A DAY IN THE MACLEOD BARRACKS
“What's this, Sergeant Crisp?” The Commissioner, a tall, slight, and
soldier-like man, keen-eyed and brisk of speech, rapped out his words
like a man intent on business.
“One of a whiskey gang, Sir. Dick Raven's, I suspect.”
“And the charge?”
“Whiskey trading, theft, and murder.”
The Commissioner's face grew grave.
“Murder? Where did you find him?”
“Kootenay trail, Sir. Got wind of him at Calgary, followed up the clue
past Morleyville, then along the Kootenay trail. A blizzard came on and
we feared we had lost them. We fell in with a band of Stony Indians,
found that the band had been robbed and two of their number murdered.”
“Two murdered?” The Commissioner's voice was stern.
“Yes, Sir. Shot down in cold blood. We have the testimony of an eye
witness. We followed the trail and came upon two of them. My horse was
shot. One of them escaped; this man we captured.”
The Commissioner sat pondering. Then with disconcerting swiftness he
turned upon the prisoner.
“Your name?”
“Cameron, Sir.”
“Where from?”
“I was working in McIvor's survey camp near Morleyville. I went out
shooting, lost my way in a blizzard, was captured by a man who called
himself Raven--”
“Wait!” said the Commissioner sharply. “Bring me that file!”
The orderly brought a file from which the Commissioner selected a
letter. His keen eyes rapidly scanned the contents and then ran over the
prisoner from head to foot. Thereupon, without a moment's hesitation, he
said curtly:
“Release the prisoner!”
“But, Sir--” began Sergeant Crisp, with an expression of utter
bewilderment and disgust upon his face.
“Release the prisoner!” repeated the Commissioner sharply. “Mr. Cameron,
I deeply regret this mistake. Under the circumstances it could hardly
have been avoided. You were in bad company, you see. I am greatly
pleased that my men have been of service to you. We shall continue to
do all we can for you. In the meantime I am very pleased to have the
pleasure of meeting you.” He passed the letter to Sergeant Crisp. “I
have information about you from Morleyville, you see. Now tell us all
about it.”
It took Cameron some moments to recover his wits, so dumbfounded was he
at the sudden change in his condition.
“Well, Sir,” he began, “I hardly know what to say.”
“Sit down, sit down, Mr. Cameron. Take your time,” said the
Commissioner. “We are somewhat hurried these days, but you must have had
some trying experiences.”
Then Cameron proceeded with his tale. The Commissioner listened with
keen attention, now and then arresting him with a question or a comment.
When Cameron came to tell of the murder of the Stonies his voice shook
with passion.
“We will get that Indian some day,” said the Commissioner, “never fear.
What is his name?”
“Little Thunder, Raven called him. And I would like to take a hand in
that too, Sir,” said Cameron eagerly.
“You would, eh?” said the Commissioner with a sharp look at him. “Well,
we'll see. Little Thunder,” he repeated to himself. “Bring that Record
Book!”
The orderly laid a large canvas-covered book before him.
“Little Thunder, eh?” he repeated, turning the leaves of the book.
“Oh, yes, I thought so! Blood Indian--formerly Chief--supplanted by Red
Crow--got into trouble with whiskey traders. Yes, I remember. He is at
his old tricks. This time, however, he has gone too far. We will get
him. Go on, Mr. Cameron!”
When Cameron had concluded his story the Commissioner said to the
orderly sharply:
“Send me Inspector Dickson!”
In a few moments Inspector Dickson appeared, a tall, slight man, with a
gentle face and kindly blue eyes.
“Inspector Dickson, how are we for men? Can you spare two or three to
round up a gang of whiskey traders and to run down a murderer? We are on
the track of Raven's bunch, I believe.”
“We are very short-handed at present, Sir. This half-breed trouble in
the north is keeping our Indians all very restless. We must keep in
touch with them.”
“Yes, yes, I know. By the way, how are the Bloods just now?”
“They are better, Sir, but the Blackfeet are restless and uneasy. There
are a lot of runners from the east among them.”
“How is old Crowfoot behaving?”
“Crowfoot himself is apparently all right so far, but of course no man
can tell what Crowfoot is thinking.”
