“Maybe so,” said Cameron, “but some of your party have, Running Stream, and the Commissioner will look to you. You are in command here. He will give you a chance to clear yourself.”
The Indian shrugged his shoulders and stood silent.
“My brother is not doing well,” continued Cameron. “The Government feed you if you are hungry. The Government protect you if you are wronged.”
It was an unfortunate word of Cameron's. A sudden cloud of anger darkened the Indian's face.
“No!” he cried aloud. “My children—my squaw and my people go hungry—go cold in winter—no skin—no meat.”
“My brother knows—” replied Cameron with patient firmness—“You translate this, Jerry”—and Jerry proceeded to translate with eloquence and force—“the Government never refuse you meat. Last winter your people would have starved but for the Government.”
“No,” cried the Indian again in harsh quick reply, the rage in his face growing deeper, “my children cry—Indian cannot sleep—my white brother's ears are closed. He hear only the wind—the storm—he sound sleep. For me no sleep—my children cry too loud.”
“My brother knows,” replied Cameron, “that the Government is far away, that it takes a long time for answer to come back to the Indian cry. But the answer came and the Indian received flour and bacon and tea and sugar, and this winter will receive them again. But how can my brother expect the Government to care for his people if the Indians break the law? That is not good. These Indians are bad Indians and the Police will punish the thieves. A thief is a bad man and ought to be punished.”
Suddenly a new voice broke in abruptly upon the discourse.
“Who steal the Indian's hunting-ground? Who drive away the buffalo?” The voice rang with sharp defiance. It was the voice of Onawata, the Sioux Chief.