IN THE SUN DANCE CANYON
But they were not yet done with Smith, for as they turned to pass into
the house a series of shrill cries from the bluff behind pierced the
stillness of the night.
“Help! Help! Murder! Help! I've got him! Help! I've got him!”
Shaking off the clutching hands of his wife and sister, Cameron darted
into the bluff and found two figures frantically struggling upon the
ground. The moonlight trickling through the branches revealed the man
on top to be an Indian with a knife in his hand, but he was held in such
close embrace that he could not strike.
“Hold up!” cried Cameron, seizing the Indian by the wrist. “Stop that!
Let him go!” he cried to the man below. “I've got him safe enough. Let
him go! Let him go, I tell you! Now, then, get up! Get up, both of you!”
The under man released his grip, allowed the Indian to rise and got
himself to his feet.
“Come out into the light!” said Cameron sharply, leading the Indian
out of the bluff, followed by the other, still panting. Here they were
joined by the ladies. “Now, then, what the deuce is all this row?”
inquired Cameron.
“Why, it's Mr. Smith!” cried Mandy.
“Smith again! More of Smith's work, eh? Well, this beats me,” said her
husband. For some moments Cameron stood surveying the group, the Indian
silent and immobile as one of the poplar trees beside him, the ladies
with faces white, Smith disheveled in garb, pale and panting and
evidently under great excitement. Cameron burst into a loud laugh.
Smith's pale face flushed a swift red, visible even in the moonlight,
then grew pale again, his excited panting ceased as he became quiet.
“Now what is the row?” asked Cameron again. “What is it, Smith?”
“I found this Indian in the bush here and I seized him. I thought--he
might--do something.”
“Do something?”
“Yes--some mischief--to some of you.”
“What? You found this Indian in the bluff here and you just jumped on
him? You might better have jumped on a wild cat. Are you used to this
sort of thing? Do you know the ways of these people?”
“I never saw an Indian before.”
“Good Heavens, man! He might have killed you. And he would have in two
minutes more.”
“He might have killed--some of you,” said Smith.
Cameron laughed again.
“Now what were you doing in the bluff?” he said sharply, turning to the
Indian.
“Chief Trotting Wolf,” said the Indian in the low undertone common to
his people, “Chief Trotting Wolf want you' squaw--boy seeck bad--leg
beeg beeg. Boy go die. Come.” He turned to Mandy and repeated
“Come--queeek--queeek.”
“Why didn't you come earlier?” said Cameron sharply. “It is too late
now. We are going to sleep.”
“Me come dis.” He lowered his hand toward the ground. “Too much mans--no
like--Indian wait all go 'way--dis man much beeg fight--no good. Come
queeek--boy go die.”
Already Mandy had made up her mind.
“Let us hurry, Allan,” she said.
“You can't go to-night,” he replied. “You are dead tired. Wait till
morning.”
“No, no, we must go.” She turned into the house, followed by her
husband, and began to rummage in her bag. “Lucky thing I got these
supplies in town,” she said, hastily putting together her nurse's
equipment and some simple remedies. “I wonder if that boy has fever.
Bring that Indian in.”
“Have you had the doctor?” she inquired, when he appeared.
“Huh! Doctor want cut off leg--dis,” his action was sufficiently
suggestive. “Boy say no.”
“Has the boy any fever? Does he talk-talk-talk?” The Indian nodded his
head vigorously.
“Talk much--all day--all night.”
“He is evidently in a high fever,” said Mandy to her husband. “We must
try to check that. Now, my dear, you hurry and get the horses.”
“But what shall we do with Moira?” said Cameron suddenly.
“Why,” cried Moira, “let me go with you. I should love to go.”
But this did not meet with Cameron's approval.
“I can stay here,” suggested Smith hesitatingly, “or Miss Cameron can go
over with me to the Thatchers'.”
“That is better,” said Cameron shortly. “We can drop her at the
Thatchers' as we pass.”
In half an hour Cameron returned with the horses and the party proceeded
on their way.
At the Piegan Reserve they were met by Chief Trotting Wolf himself and,
without more than a single word of greeting, were led to the tent in
which the sick boy lay. Beside him sat the old squaw in a corner of the
tent, crooning a weird song as she swayed to and fro. The sick boy lay
on a couch of skins, his eyes shining with fever, his foot festering
and in a state of indescribable filth and his whole condition one of
unspeakable wretchedness. Cameron found his gorge rise at the sight of
the gangrenous ankle.
