THE LAST PATROL
It was still early morning when Cameron rode into the barrack-yard at
Fort Calgary. To the Sergeant in charge, the Superintendent of Police
having departed to Macleod, he reported the events of the preceding
night.
“What about that rumor, Sergeant?” he inquired after he had told his
tale.
“Well, I had the details yesterday,” replied the Sergeant. “Colonel
Otter and a column of some three hundred men with three guns went out
after Pound-maker. The Indians were apparently strongly posted and could
not be dislodged, and I guess our men were glad to get out of the scrape
as easily as they did.”
“Great Heavens!” cried Cameron, more to himself than to the officer,
“what will this mean to us here?”
The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
“The Lord only knows!” he said.
“Well, my business presses all the more,” said Cameron. “I'm going after
this Sioux. Jerry is already on his trail. I suppose you cannot let
me have three or four men? There is liable to be trouble and we cannot
afford to make a mess of this thing.”
“Jerry came in last night asking for a man,” replied the Sergeant, “but
I could not spare one. However, we will do our best and send you on the
very first men that come in.”
“Send on half a dozen to-morrow at the very latest,” replied Cameron. “I
shall rely upon you. Let me give you my trail.”
He left a plan of the Ghost River Trail with the Sergeant and rode to
look up Dr. Martin. He found the doctor still in bed and wrathful at
being disturbed.
“I say, Cameron,” he growled, “what in thunder do you mean by roaming
round this way at night and waking up Christian people out of their
sleep?”
“Sorry, old boy,” replied Cameron, “but my business is rather
important.”
And then while the doctor sat and shivered in his night clothes upon the
side of the bed Cameron gave him in detail the history of the previous
evening and outlined his plan for the capture of the Sioux.
Dr. Martin listened intently, noting the various points and sketching an
outline of the trail as Cameron described it.
“I wanted you to know, Martin, in case anything happened. For, well, you
know how it is with my wife just now. A shock might kill her.”
The doctor growled an indistinct reply.
“That is all, old chap. Good-by,” said Cameron, pressing his hand. “This
I feel is my last go with old Copperhead.”
“Your last go?”
“Oh, don't be alarmed,” he replied lightly. “I am going to get him this
time. There will be no trifling henceforth. Well, good-by, I am off.
By the way, the Sergeant at the barracks has promised to send on half
a dozen men to-morrow to back me up. You might just keep him in mind of
that, for things are so pressing here that he might quite well imagine
that he could not spare the men.”
“Well, that is rather better,” said Martin. “The Sergeant will send
those men all right, or I will know the reason why. Hope you get your
game. Good-by, old man.”
A day's ride brought Cameron to Kananaskis, where the Sun Dance Trail
ends on one side of the Bow River and the Ghost River Trail begins on
the other. There he found signs to indicate that Jerry was before him
on his way to the Manitou Rock. As Cameron was preparing to camp for
the night there came over him a strong but unaccountable presentiment
of approaching evil, an irresistible feeling that he ought to press
forward.
“Pshaw! I will be seeing spooks next!” he said impatiently to himself.
“I suppose it is the Highlander in me that is seeing visions and
dreaming dreams. I must eat, however, no matter what is going to
happen.”
Leaving his horse saddled, but removing the bridle, he gave him his
feed of oats, then he boiled his tea and made his own supper. As he was
eating the feeling grew more strongly upon him that he should not camp
but go forward at once. At the same time he made the discovery that the
weariness that had almost overpowered him during the last half-hour
of his ride had completely vanished. Hence, with the feeling of half
contemptuous anger at himself for yielding to his presentiment, he
packed up his kit again, bridled his horse, and rode on.
The trail was indeed, as Jerry said, “no trail.” It was rugged with
broken rocks and cumbered with fallen trees, and as it proceeded became
more indistinct. His horse, too, from sheer weariness, for he had
already done his full day's journey, was growing less sure footed and
so went stumbling noisily along. Cameron began to regret his folly in
yielding to a mere unreasoning imagination and he resolved to spend the
night at the first camping-ground that should offer. The light of the
long spring day was beginning to fade from the sky and in the forest the
deep shadows were beginning to gather. Still no suitable camping-ground
presented itself and Cameron stubbornly pressed forward through the
forest that grew denser and more difficult at every step. After some
hours of steady plodding the trees began to be sensibly larger, the
birch and poplar gave place to spruce and pine and the underbrush almost
entirely disappeared. The trail, too, became better, winding between
the large trees which, with clean trunks, stood wide apart and arranged
themselves in stately high-arched aisles and long corridors. From the
lofty branches overhead the gray moss hung in long streamers, as Jerry
had said, giving to the trees an ancient and weird appearance. Along
these silent, solemn, gray-festooned aisles and corridors Cameron rode
with an uncanny sensation that unseen eyes were peering out upon him
from those dim and festooned corridors on either side. Impatiently he
strove to shake off the feeling, but in vain. At length, forced by
the growing darkness, he decided to camp, when through the shadowy and
silent forest there came to his ears the welcome sound of running water.
It was to Cameron like the sound of a human voice. He almost called
aloud to the running stream as to a friend. It was the Ghost River.
In a few minutes he had reached the water and after picketing his horse
some little distance down the stream and away from the trail, he
rolled himself in his blanket to sleep. The moon rising above the high
tree-tops filled the forest aisles with a soft unearthly light. As his
eye followed down the long dim aisles there grew once more upon him
the feeling that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Vainly he cursed
himself for his folly. He could not sleep. A twig broke near him. He
lay still listening with every nerve taut. He fancied he could hear soft
feet about him and stealing near. With his two guns in hand he sat bolt
upright. Straight before him and not more than ten feet away the form of
an Indian was plainly to be seen. A slight sound to his right drew his
eyes in that direction. There, too, stood the silent form of an Indian,
on his left also an Indian. Suddenly from behind him a deep, guttural
voice spoke, “Look this way!” He turned sharply and found himself gazing
into a rifle-barrel a few feet from his face. “Now look back!” said the
voice. He glanced to right and left, only to find rifles leveled at him
from every side.
“White man put down his guns on ground!” said the same guttural voice.
Cameron hesitated.
“Indian speak no more,” said the voice in a deep growl.
Cameron put his guns down.
“Stand up!” said the voice.
Cameron obeyed. Out from behind the Indian with the leveled rifle glided
another Indian form. It was Copperhead. Two more Indians appeared with
him. All thought of resistance passed from Cameron's mind. It would mean
instant death, and, what to Cameron was worse than death, the certain
failure of his plans. While he lived he still had hope. Besides, there
would be the Police next day.
With savage, cruel haste Copperhead bound his hands behind his back and
as a further precaution threw a cord about his neck.
“Come!” he said, giving the cord a quick jerk.
“Copperhead,” said Cameron through his clenched teeth, “you will one day
wish you had never done this thing.”
“No speak!” said Copperhead gruffly, jerking the cord so heavily as
almost to throw Cameron off his feet.
Through the night Cameron stumbled on with his captors, Copperhead in
front and the others following. Half dead with sleeplessness and blind
with rage he walked on as if in a hideous nightmare, mechanically
watching the feet of the Indian immediately in front of him and thus
saving himself many a cruel fall and a more cruel jerking of the cord
about his neck, for such was Copperhead's method of lifting him to his
feet when he fell. It seemed to him as if the night would never pass or
the journey end.
At length the throbbing of the Indian drum fell upon his ears. It was to
him a welcome sound. Nothing could be much more agonizing than what he
was at present enduring. As they approached the Indian camp one of his
captors raised a wild, wailing cry which resounded through the forest
with an unearthly sound. Never had such a cry fallen upon Cameron's
ears. It was the old-time cry of the Indian warriors announcing that
they were returning in triumph bringing their captives with them.
The drum-beat ceased. Again the cry was raised, when from the Indian
encampment came in reply a chorus of similar cries followed by a rush
of braves to meet the approaching warriors and to welcome them and their
captives.
With loud and discordant exultation straight into the circle of the
firelight cast from many fires Copperhead and his companions marched
their captive. On every side naked painted Indians to the number of
several score crowded in tumultuous uproar. Not for many years had these
Indians witnessed their ancient and joyous sport of baiting a prisoner.
As Cameron came into the clear light of the fire instantly low murmurs
ran round the crowd, for to many of them he was well known. Then silence
fell upon them. His presence there was clearly a shock to many of
them. To take prisoner one of the Mounted Police and to submit him to
indignity stirred strange emotions in their hearts. The keen eye of
Copperhead noted the sudden change of the mood of the Indians and
immediately he gave orders to those who held Cameron in charge, with the
result that they hurried him off and thrust him into a little low hut
constructed of brush and open in front where, after tying his feet
securely, they left him with an Indian on guard in front.
