“There, that's better! He has lost a lot of blood, but we have checked that flow and he will soon be right. Hello, old man! Just waking up, are you? Lie perfectly still. Come, you must lie still. What? Oh, Copperhead? Well, he is safe enough. What? No, never fear. We know the old snake and we have tied him fast. Jerry has a fine assortment of knots adorning his person. Now, no more talking for half a day. Your wound is clean enough. A mighty close shave it was, but by to-morrow you will be fairly fit. Copperhead? Oh, never mind Copperhead. I assure you he is safe enough. Hardly fit to travel yet. What happened to him? Looks as if a tree had fallen upon him.” To which chatter of Dr. Martin's Cameron could only make feeble answer, “For God's sake don't let him go!”
After the capture of Copperhead the camp at Manitou Lake faded away, for when the Police Patrol under Jerry's guidance rode up the Ghost River Trail they found only the cold ashes of camp-fires and the debris that remains after a powwow.
Three days later Cameron rode back into Fort Calgary, sore but content, for at his stirrup and bound to his saddle-horn rode the Sioux Chief, proud, untamed, but a prisoner. As he rode into the little town his quick eyes flashed scorn upon all the curious gazers, but in their depths beneath the scorn there looked forth an agony that only Cameron saw and understood. He had played for a great stake and had lost.
As the patrol rode into Fort Calgary the little town was in an uproar of jubilation.
“What's the row?” inquired the doctor, for Cameron felt too weary to inquire.
“A great victory for the troops!” said a young chap dressed in cow-boy garb. “Middleton has smashed the half-breeds at Batoche. Riel is captured. The whole rebellion business is bust up.”
Cameron threw a swift glance at the Sioux's face. A fierce anxiety looked out of the gleaming eyes.
“Tell him, Jerry,” said Cameron to the half-breed who rode at his other side.
As Jerry told the Indian of the total collapse of the rebellion and the capture of its leader the stern face grew eloquent with contempt.
“Bah!” he said, spitting on the ground. “Riel he much fool—no good fight. Indian got no Chief—no Chief.” The look on his face all too clearly revealed that his soul was experiencing the bitterness of death.