“This is a horrid business, Mandy,” he exclaimed. “This is not for you.
Let us send for the doctor. That foot will surely have to come off.
Don't mess with it. Let us have the doctor.”
But his wife, from the moment of her first sight of the wounded foot,
forgot all but her mission of help.
“We must have a clean tent, Allan,” she said, “and plenty of hot water.
Get the hot water first.”
Cameron turned to the Chief and said, “Hot water, quick!”
“Huh--good,” replied the Chief, and in a few moments returned with a
small pail of luke-warm water.
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “it must be hot and we must have lots of it.”
“Hot,” cried Cameron to the Chief. “Big pail--hot--hot.”
“Huh,” grunted the Chief a second time with growing intelligence, and
in an incredibly short space returned with water sufficiently hot and in
sufficient quantity.
All unconscious of the admiring eyes that followed the swift and skilled
movements of her capable hands, Mandy worked over the festering and
fevered wound till, cleansed, soothed, wrapped in a cooling lotion, the
limb rested easily upon a sling of birch bark and skins suggested and
prepared by the Chief. Then for the first time the boy made a sound.
“Huh,” he grunted feebly. “Doctor--no good. Squaw--heap good. Me two
foot--live--one foot--” he held up one finger--“die.” His eyes were
shining with something other than the fever that drove the blood racing
through his veins. As a dog's eyes follow every movement of his master
so the lad's eyes, eloquent with adoring gratitude, followed his nurse
as she moved about the wigwam.
“Now we must get that clean tent, Allan.”
“All right,” said her husband. “It will be no easy job, but we shall do
our best. Here, Chief,” he cried, “get some of your young men to pitch
another tent in a clean place.”
The Chief, eager though he was to assist, hesitated.
“No young men,” he said. “Get squaw,” and departed abruptly.
“No young men, eh?” said Cameron to his wife. “Where are they, then? I
notice there are no bucks around.”
And so while the squaws were pitching a tent in a spot somewhat removed
from the encampment, Cameron poked about among the tents and wigwams of
which the Indian encampment consisted, but found for the most part
only squaws and children and old men. He came back to his wife greatly
disturbed.
“The young bucks are gone, Mandy. I must get after this thing quickly. I
wish I had Jerry here. Let's see? You ask for a messenger to be sent
to the fort for the doctor and medicine. I shall enclose a note to the
Inspector. We want the doctor here as soon as possible and we want Jerry
here at the earliest possible moment.”
With a great show of urgency a messenger was requisitioned and
dispatched, carrying a note from Cameron to the Commissioner requesting
the presence of the doctor with his medicine bag, but also requesting
that Jerry, the redoubtable half-breed interpreter and scout, with
a couple of constables, should accompany the doctor, the constables,
however, to wait outside the camp until summoned.
During the hours that must elapse before any answer could be had from
the fort, Cameron prepared a couch in a corner of the sick boy's tent
for his wife, and, rolling himself in his blanket, he laid himself
down at the door outside where, wearied with the long day and its many
exciting events, he slept without turning, till shortly after daybreak
he was awakened by a chorus of yelping curs which heralded the arrival
of the doctor from the fort with the interpreter Jerry in attendance.
After breakfast, prepared by Jerry with dispatch and skill, the product
of long experience, there was a thorough examination of the sick boy's
condition through the interpreter, upon the conclusion of which a long
consultation followed between the doctor, Cameron and Mandy. It was
finally decided that the doctor should remain with Mandy in the Indian
camp until a change should become apparent in the condition of the boy,
and that Cameron with the interpreter should pick up the two constables
and follow in the trail of the young Piegan braves. In order to allay
suspicion Cameron and his companion left the camp by the trail which led
toward the fort. For four miles or so they rode smartly until the trail
passed into a thick timber of spruce mixed with poplar. Here Cameron
paused, and, making a slight sign in the direction from which they had
come, he said:
“Drop back, Jerry, and see if any Indian is following.”
“Good,” grunted Jerry. “Go slow one mile,” and, slipping from his
pony, he handed the reins to Cameron and faded like a shadow into the
brushwood.
For a mile Cameron rode, pausing now and then to listen for the sound of
anyone following, then drew rein and waited for his companion. After a
few minutes of eager listening he suddenly sat back in his saddle and
felt for his pipe.
“All right, Jerry,” he said softly, “come out.”
