The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail Part 40

"You must not go out."

"Nonsense!" said the doctor almost roughly. "Kill me? Not much. I'll knock some of their blocks off first." So saying, he lifted the flap of the tent and pa.s.sed out just as the rush of maddened Indians came.

Upon the ladies' tent they fell, kicked the tent poles down, and, seizing the canvas ripped it clear from its pegs. Some moments they spent searching the empty bed, then turned with renewed cries toward the other tent before which stood the doctor, waiting, grim, silent, savage.

For a single moment they paused, arrested by the silent figure, then with a whoop a drink-maddened brave sprang toward the tent, his rifle clubbed to strike. Before he could deliver his blow the doctor, stepping swiftly to one side, swung his poplar club hard upon the uplifted arms, sent the rifle cras.h.i.+ng to the ground and with a backward swing caught the astonished brave on the exposed head and dropped him to the earth as if dead.

"Take that, you dog!" he cried savagely. "Come on, who's next?" he shouted, swinging his club as a player might a baseball bat.

Before the next rush, however, help came in an unexpected form. The tent flap was pushed back and at the doctor's side stood an apparition that checked the Indians' advance and stilled their cries. It was the Indian boy, clad in a white night robe of Mandy's providing, his rifle in his hand, his face ghastly in the moonlight and his eyes burning like flames of light. One cry he uttered, weird, fierce, unearthly, but it seemed to pierce like a knife through the stillness that had fallen. Awed, sobered, paralyzed, the Indians stood motionless. Then from their ranks ran Chief Trotting Wolf, picked up the rifle of the Indian who still lay insensible on the ground, and took his place beside the boy.

A few words he spoke in a voice that rang out fiercely imperious. Still the Indians stood motionless. Again the Chief spoke in short, sharp words of command, and, as they still hesitated, took one swift stride toward the man that stood nearest, swinging his rifle over his head.

Forward sprang the doctor to his side, his poplar club likewise swung up to strike. Back fell the Indians a pace or two, the Chief following them with a torrential flow of vehement invective. Slowly, sullenly the crowd gave back, cowed but still wrathful, and beginning to mutter in angry undertones. Once more the tent flap was pushed aside and there issued two figures who ran to the side of the Indian boy, now swaying weakly upon his rifle.

"My poor boy!" cried Mandy, throwing her arms round about him, and, steadying him as he let his rifle fall, let him sink slowly to the ground.

"You cowards!" cried Moira, seizing the rifle that the boy had dropped and springing to the doctor's side. "Look at what you have done!" She turned and pointed indignantly to the swooning boy.

With an exclamation of wrath the doctor stepped back to Mandy's aid, forgetful of the threatening Indians and mindful only of his patient.

Quickly he sprang into the tent, returning with a stimulating remedy, bent over the boy and worked with him till he came back again to life.

Once more the Chief, who with the Indians had been gazing upon this scene, turned and spoke to his band, this time in tones of quiet dignity, pointing to the little group behind him. Silent and subdued the Indians listened, their quick impulses like those of children stirred to sympathy for the lad and for those who would aid him. Gradually the crowd drew off, separating into groups and gathering about the various fires. For the time the danger was over.

Between them Dr. Martin and the Chief carried the boy into the tent and laid him on his bed.

"What sort of beasts have you got out there anyway?" said the doctor, facing the Chief abruptly.

"Him drink bad whisky," answered the Chief, tipping up his hand. "Him crazee," touching his head with his forefinger.

"Crazy! Well, I should say. What they want is a few ounces of lead."

The Chief made no reply, but stood with his eyes turned admiringly upon Moira's face.

"Squaw--him good," he said, pointing to the girl. "No 'fraid--much brave--good."

"You are right enough there, Chief," replied the doctor heartily.

"Him you squaw?" inquired the Chief, pointing to Moira.

"Well--eh? No, not exactly," replied the doctor, much confused, "that is--not yet I mean--"

"Huh! Him good squaw. Him good man," replied the Chief, pointing first to Moira, then to the doctor.

