The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail | Page 5

known her down East--worked on her father's farm--young gentleman--fresh from college--culture, you know, manner--style and that sort of thing--rushed her clean off her feet."
"I thought you said it was Cameron who was the one hard hit?"
"So it was, sir. Hadn't seen her for a couple of years or so. Left her a country lass, uncouth, ignorant--at least so they say."
"Who say?"
"Well, her friends--Dr. Martin and the nurse at the hospital. But I can't believe them, simply impossible. That this girl two years ago should have been an ignorant, clumsy, uncouth country lass is impossible. However, Cameron came on her here, transfigured, glorified so to speak, consequently fell over neck in love, went quite batty in fact. A secret flame apparently smoldering all these months suddenly burst into a blaze--a blaze, by Jove!--regular conflagration. And no wonder, sir, when you look at her, her face, her form, her style--"
"Oh, come, Sergeant, we'll move on. Let's keep at the business in hand. The question is what's to do. That old snake Copperhead is three hundred miles from here on the Sun Dance, plotting hell for this country, and we want him. As you say, Cameron's our man. I wonder," continued the Superintendent after a pause, "I wonder if we could get him."
"I should say certainly not!" replied the Sergeant promptly. "He's only a few months married, sir."
"He might," mused the Superintendent, "if it were properly put to him. It would be a great thing for the Service. He's the man. By the Lord Harry, he's the only man! In short," with a resounding whack upon his thigh, "he has got to come. The situation is too serious for trifling."
"Trifling?" said the Sergeant to himself in undertone.
"We'll go for him. We'll send for him." The Superintendent turned and glanced at his companion.
"Not me, sir, I hope. You can quite see, sir, I'd be a mighty poor advocate. Couldn't face those blue eyes, sir. They make me grow quite weak. Chills and fever--in short, temporary delirium."
"Oh, well, Sergeant," replied the Superintendent, "if it's as bad as that--"
"You don't know her, sir. Those eyes! They can burn in blue flame or melt in--"
"Oh, yes, yes, I've no doubt." The Superintendent's voice had a touch of pity, if not contempt. "We won't expose you, Sergeant. But all the same we'll make a try for Cameron." His voice grew stern. His lips drew to a line. "And we'll get him."
The Sergeant's horse took a sudden plunge forward.
"Here, you beast!" he cried, with a fierce oath. "Come back here! What's the matter with you?" He threw the animal back on his haunches with a savage jerk, a most unaccustomed thing with the Sergeant.
"Yes," pursued the Superintendent, "the situation demands it. Cameron's the man. It's his old stamping-ground. He knows every twist of its trails. And he's a wonder, a genius for handling just such a business as this."
The Sergeant made no reply. He was apparently having some trouble with his horse.
"Of course," continued the Superintendent, with a glance at his Sergeant's face, "it's hard on her, but--" dismissing that feature of the case lightly--"in a situation like this everything must give way. The latest news is exceedingly grave. The trouble along the Saskatchewan looks to me exceedingly serious. These half-breeds there have real grievances. I know them well, excitable, turbulent in their spirits, uncontrollable, but easily handled if decently treated. They've sent their petitions again and again to Ottawa, and here are these Members of Parliament making fool speeches, and the Government pooh-poohing the whole movement, and meantime Riel orating and organizing."
"Riel? Who's he?" inquired the Sergeant.
"Riel? You don't know Riel? That's what comes of being an island-bred Britisher. You people know nothing outside your own little two by four patch on the world's map. Haven't you heard of Riel?"
"Oh, yes, by the way, I've heard about the Johnny. Mixed up in something before in this country, wasn't he?"
"Well, rather! The rebel leader of 1870. Cost us some considerable trouble, too. There's bound to be mischief where 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,