“Quite right!” replied the Inspector. “But I must be going. Good-by, Chief!” As his one hand closed on the Indian's his other slid down upon his wrist. “I want you, Chief,” he said in a quiet stern voice. “I want you to come along with me.”
His hand had hardly closed upon the wrist than with a single motion, swift, snake-like, the Indian wrenched his hand from the Inspector's iron grasp and, leaping back a space of three paces, stood with body poised as if to spring.
“Halt there, Chief! Don't move or you die!”
The Indian turned to see Cameron covering him with two guns. At once he relaxed his tense attitude and, drawing himself up, he demanded in a voice of indignant scorn:
“Why you touch me? Me Big Chief! You little dog!”
As he stood, erect, tall, scornful, commanding, with his head thrown back and his arm outstretched, his eyes glittering and his face eloquent of haughty pride, he seemed the very incarnation of the wild unconquered spirit of that once proud race he represented. For a moment or two a deep silence held the group of Indians, and even the white men were impressed. Then the Inspector spoke.
“Trotting Wolf,” he said, “I want this man. He is a horse-thief. I know him. I am going to take him to the Fort. He is a bad man.”
“No,” said Trotting Wolf, in a loud voice, “he no bad man. He my friend. Come here many days.” He held up both hands. “No teef—my friend.”
A loud murmur rose from the Indians, who in larger numbers kept crowding nearer. At this ominous sound the Inspector swiftly drew two revolvers, and, backing toward the man he was seeking to arrest, said in a quiet, clear voice:
“Trotting Wolf, this man goes with me. If he is no thief he will be back again very soon. See these guns? Six men die,” shaking one of them, “when this goes off. And six more die,” shaking the other, “when this goes off. The first man will be you, Trotting Wolf, and this man second.”