“I say, Chief,” continued Cameron, “I have lost a couple of steers—big fellows, too—any of your fellows seen them?”
Trotting Wolf turned to the group of Indians who had slouched toward them in the meantime and spoke to them in the singsong monotone of the Indian.
“No see cow,” he replied briefly.
Cameron threw himself from his horse and, striding to a large pot simmering over a fire, stuck his knife into the mass and lifted up a large piece of flesh, the bones of which looked uncommonly like ribs of beef.
“What's this, Trotting Wolf?” he inquired with a stern ring in his voice.
“Deer,” promptly and curtly replied the Chief.
“Who shot him?”
The Chief consulted the group of Indians standing near.
“This man,” he replied, indicating a young Indian.
“What's your name?” said Cameron sharply. “I know you.”