THE INDIAN VILLAGE
“Hooray--Cree village!” cried Tom.
“Yes,” assented the half-breed. “Soon you see Wandering Bear, much big
chief, old as a withered tree, but strong.”
Dave Brandon looked earnestly at the picturesque circle of teepees,
one in the center dominating all the rest, and at the red men he could
see on every side. Many, attracted by their appearance, were stalking
solemnly forward.
“Oh, ho, this is mighty interesting,” he murmured. “What a nice
sheltered retreat.” His eyes wandered from the teepees to the break in
the hills beyond, where a silvery streak of white indicated a water
course. “Guess I’ll have to devote a whole chapter in my book to this,
eh, Bob?”
“At least two or three,” laughed Bob.
“Hello,” cried Sam Randall, “what’s that scarlet spot down there? See
it, fellows?”
He pointed toward a group in the furthest part of the encampment.
Strikingly prominent in the midst of the dusky mass was a spot of color.
“Him a policeman,” answered Teddy Banes.
“Great Scott!” cried Dick Travers. “Wouldn’t it be the jolliest luck if
it should prove to be Jed Warren?”
The half-breed sniffed contemptuously.
“He gone, I tell you--never come back.”
“Oh, forget it,” scoffed Tom. “Sail ahead, fellows. Bet I’ll get there
first.”
His challenge was not accepted, mainly on account of the hot and tired
ponies, which, as though anxious to remain under the cooling shadows,
picked their way but slowly down the incline.
The nearer they approached the village the greater became the curiosity
and interest in the picturesque scene before them. The wide basin was
becoming filled with tribesmen; thin, bluish columns of smoke from
various fires ascended almost vertically in the air, while further
afield, cropping the grass, sheltered from the blazing sun by the
hills, were Indian ponies tethered in a long line.
“The real thing beats a moving picture show all hollow,” exclaimed Tom
Clifton, his face glowing with pleasurable anticipation. “Gee! That
redcoat is coming nearer. He’s on foot, too.”
“I wonder what a member of the Northwest Mounted is doing in this
Indian lodge?” drawled Dave.
“Perhaps he will be kind enough to explain,” grinned Sam Randall.
“And if his reasons aren’t mighty good Tom’ll most likely jump on him
hard,” remarked Larry. “Say, fellows, what wouldn’t I give for a nice,
large ice-cream soda!”
Tom laughed uproariously.
“Now I know what’s the matter with you, Larry,” he cried. “If we could
only find a confectionery shop at every corner I reckon that glum
expression would flit away from your face.”
As the last stretch was almost level the horses took it at a good pace;
and, somehow, the boys could not resist sending off on the air a series
of wild whoops, which, in volume of sound, might have rivaled those of
the Crees when they fought against their old-time enemies.
At the base of the hill they were so quickly surrounded that Larry
Burnham began to feel a trifle apprehensive lest such an unceremonious
entrance into the village had offended these descendants of a warlike
race.
In their fringed garments, quaint ornaments, and necklaces made of
gaudily-colored beads or animals’ teeth, with a brave here and there
wearing a feather in his hair, they presented a most picturesque
sight. Grizzled old warriors, young men lithe and sinewy, and squaws
crowding about regarded these white invaders of their domain intently.
But on none of the coppery-colored faces turned toward them could any
expression of surprise be detected.
The jabbering which commenced immediately had not the slightest meaning
to any of the boys, though it served to show them the evident mastery
of Teddy Banes over the Cree dialect. And it was not until a tall,
good-looking youth forced his way to the front that their own voices
became of use.
“Me glad to see you,” exclaimed the Indian, in very good English. “My
name Thunderbolt.”
“Very happy to meet you, Mr. Thunderbolt,” drawled Larry.
“Just the same for me. My grandfather great chief. Him called Wandering
Bear. You come with me. He see you.”
“Yes, we’ll be mighty glad to meet the chief,” said Bob Somers,
smilingly. “How did you learn to speak English?”
“Oh, I have many fren’s. What you call him?--cowpunchers and Billy
Ashe--he teach me lots of things.”
“Who’s Billy Ashe?”
The intelligent-looking brown-skinned lad, at this question,
immediately swung himself around, looking earnestly toward a certain
point, and evidently having seen what he wanted, uttered a grunt of
satisfaction.
“Him,” he said, indicating the trooper in the scarlet jacket, now
approaching with long strides.
“So that’s Billy Ashe, is it?” remarked Dave Brandon.
[Illustration: “HOW DO YOU DO?”]
“Say, Thunderbolt,” broke in Tom Clifton, eagerly, “do you know Jed
Warren?”
“Sure I know him. Why for you ask?”
