“What Indians are here?” whispered Cameron.
“Piegan, Sarcee, Blood,” breathed Jerry. “No Blackfeet come—not yet—Copperhead he look, look, look all yesterday for Blackfeet coming. Blackfeet come to-morrow mebbe—den Indian mak' beeg medicine. Copperhead he go meet Blackfeet dis day—he catch you—he go 'gain to-morrow mebbe—dunno.”
Meantime the discussion in the council was drawing to a climax. With the astuteness of a true leader Copperhead ceased to urge his view, and, unable to secure the best, wisely determined to content himself with the second-best. His vehement tone gave place to one of persuasion. Finally an agreement appeared to be reached by all. With one consent the council rose and with hands uplifted they all appeared to take some solemn oath.
“What are they saying?” whispered Cameron.
“He say,” replied Jerry, “he go meet Blackfeet and when he bring 'em back den dey keel us sure t'ing. But,” added Jerry with a cheerful giggle, “he not keel 'em yet, by Gar!”
For some minutes they waited in silence, then they saw Copperhead with his bodyguard of Sioux disappear from the circle of the firelight into the shadows of the forest.
“Now you go sleep,” whispered Jerry. “Me keep watch.”
Even before he had finished speaking Cameron had lain back upon the ground and in spite of the pain in his tightly bound limbs such was his utter exhaustion that he fell fast asleep.
It seemed to him but a moment when he was again awakened by the touch of a hand stealing over his face. The hand reached his lips and rested there, when he started up wide-awake. A soft hiss from the back of the hut arrested him.
“No noise,” said a soft guttural voice. Again the hand was thrust through the brush wall, this time bearing a knife. “Cut string,” whispered the voice, while the hand kept feeling for the thongs that bound Cameron's hands. In a few moments Cameron was free from his bonds.