For some moments Cameron lay stupid with weariness and pain till his
weariness overpowered his pain and he sank into sleep. He was recalled
to consciousness by the sensation of something digging into his ribs. As
he sat up half asleep a low “hist!” startled him wide awake. His heart
leaped as he heard out of the darkness a whispered word, “Jerry here.”
Cameron rolled over and came close against the little half-breed, bound
as he was himself. Again came the “hist!”
“Me all lak' youse'f,” said Jerry. “No spik any. Look out front.”
The Indian on guard was eagerly looking and listening to what was going
on before him beside the fire. At one side of the circle sat the Indians
in council. Copperhead was standing and speaking to them.
“What is he saying?” said Cameron, his mouth close to Jerry's ear.
“He say dey keel us queeck. Indian no lak' keel. Dey scare Police get
'em. Copperhead he ver' mad. Say he keel us heemse'f--queeck.”
Again and again and with ever increasing vehemence Copperhead urged his
views upon the hesitating Indians, well aware that by involving them in
such a deed of blood he would irrevocably commit them to rebellion. But
he was dealing with men well-nigh as subtle as himself, and for the very
same reason as he pressed them to the deed they shrank back from it.
They were not yet quite prepared to burn their bridges behind them.
Indeed some of them suggested the wisdom of holding the prisoners as
hostages in case of necessity arising in the future.
“What Indians are here?” whispered Cameron.
“Piegan, Sarcee, Blood,” breathed Jerry. “No Blackfeet come--not
yet--Copperhead he look, look, look all yesterday for Blackfeet
coming. Blackfeet come to-morrow mebbe--den Indian mak' beeg medicine.
Copperhead he go meet Blackfeet dis day--he catch you--he go 'gain
to-morrow mebbe--dunno.”
Meantime the discussion in the council was drawing to a climax. With
the astuteness of a true leader Copperhead ceased to urge his view, and,
unable to secure the best, wisely determined to content himself with the
second-best. His vehement tone gave place to one of persuasion. Finally
an agreement appeared to be reached by all. With one consent the council
rose and with hands uplifted they all appeared to take some solemn oath.
“What are they saying?” whispered Cameron.
“He say,” replied Jerry, “he go meet Blackfeet and when he bring 'em
back den dey keel us sure t'ing. But,” added Jerry with a cheerful
giggle, “he not keel 'em yet, by Gar!”
For some minutes they waited in silence, then they saw Copperhead with
his bodyguard of Sioux disappear from the circle of the firelight into
the shadows of the forest.
“Now you go sleep,” whispered Jerry. “Me keep watch.”
Even before he had finished speaking Cameron had lain back upon the
ground and in spite of the pain in his tightly bound limbs such was his
utter exhaustion that he fell fast asleep.
It seemed to him but a moment when he was again awakened by the touch
of a hand stealing over his face. The hand reached his lips and rested
there, when he started up wide-awake. A soft hiss from the back of the
hut arrested him.
“No noise,” said a soft guttural voice. Again the hand was thrust
through the brush wall, this time bearing a knife. “Cut string,”
whispered the voice, while the hand kept feeling for the thongs that
bound Cameron's hands. In a few moments Cameron was free from his bonds.
“Give me the knife,” he whispered. It was placed in his hands.
“Tell you squaw,” said the voice, “sick boy not forget.”
“I will tell her,” replied Cameron. “She will never forget you.” The boy
laid his hand on Cameron's lips and was gone.
Soon Jerry too was free. Slowly they wormed their way through the flimsy
brush wall at the back, and, crouching low, looked about them. The camp
was deep in sleep. The fires were smoldering in their ashes. Not an
Indian was moving. Lying across the front of their little hut the
sleeping form of their guard could be seen. The forest was still black
behind them, but already there was in the paling stars the faint promise
of the dawn. Hardly daring to breathe, they rose and stood looking at
each other.
“No stir,” said Jerry with his lips at Cameron's ear. He dropped on his
hands and knees and began carefully to remove every twig from his path
so that his feet might rest only upon the deep leafy mold of the
forest. Carefully Cameron followed his example, and, working slowly and
painfully, they gained the cover of the dark forest away from the circle
of the firelight.