“That's right enough,” replied the Commissioner.
“By the way, Sir, it was Crowfoot's son that got into that trouble last
night with that Macleod man. The old Chief is in town, too, in fact is
outside just now and quite worked up over the arrest.”
“Well, we will settle this Crowfoot business in a few minutes. Now,
about this Raven gang. You cannot go yourself with a couple of men? He
is an exceedingly clever rascal.”
The Inspector enumerated the cases immediately pressing.
“Well then, at the earliest possible moment we must get after this
gang. Keep this in mind, Inspector Dickson. That Indian I consider an
extremely dangerous man. He is sure to be mixed up with this half-breed
trouble. He has very considerable influence with a large section of the
Bloods. I shouldn't be surprised if we should find him on their reserve
before very long. Now then, bring in young Crowfoot!”
The Inspector saluted and retired, followed by Sergeant Crisp, whose
face had not yet regained its normal expression.
“Mr. Cameron,” said the Commissioner, “if you care to remain with me for
the morning I shall be glad to have you. The administration of justice
by the police may prove interesting to you. Later on we shall discuss
your return to your camp.”
Cameron expressed his delight at being permitted to remain in the court
room, not only that he might observe the police methods of administering
justice, but especially that he might see something of the great
Blackfeet Chief, Crowfoot, of whom he had heard much since his arrival
in the West.
In a few minutes Inspector Dickson returned, followed by a constable
leading a young Indian, handcuffed. With these entered Jerry, the famous
half-breed interpreter, and last of all the father of the prisoner, old
Crowfoot, tall, straight, stately. One swift searching glance the old
Chief flung round the room, and then, acknowledging the Commissioner's
salute with a slight wave of the hand and a grunt, and declining the
seat offered him, he stood back against the wall and there viewed the
proceedings with an air of haughty defiance.
The Commissioner lost no time in preliminaries. The charge was read and
explained to the prisoner. The constable made his statement. The young
Indian had got into an altercation with a citizen of Macleod, and on
being hard pressed had pulled the pistol which was laid upon the
desk. There was no defense. The interpreter, however, explained, after
conversation with the prisoner, that drink was the cause. At this point
the old Chief's face swiftly changed. Defiance gave place to disgust,
grief, and rage.
The Commissioner, after carefully eliciting all the facts, gave the
prisoner an opportunity to make a statement. This being declined, the
Commissioner proceeded gravely to point out the serious nature of the
offense, to emphasize the sacredness of human life and declare the
determination of the government to protect all Her Majesty's subjects,
no matter what their race or the colour of their skin. He then went
on to point out the serious danger which the young man had so narrowly
escaped.
“Why, man,” exclaimed the Commissioner, “you might have committed
murder.”
Here the young fellow said something to the interpreter. There was a
flicker of a smile on the half-breed's face.
“He say dat pistol he no good. He can't shoot. He not loaded.”
The Commissioner's face never changed a line. He gravely turned the
pistol over in his hand, and truly enough the rusty weapon appeared to
be quite innocuous except to the shooter.
“This is an extremely dangerous weapon. Why, it might have killed
yourself--if it had been loaded. We cannot allow this sort of thing.
However, since it was not loaded we shall make the sentence light. I
sentence you to one month's confinement.”
The interpreter explained the sentence to the young Indian, who received
the explanation without the movement of a muscle or the flicker of an
eyelid. The constable touched him on the shoulder and said, “Come!”
Before he could move old Crowfoot with two strides stood before the
constable, and waving him aside with a gesture of indescribable dignity,
took his son in his arms and kissed him on either cheek. Then, stepping
back, he addressed him in a voice grave, solemn, and vibrant with
emotion. Jerry interpreted to the Court.
“I have observed the big Chief. This is good medicine. It is good that
wrong should suffer. All good men are against wickedness. My son, you
have done foolishly. You have darkened my eyes. You have covered my face
before my people. They will ask--where is your son? My voice will be
silent. My face will be covered with shame. I shall be like a dog kicked
from the lodge. My son, I told you to go only to the store. I warned you
against bad men and bad places. Your ears were closed, you were wiser
than your father. Now we both must suffer, you here shut up from the
light of the sky, I in my darkened lodge. But,” he continued, turning
swiftly upon the Commissioner, “I ask my father why these bad men who
sell whiskey to the poor Indian are not shut up with my son. My son is
young. He is like the hare in the woods. He falls easily into the trap.
