“Send me Inspector Dickson!”
In a few moments Inspector Dickson appeared, a tall, slight man, with a gentle face and kindly blue eyes.
“Inspector Dickson, how are we for men? Can you spare two or three to round up a gang of whiskey traders and to run down a murderer? We are on the track of Raven's bunch, I believe.”
“We are very short-handed at present, Sir. This half-breed trouble in the north is keeping our Indians all very restless. We must keep in touch with them.”
“Yes, yes, I know. By the way, how are the Bloods just now?”
“They are better, Sir, but the Blackfeet are restless and uneasy. There are a lot of runners from the east among them.”
“How is old Crowfoot behaving?”
“Crowfoot himself is apparently all right so far, but of course no man can tell what Crowfoot is thinking.”
“That's right enough,” replied the Commissioner.
“By the way, Sir, it was Crowfoot's son that got into that trouble last night with that Macleod man. The old Chief is in town, too, in fact is outside just now and quite worked up over the arrest.”