apart from the others.

Inside the teepee upon some skins and blankets lay the boy, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks proclaimed fever. An old squaw, bent in form and wrinkled in face, crouched at the end of the couch, her eyes gleaming like beads of black gla.s.s in her mahogany face.

"How is the foot to-day?" cried Allan. "Pain bad?"

"Huh!" grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.

"You want the doctor here," said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling beside the couch. "That boy is in a high fever. And you can't get him too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How did you sleep last night?" he inquired of the lad.

"No sleep," said his father. "Go this way--this way," throwing his arms about his head. "Talk, talk, talk."

But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron, glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.

"Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot." And he continued to describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound.

As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.

"You' squaw good. Come see me," he said. "Good--good." The eager look in the fevered eye touched Cameron.

"All right, boy, I shall tell her," he said. "Good-by!" He took the boy's hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.

"You' squaw come--sure. Hurt here--bad." He struck his forehead with his hand. "You' squaw come--make good."

"All right," said Cameron. "I shall bring her myself. Good-by!"

Together they pa.s.sed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the Indian's side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy's condition, all the while listening to the Inspector's voice from behind the row of teepees.

"Ah!" he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted on his horse. "Here is my friend, Inspector d.i.c.kson. h.e.l.lo, Inspector!"

he called out. "Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to help us."

"h.e.l.lo, Cameron!" cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting.

"What's up?"

Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.

"There is a sick boy in here," said Cameron, pointing to the teepee behind him. "He is the son of this man, Chief--" He paused. "I don't know your name."

Without an instant's hesitation the Indian replied:

"Chief Onawata."

"His boy got his foot in a trap. My wife dressed the wound last night,"

continued Cameron. "Come in and see him."

But the Indian put up his hand.

"No," he said quietly. "My boy not like strange man. Bad head--here.

Want sleep--sleep."

"Ah!" said the Inspector. "Quite right. Let him sleep. Nothing better than sleep. A good long sleep will fix him up."