Grinning somewhat shamefacedly Jerry parted a bunch of spruce boughs and
stood at Cameron's side.
“Good ears,” he said, glancing up into Cameron's face.
“No, Jerry,” replied Cameron, “I saw the blue-jay.”
“Huh,” grunted Jerry, “dat fool bird tell everyt'ing.”
“Any Indian following?”
Jerry held up two fingers.
“Two Indian run tree mile--find notting--go back.”
“Good! Where are our men?”
“Down Coulee Swampy Creek.”
“All right, Jerry. Any news at the fort last two or three days?”
“Beeg meetin' St. Laurent. Much half-breed. Some Indian too. Louis Riel
mak beeg spik--beeg noise--blood! blood! blood! Much beeg fool.”
Jerry's tone indicated the completeness of his contempt for the whole
proceedings at St. Laurent.
“Something doing, eh, Jerry?”
“Bah!” grunted Jerry contemptuously.
“Well, there's something doing here,” continued Cameron. “Trotting
Wolf's young men have left the reserve and Trotting Wolf is very
anxious that we should not know it. I want you to go back, find out what
direction they have taken, how far ahead they are, how many. We camp
to-night at the Big Rock at the entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. You
remember?”
Jerry nodded.
“There's something doing, Jerry, or I am much mistaken. Got any grub?”
“Grub?” asked Jerry. “Me--here--t'ree day,” tapping his rolled blanket
at the back of his saddle. “Odder fellers--grub--Jakes--t'ree men--t'ree
day. Come Beeg Rock to-night--mebbe to-morrow.” So saying, Jerry climbed
on to his pony and took the back trail, while Cameron went forward to
meet his men at the Swampy Creek Coulee.
Making a somewhat wide detour to avoid the approaches to the Indian
encampment, Cameron and his two men rode for the Big Rock at the
entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. They gave themselves no concern about
Trotting Wolf's band of young men. They knew well that what Jerry could
not discover would not be worth finding out. A year's close association
with Jerry had taught Cameron something of the marvelous powers of
observation, of the tenacity and courage possessed by the little
half-breed that made him the keenest scout in the North West Mounted
Police.
At the Big Rock they arrived late in the afternoon and there waited
for Jerry's appearing; but night had fallen and had broken into morning
before the scout came into camp with a single word of report:
“Notting.”
“No Piegans?” exclaimed Cameron.
“No--not dis side Blood Reserve.”
“Eat something, Jerry, then we will talk,” said Cameron.
Jerry had already broken his fast, but was ready for more. After the
meal was finished he made his report. His report was clear and concise.
On leaving Cameron in the morning he had taken the most likely direction
to discover traces of the Piegan band, namely that suggested by Cameron,
and, fetching a wide circle, had ridden toward the mountains, but he
had come upon no sign. Then he had penetrated into the canyon and ridden
down toward the entrance, but still had found no trace. He had then
ridden backward toward the Piegan Reserve and, picking up a trail of one
or two ponies, had followed it till he found it broaden into that of a
considerable band making eastward. Then he knew he had found the trail
he wanted.
“How many, Jerry?” asked Cameron.
The half-breed held up both hands three times.
“Mebbe more.”
“Thirty or forty?” exclaimed Cameron. “Any Squaws?
“No.”
“Hunting-expedition?”
“No.”
“Where were they going?”
“Blood Reserve t'ink--dunno.”
Cameron sat smoking in silence. He was completely at a loss.
“Why go to the Bloods?” he asked of Jerry.
“Dunno.”
Jerry was not strong in his constructive faculty. His powers were those
of observation.
“There is no sense in them going to the Blood Reserve, Jerry,” said
Cameron impatiently. “The Bloods are a pack of thieves, we know, but our
people are keeping a close watch on them.”
Jerry grunted acquiescence.
“There is no big Indian camping ground on the Blood Reserve. You
wouldn't get the Blackfeet to go to any pow-wow there.”
Again Jerry grunted.
“How far did you follow their trail, Jerry?”
“Two--t'ree mile.”
Cameron sat long and smoked. The thing was extremely puzzling. It seemed
unlikely that if the Piegan band were going to a rendezvous of Indians
they should select a district so closely under the inspection of the
Police. Furthermore there was no great prestige attaching to the Bloods
to make their reserve a place of meeting.
“Jerry,” said Cameron at length, “I believe they are up this Sun Dance
Canyon somewhere.”
