The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail
by Ralph Connor · English · Gutenberg #3247 · 547,379 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail
Author: Ralph Connor
Release date: June 3, 2006 [eBook #3247]
Most recently updated: March 4, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3247
Credits: Donald Lainson and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PATROL OF THE SUN DANCE TRAIL ***
THE PATROL OF THE SUN DANCE TRAIL
By Ralph Connor
Contents
CHAPTER I. THE TRAIL-RUNNER
CHAPTER II. HIS COUNTRY'S NEED
CHAPTER III. A-FISHING WE WILL GO
CHAPTER IV. THE BIG CHIEF
CHAPTER V. THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE
CHAPTER VI. THE ILLUSIVE COPPERHEAD
CHAPTER VII. THE SARCEE CAMP
CHAPTER VIII. THE GIRL ON NO. 1.
CHAPTER IX. THE RIDE UP THE BOW
CHAPTER X. RAVEN TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER XI. SMITH'S WORK
CHAPTER XII. IN THE SUN DANCE CANYON
CHAPTER XIII. IN THE BIG WIGWAM
CHAPTER XIV. “GOOD MAN—GOOD SQUAW”
CHAPTER XV. THE OUTLAW
CHAPTER XVI. WAR
CHAPTER XVII. TO ARMS!
CHAPTER XVIII. AN OUTLAW, BUT A MAN
CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT CHIEF
CHAPTER XX. THE LAST PATROL
CHAPTER XXI. WHY THE DOCTOR STAYED
THE PATROL OF THE SUN DANCE TRAIL
CHAPTER I
THE TRAIL-RUNNER
High up on the hillside in the midst of a rugged group of jack pines the
Union Jack shook out its folds gallantly in the breeze that swept down
the Kicking Horse Pass. That gallant flag marked the headquarters of
Superintendent Strong, of the North West Mounted Police, whose special
duty it was to preserve law and order along the construction line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway Company, now pushed west some scores of miles.
Along the tote-road, which ran parallel to the steel, a man, dark of
skin, slight but wiry, came running, his hard panting, his streaming
face, his open mouth proclaiming his exhaustion. At a little trail that
led to the left he paused, noted its course toward the flaunting flag,
turned into it, then struggled up the rocky hillside till he came to the
wooden shack, with a deep porch running round it, and surrounded by
a rustic fence which enclosed a garden whose neatness illustrated a
characteristic of the British soldier. The runner passed in through the
gate and up the little gravel walk and began to ascend the steps.
“Halt!” A quick sharp voice arrested him. “What do you want here?” From
the side of the shack an orderly appeared, neat, trim and dandified in
appearance, from his polished boots to his wide cowboy hat.
“Beeg Chief,” panted the runner. “Me--see--beeg Chief--queeck.”
The orderly looked him over and hesitated.
“What do you want Big Chief for?”
“Me--want--say somet'ing,” said the little man, fighting to recover his
breath, “somet'ing beeg--sure beeg.” He made a step toward the door.
“Halt there!” said the orderly sharply. “Keep out, you half-breed!”
“See--beeg Chief--queeck,” panted the half-breed, for so he was, with
fierce insistence.
The orderly hesitated. A year ago he would have hustled him off the
porch in short order. But these days were anxious days. Rumors wild
and terrifying were running through the trails of the dark forest.
Everywhere were suspicion and unrest. The Indian tribes throughout the
western territories and in the eastern part of British Columbia, under
cover of an unwonted quiet, were in a state of excitement, and this none
knew better than the North West Mounted Police. With stoical unconcern
the Police patroled their beats, rode in upon the reserves, careless,
cheery, but with eyes vigilant for signs and with ears alert for
sounds of the coming storm. Only the Mounted Police, however, and a
few old-timers who knew the Indians and their half-breed kindred gave
a single moment's thought to the bare possibility of danger. The
vast majority of the Canadian people knew nothing of the tempestuous
gatherings of French half-breed settlers in little hamlets upon the
northern plains along the Saskatchewan. The fiery resolutions reported
now and then in the newspapers reciting the wrongs and proclaiming the
rights of these remote, ignorant, insignificant, half-tamed pioneers
of civilization roused but faint interest in the minds of the people of
Canada. Formal resolutions and petitions of rights had been regularly
sent during the past two years to Ottawa and there as regularly
pigeon-holed above the desks of deputy ministers. The politicians had
a somewhat dim notion that there was some sort of row on among the
“breeds” about Prince Albert and Battleford, but this concerned them
little. The members of the Opposition found in the resolutions and
petitions of rights useful ammunition for attack upon the Government. In
purple periods the leader arraigned the supineness and the indifference
of the Premier and his Government to “the rights and wrongs of our
fellow-citizens who, amid the hardships of a pioneer civilization, were
laying broad and deep the foundations of Empire.” But after the smoke
and noise of the explosion had passed both Opposition and Government
speedily forgot the half-breed and his tempestuous gatherings in the
stores and schoolhouses, at church doors and in open camps, along the
banks of the far away Saskatchewan.
There were a few men, however, that could not forget. An Indian agent
here and there with a sense of responsibility beyond the pickings of his
post, a Hudson Bay factor whose long experience in handling the affairs
of half-breeds and Indians instructed him to read as from a printed page
what to others were meaningless and incoherent happenings, and above all
the officers of the Mounted Police, whose duty it was to preserve the
“pax Britannica” over some three hundred thousand square miles of Her
Majesty's dominions in this far northwest reach of Empire, these carried
night and day an uneasiness in their minds which found vent from time
to time in reports and telegraphic messages to members of Government and
other officials at headquarters, who slept on, however, undisturbed. But
the word was passed along the line of Police posts over the plains and
far out into British Columbia to watch for signs and to be on guard. The
Police paid little heed to the high-sounding resolutions of a few angry
excitable half-breeds, who, daring though they were and thoroughly able
to give a good account of themselves in any trouble that might arise,
were quite insignificant in number; but there was another peril, so
serious, so terrible, that the oldest officer on the force spoke of it
with face growing grave and with lowered voice--the peril of an Indian
uprising.
All this and more made the trim orderly hesitate. A runner with news was
not to be kicked unceremoniously off the porch in these days, but to be
considered.
“You want to see the Superintendent, eh?”
“Oui, for sure--queeck--run ten mile,” replied the half-breed with angry
impatience.
“All right,” said the orderly, “what's your name?”
“Name? Me, Pinault--Pierre Pinault. Ah, sacr-r-e! Beeg Chief know
me--Pinault.” The little man drew himself up.
“All right! Wait!” replied the orderly, and passed into the shack. He
had hardly disappeared when he was back again, obviously shaken out of
his correct military form.
“Go in!” he said sharply. “Get a move on! What are you waiting for?”
The half-breed threw him a sidelong glance of contempt and passed
quickly into the “Beeg Chief's” presence.
Superintendent Strong was a man prompt in decision and prompt in action,
a man of courage, too, unquestioned, and with that bulldog spirit that
sees things through to a finish. To these qualities it was that he owed
his present command, for it was no insignificant business to keep the
peace and to make the law run along the line of the Canadian Pacific
Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass during construction days.
The half-breed had been but a few minutes with the Chief when the
orderly was again startled out of his military decorum by the
bursting open of the Superintendent's door and the sharp rattle of the
Superintendent's orders.
“Send Sergeant Ferry to me at once and have my horse and his brought
round immediately!” The orderly sprang to attention and saluted.
“Yes, sir!” he replied, and swiftly departed.
A few minutes' conference with Sergeant Ferry, a few brief commands to
the orderly, and the Superintendent and Sergeant were on their way down
the steep hillside toward the tote-road that led eastward through the
pass. A half-hour's ride brought them to a trail that led off to the
south, into which the Superintendent, followed by the Sergeant,
turned his horse. Not a word was spoken by either man. It was not the
Superintendent's custom to share his plans with his subordinate officers
until it became necessary. “What you keep behind your teeth,” was a
favorite maxim with the Superintendent, “will harm neither yourself nor
any other man.” They were on the old Kootenay Trail, for a hundred years
and more the ancient pathway of barter and of war for the Indian tribes
that hunted the western plains and the foothill country and brought
their pelts to the coast by way of the Columbia River. Along the lower
levels the old trail ran, avoiding, with the sure instinct of a skilled
engineer, nature's obstacles, and taking full advantage of every sloping
hillside and every open stretch of woods. Now and then, however, the
trail must needs burrow through a deep thicket of spruce and jack pine
and scramble up a rocky ridge, where the horses, trained as they were in
mountain climbing, had all they could do to keep their feet.
Ten miles and more they followed the tortuous trail, skirting mountain
peaks and burrowing through underbrush, scrambling up rocky ridges and
sliding down their farther sides, till they came to a park-like country
where from the grassy sward the big Douglas firs, trimmed clear of lower
growth and standing spaced apart, lifted on red and glistening trunks
their lofty crowns of tufted evergreen far above the lesser trees.
As they approached the open country the Superintendent proceeded with
greater caution, pausing now and then to listen.
“There ought to be a big powwow going on somewhere near,” he said to his
Sergeant, “but I can hear nothing. Can you?”
The Sergeant leaned over his horse's ears.
“No, sir, not a sound.”
“And yet it can't be far away,” growled the Superintendent.
The trail led through the big firs and dipped into a little grassy
valley set round with thickets on every side. Into this open glade they
rode. The Superintendent was plainly disturbed and irritated; irritated
because surprised and puzzled. Where he had expected to find a big
Indian powwow he found only a quiet sunny glade in the midst of a silent
forest. Sergeant Ferry waited behind him in respectful silence, too wise
to offer any observation upon the situation. Hence in the Superintendent
grew a deeper irritation.
“Well, I'll be--!” He paused abruptly. The Superintendent rarely used
profanity. He reserved this form of emphasis for supreme moments. He was
possessed of a dramatic temperament and appreciated at its full value
the effect of a climax. The climax had not yet arrived, hence his
self-control.
“Exactly so,” said the Sergeant, determined to be agreeable.
“What's that?”
“They don't seem to be here, sir,” replied the Sergeant, staring up into
the trees.
“Where?” cried the Superintendent, following the direction of the
Sergeant's eyes. “Do you suppose they're a lot of confounded monkeys?”
“Exactly--that is--no, sir, not at all, sir. But--”
“They were to have been here,” said the Superintendent angrily. “My
information was most positive and trustworthy.”
“Exactly so, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “But they haven't been here at
all!” The Superintendent impatiently glared at the Sergeant, as if he
were somehow responsible for this inexplicable failure upon the part of
the Indians.
“Exactly--that is--no, sir. No sign. Not a sign.” The Sergeant was most
emphatic.
“Well, then, where in--where--?” The Superintendent felt himself rapidly
approaching an emotional climax and took himself back with a jerk.
“Well,” he continued, with obvious self-control, “let's look about a
bit.”
With keen and practised eyes they searched the glade, and the forest
round about it, and the trails leading to it.
“Not a sign,” said the Superintendent emphatically, “and for the first
time in my experience Pinault is wrong--the very first time. He was dead
sure.”
“Pinault--generally right, sir,” observed the Sergeant.
“Always.”
“Exactly so. But this time--”
“He's been fooled,” declared the Superintendent. “A big sun dance was
planned for this identical spot. They were all to be here, every tribe
represented, the Stonies even had been drawn into it, some of the young
bloods I suppose. And, more than that, the Sioux from across the line.”
“The Sioux, eh?” said the Sergeant. “I didn't know the Sioux were in
this.”
“Ah, perhaps not, but I have information that the Sioux--in fact--” here
the Superintendent dropped his voice and unconsciously glanced about
him, “the Sioux are very much in this, and old Copperhead himself is the
moving spirit of the whole business.”
“Copperhead!” exclaimed the Sergeant in an equally subdued tone.
“Yes, sir, that old devil is taking a hand in the game. My information
was that he was to have been here to-day, and, by the Lord Harry! if
he had been we would have put him where the dogs wouldn't bite him. The
thing is growing serious.”
“Serious!” exclaimed the Sergeant in unwonted excitement. “You
just bet--that is exactly so, sir. Why the Sioux must be good for a
thousand.”
“A thousand!” exclaimed the Superintendent. “I've the most positive
information that the Sioux could place in the war path two thousand
fighting-men inside of a month. And old Copperhead is at the bottom
of it all. We want that old snake, and we want him badly.” And the
Superintendent swung on to his horse and set off on the return trip.
“Well, sir, we generally get what we want in that way,” volunteered the
Sergeant, following his chief.
“We do--in the long run. But in this same old Copperhead we have the
acutest Indian brain in all the western country. Sitting Bull was a
fighter, Copperhead is a schemer.”
They rode in silence, the Sergeant busy with a dozen schemes whereby
he might lay old Copperhead by the heels; the Superintendent planning
likewise. But in the Superintendent's plans the Sergeant had no place.
The capture of the great Sioux schemer must be entrusted to a cooler
head than that of the impulsive, daring, loyal-hearted Sergeant.
CHAPTER II
HIS COUNTRY'S NEED
For full five miles they rode in unbroken silence, the Superintendent
going before with head pressed down on his breast and eyes fixed upon
the winding trail. A heavy load lay upon him. True, his immediate sphere
of duty lay along the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway, but as an
officer of Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police he shared with the
other officers of that force the full responsibility of holding in
steadfast loyalty the tribes of Western Indians. His knowledge of the
presence in the country of the arch-plotter of the powerful and warlike
Sioux from across the line entailed a new burden. Well he knew that his
superior officer would simply expect him to deal with the situation in
a satisfactory manner. But how, was the puzzle. A mere handful of men
he had under his immediate command and these dispersed in ones and twos
along the line of railway, and not one of them fit to cope with the
cunning and daring Sioux.
With startling abruptness he gave utterance to his thoughts.
“We must get him--and quick. Things are moving too rapidly for any
delay. The truth is,” he continued, with a deepening impatience in his
voice, “the truth is we are short-handed. We ought to be able to patrol
every trail in this country. That old villain has fooled us to-day and
he'll fool us again. And he has fooled Pinault, the smartest breed we've
got. He's far too clever to be around loose among our Indians.”
Again they rode along in silence, the Superintendent thinking deeply.
“I know where he is!” he exclaimed suddenly, pulling up his horse. “I
know where he is--this blessed minute. He's on the Sun Dance Trail
and in the Sun Dance Canyon, and they're having the biggest kind of a
powwow.”
“The Sun Dance!” echoed the Sergeant. “By Jove, if only Sergeant Cameron
were on this job! He knows the Sun Dance inside and out, every foot.”
The Superintendent swung his horse sharply round to face his Sergeant.
“Cameron!” he exclaimed thoughtfully. “Cameron! I believe you're right.
He's the man--the very man. But,” he added with sudden remembrance,
“he's left the Force.”
“Left the Force, sir. Yes, sir,” echoed the Sergeant with a grin. “He
appeared to have a fairly good reason, too.”
“Reason!” snorted the Superintendent. “Reason! What in--? What did he--?
Why did he pull off that fool stunt at this particular time? A kid like
him has no business getting married.”
“Mighty fine girl, sir,” suggested the Sergeant warmly. “Mighty lucky
chap. Not many fellows could resist such a sharp attack as he had.”
“Fine girl! Oh, of course, of course--fine girl certainly. Fine girl.
But what's that got to do with it?”
“Well, sir,” ventured the Sergeant in a tone of surprise, “a good deal,
sir, I should say. By Jove, sir, I could have--if I could have pulled it
off myself--but of course she was an old flame of Cameron's and I'd no
chance.”
“But the Service, sir!” exclaimed the Superintendent with growing
indignation. “The Service! Why! Cameron was right in line for promotion.
He had the making of a most useful officer. And with this trouble coming
on it was--it was--a highly foolish, indeed a highly reprehensible
proceeding, sir.” The Superintendent was rapidly mounting his pet hobby,
which was the Force in which he had the honor to be an officer, the
far-famed North West Mounted Police. For the Service he had sacrificed
everything in life, ease, wealth, home, yes, even wife and family, to
a certain extent. With him the Force was a passion. For it he lived and
breathed. That anyone should desert it for any cause soever was to him
an act unexplainable. He almost reckoned it treason.
But the question was one that touched the Sergeant as well, and deeply.
Hence, though he well knew his Chief's dominant passion, he ventured an
argument.
“A mighty fine girl, sir, something very special. She saw me through a
mountain fever once, and I know--”
“Oh, the deuce take it, Sergeant! The girl is all right. I grant you all
that. But is that any reason why a man should desert the Force? And now
of all times? He's only a kid. So is she. She can't be twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five? Good Lord, no!” exclaimed the shocked Sergeant. “She isn't
a day over twenty. Why, look at her. She's--”
“Oh, tut-tut! If she's twenty it makes it all the worse. Why couldn't
they wait till this fuss was over? Why, sir, when I was twenty--” The
Superintendent paused abruptly.
“Yes, sir?” The Sergeant's manner was respectful and expectant.
“Never mind,” said the Superintendent. “Why rush the thing, I say?”
“Well, sir, I did hear that there was a sudden change in Cameron's
home affairs in Scotland, sir. His father died suddenly, I believe. The
estate was sold up and his sister, the only other child, was left all
alone. Cameron felt it necessary to get a home together--though I don't
suppose he needed any excuse. Never saw a man so hard hit myself.”
“Except yourself, Sergeant, eh?” said the Superintendent, relaxing into
a grim smile.
“Oh, well, of course, sir, I'm not going to deny it. But you see,”
continued the Sergeant, his pride being touched, “he had known her
down East--worked on her father's farm--young gentleman--fresh from
college--culture, you know, manner--style and that sort of thing--rushed
her clean off her feet.”
“I thought you said it was Cameron who was the one hard hit?”
“So it was, sir. Hadn't seen her for a couple of years or so. Left her a
country lass, uncouth, ignorant--at least so they say.”
“Who say?”
“Well, her friends--Dr. Martin and the nurse at the hospital. But I
can't believe them, simply impossible. That this girl two years
ago should have been an ignorant, clumsy, uncouth country lass is
impossible. However, Cameron came on her here, transfigured, glorified
so to speak, consequently fell over neck in love, went quite batty in
fact. A secret flame apparently smoldering all these months suddenly
burst into a blaze--a blaze, by Jove!--regular conflagration. And no
wonder, sir, when you look at her, her face, her form, her style--”
“Oh, come, Sergeant, we'll move on. Let's keep at the business in hand.
The question is what's to do. That old snake Copperhead is three hundred
miles from here on the Sun Dance, plotting hell for this country, and
we want him. As you say, Cameron's our man. I wonder,” continued the
Superintendent after a pause, “I wonder if we could get him.”
“I should say certainly not!” replied the Sergeant promptly. “He's only
a few months married, sir.”
“He might,” mused the Superintendent, “if it were properly put to him.
It would be a great thing for the Service. He's the man. By the Lord
Harry, he's the only man! In short,” with a resounding whack upon his
thigh, “he has got to come. The situation is too serious for trifling.”
“Trifling?” said the Sergeant to himself in undertone.
“We'll go for him. We'll send for him.” The Superintendent turned and
glanced at his companion.
“Not me, sir, I hope. You can quite see, sir, I'd be a mighty poor
advocate. Couldn't face those blue eyes, sir. They make me grow quite
weak. Chills and fever--in short, temporary delirium.”
“Oh, well, Sergeant,” replied the Superintendent, “if it's as bad as
that--”
“You don't know her, sir. Those eyes! They can burn in blue flame or
melt in--”
“Oh, yes, yes, I've no doubt.” The Superintendent's voice had a touch of
pity, if not contempt. “We won't expose you, Sergeant. But all the same
we'll make a try for Cameron.” His voice grew stern. His lips drew to a
line. “And we'll get him.”
The Sergeant's horse took a sudden plunge forward.
“Here, you beast!” he cried, with a fierce oath. “Come back here! What's
the matter with you?” He threw the animal back on his haunches with a
savage jerk, a most unaccustomed thing with the Sergeant.
“Yes,” pursued the Superintendent, “the situation demands it. Cameron's
the man. It's his old stamping-ground. He knows every twist of its
trails. And he's a wonder, a genius for handling just such a business as
this.”
The Sergeant made no reply. He was apparently having some trouble with
his horse.
“Of course,” continued the Superintendent, with a glance at his
Sergeant's face, “it's hard on her, but--” dismissing that feature of
the case lightly--“in a situation like this everything must give way.
The latest news is exceedingly grave. The trouble along the Saskatchewan
looks to me exceedingly serious. These half-breeds there have real
grievances. I know them well, excitable, turbulent in their spirits,
uncontrollable, but easily handled if decently treated. They've sent
their petitions again and again to Ottawa, and here are these Members
of Parliament making fool speeches, and the Government pooh-poohing the
whole movement, and meantime Riel orating and organizing.”
