Burly Corporal MacFarlane, Hector's companion in this stroll through the Assiniboine encampment, smiled heavily but made no move. Hector started off in pursuit.
The ground was rough, his boots and spurs were very heavy, the agility of the baby was amazing and the crowded teepees were serious obstacles. Hector dashed 'round and 'round, close behind. He tripped, scraped his hands, stumbled up, heard MacFarlane's encouraging "For'ard on!" made another desperate effort, crashed over a box and emerged from the wreckage triumphant, the baby shrilling in his arms.
"Got him, Mac!" he called. "Now, where's the owner of this independent bird?"
He was at the teepee in a moment, but of the owner nothing could be seen. Two years and more had taught him that most Indian women were intensely shy with white men. He had learnt something of their languages from Martin Brent—the knowledge was useful in his work—and by this time could speak them fairly fluently. The little squaw had been overcome by shyness but was not far away.
He summoned her in her own tongue:
"Here is your prairie chicken, O chieftain's daughter! Come and get your prairie chicken!"
No answer came.
"O chieftain's daughter," he cooed seductively, "do not keep the poor pony-soldier waiting. And your baby!"
The charm brought results in time. Two hands were thrust from the door of the teepee, the fingers stretched to take the bird, but of the lady herself nothing was visible.
Hector was disappointed.