Scarcely had they reached that shelter when an Indian rose from beside
a fire, raked the embers together, and threw some sticks upon it. As
Cameron stood watching him, his heart-beat thumping in his ears, a
rotten twig snapped under his feet. The Indian turned his face in their
direction, and, bending forward, appeared to be listening intently.
Instantly Jerry, stooping down, made a scrambling noise in the leaves,
ending with a thump upon the ground. Immediately the Indian relaxed his
listening attitude, satisfied that a rabbit was scurrying through the
forest upon his own errand bent. Rigidly silent they stood, watching him
till long after he had lain down again in his place, then once more they
began their painful advance, clearing treacherous twigs from every place
where their feet should rest. Fortunately for their going the forest
here was largely free from underbrush. Working carefully and painfully
for half an hour, and avoiding the trail by the Ghost River, they made
their way out of hearing of the camp and then set off at such speed as
their path allowed, Jerry in the lead and Cameron following.
“Where are you going, Jerry?” inquired Cameron as the little half-breed,
without halt or hesitation, went slipping through the forest.
“Kananaskis,” said Jerry. “Strike trail near Bow Reever.”
“Hold up for a moment, Jerry. I want to talk to you,” said Cameron.
“No! Mak' speed now. Stop in brush.”
“All right,” said Cameron, following close upon his heels.
The morning broadened into day, but they made no pause till they had
left behind them the open timber and gained the cover of the forest
where the underbrush grew thick. Then Jerry, finding a dry and sheltered
spot, threw himself down and stretched himself at full length waiting
for Cameron's word.
“Tired, Jerry?” said Cameron.
“Non,” replied the little man scornfully. “When lie down tak' 'em easy.”
“Good! Now listen! Copperhead is on his way to meet the Blackfeet, but
I fancy he is going to be disappointed.” Then Cameron narrated to Jerry
the story of his recent interview with Crowfoot. “So I don't think,” he
concluded, “any Blackfeet will come. Copperhead and Running Stream are
going to be sold this time. Besides that the Police are on their way to
Kananaskis following our trail. They will reach Kananaskis to-night and
start for Ghost River to-morrow. We ought to get Copperhead between us
somewhere on the Ghost River trail and we must get him to-day. Where
will he be now?”
Jerry considered the matter, then, pointing straight eastward, he
replied:
“On trail Kananaskis not far from Ghost Reever.”
“Will he be that far?” inquired Cameron. “He would have to sleep and
eat, Jerry.”
“Non! No sleep--hit sam' tam' he run.”
“Then it is quite possible,” said Cameron, “that we may head him off.”
“Mebbe--dunno how fas' he go,” said Jerry.
“By the way, Jerry, when do we eat?” inquired Cameron.
“Pull belt tight,” said Jerry with a grin. “Hit at cache on trail.”
“Do you mean to say you had the good sense to cache some grub, Jerry, on
your way down?”
“Jerry lak' squirrel,” replied the half-breed. “Cache grub many
place--sometam come good.”
“Great head, Jerry. Now, where is the cache?”
“Halfway Kananaskis to Ghost Reever.”
“Then, Jerry, we must make that Ghost River trail and make it quick if
we are to intercept Copperhead.”
“Bon! We mus' mak' beeg speed for sure.” And “make big speed” they
did, with the result that by midday they struck the trail not far from
Jerry's cache. As they approached the trail they proceeded with extreme
caution, for they knew that at any moment they might run upon Copperhead
and his band or upon some of their Indian pursuers who would assuredly
be following them hard. A careful scrutiny of the trail showed that
neither Copperhead nor their pursuers had yet passed by.
“Come now ver' soon,” said Jerry, as he left the trail, and, plunging
into the brush, led the way with unerring precision to where he had made
his cache. Quickly they secured the food and with it made their way back
to a position from which they could command a view of the trail.
“Go sleep now,” said Jerry, after they had done. “Me watch one hour.”
Gladly Cameron availed himself of the opportunity to catch up his sleep,
in which he was many hours behind. He stretched himself on the ground
and in a moment's time lay as completely unconscious as if dead. But
before half of his allotted time was gone he was awakened by Jerry's
hand pressing steadily upon his arm.
“Indian come,” whispered the half-breed. Instantly Cameron was
wide-awake and fully alert.
“How many, Jerry?” he asked, lying with his ear to the ground.
“Dunno. T'ree--four mebbe.”