Why are not these bad men removed?” The old Chief's face trembled with
indignant appeal.
“They shall be!” said the Commissioner, smiting the desk with his fist.
“This very day!”
“It is good!” continued the old Chief with great dignity. Then, turning
again to his son, he said, and his voice was full of grave tenderness:
“Now, go to your punishment. The hours will be none too long if they
bring you wisdom.” Again he kissed his son on both cheeks and, without a
look at any other, stalked haughtily from the room.
“Inspector Dickson,” sharply commanded the Commissioner, “find out the
man that sold that whiskey and arrest him at once!”
Cameron was profoundly impressed with the whole scene. He began to
realise as never before the tremendous responsibilities that lay upon
those charged with the administration of justice in this country. He
began to understand, too, the secret of the extraordinary hold that the
Police had upon the Indian tribes and how it came that so small a force
could maintain the “Pax Britannica” over three hundred thousand square
miles of unsettled country, the home of hundreds of wild adventurers
and of thousands of savage Indians, utterly strange to any rule or law
except that of their own sweet will.
“This police business is a big affair,” he ventured to say to the
Commissioner when the court room was cleared. “You practically run the
country.”
“Well,” said the Commissioner modestly, “we do something to keep the
country from going to the devil. We see that every man gets a fair
show.”
“It is great work!” exclaimed Cameron.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” replied the Commissioner. “We don't talk about
it, of course. Indeed, we don't think of it. But,” he continued, “that
blue book there could tell a story that would make the old Empire not
too ashamed of the men who 'ride the line' and patrol the ranges in this
far outpost.” He opened the big canvas-bound book as he spoke and turned
the pages over. “Look at that for a page,” he said, and Cameron glanced
over the entries. What a tale they told!
“Fire-fighting!”
“Yes,” said the Commissioner, “that saved a settler's wife and child--a
prairie fire. The house was lost, but the constable pulled them out and
got rather badly burned in the business.”
Cameron's finger ran down the page.
“Sick man transported to Post.”
“That,” commented the Superintendent, “was a journey of over two hundred
miles by dog sleighs in winter. Saved the man's life.”
And so the record ran. “Cattle thieves arrested.” “Whiskey smugglers
captured.” “Stolen horses recovered.” “Insane man brought to Post.”
“That was rather a tough case,” said the Commissioner. “Meant a journey
of some eight hundred miles with a man, a powerful man too, raving mad.”
“How many of your men on that journey?” enquired Cameron.
“Oh, just one. The fellow got away twice, but was recaptured and finally
landed. Got better too. But the constable was all broken up for weeks
afterwards.”
“Man, that was great!” exclaimed Cameron. “What a pity it should not be
known.”
“Oh,” said the Commissioner lightly, “it's all in the day's duty.”
The words thrilled Cameron to the heart. “All in the day's duty!” The
sheer heroism of it, the dauntless facing of Nature's grimmest terrors,
the steady patience, the uncalculated sacrifice, the thought of all that
lay behind these simple words held him silent for many minutes as he
kept turning over the leaves.
As he sat thus turning the leaves and allowing his eye to fall upon
those simple but eloquent entries, a loud and strident voice was heard
outside.
“Waal, I tell yuh, I want to see him right naow. I ain't come two
hundred miles for nawthin'. I mean business, I do.”
The orderly's voice was heard in reply.
“I ain't got no time to wait. I want to see yer Chief of Police right
naow.”
Again the orderly's voice could be distinguished.
“In court, is he? Waal, you hurry up and tell him J. B. Cadwaller of
Lone Pine, Montana, an American citizen, wants to see him right smart.”
The orderly came in and saluted.
“A man to see you, Sir,” he said. “An American.”
“What business?”
“Horse-stealing case, Sir.”
“Show him in!”
In a moment the orderly returned, followed by, not one, but three
American citizens.
“Good-day, Jedge! My name's J. B. Cadwaller, Lone Pine, Montana. I--”
“Take your hat off in the court!” said the orderly sharply.
