“I know not where Eagle Feather—”
“Halt there!” cried Cameron to an Indian who was seen to be slinking away from the rear of the line of tents.
The Indian broke into a run. Like a whirlwind Cameron was on his trail and before he had gained the cover of the woods had overtaken him.
“Halt!” cried Cameron again as he reached the Indian's side. The Indian stopped and drew a knife. “You would, eh? Take that, will you?” Leaning down over his horse's neck Cameron struck the Indian with the butt of his gun. Before he could rise the three constables in a converging rush were upon him and had him handcuffed.
“Now then, where is Eagle Feather?” cried Cameron in a furious voice, riding his horse into the crowd that had gathered thick about him. “Ah, I see you,” he cried, touching his horse with his heel as on the farther edge of the crowd he caught sight of his man. With a single bound his horse was within touch of the shrinking Indian. “Stand where you are!” cried Cameron, springing from his horse and striding to the Chief. “Put up your hands!” he said, covering him with his gun. “Quick, you dog!” he added, as Eagle Feather stood irresolute before him. Upon the uplifted hands Cameron slipped the handcuffs. “Come with me, you cattle-thief,” he said, seizing him by the gaudy handkerchief that adorned his neck, and giving him a quick jerk.
“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron in a terrible voice, wheeling furiously upon the Chief, “this cattle-thieving of your band must stop. I want the six men who were in that cattle-raid, or you come with me. Speak quick!” he added.
“By Gar!” said Jerry, hugging himself in his delight, to the trooper who was in charge of the first Indian. “Look lak' he tak' de whole camp.”
“By Jove, Jerry, it looks so to me, too! He has got the fear of death on these chappies. Look at his face. He looks like the very devil.”
It was true. Cameron's face was gray, with purple blotches, and distorted with passion, his eyes were blazing with fury, his manner one of reckless savage abandon. There was but little delay. The rumors of vengeance stored up for the raiders, the paralyzing effect of the failure of the raid, the condemnation of a guilty conscience, but above all else the overmastering rage of Cameron, made anything like resistance simply impossible. In a very few minutes Cameron had his prisoners in line and was riding to the Fort, where he handed them over to the Superintendent for justice.
That business done, he found his patrol-work pressing upon him with a greater insistence than ever, for the runners from the half-breeds and the Northern Indians were daily arriving at the reserves bearing reports of rebel victories of startling magnitude. But even without any exaggeration tales grave enough were being carried from lip to lip throughout the Indian tribes. Small wonder that the irresponsible young Chiefs, chafing under the rule of the white man and thirsting for the mad rapture of fight, were straining almost to the breaking point the authority of the cooler older heads, so that even that subtle redskin statesman, Crowfoot, began to fear for his own position in the Blackfeet confederacy.