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For some time the Indian kept away out of Cameron's reach as if uncertain of himself. Cameron taunted him. "Onawata has had enough! He cannot fight unless he has a knife! See! I will punish the great Sioux Chief like a little child." So saying, Cameron stepped quickly toward him, made a few passes and once, twice, with his open hand slapped the Indian's face hard.
The absence of the Sioux Chief Onawata, however, weakened the bond of unity which he more than any other had created and damped the ardor of the less eager of the conspirators. It was likewise a serious blow to their hopes of success that the Police knew all their plans.
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.
The great day had come, the day they had been dreaming of in their hearts, talking over at their council-fires and singing about in their sun dances during the past year, the day promised by the many runners from their brother Crees of the North, the day foretold by the great Sioux orator and leader, Onawata.
Why does he talk to the enemies of the Great Mother and of his friends the Police? What does Crowfoot say? I go to-night to take Onawata. Already my men are upon his trail. Where does Crowfoot stand? With Onawata and the little Chiefs he leads around or with the Great Mother and the Police? Speak! I am waiting." The old Chief was deeply stirred.
These Indians are bad Indians and the Police will punish the thieves. A thief is a bad man and ought to be punished." Suddenly a new voice broke in abruptly upon the discourse. "Who steal the Indian's hunting-ground? Who drive away the buffalo?" The voice rang with sharp defiance. It was the voice of Onawata, the Sioux Chief. Cameron paid no heed to the ringing voice.
The sides of the cavern round about were crowded with tawny faces of Indians arranged rank upon rank, the first row seated upon the ground, those behind crouching upon their haunches, those still farther back standing. In the center of the cavern and with his face lit by the fire stood the Sioux Chief, Onawata. "Copperhead! By all that's holy!" cried Cameron. "Onawata!" exclaimed the half-breed.
Again Cameron's hand shaded his face from the fire while his eyes searched the old Chief's impassive countenance. "No," said Crowfoot. "Not for many days. Onawata bad man make much trouble." "The big war is going on good," said Cameron, abruptly changing the subject. "Huh?" inquired Crowfoot, looking up quickly. "Yes," said Cameron.
"Huh?" inquired Crowfoot with childlike simplicity. "Yes, he is an old squaw serving his Chief." "Huh?" again inquired Crowfoot, moving his pipe from his mouth in his apparent anxiety to learn the name of this unknown master of Eagle Feather. "Onawata, the Sioux, is a great Chief," said Cameron. Crowfoot grunted his indifference.
"Little Thunder Eagle Feather steal cattle Onawata no steal." "I am glad to hear it, then," said Cameron. "This is a big run of cattle, eh?" "Yes beeg beeg run." Again the Indian's arm swept the room. "What will they do with all those cattle?" inquired Cameron. But again the Indian ignored his question and remained silently smoking. "Why does the son of Onawata come to me?" inquired Cameron.
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