Mr. Cadwaller slowly surveyed the orderly with an expression of
interested curiosity in his eyes, removing his hat as he did so.
“Say, you're pretty swift, ain't yuh? You might give a feller a show
to git in his interductions,” said Mr. Cadwaller. “I was jes goin' to
interdooce to you, Jedge, these gentlemen from my own State, District
Attorney Hiram S. Sligh and Mr. Rufus Raimes, rancher.”
The Commissioner duly acknowledged the introduction, standing to receive
the strangers with due courtesy.
“Now, Jedge, I want to see yer Chief of Police. I've got a case for
him.”
“I have the honor to be the Commissioner. What can I do for you?”
“Waal, Jedge, we don't want to waste no time, neither yours nor ours.
The fact is some of yer blank blank Indians have been rustlin' hosses
from us fer some time back. We don't mind a cayuse now and then, but
when it comes to a hull bunch of vallable hosses there's where we kick
and we ain't goin' to stand fer it. And we want them hosses re-stored.
And what's more, we want them blank blank copper snakes strung up.”
“How many horses have you lost?”
“How many? Jeerupiter! Thirty or forty fer all I know, they've been
rustlin' 'em for a year back.”
“Why didn't you report before?”
“Why we thought we'd git 'em ourselves, and if we had we wouldn't 'a
troubled yuh--and I guess they wouldn't 'a troubled us much longer. But
they are so slick--so blank slick!”
“Mr. Cadwaller, we don't allow any profanity in this court room,” said
the Commissioner in a quiet voice.
“Eh? Who's givin' yuh profanity? I don't mean no profanity. I'm talkin'
about them blank blank--”
“Stop, Mr. Cadwaller!” said the Commissioner. “We must end this
interview if you cannot make your statements without profanity. This
is Her Majesty's court of Justice and we cannot tolerate any unbecoming
language.
“Waal, I'll be--!”
“Pardon me, Mr. Commissioner,” said Mr. Hiram S. Sligh, interrupting
his friend and client. “Perhaps I may make a statement. We've lost some
twenty or thirty horses.”
“Thirty-one” interjected Mr. Raimes quietly.
“Thirty-one!” burst in Mr. Cadwaller indignantly. “That's only one
little bunch.”
“And,” continued Mr. Sligh, “we have traced them right up to the
Blood reserve. More than that, Mr. Raimes has seen the horses in the
possession of the Indians and we want your assistance in recovering our
property.”
“Yes, by gum!” exclaimed Mr. Cadwaller. “And we want
them--eh--eh--consarned redskin thieves strung up.”
“You say you have seen the stolen horses on the Blood reserve, Mr.
Raimes?” enquired the Commissioner.
Mr. Raimes, who was industriously chewing a quid of tobacco, ejected,
with a fine sense of propriety and with great skill and accuracy, a
stream of tobacco juice out of the door before he answered.
“I seen 'em.”
“When did you lose your horses?”
Mr. Raimes considered the matter for some moments, chewing energetically
the while, then, having delivered himself with the same delicacy and
skill as before of his surplus tobacco juice, made laconic reply:
“Seventeen, no, eighteen days ago.”
“Did you follow the trail immediately yourselves?”
“No, Jim Eberts.”
“Jim Eberts?”
“Foreman,” said Mr. Raimes, who seemed to regard conversation in the
light of an interference with the more important business in which he
was industriously engaged.
“But you saw the horses yourself on the Blood reserve?”
“Followed up and seen 'em.”
“How long since you saw them there, Mr. Raimes?”
“Two days.”
“You are quite sure about the horses?”
“Sure.”
“Call Inspector Dickson!” ordered the Commissioner.
Inspector Dickson appeared and saluted.
“We have information that a party of Blood Indians have stolen a band of
horses from these gentlemen from Montana and that these horses are now
on the Blood reserve. Take a couple of men and investigate, and if you
find the horses bring them back.”
“Couple of men!” ejaculated Mr. Cadwaller breathlessly. “A couple of
hundred, you mean, General!”
“What for?”
“Why, to sur--raound them--there--Indians.” The regulations of the court
room considerably hampered Mr. Cadwaller's fluency of speech.