“Because we’re going to try to find him. You see”--Tom’s hand made a
sweep so wide as to include the entire crowd of lads--“we’re great
friends of his. Came a mighty long distance to see him, too, only to
discover that----”
“Well, well--what does all this mean?”
A voice which showed the possessor to enjoy unusual lung power brought
Tom Clifton’s sentence to a sudden close.
The man who wore the uniform of the Northwest Mounted was surveying the
boys with unfeigned astonishment. His expression of wonderment seemed
to increase each instant, as his eyes traveled from one to another.
“How do you do, Mr. Policeman?” greeted Larry, pleasantly.
“Great Scott--nothing but kids! Search me if I ever saw anything to
beat it. Where on earth did you drop from?” asked the other.
“We rolled down the hill,” answered Tom Clifton, upon whose
sensibilities the word “kids,” and, especially, uttered by one who
did not appear to be so very much older than themselves, had a most
irritating effect.
“Lost--probably!”
This incautious remark further increased Tom’s poor impression of
Trooper Billy Ashe.
“Lost?” he snorted, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Well, I rather
guess not.”
“What in the world are you doing here, then? How did you happen to run
into Teddy Banes?”
In a few words Bob Somers enlightened the surprised trooper of the
Northwest Mounted Police; and Tom obligingly added a few words to the
effect that the crowd had no intention of leaving the country until Jed
Warren was found.
“Jed Warren!” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “You won’t find him in the
Northwest Territories.”
“Why not?” asked Bob Somers.
“Because he’s deserted--that’s why,” answered Ashe, bluntly.
“Just the same thing me told ’em,” put in Teddy Banes. “For sure he
gone.”
Tom bristled up; his color heightened.
“And you could say it a hundred times more, and still I wouldn’t
believe such a thing,” he stormed.
“Oh, go on!” said the trooper, with an impatient shrug of his
shoulders. He was plainly not prepossessed in Tom’s favor. “What do you
know about it, I’d like to ask?”
“And what do you know about it?” retorted Tom.
Billy Ashe’s sun-browned face took on a peculiar expression. He felt
that the uniform he wore should entitle him to a great deal more
deference than was shown by the six-foot lad’s manner.
A loud argument, which the others vainly tried to stop, ensued; and
during this several cowpunchers were observed to come up and mingle
with the Indians. Tom’s eyes flashed as he told in a most emphatic
manner of their hope to aid the missing trooper.
A word from Thunderbolt at last attracted sufficient attention to
change the trend of the conversation.
“You come with me,” invited the young Indian again. “You see my
grandfather--much great chief.”
Turning to the surrounding Indians he addressed them in a sharp,
incisive fashion. Then the groups began to slowly scatter.
Riding closely behind their guide, who led the way in and around the
numerous teepees, the lads finally reached the center of the village.
“It’s a mighty good thing Indians are tame nowadays,” remarked Larry to
Dave Brandon, the nearest to him. “I can kind o’ imagine how prisoners
must have felt when----”
“My grandfather, Wandering Bear,” came in the clear, musical voice of
Thunderbolt.
Before the largest and most imposing teepee the ancient chief, a
striking figure in the full glare of sunlight, stood waiting to receive
them. Wandering Bear, though the oldest Indian in the lodge, held his
herculean proportions as erect as ever.
The chief’s long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, while
myriads of wrinkles seamed his bronze-colored face. A head-dress of
gaudily-colored feathers and various ornaments served to add to the
stern dignity of his presence.
Never before in the history of the Cree lodge had the Indians
received a visit from a party of boys. But Chief Wandering Bear, like
his tribesmen, did not seem in the least surprised. Imperturbably,
he continued smoking a long-stemmed sandstone pipe, listened with
attention to Thunderbolt’s explanations, then inclined his head, saying
in grave tones: “Howdy!”
“Most delighted to meet you, Mr. Wandering Bear, I’m sure!” exclaimed
Larry.
The others responded to his salutation heartily, though in a more
serious fashion, and promptly accepted Thunderbolt’s invitation to
dismount. The horses were then given in charge of several young
Indians, who led them into the pasture-land by the hills.
The chief shook each of his visitors by the hand.
“Yes, I speak the tongue of the white man,” he said, in answer to a
question from Bob Somers. “Not many year from now the Indian tongue
shall have passed away. This year, so many less braves; next year,
so many less.” He shook his head sadly. “The white man always
bigger--stronger. But soon the Indian he see no more.”
All felt impressed by the pathos of the old warrior’s words and manner.
“Come inside teepee,” commanded Thunderbolt. “Outside too hot.”
The interior they found a great deal more commodious than any had
expected. None of the Indians attempted to follow the party, which
included the half-breed and Billy Ashe, though several of the younger
braves lingered near the entrance.