“No,” said Jerry decisively. “No sign--come down mesef.” His tone was
that of finality.
“I believe, Jerry, they doubled back and came in from the north end
after you had left. I feel sure they are up there now and we will go and
find them.”
Jerry sat silent, smoking thoughtfully. Finally he took his pipe from
his mouth, pressed the tobacco hard down with his horny middle finger
and stuck it in his pocket.
“Mebbe so,” he said slowly, a slight grin distorting his wizened little
face, “mebbe so, but t'ink not--me.”
“Well, Jerry, where could they have gone? They might ride straight
to Crowfoot's Reserve, but I think that is extremely unlikely. They
certainly would not go to the Bloods, therefore they must be up this
canyon. We will go up, Jerry, for ten miles or so and see what we can
see.”
“Good,” said Jerry with a grunt, his tone conveying his conviction that
where the chief scout of the North West Mounted Police had said it was
useless to search, any other man searching would have nothing but his
folly for his pains.
“Have a sleep first, Jerry. We need not start for a couple of hours.”
Jerry grunted his usual reply, rolled himself in his blanket and, lying
down at the back of a rock, was asleep in a minute's time.
In two hours to the minute he stood beside his pony waiting for Cameron,
who had been explaining his plan to the two constables and giving them
his final orders.
The orders were very brief and simple. They were to wait where they were
till noon. If any of the band of Piegans appeared one of the men was
to ride up the canyon with the information, the other was to follow
the band till they camped and then ride back till he should meet his
comrades. They divided up the grub into two parts and Cameron and the
interpreter took their way up the canyon.
The canyon consisted of a deep cleft across a series of ranges of hills
or low mountains. Through it ran a rough breakneck trail once used by
the Indians and trappers but now abandoned since the building of the
Canadian Pacific Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass and the opening
of the Government trail through the Crow's Nest. From this which had
once been the main trail other trails led westward into the Kootenays
and eastward into the Foothill country. At times the canyon widened into
a valley, rich in grazing and in streams of water, again it narrowed
into a gorge, deep and black, with rugged sides above which only the
blue sky was visible, and from which led cavernous passages that wound
into the heart of the mountains, some of them large enough to hold a
hundred men or more without crowding. These caverns had been and
still were found to be most convenient and useful for the purpose of
whisky-runners and of cattle-rustlers, affording safe hiding-places for
themselves and their spoil. With this trail and all its ramifications
Jerry was thoroughly familiar. The only other man in the Force who
knew it better than Jerry was Cameron himself. For many months he had
patroled the main trail and all its cross leaders, lived in its caves
and explored its caverns in pursuit of those interesting gentlemen whose
activities more than anything else had rendered necessary the existence
of the North West Mounted Police. In ancient times the caves along the
Sun Dance Trail had been used by the Indian Medicine-Men for their pagan
rites, and hence in the eyes of the Indians to these caves attached a
dreadful reverence that made them places to be avoided in recent years
by the various tribes now gathered on the reserves. But during these
last months of unrest it was suspected by the Police that the ancient
uses of these caves had been revived and that the rites long since
fallen into desuetude were once more being practised.
For the first few miles of the canyon the trail offered good footing
and easy going, but as the gorge deepened and narrowed the difficulties
increased until riding became impossible, and only by the most strenuous
efforts on the part of both men and beasts could any advance be made.
And so through the day and into the late evening they toiled on, ever
alert for sight or sound of the Piegan band. At length Cameron broke the
silence.
“We must camp, Jerry,” he said. “We are making no time and we may spoil
things. I know a good camp-ground near by.”
“Me too,” grunted Jerry, who was as tired as his wiry frame ever allowed
him to become.
They took a trail leading eastward, which to all eyes but those familiar
with it would have been invisible, for a hundred yards or so and came
to the bed of a dry stream which issued from between two great rocks.
Behind one of these rocks there opened out a grassy plot a few yards
square, and beyond the grass a little lifted platform of rock against a
sheer cliff. Here they camped, picketing their horses on the grass and
cooking their supper upon the platform of rock over a tiny fire of dry
twigs, for the wind was blowing down the canyon and they knew that they
could cook their meal and have their smoke without fear of detection.
For some time after supper they sat smoking in that absolute silence
which is the characteristic of the true man of the woods. The gentle
breeze blowing down the canyon brought to their ears the rustling of
the dry poplar-leaves and the faint murmur of the stream which, tumbling
down the canyon, accompanied the main trail a hundred yards away.