They had not long to wait. Almost as Jerry was speaking the figure of an
Indian came into view, running with that tireless trot that can wear out
any wild animal that roams the woods.
“Copperhead!” whispered Cameron, tightening his belt and making as if to
rise.
“Wait!” replied Jerry. “One more.”
Following Copperhead, and running not close upon him but at some
distance behind, came another Indian, then another, till three had
passed their hiding-place.
“Four against two, Jerry,” said Cameron. “That is all right. They have
their knives, I see, but only one gun. We have no guns and only one
knife. But Jerry, we can go in and kill them with our bare hands.”
Jerry nodded carelessly. He had fought too often against much greater
odds in Police battles to be unduly disturbed at the present odds.
Silently and at a safe distance behind they fell into the wake of the
running Indians, Jerry with his moccasined feet leading the way. Mile
after mile they followed the trail, ever on the alert for the doubling
back of those whom they were pursuing. Suddenly Cameron heard a sharp
hiss from Jerry in front. Swiftly he flung himself into the brush and
lay still. Within a minute he saw coming back upon the trail an Indian,
silent as a shadow and listening at every step. The Indian passed his
hiding-place and for some minutes Cameron lay watching until he saw him
return in the same stealthy manner. After some minutes had elapsed a
soft hiss from Jerry brought Cameron cautiously out upon the trail once
more.
“All right,” whispered Jerry. “All Indians pass on before.” And once
more they went forward.
A second time during the afternoon Jerry's warning hiss sent Cameron
into the brush to allow an Indian to scout his back trail. It was clear
that the presence of Cameron and the half-breed upon the Ghost River
trail had awakened the suspicion in Copperhead's mind that the plan to
hold a powwow at Manitou Rock was known to the Police and that they were
on his trail. It became therefore increasingly evident to Cameron that
any plan that involved the possibility of taking Copperhead unawares
would have to be abandoned. He called Jerry back to him.
“Jerry,” he said, “if that Indian doubles back on his track again I mean
to get him. If we get him the other chaps will follow. If I only had a
gun! But this knife is no use to me.”
“Give heem to me,” said Jerry eagerly. “I find heem good.”
It was toward the close of the afternoon when again Jerry's hiss warned
Cameron that the Indian was returning upon his trail. Cameron stepped
into the brush at the side, and, crouching low, prepared for the
encounter, but as he was about to spring Jerry flashed past him, and,
hurling himself upon the Indian's back, gripped him by the throat and
bore him choking to earth, knocking the wind out of him and rendering
him powerless. Jerry's knife descended once bright, once red, and the
Indian with a horrible gasping cry lay still.
“Quick!” cried Cameron, seizing the dead man by the shoulders. “Lift him
up!”
Jerry sprang to seize the legs, and, taking care not to break down the
brush on either side of the trail, they lifted the body into the thick
underwood and concealing themselves beside it awaited events. Hardly
were they out of sight when they heard the soft pad of several feet
running down the trail. Opposite them the feet stopped abruptly.
“Huh!” grunted the Indian runner, and darted back by the way he had
come.
“Heem see blood,” whispered Jerry. “Go back tell Copperhead.”
With every nerve strung to its highest tension they waited, crouching,
Jerry tingling and quivering with the intensity of his excitement,
Cameron quiet, cool, as if assured of the issue.
“I am going to get that devil this time, Jerry,” he breathed. “He
dragged me by the neck once. I will show him something.”
Jerry laid his hand upon his arm. At a little distance from them there
was a sound of creeping steps. A few moments they waited and at their
side the brush began to quiver. A moment later beside Cameron's face
a hand carrying a rifle parted the screen of spruce boughs. Quick as
a flash Cameron seized the wrist, gripping it with both hands, and,
putting his weight into the swing, flung himself backwards; at the same
time catching the body with his knee, he heaved it clear over their
heads and landed it hard against a tree. The rifle tumbled from the
Indian's hand and he lay squirming on the ground. Immediately as Jerry
sprang for the rifle a second Indian thrust his face through the screen,
caught sight of Jerry with the rifle, darted back and disappeared with
Jerry hard upon his trail. Scarcely had they vanished into the brush
when Cameron, hearing a slight sound at his back, turned swiftly to
see a tall Indian charging upon him with knife raised to strike. He had
barely time to thrust up his arm and divert the blow from his neck to
his shoulder when the Indian was upon him like a wild cat.
“Ha! Copperhead!” cried Cameron with exultation, as he flung him off.