“It is not necessary at all, Mr. Cadwaller. Besides, we have only some
eighty men all told at this post. Our whole force in the territories is
less than five hundred men.”
“Five hundred men! You mean for this State, General--Alberta?”
“No, Sir. For all Western Canada. All west of Manitoba.”
“How much territory do you cover?” enquired the astonished Mr.
Cadwaller.
“We regularly patrol some three hundred thousand square miles, besides
taking an occasional expedition into the far north.”
“And how many Indians?”
“About the same number as you have, I imagine, in Montana and Dakota. In
Alberta, about nine thousand.”
“And less than five hundred police! Say, General, I take off my hat.
Ten thousand Indians! By the holy poker! And five hundred police! How in
Cain do you keep down the devils?”
“We don't try to keep them down. We try to take care of them.”
“Guess you've hit it,” said Mr. Raimes, dexterously squirting out of the
door.
“Jeerupiter! Say, General, some day they'll massacree yuh sure!” said
Mr. Cadwaller, a note of anxiety in his voice.
“Oh, no, they are a very good lot on the whole.”
“Good! We've got a lot of good Indians too, but they're all under
graound. Five hundred men! Jeerupiter! Say, Sligh, how many soldiers
does Uncle Sam have on this job?”
“Well, I can't say altogether, but in Montana and Dakota I happen to
know we have about four thousand regulars.”
“Say, figger that out, will yuh?” continued Mr. Cadwaller. “Allowed
four times the territory, about the same number of Indians and about
one-eighth the number of police. Say, General, I take off my hat again.
Put it there! You Canucks have got the trick sure!”
“Easier to care for 'em than kill 'em, I guess,” said Mr. Raimes
casually.
“But, say, General,” continued Mr. Cadwaller, “you ain't goin' to send
for them hosses with no three men?”
“I'm afraid we cannot spare any more.”
“Jeerupiter, General!” exclaimed Mr. Cadwaller. “I'll wait outside the
reserve till this picnic's over. Say, General, let's have twenty-five
men at least.”
“What do you say, Inspector Dickson? Will two men be sufficient?”
“We'll try, Sir,” replied the Inspector.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“In a quarter of an hour.”
“Jeerupiter!” muttered Mr. Cadwaller to himself, as he followed the
Inspector out of the room.
“I say, Commissioner, will you let me in on this thing?” said Cameron.
“Do you mean that you want to join the force?” enquired the
Commissioner, letting his eye run approvingly up and down Cameron's
figure.
“There is McIvor, Sir--” began Cameron.
“Oh, I could fix that all right,” replied the Commissioner. “We want
men, and we want men like you. We have no vacancy among the officers,
but you could enlist as a constable and there is always opportunity to
advance.”
“It is a great service!” exclaimed Cameron. “I'd like awfully to join.”
“Very well,” said the Commissioner promptly, “we will take you. You are
physically sound, wind, limb, eye-sight, and so forth?”
“As far as I know, perfectly fit,” replied Cameron.
Once more Inspector Dickson was summoned.
“Inspector Dickson, Mr. Cameron wishes to join the force. We will have
his application taken and filled in later, and we will waive examination
for the present. Will you administer the oath?”
“Cameron, stand up!” commanded the Inspector sharply.
With a little thrill at his heart Cameron stood up, took the Bible in
his hand and repeated after the Inspector the words of the oath,
“I, Allan Cameron, solemnly swear that I will faithfully, diligently,
and impartially execute and perform the duties required of me as a
member of the North West Mounted Police Force, and will well and truly
obey and perform all lawful orders and instructions which I shall
receive as such, without fear, favour, or affection of or toward any
person. So help me, God.”
“Now then, Cameron, I congratulate you upon your new profession.
The Inspector will see about your outfit and later you will receive
instructions as to your duties. Meantime, take him along with you,
Inspector, and get those horses.”
It was a somewhat irregular mode of procedure, but men were sorely
needed at the Macleod post and the Commissioner had an eye that took in
not only the lines of a man's figure but the qualities of his soul.
“That chap will make good, or I am greatly mistaken,” he said to the
Inspector as Cameron went off with the orderly to select his uniform.
“Well set up chap,” said the Inspector. “We'll try him out to-night.”