Suddenly Cameron's hand fell upon the knee of the half-breed with a
swift grip.
“Listen!” he said, bending forward.
With mouths slightly open and with hands to their ears they both sat
motionless, breathless, every nerve on strain. Gradually the dead
silence seemed to resolve itself into rhythmic waves of motion rather
than of sound--“TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM.” It was
the throb of the Indian medicine-drum, which once heard can never be
forgotten or mistaken. Without a word to each other they rose, doused
their fire, cached their saddles, blankets and grub, and, taking only
their revolvers, set off up the canyon. Before they had gone many yards
Cameron halted.
“What do you think, Jerry?” he said. “I take it they have come in the
back way over the old Porcupine Trail.”
Jerry grunted approval of the suggestion.
“Then we can go in from the canyon. It is hard going, but there is less
fear of detection. They are sure to be in the Big Wigwam.”
Jerry shook his head, with a puzzled look on his face.
“Dunno me.”
“That is where they are,” said Cameron. “Come on! Only two miles from
here.”
Steadily the throb of the medicine-drum grew more distinct as they moved
slowly up the canyon, rising and falling upon the breeze that came down
through the darkness to meet them. The trail, which was bad enough in
the light, became exceedingly dangerous and difficult in the blackness
of the night. On they struggled painfully, now clinging to the sides of
the gorge, now mounting up over a hill and again descending to the level
of the foaming stream.
“Will they have sentries out, I wonder?” whispered Cameron in Jerry's
ear.
“No--beeg medicine going on--no sentry.”
“All right, then, we will walk straight in on them.”
“What you do?” inquired Jerry.
“We will see what they are doing and send them about their business,”
said Cameron shortly.
“No,” said Jerry firmly. “S'pose Indian mak beeg medicine--bes' leave
him go till morning.”
“Well, Jerry, we will take a look at them at any rate,” said Cameron.
“But if they are fooling around with any rebellion nonsense I am going
to step in and stop it.”
“No,” said Jerry again very gravely. “Beeg medicine mak' Indian man
crazy--fool--dance--sing--mak' brave--then keel--queeck!”
“Come along, then, Jerry,” said Cameron impatiently. And on they went.
The throb of the drum grew clearer until it seemed that the next turn in
the trail should reveal the camp, while with the drum throb they began
to catch, at first faintly and then more clearly, the monotonous chant
“Hai-yai-kai-yai, Hai-yai-kai-yai,” that ever accompanies the Indian
dance. Suddenly the drums ceased altogether and with it the chanting,
and then there arose upon the night silence a low moaning cry that
gradually rose into a long-drawn penetrating wail, almost a scream, made
by a single voice.
Jerry's hand caught Cameron's arm with a convulsive grip.
“What the deuce is that?” asked Cameron.
“Sioux Indian--he mak' dat when he go keel.”
Once more the long weird wailing scream pierced the night and, echoing
down the canyon, was repeated a hundred times by the black rocky sides.
Cameron could feel Jerry's hand still quivering on his arm.
“What's up with you, Jerry?” said Cameron impatiently.
“Me hear dat when A'm small boy--me.”
Then Cameron remembered that it was Sioux blood that colored the
life-stream in Jerry's veins.
“Oh, pshaw!” said Cameron with gruff impatience. “Come on!” But he was
more shaken than he cared to acknowledge by that weird unearthly cry
and by its all too obvious effect upon the iron nerves of that little
half-breed at his side.
“Dey mak' dat cry when dey go meet Custer long 'go,” said Jerry, making
no motion to go forward.
“What are you waiting for?” said Cameron harshly. “Come along, unless
you want to go back.”
His words stung the half-breed into action. Cameron could feel him in
the dark jerk his hand away and hear him grit his teeth.
“Bah! You go hell!” he muttered between his clenched teeth.
“That is better,” said Cameron cheerfully. “Now we will look in upon
these fire-eaters.”
Sharp to the right they turned behind a cliff, and then back almost upon
their trail, still to the right, through a screen of spruce and poplar,
and found themselves in a hole of a rock that lengthened into a tunnel
blacker than the night outside. Pursuing this tunnel some little
distance they became aware of a light that grew as they moved toward
it into a fire set in the middle of a wide cavern. The cavern was of
irregular shape, with high-vaulted roof, open to the sky at the apex and
hung with glistening stalactites. The floor of this cavern lay slightly
below them, and from their position they could command a full view of
its interior.
