And Friday morning, after hardship and suffering there was no time to tell, Lieutenant Davies with his party reached the threatened agency, and was greeted with ringing cheers. That evening the grasp of the Ice King was loosened by the soft touch of the south wind, and Red Dog rode in state to the adjoining camp to claim the alliance of his brother chiefs in his attempt to wrest from the agent the perpetrator of the murder of his tribesman. That the dead Indian was himself a murderer had no bearing on the matter, said Red Dog. He had simply knifed in self-defence a beggarly Brulé who quarrelled with him over a girl. The blood of Lone Wolf cried aloud for vengeance, and the agent should not be permitted to harbor or conceal his slayer. "You've got no time to lose," said Boynton, who had kept his scouts on the alert. "You should arrest that old villain at once or he'll stir the whole reservation into mutiny." The agent thought he could accomplish more by seeing him and having a talk. "Indians are always ready for a talk," said he. "I'll take Mr. Davies and a couple of men just for appearance's sake and ride right over to the village. He's at Kills Asleep's now."
Boynton argued, but the agent was afraid to adopt the only course an Indian respects,—prompt and forceful measures. "Talk" means to him delay, compromise, confession of weakness. "Well, if you must palaver," said Boynton, finally, "take me along. I've had more to do with those beggars than Davies, and," he added to himself, "I'll make it possible to nab that fellow."
A most impressive scene was that which met the eyes of the little party as they rode to the village across the frozen stream. The moon was shining almost at full in a clear and cloudless sky. The neighboring slopes, the distant ridge, the broad level of the valley, all blanketed in glistening snow. Half a mile away down-stream in one dark cluster of jagged-topped cones lay the village of Red Dog's people. Away up-stream a long mile, black against the westward slope, the corral and storehouses, the school and office and quarters of the agency, the watch-lights twinkling like the stars above. Close at hand, loosely huddled along the bank, the grimy, smoke-stained lodges of Kills Asleep's sullen band, and in their midst, surrounded at respectful distance by a squatted semicircle of old men and braves, all muffled in their blankets, and by an outer rim of hags and crones and young squaws and children and snarling dogs and shaggy ponies, there with trailing war-bonnet and decked with paint and barbaric finery, his robe cast aside,—there like an orator of old stood the Indian chief in the heat of his impassioned appeal. All eyes were upon him, all ears drinking in his words. Guttural grunts of approval rewarded each resounding period. "You're too late," muttered Boynton. "He's been getting in his work to good effect. You should have arrested him an hour ago."
The agent reined in his panting horse and looked and listened. "He won't talk to me now, I suppose. It would be an affront to his dignity to interrupt. Best let him finish what he's begun. What shall we do meantime?"
"What you'd best do is to give me orders to nab the old sinner in my own way and go back to the agency as quick as you can. Your life won't be worth a pin in that crowd when he's done speaking. Go while there's yet time and tell Mr. Davies to send me Sergeant Lutz and six men mounted. Keep the rest under arms in the corral. I'll land Red Dog inside the walls within an hour if you'll only say the word. Damn it, man! you've got to, or your influence is gone."
"He's got more influence now than I ever had, and the whole Indiana delegation backed me for the place," wailed McPhail. "What in heaven I thought to gain by coming out here and taking such a job is more than I can guess now. Every one said there was money in it; no one thought of the danger. If my wife and kids were only safe at home I wouldn't care so much. It's that that I'm thinking of. Can't we do this somehow without bringing on a row?"
"The row's here now and growing worse every minute. His own bucks are ready for battle. He'll have every son of a squaw in this camp painting himself chrome-yellow inside an hour, and he'll never rest till he's harangued every village in the valley twixt this and morning. Our one chance is to nab him midway when he rides from here to Little Big Man's roost up-stream. Tell Lutz to meet me at the willows, and for God's sake go!"
And still the agent hesitated. Barely six months had he served in his new and unaccustomed sphere. Old-world nations, either monarchies that take no thought for the morrow's vote of the masses, or republics that have outlived their illusions, suit their servants to the work in hand. Uncle Sam, having hosts of importunate sons demanding recognition irrespective of merit, and being as yet barely a centenarian, is at the mercy of his clamorous and inconsiderate millions. Each salaried office in his gift calls with each new administration for a new incumbent, whose demanded qualifications are not "what can he do to improve the service?" but "what has he done to benefit the party?" In this way do we manufacture consuls who know next to nothing of the manners, customs, language, and business abroad, and agents who know even less of the Indians at home.
But the problem in hand was settled for the sorely troubled official in a most unlooked-for way. Sharp-eyed squaws spied the little squad of horsemen at the outskirts of the village, the agent in his wolf-skin overcoat, the troopers in the army blue, with the collars of their overcoats up about their ears, and some one ran to Red Dog with the news. With all "the majesty of buried Denmark" he paused in his speech, faced the intruders, then came striding slowly towards them, warriors, women, squaws, and children opening out and making a lane for his royal progress.
"Whatever you do, no words with him here," whispered Boynton to the agent, now trembling with excitement and nervous apprehension. "Stand to your terms. He can talk with you only at your office,—the agency."