“Now, tell me,” said Cameron, when the smoke had gone on for some time.
Slowly and with painful difficulty the youth told his story in terse, brief sentences.
“T'ree day,” he began, holding up three fingers, “me hear Eagle Feather—many Piegans—talk—talk—talk. Go fight—keel—keel—keel all white man, squaw, papoose.”
“When?” inquired Cameron, keeping his face steady.
“Come Cree runner—soon.”
“You mean they are waiting for a runner from the North?” inquired Cameron. “If the Crees win the fight then the Piegans will rise? Is that it?”
The Indian nodded. “Come Cree Indian—then Piegan fight.”
“They will not rise until the runner comes, eh?”
“No.”
Cameron breathed more easily.