The sides of the cavern round about were crowded with tawny faces of
Indians arranged rank upon rank, the first row seated upon the ground,
those behind crouching upon their haunches, those still farther back
standing. In the center of the cavern and with his face lit by the fire
stood the Sioux Chief, Onawata.
“Copperhead! By all that's holy!” cried Cameron.
“Onawata!” exclaimed the half-breed. “What he mak' here?”
“What is he saying, Jerry? Tell me everything--quick!” commanded Cameron
sharply.
Jerry was listening with eager face.
“He mak' beeg spik,” he said.
“Go on!”
“He say Indian long tam' 'go have all country when his fadder small boy.
Dem day good hunting--plenty beaver, mink, moose, buffalo like leaf on
tree, plenty hit (eat), warm wigwam, Indian no seeck, notting wrong. Dem
day Indian lak' deer go every place. Dem day Indian man lak' bear 'fraid
notting. Good tam', happy, hunt deer, keel buffalo, hit all day. Ah-h-h!
ah-h-h!” The half-breed's voice faded in two long gasps.
The Sioux's chanting voice rose and fell through the vaulted cavern like
a mighty instrument of music. His audience of crowding Indians gazed
in solemn rapt awe upon him. A spell held them fixed. The whole circle
swayed in unison with his swaying form as he chanted the departed
glories of those happy days when the red man roamed free those plains
and woods, lord of his destiny and subject only to his own will. The
mystic magic power of that rich resonant voice, its rhythmic cadence
emphasized by the soft throbbing of the drum, the uplifted face glowing
as with prophetic fire, the tall swaying form instinct with exalted
emotion, swept the souls of his hearers with surging tides of passion.
Cameron, though he caught but little of its meaning, felt himself
irresistibly borne along upon the torrent of the flowing words. He
glanced at Jerry beside him and was startled by the intense emotion
showing upon his little wizened face.
Suddenly there was a swift change of motif, and with it a change of
tone and movement and color. The marching, vibrant, triumphant chant
of freedom and of conquest subsided again into the long-drawn wail of
defeat, gloom and despair. Cameron needed no interpreter. He knew the
singer was telling the pathetic story of the passing of the day of the
Indian's glory and the advent of the day of his humiliation. With sharp
rising inflections, with staccato phrasing and with fierce passionate
intonation, the Sioux wrung the hearts of his hearers. Again Cameron
glanced at the half-breed at his side and again he was startled to note
the transformation in his face. Where there had been glowing pride there
was now bitter savage hate. For that hour at least the half-breed was
all Sioux. His father's blood was the water in his veins, the red was
only his Indian mother's. With face drawn tense and lips bared into
a snarl, with eyes gleaming, he gazed fascinated upon the face of the
singer. In imagination, in instinct, in the deepest emotions of his soul
Jerry was harking back again to the savage in him, and the savage in him
thirsting for revenge upon the white man who had wrought this ruin upon
him and his Indian race. With a fine dramatic instinct the Sioux reached
his climax and abruptly ceased. A low moaning murmur ran round the
circle and swelled into a sobbing cry, then ceased as suddenly as there
stepped into the circle a stranger, evidently a half-breed, who began to
speak. He was a French Cree, he announced, and delivered his message in
the speech, half Cree, half French, affected by his race.
He had come fresh from the North country, from the disturbed district,
and bore, as it appeared, news of the very first importance from those
who were the leaders of his people in the unrest. At his very first
word Jerry drew a long deep breath and by his face appeared to drop from
heaven to earth. As the half-breed proceeded with his tale his speech
increased in rapidity.
“What is he saying, Jerry?” said Cameron after they had listened for
some minutes.
“Oh he beeg damfool!” said Jerry, whose vocabulary had been learned
mostly by association with freighters and the Police. “He tell 'bout
beeg meeting, beeg man Louis Riel mak' beeg noise. Bah! Beeg damfool!”
The whole scene had lost for Jerry its mystic impressiveness and had
become contemptibly commonplace. But not so to Cameron. This was the
part that held meaning for him. So he pulled up the half-breed with a
quick, sharp command.
“Listen close,” he said, “and let me know what he says.”
