The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail | Page 6

that hair-brained
four-flusher gets a crowd to listen to him. For egoist though he is, he
possesses a wonderful power over the half-breeds. He knows how to
work. And somehow, too, they're suspicious of all Canadians, as they
call the new settlers from the East, ready to believe anything they're
told, and with plenty of courage to risk a row."
"What's the row about, anyway?" inquired the Sergeant. "I could never
quite get it."

"Oh, there are many causes. These half-breeds are squatters, many of
them. They have introduced the same system of survey on the
Saskatchewan as their ancestors had on the St. Lawrence, and later on
the Red, the system of 'Strip Farms.' That is, farms with narrow fronts
upon the river and extending back from a mile to four miles, a poor
arrangement for farming but mighty fine for social purposes. I tell you,
it takes the loneliness and isolation out of pioneer life. I've lived among
them, and the strip-farm survey possesses distinct social advantages.
You have two rows of houses a few rods apart, and between them the
river, affording an ice roadway in the winter and a waterway in the
summer. And to see a flotilla of canoes full of young people, with
fiddles and concertinas going, paddle down the river on their way to a
neighbor's house for a dance, is something to remember. For my part I
don't wonder that these people resent the action of the Government in
introducing a completely new survey without saying 'by your leave.'
There are troubles, too, about their land patents."
"How many of these half-breeds are there anyway?"
"Well, only a few hundreds I should say. But it isn't the half-breeds we
fear. The mischief of it is they have been sending runners all through
this country to their red-skin friends and relatives, holding out all sorts
of promises, the restoration of their hunting grounds to the Indians, the
establishing of an empire of the North, from which the white race shall
be excluded. I've heard them. Just enough truth and sense in the whole
mad scheme to appeal to the Indian mind. The older men, the chiefs,
are quiet so far, but the young braves are getting out of hand. You see
they have no longer their ancient excitement of war and the chase. Life
has grown monotonous, to the young men especially, on the reserves.
They are chafing under control, and the prospect of a fight appeals to
them. In every tribe sun dances are being held, braves are being made,
and from across the other side weapons are being introduced. And now
that this old snake Copperhead has crossed the line the thing takes an
ugly look. He's undeniably brainy, a fearless fighter, an extraordinary
organizer, has great influence with his own people and is greatly
respected among our tribes. If an Indian war should break out with
Copperhead running it--well--! That's why it's important to get this old

devil. And it must be done quietly. Any movement in force on our part
would set the prairie on fire. The thing has got to be done by one or two
men. That's why we must have Cameron."
In spite of his indignation the Sergeant was impressed. Never had he
heard his Chief discourse at such length, and never had he heard his
Chief use the word "danger." It began to dawn upon his mind that
possibly it might not be such a crime as he had at first considered it to
lure Cameron away from his newly made home and his newly wedded
wife to do this bit of service for his country in an hour of serious if not
desperate need.
CHAPTER III
A-FISHING WE WILL GO
But Sergeant Cameron was done with the Service for ever. An
accumulating current of events had swept him from his place in the
Force, as an unheeding traveler crossing a mountain torrent is swept
from his feet by a raging freshet. The sudden blazing of his smoldering
love into a consuming flame for the clumsy country girl, for whom two
years ago he had cherished a pitying affection, threw up upon the
horizon of his life and into startling clearness a new and absorbing
objective. In one brief quarter of an hour his life had gathered itself into
a single purpose; a purpose, to wit, to make a home to which he might
bring this girl he had come to love with such swift and fierce intensity,
to make a home for her where she could be his own, and for ever. All
the vehement passion of his Highland nature was concentrated upon the
accomplishing of this purpose. That he should ever have come to love
Mandy Haley, the overworked slattern on her father's Ontario farm,