The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail


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.

"Yes," said Cameron. "At Fish Creek the half-breeds and Indians had a
good chance to wipe out General Middleton's column." And he proceeded
to give a graphic account of the rebels' opportunity at that unfortunate
affair. "But," he concluded, "the half-breeds and Indians have no
Chief."

"No Chief," agreed Crowfoot with emphasis, his old eyes gleaming in
the firelight. "No Chief," he repeated. "Where Big Bear--Little
Pine--Kah-mee-yes-too-waegs and Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin?"

"Oh," said Cameron, "here, there, everywhere."

"Huh! No big Chief," grunted Crowfoot in disgust. "One big Chief make
all Indians one."

It seemed worth while to Cameron to take a full hour from his precious
time to describe fully the operations of the troops and to make clear
to the old warrior the steady advances which the various columns were
making, the points they had relieved and the ultimate certainty of
victory.

"Six thousand men now in the West," he concluded, "besides the Police.
And ten thousand more waiting to come."

Old Crowfoot was evidently much impressed and was eager to learn more.

"I must go now," said Cameron, rising. "Where is Running Stream?" he
asked, suddenly facing Crowfoot.

"Huh! Running Stream he go hunt--t'ree day--not come back," answered
Crowfoot quickly.

Cameron sat down again by the fire, poked up the embers till the blaze
mounted high.

"Crowfoot," he said solemnly, "this day Onawata was in this camp and
spoke with you. Wait!" he said, putting up his hand as the old Chief
was about to speak. "This evening he rode away with Running Stream, Red
Crow, Trotting Wolf. The Sioux for many days has been leading about your
young men like dogs on a string. To-day he has put the string round the
necks of Red Crow, Running Stream, Trotting Wolf. I did not think he
could lead Crowfoot too like a little dog.

"Wait!" he said again as Crowfoot rose to his feet in indignation.
"Listen! The Police will get that Sioux. And the Police will take the
Chiefs that he led round like little dogs and send them away. The Great
Mother cannot have men as Chiefs whom she cannot trust. For many years
the Police have protected the Indians. It was Crowfoot himself who once
said when the treaty was being made--Crowfoot will remember--'If the
Police had not come to the country where would we all be now? Bad men
and whisky were killing us so fast that very few indeed of us would have
been left to-day. The Police have protected us as the feathers of the
bird protect it from the frosts of winter.' This is what Crowfoot said
to the Great Mother's Councilor when he made a treaty with the Great
Mother."

Here Cameron rose to his feet and stood facing the Chief.

"Is Crowfoot a traitor? Does he give his hand and draw it back again?
It is not good that, when trouble comes, the Indians should join the
enemies of the Police and of the Great Mother across the sea. These
enemies will be scattered like dust before the wind. Does Crowfoot think
when the leaves have fallen from the trees this year there will be any
enemies left? Bah! This Sioux dog does not know the Great Mother, nor
her soldiers, nor her Police. Crowfoot knows. Why does he talk to the
enemies of the Great Mother and of his friends the Police? What does
Crowfoot say? I go to-night to take Onawata. Already my men are upon his
trail. Where does Crowfoot stand? With Onawata and the little Chiefs
he leads around or with the Great Mother and the Police? Speak! I am
waiting."

The old Chief was deeply stirred. For some moments while Cameron was
speaking he had been eagerly seeking an opportunity to reply, but
Cameron's passionate torrent of words prevented him breaking in without
discourtesy. When Cameron ceased, however, the old Chief stretched out
his hand and in his own language began:

"Many years ago the Police came to this country. My people then were
poor--"

At this point the sound of a galloping horse was heard, mingled with the
loud cries of its rider. Crowfoot paused and stood intently listening.
Cameron could get no meaning from the shouting. From every tent men came
running forth and from the houses along the trail on every hand, till
before the horse had gained Crowfoot's presence there had gathered about
the Chief's fire a considerable crowd of Indians, whose numbers were
momentarily augmented by men from the tents and houses up and down the
trail.

In calm and dignified silence the old Chief waited the rider's word. He
was an Indian runner and he bore an important message.

Dismounting, the runner stood, struggling to recover his breath and to
regain sufficient calmness to deliver his message in proper form to the
great Chief of the Blackfeet confederacy. While he stood thus struggling
with himself Cameron took the opportunity to closely scrutinize his
face.