And as Jerry interpreted in his broken English the half-breed's speech
it appeared that there was something worth learning. At this big
meeting held in Batoche it seemed a petition of rights, to the Dominion
Parliament no less, had been drawn up, and besides this many plans had
been formed and many promises made of reward for all those who dared to
stand for their rights under the leadership of the great Riel, while
for the Indians very special arrangements had been made and the most
alluring prospects held out. For they were assured that, when in the far
North country the new Government was set up, the old free independent
life of which they had been hearing was to be restored, all hampering
restrictions imposed by the white man were to be removed, and the
good old days were to be brought back. The effect upon the Indians was
plainly evident. With solemn faces they listened, nodding now and
then grave approval, and Cameron felt that the whole situation held
possibilities of horror unspeakable in the revival of that ancient
savage spirit which had been so very materially softened and tamed
by years of kindly, patient and firm control on the part of those
who represented among them British law and civilization. His original
intention had been to stride in among these Indians, to put a stop to
their savage nonsense and order them back to their reserves with never a
thought of anything but obedience on their part. But as he glanced about
upon the circle of faces he hesitated. This was no petty outbreak of
ill temper on the part of a number of Indians dissatisfied with their
rations or chafing under some new Police regulation. As his eye traveled
round the circle he noted that for the most part they were young men.
A few of the councilors of the various tribes represented were present.
Many of them he knew, but many others he could not distinguish in the
dim light of the fire.
“Who are those Indians, Jerry?” he asked.
And as Jerry ran over the names he began to realize how widely
representative of the various tribes in the western country the
gathering was. Practically every reserve in the West was represented:
Bloods, Piegans and Blackfeet from the foothill country, Plain Crees and
Wood Crees from the North. Even a few of the Stonies, who were supposed
to have done with all pagan rites and to have become largely civilized,
were present. Nor were these rank and file men only. They were the
picked braves of the tribes, and with them a large number of the younger
chiefs.
At length the half-breed Cree finished his tale, and in a few brief
fierce sentences he called the Indians of the West to join their
half-breed and Indian brothers of the North in one great effort to
regain their lost rights and to establish themselves for all time in
independence and freedom.
Then followed grave discussion carried on with deliberation and courtesy
by those sitting about the fire, and though gravity and courtesy marked
every utterance there thrilled through every speech an ever deepening
intensity of feeling. The fiery spirit of the red man, long subdued by
those powers that represented the civilization of the white man, was
burning fiercely within them. The insatiable lust for glory formerly won
in war or in the chase, but now no longer possible to them, burned in
their hearts like a consuming fire. The life of monotonous struggle for
a mere existence to which they were condemned had from the first been
intolerable to them. The prowess of their fathers, whether in the
slaughter of foes or in the excitement of the chase, was the theme of
song and story round every Indian camp-fire and at every sun dance.
For the young braves, life, once vivid with color and thrilling with
tingling emotions, had faded into the somber-hued monotony of a dull and
spiritless existence, eked out by the charity of the race who had robbed
them of their hunting-grounds and deprived them of their rights as free
men. The lust for revenge, the fury of hate, the yearning for the return
of the days of the red man's independence raged through their speeches
like fire in an open forest; and, ever fanning yet ever controlling the
flame, old Copperhead presided till the moment should be ripe for such
action as he desired. Back and forward the question was deliberated.
Should they there and then pledge themselves to their Northern brothers
and commit themselves to this great approaching adventure?
Quietly and with an air of judicial deliberation the Sioux put the
question to them. There was something to be lost and something to be
gained. But the loss, how insignificant it seemed! And the gain, how
immeasurable! And after all success was almost certain. What could
prevent it? A few scattered settlers with no arms nor ammunition, with
no means of communication, what could they effect? A Government nearly
three thousand miles away, with the nearest base of military operations
a thousand miles distant, what could they do? The only real difficulty
was the North West Mounted Police. But even as the Sioux uttered the
words a chill silence fell upon the excited throng. The North West
Mounted Police, who for a dozen years had guarded them and cared for
them and ruled them without favor and without fear! Five hundred red
coats of the Great White Mother across the sea, men who had never been
known to turn their backs upon a foe, who laughed at noisy threats and
whose simple word their greatest chief was accustomed unhesitatingly to
obey! Small wonder that the mere mention of the name of those gallant
“Riders of the Plains” should fall like a chill upon their fevered
imaginations. The Sioux was conscious of that chill and set himself to
counteract it.
“The Police!” he cried with unspeakable scorn, “the Police! They will
flee before the Indian braves like leaves before the autumn wind.”
“What says he?” cried Cameron eagerly. And Jerry swiftly interpreted.