Moira hurried to the tent door.

"They are all gone," she exclaimed. "Thank G.o.d! How awful they are!"

"Huh!" replied the Chief, moving out past her. "Him drink, him crazee--no drink, no crazee." At the door he paused, and, looking back, said once more with increased emphasis, "Huh! Him good squaw," and finally disappeared.

"By Jove!" said the doctor with a delighted chuckle. "The old boy is a man of some discernment I can see. But the kid and you saved the day, Miss Moira."

"Oh, what nonsense you are talking. It was truly awful, and how splendidly you--you--"

"Well, I caught him rather a neat one, I confess. I wonder if the brute is sleeping yet. But you did the trick finally, Miss Moira."

"Huh," grunted Mandy derisively, "Good man--good squaw, eh?"

CHAPTER XV

THE OUTLAW

The bitter weather following an autumn of unusual mildness had set in with the New Year and had continued without a break for fifteen days. A heavy fall of snow with a blizzard blowing sixty miles an hour had made the trails almost impa.s.sable, indeed quite so to any but to those bent on desperate business or to Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police. To these gallant riders all trails stood open at all seasons of the year, no matter what snow might fall or blizzard blow, so long as duty called them forth.

The trail from the fort to the Big Horn Ranch, however, was so wind-swept that the snow was blown away, which made the going fairly easy, and the Superintendent, Inspector d.i.c.kson and Jerry trotted along freely enough in the face of a keen southwester that cut to the bone.

It was surely some desperate business indeed that sent them out into the face of that cutting wind which made even these hardy riders, burned hard and dry by scorching suns and biting blizzards, wince and shelter their faces with their gauntleted hands.

"Deuce of a wind, this!" said the Superintendent.

"It is the raw southwester that gets to the bone," replied Inspector d.i.c.kson. "This will blow up a chinook before night."

"I wonder if he has got into shelter," said the Superintendent. "This has been an unusually hard fortnight, and I am afraid he went rather light."

"Oh, he's sure to be all right," replied the Inspector quickly. "He was riding, but he took his snowshoes with him for timber work. He's hardly the man to get caught and he won't quit easily."

"No, he won't quit, but there are times when human endurance fails. Not that I fear anything like that for Cameron," added the Superintendent hastily.

"Oh, he's not the man to fall down," replied the Inspector. "He goes the limit, but he keeps his head. He's no reckless fool."

"Well, you ought to know him," said the Superintendent. "You have been through some things together, but this last week has been about the worst that I have known. This fortnight will be remembered in the annals of this country. And it came so unexpectedly. What do you think about it, Jerry?" continued the Superintendent, turning to the half-breed.

"He good man--cold ver' bad--ver' long. S'pose catch heem on plains--ver' bad."

The Inspector touched his horse to a canter. The vision that floated before his mind's eye while the half-breed was speaking he hated to contemplate.

"He's all right. He has come through too many tight places to fail here," said the Inspector in a tone almost of defiance, and refused to talk further upon the subject. But he kept urging the pace till they drew up at the stables of the Big Horn Ranch.

The Inspector's first glance upon opening the stable door swept the stall where Ginger was wont to conduct his melancholy ruminations. It gave him a start to see the stall empty.

"h.e.l.lo, Smith!" he cried as that individual appeared with a bundle of hay from the stack in the yard outside. "Boss home?"

"Has Mr. Cameron returned?" inquired the Superintendent in the same breath, and in spite of himself a note of anxiety had crept into his voice. The three men stood waiting, their tense att.i.tude expressing the anxiety they would not put into words. The deliberate Smith, who had transferred his services from old Thatcher to Cameron and who had taken the ranch and all persons and things belonging to it into his immediate charge, disposed of his bundle in a stall, and then facing them said slowly:

"Guess he's all right."

"Is he home?" asked the Inspector sharply.

"Oh, he's home all right. Gone to bed, I think," answered Smith with maddening calmness.