“Riel? Who's he?” inquired the Sergeant.
“Riel? You don't know Riel? That's what comes of being an island-bred
Britisher. You people know nothing outside your own little two by four
patch on the world's map. Haven't you heard of Riel?”
“Oh, yes, by the way, I've heard about the Johnny. Mixed up in something
before in this country, wasn't he?”
“Well, rather! The rebel leader of 1870. Cost us some considerable
trouble, too. There's bound to be mischief where that hair-brained
four-flusher gets a crowd to listen to him. For egoist though he is, he
possesses a wonderful power over the half-breeds. He knows how to work.
And somehow, too, they're suspicious of all Canadians, as they call the
new settlers from the East, ready to believe anything they're told, and
with plenty of courage to risk a row.”
“What's the row about, anyway?” inquired the Sergeant. “I could never
quite get it.”
“Oh, there are many causes. These half-breeds are squatters, many of
them. They have introduced the same system of survey on the Saskatchewan
as their ancestors had on the St. Lawrence, and later on the Red, the
system of 'Strip Farms.' That is, farms with narrow fronts upon the
river and extending back from a mile to four miles, a poor arrangement
for farming but mighty fine for social purposes. I tell you, it takes
the loneliness and isolation out of pioneer life. I've lived among them,
and the strip-farm survey possesses distinct social advantages. You
have two rows of houses a few rods apart, and between them the river,
affording an ice roadway in the winter and a waterway in the summer.
And to see a flotilla of canoes full of young people, with fiddles and
concertinas going, paddle down the river on their way to a neighbor's
house for a dance, is something to remember. For my part I don't wonder
that these people resent the action of the Government in introducing
a completely new survey without saying 'by your leave.' There are
troubles, too, about their land patents.”
“How many of these half-breeds are there anyway?”
“Well, only a few hundreds I should say. But it isn't the half-breeds we
fear. The mischief of it is they have been sending runners all through
this country to their red-skin friends and relatives, holding out all
sorts of promises, the restoration of their hunting grounds to the
Indians, the establishing of an empire of the North, from which the
white race shall be excluded. I've heard them. Just enough truth and
sense in the whole mad scheme to appeal to the Indian mind. The older
men, the chiefs, are quiet so far, but the young braves are getting out
of hand. You see they have no longer their ancient excitement of war and
the chase. Life has grown monotonous, to the young men especially, on
the reserves. They are chafing under control, and the prospect of a
fight appeals to them. In every tribe sun dances are being held,
braves are being made, and from across the other side weapons are being
introduced. And now that this old snake Copperhead has crossed the
line the thing takes an ugly look. He's undeniably brainy, a fearless
fighter, an extraordinary organizer, has great influence with his own
people and is greatly respected among our tribes. If an Indian war
should break out with Copperhead running it--well--! That's why it's
important to get this old devil. And it must be done quietly. Any
movement in force on our part would set the prairie on fire. The thing
has got to be done by one or two men. That's why we must have Cameron.”
In spite of his indignation the Sergeant was impressed. Never had he
heard his Chief discourse at such length, and never had he heard
his Chief use the word “danger.” It began to dawn upon his mind that
possibly it might not be such a crime as he had at first considered it
to lure Cameron away from his newly made home and his newly wedded wife
to do this bit of service for his country in an hour of serious if not
desperate need.
CHAPTER III
A-FISHING WE WILL GO
But Sergeant Cameron was done with the Service for ever. An accumulating
current of events had swept him from his place in the Force, as an
unheeding traveler crossing a mountain torrent is swept from his feet
by a raging freshet. The sudden blazing of his smoldering love into a
consuming flame for the clumsy country girl, for whom two years ago he
had cherished a pitying affection, threw up upon the horizon of his life
and into startling clearness a new and absorbing objective. In one brief
quarter of an hour his life had gathered itself into a single purpose; a
purpose, to wit, to make a home to which he might bring this girl he had
come to love with such swift and fierce intensity, to make a home for
her where she could be his own, and for ever. All the vehement passion
of his Highland nature was concentrated upon the accomplishing of
this purpose. That he should ever have come to love Mandy Haley, the
overworked slattern on her father's Ontario farm, while a thing of
wonder, was not the chief wonder to him. His wonder now was that he
should ever have been so besottedly dull of wit and so stupidly unseeing
as to allow the unlovely exterior of the girl to hide the radiant soul
within. That in two brief years she had transformed herself into a woman
of such perfectly balanced efficiency in her profession as nurse, and a
creature of such fascinating comeliness, was only another proof of his
own insensate egotism, and another proof, too, of those rare powers that
slumbered in the girl's soul unknown to herself and to her world. Small
wonder that with her unfolding Cameron's whole world should become new.
Hard upon this experience the unexpected news of his father's death and
of the consequent winding up of the tangled affairs of the estate threw
upon Cameron the responsibility of caring for his young sister, now left
alone in the Homeland, except for distant kindred of whom they had but
slight knowledge.
A home was immediately and imperatively necessary, and hence he must at
once, as a preliminary, be married. Cameron fortunately remembered that
young Fraser, whom he had known in his Fort Macleod days, was dead keen
to get rid of the “Big Horn Ranch.” This ranch lay nestling cozily among
the foothills and in sight of the towering peaks of the Rockies, and was
so well watered with little lakes and streams that when his eyes fell
upon it Cameron was conscious of a sharp pang of homesickness, so
suggestive was it of the beloved Glen Cuagh Oir of his own Homeland.
There would be a thousand pounds or more left from his father's estate.
Everybody said it was a safe, indeed a most profitable investment.
A week's leave of absence sufficed for Cameron to close the deal with
Fraser, a reckless and gallant young Highlander, whose chivalrous soul,
kindling at Cameron's romantic story, prompted a generous reduction
in the price of the ranch and its outfit complete. Hence when Mandy's
shrewd and experienced head had scanned the contract and cast up the
inventory of steers and horses, with pigs and poultry thrown in, and had
found nothing amiss with the deal--indeed it was rather better than she
had hoped--there was no holding of Cameron any longer. Married he would
be and without delay.
The only drag in the proceedings had come from the Superintendent, who,
on getting wind of Cameron's purpose, had thought, by promptly promoting
him from Corporal to Sergeant, to tie him more tightly to the Service
and hold him, if only for a few months, “till this trouble should blow
over.” But Cameron knew of no trouble. The trouble was only in the
Superintendent's mind, or indeed was only a shrewd scheme to hold
Cameron to his duty. A rancher he would be, and a famous rancher's
wife Mandy would make. And as for his sister Moira, had she not highly
specialized in pigs and poultry on the old home farm at the Cuagh Oir?
There was no stopping the resistless rush of his passionate purpose.
Everything combined to urge him on. Even his college mate and one time
football comrade of the old Edinburgh days, the wise, cool-headed Dr.
Martin, now in charge of the Canadian Pacific Railway Hospital, as
also the little nurse who, through those momentous months of Mandy's
transforming, had been to her guide, philosopher and friend, both had
agreed that there was no good reason for delay. True, Cameron had no
means of getting inside the doctor's mind and therefore had no knowledge
of the vision that came nightly to torment him in his dreams and the
memory that came daily to haunt his waking hours; a vision and a memory
of a trim little figure in a blue serge gown, of eyes brown, now sunny
with laughing light, now soft with unshed tears, of hair that got itself
into a most bewildering perplexity of waves and curls, of lips curving
deliciously, of a voice with a wonderfully soft Highland accent; the
vision and memory of Moira, Cameron's sister, as she had appeared to him
in the Glen Cuagh Oir at her father's door. Had Cameron known of this
tormenting vision and this haunting memory he might have questioned
the perfect sincerity of his friend's counsel. But Dr. Martin kept his
secret well and none shared with him his visions and his dreams.
So there had been only the Superintendent to oppose.
Hence, because no really valid objection could be offered, the marriage
was made. And with much shrieking of engines--it seemed as if all the
engines with their crews within a hundred miles had gathered to the
celebration--with loud thunder of exploding torpedoes, with tumultuous
cheering of the construction gangs hauled thither on gravel trains,
with congratulations of railroad officials and of the doctor, with the
tearful smiles of the little nurse, and with grudging but finally hearty
good wishes of the Superintendent, they had ridden off down the Kootenay
Trail for their honeymoon, on their way to the Big Horn Ranch some
hundreds of miles across the mountains.
There on the Big Horn Ranch through the long summer days together they
rode the ranges after the cattle, cooking their food in the open and
camping under the stars where night found them, care-free and deeply
happy, drinking long full draughts of that mingled wine of life into
which health and youth and love and God's sweet sun and air poured their
rare vintage. The world was far away and quite forgotten.
Summer deepened into autumn, the fall round-up was approaching, and
there came a September day of such limpid light and such nippy sprightly
air as to suggest to Mandy nothing less than a holiday.
“Let's strike!” she cried to her husband, as she looked out toward
the rolling hills and the overtopping peaks shining clear in the early
morning light. “Let's strike and go a-fishing.”
Her husband let his eyes wander over the full curves of her strong and
supple body and rest upon the face, brown and wholesome, lit with her
deep blue eyes and crowned with the red-gold masses of her hair, and
exclaimed:
“You need a holiday, Mandy. I can see it in the drooping lines of your
figure, and in the paling of your cheeks. In short,” moving toward her,
“you need some one to care for you.”
“Not just at this moment, young man,” she cried, darting round the
table. “But, come, what do you say to a day's fishing away up the Little
Horn?”
“The Little Horn?”
“Yes, you know the little creek running into the Big Horn away up the
gulch where we went one day in the spring. You said there were fish
there.”
“Yes, but why 'Little Horn,' pray? And who calls it so? I suppose you
know that the Big Horn gets its name from the Big Horn, the mountain
sheep that once roamed the rocks yonder, and in that sense there's no
Little Horn.”
“Well, 'Little Horn' I call it,” said his wife, “and shall. And if
the big stream is the Big Horn, surely the little stream should be the
Little Horn. But what about the fishing? Is it a go?”
“Well, rather! Get the grub, as your Canadian speech hath it.”
“My Canadian speech!” echoed his wife scornfully. “You're just as much
Canadian as I am.”
“And I shall get the ponies. Half an hour will do for me.”
“And less for me,” cried Mandy, dancing off to her work.
And she was right. For, clever housekeeper that she was, she stood with
her hamper packed and the fishing tackle ready long before her husband
appeared with the ponies.
The trail led steadily upward through winding valleys, but for the most
part along the Big Horn, till as it neared a scraggy pine-wood it bore
sharply to the left, and, clambering round an immense shoulder of rock,
it emerged upon a long and comparatively level ridge of land that rolled
in gentle undulations down into a wide park-like valley set out with
clumps of birch and poplar, with here and there the shimmer of a lake
showing between the yellow and brown of the leaves.
“Oh, what a picture!” cried Mandy, reining up her pony. “What a ranch
that would make, Allan! Who owns it? Why did we never come this way
before?”
“Piegan Reserve,” said her husband briefly.
“How beautiful! How did they get this particular bit?”
“They gave up a lot for it,” said Cameron drily.
“But think, such a lovely bit of country for a few Indians! How many are
there?”
“Some hundreds. Five hundred or so. And a tricky bunch they are. They're
over-fond of cattle to be really desirable neighbors.”
“Well, I think it rather a pity!”
“Look yonder!” cried her husband, sweeping his arm toward the eastern
horizon. From the height on which they stood a wonderful panorama of
hill and valley, river, lake and plain lay spread out before them. “All
that and for nine hundred miles beyond that line these Indians and their
kin gave up to us under persuasion. There was something due them, eh?
Let's move on.”
For a mile or more the trail ran along the high plateau skirting the
Piegan Reserve, where it branched sharply to the right. Cameron paused.
“You see that trail?” pointing to the branch that led to the left and
downward into the valley. “That is one of the oldest and most famous
of all Indian trails. It strikes down through the Crow's Nest Pass and
beyond the pass joins the ancient Sun Dance Trail. That's my old beat.
And weird things are a-doing along that same old Sun Dance Trail this
blessed minute or I miss my guess. I venture to say that this old trail
has often been marked with blood from end to end in the fierce old
days.”
“Let's go,” said Mandy, with a shudder, and, turning her pony to the
right, she took the trail that led them down from the plateau, plunged
into a valley, wound among rocks and thickets of pine till it reached a
tumbling mountain torrent of gray-blue water, fed from glaciers high up
between the great peaks beyond.
“My Little Horn!” cried Mandy with delight.
Down by its rushing water they scrambled till they came to a sunny glade
where the little fretful torrent pitched itself headlong into a deep
shady pool, whence, as if rested in those quiet deeps, it issued at
first with gentle murmuring till, out of earshot of the pool, it broke
again into turbulent raging, brawling its way to the Big Horn below.
Mandy could hardly wait for the unloading and tethering of the ponies.
“Now,” she cried, when all was ready, “for my very first fish. How shall
I fling this hook and where?”
“Try a cast yonder, just beside that overhanging willow. Don't splash!
Try again--drop it lightly. That's better. Don't tell me you've never
cast a fly before.”
“Never in my life.”
“Let it float down a bit. Now back. Hold it up and let it dance there.
I'll just have a pipe.”
But next moment Cameron's pipe was forgotten. With a shout he sprang to
his wife's side.
“By Jove, you've got him!”
“No! No! Leave me alone! Just tell me what to do. Go away! Don't touch
me! Oh-h-h! He's gone!”
“Not a bit. Reel him up--reel him up a little.”
“Oh, I can't reel the thing! Oh! Oh-h-h! Is he gone?”
“Hold up. Don't haul him too quickly--keep him playing. Wait till I get
the net.” He rushed for the landing net.
“Oh, he's gone! He's gone! Oh, I'm so mad!” She stamped savagely on the
grass. “He was a monster.”
“They always are,” said her husband gravely. “The fellows that get off,
I mean.”
“Now you're just laughing at me, and I won't have it! I could just sit
down and cry! My very first fish!”
“Never mind, Mandy, we'll get him or just as good a one again.”
“Never! He'll never bite again. He isn't such a fool.”
“Well, they do. They're just like the rest of us. They keep nibbling
till they get caught; else there would be no fun in fishing or in--Now
try another throw--same place--a little farther down. Ah! That was a
fine cast. Once more. No, no, not that way. Flip it lightly and if you
ever get a bite hold your rod so. See? Press the end against your body
so that you can reel your fish in. And don't hurry these big fellows.
You lose them and you lose your fun.”
“I don't want the fun,” cried Mandy, “but I do want that fish and I'm
going to get him.”
“By Jove, I believe you just will!” The young man's dark eyes flashed an
admiring glance over the strong, supple, swaying figure of the girl
at his side, whose every move, as she cast her fly, seemed specially
designed to reveal some new combination of the graceful curves of her
well-knit body.
“Keep flicking there. You'll get him. He's just sulking. If he only
knew, he'd hurry up.”
“Knew what?”
“Who was fishing for him.”
“Oh! Oh! I've got him.” The girl was dancing excitedly along the bank.
“No! Oh, what a wretch! He's gone. Now if I get him you tell me what to
do, but don't touch me.”
“All you have to do is to hold him steady at the first. Keep your line
fairly tight. If he begins to plunge, give him line. If he slacks, reel
in. Keep him nice and steady, just like a horse on the bit.”
“Oh, why didn't you tell me before? I know exactly what that means--just
like a colt, eh? I can handle a colt.”
“Exactly! Now try lower down--let your fly float down a bit--there.”
Again there was a wild shriek from the girl.
“Oh, I've got him sure! Now get the net.”
“Don't jump about so! Steady now--steady--that's better. Fine! Fine
work! Let him go a bit--no, check--wind him up. Look out! Not too quick!
Fine! Oh! Look out! Get him away from that jam! Reel him up! Quick! Now
play him! Let me help you.”
“Don't you dare touch this rod, Allan Cameron, or there'll be trouble!”
“Quite right--pardon me--quite right. Steady! You'll get him sure. And
he's a beauty, a perfect Rainbow beauty.”
“Keep quiet, now,” admonished Mandy. “Don't shout so. Tell me quietly
what to do.”
“Do as you like. You can handle him. Just watch and wait--feel him all
the time. Ah-h-h! For Heaven's sake don't let him into that jam! There
he goes up stream! That's better! Good!”
“Don't get so excited! Don't yell so!” again admonished Mandy. “Tell me
quietly.”
“Quietly? Who's yelling, I'd like to know? Who's excited? I won't say
another word. I'll get the landing-net ready for the final act.”
“Don't leave me! Tell me just what to do. He's getting tired, I think.”
“Watch him close. Wind him up a bit. Get all the line in you can.
Steady! Let go! Let go! Let him run! Now wind him again. Wait, hold him
so, just a moment--a little nearer! Hurrah! Hurrah! I've got him and
he's a beauty--a perfectly typical Rainbow trout.”
“Oh, you beauty!” cried Mandy, down on her knees beside the trout that
lay flapping on the grass. “What a shame! Oh, what a shame! Oh, put him
in again, Allan, I don't want him. Poor dear, what a shame.”
“But we must weigh him, you see,” remonstrated her husband. “And we need
him for tea, you know. He really doesn't feel it much. There are lots
more. Try another cast. I'll attend to this chap.”
“I feel just like a murderer,” said Mandy. “But isn't it glorious? Well,
I'll just try one more. Aren't you going to get your rod out too?”
“Well, rather! What a pool, all unspoiled, all unfished!”
“Does no one fish up here?”
“Yes, the Police come at times from the Fort. And Wyckham, our neighbor.
And old man Thatcher, a born angler, though he says it's not sport, but
murder.”
“Why not sport?”
“Why? Old Thatcher said to me one day, 'Them fish would climb a tree to
get at your hook. That ain't no sport.'”
But sport, and noble sport, they found it through the long afternoon,
so that, when through the scraggy pines the sun began to show red in the
western sky, a score or more lusty, glittering, speckled Rainbow trout
lay on the grass beside the shady pool.
Tired with their sport, they lay upon the grassy sward, luxuriating in
the warm sun.
“Now, Allan,” cried Mandy, “I'll make tea ready if you get some wood for
the fire. You ought to be thankful I taught you how to use the ax. Do
you remember?”
“Thankful? Well, I should say. Do YOU remember that day, Mandy?”
“Remember!” cried the girl, with horror in her tone. “Oh, don't speak of
it. It's too awful to think of.”
“Awful what?”
“Ugh!” she shuddered, “I can't bear to think of it. I wish you could
forget.”
“Forget what?”
“What? How can you ask? That awful, horrid, uncouth, sloppy girl.” Again
Mandy shuddered. “Those hands, big, coarse, red, ugly.”
“Yes,” cried Allan savagely, “the badge of slavery for a whole household
of folk too ignorant to know the price that was being paid for the
service rendered them.”
“And the hair,” continued Mandy relentlessly, “uncombed, filthy, horrid.
And the dress, and--”
“Stop it!” cried Allan peremptorily.
“No, let me go on. The stupid face, the ignorant mind, the uncouth
speech, the vulgar manners. Oh, I loathe the picture, and I wonder you
can ever bear to look at her again. And, oh, I wish you could forget.”
“Forget!” The young man's lean, swarthy face seemed to light up with the
deep glowing fires in his dark eyes. His voice grew vibrant. “Forget!
Never while I live. Do you know what _I_ remember?”
“Ah, spare me!” moaned his wife, putting her hands over his mouth.
“Do you know what _I_ remember?” he repeated, pulling her hands away and
holding them fast. “A girl with hands, face, hair, form, dress, manners
damned to coarseness by a cruel environment? That? No! No! To-day as
I look back I remember only two blue eyes, deep, deep as wells, soft,
blue, and wonderfully kind. And I remember all through those days--and
hard days they were to a green young fool fresh from the Old Country
trying to keep pace with your farm-bred demon-worker Perkins--I remember
all through those days a girl that never was too tired with her own
unending toil to think of others, and especially to help out with many
a kindness a home-sick, hand-sore, foot-sore stranger who hardly knew a
buck-saw from a turnip hoe, and was equally strange to the uses of both,
a girl that feared no shame nor harm in showing her kindness. That's
what I remember. A girl that made life bearable to a young fool, too
proud to recognize his own limitations, too blind to see the gifts the
gods were flinging at him. Oh, what a fool I was with my silly pride of
family, of superior education and breeding, and with no eye for the
pure gold of as true and loyal a soul as ever offered itself in daily
unmurmuring sacrifice for others, and without a thought of sacrifice.
Fool and dolt! A self-sufficient prig! That's what I remember.”
The girl tore her hands away from him.
“Ah, Allan, my boy,” she cried with a shrill and scornful laugh that
broke at the end, “how foolishly you talk! And yet I love to hear
you talk so. I love to hear you. But, oh, let me tell you what else I
remember of those days!”
