“I was just going, Crowfoot,” said Cameron, stooping to light his pipe at the fire. “Good-night. Remember what I have said.” And Cameron cantered away with both hands low before him and guiding his broncho with his knees, and so rode easily till safely beyond the line of the reserve. Once out of the reserve he struck his spurs hard into his horse and sent him onward at headlong pace toward the Militia camp.
Ten minutes after his arrival at the camp every soldier was in his place ready to strike, and so remained all night, with pickets thrown far out listening with ears attent for the soft pad of moccasined feet.
CHAPTER XX
THE LAST PATROL
It was still early morning when Cameron rode into the barrack-yard at Fort Calgary. To the Sergeant in charge, the Superintendent of Police having departed to Macleod, he reported the events of the preceding night.
“What about that rumor, Sergeant?” he inquired after he had told his tale.
“Well, I had the details yesterday,” replied the Sergeant. “Colonel Otter and a column of some three hundred men with three guns went out after Pound-maker. The Indians were apparently strongly posted and could not be dislodged, and I guess our men were glad to get out of the scrape as easily as they did.”
“Great Heavens!” cried Cameron, more to himself than to the officer, “what will this mean to us here?”
The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders.