sort of thing? Do you know the ways of these people?"

"I never saw an Indian before."

"Good Heavens, man! He might have killed you. And he would have in two
minutes more."

"He might have killed--some of you," said Smith.

Cameron laughed again.

"Now what were you doing in the bluff?" he said sharply, turning to the
Indian.

"Chief Trotting Wolf," said the Indian in the low undertone common to
his people, "Chief Trotting Wolf want you' squaw--boy seeck bad--leg
beeg beeg. Boy go die. Come." He turned to Mandy and repeated
"Come--queeek--queeek."

"Why didn't you come earlier?" said Cameron sharply. "It is too late
now. We are going to sleep."

"Me come dis." He lowered his hand toward the ground. "Too much mans--no
like--Indian wait all go 'way--dis man much beeg fight--no good. Come
queeek--boy go die."

Already Mandy had made up her mind.

"Let us hurry, Allan," she said.

"You can't go to-night," he replied. "You are dead tired. Wait till
morning."

"No, no, we must go." She turned into the house, followed by her
husband, and began to rummage in her bag. "Lucky thing I got these
supplies in town," she said, hastily putting together her nurse's
equipment and some simple remedies. "I wonder if that boy has fever.
Bring that Indian in."

"Have you had the doctor?" she inquired, when he appeared.

"Huh! Doctor want cut off leg--dis," his action was sufficiently
suggestive. "Boy say no."

"Has the boy any fever? Does he talk-talk-talk?" The Indian nodded his
head vigorously.

"Talk much--all day--all night."

"He is evidently in a high fever," said Mandy to her husband. "We must
try to check that. Now, my dear, you hurry and get the horses."

"But what shall we do with Moira?" said Cameron suddenly.

"Why," cried Moira, "let me go with you. I should love to go."

But this did not meet with Cameron's approval.

"I can stay here," suggested Smith hesitatingly, "or Miss Cameron can go
over with me to the Thatchers'."

"That is better," said Cameron shortly. "We can drop her at the
Thatchers' as we pass."

In half an hour Cameron returned with the horses and the party proceeded
on their way.

At the Piegan Reserve they were met by Chief Trotting Wolf himself and,
without more than a single word of greeting, were led to the tent in
which the sick boy lay. Beside him sat the old squaw in a corner of the
tent, crooning a weird song as she swayed to and fro. The sick boy lay
on a couch of skin