Chapter VI. The Illusive Copperhead

Cameron's approach to the Piegan camp was greeted by a discordant chorus of yelps and howls from a pack of mangy, half-starved curs of all breeds, shapes and sizes, the invariable and inevitable concomitants of an Indian encampment. The squaws, who had been busy superintending the pots and pans in which simmered the morning meal of their lords and masters, faded from view at Cameron's approach, and from the teepees on every side men appeared and stood awaiting with stolid faces the white man's greeting. Cameron was known to them of old.

"Good-day!" he cried briefly, singling out the Chief.

"Huh!" replied the Chief, and awaited further parley.

"No grub yet, eh? You sleep too long, Chief."

The Chief smiled grimly.

"I say, Chief," continued Cameron, "I have lost a couple of steers-- big fellows, too--any of your fellows seen them?"

Trotting Wolf turned to the group of Indians who had slouched toward them in the meantime and spoke to them in the singsong monotone of the Indian.

"No see cow," he replied briefly.

Cameron threw himself from his horse and, striding to a large pot simmering over a fire, stuck his knife into the mass and lifted up a large piece of flesh, the bones of which looked uncommonly like ribs of beef.

"What's this, Trotting Wolf?" he inquired with a stern ring in his voice.

"Deer," promptly and curtly replied the Chief.

"Who shot him?"

The Chief consulted the group of Indians standing near.

"This man," he replied, indicating a young Indian.

"What's your name?" said Cameron sharply. "I know you."

The young Indian shook his head.

"Oh, come now, you know English all right. What's your name?"

Still the Indian shook his head, meeting Cameron's look with a fearless eye.

"He White Cloud," said the Chief.

"White Cloud! Big Chief, eh?" said Cameron.

"Huh!" replied Trotting Wolf, while a smile appeared on several faces.

"You shot this deer?"

"Huh!" replied the Indian, nodding.

"I thought you could speak English all right."

Again a smile touched the faces of some of the group.

"Where did you shoot him?"

White Cloud pointed vaguely toward the mountains.

"How far? Two, three, four miles?" inquired Cameron, holding up his fingers.

"Huh!" grunted the Indian, holding up five fingers.

"Five miles, eh? Big deer, too," said Cameron, pointing to the ribs.

"Huh!"

"How did you carry him home?"

The Indian shook his head.

"How did he carry him