“Come now, don't kill him. Remember, other men have something else in
them besides whalebone and steel, if you have not.”
In half an hour the Inspector, Sergeant Crisp and Cameron, with the
three American citizens, were on their way to the Blood reserve.
Cameron had been given a horse from the stable.
All afternoon and late into the evening they rode, then camped and were
early upon the trail the following morning. Cameron was half dead with
the fatigue from his experiences of the past week, but he would have
died rather than have hinted at weariness. He was not a little comforted
to notice that Sergeant Crisp, too, was showing signs of distress, while
District Attorney Sligh was evidently in the last stages of exhaustion.
Even the steel and whalebone combination that constituted the frame
of the Inspector appeared to show some slight signs of wear; but all
feeling of weariness vanished when the Inspector, who was in the lead,
halted at the edge of a wide sweeping valley and, pointing far ahead,
said, “The Blood reserve. Their camp lies just beyond that bluff.”
“Say, Inspector, hold up!” cried Mr. Cadwaller as the Inspector set off
again. “Ain't yuh goin' to sneak up on 'em like?”
“Sneak up on them? No, of course not,” said the Inspector curtly. “We
shall ride right in.”
“Say, Raimes,” said Mr. Cadwaller, “a hole would be a blame nice thing
to find just now.”
“Do you think there will be any trouble?” enquired Mr. Hiram Sligh of
Sergeant Crisp.
“Trouble? Perhaps so,” replied Crisp, as if to him it were a matter of
perfect indifference.
“We'll never git them hosses,” said Raimes. “But we've got to stay with
the chief, I guess.”
And so they followed Inspector Dickson down into the valley, where in
the distance could be seen a number of horses and cattle grazing. They
had not ridden far along the valley bottom when Mr. Cadwaller spurred up
upon the Inspector and called out excitedly,
“I say, Inspector, them's our hosses right there. Say, let's run 'em
off.”
“Can you pick them out?” enquired the Inspector, turning in his saddle.
“Every last one!” said Raimes.
“Very well, cut them out and get them into a bunch,” said the Inspector.
“I see there are some Indians herding them apparently. Pay no attention
to them, but go right along with your work.”
“There's one of 'em off to give tongue!” cried Mr. Cadwaller excitedly.
“Bring him down, Inspector! Bring him down! Quick! Here, let me have
your rifle!” Hurriedly he snatched at the Inspector's carbine.
“Stop!” cried the Inspector in sharp command. “Now, attention! We are
on a somewhat delicate business. A mistake might bring disaster. I am in
command of this party and I must have absolute and prompt obedience. Mr.
Cadwaller, it will be at your peril that you make any such move again.
Let no man draw a gun until ordered by me! Now, then, cut out those
horses and bunch them together!”
“Jeerupiter! He's a hull brigade himself,” said Mr. Cadwaller in an
undertone, dropping back beside Mr. Sligh. “Waal, here goes for the
bunch.”
But though both Mr. Cadwaller and Mr. Raimes, as well as Sergeant Crisp
and the Inspector, were expert cattle men, it took some little time and
very considerable manoeuvering to get the stolen horses bunched together
and separated from the rest of the animals grazing in the valley, and by
the time this was accomplished Indian riders had appeared on every side,
gradually closing in upon the party. It was clearly impossible to drive
off the bunch through that gradually narrowing cordon of mounted Indians
without trouble.
“Now, what's to be done?” said Mr. Cadwaller, nervously addressing the
Inspector.
“Forward!” cried the Inspector in a loud voice. “Towards the corral
ahead there!”
This movement nonplussed the Indians and in silence they fell in behind
the party who, going before, finally succeeded in driving the bunch of
horses into the corral.
“Sergeant Crisp, you and Constable Cameron remain here on guard. I shall
go and find the Chief. Here,” he continued, addressing a young Indian
brave who had ridden up quite close to the gate of the corral, “lead me
to your Chief, Red Crow!”
The absence alike of all hesitation or fear, and of all bluster in his
tone and bearing, apparently impressed the young brave, for he wheeled
his pony and set off immediately at a gallop, followed by the Inspector
at a more moderate pace.
Quickly the Indians gathered about the corral and the group at its gate.