“No, no, I will not listen. It's all nonsense.”
“Nonsense! Ah, Allan! Let me tell you this once.” She put her hands upon
his shoulders and looked steadily into his eyes. “Let me tell you. I've
never told you once during these six happy months--oh, how happy, I fear
to think how happy, too much joy, too deep, too wonderful, I'm afraid
sometimes--but let me tell you what I see, looking back into those old
days--how far away they seem already and not yet three years past--I
see a lad so strange, so unlike all I had known, a gallant lad, a very
knight for grace and gentleness, strong and patient and brave, not
afraid--ah, that caught me--nothing could make him afraid, not Perkins,
the brutal bully, not big Mack himself. And this young lad, beating them
all in the things men love to do, running, the hammer--and--and fighting
too!--Oh, laddie, laddie, how often did I hold my hands over my heart
for fear it would burst for pride in you! How often did I check back my
tears for very joy of loving you! How often did I find myself sick with
the agony of fear that you should go away from me forever! And then you
went away, oh, so kindly, so kindly pitiful, your pity stabbing my heart
with every throb. Why do I tell you this to-day? Let me go through it.
But it was this very pity stabbing me that awoke in me the resolve that
one day you would not need to pity me. And then, then I fled from the
farm and all its dreadful surroundings. And the nurse and Dr. Martin,
oh how good they were! And all of them helped me. They taught me.
They scolded me. They were never tired telling me. And with that
flame burning in my soul all that outer, horrid, awful husk seemed to
disappear and I escaped, I became all new.”
“You became yourself, yourself, your glorious, splendid, beautiful
self!” shouted Allan, throwing his arms around her. “And then I found
you again. Thank God, I found you! And found you for keeps, mine
forever. Think of that!”
“Forever.” Mandy shuddered again. “Oh, Allan, I'm somehow afraid. This
joy is too great.”
“Yes, forever,” said Allan again, but more quietly, “for love will last
forever.”
Together they sat upon the grass, needing no words to speak the joy that
filled their souls to overflowing. Suddenly Mandy sprang to her feet.
“Now, let me go, for within an hour we must be away. Oh, what a day
we've had, Allan, one of the very best days in all my life! You know
I've never been able to talk of the past to you, but to-day somehow I
could not rest till I had gone through with it all.”
“Yes, it's been a great day,” said Allan, “a wonderful day, a day
we shall always remember.” Then after a silence, “Now for a fire and
supper. You're right. In an hour we must be gone, for we are a long way
from home. But, think of it, Mandy, we're going HOME. I can't quite get
used to that!”
And in an hour, riding close as lovers ride, they took the trail to
their home ten miles away.
CHAPTER IV
THE BIG CHIEF
When on the return journey they arrived upon the plateau skirting the
Piegan Reserve the sun's rays were falling in shafts of slanting light
upon the rounded hilltops before them and touching with purple the great
peaks behind them. The valleys were full of shadows, deep and blue. The
broad plains that opened here and there between the rounded hills were
still bathed in the mellow light of the westering sun.
“We will keep out a bit from the Reserve,” said Cameron, taking a trail
that led off to the left. “These Piegans are none too friendly. I've had
to deal with them a few times about my straying steers in a way which
they are inclined to resent. This half-breed business is making them all
restless and a good deal too impertinent.”
“There's not any real danger, is there?” inquired his wife. “The Police
can handle them quite well, can't they?”
“If you were a silly hysterical girl, Mandy, I would say 'no danger' of
course. But the signs are ominous. I don't fear anything immediately,
but any moment a change may come and then we shall need to act quickly.”
“What then?”
“We shall ride to the Fort, I can tell you, without waiting to take our
stuff with us. I take no chances now.”
“Now? Meaning?”
“Meaning my wife, that's all. I never thought to fear an Indian, but, by
Jove! since I've got you, Mandy, they make me nervous.”
“But these Piegans are such--”
“The Piegans are Indians, plain Indians, deprived of the privilege of
war by our North West Mounted Police regulations and of the excitement
of the chase by our ever approaching civilization, and the younger
bloods would undoubtedly welcome a 'bit of a divarshun,' as your friend
Mike would say. At present the Indians are simply watching and waiting.”
“What for?”
“News. To see which way the cat jumps. Then--Steady, Ginger! What the
deuce! Whoa, I say! Hold hard, Mandy.”
“What's the matter with them?”
“There's something in the bushes yonder. Coyote, probably. Listen!”
There came from a thick clump of poplars a low, moaning cry.
“What's that?” cried Mandy. “It sounds like a man.”
“Stay where you are. I'll ride in.”
In a few moments she heard his voice calling.
“Come along! Hurry up!”
A young Indian lad of about seventeen, ghastly under his copper skin
and faint from loss of blood, lay with his ankle held in a powerful
wolf-trap, a bloody knife at his side. With a cry Mandy was off her
horse and beside him, the instincts of the trained nurse rousing her to
action.
“Good Heavens! What a mess!” cried Cameron, looking helplessly upon the
bloody and mangled leg.
“Get a pail of water and get a fire going, Allan,” she cried. “Quick!”
“Well, first this trap ought to be taken off, I should say.”
“Quite right,” she cried. “Hurry!”
Taking his ax from their camp outfit, he cut down a sapling, and, using
it as a lever, soon released the foot.
“How did all this mangling come?” said Mandy, gazing at the limb, the
flesh and skin of which were hanging in shreds about the ankle.
“Cutting it off, weren't you?” said Allan.
The Indian nodded.
Mandy lifted the foot up.
“Broken, I should say.”
The Indian uttered not a sound.
“Run,” she continued. “Bring a pail of water and get a fire going.”
Allan was soon back with the pail of water.
“Me--water,” moaned the Indian, pointing to the pail. Allan held it
to his lips and he drank long and deep. In a short time the fire was
blazing and the tea pail slung over it.
“If I only had my kit here!” said Mandy. “This torn flesh and skin ought
to be all cut away.”
“Oh, I say, Mandy, you can't do that. We'll get the Police doctor!” said
Allan in a tone of horrified disgust.
But Mandy was feeling the edge of the Indian's knife.
“Sharp enough,” she said to herself. “These ragged edges are just
reeking with poison. Can you stand it if I cut these bits off?” she said
to the Indian.
“Huh!” he replied with a grunt of contempt. “No hurt.”
“Mandy, you can't do this! It makes me sick to see you,” said her
husband.
The Indian glanced with scorn at him, caught the knife out of Mandy's
hand, took up a flap of lacerated flesh and cut it clean away.
“Huh! No-t'ing.”
Mandy took the knife from him, and, after boiling it for a few minutes,
proceeded to cut away the ragged, mangled flesh and skin. The Indian
never winced. He lay with eyes closed, and so pallid was his face and so
perfectly motionless his limbs that he might have been dead. With deft
hands she cleansed the wounds.
“Now, Allan, you must help me. We must have splints for this ankle.”
“How would birch-bark do?” he suggested.
“No, it's too flimsy.”
“The heavy inner rind is fairly stiff.” He ran to a tree and hacked off
a piece.
“Yes, that will do splendidly. Get some about so long.”
Half an hour's work, and the wounded limb lay cleansed, bandaged, packed
in soft moss and bound in splints.
“That's great, Mandy!” exclaimed her husband. “Even to my untutored eyes
that looks like an artistic bit of work. You're a wonder.”
“Huh!” grunted the Indian. “Good!” His piercing black eyes were lifted
suddenly to her face with such a look of gratitude as is seen in the
eyes of dumb brutes or of men deprived of speech.
“Good!” echoed Allan. “You're just right, my boy. I couldn't have done
it, I assure you.”
“Huh!” grunted the Indian in eloquent contempt. “No good,” pointing
to the man. “Good,” pointing to the woman. “Me--no--forget.” He lifted
himself upon his elbow, and, pointing to the sun like a red eye glaring
in upon them through a vista of woods and hills, said, “Look--He
see--me no forget.”
There was something truly Hebraic in the exultant solemnity of his tone
and gesture.
“By Jove! He won't either, I truly believe,” said Allan. “You've made a
friend for life, Mandy. Now, what's next? We can't carry this chap. It's
three miles to their camp. We can't leave him here. There are wolves all
around and the brutes always attack anything wounded.”
The Indian solved the problem.
“Huh!” he grunted contemptuously. He took up his long hunting-knife.
“Wolf--this!” He drove the knife to the hilt into the ground.
“You go--my fadder come. T'ree Indian,” holding up three fingers. “All
right! Good!” He sank back upon the ground exhausted.
“Come on then, Mandy, we shall have to hurry.”
“No, you go. I'll wait.”
“I won't have that. It will be dark soon and I can't leave you here
alone with--”
“Nonsense! This poor boy is faint with hunger and pain. I'll feed him
while you're gone. Get me afresh pail of water and I can do for myself.”
“Well,” replied her husband dubiously, “I'll get you some wood and--”
“Come, now,” replied Mandy impatiently, “who taught you to cut wood? I
can get my own wood. The main thing is to get away and get back. This
boy needs shelter. How long have you been here?” she inquired of the
Indian.
The boy opened his eyes and swung his arm twice from east to west,
indicating the whole sweep of the sky.
“Two days?”
He nodded.
“You must be starving. Want to eat?”
“Good!”
“Hurry, then, Allan, with the water. By the time this lad has been fed
you will be back.”
It was not long before Allan was back with the water.
“Now, then,” he said to the Indian, “where's your camp?”
The Indian with his knife drew a line upon the ground. “River,” he said.
Another line parallel, “Trail.” Then, tracing a branching line from
the latter, turning sharply to the right, “Big Hill,” he indicated.
“Down--down.” Then, running the line a little farther, “Here camp.”
“I know the spot,” cried Allan. “Well, I'm off. Are you quite sure,
Mandy, you don't mind?”
“Run off with you and get back soon. Go--good-by! Oh! Stop, you foolish
boy! Aren't you ashamed of yourself before--?”
Cameron laughed in happy derision.
“Ashamed? No, nor before his whole tribe.” He swung himself on his pony
and was off down the trail at a gallop.
“You' man?” inquired the Indian lad.
“Yes,” she said, “my man,” pride ringing in her voice.
“Huh! Him Big Chief?”
“Oh, no! Yes.” She corrected herself hastily. “Big Chief. Ranch, you
know--Big Horn Ranch.”
“Huh!” He closed his eyes and sank back again upon the ground.
“You're faint with hunger, poor boy,” said Mandy. She hastily cut a
large slice of bread, buttered it, laid upon it some bacon and handed it
to him.
“Here, take this in the meantime,” she said. “I'll have your tea in a
jiffy.”
The boy took the bread, and, faint though he was with hunger, sternly
repressing all sign of haste, he ate it with grave deliberation.
In a few minutes more the tea was ready and Mandy brought him a cup.
“Good!” he said, drinking it slowly.
“Another?” she smiled.
“Good!” he replied, drinking the second cup more rapidly.
“Now, we'll have some fish,” cried Mandy cheerily, “and then you'll be
fit for your journey home.”
In twenty minutes more she brought him a frying pan in which two large
beautiful trout lay, browned in butter. Mandy caught the wolf-like look
in his eyes as they fell upon the food. She cut several thick slices of
bread, laid them in the pan with the fish and turned her back upon him.
The Indian seized the bread, and, noting that he was unobserved, tore
it apart like a dog and ate ravenously, the fish likewise, ripping the
flesh off the bones and devouring it like some wild beast.
“There, now,” she said, when he had finished, “you've had enough to keep
you going. Indeed, you have had all that's good for you. We don't want
any fever, so that will do.”
Her gestures, if not her words, he understood, and again as he watched
her there gleamed in his eyes that dumb animal look of gratitude.
“Huh!” he grunted, slapping himself on the chest and arms. “Good! Me
strong! Me sleep.” He lay back upon the ground and in half a dozen
breaths was dead asleep, leaving Mandy to her lonely watch in the
gathering gloom of the falling night.
The silence of the woods deepened into a stillness so profound that a
dead leaf, fluttering from its twig and rustling to the ground, made her
start in quick apprehension.
“What a fool I am!” she muttered angrily. She rose to pile wood upon the
fire. At her first movement the Indian was broad awake and half on his
knees with his knife gleaming in his hand. As his eyes fell upon the
girl at the fire, with a grunt, half of pain and half of contempt, he
sank back again upon the ground and was fast asleep before the fire was
mended, leaving Mandy once more to her lonely watch.
“I wish he would come,” she muttered, peering into the darkening woods
about her. A long and distant howl seemed to reply to her remark.
It was answered by a series of short, sharp yelps nearer at hand.
“Coyote,” she said disdainfully, for she had learned to despise the
cowardly prairie wolf.
But again that long distant howl. In spite of herself she shuddered.
That was no coyote, but a gray timber wolf.
“I wish Allan would come,” she said again, thinking of wakening the
Indian. But her nurse's instincts forbade her breaking his heavy sleep.
“Poor boy, he needs the rest! I'll wait a while longer.”
She took her ax and went bravely at some dead wood lying near, cutting
it for the fire. The Indian never made a sound. He lay dead in sleep.
She piled the wood on the fire till the flames leaped high, shining
ruddily upon the golden and yellow leaves of the surrounding trees.
But again that long-drawn howl, and quite near, pierced the silence
like the thrust of a spear. Before she was aware Mandy was on her feet,
determined to waken the sleeping Indian, but she had no more than taken
a single step toward him when he was awake and listening keenly. A soft
padding upon the dead leaves could be heard like the gentle falling
of raindrops. The Indian rolled over on his side, swept away some dead
leaves and moss, and drew toward him a fine Winchester rifle.
“Huh! Wolf,” he said, with quiet unconcern. “Here,” he continued,
pointing to a rock beside him. Mandy took the place indicated. As she
seated herself he put up his hand with a sharp hiss. Again the pattering
feet could be heard. Suddenly the Indian leaned forward, gazing intently
into the gloom beyond the rim of the firelight, then with a swift
gliding movement he threw his rifle up and fired. There was a sharp
yelp, followed by a gurgling snarl. His shot was answered by a loud
shout.
“Huh!” said the lad with quiet satisfaction, holding up one finger, “One
wolf. Big Chief come.”
At the shout Mandy had sprung to her feet, answering with a loud glad
halloo. Immediately, as if in response to her call, an Indian swung
his pony into the firelight, slipped off and stood looking about him.
Straight, tall and sinewy, he stood, with something noble in his face
and bearing.
“He looks like a gentleman,” was the thought that leaped into Mandy's
mind. A swift glance he swept round the circle of the light. Mandy
thought she had never seen so piercing an eye.
The Indian lad uttered a low moaning sound. With a single leap the man
was at his side, holding him in his arms and kissing him on both cheeks,
with eager guttural speech. A few words from the lad and the Indian was
on his feet again, his eyes gleaming, but his face immobile as a death
mask.
“My boy,” he said, pointing to the lad. “My boy--my papoose.” His voice
grew soft and tender.
Before Mandy could reply there was another shout and Allan, followed by
four Indians, burst into the light. With a glad cry Mandy rushed into
his arms and clung to him.
“Hello! What's up? Everything all right?” cried Allan. “I was a deuce of
a time, I know. Took the wrong trail. You weren't frightened, eh? What?
What's happened?” His voice grew anxious, then stern. “Anything wrong?
Did he--? Did anyone--?”
“No, no, Allan!” cried his wife, still clinging to him. “It was only a
wolf and I was a little frightened.”
“A wolf!” echoed her husband aghast.
The Indian lad spoke a few words and pointed to the dark. The Indians
glided into the woods and in a few minutes one of them returned,
dragging by the leg a big, gray timber wolf. The lad's bullet had gone
home.
“And did this brute attack you?” cried Allan in alarm.
“No, no. I heard him howling a long way off, and then--then--he came
nearer, and--then--I could hear his feet pattering.” Cameron drew
her close to him. “And then he saw him right in the dark. Wasn't it
wonderful?”
“In the dark?” said Allan, turning to the lad. “How did you do it?”
“Huh!” grunted the lad in a tone of indifference. “See him eyes.”
Already the Indians were preparing a stretcher out of blankets and two
saplings. Here Mandy came to their help, directing their efforts so that
with the least hurt to the boy he was lifted to his stretcher.
As they were departing the father came close to Mandy, and, holding out
his hand, said in fairly good English:
“You--good to my boy. You save him--to-day. All alone maybe he die. You
give him food--drink. Sometime--perhaps soon--me pay you.”
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I want no pay.”
“No money--no!” cried the Indian, with scorn in his voice. “Me save
you perhaps--sometime. Save you--save you, man. Me Big Chief.” He drew
himself up his full height. “Much Indian follow me.” He shook hands with
Mandy again, then with her husband.
“Big Piegan Chief?” inquired her husband.
“Piegan!” said the Indian with hearty contempt. “Me no Piegan--me
Big Chief. Me--” He paused abruptly, turned on his heel and, flinging
himself on to his pony, disappeared in the shadows.
“He's jolly well pleased with himself, isn't he?” said Cameron.
“He's splendid,” cried Mandy enthusiastically. “Why, he's just like
one of Cooper's Indians. He's certainly like none of the rest I've seen
about here.”
“That's true enough,” replied her husband. “He's no Piegan. Who is he, I
wonder? I don't remember seeing him. He thinks no end of himself, at any
rate.”
“And looks as if he had a right to.”
“Right you are! Well, let's away. You must be dog tired and used up.”
“Never a bit,” cried Mandy. “I'm fresh as a daisy. What a wonderful
ending to a wonderful day!”
They extinguished the fire carefully and made their way out to the
trail.
But the end of this wonderful day had not yet come.
CHAPTER V
THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE
The moon was riding high in the cloudless blue of the heavens, tricked
out with faintly shining stars, when they rode into the “corral” that
surrounded the ranch stable. A horse stood tethered at the gate.
“Hello, a visitor!” cried Cameron. “A Police horse!” his eyes falling
upon the shining accouterments.
“A Policeman!” echoed Mandy, a sudden foreboding at her heart. “What can
he want?”
“Me, likely,” replied her husband with a laugh, “though I can't think
for which of my crimes it is. It's Inspector Dickson, by his horse. You
know him, Mandy, my very best friend.”
“What does he want, Allan?” said Mandy, anxiety in her voice.
“Want? Any one of a thousand things. You run in and see while I put up
the ponies.”
“I don't like it,” said Mandy, walking with him toward the stable. “Do
you know, I feel there is something--I have felt all day a kind of dread
that--”
“Nonsense, Mandy! You're not that style of girl. Run away into the
house.”
But still Mandy waited beside him.
“We've had a great day, Allan,” she said again. “Many great days, and
this, one of the best. Whatever comes nothing can take those happy days
from us.” She put her arms about his neck and drew him toward her.
“I don't know why, Allan, I know it's foolish, but I'm afraid,” she
whispered, “I'm afraid.”
“Now, Mandy,” said her husband, with his arms round about her, “don't
say you're going to get like other girls, hysterical and that sort of
thing. You are just over-tired. We've had a big day, but an exhausting
day, an exciting day. What with that Piegan and the wolf business and
all, you are done right up. So am I and--by Jove! That reminds me, I am
dead famished.”
No better word could he have spoken.
“You poor boy,” she cried. “I'll have supper ready by the time you
come in. I am silly, but now it's all over. I shall go in and face the
Inspector and dare him to arrest you, no matter what you have done.”
“That's more like the thing! That's more like my girl. I shall be with
you in a very few minutes. He can't take us both, can he? Run in and
smile at him.”
Mandy found the Inspector in the cozy ranch kitchen, calmly smoking his
pipe, and deep in the London Graphic. As she touched the latch he sprang
to his feet and saluted in his best style.
“Never heard you ride up, Mrs. Cameron, I assure you. You must think me
rather cool to sit tight here and ignore your coming.”
“I am very glad to see you, Inspector Dickson, and Allan will be
delighted. He is putting up your horse. You will of course stay the
night with us.”
“Oh, that's awfully kind, but I really can't, you know. I shall tell
Cameron.” He took his hat from the peg.
“We should be delighted if you could stay with us. We see very few
people and you have not been very neighborly, now confess.”
“I have not been, and to my sorrow and loss. If any man had told me that
I should have been just five weeks to a day within a few hours' ride of
my friend Cameron, not to speak of his charming wife, without visiting
him, well I should have--well, no matter--to my joy I am here to-night.
But I can't stay this trip. We are rather hard worked just now, to tell
the truth.”
“Hard worked?” she asked.
“Yes. Patrol work rather heavy. But I must stop Cameron in his
hospitable design,” he added, as he passed out of the door.
It was a full half hour before the men returned, to find supper spread
and Mandy waiting. It was a large and cheerful apartment that did both
for kitchen and living room. The sides were made of logs hewn smooth,
plastered and whitewashed. The oak joists and planking above were
stained brown. At one end of the kitchen two doors led to as many rooms,
at the other a large stone fireplace, with a great slab for mantelpiece.
