“Yes,” said Cameron. “At Fish Creek the half-breeds and Indians had a good chance to wipe out General Middleton's column.” And he proceeded to give a graphic account of the rebels' opportunity at that unfortunate affair. “But,” he concluded, “the half-breeds and Indians have no Chief.”
“No Chief,” agreed Crowfoot with emphasis, his old eyes gleaming in the firelight. “No Chief,” he repeated. “Where Big Bear—Little Pine—Kah-mee-yes-too-waegs and Oo-pee-too-korah-han-ap-ee-wee-yin?”
“Oh,” said Cameron, “here, there, everywhere.”
“Huh! No big Chief,” grunted Crowfoot in disgust. “One big Chief make all Indians one.”
It seemed worth while to Cameron to take a full hour from his precious time to describe fully the operations of the troops and to make clear to the old warrior the steady advances which the various columns were making, the points they had relieved and the ultimate certainty of victory.
“Six thousand men now in the West,” he concluded, “besides the Police. And ten thousand more waiting to come.”
Old Crowfoot was evidently much impressed and was eager to learn more.
“I must go now,” said Cameron, rising. “Where is Running Stream?” he asked, suddenly facing Crowfoot.
“Huh! Running Stream he go hunt—t'ree day—not come back,” answered Crowfoot quickly.
Cameron sat down again by the fire, poked up the embers till the blaze mounted high.