“Did no one enter?” asked Cameron.
“Not a soul.”
“Nor go out?”
“No one except the old squaw here. I saw her go out with a pack.”
“With a pack!” echoed Cameron. And the two men stood looking at each other. “By Jove!” said Cameron in deep disgust, “We're done. He is rightly named Copperhead. Quick!” he cried, “Let us search this camp, though it's not much use.”
And so indeed it proved. Through every teepee they searched in hot haste, tumbling out squalling squaws and papooses. But all in vain. Copperhead had as completely disappeared as if he had vanished into thin air. With faces stolid and unmoved by a single gleam of satisfaction the Indians watched their hurried search.
“We will take a turn around this camp,” said Cameron, swinging on to his pony. “You hear me!” he continued, riding up close to Trotting Wolf, “We haven't got our man but we will come back again. And listen carefully! If I lose a single steer this fall I shall come and take you, Trotting Wolf, to the Fort, if I have to bring you by the hair of the head.”
But Trotting Wolf only shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“No see cow.”
“Is there any use taking a look around this camp?” said the Inspector.