On this slab stood bits of china bric-a-brac, and what not, relics
abandoned by the gallant and chivalrous Fraser for the bride and her
house furnishing. The prints, too, upon the wall, hunting scenes of the
old land, sea-scenes, moorland and wild cattle, with many useful
and ornamental bits of furniture, had all been handed over with true
Highland generosity by the outgoing owner.
In the fireplace, for the night had a touch of frost in it, a log fire
blazed and sparked, lending to the whole scene an altogether delightful
air of comfort.
“I say, this does look jolly!” cried the Inspector as he entered.
“Cameron, you lucky dog, do you really imagine you know how jolly well
off you are, coddled thus in the lap of comfort and surrounded with all
the enervating luxuries of an effete and forgotten civilization?
Come now, own up, you are beginning to take this thing as a matter of
course.”
But Cameron stood with his back to the light, busying himself with his
fishing tackle and fish, and ignoring the Inspector's cheerful chatter.
And thus he remained without a word while the Inspector talked on in a
voluble flow of small talk quite unusual with him.
Throughout the supper Cameron remained silent, rallying spasmodically
with gay banter to the Inspector's chatter, or answering at random, but
always falling silent again, and altogether was so unlike himself that
Mandy fell to wondering, then became watchful, then anxious. At length
the Inspector himself fell silent, as if perceiving the uselessness of
further pretense.
“What is it, Allan?” said Mandy quietly, when silence had fallen upon
them all. “You might as well let me know.”
“Tell her, for God's sake,” said her husband to the Inspector.
“What is it?” inquired Mandy.
The Inspector handed her a letter.
“From Superintendent Strong to my Chief,” he said.
She took it and as she read her face went now white with fear, now red
with indignation. At length she flung the letter down.
“What a man he is to be sure!” she cried scornfully. “And what nonsense
is this he writes. With all his men and officers he must come for my
husband! What is HE doing? And all the others? It's just his own stupid
stubbornness. He always did object to our marriage.”
The Inspector was silent. Cameron was silent too. His boyish face, for
he was but a lad, seemed to have grown old in those few minutes. The
Inspector wore an ashamed look, as if detected in a crime.
“And because he is not clever enough to catch this man they must come
for my husband to do it for them. He is not a Policeman. He has nothing
to do with the Force.”
And still the Inspector sat silent, as if convicted of both crime and
folly.
At length Cameron spoke.
“It is quite impossible, Inspector. I can't do it. You quite see how
impossible it is.”
“Most certainly you can't,” eagerly agreed the Inspector. “I knew from
the first it was a piece of--sheer absurdity--in fact brutal inhumanity.
I told the Commissioner so.”
“It isn't as if I was really needed, you know. The Superintendent's idea
is, as you say, quite absurd.”
The Inspector gravely nodded.
“You don't think for a moment,” continued Cameron, “there is any
need--any real need I mean--for me to--” Cameron's voice died away.
The Inspector hesitated and cleared his throat. “Well--of course, we
are desperately short-handed, you know. Every man is overworked. Every
reserve has to be closely patroled. Every trail ought to be watched.
Runners are coming in every day. We ought to have a thousand men instead
of five hundred, this very minute. Of course one can never tell. The
chances are this will all blow over.”
“Certainly,” said Cameron. “We've heard these rumors for the past year.”
“Of course,” agreed the Inspector cheerfully.
“But if it does not,” asked Mandy, suddenly facing the Inspector, “what
then?”
“If it does not?”
“If it does not?” she insisted.
The Inspector appeared to turn the matter over in his mind.
“Well,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, “if it does not there will be a
deuce of an ugly time.”
“What do you mean?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. But Mandy waited, her eyes fixed
on his face demanding answer.
“Well, there are some hundreds of settlers and their families scattered
over this country, and we can hardly protect them all. But,” he added
cheerfully, as if dismissing the subject, “we have a trick of worrying
through.”
Mandy shuddered. One phrase in the Superintendent's letter to the
Commissioner which she had just read kept hammering upon her brain,
“Cameron is the man and the only man for the job.”
They turned the talk to other things, but the subject would not be
dismissed. Like the ghost at the feast it kept ever returning. The
Inspector retailed the most recent rumors, and together he and his host
weighed their worth. The Inspector disclosed the Commissioner's plans
as far as he knew them. These, too, were discussed with approval or
condemnation. The consequences of an Indian uprising were hinted at, but
quickly dropped. The probabilities of such an uprising were touched upon
and pronounced somewhat slight.
But somehow to the woman listening as in a maze this pronouncement and
all the reassuring talk rang hollow. She sat staring at the Inspector
with eyes that saw him not. What she did see was a picture out of an
old book of Indian war days which she had read when a child, a smoking
cabin, with mangled forms of women and children lying in the blackened
embers. By degrees, slow, painful, but relentlessly progressive, certain
impressions, at first vague and passionately resisted, were wrought into
convictions in her soul. First, the Inspector, in spite of his light
talk, was undeniably anxious, and in this anxiety her husband shared.
Then, the Force was clearly inadequate to the duty required of it. At
this her indignation burned. Why should it be that a Government should
ask of brave men what they must know to be impossible? Hard upon this
conviction came the words of the Superintendent, “Cameron is the man and
the only man for the job.” Finally, the Inspector was apologizing for
her husband. It roused a hot resentment in her to hear him. That thing
she could not and would not bear. Never should it be said that her
husband had needed a friend to apologize for him.
As these convictions grew in clearness she found herself brought
suddenly and sharply to face the issue. With a swift contraction of the
heart she realized that she must send her husband on this perilous duty.
Ah! Could she do it? It was as if a cold hand were steadily squeezing
drop by drop the life-blood from her heart. In contrast, and as if with
one flash of light, the long happy days of the last six months passed
before her mind. How could she give him up? Her breathing came in short
gasps, her lips became dry, her eyes fixed and staring. She was fighting
for what was dearer to her than life. Suddenly she flung her hands to
her face and groaned aloud.
“What is it, Mandy?” cried her husband, starting from his place.
His words seemed to recall her. The agonizing agitation passed from her
and a great quiet fell upon her soul. The struggle was done. She had
made the ancient sacrifice demanded of women since ever the first man
went forth to war. It remained only to complete with fitting ritual this
ancient sacrifice. She rose from her seat and faced her husband.
“Allan,” she said, and her voice was of indescribable sweetness, “you
must go.”
Her husband took her in his arms without a word, then brokenly he said:
“My girl! My own brave girl! I knew you must send me.”
“Yes,” she replied, gazing into his face with a wan smile, “I knew it
too, because I knew you would expect me to.”
The Inspector had risen from his chair at her first cry and was standing
with bent head, as if in the presence of a scene too sacred to witness.
Then he came to her, and, with old time and courtly grace of the fine
gentleman he was, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Dear lady,” he said, “for such as you brave men would gladly give their
lives.”
“Give their lives!” cried Mandy. “I would much rather they would save
them. But,” she added, her voice taking a practical tone, “sit down and
let us talk. Now what's the work and what's the plan?”
The men glanced at each other in silent admiration of this woman who,
without moan or murmur, could surrender her heart's dearest treasure for
her country's good. This was a spirit of their own type.
They sat down before the fire and discussed the business before them.
But as they discussed ever and again Mandy would find her mind wandering
back over the past happy days. Ever and again a word would recall her,
but only for a brief moment and soon she was far away again.
A phrase of the Inspector, however, arrested and held her.
“He's really a fine looking Indian, in short a kind of aristocrat among
the Indians,” he was saying.
“An aristocrat?” she exclaimed, remembering her own word about the
Indian Chief they had met that very evening. “Why, that is like our
Chief, Allan.”
“By Jove! You're right!” exclaimed her husband. “What's your man like,
again? Describe him, Inspector.”
The Inspector described him in detail.
“The very man we saw to-night!” cried Mandy, and gave her description of
the “Big Chief.”
When she had finished the Inspector sat looking into the fire.
“Among the Piegans, too,” he mused. “That fits in. There was a big
powwow the other day in the Sun Dance Canyon. The Piegans' is the
nearest reserve, and a lot of them were there. The Superintendent says
he is somewhere along the Sun Dance.”
“Inspector,” said Allan, with sudden determination, “we will drop in on
the Piegans to-morrow morning by sun-up.”
Mandy started. This pace was more rapid than she had expected, but,
having made the sacrifice, there was with her no word of recall.
The Inspector pondered the suggestion.
“Well,” he said, “it would do no harm to reconnoiter at any rate. But we
can't afford to make any false move, and we can't afford to fail.”
“Fail!” said Cameron quietly. “We won't fail. We'll get him.” And the
lines in his face reminded his wife of how he looked that night three
years before when he cowed the great bully Perkins into submission at
her father's door.
Long they sat and planned. As the Inspector said, there must be no
failure; hence the plan must provide for every possible contingency. By
far the keenest of the three in mental activity was Mandy. By a curious
psychological process the Indian Chief, who an hour before had awakened
in her admiration and a certain romantic interest, had in a single
moment become an object of loathing, almost of hatred. That he should be
in this land planning for her people, for innocent and defenseless women
and children, the horrors of massacre filled her with a fierce anger.
But a deeper analysis would doubtless have revealed a personal element
in her anger and loathing. The Indian had become the enemy for whose
capture and for whose destruction her husband was now enlisted. Deep
down in her quiet, strong, self-controlled nature there burned a passion
in which mingled the primitive animal instincts of the female, mate for
mate, and mother for offspring. Already her mind had leaped forward to
the moment when this cunning, powerful plotter would be at death-grips
with her husband and she not there to help. With intensity of purpose
and relentlessness of determination she focused the powers of her
forceful and practical mind upon the problem engaging their thought.
With mind whetted to its keenest she listened to the men as they made
and unmade their plans. In ordinary circumstances the procedure of
arrest would have been extremely simple. The Inspector and Cameron would
have ridden into the Piegan camp, and, demanding their man, would have
quietly and without even a show of violence carried him off. It would
have been like things they had each of them done single-handed within
the past year.
“When once we make a start, you see, Mrs. Cameron, we never turn back.
We could not afford to,” said the Inspector. There was no suspicion
of boasting in the Inspector's voice. He was simply enunciating the
traditional code of the Police. “And if we should hesitate with this
man or fail to land him every Indian in these territories would have
it within a week and our prestige would receive a shock. We dare not
exhibit any sign of nerves. On the other hand we dare not make any
movement in force. In short, anything unusual must be avoided.”
“I quite see,” replied Mandy with keen appreciation of the delicacy of
the situation.
“So that I fancy the simpler the plan the better. Cameron will ride
into the Piegan camp inquiring about his cattle, as, fortunately for the
present situation, he has cause enough to in quite an ordinary way.
I drop in on my regular patrol looking up a cattle-thief in quite the
ordinary way. Seeing this strange chief, I arrest him on suspicion.
Cameron backs me up. The thing is done. Luckily Trotting Wolf, who is
the Head Chief now of the Piegans, has a fairly thorough respect for
the Police, and unless things have gone much farther in his band than I
think he will not resist. He is, after all, rather harmless.”
“I don't like your plan at all, Inspector,” said Mandy promptly. “The
moment you suggest arrest that moment the younger men will be up. They
are just back from a big brave-making powwow, you say. They are all
worked up, and keen for a chance to prove that they are braves in more
than in name. You give them the very opportunity you wish to avoid.
Now hear my plan,” she continued, her voice eager, keen, hard, in the
intensity of her purpose. “I ride into camp to-morrow morning to see
the sick boy. I promised I would and I really want to. I find him in a
fever, for a fever he certainly will have. I dress his wounded ankle and
discover he must have some medicine. I get old Copperhead to ride back
with me for it. You wait here and arrest him without trouble.”
The two men looked at each other, then at her, with a gentle admiring
pity. The plan was simplicity itself and undoubtedly eliminated the
elements of danger which the Inspector's possessed. It had, however, one
fatal defect.
“Fine, Mandy!” said her husband, reaching across the table and patting
her hand that lay clenched upon the cloth. “But it won't do.”
“And why not, pray?” she demanded.
“We do not use our women as decoys in this country, nor do we expose
them to dangers we men dare not face.”
“Allan,” cried his wife with angry impatience, “you miss the whole
point. For a woman to ride into the Piegan camp, especially on this
errand of mercy, involves her in no danger. And what possible danger
would there be in having the old villain ride back with me for
medicine? And as to the decoy business,” here she shrugged her shoulders
contemptuously, “do you think I care a bit for that? Isn't he planning
to kill women and children in this country? And--and--won't he do his
best to kill you?” she panted. “Isn't it right for me to prevent him?
Prevent him! To me he is like a snake. I would--would--gladly kill
him--myself.” As she spoke these words her eyes were indeed, in Sergeant
Ferry's words, “like little blue flames.”
But the men remained utterly unmoved. To their manhood the plan
was repugnant, and in spite of Mandy's arguments and entreaties was
rejected.
“It is the better plan, Mrs. Cameron,” said the Inspector kindly, “but
we cannot, you must see we cannot, adopt it.”
“You mean you will not,” cried Mandy indignantly, “just because you are
stupid stubborn men!” And she proceeded to argue the matter all over
again with convincing logic, but with the same result. There are
propositions which do not lend themselves to the arbitrament of logic
with men. When the safety of their women is at stake they refuse to
discuss chances. In such a case they may be stupid, but they are quite
immovable.
Blocked by this immovable stupidity, Mandy yielded her ground, but only
to attempt a flank movement.
“Let me go with you on your reconnoitering expedition,” she pleaded.
“Rather, let US go, Allan, you and I together, to see the boy. I am
really sorry for that boy. He can't help his father, can he?”
“Quite true,” said the Inspector gravely.
“Let us go and find out all we can and next day make your attempt.
Besides, Allan,” she cried under a sudden inspiration of memory, “you
can't possibly go. You forget your sister arrives at Calgary this week.
You must meet her.”
“By Jove! Is that so? I had forgotten,” said Cameron, turning to study
the calendar on the wall, a gorgeous work of art produced out of
the surplus revenues of a Life Insurance Company. “Let's see,” he
calculated. “This week? Three days will take us in. We are still all
right. We have five. That gives us two days clear for this job. I feel
like making this try, Mandy,” he continued earnestly. “We have this chap
practically within our grasp. He will be off guard. The Piegans are not
yet worked up to the point of resistance. Ten days from now our man may
be we can't tell where.”
Mandy remained silent. The ritual of her sacrifice was not yet complete.
“I think you are right, Allan,” at length she said slowly with a twisted
smile. “I'm afraid you are right. It's hard not to be in it, though.
But,” she added, as if moved by a sudden thought, “I may be in it yet.”
“You will certainly be with us in spirit, Mandy,” he replied, patting
the firm brown hand that lay upon the table.
“Yes, truly, and in our hearts,” added the Inspector with a bow.
But Mandy made no reply. Already she was turning over in her mind a
half-formed plan which she had no intention of sharing with these men,
who, after the manner of their kind, would doubtless block it.
Early morning found Cameron and the Inspector on the trail toward the
Piegan Reserve, riding easily, for they knew not what lay before them
nor what demand they might have to make upon their horses that day. The
Inspector rode a strongly built, stocky horse of no great speed but good
for an all-day run. Cameron's horse was a broncho, an unlovely
brute, awkward and ginger-colored--his name was Ginger--sad-eyed
and wicked-looking, but short-coupled and with flat, rangy legs that
promised speed. For his sad-eyed, awkward broncho Cameron professed a
deep affection and defended him stoutly against the Inspector's jibes.
“You can't kill him,” he declared. “He'll go till he drops, and then
twelve miles more. He isn't beautiful to look at and his manners are
nothing to boast of, but he will hang upon the fence the handsome skin
of that cob of yours.”
When still five or six miles from camp they separated.
“The old boy may, of course, be gone,” said the Inspector as he was
parting from his friend. “By Superintendent Strong's report he seems to
be continually on the move.”
“I rather think his son will hold him for a day or two,” replied
Cameron. “Now you give me a full half hour. I shall look in upon the
boy, you know. But don't be longer. I don't as a rule linger among these
Piegan gentry, you know, and a lengthened stay would certainly arouse
suspicion.”
Cameron's way lay along the high plateau, from which a descent could
be made by a trail leading straight south into the Piegan camp. The
Inspector's course carried him in a long detour to the left, by which
he should enter from the eastern end the valley in which lay the Indian
camp. Cameron's trail at the first took him through thick timber, then,
as it approached the level floor of the valley, through country that
became more open. The trees were larger and with less undergrowth
between them. In the valley itself a few stubble fields with fences
sadly in need of repair gave evidence of the partial success of the
attempts of the farm instructor to initiate the Piegans into the science
and art of agriculture. A few scattering log houses, which the Indians
had been induced by the Government to build for themselves, could be
seen here and there among the trees. But during the long summer days,
and indeed until driven from the open by the blizzards of winter, not
one of these children of the free air and open sky could be persuaded to
enter the dismal shelter afforded by the log houses. They much preferred
the flimsy teepee or tent. And small wonder. Their methods of sanitation
did not comport with a permanent dwelling. When the teepee grew foul,
which their habits made inevitable, a simple and satisfactory remedy
was discovered in a shift to another camp-ground. Not so with the log
houses, whose foul corners, littered with the accumulated filth of a
winter's occupation, became fertile breeding places for the germs of
disease and death. Irregularly strewn upon the grassy plain in
the valley bottom some two dozen teepees marked the Piegan summer
headquarters. Above the camp rose the smoke of their camp-fires, for it
was still early and their morning meal was yet in preparation.
CHAPTER VI
THE ILLUSIVE COPPERHEAD
Cameron's approach to the Piegan camp was greeted by a discordant
chorus of yelps and howls from a pack of mangy, half-starved curs of all
breeds, shapes and sizes, the invariable and inevitable concomitants of
an Indian encampment. The squaws, who had been busy superintending the
pots and pans in which simmered the morning meal of their lords and
masters, faded from view at Cameron's approach, and from the teepees on
every side men appeared and stood awaiting with stolid faces the white
man's greeting. Cameron was known to them of old.
“Good-day!” he cried briefly, singling out the Chief.
“Huh!” replied the Chief, and awaited further parley.
“No grub yet, eh? You sleep too long, Chief.”
The Chief smiled grimly.
“I say, Chief,” continued Cameron, “I have lost a couple of steers--big
fellows, too--any of your fellows seen them?”
Trotting Wolf turned to the group of Indians who had slouched toward
them in the meantime and spoke to them in the singsong monotone of the
Indian.
“No see cow,” he replied briefly.
Cameron threw himself from his horse and, striding to a large pot
simmering over a fire, stuck his knife into the mass and lifted up a
large piece of flesh, the bones of which looked uncommonly like ribs of
beef.
“What's this, Trotting Wolf?” he inquired with a stern ring in his
voice.
“Deer,” promptly and curtly replied the Chief.
“Who shot him?”
The Chief consulted the group of Indians standing near.
“This man,” he replied, indicating a young Indian.
“What's your name?” said Cameron sharply. “I know you.”
The young Indian shook his head.
“Oh, come now, you know English all right. What's your name?”
Still the Indian shook his head, meeting Cameron's look with a fearless
eye.
“He White Cloud,” said the Chief.
“White Cloud! Big Chief, eh?” said Cameron.
“Huh!” replied Trotting Wolf, while a smile appeared on several faces.
“You shot this deer?”
“Huh!” replied the Indian, nodding.
“I thought you could speak English all right.”
Again a smile touched the faces of some of the group.
“Where did you shoot him?”
White Cloud pointed vaguely toward the mountains.
“How far? Two, three, four miles?” inquired Cameron, holding up his
fingers.
“Huh!” grunted the Indian, holding up five fingers.
“Five miles, eh? Big deer, too,” said Cameron, pointing to the ribs.
“Huh!”
“How did you carry him home?”
The Indian shook his head.
“How did he carry him these five miles?” continued Cameron, turning to
Trotting Wolf.
“Pony,” replied Trotting Wolf curtly.
“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 embarrassment. 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 circumstances 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.
“Hello!” 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 glass 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 passed 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 Dickson. Hello, Inspector!”
he called out. “Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to
help us.”
“Hello, 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.”
“He needs the doctor, however,” said Cameron.
“Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor.”
“Everything all right, Inspector?” said Cameron, throwing his friend a
significant glance.
“Quite right!” replied the Inspector. “But I must be going. Good-by,
Chief!” As his one hand closed on the Indian's his other slid down upon
his wrist. “I want you, Chief,” he said in a quiet stern voice. “I want
you to come along with me.”
His hand had hardly closed upon the wrist than with a single motion,
swift, snake-like, the Indian wrenched his hand from the Inspector's
iron grasp and, leaping back a space of three paces, stood with body
poised as if to spring.
