“Don't stir, old chap. You're all right. Don't move for a bit. Could you get a little brandy, Sergeant?”
Again the slim young constable rushed toward the Barracks and in a few moments returned with the spirits. After taking a sip of the brandy Cameron again opened his eyes and managed to say “Don't—”
“All right, old chap,” said the doctor. “We won't move you yet. Just lie still a bit.” But as once more Cameron opened his eyes the agony of the appeal in them aroused the doctor's attention. “Something wrong, eh?” he said. “Are you in pain, old boy?”
The appealing eyes closed, then, opening again, turned toward the Superintendent.
“Copperhead,” he whispered.
“What do you say?” said the Superintendent kneeling down.
Once more with painful effort Cameron managed to utter the word “Copperhead.”
“Copperhead!” ejaculated the Superintendent in a low tense voice, springing to his feet and turning toward the unconscious Indian. “He's gone!” he cried with a great oath. “He's gone! Sergeant Crisp!” he shouted, “Call out the whole Force! Surround this camp and hold every Indian. Search every teepee for this fellow who was lying here. Quick! Quick!” Leaving Cameron to the doctor, who in a few minutes became satisfied that no serious injury had been sustained, he joined in the search with fierce energy. The teepees were searched, the squaws and papooses were ruthlessly bundled out from their slumbers and with the Indians were huddled into the Barracks. But of the Sioux Chief there was no sign. He had utterly vanished. The black prairie had engulfed him.
But the Police had their own methods. Within a quarter of an hour half a dozen mounted constables were riding off in different directions to cover the main trails leading to the Indian reserves and to sweep a wide circle about the town.
“They will surely get him,” said Dr. Martin confidently.