Trotting Wolf hesitated.
“Trotting Wolf,” said Cameron. “See these guns? Twelve men die if you make any fuss. You steal my cattle. You cannot stop your young men. The Piegans need a new Chief. If this man is no thief he will be back again in a few days. The Inspector speaks truth. You know he never lies.”
Still Trotting Wolf stood irresolute. The Indians began to shuffle and crowd nearer.
“Trotting Wolf,” said the Inspector sharply, “tell your men that the first man that steps beyond that poplar-tree dies. That is my word.”
The Chief spoke to the crowd. There was a hoarse guttural murmur in response, but those nearest to the tree backed away from it. They knew the Police never showed a gun except when prepared to use it. For years they had been accustomed to the administration of justice and the enforcement of law at the hands of the North West Mounted Police, and among the traditions of that Force the Indians had learned to accept two as absolutely settled: the first, that they never failed to get the man they wanted; the second, that their administration of law was marked by the most rigid justice. It was Chief Onawata himself that found the solution.
“Me no thief. Me no steal horse. Me Big Chief. Me go to your Fort. My heart clean. Me see your Big Chief.” He uttered these words with an air of quiet but impressive dignity.
“That's sensible,” said the Inspector, moving toward him. “You will get full justice. Come along!”
“I go see my boy. My boy sick.” His voice became low, soft, almost tremulous.
“Certainly,” said Cameron. “Go in and see the lad. And we will see that you get fair play.”
“Good!” said the Indian, and, turning on his heel, he passed into the teepee where his boy lay.