“Halt there, Chief! Don't move or you die!”
The Indian turned to see Cameron covering him with two guns. At once
he relaxed his tense attitude and, drawing himself up, he demanded in a
voice of indignant scorn:
“Why you touch me? Me Big Chief! You little dog!”
As he stood, erect, tall, scornful, commanding, with his head thrown
back and his arm outstretched, his eyes glittering and his face eloquent
of haughty pride, he seemed the very incarnation of the wild unconquered
spirit of that once proud race he represented. For a moment or two a
deep silence held the group of Indians, and even the white men were
impressed. Then the Inspector spoke.
“Trotting Wolf,” he said, “I want this man. He is a horse-thief. I know
him. I am going to take him to the Fort. He is a bad man.”
“No,” said Trotting Wolf, in a loud voice, “he no bad man. He my friend.
Come here many days.” He held up both hands. “No teef--my friend.”
A loud murmur rose from the Indians, who in larger numbers kept crowding
nearer. At this ominous sound the Inspector swiftly drew two revolvers,
and, backing toward the man he was seeking to arrest, said in a quiet,
clear voice:
“Trotting Wolf, this man goes with me. If he is no thief he will be
back again very soon. See these guns? Six men die,” shaking one of them,
“when this goes off. And six more die,” shaking the other, “when
this goes off. The first man will be you, Trotting Wolf, and this man
second.”
Trotting Wolf hesitated.
“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron. “See these guns? Twelve men die if you
make any fuss. You steal my cattle. You cannot stop your young men. The
Piegans need a new Chief. If this man is no thief he will be back again
in a few days. The Inspector speaks truth. You know he never lies.”
Still Trotting Wolf stood irresolute. The Indians began to shuffle and
crowd nearer.
“Trotting Wolf,” said the Inspector sharply, “tell your men that the
first man that steps beyond that poplar-tree dies. That is my word.”
The Chief spoke to the crowd. There was a hoarse guttural murmur in
response, but those nearest to the tree backed away from it. They knew
the Police never showed a gun except when prepared to use it. For
years they had been accustomed to the administration of justice and the
enforcement of law at the hands of the North West Mounted Police, and
among the traditions of that Force the Indians had learned to accept two
as absolutely settled: the first, that they never failed to get the man
they wanted; the second, that their administration of law was marked
by the most rigid justice. It was Chief Onawata himself that found the
solution.
“Me no thief. Me no steal horse. Me Big Chief. Me go to your Fort. My
heart clean. Me see your Big Chief.” He uttered these words with an air
of quiet but impressive dignity.
“That's sensible,” said the Inspector, moving toward him. “You will get
full justice. Come along!”
“I go see my boy. My boy sick.” His voice became low, soft, almost
tremulous.
“Certainly,” said Cameron. “Go in and see the lad. And we will see that
you get fair play.”
“Good!” said the Indian, and, turning on his heel, he passed into the
teepee where his boy lay.
Through the teepee wall their voices could be heard in quiet
conversation. In a few minutes the old squaw passed out on an errand and
then in again, eying the Inspector as she passed with malevolent hate.
Again she passed out, this time bowed down under a load of blankets and
articles of Indian household furniture, and returned no more. Still the
conversation within the teepee continued, the boy's voice now and again
rising high, clear, the other replying in low, even, deep tones.
“I will just get my horse, Inspector,” said Cameron, making his way
through the group of Indians to where Ginger was standing with sad and
drooping head.
“Time's up, I should say,” said the Inspector to Cameron as he returned
with his horse. “Just give him a call, will you?”
Cameron stepped to the door of the teepee.
“Come along, Chief, we must be going,” he said, putting his head inside
the teepee door. “Hello!” he cried, “Where the deuce--where is he gone?”
He sprang quickly out of the teepee. “Has he passed out?”
“Passed out?” said the Inspector. “No. Is he not inside?”
“He's not here.”
Both men rushed into the teepee. On the couch the boy still lay, his
eyes brilliant with fever but more with hate. At the foot of the couch
still crouched the old crone, but there was no sign of the Chief.
“Get up!” said the Inspector to the old squaw, turning the blankets and
skins upside down.
“Hee! hee!” she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he
passed.
“Did no one enter?” asked Cameron.
“Not a soul.”
“Nor go out?”
“No one except the old squaw here. I saw her go out with a pack.”
“With a pack!” echoed Cameron. And the two men stood looking at each
other. “By Jove!” said Cameron in deep disgust, “We're done. He is
rightly named Copperhead. Quick!” he cried, “Let us search this camp,
though it's not much use.”
And so indeed it proved. Through every teepee they searched in hot
haste, tumbling out squalling squaws and papooses. But all in vain.
Copperhead had as completely disappeared as if he had vanished into thin
air. With faces stolid and unmoved by a single gleam of satisfaction the
Indians watched their hurried search.
“We will take a turn around this camp,” said Cameron, swinging on to his
pony. “You hear me!” he continued, riding up close to Trotting Wolf, “We
haven't got our man but we will come back again. And listen carefully!
If I lose a single steer this fall I shall come and take you, Trotting
Wolf, to the Fort, if I have to bring you by the hair of the head.”
But Trotting Wolf only shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“No see cow.”
“Is there any use taking a look around this camp?” said the Inspector.
“What else can we do?” said Cameron. “We might as well. There is a faint
chance we might come across a trace.”
But no trace did they find, though they spent an hour and more in close
and minute scrutiny of the ground about the camp and the trails leading
out from it.
“Where now?” inquired the Inspector.
“Home for me,” said Cameron. “To-morrow to Calgary. Next week I take up
this trail. You may as well come along with me, Inspector. We can talk
things over as we go.”
They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve
toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau
above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein
with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his
knee examining a fresh track.
“A pony-track, by all that's holy! And within an hour. It is our man,”
he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and
out on to the plateau. “It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this
trail.”
For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt
to cover them. The rider was evidently pushing hard.
“Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot
Reserve by way of your ranch.”
“My ranch!” cried Cameron. “My God! Look there!”
As he spoke the ginger-colored broncho leaped into a gallop. Five miles
away a thin column of smoke could be seen rising up into the air. Every
mile made it clearer to Cameron that the smoke rising from behind the
round-topped hill before him was from his ranch-buildings, and every
mile intensified his anxiety. His wife was alone on the ranch at the
mercy of that fiend. That was the agonizing thought that tore at his
heart as his panting broncho pounded along the trail. From the top
of the hill overlooking the ranch a mile away his eye swept the scene
below, swiftly taking in the details. The ranch-house was in flames and
burning fiercely. The stables were untouched. A horse stood tied to
the corral and two figures were hurrying to and fro about the blazing
building. As they neared the scene it became clear that one of the
figures was that of a woman.
“Mandy!” he shouted from afar. “Mandy, thank God it's you!”
But they were too absorbed in their business of fighting the fire. They
neither heard nor saw him till he flung himself off his broncho at their
side.
“Oh, thank God, Mandy!” he panted, “you are safe.” He gathered her into
his arms.
“Oh, Allan, I am so sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry? Why?”
“Our beautiful house!”
“House?”
“And all our beautiful things!”
“Things!” He laughed aloud. “House and things! Why, Mandy, I have YOU
safe. What else matters?” Again he laughed aloud, holding her off from
him at arm's length and gazing at her grimy face. “Mandy,” he said, “I
believe you are improving every day in your appearance, but you never
looked so stunning as this blessed minute.” Again he laughed aloud. He
was white and trembling.
“But the house, Allan!”
“Oh, yes, by the way,” he said, “the house. And who's the Johnny
carrying water there?”
“Oh, I quite forgot. That's Thatcher's new man.”
“Rather wobbly about the knees, isn't he?” cried Cameron. “By Jove,
Mandy! I feared I should never see you again,” he said in a voice that
trembled and broke. “And what's the chap's name?” he inquired.
“Smith, I think,” said Mandy.
“Smith? Fine fellow! Most useful name!” cried Cameron.
“What's the matter, Allan?”
“The matter? Nothing now, Mandy. Nothing matters. I was afraid that--but
no matter. Hello, here's the Inspector!”
“Dear Mrs. Cameron,” cried the Inspector, taking both her hands in his,
“I'm awfully glad there's nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong? Look at that house!”
“Oh, yes, awfully sorry. But we were afraid--of that--eh--that is--”
“Yes, Mandy,” said her husband, making visible efforts to control his
voice, “we frankly were afraid that that old devil Copperhead had come
this way and--”
“He did!” cried Mandy.
“What?”
“He did. Oh, Allan, I was going to tell you just as the Inspector came,
and I am so sorry. When you left I wanted to help. I was afraid of what
all those Indians might do to you, so I thought I would ride up the
trail a bit. I got near to where it branches off toward the Reserve near
by those pine trees. There I saw a man come tearing along on a pony. It
was this Indian. I drew aside. He was just going past when he glanced at
me. He stopped and came rushing at me, waving a pistol in his hand. Oh,
such a face! I wonder I ever thought him fine-looking. He caught me by
the arm. I thought his fingers would break the bone. Look!” She pulled
up her sleeve, and upon the firm brown flesh blue and red finger marks
could be seen. “He caught me and shook me and fairly yelled at me, 'You
save my boy once. Me save you to-day. Next time me see your man me kill
him.' He flung me away from him and nearly off my horse--such eyes! such
a face!--and went galloping off down the trail. I feared I was going to
be ill, so I came on homeward. When I reached the top of the hill I saw
the smoke and by the time I arrived the house was blazing and Smith was
carrying water to put out the fire where it had caught upon the smoke
house and stables.”
The men listened to her story with tense white faces. When she had
finished Cameron said quietly:
“Mandy, roll me up some grub in a blanket.”
“Where are you going, Allan?” her face pale as his own.
“Going? To get my hands on that Indian's throat.”
“But not now?”
“Yes, now,” he said, moving toward his horse.
“What about me, Allan?”
The word arrested him as if a hand had gripped him.
“You,” he said in a dazed manner. “Why, Mandy, of course, there's you.
He might have killed you.” Then, shaking his shoulders as if throwing
off a load, he said impatiently, “Oh, I am a fool. That devil has sent
me off my head. I tell you what, Mandy, we will feed first, then we will
make new plans.”
“And there is Moira, too,” said Mandy.
“Yes, there is Moira. We will plan for her too. After all,”
he continued, with a slight laugh and with slow deliberation,
“there's--lots--of time--to--get him!”
CHAPTER VII
THE SARCEE CAMP
The sun had reached the peaks of the Rockies far in the west, touching
their white with red, and all the lesser peaks and all the rounded
hills between with great splashes of gold and blue and purple. It is the
sunset and the sunrise that make the foothill country a world of mystery
and of beauty, a world to dream about and long for in later days.
Through this mystic world of gold and blue and purple drove Cameron and
his wife, on their way to the little town of Calgary, three days after
the ruthless burning of their home. As the sun dipped behind the western
peaks they reached the crossing of the Elbow and entered the wide Bow
Valley, upon whose level plain was situated the busy, ambitious and
would-be wicked little pioneer town. The town and plain lay bathed in
a soft haze of rosy purple that lent a kind of Oriental splendor to
the tawdry, unsightly cluster of shacks that sprawled here and there in
irregular bunches on the prairie.
“What a picture it makes!” cried Mandy. “How wonderful this great plain
with its encircling rivers, those hills with the great peaks beyond!
What a site for a town!”
“There is no finer,” replied her husband, “anywhere in the world that I
know, unless it be that of 'Auld Reekie.'”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning!” he echoed indignantly. “What else but the finest of all the
capitals of Europe?”
“London?” inquired Mandy.
“London!” echoed her husband contemptuously. “You ignorant Colonial!
Edinburgh, of course. But this is perfectly splendid,” he continued. “I
never get used to the wonder of Calgary. You see that deep cut between
those peaks in the far west? That is where 'The Gap' lies, through which
the Bow flows toward us. A great site this for a great town some day.
But you ought to see these peaks in the morning with the sunlight coming
up from the east across the foothills and falling upon them. Whoa,
there! Steady, Pepper!” he cried to the broncho, which owed its name to
the speckled appearance of its hide, and which at the present moment
was plunging and kicking at a dog that had rushed out from an Indian
encampment close by the trail. “Did you never see an Indian dog before?”
“Oh, Allan,” cried Mandy with a shudder, “do you know I can't bear to
look at an Indian since last week, and I used to like them.”
“Hardly fair, though, to blame the whole race for the deviltry of one
specimen.”
“I know that, but--”
“This is a Sarcee camp, I fancy. They are a cunning lot and not the most
reliable of the Indians. Let me see--three--four teepees. Ought to be
fifteen or twenty in that camp. Only squaws about. The braves apparently
are in town painting things up a bit.”
A quarter of a mile past the Indian encampment the trail made a sharp
turn into what appeared to be the beginning of the main street of the
town.
“By Jove!” cried Cameron. “Here they come. Sit tight, Mandy.” He pointed
with his whip down the trail to what seemed to be a rolling cloud of
dust, vocal with wild whoops and animated with plunging figures of men
and ponies.
“Steady, there, boys! Get on!” cried Cameron to his plunging, jibing
bronchos, who were evidently unwilling to face that rolling cloud of
dust with its mass of shrieking men and galloping ponies thundering down
upon them. Swift and fierce upon their flanks fell the hissing lash.
“Stand up to them, you beggars!” he shouted to his bronchos, which
seemed intent upon turning tail and joining the approaching cavalcade.
“Hie, there! Hello! Look out!” he yelled, standing up in his wagon,
waving his whip and holding his bronchos steadily on the trail. The
next moment the dust cloud enveloped them and the thundering cavalcade,
parting, surged by on either side. Cameron was wild with rage.
“Infernal cheeky brutes!” he cried. “For two shillings I'd go back and
break some of their necks. Ride me down, would they?” he continued,
grinding his teeth in fury.
He pulled up his bronchos with half a mind to turn them about and pursue
the flying Indians. His experience and training with the Mounted Police
made it difficult for him to accept with equal mind what he called the
infernal cheek of a bunch of Indians. At the entreaties of his wife,
however, he hesitated in carrying his purpose into effect.
“Let them go,” said Mandy. “They didn't hurt us, after all.”
“Didn't? No thanks to them. They might have killed you. Well, I shall
see about this later.” He gave his excited bronchos their head and
sailed into town, drawing up in magnificent style at the Royal Hotel.
An attendant in cowboy garb came lounging up.
“Hello, Billy!” cried Cameron. “Still blooming?”
“Sure! And rosebuds ain't in it with you, Colonel.” Billy was from the
land of colonels. “You've got a whole garden with you this trip, eh?”
“My wife, Billy,” replied Cameron, presenting her.
Billy pulled off his Stetson.
“Proud to meet you, madam. Hope I see you well and happy.”
“Yes, indeed, well and happy,” cried Mandy emphatically.
“Sure thing, if looks mean anything,” said Billy, admiration glowing in
his eyes.
“Take the horses, Billy. They have come a hundred and fifty miles.”
“Hundred and fifty, eh? They don't look it. But I'll take care of 'em
all right. You go right in.”
“I shall be back presently, Billy,” said Cameron, passing into the dingy
sitting-room that opened off the bar.
In a few minutes he had his wife settled in a frowsy little eight-by-ten
bedroom, the best the hotel afforded, and departed to attend to his
team, make arrangements for supper and inquire about the incoming train.
The train he found to be three hours late. His team he found in the
capable hands of Billy, who was unharnessing and rubbing them down.
While ordering his supper a hand gripped his shoulder and a voice
shouted in his ear:
“Hello, old sport! How goes it?”
“Martin, old boy!” shouted Cameron in reply. “It's awfully good to see
you. How did you get here? Oh, yes, of course, I remember. You left the
construction camp and came here to settle down.” All the while Cameron
was speaking he was shaking his friend's hand with both of his. “By
Jove, but you're fit!” he continued, running his eye over the slight but
athletic figure of his friend.
“Fit! Never fitter, not even in the old days when I used to pass the
pigskin to you out of the scrimmage. But you? You're hardly up to the
mark.” The keen gray eyes searched Cameron's face. “What's up with you?”
“Oh, nothing. A little extra work and a little worry, but I'll tell you
later.”
“Well, what are you on to now?” inquired Martin.
“Ordering our supper. We've just come in from a hundred and fifty miles'
drive.”
“Supper? Your wife here too? Glory! It's up to me, old boy! Look here,
Connolly,” he turned to the proprietor behind the bar, “a bang-up supper
for three. All the season's delicacies and all the courses in order. As
you love me, Connolly, do us your prettiest. And soon, awfully soon. A
hundred and fifty miles, remember. Now, then, how's my old nurse?” he
continued, turning back to Cameron. “She was my nurse, remember, till
you came and stole her.”
“She was, eh? Ask her,” laughed Cameron. “But she will be glad to see
you. Where's MY nurse, then, my little nurse, who saw me through a fever
and a broken leg?”
“Oh, she's up in the mountains still, in the construction camp. I
proposed to bring her down here with me, but there was a riot. I barely
escaped. If ever she gets out from that camp it will be when they are
all asleep or when she is in a box car.”
“Come along, then,” cried Cameron. “I have much to tell you, and my wife
will be glad to see you. My sister comes in by No. 1, do you know?”
“Your sister? By No. 1? You don't say! Why, I never thought your
sister--by No. 1, eh?”
“Yes, by No. 1.”
“Say, Doc,” said the hotel man, breaking into the conversation. “There's
a bunch of 'em comin' in, ain't there? Who's the lady you was expectin'
yourself on No. 1?”
“Lady?” said Cameron. “What's this, Martin?”
“Me? Wake up, Connolly, you're walking in your sleep,” violently
signaling to the hotel man.
“Oh, it won't do, Martin,” said Cameron with grave concern. “You may
as well own up. Who is it? Come. By Jove! What? A blush? And on that
asbestos cheek? Something here, sure enough.”
“Oh, rot, Cameron! Connolly is a well-known somnambulist.”
“Sure thing!” said Connolly. “Is it catchin,' for I guess you had the
same thing last night?”
“Connolly, you've gone batty! You need a nurse.”
“A nurse? Maybe so. Maybe so. But I guess you've got to the point where
you need a preacher. Ha! ha! Got you that time, Doc!” laughed the hotel
man, winking at Cameron.
“Oh, let it out, Martin. You'll feel better afterward. Who is it?”
“Cameron, so help me! Connolly is an infernal ass. He's batty, I tell
you. I'm treating him for it right now.”
“All right,” said Cameron, “never mind. I shall run up and tell my wife
you are here. Wait for me,” he cried, as he ran up the stairs.
“Connolly, you fool! I'll knock your wooden block off!” said the doctor
in a fury.
“But, Doc, you did say--”
“Oh, confound you! Shut up! It was--”
“But you did say--”
“Will you shut up?”
“Certain, sure I'll shut up. But you said--”
“Look here!” broke in the doctor impatiently. “He'll be down in a
minute. I don't want him to know.”
“Aw, Doc, cut it out! He ain't no Lady Clara.”
“Connolly, close that trap of yours and listen to me. This is serious.
He'll be back in a jiffy. It's the same lady as he is going to meet.”
“Same lady? But she's his sister.”
“Yes, of course, you idiot! She's his sister. And now you've queered me
with him and he will think--”
“Aw, Doc, let me be. I'll straighten that tangle out.”
“Sh-h! Here he is. Not a word, on your life!”
“Aw, get out!” replied Connolly with generous enthusiasm. “I don't leave
no pard of mine in a hole. Say,” he cried, turning to Cameron, “about
that lady. Ha! ha!”
“Shut your ugly mug!” said the doctor savagely.
“It's the same lady. Ha! ha! Good joke, eh, Sergeant?”
“Same lady?” echoed Cameron.
“Sure, same lady.”
“What does he mean, Martin?”
“The man's drunk, Cameron. He got a permit last week and he hasn't been
sober for a day since.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Connolly again. “Wish I had a chance.”
“But the lady?” said Cameron, looking at his friend suspiciously. “And
these blushes?”
“Oh, well, hang it!” said Martin. “I suppose I might as well tell you.
I found out that your sister was to be in on this train, and in case you
should not turn up I told Connolly here to have a room ready.”
“Oh,” said Cameron, with his eyes upon his friend's face. “You found
out? And how did you find out that Moira was coming?”
“Well,” said Martin, his face growing hotter with every word of
explanation, “you have a wife and we have a mutual friend in our little
nurse, and that's how I learned. And so I thought I'd be on hand
anyway. You remember I met your sister up at your Highland home with the
unpronounceable name.”
“Ah, yes! Cuagh Oir. Dear old spot!” said Cameron reminiscently. “Moira
will be heart broken every day when she sees the Big Horn Ranch, I'm
afraid. But here comes Mandy.”
