The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail [24]
wrinkled in face, crouched at the end of the couch, her eyes gleaming like beads of black glass in her mahogany face.
"How is the foot to-day?" cried Allan. "Pain bad?"
"Huh!" grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.
"You want the doctor here," said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling beside the couch. "That boy is in a high fever. And you can't get him too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How did you sleep last night?" he inquired of the lad.
"No sleep," said his father. "Go this way--this way," throwing his arms about his head. "Talk, talk, talk."
But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron, glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.
"Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot." And he continued to describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound. As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.
"You' squaw good. Come see me," he said. "Good--good." The eager look in the fevered eye touched Cameron.
"All right, boy, I shall tell her," he said. "Good-by!" He took the boy's hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.
"You' squaw come--sure. Hurt here--bad." He struck his forehead with his hand. "You' squaw come--make good."
"All right," said Cameron. "I shall bring her myself. Good-by!"
Together they passed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the Indian's side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy's condition, all the while listening to the Inspector's voice from behind the row of teepees.
"Ah!" he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted on his horse. "Here is my friend, Inspector Dickson. Hello, Inspector!" he called out. "Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to help us."
"Hello, Cameron!" cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting. "What's up?"
Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.
"There is a sick boy in here," said Cameron, pointing to the teepee behind him. "He is the son of this man, Chief--" He paused. "I don't know your name."
Without an instant's hesitation the Indian replied:
"Chief Onawata."
"His boy got his foot in a trap. My wife dressed the wound last night," continued Cameron. "Come in and see him."
But the Indian put up his hand.
"No," he said quietly. "My boy not like strange man. Bad head-- here. Want sleep--sleep."
"Ah!" said the Inspector. "Quite right. Let him sleep. Nothing better than sleep. A good long sleep will fix him up."
"He needs the doctor, however," said Cameron.
"Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor."
"Everything all right, Inspector?" said Cameron, throwing his friend a significant glance.
"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
"How is the foot to-day?" cried Allan. "Pain bad?"
"Huh!" grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.
"You want the doctor here," said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling beside the couch. "That boy is in a high fever. And you can't get him too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How did you sleep last night?" he inquired of the lad.
"No sleep," said his father. "Go this way--this way," throwing his arms about his head. "Talk, talk, talk."
But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron, glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.
"Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot." And he continued to describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound. As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.
"You' squaw good. Come see me," he said. "Good--good." The eager look in the fevered eye touched Cameron.
"All right, boy, I shall tell her," he said. "Good-by!" He took the boy's hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.
"You' squaw come--sure. Hurt here--bad." He struck his forehead with his hand. "You' squaw come--make good."
"All right," said Cameron. "I shall bring her myself. Good-by!"
Together they passed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the Indian's side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy's condition, all the while listening to the Inspector's voice from behind the row of teepees.
"Ah!" he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted on his horse. "Here is my friend, Inspector Dickson. Hello, Inspector!" he called out. "Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to help us."
"Hello, Cameron!" cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting. "What's up?"
Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.
"There is a sick boy in here," said Cameron, pointing to the teepee behind him. "He is the son of this man, Chief--" He paused. "I don't know your name."
Without an instant's hesitation the Indian replied:
"Chief Onawata."
"His boy got his foot in a trap. My wife dressed the wound last night," continued Cameron. "Come in and see him."
But the Indian put up his hand.
"No," he said quietly. "My boy not like strange man. Bad head-- here. Want sleep--sleep."
"Ah!" said the Inspector. "Quite right. Let him sleep. Nothing better than sleep. A good long sleep will fix him up."
"He needs the doctor, however," said Cameron.
"Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor."
"Everything all right, Inspector?" said Cameron, throwing his friend a significant glance.
"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