The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail [26]
"Get up!" said the Inspector to the old squaw, turning the blankets and skins upside down.
"Hee! hee!" she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he passed.
"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.
"What else can we do?" said Cameron. "We might as well. There is a faint chance we might come across a trace."
But no trace did they find, though they spent an hour and more in close and minute scrutiny of the ground about the camp and the trails leading out from it.
"Where now?" inquired the Inspector.
"Home for me," said Cameron. "To-morrow to Calgary. Next week I take up this trail. You may as well come along with me, Inspector. We can talk things over as we go."
They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his knee examining a fresh track.
"A pony-track, by all that's holy! And within an hour. It is our man," he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and out on to the plateau. "It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this trail."
For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt to cover them. The rider was evidently pushing hard.
"Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?"
"Well," said the Inspector, "this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot Reserve by way of your ranch."
"My ranch!" cried Cameron. "My God! Look there!"
As he spoke the ginger-colored broncho leaped into a gallop. Five miles away a thin column of smoke could be seen rising up into the air. Every mile made it clearer to Cameron that the smoke rising from behind the round-topped hill before him was from his ranch- buildings, and every mile intensified his anxiety. His wife was alone on the ranch at the mercy of that fiend. That was the agonizing thought that tore at his heart as his panting broncho pounded along the trail. From the top of the hill overlooking the ranch a mile away his eye swept the scene below, swiftly taking in the details. The ranch-house was in flames and burning fiercely. The stables were untouched. A horse stood tied to the corral and two figures were hurrying to and fro about the blazing building. As they neared the scene it became clear that one of the figures was that of a woman.
"Mandy!" he shouted from afar. "Mandy, thank God it's you!"
But they were too absorbed in their business of fighting the fire. They neither heard nor saw him till he flung himself off his broncho at their side.
"Oh, thank God, Mandy!" he panted, "you are safe." He gathered her into his arms.
"Oh, Allan, I am so sorry."
"Sorry? Sorry? Why?"
"Our beautiful house!"
"House?"
"And all our beautiful things!"
"Things!" He