Beeg medicine-dance dere--see heem once long tam' 'go--leetle boy me--beeg medicine--Indian debbil stay dere--Indian much scare'--only go when mak' beeg tam'--beeg medicine.""Let me see if I get you, Jerry.A bad trail leads half a day north from the Bow at Kananaskis to Ghost River, eh?"Jerry nodded.
"Then up the Ghost River westward through the bearded trees half a day to the Manitou Rock? Is that right?"Again Jerry nodded.
"How shall I know the rock?"
"Beeg rock," said Jerry."Beeg dat tree," pointing to a tall poplar, "and cut straight down lak some knife--beeg rock--black rock.""All right," said Cameron."What I want to know just now is does Crowfoot know of this thing? I fancy he must.I am going in to see him.Copperhead has just come from the reserve.He has Running Stream with him.It is possible, just possible, that he may not have seen Crowfoot.This I shall find out.Now, Jerry, you must follow Copperhead, find out where he has gone and all you can about this business, and meet me where the trail reaches the Ghost River.Call in at Fort Calgary.Take a trooper with you to look after the horses.I shall follow you to-morrow.If you are not at the Ghost River I shall go right on--that is if I see any signs.""Bon! Good!" said Jerry.And without further word he slipped on to his horse and disappeared into the darkness, taking the cross-trail through the coulee by which Cameron had come.
Crowfoot's camp showed every sign of the organization and discipline of a master spirit.The tents and houses in which his Indians lived were extended along both sides of a long valley flanked at both ends by poplar-bluffs.At the bottom of the valley there was a series of "sleughs" or little lakes, affording good grazing and water for the herds of cattle and ponies that could be seen everywhere upon the hillsides.At a point farthest from the water and near to a poplar-bluff stood Crowfoot's house.At the first touch of summer, however, Crowfoot's household had moved out from their dwelling, after the manner of the Indians, and had taken up their lodging in a little group of tents set beside the house.
Toward this little group of tents Cameron rode at an easy lope.He found Crowfoot alone beside his fire, except for the squaws that were cleaning up after the evening meal and the papooses and older children rolling about on the grass.As Cameron drew near, all vanished, except Crowfoot and a youth about seventeen years of age, whose strongly marked features and high, fearless bearing proclaimed him Crowfoot's son.Dismounting, Cameron dropped the reins over his horse's head and with a word of greeting to the Chief sat down by the fire.Crowfoot acknowledged his salutation with a suspicious look and grunt.
"Nice night, Crowfoot," said Cameron cheerfully."Good weather for the grass, eh?""Good," said Crowfoot gruffly.
Cameron pulled out his tobacco pouch and passed it to the Chief.
With an air of indescribable condescension Crowfoot took the pouch, knocked the ashes from his pipe, filled it from the pouch and handed it back to the owner.
"Boy smoke?" inquired Cameron, holding out the pouch toward the youth.
"Huh!" grunted Crowfoot with a slight relaxing of his face."Not yet--too small."The lad stood like a statue, and, except for a slight stiffening of his tall lithe figure, remained absolutely motionless, after the Indian manner.For some time they smoked in silence.
"Getting cold," said Cameron at length, as he kicked the embers of the fire together.
Crowfoot spoke to his son and the lad piled wood on the fire till it blazed high, then, at a sign from his father, he disappeared into the tent.
"Ha! That is better," said Cameron, stretching out his hands toward the fire and disposing himself so that the old Chief's face should be set clearly in its light.
"The Police ride hard these days?" said Crowfoot in his own language, after a long silence.
"Oh, sometimes," replied Cameron carelessly, "when cattle-thieves ride too.""Huh?" inquired Crowfoot innocently.
"Yes, some Indians forget all that the Police have done for them, and like coyotes steal upon the cattle at night and drive them over cut-banks.""Huh?" inquired Crowfoot again, apparently much interested.
"Yes," continued Cameron, fully aware that he was giving the old Chief no news, "Eagle Feather will be much wiser when he rides over the plains again.""Huh!" ejaculated the Chief in agreement.
"But Eagle Feather," continued Cameron, "is not the worst Indian.
He is no good, only a little boy who does what he is told.""Huh?" inquired Crowfoot with childlike simplicity.
"Yes, he is an old squaw serving his Chief.""Huh?" again inquired Crowfoot, moving his pipe from his mouth in his apparent anxiety to learn the name of this unknown master of Eagle Feather.
"Onawata, the Sioux, is a great Chief," said Cameron.
Crowfoot grunted his indifference.
"He makes all the little Chiefs, Blood, Piegan, Sarcee, Blackfeet obey him," said Cameron in a scornful voice, shading his face from the fire with his hand.
This time Crowfoot made no reply.
"But he has left this country for a while?" continued Cameron.
Crowfoot grunted acquiescence.
"My brother has not seen this Sioux for some weeks?" Again Cameron's hand shaded his face from the fire while his eyes searched the old Chief's impassive countenance.
"No," said Crowfoot."Not for many days.Onawata bad man--make much trouble.""The big war is going on good," said Cameron, abruptly changing the subject.
"Huh?" inquired Crowfoot, looking up quickly.