“This is certainly great,” pronounced Dave Brandon, promptly seating
himself upon the ground.
“You bet,” agreed Larry, wiping his perspiring face.
The yellowish, translucent sides of the teepee allowed a soft dim light
to pervade their surroundings, while through the partly-open flap came
a glistening ray from out-of-doors.
Wandering Bear drew up a low stool in the center, the group forming
a semicircle about him. Even Larry Burnham began to enjoy the novel
experience. From the outside came a murmur of guttural voices, or the
occasional sound of moccasined feet passing to and fro.
Although Thunderbolt displayed the usual stolidity of his race he
nevertheless began to ply the boys with questions.
“Ah, you come here to hunt and fish,” he exclaimed. “Fine! You take me
for guide, maybe. Me good guide; know all country. You shoot big game;
catch plenty fish--what you say?”
“I should say it’s a capital idea,” said Dave, stifling a yawn; “eh,
Larry?”
“Yes; it may save you chaps a heap o’ trouble,” drawled the blond lad,
with a peculiar grin.
“But we don’t intend to do any hunting or fishing, Thunderbolt, until
this Jed Warren affair is cleared up,” put in Tom.
“Then you might as well pack up and go home,” declared Billy Ashe,
bluntly. “Jed Warren is gone. He won’t come back, either--depend upon
that. I’ve been working on the case, and am in a good position to know.
Did Sergeant Erskine tell you what we’ve learned?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, shortly.
“And still you don’t believe it?”
“No!” cried Tom, with almost a touch of anger in his voice. “Jed Warren
wouldn’t have deserted if a whole army of smugglers and cattle rustlers
had been hot on his trail.”
“I like to see a fellow stick up for his friends,” commented the
trooper. “But there’s no sense in dodging facts.”
“For sure,” put in Teddy Banes. “Him one big fool to think he find
Warren. Many times I tell him so; but always he shakes his head.”
“And I’ll shake it some more,” cried Tom, highly indignant.
“Don’t carry your quarrels into Indian teepees, Tom,” advised Larry.
“You mustn’t mislay your manners.”
“White boys look strong as Indian brave,” remarked Wandering Bear.
“Plenty big, you,” he added, turning toward Larry Burnham, whose huge
form seemed to appear even larger in the dim light.
“Yes,” grinned Larry. “An’ a ‘promising football player’ ought to be, I
s’pose; but not quite so large as you, Mr. Wandering Bear.”
The chief nodded gravely.
“I am old now,” he said--“very old. But at your age no one so strong as
I; no one so quick, or shoot so straight.” He sighed. “Now the muscle
is weak; the eye is dim; the hand trembles.”
“Git out! You’re more active than many a man of half your age,”
laughed Billy Ashe. He turned toward the boys. “Take my advice: hire
Thunderbolt as a guide. Have a good time, and forget a fellow who once
wore a scarlet coat and was cowardly enough to desert.”
Tom jumped to his feet, his face flushed and excited.
“I’ll bet there never was a braver policeman among the Northwest
Mounted!” he exclaimed, in a voice which fairly rang through the
teepee. “Jed a coward! Well, I guess you haven’t anything on him when
it comes to courage, Mr. Billy Ashe.”
“Cut it out, Tom,” advised Bob Somers.
“Too much excitement is bad for the nerves,” grinned Larry.
Ashe rose to face the angry Rambler.
“It strikes me you’ve got a pretty flip tongue for a youngster,” he
said, slowly. “Better learn to curb it before you get in a mix-up with
some one who is liable to mislay his manners.”
Larry Burnham’s loud chuckle added to Tom’s feelings of hot resentment,
although a glance from Dave Brandon was sufficient to check an angry
reply.
“Are you going to stay in the village long?” asked Sam Randall.
“No; I’m on a ‘special,’” answered Ashe. And being a young trooper he
spoke with an air of some importance.
“Hope you’ll succeed,” said Dick Travers, “and won’t get mixed up with
any of those dangerous characters Teddy Banes has been telling us
about.”
“Smugglers,” laughed Tom--“those awful chaps who scared Jed Warren
away!”
“Many time Warren come here,” said Thunderbolt. “Much good man.”
Chief Wandering Bear, puffing away on his pipe with mechanical
precision, nodded assent.
“Yes--a strong man,” he said. “He rides like Indian; Indian likes him.”
“Sure,” agreed Thunderbolt. “Last time me see him he say:
‘Thunderbolt, I go to Fool’s Castle, and----’”
“Sergeant Erskine told me something about Fool’s Castle,” broke in Bob.
“In which direction is it?”
“Fool’s Castle!” echoed Tom Clifton. “What in thunder is that?”