"Who's there?"
The Indian, in Blackfoot, demanded fire-water. A panel in the door was opened and a face looked out cautiously. The moment, now, was at hand. Would the trader open the door?
'Red-hot' Dan, the Police forgotten, emerged, a cupful of liquor in his hand. The Indian raised his eyes—the signal meaning they had only one man to conquer. Straight and true, with deadly force and swiftness, Hector launched himself full upon the trader. The Blackfoot dropped his rifle, too. Their enemy resisted desperately, the atmosphere electric with his fair round oaths. But Hector's weight and strength and Martin's powerful aid—the Blackfoot was only Martin, undressed for the occasion—were far too much for him. In half a minute all was over. Hector had the handcuffs on his victim and 'Red-hot' Dan, terror of the plains, fiercest whiskey-trader in the country, lay sprawling beneath him, a hoodwinked prisoner.
IV
The Assistant-Commissioner promoted Hector to corporal for that day's capture, and set his feet on the long, steep road to victory.
Chapter IV
I
From beneath the skirt of the teepee a young prairie chicken emerged—no ordinary prairie chicken, but an absurd thing dressed in a little pair of trousers and a scrap of scarlet blanket. Hector grinned. The chicken stood irresolute, looking wildly 'round for a favourable avenue of escape. While it hesitated, two small brown hands and arms appeared from under the teepee and frantically searched the air. The chicken danced away. A dishevelled head next wriggled its way into the open air, two bright black eyes flashed a pitiful appeal to Hector, a soft voice cried:
"Oh, pony-soldier, please, pony-soldier—catch my prairie chicken—catch my baby!"