With every passing minute their numbers increased, and as their numbers
increased so did the violence of their demonstration The three Americans
were placed next the corral, Sergeant Crisp and Cameron being between
them and the excited Indians. Cameron had seen Indians before about the
trading posts. A shy, suspicious, and subdued lot of creatures they had
seemed to him. But these were men of another breed, with their lean,
lithe, muscular figures, their clean, copper skins, their wild fierce
eyes, their haughty bearing. Those others were poor beggars seeking
permission to exist; these were men, proud, fearless, and free.
“Jove, what a team one could pick out of the bunch!” said Cameron to
himself, as his eye fell upon the clean bare limbs and observed their
graceful motions. But to the Americans they were a hateful and fearsome
sight. Indians with them were never anything but a menace to be held in
check, or a nuisance to be got rid of.
Louder and louder grew the yells and wilder the gesticulations as the
savages worked themselves up into a fury. Suddenly, through the yelling,
careering, gesticulating crowd of Indians a young brave came tearing at
full gallop and, thrusting his pony close up to the Sergeant's, stuck
his face into the officer's and uttered a terrific war whoop. Not a line
of the Sergeant's face nor a muscle of his body moved except that the
near spur slightly touched his horse's flank and the fingers tightened
almost imperceptibly upon the bridle rein. Like a flash of light the
Sergeant's horse wheeled and with a fierce squeal let fly two wicked
heels hard upon the pony's ribs. In sheer terror and surprise the
little beast bolted, throwing his rider over his neck and finally to the
ground. Immediately a shout of jeering laughter rose from the crowd, who
greatly enjoyed their comrade's discomfiture. Except that the Sergeant's
face wore a look of pleased surprise, he simply maintained his attitude
of calm indifference. No other Indian, however, appeared ready to repeat
the performance of the young brave.
At length the Inspector appeared, followed by the Chief, Red Crow.
“Tell your people to go away!” said the Inspector as they reached the
corral. “They are making too much noise.”
Red Crow addressed his braves at some length.
“Open the corral,” ordered the Inspector, “and get those horses out on
the trail.”
For a few moments there was silence. Then, as the Indians perceived the
purpose of the police, on every side there rose wild yells of protest
and from every side a rush was made toward the corral. But Sergeant
Crisp kept his horse on the move in a series of kicks and plunges that
had the effect of keeping clear a wide circle about the corral gate.
“Touch your horse with the spur and hold him up tight,” he said quietly
to Cameron.
Cameron did so and at once his horse became seemingly as unmanageable as
the Sergeant's, plunging, biting, kicking. The Indian ponies could not
be induced to approach. The uproar, however, only increased. Guns began
to go off, bullets could be heard whistling overhead. Red Crow's voice
apparently could make no impression upon the maddened crowd of Indians.
A minor Chief, White Horse by name, having whirled in behind the
Sergeant, seized hold of Mr. Cadwaller's bridle and began to threaten
him with excited gesticulations. Mr. Cadwaller drew his gun.
“Let go that line, you blank blank redskin!” he roared, flourishing his
revolver.
In a moment, with a single plunge, the Inspector was at his side and,
flinging off the Indian, shouted:
“Put up that gun, Mr. Cadwaller! Quick!” Mr. Cadwaller hesitated.
“Sergeant Crisp, arrest that man!” The Inspector's voice rang out like a
trumpet. His gun covered Mr. Cadwaller.
“Give me that gun!” said the Sergeant.
Mr. Cadwaller handed over his gun.
“Let him go,” said the Inspector to Sergeant Crisp. “He will probably
behave.”
The Indians had gathered close about the group. White Horse, in the
centre, was talking fast and furious and pointing to Mr. Cadwaller.
“Get the bunch off, Sergeant!” said the Inspector quietly. “I will hold
them here for a few minutes.”
Quietly the Sergeant backed out of the circle, leaving the Inspector
and Mr. Cadwaller with White Horse and Red Crow in the midst of the
crowding, yelling Indians.
“White Horse say this man steal Bull Back's horses last fall!” shouted
Red Crow in the Inspector's ear.
“Too much noise here,” said the Inspector, moving toward the Indian
camp and away from the corral and drawing the crowd with him. “Tell your
people to be quiet, Red Crow. I thought you were the Chief.”