The meeting between the doctor and Cameron's wife was like that between
old comrades in arms, as indeed they had been through many a hard fight
with disease, accident and death during the construction days along the
line of the Canadian Pacific Railway through the Rocky Mountains.
A jolly hour they had together at supper, exchanging news and retailing
the latest jokes. And then Cameron told his friend the story of old
Copperhead and of the task laid upon him by Superintendent Strong.
Martin listened in grave silence till the tale was done, then said with
quiet gravity:
“Cameron, this is a serious business. Why! It's--it's terrible.”
“Yes,” replied Mandy quickly, “but you can see that he must do it. We
have quite settled that. You see there are the women and children.”
“And is there no one else? Surely--”
“No, there is no one else quite so fit to do it,” said Mandy.
“By Jove, you're a wonder!” cried Martin, his face lighting up with
sudden enthusiasm.
“Not much of a wonder,” she replied, a quick tremor in her voice. “Not
much of a wonder, I'm afraid. But how could I keep him? I couldn't keep
him, could I,” she said, “if his country needs him?”
The doctor glanced at her face with its appealing deep blue eyes.
“No, by Jove! You couldn't keep him, not you.”
“Now, Mandy,” said Cameron, “you must upstairs and to bed.” He read
aright the signs upon her face. “You are tired and you will need all the
sleep you can get. Wait for me, Martin, I'll be down in a few moments.”
When they reached their room Cameron turned and took his wife in his
arms.
“Mandy! as Martin says, you are wonderful. You are a brave woman. You
have nerve enough for both of us, and you will need to have nerve for
both, for how I am going to leave you I know not. But now you must to
bed. I have a little business to attend to.”
“Business?” inquired his wife.
“Yes. Oh, I won't try to hide it from you, Mandy. It's 'The Big
Business.' We are--Dr. Martin and I--going up to the Barracks.
Superintendent Strong has come down for a consultation.” He paused and
looked into his wife's face. “I must go, dear.”
“Yes, yes, I know, Allan. You must go. But--do you know--it's foolish
to say it, but as those Indians passed us I fancied I saw the face of
Copperhead.”
“Hardly, I fancy,” said her husband with a laugh. “He'd know better than
run into this town in open day just now. All Indians will look to you
like old Copperhead for a while.”
“It may be so. I fancy I'm a little nervous. But come back soon.”
“You may be sure of that, sweetheart. Meantime sleep well.”
The little town of Calgary stands on one of the most beautiful
town-sites in all the world. A great plain with ramparts of hills on
every side, encircled by the twin mountain rivers, the Bow and the
Elbow, overlooked by rolling hills and far away to the west by the
mighty peaks of the Rockies, it holds at once ample space and unusual
picturesque beauty. The little town itself was just emerging from its
early days as a railway construction-camp and was beginning to develop
ambitions toward a well-ordered business activity and social stability.
It was an all-night town, for the simple and sufficient reason that its
communications with the world lying to the east and to the west began
with the arrival of No. 2 at half-past twelve at night and No. 1 at
five o'clock next morning. Few of its citizens thought it worth while
to settle down for the night until after the departure of No. 2 on its
westward journey.
Through this “all-night” little town Cameron and the doctor took their
way. The sidewalks were still thronged, the stores still doing business,
the restaurants, hotels, pool-rooms all wide open. It kept
Sergeant Crisp busy enough running out the “tin-horn” gamblers and
whisky-peddlers, keeping guard over the fresh and innocent lambs
that strayed in from the East and across from the old land ready for
shearing, and preserving law and order in this hustling frontier town.
Money was still easy in the town, and had Sergeant Crisp been minded
for the mere closing of his eyes or turning of his back upon occasion he
might have retired early from the Force with a competency. Unhappily for
Sergeant Crisp, however, there stood in the pathway of his fortune the
awkward fact of his conscience and his oath of service. Consequently
he was forced to grub along upon the munificent bounty of the daily pay
with which Her Majesty awarded the faithful service of the non-coms.
in her North West Mounted Police Force. And indeed through all the wide
reaches of that great West land during those pioneer days and among all
the officers of that gallant force no record can be found of an officer
who counted fortune dearer than honor.
Through this wide awake, wicked, but well-watched little town Cameron
with his friend made his way westward toward the Barracks to keep his
appointment with his former Chief, Superintendent Strong. The Barracks
stood upon the prairie about half a mile distant from the town. They
found Superintendent Strong fuming with impatience, which he controlled
with difficulty while Cameron presented his friend.
“Well, Cameron, you've come at last,” was his salutation when the
introduction was completed. “When did you get into town? I have been
waiting all day to see you. Where have you been?”
“Arrived an hour ago,” said Cameron shortly, for he did not half like
the Superintendent's brusque manner. “The trail was heavy owing to the
rain day before yesterday.”
“When did you leave the ranch?” inquired Sergeant Crisp.
“Yesterday morning,” said Cameron. “The colts were green and I couldn't
send them along.”
“Yesterday morning!” exclaimed Sergeant Crisp. “You needn't apologize
for the colts, Cameron.”
“I wasn't apologizing for anybody or anything. I was making a statement
of fact,” replied Cameron curtly.
“Ah, yes, very good going, Cameron. Very good going, indeed, I should
say,” said the Superintendent, conscious of his own brusqueness and
anxious to appease. “Did Mrs. Cameron come with you?”
“She did.”
“Indeed. That is a long drive for a lady to make, Cameron. Too long a
drive, I should say. I hope she is quite well, not--eh--over-fatigued?”
“She is quite well, thank you.”
“Well, she is an old campaigner,” said the Superintendent with a smile,
“and not easily knocked up if I remember her aright. But I ought to
say, Cameron, how very deeply I appreciate your very fine--indeed very
handsome conduct in volunteering to come to our assistance in this
matter. Very handsome indeed I call it. It will have a good effect upon
the community. I appreciate the sacrifice. The Commissioner and the
whole Force will appreciate it. But,” he added, as if to himself,
“before we are through with this business I fear there will be more
sacrifice demanded from all of us. I trust none of us will be found
wanting.” The Superintendent's voice was unduly solemn, his manner
almost somber. Cameron was impressed with this manifestation of feeling
so unusual with the Superintendent.
“Any more news, sir?” he inquired.
“Yes, every post brings news of seditious meetings up north along the
Saskatchewan and of indifference on the part of the Government. And
further, I have the most conclusive evidence that our Indians are being
tampered with, and successfully too. There is no reason to doubt that
the head chiefs have been approached and that many of the minor chiefs
are listening to the proposals of Riel and his half-breeds. But you
have some news to give, I understand? Dickson said you would give me
particulars.”
Thereupon Cameron briefly related the incidents in connection with the
attempted arrest of the Sioux Chief, and closed with a brief account of
the burning of his home.
“That is most daring, most serious,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “But
you are quite certain that it was the Sioux that was responsible for the
outrage?”
“Well,” said Cameron, “he met my wife on a trail five miles away,
threatened her, and--”
“Good God, Cameron! Threatened your wife?”
“Yes, nearly flung her off her horse,” replied Cameron, his voice quiet
and even, but his eyes glowing like fires in his white face.
“Flung her off her horse? But--he didn't injure her?” replied the
Superintendent.
“Only that he terrified her with his threats and then went on toward the
house, which he left in flames.”
“My God, Cameron!” said the Superintendent, rising in his excitement.
“This is really terrible. You must have suffered awful anxiety. I
apologize for my abrupt manner a moment ago,” he added, offering his
hand. “I'm awfully sorry.”
“It's all right, Superintendent,” replied Cameron. “I'm afraid I am a
little upset myself.”
“But what a God's mercy she escaped! How came that, I wonder?”
Then Cameron told the story of the rescue of the Indian boy.
“That undoubtedly explains it,” exclaimed the Superintendent. “That
was a most fortunate affair. Do an Indian a good turn and he will never
forget it. I shudder to think of what might have happened, for I assure
you that this Copperhead will stick at nothing. We have an unusually
able man to deal with, and we shall put our whole Force on this business
of arresting this man. Have you any suggestions yourself?”
“No,” said Cameron, “except that it would appear to be a mistake to give
any sign that we were very specially anxious to get him just now. So
far we have not shown our hand. Any concentrating of the Force upon his
capture would only arouse suspicion and defeat our aim, while my going
after him, no matter how keenly, will be accounted for on personal
grounds.”
“There is something in that, but do you think you can get him?”
“I am going to get him,” said Cameron quietly.
The superintendent glanced at his face.
“By Jove, I believe you will! But remember, you can count on me and on
my Force to a man any time and every time to back you up, and there's my
hand on it. And now, let's get at this thing. We have a cunning devil
to do with and he has gathered about him the very worst elements on the
reserves.”
Together they sat and made their plans till far on into the night. But
as a matter of fact they could make little progress. They knew well it
would be extremely difficult to discover their man. Owing to the state
of feeling throughout the reserves the source of information upon
which the Police ordinarily relied had suddenly dried up or become
untrustworthy. A marked change had come over the temper of the Indians.
While as yet they were apparently on friendly terms and guilty of no
open breach of the law, a sullen and suspicious aloofness marked the
bearing of the younger braves and even of some of the chiefs toward the
Police. Then, too, among the Piegans in the south and among the
Sarcees whose reserve was in the neighborhood of Calgary an epidemic
of cattle-stealing had broken out and the Police were finding it
increasingly difficult to bring the criminals to justice. Hence with
this large increase in crime and with the changed attitude and temper of
the Indians toward the Police, such an amount of additional patrol-work
was necessary that the Police had almost reached the limit of their
endurance.
“In fact, we have really a difficult proposition before us, short-handed
as we are,” said the Superintendent as they closed their interview.
“Indeed, if things become much worse we may find it necessary to
organize the settlers as Home Guards. An outbreak on the Saskatchewan
might produce at any moment the most serious results here and in British
Columbia. Meantime, while we stand ready to help all we can, it looks to
me, Cameron, that you are right and that in this business you must go it
alone pretty much.”
“I realize that, sir,” replied Cameron. “But first I must get my house
built and things in shape, then I hope to take this up.”
“Most certainly,” replied the Superintendent. “Take a month. He can't do
much more harm in a month, and meantime we shall do our utmost to obtain
information and we shall keep you informed of anything we discover.”
The Superintendent and Sergeant accompanied Cameron and his friend to
the door.
“It is a black night,” said Sergeant Crisp. “I hope they're not running
any 'wet freight' in to-night.”
“It's a good night for it, Sergeant,” said Dr. Martin. “Do you expect
anything to come in?”
“I have heard rumors,” replied the Sergeant, “and there is a freight
train standing right there now which I have already gone through but
upon which it is worth while still to keep an eye.”
“Well, good-night,” said the Superintendent, shaking Cameron by
the hand. “Keep me posted and when within reach be sure and see me.
Good-night, Dr. Martin. We may want you too before long.”
“All right, sir, you have only to say the word.”
The night was so black that the trail which in the daylight was worn
smooth and plainly visible was quite blotted out. The light from the
Indian camp fire, which was blazing brightly a hundred yards away,
helped them to keep their general direction.
“For a proper black night commend me to the prairie,” said the doctor.
“It is the dead level does it, I believe. There is nothing to cast a
reflection or a shadow.”
“It will be better in a few minutes,” said Cameron, “when we get our
night sight.”
“You are off the trail a bit, I think,” said the doctor.
“Yes, I know. I am hitting toward the fire. The light makes it better
going that way.”
“I say, that chap appears to be going some. Quite a song and dance he's
giving them,” said the doctor, pointing to an Indian who in the full
light of the camp fire was standing erect and, with hand outstretched,
was declaiming to the others, who, kneeling or squatting about the fire,
were giving him rapt attention. The erect figure and outstretched arm
arrested Cameron. A haunting sense of familiarity floated across his
memory.
“Let's go nearer,” he said, “and quietly.”
With extreme caution they made about two-thirds of the distance when a
howl from an Indian dog revealed their presence. At once the speaker
who had been standing in the firelight sank crouching to the ground.
Instantly Cameron ran forward a few swift steps and, like a hound upon
a deer, leapt across the fire and fair upon the crouching Indian, crying
“Call the Police, Martin!”
With a loud cry of “Police! Police! Help here!” Martin sprang into the
middle of an excited group of Indians. Two of them threw themselves
upon him, but with a hard right and left he laid them low and, seizing
a stick of wood, sprang toward two others who were seeking to batter the
life out of Cameron as he lay gripping his enemy by the throat with one
hand and with the other by the wrist to check a knife thrust. Swinging
his stick around his head and repeating his cry for help, Martin made
Cameron's assailants give back a space and before they could renew the
attack Sergeant Crisp burst open the door of the Barracks, and, followed
by a Slim young constable and the Superintendent, came rushing with
shouts upon the scene. Immediately upon the approach of the Police the
Indians ceased the fight and all that could faded out of the light into
the black night around them, while the Indian who continued to struggle
with incredible fury to free himself from Cameron's grip suddenly became
limp and motionless.
“Now, what's all this?” demanded the Sergeant. “Why, it's you, doctor,
and where--? You don't mean that's Cameron there? Hello, Cameron!” he
said, leaning over him. “Let go! He's safe enough. We've got him all
right. Let go! By Jove! Are they both dead?”
Here the Superintendent came up. The incidents leading up to the present
situation were briefly described by the doctor.
“I can't get this fellow free,” said the Sergeant, who was working hard
to release the Indian's throat from the gripping fingers. He turned
Cameron over on his back. He was quite insensible. Blood was pouring
from his mouth and nose, but his fingers like steel clamps were gripping
the wrist and throat of his foe. The Indian lay like dead.
“Good Lord, doctor! What shall we do?” cried the Superintendent. “Is he
dead?”
“No,” said Martin, with his hand upon Cameron's heart. “Bring water.
You can't loosen his fingers till he revives. The blow that knocked him
senseless set those fingers as they are and they will stay set thus till
released by returning consciousness.”
“Here then, get water quick!” shouted the Superintendent to the slim
young constable.
Gradually as the water was splashed upon his face Cameron came back to
life and, relaxing his fingers, stretched himself with a sigh as of vast
relief and lay still.
“Here, take that, you beast!” cried the Sergeant, dashing the rest of
the water into the face of the Indian lying rigid and motionless on the
ground. A long shudder ran through the Indian's limbs. Clutching at
his throat with both hands, he raised himself to a sitting posture, his
breath coming in raucous gasps, glared wildly upon the group, then sank
back upon the ground, rolled over upon his side and lay twitching and
breathing heavily, unheeded by the doctor and Police who were working
hard over Cameron.
“No bones broken, I think,” said the doctor, feeling the battered head.
“Here's where the blow fell that knocked him out,” pointing to a ridge
that ran along the side of Cameron's head. “A little lower, a little
more to the front and he would never have moved. Let's get him in.”
Cameron opened his eyes, struggled to speak and sank back again.
“Don't stir, old chap. You're all right. Don't move for a bit. Could you
get a little brandy, Sergeant?”
Again the slim young constable rushed toward the Barracks and in a few
moments returned with the spirits. After taking a sip of the brandy
Cameron again opened his eyes and managed to say “Don't--”
“All right, old chap,” said the doctor. “We won't move you yet. Just lie
still a bit.” But as once more Cameron opened his eyes the agony of the
appeal in them aroused the doctor's attention. “Something wrong, eh?” he
said. “Are you in pain, old boy?”
The appealing eyes closed, then, opening again, turned toward the
Superintendent.
“Copperhead,” he whispered.
“What do you say?” said the Superintendent kneeling down.
Once more with painful effort Cameron managed to utter the word
“Copperhead.”
“Copperhead!” ejaculated the Superintendent in a low tense voice,
springing to his feet and turning toward the unconscious Indian. “He's
gone!” he cried with a great oath. “He's gone! Sergeant Crisp!” he
shouted, “Call out the whole Force! Surround this camp and hold every
Indian. Search every teepee for this fellow who was lying here. Quick!
Quick!” Leaving Cameron to the doctor, who in a few minutes became
satisfied that no serious injury had been sustained, he joined in the
search with fierce energy. The teepees were searched, the squaws and
papooses were ruthlessly bundled out from their slumbers and with the
Indians were huddled into the Barracks. But of the Sioux Chief there was
no sign. He had utterly vanished. The black prairie had engulfed him.
But the Police had their own methods. Within a quarter of an hour half
a dozen mounted constables were riding off in different directions to
cover the main trails leading to the Indian reserves and to sweep a wide
circle about the town.
“They will surely get him,” said Dr. Martin confidently.
“Not much chance of it,” growled Cameron, to whom with returning
consciousness had come the bitter knowledge of the escape of the man
he had come to regard as his mortal enemy. “I had him fast enough,” he
groaned, “in spite of the best he could do, and I would have choked his
life out had it not been for these other devils.”
“They certainly jumped in savagely,” said Martin. “In fact I cannot
understand how they got at the thing so quickly.”
“Didn't you hear him call?” said Cameron. “It was his call that did it.
Something he said turned them into devils. They were bound to do for me.
I never saw Indians act like that.”
“Yes, I heard that call, and it mighty near did the trick for you. Thank
Heaven your thick Hielan' skull saved you.”
“How did they let him go?” again groaned Cameron.
“How? Because he was too swift for us,” said the Superintendent, who had
come in, “and we too slow. I thought it was an ordinary Indian row,
you see, but I might have known that you would not have gone in in that
style without good reason. Who would think that this old devil should
have the impudence to camp right here under our nose? Where did he come
from anyway, do you suppose?”
“Been to the Blackfoot Reserve like enough and was on his way to the
Sarcees when he fell in with this little camp of theirs.”
“That's about it,” replied the Superintendent gloomily. “And to think
you had him fast and we let him go!”
The thought brought small comfort to any of them, least of all to
Cameron. In that vast foothill country with all the hidings of the hills
and hollows there was little chance that the Police would round up the
fugitive, and upon Cameron still lay the task of capturing this cunning
and resourceful foe.
“Never mind,” said Martin cheerily. “Three out, all out. You'll get him
next time.”
“I don't know about that. But I'll get him some time or he'll get me,”
replied Cameron as his face settled into grim lines. “Let's get back.”
“Are you quite fit?” inquired the Superintendent.
“Fit enough. Sore a bit in the head, but can navigate.”
“I can't tell you how disappointed and chagrined I feel. It isn't often
that my wits are so slow but--” The Superintendent's jaws here cut off
his speech with a snap. The one crime reckoned unpardonable in the men
under his own command was that of failure and his failure to capture old
Copperhead thus delivered into his hands galled him terribly.
“Well, good-night, Cameron,” said the Superintendent, looking out into
the black night. “We shall let you know to-morrow the result of our
scouting, though I don't expect much from it. He is much too clever to
be caught in the open in this country.”
“Perhaps he'll skidoo,” said Dr. Martin hopefully.
“No, he's not that kind,” replied the Superintendent. “You can't scare
him out. You have got to catch him or kill him.”
“I think you are right, sir,” said Cameron. “He will stay till his work
is done or till he is made to quit.”
“That is true, Cameron--till he is made to quit--and that's your job,”
said the Superintendent solemnly.
“Yes, that is my job, sir,” replied Cameron simply and with equal
solemnity. “I shall do my best.”
“We have every confidence in you, Cameron,” replied the Superintendent.
“Good-night,” he said again, shutting the door.
“Say, old man, this is too gruesome,” said Martin with fierce
impatience. “I can't see why it's up to you more than any other.”
“The Sun Dance Trail is the trail he must take to do his work. That was
my patrol last year--I know it best. God knows I don't want this--”
his breath came quick--“I am not afraid--but--but there's--We have been
together for such a little while, you know.” He could get no farther for
a moment or two, then added quietly, “But somehow I know--yes and she
knows--bless her brave heart--it is my job. I must stay with it.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE GIRL ON NO. 1.
By the time they had reached the hotel Cameron was glad enough to go to
his bed.
“You need not tell your wife, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“Tell her? Certainly!” said Cameron. “She is with me in this. I play
fair with her. Don't you fear, she is up to it.”
And so she was, and, though her face grew white as she listened to the
tale, never for a moment did her courage falter.
“Doctor, is Allan all right? Tell me,” she said, her big blue eyes
holding his in a steady gaze.
“Right enough, but he must have a long sleep. You must not let him stir
at five.”
“Then,” said Mandy, “I shall go to meet the train, Allan.”
“But you don't know Moira.”
“No, but I shall find her out.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Martin in a deprecating tone, “I know Miss
Cameron, but--”
“Of course you do,” cried Mandy. “Why, that is splendid! You will go
and Allan need not be disturbed. She will understand. Not a word, now,
Allan. We will look after this, the doctor and I, eh, Doctor?”
“Why--eh--yes--yes certainly, of course. Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” echoed Mandy briskly. “She will understand.”
