"Riel? You don't know Riel? That's what comes of being an island-bred Britisher.You people know nothing outside your own little two by four patch on the world's map.Haven't you heard of Riel?""Oh, yes, by the way, I've heard about the Johnny.Mixed up in something before in this country, wasn't he?""Well, rather! The rebel leader of 1870.Cost us some considerable trouble, too.There's bound to be mischief where that hair-brained four-flusher gets a crowd to listen to him.For egoist though he is, he possesses a wonderful power over the half-breeds.He knows how to work.And somehow, too, they're suspicious of all Canadians, as they call the new settlers from the East, ready to believe anything they're told, and with plenty of courage to risk a row.""What's the row about, anyway?" inquired the Sergeant."I could never quite get it.""Oh, there are many causes.These half-breeds are squatters, many of them.They have introduced the same system of survey on the Saskatchewan as their ancestors had on the St.Lawrence, and later on the Red, the system of 'Strip Farms.' That is, farms with narrow fronts upon the river and extending back from a mile to four miles, a poor arrangement for farming but mighty fine for social purposes.I tell you, it takes the loneliness and isolation out of pioneer life.I've lived among them, and the strip-farm survey possesses distinct social advantages.You have two rows of houses a few rods apart, and between them the river, affording an ice roadway in the winter and a waterway in the summer.And to see a flotilla of canoes full of young people, with fiddles and concertinas going, paddle down the river on their way to a neighbor's house for a dance, is something to remember.For my part I don't wonder that these people resent the action of the Government in introducing a completely new survey without saying 'by your leave.' There are troubles, too, about their land patents.""How many of these half-breeds are there anyway?""Well, only a few hundreds I should say.But it isn't the half-breeds we fear.The mischief of it is they have been sending runners all through this country to their red-skin friends and relatives, holding out all sorts of promises, the restoration of their hunting grounds to the Indians, the establishing of an empire of the North, from which the white race shall be excluded.I've heard them.Just enough truth and sense in the whole mad scheme to appeal to the Indian mind.The older men, the chiefs, are quiet so far, but the young braves are getting out of hand.You see they have no longer their ancient excitement of war and the chase.Life has grown monotonous, to the young men especially, on the reserves.
They are chafing under control, and the prospect of a fight appeals to them.In every tribe sun dances are being held, braves are being made, and from across the other side weapons are being introduced.And now that this old snake Copperhead has crossed the line the thing takes an ugly look.He's undeniably brainy, a fearless fighter, an extraordinary organizer, has great influence with his own people and is greatly respected among our tribes.If an Indian war should break out with Copperhead running it--well--!
That's why it's important to get this old devil.And it must be done quietly.Any movement in force on our part would set the prairie on fire.The thing has got to be done by one or two men.
That's why we must have Cameron."
In spite of his indignation the Sergeant was impressed.Never had he heard his Chief discourse at such length, and never had he heard his Chief use the word "danger." It began to dawn upon his mind that possibly it might not be such a crime as he had at first considered it to lure Cameron away from his newly made home and his newly wedded wife to do this bit of service for his country in an hour of serious if not desperate need.
