"A Sarcee," he muttered."I remember him--an impudent cur." He moved quietly toward his horse, drew the reins up over his head, and, leading him back toward the fire, took his place beside Crowfoot again.
The Sarcee had begun his tale, speaking under intense excitement which he vainly tried to control.He delivered his message.Such was the rapidity and incoherence of his speech, however, that Cameron could make nothing of it.The effect upon the crowd was immediate and astounding.On every side rose wild cries of fierce exultation, while at Cameron angry looks flashed from every eye.
Old Crowfoot alone remained quiet, calm, impassive, except for the fierce gleaming of his steady eyes.
When the runner had delivered his message he held up his hand and spoke but a single word.Immediately there was silence as of the grave.Nothing was heard, not even the breathing of the Indians close about him.In sharp, terse sentences the old Chief questioned the runner, who replied at first eagerly, then, as the questions proceeded, with some hesitation.Finally, with a wave of the hand Crowfoot dismissed him and stood silently pondering for some moments.Then he turned to his people and said with quiet and impressive dignity:
"This is a matter for the Council.To-morrow we will discuss it."Then turning to Cameron he said in a low voice and with grave courtesy, "It is wise that my brother should go while the trails are open.""The trails are always open to the Great Mother's Mounted Police,"said Cameron, looking the old Chief full in the eye.
Crowfoot stood silent, evidently thinking deeply.
"It is right that my brother should know," he said at length, "what the runner tells," and in his deep guttural voice there was a ring of pride.
"Good news is always welcome," said Cameron, as he coolly pulled out his pipe and offered his pouch once more to Crowfoot, who, however, declined to see it.
"The white soldiers have attacked the Indians and have been driven back," said Crowfoot with a keen glance at Cameron's face.
"Ah!" said Cameron, smiling."What Indians? What white soldiers?""The soldiers that marched to Battleford.They went against Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin and the Indians did not run away."No words could describe the tone and attitude of exultant and haughty pride with which the old Chief delivered this information.
"Crowfoot," said Cameron with deliberate emphasis, "it was Colonel Otter and Superintendent Herchmer of the Mounted Police that went north to Battleford.You do not know Colonel Otter, but you do know Superintendent Herchmer.Tell me, would Superintendent Herchmer and the Police run away?""The runner tells that the white soldiers ran away," said Crowfoot stubbornly.
"Then the runner lies!" Cameron's voice rang out loud and clear.
Swift as a lightning flash the Sarcee sprang at Cameron, knife in hand, crying in the Blackfeet tongue that terrible cry so long dreaded by settlers in the Western States of America, "Death to the white man!" Without apparently moving a muscle, still holding by the mane of his horse, Cameron met the attack with a swift and well-placed kick which caught the Indian's right wrist and flung his knife high in the air.Following up the kick, Cameron took a single step forward and met the murderous Sarcee with a straight left-hand blow on the jaw that landed the Indian across the fire and deposited him kicking amid the crowd.
Immediately there was a quick rush toward the white man, but the rush halted before two little black barrels with two hard, steady, gray eyes gleaming behind them.
"Crowfoot!" said Cameron sharply."I hold ten dead Indians in my hands."With a single stride Crowfoot was at Cameron's side.A single sharp stern word of command he uttered and the menacing Indians slunk back into the shadows, but growling like angry beasts.
"Is it wise to anger my young men?" said Crowfoot in a low voice.
"Is it wise," replied Cameron sternly, "to allow mad dogs to run loose? We kill such mad dogs in my country.""Huh," grunted Crowfoot with a shrug of his shoulders."Let him die!" Then in a lower voice he added earnestly, "It would be good to take the trail before my young men can catch their horses.""I was just going, Crowfoot," said Cameron, stooping to light his pipe at the fire."Good-night.Remember what I have said." And Cameron cantered away with both hands low before him and guiding his broncho with his knees, and so rode easily till safely beyond the line of the reserve.Once out of the reserve he struck his spurs hard into his horse and sent him onward at headlong pace toward the Militia camp.
Ten minutes after his arrival at the camp every soldier was in his place ready to strike, and so remained all night, with pickets thrown far out listening with ears attent for the soft pad of moccasined feet.
