“Crowfoot,” said Cameron with deliberate emphasis, “it was Colonel Otter and Superintendent Herchmer of the Mounted Police that went north to Battleford. You do not know Colonel Otter, but you do know Superintendent Herchmer. Tell me, would Superintendent Herchmer and the Police run away?”
“The runner tells that the white soldiers ran away,” said Crowfoot stubbornly.
“Then the runner lies!” Cameron's voice rang out loud and clear.
Swift as a lightning flash the Sarcee sprang at Cameron, knife in hand, crying in the Blackfeet tongue that terrible cry so long dreaded by settlers in the Western States of America, “Death to the white man!” Without apparently moving a muscle, still holding by the mane of his horse, Cameron met the attack with a swift and well-placed kick which caught the Indian's right wrist and flung his knife high in the air. Following up the kick, Cameron took a single step forward and met the murderous Sarcee with a straight left-hand blow on the jaw that landed the Indian across the fire and deposited him kicking amid the crowd.
Immediately there was a quick rush toward the white man, but the rush halted before two little black barrels with two hard, steady, gray eyes gleaming behind them.
“Crowfoot!” said Cameron sharply. “I hold ten dead Indians in my hands.”
With a single stride Crowfoot was at Cameron's side. A single sharp stern word of command he uttered and the menacing Indians slunk back into the shadows, but growling like angry beasts.
“Is it wise to anger my young men?” said Crowfoot in a low voice.
“Is it wise,” replied Cameron sternly, “to allow mad dogs to run loose? We kill such mad dogs in my country.”
“Huh,” grunted Crowfoot with a shrug of his shoulders. “Let him die!” Then in a lower voice he added earnestly, “It would be good to take the trail before my young men can catch their horses.”