Without a moment's hesitation Cameron sprang to his feet and, standing
in the dim light at the entrance to the cave, with arm outstretched and
finger pointed at the speaker, he cried:
“Listen!” With a sudden start every face was turned in his direction.
“Listen!” he repeated. “The Sioux dog lies. He speaks with double
tongue. Never have the Indians seen a Policeman's back turned in
flight.”
His unexpected appearance, his voice ringing like the blare of a trumpet
through the cavern, his tall figure with the outstretched accusing arm
and finger, the sharp challenge of the Sioux's lie with what they all
knew to be the truth, produced an effect utterly indescribable. For
some brief seconds they gazed upon him stricken into silence as with a
physical blow, then with a fierce exclamation the Sioux snatched a rifle
from the cave side and quicker than words can tell fired straight at
the upright accusing figure. But quicker yet was Jerry's panther-spring.
With a backhand he knocked Cameron flat, out of range. Cameron dropped
to the floor as if dead.
“What the deuce do you mean, Jerry?” he cried. “You nearly knocked the
wind out of me!”
“Beeg fool you!” grunted Jerry fiercely, dragging him back into the
tunnel out of the light.
“Let me go, Jerry!” cried Cameron in a rage, struggling to free himself
from the grip of the wiry half-breed.
“Mak' still!” hissed Jerry, laying his hand over Cameron's mouth.
“Indian mad--crazy--tak' scalp sure queeck.”
“Let me go, Jerry, you little fool!” said Cameron. “I'll kill you if you
don't! I want that Sioux, and, by the eternal God, I am going to have
him!” He shook himself free of the half-breed's grasp and sprang to his
feet. “I am going to get him!” he repeated.
“No!” cried Jerry again, flinging himself upon him and winding his
arms about him. “Wait! Nodder tam'. Indian mad crazy--keel quick--no
talk--now.”
Up and down the tunnel Cameron dragged him about as a mastiff might
a terrier, striving to free himself from those gripping arms. Even as
Jerry spoke, through the dim light the figure of an Indian could be seen
passing and repassing the entrance to the cave.
“We get him soon,” said Jerry in an imploring whisper. “Come back
now--queeck--beeg hole close by.”
With a great effort Cameron regained his self-control.
“By Jove, you are right, Jerry,” he said quietly. “We certainly can't
take him now. But we must not lose him. Now listen to me quick. This
passage opens on to the canyon about fifty yards farther down. Follow,
and keep your eye on the Sioux. I shall watch here. Go!”
Without an instant's hesitation Jerry obeyed, well aware that his master
had come to himself and again was in command.
Cameron meantime groped to the mouth of the tunnel by which he had
entered and peered out into the dim light. Close to his hand stood an
Indian in the cavern. Beyond him there was a confused mingling of forms
as if in bewilderment. The Council was evidently broken up for the time.
The Indians were greatly shaken by the vision that had broken in upon
them. That it was no form of flesh and blood was very obvious to them,
for the Sioux's bullet had passed through it and spattered against the
wall leaving no trail of blood behind it. There was no holding them
together, and almost before he was aware of it Cameron saw the cavern
empty of every living soul. Quickly but warily he followed, searching
each nook as he went, but the dim light of the dying fire showed him
nothing but the black walls and gloomy recesses of the great cave. At
the farther entrance he found Jerry awaiting him.
“Where are they gone?” he asked.
“Beeg camp close by,” replied Jerry. “Beeg camp--much Indian. Some
talk-talk, then go sleep. Chief Onawata he mak' more talk--talk all
night--then go sleep. We get him morning.”
Cameron thought swiftly.
“I think you are right, Jerry. Now you get back quick for the men
and come to me here in the morning. We must not spoil the chance of
capturing this old devil. He will have these Indians worked up into
rebellion before we know where we are.”
So saying, Cameron set forward that he might with his own eyes look upon
the camp and might the better plan his further course. Upon two things
he was firmly resolved. First, that he should break up this council
which held such possibilities of danger to the peace of the country. And
secondly, and chiefly, he must lay hold of this Sioux plotter, not only
because of the possibilities of mischief that lay in him, but because of
the injury he had done him and his.
Forward, then, he went and soon came upon the camp, and after observing
the lay of it, noting especially the tent in which the Sioux Chief had
disposed himself, he groped back to his cave, in a nook of which--for
he was nearly done out with weariness, and because much yet lay before
him--he laid himself down and slept soundly till the morning.