“At last I have you! Your time has come!”
The Sioux paused in his attack, looking scornfully at his antagonist.
He was dressed in a highly embroidered tight-fitting deerskin coat and
leggings.
“Huh!” he grunted in a voice of quiet, concentrated fury. “The white dog
will die.”
“No, Copperhead,” replied Cameron quietly. “You have a knife, I have
none, but I shall lead you like a dog into the Police guard-house.”
The Sioux said nothing in reply, but kept circling lightly on his toes
waiting his chance to spring. As the two men stood facing each other
there was little to choose between them in physical strength and agility
as well as in intelligent fighting qualities. There was this difference,
however, that the Indian's fighting had ever been to kill, the white
man's simply to win. But this difference to-day had ceased to exist.
There was in Cameron's mind the determination to kill if need be. One
immense advantage the Indian held in that he possessed a weapon in
the use of which he was a master and by means of which he had already
inflicted a serious wound upon his enemy, a wound which as yet was but
slightly felt. To deprive the Indian of that knife was Cameron's first
aim. That once achieved, the end could not long be delayed; for the
Indian, though a skillful wrestler, knows little of the art of fighting
with his hands.
As Cameron stood on guard watching his enemy's movements, his mind
recalled in swift review the various wrongs he had suffered at his
hands, the fright and insult to his wife, the devastation of his home,
the cattle-raid involving the death of Raven, and lastly he remembered
with a deep rage his recent humiliation at the Indian's hands and how
he had been hauled along by the neck and led like a dog into the Indian
camp. At these recollections he became conscious of a burning desire to
humiliate the redskin who had dared to do these things to him.
With this in mind he waited the Indian's attack. The attack came swift
as a serpent's dart, a feint to strike, a swift recoil, then like
a flash of light a hard drive with the knife. But quick as was the
Indian's drive Cameron was quicker. Catching the knife-hand at the wrist
he drew it sharply down, meeting at the same time the Indian's chin with
a short, hard uppercut that jarred his head so seriously that his grip
on the knife relaxed and it fell from his hand. Cameron kicked it behind
him into the brush while the Indian, with a mighty wrench, released
himself from Cameron's grip and sprang back free. For some time the
Indian kept away out of Cameron's reach as if uncertain of himself.
Cameron taunted him.
“Onawata has had enough! He cannot fight unless he has a knife! See! I
will punish the great Sioux Chief like a little child.”
So saying, Cameron stepped quickly toward him, made a few passes and
once, twice, with his open hand slapped the Indian's face hard. In a mad
fury of passion the Indian rushed upon him. Cameron met him with blows,
one, two, three, the last one heavy enough to lay him on the ground
insensible.
“Oh, get up!” said Cameron contemptuously, kicking him as he might a
dog. “Get up and be a man!”
Slowly the Indian rose, wiping his bleeding lips, hate burning in his
eyes, but in them also a new look, one of fear.
“Ha! Onawata is a great fighter!” smiled Cameron, enjoying to the full
the humiliation of his enemy.
Slowly the Indian gathered himself together. He was no coward and he was
by no means beaten as yet, but this kind of fighting was new to him. He
apparently determined to avoid those hammering fists of the white man.
With extraordinary agility he kept out of Cameron's reach, circling
about him and dodging in and out among the trees. While thus pressing
hard upon the Sioux Cameron suddenly became conscious of a sensation
of weakness. The bloodletting of the knife wound was beginning to tell.
Cameron began to dread that if ever this Indian made up his mind to run
away he might yet escape. He began to regret his trifling with him and
he resolved to end the fight as soon as possible with a knock-out blow.
The quick eye of the Indian perceived that Cameron's breath was coming
quicker, and, still keeping carefully out of his enemy's reach, he
danced about more swiftly than ever. Cameron realized that he must bring
the matter quickly to an end. Feigning a weakness greater than he felt,
he induced the Indian to run in upon him, but this time the Indian
avoided the smashing blow with which Cameron met him, and, locking his
arms about his antagonist and gripping him by the wounded shoulder,
began steadily to wear him to the ground. Sickened by the intensity
of the pain in his wounded shoulder, Cameron felt his strength rapidly
leaving him. Gradually the Indian shifted his hand up from the shoulder
to the neck, the fingers working their way toward Cameron's face. Well
did Cameron know the savage trick which the Indian had in mind. In a
few minutes more those fingers would be in Cameron's eyes pressing the
eyeballs from their sockets. It was now the Indian's turn to jibe.