"A Sarcee," he muttered. "I remember him--an impudent cur." He moved
quietly toward his horse, drew the reins up over his head, and, leading
him back toward the fire, took his place beside Crowfoot again.

The Sarcee had begun his tale, speaking under intense excitement which
he vainly tried to control. He delivered his message. Such was the
rapidity and incoherence of his speech, however, that Cameron could make
nothing of it. The effect upon the crowd was immediate and astounding.
On every side rose wild cries of fierce exultation, while at Cameron
angry looks flashed from every eye. Old Crowfoot alone remained quiet,
calm, impassive, except for the fierce gleaming of his steady eyes.

When the runner had delivered his message he held up his hand and
spoke but a single word. Immediately there was silence as of the grave.
Nothing was heard, not even the breathing of the Indians close about
him. In sharp, terse sentences the old Chief questioned the runner, who
replied at first eagerly, then, as the questions proceeded, with some
hesitation. Finally, with a wave of the hand Crowfoot dismissed him and
stood silently pondering for some moments. Then he turned to his people
and said with quiet and impressive dignity:

"This is a matter for the Council. To-morrow we will discuss it." Then
turning to Cameron he said in a low voice and with grave courtesy, "It
is wise that my brother should go while the trails are open."

"The trails are always open to the Great Mother's Mounted Police," said
Cameron, looking the old Chief full in the eye.

Crowfoot stood silent, evidently thinking deeply.

"It is right that my brother should know," he said at length, "what the
runner tells," and in his deep guttural voice there was a ring of pride.

"Good news is always welcome," said Cameron, as he coolly pulled out his
pipe and offered his pouch once more to Crowfoot, who, however, declined
to see it.

"The white soldiers have attacked the Indians and have been driven
back," said Crowfoot with a keen glance at Cameron's face.

"Ah!" said Cameron, smiling. "What Indians? What white soldiers?"

"The soldiers that marched to Battleford. They went against
Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin and the Indians did not run away." No
words could describe the tone and attitude of exultant and haughty pride
with which the old Chief delivered this information.

"Crowfoot," said Cameron with deliberate emphasis, "it was Colonel Otter
and Superintendent Herchmer of the Mounted Police that went north
to Battleford. You do not know Colonel Otter, but you do know
Superintendent Herchmer. Tell me, would Superintendent Herchmer and the
Police run away?"

"The runner tells that the white soldiers ran away," said Crowfoot
stubbornly.

"Then the runner lies!" Cameron's voice rang out loud and clear.

Swift as a lightning flash the Sarcee sprang at Cameron, knife in hand,
crying in the Blackfeet tongue that terrible cry so long dreaded by
settlers in the Western States of America, "Death to the white man!"
Without apparently moving a muscle, still holding by the mane of his
horse, Cameron met the attack with a swift and well-placed kick which
caught the Indian's right wrist and flung his knife high in the air.
Following up the kick, Cameron took a single step forward and met the
murderous Sarcee with a straight left-hand blow on the jaw that landed
the Indian across the fire and deposited him kicking amid the crowd.

Immediately there was a quick rush toward the white man, but the rush
halted before two little black barrels with two hard, steady, gray eyes
gleaming behind them.

"Crowfoot!" said Cameron sharply. "I hold ten dead Indians in my hands."

With a single stride Crowfoot was at Cameron's side. A single sharp
stern word of command he uttered and the menacing Indians slunk back
into the shadows, but growling like angry beasts.

"Is it wise to anger my young men?" said Crowfoot in a low voice.

"Is it wise," replied Cameron sternly, "to allow mad dogs to run loose?
We kill such mad dogs in my country."

"Huh," grunted Crowfoot with a shrug of his shoulders. "Let him die!"
Then in a lower voice he added earnestly, "It would be good to take the
trail before my young men can catch their horses."

"I was just going, Crowfoot," said Cameron, stooping to light his
pipe at the fire. "Good-night. Remember what I have said." And Cameron
cantered away with both hands low before him and guiding his broncho
with his knees, and so rode easily till safely beyond the line of the
reserve. Once out of the reserve he struck his spurs hard into his horse
and sent him onward at headlong pace toward the Militia camp.

Ten minutes after his arrival at the camp every soldier was in his place
ready to strike, and so remained all night, with pickets thrown far out
listening with ears attent for the soft pad of moccasined feet.



CHAPTER XX

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."