Cameron sat long and smoked. The thing was extremely puzzling. It seemed unlikely that if the Piegan band were going to a rendezvous of Indians they should select a district so closely under the inspection of the Police. Furthermore there was no great prestige attaching to the Bloods to make their reserve a place of meeting.
“Jerry,” said Cameron at length, “I believe they are up this Sun Dance Canyon somewhere.”
“No,” said Jerry decisively. “No sign—come down mesef.” His tone was that of finality.
“I believe, Jerry, they doubled back and came in from the north end after you had left. I feel sure they are up there now and we will go and find them.”
Jerry sat silent, smoking thoughtfully. Finally he took his pipe from his mouth, pressed the tobacco hard down with his horny middle finger and stuck it in his pocket.
“Mebbe so,” he said slowly, a slight grin distorting his wizened little face, “mebbe so, but t'ink not—me.”
“Well, Jerry, where could they have gone? They might ride straight to Crowfoot's Reserve, but I think that is extremely unlikely. They certainly would not go to the Bloods, therefore they must be up this canyon. We will go up, Jerry, for ten miles or so and see what we can see.”
“Good,” said Jerry with a grunt, his tone conveying his conviction that where the chief scout of the North West Mounted Police had said it was useless to search, any other man searching would have nothing but his folly for his pains.
“Have a sleep first, Jerry. We need not start for a couple of hours.”
Jerry grunted his usual reply, rolled himself in his blanket and, lying down at the back of a rock, was asleep in a minute's time.