“Huh!” he exclaimed. “White man no good. Soon he see no more.”
The taunt served to stimulate every ounce of Cameron's remaining
strength. With a mighty effort he wrenched the Indian's hand from his
face, and, tearing himself free, swung his clenched fist with all his
weight upon the Indian's neck. The blow struck just beneath the jugular
vein. The Indian's grip relaxed, he staggered back a pace, half stunned.
Summoning all his force, Cameron followed up with one straight blow upon
the chin. He needed no other. As if stricken by an axe the Indian
fell to the earth and lay as if dead. Sinking on the ground beside him
Cameron exerted all his will-power to keep himself from fainting. After
a few minutes' fierce struggle with himself he was sufficiently revived
to be able to bind the Indian's hands behind his back with his belt.
Searching among the brushwood, he found the Indian's knife, and cut from
his leather trousers sufficient thongs to bind his legs, working with
fierce and concentrated energy while his strength lasted. At length as
the hands were drawn tight darkness fell upon his eyes and he sank down
unconscious beside his foe.
“There, that's better! He has lost a lot of blood, but we have checked
that flow and he will soon be right. Hello, old man! Just waking up,
are you? Lie perfectly still. Come, you must lie still. What? Oh,
Copperhead? Well, he is safe enough. What? No, never fear. We know the
old snake and we have tied him fast. Jerry has a fine assortment of
knots adorning his person. Now, no more talking for half a day. Your
wound is clean enough. A mighty close shave it was, but by to-morrow you
will be fairly fit. Copperhead? Oh, never mind Copperhead. I assure you
he is safe enough. Hardly fit to travel yet. What happened to him? Looks
as if a tree had fallen upon him.” To which chatter of Dr. Martin's
Cameron could only make feeble answer, “For God's sake don't let him
go!”
After the capture of Copperhead the camp at Manitou Lake faded away, for
when the Police Patrol under Jerry's guidance rode up the Ghost River
Trail they found only the cold ashes of camp-fires and the debris that
remains after a powwow.
Three days later Cameron rode back into Fort Calgary, sore but content,
for at his stirrup and bound to his saddle-horn rode the Sioux Chief,
proud, untamed, but a prisoner. As he rode into the little town his
quick eyes flashed scorn upon all the curious gazers, but in their
depths beneath the scorn there looked forth an agony that only Cameron
saw and understood. He had played for a great stake and had lost.
As the patrol rode into Fort Calgary the little town was in an uproar of
jubilation.
“What's the row?” inquired the doctor, for Cameron felt too weary to
inquire.
“A great victory for the troops!” said a young chap dressed in cow-boy
garb. “Middleton has smashed the half-breeds at Batoche. Riel is
captured. The whole rebellion business is bust up.”
Cameron threw a swift glance at the Sioux's face. A fierce anxiety
looked out of the gleaming eyes.
“Tell him, Jerry,” said Cameron to the half-breed who rode at his other
side.
As Jerry told the Indian of the total collapse of the rebellion and the
capture of its leader the stern face grew eloquent with contempt.
“Bah!” he said, spitting on the ground. “Riel he much fool--no good
fight. Indian got no Chief--no Chief.” The look on his face all too
clearly revealed that his soul was experiencing the bitterness of death.
Cameron almost pitied him, but he spoke no word. There was nothing that
one could say and besides he was far too weary for anything but rest.
At the gate of the Barrack yard his old Superintendent from Fort Macleod
met the party.
“You are wounded, Cameron?” exclaimed the Superintendent, glancing in
alarm at Cameron's wan face.
“I have got him,” replied Cameron, loosing the lariat from the horn of
his saddle and handing the end to an orderly. “But,” he added, “it seems
hardly worth while now.”
“Worth while! Worth while!” exclaimed the Superintendent with as much
excitement as he ever allowed to appear in his tone. “Let me tell you,
Cameron, that if any one thing has kept me from getting into a blue funk
during these months it was the feeling that you were on patrol along the
Sun Dance Trail.”
“Funk?” exclaimed Cameron with a smile. “Funk?” But while he smiled he
looked into the cold, gray eyes of his Chief, and, noting the unwonted
glow in them, he felt that after all his work as the Patrol of the Sun
Dance Trail was perhaps worth while.