And thus it was arranged. Under the influence of a powder left by Dr.
Martin, Cameron, after an hour's tossing, fell into a heavy sleep.
“I am so glad you are here,” said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in
upon her. “You are sure there is no injury?”
“No, nothing serious. Shock, that's all. A day's quiet will fix him up.”
“I am so thankful,” said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, “and I am
so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira.”
“You are not going to the train?” said the doctor.
“No, no, there is no need, and I don't like to leave him. Besides you
don't need me.”
“N-o-o, no, not at all--certainly not,” said the doctor with growing
confidence. “Good-night. I shall show her to her room.”
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much.
So glad you are here,” she added with a tremulous smile.
The doctor passed down the stairs.
“By Jove, she's a brick!” he said to himself. “She has about all she
can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what
about this thing? It's up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and
I'm scared--plain scared to death. She won't know me from a goat. Let's
see. I've got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I'll have a pipe to
start with.”
He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in
a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The
dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of
Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages,
moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny
loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue
of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified,
and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet,
in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the
little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he
pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and
the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the
golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.
“Oh, pshaw!” he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from
his pipe. “She has forgotten me. It was only one single day. But what a
day!”
He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that
day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country
stay. Not even the day when he stood to receive his parchment and the
special commendation of the Senatus and of his own professor for his
excellent work lived with him like that day in the Glen. Every detail of
the picture he could recall and ever in the foreground the maiden. With
deliberate purpose he settled himself in his chair and set himself to
fill in those fine and delicate touches that were necessary to make
perfect the foreground of his picture, the pale olive face with its
bewildering frame of golden waves and curls, the clear brown eyes, now
soft and tender, now flashing with wrath, and the voice with its soft
Highland cadence.
“By Jove, I'm dotty! Clean dotty! I'll make an ass of myself, sure
thing, when I see her to-day.” He sprang from his chair and shook
himself together. “Besides, she has forgotten all about me.” He looked
at his watch. It was twenty minutes to train-time. He opened the door
and looked out. The chill morning air struck him sharply in the face. He
turned quickly, snatched his overcoat from a nail in the hall and put it
on.
At this point Billy, who combined in his own person the offices of
ostler, porter and clerk, appeared, his lantern shining with a dim
yellow glare in the gray light of the dawn.
“No. 1 is about due, Doc,” he said.
“She is, eh? I say, Billy,” said the Doctor, “want to do something for
me?” He pushed a dollar at Billy over the counter.
“Name it, Doc, without further insult,” replied Billy, shoving the
dollar back with a lordly scorn.
“All right, Billy, you're a white little soul. Now listen. I want your
ladies' parlor aired.”
“Aired?” gasped Billy.
“Yes, open the windows. Put on a fire. I have a lady coming--I
have--that is--Sergeant Cameron's sister is coming--”
“Say no more,” said Billy with a wink. “I get you, Doc. But what about
the open window, Doc? It's rather cold.”
“Open it up and put on a fire. Those Old Country people are mad about
fresh air.”
“All right, Doc,” replied Billy with another knowing wink. “The best is
none too good for her, eh?”
“Look here, now, Billy--” the doctor's tone grew severe--“let's have no
nonsense. This is Sergeant Cameron's sister. He is knocked out, unable
to meet her. I am taking his place. Do you get me? Now be quick. If you
have any think juice in that block of yours turn it on.”
Billy twisted one ear as if turning a cock, and tapped his forehead with
his knuckles.
“Doc,” he said solemnly, “she's workin' like a watch, full jewel, patent
lever.”
“All right. Now get on to this. Sitting-room aired, good fire going,
windows open and a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee? Say, Doc, there ain't time. What about tea?”
“You know well enough, Billy, you haven't got any but that infernal
green stuff fit to tan the stomach of a brass monkey.”
“There's another can, Doc. I know where it is. Leave it to me.”
“All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old
Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?”
“Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly.
You keep her out a-viewin' the scenery for half an hour.”
“And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can't live without hot
water in the morning, those Old Country people.”
“Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like.”
“No, a pitcher will do.”
At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning
air.
“There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc--”
But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.
“Say, he's a sprinter,” said Billy to himself. “He ain't takin' no
chances on bein' late. Shouldn't be surprised if the Doc got there all
right.”
He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies' parlor. The air was
heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied
a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the
furniture in confusion. The ladies' parlor was perfectly familiar to
Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.
“Say, the Doc ain't fair. He's too swift in his movements,” he muttered
to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised
the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many
fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. “Say, the
Doc ain't fair,” he muttered again. “Them ashes ought to have been out
of there long ago.” This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as
there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet
it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending
accumulation of many days' neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He
was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the
train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid
and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and,
leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran
down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had
a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an
ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung
it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the
station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a
standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.
“Roy--al Ho--tel!” shouted Billy. “Best in town! All the comforts and
conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks!
That's all right, leave 'em to me. I'll get your baggage all right.”
He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.
“Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the
First Class. Say, Doc,” he added in a lower voice, coming near to the
doctor, “what's that behind you?”
The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black
dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat
with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o'
shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.
“I know you, Mr. Martin,” she said in a voice that indicated immense
relief.
“You?” he cried. “Is it you? And to think I didn't know you. And to
think you should remember me.”
“Remember! Well do I remember you--and that day in the Cuagh Oir--but
you have forgotten all about that day.” A little flush appeared on her
pale cheek.
“Forgotten?” cried Martin.
“But you didn't know me,” she added with a slight severity in her tone.
“I was not looking for you.”
“Not looking for me?” cried the girl. “Then who--?” She paused in a
sudden confusion, and with a little haughty lift of her head said,
“Where is Allan, my brother?”
But the doctor ignored her question. He was gazing at her in stupid
amazement.
“I was looking for a little girl,” he said, “in a blue serge dress and
tangled hair, brown, and all curls, with brown eyes and--”
“And you found a grown up woman with all the silly curls in their proper
place--much older--very much older. It is a habit we have in Scotland of
growing older.”
“Older?”
“Yes, older, and more sober and sensible--and plainer.”
“Plainer?” The doctor's mind was evidently not working with its usual
ease and swiftness, partly from amazement at the transformation that had
resulted in this tall slender young lady standing before him with
her stately air, and partly from rage at himself and his unutterable
stupidity.
“But you have not answered me,” said the girl, obviously taken aback at
the doctor's manner. “Where is my brother? He was to meet me. This is
Cal--gar--ry, is it not?”
“It's Calgary all right,” cried the doctor, glad to find in this fact a
solid resting place for his mind.
“And my brother? There is nothing wrong?” The alarm in her voice brought
him to himself.
“Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much.”
“Not much? Tell me at once, please.” With an imperious air the young
lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown
eyes.
“Well,” said the doctor in halting confusion, “you see, he met with an
accident.”
“An accident?” she cried. “You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin.
My brother is ill, or--”
“No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head,” said the doctor,
rendered desperate by her face.
“An Indian?” Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at
her heart, roused the doctor's professional instincts and banished his
confusion.
“He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was
better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet
you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered
to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day's rest, believe me,
will make him quite fit.” The doctor's manner was briskly professional
and helped to quiet the girl's alarm.
“Can I see him?” she asked.
“Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested.
Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron's checks. Look sharp.”
“Say, Doc,” said Billy in an undertone, “about that tea and toast--”
“What the deuce--?” said the doctor impatiently. “Oh, yes--all right!
Only look lively.”
“Keep her a-viewin' the scenery, Doc, a bit,” continued Billy under his
breath.
“Oh, get a move on, Billy! What are you monkeying about?” said the
doctor quite crossly. He was anxious to escape from a position that had
become intolerable to him. For months he had been looking forward to
this meeting and now he had bungled it. In the first place he had begun
by not knowing the girl who for three years and more had been in his
dreams day and night, then he had carried himself like a schoolboy
in her presence, and lastly had frightened her almost to death by his
clumsy announcement of her brother's accident. The young lady at his
side, with the quick intuition of her Celtic nature, felt his mood, and,
not knowing the cause, became politely distant.
On their walk to the hotel Dr. Martin pointed out the wonderful pearly
gray light stealing across the plain and beginning to brighten on the
tops of the rampart hills that surrounded the town.
“You will see the Rockies in an hour, Miss Cameron, in the far west
there,” he said. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.
“Ah, yes, how beautiful!” said the young lady. But her tone, too, was
lifeless.
Desperately the doctor strove to make conversation during their short
walk and with infinite relief did he welcome the appearance of Mandy at
her bedroom door waiting their approach.
“Your brother's wife, Miss Cameron,” said he.
For a single moment they stood searching each other's souls. Then by
some secret intuition known only to the female mind they reached a
conclusion, an entirely satisfactory conclusion, too, for at once they
were in each other's arms.
“You are Moira?” cried Mandy.
“Yes,” said the girl in an eager, tremulous voice. “And my brother? Is
he well?”
“Well? Of course he is--perfectly fine. He is sleeping now. We will not
wake him. He has had none too good a night.”
“No, no,” cried Moira, “don't wake him. Oh, I am so glad. You see, I was
afraid.”
“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” inquired Mandy, looking indignantly at
the doctor, who stood back, a picture of self condemnation.
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cameron, blame me. I deserve it all. I bungled the whole
thing this morning and frightened Miss Cameron nearly into a fit, for
no other reason than that I am all ass. Now I shall retire. Pray deal
gently with me. Good-by!” he added abruptly, lifted his hat and was
gone.
“What's the matter with him?” said Mandy, looking at her sister-in-law.
“I do not know, I am sure,” replied Moira indifferently. “Is there
anything the matter?”
“He is not like himself a bit. But come, my dear, take off your things.
As the doctor says, a sleep for a couple of hours will do you good.
After that you will see Allan. You are looking very weary, dear, and no
wonder, no wonder,” said Mandy, “with all that journey and--and all you
have gone through.” She gathered the girl into her strong arms. “My, I
could just pick you up like a babe!” She held her close and kissed her.
The caressing touch was too much for the girl. With a rush the tears
came.
“Och, oh,” she cried, lapsing into her Highland speech, “it iss
ashamed of myself I am, but no one has done that to me for many a day
since--since--my father--”
“There, there, you poor darling,” said Mandy, comforting her as if she
were a child, “you will not want for love here in this country. Cry
away, it will do you good.” There was a sound of feet on the stairs.
“Hush, hush, Billy is coming.” She swept the girl into her bedroom as
Billy appeared.
“Oh, I am just silly,” said Moira impatiently, as she wiped her eyes.
“But you are so good, and I will never be forgetting your kindness to me
this day.”
“Hot water,” said Billy, tapping at the door.
“Hot water! What for?” cried Mandy.
“For the young lady. The doctor said she was used to it.”
“The doctor? Well, that is very thoughtful. Do you want hot water,
Moira?”
“Yes, the very thing I do want to get the dust out of my eyes and the
grime off my face.”
“And the tea is in the ladies' parlor,” added Billy.
“Tea!” cried Mandy, “the very thing!”
“The doctor said tea and toast.”
“The doctor again!”
“Sure thing! Said they were all stuck on tea in the Old Country.”
“Oh, he did, eh? Will you have tea, Moira?”
“No tea, thank you. I shall lie down, I think, for a little.”
“All right, dear, we will see you at breakfast. Don't worry. I shall
call you.”
Again she kissed the girl and left her to sleep. She found Billy
standing in the ladies' parlor with a perplexed and disappointed look on
his face.
“The Doc said she'd sure want some tea,” he said.
“And you made the tea yourself?” inquired Mandy.
“Sure thing! The Doc--”
“Well, Billy, I'd just love a cup of tea if you don't mind wasting it on
me.”
“Sure thing, ma'm! The Doc won't mind, bein' as she turned it down.”
“Where is Dr. Martin gone, Billy? He needs a cup of tea; he's been up
all night. He must be feeling tough.”
“Judgin' by his langwidge I should surmise yes,” said Billy judicially.
“Would you get him, Billy, and bring him here?”
“Get him? S'pose I could. But as to bringin' him here, I'd prefer wild
cats myself. The last I seen of him he was hikin' for the Rockies with a
blue haze round his hair.”
“But what in the world is wrong with him, Billy?” said Mandy anxiously.
“I've never seen him this way.”
“No, nor me,” said Billy. “The Doc's a pretty level headed cuss. There's
somethin' workin' on him, if you ask me.”
“Billy, you get him and tell him we want to see him at breakfast, will
you?”
Billy shook his head.
“Tell him, Billy, I want him to see my husband then.”
“Sure thing! That'll catch him, I guess. He's dead stuck on his work.”
And it did catch him, for, after breakfast was over, clean-shaven, calm
and controlled, and in his very best professional style, Dr. Martin made
his morning call on his patient. Rigidly he eliminated from his manner
anything beyond a severe professional interest. Mandy, who for two years
had served with him as nurse, and who thought she knew his every mood,
was much perplexed. Do what she could, she was unable to break through
the barrier of his professional reserve. He was kindly courteous and
perfectly correct.
“I would suggest a quiet day for him, Mrs. Cameron,” was his verdict
after examining the patient. “He will be quite able to get up in the
afternoon and go about, but not to set off on a hundred and fifty mile
drive. A quiet day, sleep, cheerful company, such as you can furnish
here, will fix him up.”
“Doctor, we will secure the quiet day if you will furnish the cheerful
company,” said Mandy, beaming on him.
“I have a very busy day before me, and as for cheerful company, with you
two ladies he will have all the company that is good for him.”
“CHEERFUL company, you said, Doctor. If you desert us how can we be
cheerful?”
“Exactly for that reason,” replied the doctor.
“Say, Martin,” interposed Cameron, “take them out for a drive this
afternoon and leave me in peace.”
“A drive!” cried Mandy, “with one hundred and fifty miles behind me and
another hundred and fifty miles before me!”
“A ride then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you used to be fond of riding.”
“And am still,” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.
“A ride!” cried Mandy. “Great! This is the country for riding. But have
you a habit?”
“My habit is in one of my boxes,” replied Moira.
“I can get a habit,” said the doctor, “and two of them.”
“That's settled, then,” cried Mandy. “I am not very keen. We shall do
some shopping, Allan, you and I this afternoon and you two can go off
to the hills. The hills! th--ink of that, Moira, for a highlander!” She
glanced at Moira's face and read refusal there. “But I insist you must
go. A whole week in an awful stuffy train. This is the very thing for
you.”
“Yes, the very thing, Moira,” cried her brother. “We will have a long
talk this morning then in the afternoon we will do some business here,
Mandy and I, and you can go up the Bow.”
“The Bow?”
“The Bow River. A glorious ride. Nothing like it even in Scotland, and
that's saying a good deal,” said her brother with emphasis.
This arrangement appeared to give complete satisfaction to all parties
except those most immediately interested, but there seemed to be no very
sufficient reason with either to decline, hence they agreed.
CHAPTER IX
THE RIDE UP THE BOW
Having once agreed to the proposal of a ride up the Bow, the doctor
lost no time in making the necessary preparations. Half an hour later he
found himself in the stable consulting with Billy. His mood was gloomy
and his language reflected his mood. Gladly would he have escaped what
to him, he felt, would be a trying and prolonged ordeal. But he could
not do this without exciting the surprise of his friends and possibly
wounding the sensitive girl whom he would gladly give his life to serve.
He resolved that at all costs he would go through with the thing.
“I'll give her a good time, by Jingo! if I bust something,” he muttered
as he walked up and down the stable picking out his mounts. “But for a
compound, double-opposed, self-adjusting jackass, I'm your choice. Lost
my first chance. Threw it clean away and queered myself with her first
shot. I say, Billy,” he called, “come here.”
“What's up, Doc?” said Billy.
“Kick me, Billy,” said the doctor solemnly.
“Well now, Doc, I--”
“Kick me, Billy, good and swift.”
“Don't believe I could give no satisfaction, Doc. But there's that Hiram
mule, he's a high class artist. You might back up to him.”
“No use being kicked, Billy, by something that wouldn't appreciate it,”
said Martin.
“Don't guess that way, Doc. He's an ornery cuss, he'd appreciate it all
right, that old mule. But Doc, what's eatin' you?”
“Oh, nothing, Billy, except that I'm an ass, an infernal ass.”
“An ass, eh? Then I guess I couldn't give you no satisfaction. You
better try that mule.”
“Well, Billy, the horses at two,” said the doctor briskly, “the broncho
and that dandy little pinto.”
“All serene, Doc. Hope you'll have a good time. Brace up, Doc, it's
comin' to you.” Billy's wink conveyed infinitely more than his words.
“Look here, Billy, you cut that all out,” said the doctor.
“All right, Doc, if that's the way you feel. You'll see no monkey-work
on me. I'll make a preacher look like a sideshow.”
And truly Billy's manner was irreproachable as he stood with the ponies
at the hotel door and helped their riders to mount. There was an almost
sad gravity in his demeanor that suggested a mind preoccupied with
solemn and unworldly thoughts with which the doctor and his affairs had
not even the remotest association.
As Cameron who, with his wife, watched their departure from the balcony
above, waved them farewell, he cried, “Keep your eyes skinned for an
Indian, Martin. Bring him in if you find him.”
“I've got no gun on me,” replied the doctor, “and if I get sight of him,
you hear me, I'll make for the timber quick. No heroic captures for me
this trip.”
“What is all this about the Indian, Dr. Martin?” inquired the girl at
his side as they cantered down the street.
“Didn't your brother tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, I've done enough to you with that Indian already to-day.”
“To me?”
“Didn't I like a fool frighten you nearly to death with him?”
“Well, I was startled. I was silly to show it. But an Indian to an Old
Country person familiar with Fenimore Cooper, well--”
“Oh, I was a proper idiot all round this morning,” grumbled the doctor.
“I didn't know what I was doing.”
The brown eyes were open wide upon him.
“You see,” continued the doctor desperately, “I'd looked forward to
meeting you for so long.” The brown eyes grew wider. “And then to think
that I actually didn't know you.”
“You didn't look at me,” cried Moira.
“No, I was looking for the girl I saw that day, almost three years ago,
in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day.”
“No, nor I,” replied the girl softly. “That is how I knew you. It was
a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and
under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it
all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have
often thought, Mr. Martin--Dr. Martin you are now, of course--that I
never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have
often wished to do it. I should like to do it now.”
“Get at it,” cried the doctor with great emphasis, “I need it. It might
help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was
completely knocked out, flabbergasted.”
“Was that it?” cried Moira with a bright smile. “I thought--” A faint
color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. “But tell me about
the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He
thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things.”
“He doesn't know you, then,” said the doctor.
She laughed gayly. “And do you?”
“I know you better than that, at least.”
“What can you know about me?”
“I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls
for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian.
Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it
will be better going.”
The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up.
But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached
the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of
the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned
on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite
shook the heart of Dr. Martin.
“Now you look a little more like yourself,” he cried, his eyes fastened
upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, “more like the girl I
remember.”
“Oh,” she said, “it is my bonnet. I put on this old thing for the ride.”
“No,” said the doctor, “you wore no bonnet that day. It is your face,
your hair, you are not quite--so--so proper.”
“My hair!” Her hands went up to her head. “Oh, my silly curls, I
suppose. They are my bane.” (“My joy,” the doctor nearly had said.) “But
now for the Indian story.”
Then the doctor grew grave.
“It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with,” he said, “but you
must know it and I may as well give it to you. And, mind you, this is
altogether a new thing with us.”
For the next half hour as they rode westward toward the big hills,
steadily climbing as they went, the story of the disturbance in the
north country, of the unrest among the Indians, of the part played in
it by the Indian Copperhead, and of the appeal by the Superintendent to
Cameron for assistance, furnished the topic for conversation. The girl
listened with serious face, but there was no fear in the brown eyes, nor
tremor in the quiet voice, as they talked it over.
“Now let us forget it for a while,” cried the doctor. “The Police have
rarely, if ever, failed to get their man. That is their boast. And they
will get this chap, too. And as for the row on the Saskatchewan, I don't
take much stock in that. Now we're coming to a view in a few minutes,
one of the finest I have seen anywhere.”
For half a mile farther they loped along the trail that led them to the
top of a hill that stood a little higher than the others round about.
Upon the hilltop they drew rein.
“What do you think of that for a view?” said the doctor.
Before them stretched the wide valley of the Bow for many miles,
sweeping up toward the mountains, with rounded hills on either side, and
far beyond the hills the majestic masses of the Rockies some fifty miles
away, snow-capped, some of them, and here and there upon their faces
the great glaciers that looked like patches of snow. Through this wide
valley wound the swift flowing Bow, and up from it on either side the
hills, rough with rocks and ragged masses of pine, climbed till they
seemed to reach the very bases of the mountains beyond. Over all the
blue arch of sky spanned the wide valley and seemed to rest upon the
great ranges on either side, like the dome of a vast cathedral.