Stung by the taunt, Red Crow raised his rifle and fired into the air.
Then, standing high in his stirrups, he held up his hand and called out
a number of names. Instantly ten men rode to his side. Again Red Crow
spoke. The ten men rode out again among the crowd. Immediately the
shouting ceased.
“Good!” said the Inspector. “I see my brother is strong. Now, where is
Bull Back?”
The Chief called out a name. There was no response.
“Bull Back not here,” he said.
“Then listen, my brother,” said the Inspector earnestly. “This man,”
pointing to Mr. Cadwaller, “waits with me at the Fort two days to meet
White Horse, Bull Back, and any Indians who know about this man; and
what is right will be done. I have spoken. Farewell!” He gave his hand
to Chief Red Crow. “My brother knows,” he added, “the Police do not
lie.”
So saying, he wheeled his horse and, with Mr. Cadwaller before him,
rode off after the others of the party, who had by this time gone some
distance up the trail.
For a few moments hesitation held the crowd, then with a loud cry White
Horse galloped up and again seized Mr. Cadwaller's bridle. Instantly the
Inspector covered him with his gun.
“Hold up your hands quick!” he said.
The Indian dropped the bridle rein. The Inspector handed his gun to Mr.
Cadwaller.
“Don't shoot till I speak or I shoot you!” he said sternly. Mr.
Cadwaller took the gun and covered the Indian. In a twinkling White
Horse found himself with handcuffs on his wrists and his bridle line
attached to the horn of the Inspector's saddle.
“Now give me that gun, Mr. Cadwaller, and here take your own--but wait
for the word. Forward!”
He had not gone a pace till he was surrounded by a score of angry
and determined Indians with levelled rifles. For the first time the
Inspector hesitated. Through the line of levelled rifles Chief Red Crow
rode up and in a grave but determined voice said:
“My brother is wrong. White Horse, chief. My young men not let him go.”
“Good!” said the Inspector, promptly making up his mind. “I let him go
now. In two days I come again and get him. The Police never lie.”
So saying, he released White Horse and without further word, and
disregarding the angry looks and levelled rifles, rode slowly off after
his party. On the edge of the crowd he met Sergeant Crisp.
“Thought I'd better come back, Sir. It looked rather ugly for a minute,”
said the Sergeant.
“Ride on,” said the Inspector. “We will get our man to-morrow. Steady,
Mr. Cadwaller, not too fast.” The Inspector slowed his horse down to
a walk, which he gradually increased to an easy lope and so brought up
with Cameron and the others.
Through the long evening they pressed forward till they came to the
Kootenay River, having crossed which they ventured to camp for the
night.
After supper the Inspector announced his intention of riding on to the
Fort for reinforcements, and gave his instructions to the Sergeant.
“Sergeant Crisp,” he said, “you will make an early start and bring in
the bunch to-morrow morning. Mr. Cadwaller, you remember you are to
remain at the Fort two days so that the charges brought by White Horse
may be investigated.”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Cadwaller. “Wait for them blank blank devils? Say,
Inspector, you don't mean that?”
“You heard me promise the Indians,” said the Inspector.
“Why, yes. Mighty smart, too! But say, you were jest joshing, weren't
you?”
“No, Sir,” replied the Inspector. “The Police never break a promise to
white man or Indian.”
Then Mr. Cadwaller cut loose for a few moments. He did not object to
waiting any length of time to oblige a friend, but that he should
delay his journey to answer the charges of an Indian, variously and
picturesquely described, was to him an unthinkable proposition.
“Sergeant Crisp, you will see to this,” said the Inspector quietly as he
rode away.
Then Mr. Cadwaller began to laugh and continued laughing for several
minutes.
“By the holy poker, Sligh!” at last he exclaimed. “It's a joke. It's a
regular John Bull joke.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Sligh, while he cut a comfortable chew from his black
plug. “Good joke, too, but not on John. I guess that's how five hundred
police hold down--no, take care of--twenty thousand redskins.”
And the latest recruit to Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police
straightened up till he could feel the collar of his tunic catch him on
the back of the neck and was conscious of a little thrill running up his
spine as he remembered that he was a member of that same force.