Silent, with lips parted and eyes alight with wonder, Moira sat and
gazed upon the glory of that splendid scene.
“What do you think--” began the doctor.
She put out her hand and touched his arm.
“Please don't speak,” she breathed, “this is not for words, but for
worship.”
Long she continued to gaze in rapt silence upon the picture spread out
before her. It was, indeed, a place for worship. She pointed to a hill
some distance in front of them.
“You have been beyond that?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes, I have been all through this country. I know it well. From the top
of that hill we get a magnificent sweep toward the south.”
“Let us go!” she cried.
Down the hillside they scrambled, across a little valley and up the
farther side, following the trail that wound along the hill but declined
to make the top. As they rounded the shoulder of the little mountain
Moira cried:
“It would be a great view from the top there beyond the trees. Can we
reach it?”
“Are you good for a climb?” replied the doctor. “We could tie the
horses.”
For answer she flung herself from her pinto and, gathering up her habit,
began eagerly to climb. By the time the doctor had tethered the ponies
she was half way to the top. Putting forth all his energy he raced after
her, and together they parted a screen of brushwood and stepped out on
a clear rock that overhung the deep canyon that broadened into a great
valley sweeping toward the south.
“Beats Scotland, eh?” cried the doctor, as they stepped out together.
She laid her hand upon his arm and drew him back into the bushes.
“Hush,” she whispered. Surprised into silence, he stood gazing at her.
Her face was white and her eyes gleaming. “An Indian down there,” she
whispered.
“An Indian? Where? Show me.”
“He was looking up at us. Come this way. I think he heard us.”
She led him by a little detour and on their hands and knees they crept
through the brushwood. They reached the open rock and peered down
through a screen of bushes into the canyon below.
“There he is,” cried Moira.
Across the little stream that flowed at the bottom of the canyon, and
not more than a hundred yards away, stood an Indian, tall, straight and
rigidly attent, obviously listening and gazing steadily at the point
where they had first stood. For many minutes he stood thus rigid while
they watched him. Then his attitude relaxed. He sat down upon the rocky
ledge that sloped up from the stream toward a great overhanging crag
behind him, laid his rifle beside him and, calmly filling his pipe,
began to smoke. Intently they followed his every movement.
“I do believe it is our Indian,” whispered the doctor.
“Oh, if we could only get him!” replied the girl.
The doctor glanced swiftly at her. Her face was pale but firm set with
resolve. Quickly he revolved in his mind the possibilities.
“If I only had a gun,” he said to himself, “I'd risk it.”
“What is he going to do?”
The Indian was breaking off some dead twigs from the standing pines
about him.
“He's going to light a fire,” replied the doctor, “perhaps camp for the
night.”
“Then,” cried the girl in an excited whisper, “we could get him.”
The doctor smiled at her. The Indian soon had his fire going and,
unrolling his blanket pack, he took thence what looked like a lump of
meat, cut some strips from it and hung them from pointed sticks over the
fire. He proceeded to gather some poles from the dead wood lying about.
“What now is he going to do?” inquired Moira.
“Wait,” replied the doctor.
The Indian proceeded to place the poles in order against the rock,
keeping his eye on the toasting meat the while and now and again turning
it before the fire. Then he began to cut branches of spruce and balsam.
“By the living Jingo!” cried the doctor, greatly excited, “I declare
he's going to camp.”
“To sleep?” said Moira.
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “He had no sleep last night.”
“Then,” cried the girl, “we can get him.”
The doctor gazed at her in admiration.
“You are a brick,” he said. “How can we get him? He'd double me up like
a jack-knife. Remember I only played quarter,” he added.
“No, no,” she cried quickly, “you stay here to watch him. Let me go back
for the Police.”
“I say,” cried the doctor, “you are a wonder. There's something in
that.” He thought rapidly, then said, “No, it won't do. I can't allow
you to risk it.”
“Risk? Risk what?”
A year ago the doctor would not have hesitated a moment to allow her
to go, but now he thought of the roving bands of Indians and the
possibility of the girl falling into their hands.
“No, Miss Cameron, it will not do.”
“But think,” she cried, “we might get him and save Allan all the trouble
and perhaps his life. You must not stop me. You cannot stop me. I am
going. You wait and watch. Don't move. I can find my way.”
He seized her by the arm.
“Wait,” he said, “let me think.”
“What danger can there be?” she pleaded. “It is broad daylight. The road
is good. I cannot possibly lose my way. I am used to riding alone among
the hills at home.”
“Ah, yes, at home,” said the doctor gloomily.
“But there is no danger,” she persisted. “I am not afraid. Besides, you
cannot keep me.” She stood up among the bushes looking down at him with
a face so fiercely resolved that he was constrained to say, “By Jove! I
don't believe I could. But I can go with you.”
“You would not do that,” she cried, stamping her foot, “if I forbade
you. It is your duty to stay here and watch that Indian. It is mine to
go and get the Police. Good-by.”
He rose to follow her.
“No,” she said, “I forbid you to come. You are not doing right. You are
to stay. We will save my brother.”
She glided through the bushes from his sight and was gone.
“Am I a fool or what?” said the doctor to himself. “She is taking a
chance, but after all it is worth while.”
It was now the middle of the afternoon and it would take Moira an hour
and a half over that rocky winding trail to make the ten miles that
lay before her. Ten minutes more would see the Police started on their
return. The doctor settled himself down to his three hours' wait,
keeping his eye fixed upon the Indian. The latter was now busy with his
meal, which he ate ravenously.
“The beggar has me tied up tight,” muttered the doctor ruefully. “My
grub is on my saddle, and I guess I dare not smoke till he lights up
himself.”
A hand touched his arm. Instantly he was on his feet. It was Moira.
“Great Caesar, you scared me! Thought it was the whole Blackfoot tribe.”
“You will be the better for something to eat,” she said simply, handing
him the lunch basket. “Good-by.”
“Hold up!” he cried. But she was gone.
“Say, she's a regular--” He paused and thought for a moment. “She's an
angel, that's what--and a mighty sight better than most of them. She's
a--” He turned back to his watch, leaving his thought unspoken. In the
presence of the greater passions words are woefully inadequate.
The Indian was still eating as ravenously as ever.
“He's filling up, I guess. He ought to be full soon at that rate. Wish
he'd get his pipe agoing.”
In due time the Indian finished eating, rolled up the fragments
carefully in a rag, and then proceeded to construct with the poles and
brush which he had cut, a penthouse against the rock. At one end his
little shelter thus constructed ran into a spruce tree whose thick
branches reached right to the ground. When he had completed this shelter
to his satisfaction he sat down again on the rock beside his smoldering
fire and pulled out his pipe.
“Thanks be!” said the doctor to himself fervently. “Go on, old boy, hit
her up.”
A pipe and then another the Indian smoked, then, taking his gun, blanket
and pack, he crawled into his brush wigwam out of sight.
“There, you old beggar!” said the doctor with a sigh of relief. “You are
safe for an hour or two, thank goodness. You had no sleep last night and
you've got to make up for it now. Sleep tight, old boy. We'll give you a
call.” The doctor hugged himself with supreme satisfaction and continued
to smoke with his eye fixed upon the hole into which the Indian had
disappeared.
Through the long hours he sat and smoked while he formulated the plan
of attack which he proposed to develop when his reinforcements should
arrive.
“We will work up behind him from away down the valley, a couple of us
will cover him from the front and the others go right in.”
He continued with great care to make and revise his plans, and while
in the midst of his final revision a movement in the bushes behind
him startled him to his feet. The bushes parted and the face of Moira
appeared with that of her brother over her shoulder.
“Is he still there?” she whispered eagerly.
“Asleep, snug as a bug. Never moved,” said the doctor exultantly, and
proceeded to explain his plan of attack. “How many have you?” he asked
Cameron.
“Crisp and a constable.”
“Just two?” said the doctor.
“Two,” replied Cameron briefly. “That's plenty. Here they are.” He
stepped back through the bushes and brought forward Crisp and the
constable. “Now, then, here's our plan,” he said. “You, Crisp, will go
down the canyon, cross the stream and work up on the other side right to
that rock. When you arrive at the rock the constable and I will go in.
The doctor will cover him from this side.”
“Fine!” said the doctor. “Fine, except that I propose to go in myself
with you. He's a devil to fight. I could see that last night.”
Cameron hesitated.
“There's really no use, you know, Doctor. The constable and I can handle
him.”
Moira stood looking eagerly from one to the other.
“All right,” said the doctor, “'nuff said. Only I'm going in. If you
want to come along, suit yourself.”
“Oh, do be careful,” said Moira, clasping her hands. “Oh, I'm afraid.”
“Afraid?” said the doctor, looking at her quickly. “You? Not much fear
in you, I guess.”
“Come on, then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you stay here and keep your eye
on him. You are safe enough here.”
She pressed her lips tight together till they made a thin red line in
her white face.
“Can you let me have a gun?” she asked.
“A gun?” exclaimed the doctor.
“Oh, she can shoot--rabbits, at least,” said her brother with a smile.
“I shall bring you one, Moira, but remember, handle it carefully.”
With a gun across her knees Moira sat and watched the development of the
attack. For many minutes there was no sign or sound, till she began to
wonder if a change had been made in the plan. At length some distance
down the canyon and on the other side Sergeant Crisp was seen working
his way with painful care step by step toward the rock of rendezvous.
There was no sign of her brother or Dr. Martin. It was for them she
watched with an intensity of anxiety which she could not explain to
herself. At length Sergeant Crisp reached the crag against whose base
the penthouse leaned in which the sleeping Indian lay. Immediately she
saw her brother, quickly followed by Dr. Martin, leap the little stream,
run lightly up the sloping rock and join Crisp at the crag. Still there
was no sign from the Indian. She saw her brother motion the Sergeant
round to the farther corner of the penthouse where it ran into the
spruce tree, while he himself, with a revolver in each hand, dropped on
one knee and peered under the leaning poles. With a loud exclamation he
sprang to his feet.
“He's gone!” he shouted. “Stand where you are!” Like a hound on a scent
he ran to the back of the spruce tree and on his knees examined the
earth there. In a few moments his search was rewarded. He struck the
trail and followed it round the rock and through the woods till he
came to the hard beaten track. Then he came back, pale with rage and
disappointment. “He's gone!” he said.
“I swear he never came out of that hole!” said Dr. Martin. “I kept my
eye on it every minute of the last three hours.”
“There's another hole,” said Crisp, “under the tree here.”
Cameron said not a word. His disappointment was too keen. Together they
retraced their steps across the little stream. On the farther bank they
found Moira, who had raced down to meet them.
“He's gone?” she cried.
“Gone!” echoed her brother. “Gone for this time--but--some day--some
day,” he added below his breath.
But many things were to happen before that day came.
CHAPTER X
RAVEN TO THE RESCUE
Overhead the stars were still twinkling far in the western sky.
The crescent moon still shone serene, marshaling her attendant
constellations. Eastward the prairie still lay in deep shadow, its long
rolls outlined by the deeper shadows lying in the hollows between. Over
the Bow and the Elbow mists hung like white veils swathing the faces
of the rampart hills north and south. In the little town a stillness
reigned as of death, for at length Calgary was asleep, and sound asleep
would remain for hours to come.
Not so the world about. Through the dead stillness of the waning night
the liquid note of the adventurous meadow lark fell like the dropping
of a silver stream into the pool below. Brave little heart, roused from
slumber perchance by domestic care, perchance by the first burdening
presage of the long fall flight waiting her sturdy careless brood,
perchance stirred by the first thrill of the Event approaching from
the east. For already in the east the long round tops of the prairie
undulations are shining gray above the dark hollows and faint bars of
light are shooting to the zenith, fearless forerunners of the dawn,
menacing the retreating stars still bravely shining their pale defiance
to the oncoming of their ancient foe. Far toward the west dark masses
still lie invincible upon the horizon, but high above in the clear
heavens white shapes, indefinite and unattached, show where stand the
snow-capped mountain peaks. Thus the swift and silent moments mark the
fortunes of this age-long conflict. But sudden all heaven and all earth
thrill tremulous in eager expectancy of the daily miracle when, all
unaware, the gray light in the eastern horizon over the roll of the
prairie has grown to silver, and through the silver a streamer of palest
rose has flashed up into the sky, the gay and gallant 'avant courier' of
an advancing host, then another and another, then by tens and hundreds,
till, radiating from a center yet unseen, ten thousand times ten
thousand flaming flaunting banners flash into orderly array and possess
the utmost limits of the heavens, sweeping before them the ever paling
stars, that indomitable rearguard of the flying night, proclaiming
to all heaven and all earth the King is come, the Monarch of the Day.
Flushed in the new radiance of the morning, the long flowing waves of
the prairie, the tumbling hills, the mighty rocky peaks stand surprised,
as if caught all unprepared by the swift advance, trembling and blushing
in the presence of the triumphant King, waiting the royal proclamation
that it is time to wake and work, for the day is come.
All oblivious of this wondrous miracle stands Billy, his powers of mind
and body concentrated upon a single task, that namely of holding down
to earth the game little bronchos, Mustard and Pepper, till the party
should appear. Nearby another broncho, saddled and with the knotted
reins hanging down from his bridle, stood viewing with all too obvious
contempt the youthful frolics of the colts. Well he knew that life would
cure them of all this foolish waste of spirit and of energy. Meantime
on his part he was content to wait till his master--Dr. Martin, to
wit--should give the order to move. His master meantime was busily
engaged with clever sinewy fingers packing in the last parcels that
represented the shopping activities of Cameron and his wife during the
past two days. There was a whole living and sleeping outfit for the
family to gather together. Already a heavily laden wagon had gone on
before them. The building material for the new house was to follow,
for it was near the end of September and a tent dwelling, while quite
endurable, does not lend itself to comfort through a late fall in the
foothill country. Besides, there was upon Cameron, and still more upon
his wife, the ever deepening sense of a duty to be done that could not
wait, and for the doing of that duty due preparation must be made. Hence
the new house must be built and its simple appointments and furnishings
set in order without delay, and hence the laden wagon gone before and
the numerous packages in the democrat, covered with a new tent and roped
securely into place.
This packing and roping the doctor made his peculiar care, for he was
a true Canadian, born and bred in the atmosphere of pioneer days in
old Ontario, and the packing and roping could be trusted to no amateur
hands, for there were hills to go up and hills to go down, sleughs to
cross and rivers to ford with all their perilous contingencies before
they should arrive at the place where they would be.
“All secure, Martin?” said Cameron, coming out from the hotel with hand
bags and valises.
“They'll stay, I think,” replied the doctor, “unless those bronchos of
yours get away from you.”
“Aren't they dears, Billy?” cried Moira, coming out at the moment and
dancing over to the bronchos' heads.
“Well, miss,” said Billy with judicial care, “I don't know about that.
They're ornery little cusses and mean-actin.' They'll go straight enough
if everything is all right, but let anythin' go wrong, a trace or a
line, and they'll put it to you good and hard.”
“I do not think I would be afraid of them,” replied the girl, reaching
out her hand to stroke Pepper's nose, a movement which surprised that
broncho so completely that he flew back violently upon the whiffle-tree,
carrying Billy with him.
“Come up here, you beast!” said Billy, giving him a fierce yank.
“Oh, Billy!” expostulated Moira.
“Oh, he ain't no lady's maid, miss. You would, eh, you young
devil,”--this to Pepper, whose intention to walk over Billy was only
too obvious--“Get back there, will you! Now then, take that, and stand
still!” Billy evidently did not rely solely upon the law of love in
handling his broncho.
Moira abandoned him and climbed to her place in the democrat between
Cameron and his wife.
By a most singular and fortunate coincidence Dr. Martin had learned that
a patient of his at Big River was in urgent need of a call, so, to the
open delight of the others and to the subdued delight of the doctor, he
was to ride with them thus far on their journey.
“All set, Billy?” cried Cameron. “Let them go.”
“Good-by, Billy,” cried both ladies, to which Billy replied with a wave
of his Stetson.
Away plunged the bronchos on a dead gallop, as if determined to end the
journey during the next half hour at most, and away with them went the
doctor upon his steady broncho, the latter much annoyed at being thus
ignominiously outdistanced by these silly colts and so induced to strike
a somewhat more rapid pace than he considered wise at the beginning of
an all-day journey. Away down the street between the silent shacks and
stores and out among the straggling residences that lined the trail.
Away past the Indian encampment and the Police Barracks. Away across the
echoing bridge, whose planks resounded like the rattle of rifles
under the flying hoofs. Away up the long stony hill, scrambling and
scrabbling, but never ceasing till they reached the level prairie at the
top. Away upon the smooth resilient trail winding like a black ribbon
over the green bed of the prairie. Away down long, long slopes to low,
wide valleys, and up long, long slopes to the next higher prairie level.
Away across the plain skirting sleughs where ducks of various kinds, and
in hundreds, quacked and plunged and fought joyously and all unheeding.
Away with the morning air, rare and wondrously exhilarating, rushing
at them and past them and filling their hearts with the keen zest of
living. Away beyond sight and sound of the great world, past little
shacks, the brave vanguard of civilization, whose solitary loneliness
only served to emphasize their remoteness from the civilization which
they heralded. Away from the haunts of men and through the haunts
of wild things where the shy coyote, his head thrown back over his
shoulder, loped laughing at them and their futile noisy speed. Away
through the wide rich pasture lands where feeding herds of cattle
and bands of horses made up the wealth of the solitary rancher, whose
low-built wandering ranch house proclaimed at once his faith and his
courage. Away and ever away, the shining morning hours and the fleeting
miles racing with them, till by noon-day, all wet but still unweary, the
bronchos drew up at the Big River Stopping Place, forty miles from the
point of their departure.
Close behind the democrat rode Dr. Martin, the steady pace of his wise
old broncho making up upon the dashing but somewhat erratic gait of the
colts.
While the ladies passed into the primitive Stopping Place, the men
unhitched the ponies, stripped off their harness and proceeded to rub
them down from head to heel, wash out their mouths and remove from them
as far as they could by these attentions the travel marks of the last
six hours.
Big River could hardly be called even by the generous estimate of the
optimistic westerner a town. It consisted of a blacksmith's shop, with
which was combined the Post Office, a little school, which did for
church--the farthest outpost of civilization--and a manse, simple, neat
and tiny, but with a wondrous air of comfort about it, and very like the
little Nova Scotian woman inside, who made it a very vestibule of heaven
for many a cowboy and rancher in the district, and last, the Stopping
Place run by a man who had won the distinction of being well known to
the Mounted Police and who bore the suggestive name of Hell Gleeson,
which appeared, however, in the old English Registry as Hellmuth Raymond
Gleeson. The Mounted Police thought it worth while often to run in upon
Hell at unexpected times, and more than once they had found it necessary
to invite him to contribute to Her Majesty's revenue as compensation for
Hell's objectionable habit of having in possession and of retailing to
his friends bad whisky without attending to the little formality of a
permit.
The Stopping Place was a rambling shack, or rather a series of shacks,
loosely joined together, whose ramifications were found by Hell and his
friends to be useful in an emergency. The largest room in the building
was the bar, as it was called. Behind the counter, however, instead of
the array of bottles and glasses usually found in rooms bearing this
name, the shelf was filled with patent medicines, chiefly various
brands of pain-killer. Off the bar was the dining-room, and behind the
dining-room another and smaller room, while the room most retired in the
collection of shacks constituting the Stopping Place was known in
the neighborhood as the “snake room,” a room devoted to those unhappy
wretches who, under the influence of prolonged indulgence in Hell's bad
whisky, were reduced to such a mental and nervous condition that the
landscape of their dreams became alive with snakes of various sizes,
shapes and hues.
To Mandy familiarity had hardened her sensibilities to endurance of all
the grimy uncleanness of the place, but to Moira the appearance of
the house and especially of the dining-room filled her with loathing
unspeakable.
“Oh, Mandy,” she groaned, “can we not eat outside somewhere? This is
terrible.”
Mandy thought for a moment.
“No,” she cried, “but we will do better. I know Mrs. Macintyre in the
manse. I nursed her once last spring. We will go and see her.”
“Oh, that would not do,” said Moira, her Scotch shy independence
shrinking from such an intrusion.
“And why not?”
“She doesn't know me--and there are four of us.”
“Oh, nonsense, you don't know this country. You don't know what our
visit will mean to the little woman, what a joy it will be to her to see
a new face, and I declare when she hears you are new out from Scotland
she will simply revel in you. We are about to confer a great favor upon
Mrs. Macintyre.”
If Moira had any lingering doubts as to the soundness of her
sister-in-law's opinion they vanished before the welcome she had from
the minister's wife.
“Mr. Cameron's sister?” she cried, with both hands extended, “and just
out from Scotland? And where from? From near Braemar? And our folk came
from near Inverness. Mha
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