Part 9 (1/2)

”Construction camp?” asked the first voice.

”No,” came the answer, ”_This_ line was laid about when _you_ were born, I guess.”

Someone laughed then.

”But what are all those tents off there in the distance?” again asked the curious one.

”Indian tepees,” was the reply. ”This is the heart of the Blackfoot Reserve.”

Norton's heart gave a great throb--the far-famed Blackfoot Indians!--and just outside his Pullman window! Oh, if the train would only wait there until morning! As if in answer to his wish, a quick, alert voice cut in saying, ”Washout ahead, boys. The Bow River's been cutting up. We're stalled here for good and all, I guess.” And the lanterns and voices faded away forward.

Norton lay very still for a few moments trying to realize it all. Then raising himself on one elbow, he peered out across an absolutely level open prairie. A waning moon hung low in the west, its thin radiance brooding above the plains like a mist, but the light was sufficient to reveal some half-dozen tepees, that lifted their smoky tops and tent poles not three hundred yards from the railway track. Norton looked at his watch. He could just make out that it was two o'clock in the morning. Could he _ever_ wait until daylight? So he asked himself over and over again, while his head (with its big mop of hair that _would_ curl in spite of the hours he spent in trying to brush it straight) snuggled down among the pillows, and his grave young eyes blinked longingly at those coveted tepees. And the next thing he knew a face was thrust between his berth-curtains, a thin, handsome, clean-shaven face, adorned with gold-rimmed nose gla.s.ses, and crowned with a crop of hair much like his own, and a voice he loved very much was announcing in imitation of the steward, ”Breakfast is now ready in the dining-car.”

Norton sprang up, pitching the blankets aside, and seized Professor Allan by the arm. ”Oh, Pater,” he cried, pointing to the window, ”do you see them---the Indians, the tepees? It's the Blackfoot Reserve! I heard the trainmen say so in the night.”

”Yes, my boy,” replied the Professor, seating himself on the edge of his son's berth. ”And I also see your good mother and estimable father dying of starvation, if they have to wait much longer for you to appear with them in the dining-car--”

But Norton was already scrambling into his clothes, his usually solemn eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement. For years his father, who was professor in one of the great universities in Toronto, had shared his studies on Indian life, character, history and habits with his only son. They had read together, and together had collected a splendid little museum of Indian relics and curios. They had always admired the fine old warlike Blackfoot nation, but never did they imagine when they set forth on this summer vacation trip to the Coast, that they would find themselves stalled among these people of their dreams.

”Well, Tony, boy, this _is_ a treat for you and father,” his mother's voice was saying, ”and the conductor tells me we shall be here probably forty-eight hours. The Bow River is on the rampage, the bridge near Calgary is washed away, and thank goodness we shall be comfortably housed and fed in this train.” And Mrs. Allan's smiling face appeared beside the Professor's.

”Tony,” as his parents called him, had never dressed so quickly in all the sixteen years of his life, notwithstanding the cramped s.p.a.ce of a sleeping-car, and presently he was seated in the diner, where the broad windows disclosed a sweeping view of the scattered tepees, each with its feather of upward floating smoke curling away from its apex. Many of the Indians were already crowding about the train, some with polished buffalo horns for sale, and all magnificently dressed in buckskin, decorated with fine, old-fas.h.i.+oned bead work, and the quills of the porcupine.

An imperial-looking figure stood somewhat back from the others, exceptionally tall, with finely cut profile, erect shoulders, rich copper-colored skin, and long black hair interbraided with ermine tails and crested with a perfect black and white eagle plume; over his costly buckskins he wore a brilliant green blanket, and he stood with arms folded across his chest with the air of one accustomed to command.

Beside him stood a tall, slender boy, his complete counterpart in features and dress, save that the boy's blanket was scarlet, and he wore no eagle plume.

”What magnificent manhood!” remarked the Professor. ”No college our civilization can boast of will ever give what plain food, simple hours, and the glorious freedom of this prairie air have given that brave and his boy. We must try to speak with them, Tony. I wonder how we can introduce ourselves.”

”Some circ.u.mstance will lead to it, you may be sure,” said Mrs. Allan, cheerfully. ”You and Tony walk out for some fresh air. Something will happen, you'll see.” And it did.

Crowds of the train's pa.s.sengers were strolling up and down when the Professor and Norton went outside. ”I wish they would not stand and stare at the Indians like that!” remarked the boy indignantly. ”The Indians don't stare at us.”

”For the best of all reasons,” said the Professor. ”Indians are taught from the cradle that the worst possible breach of politeness is to stare.” And just as they began a little chat on the merits of this teaching, a dapper, well-dressed pa.s.senger walked up to the distinguished Indian, and in a very loud voice said, ”Good morning, friend. I'd like to buy that eagle feather you have in your hair.

Will you sell it? Here's a dollar.”

Instantly Norton Allan turned angrily to the pa.s.senger. ”What do you shout at him for?” he demanded. ”He isn't deaf because he's Indian.”

”Oh!” said the pa.s.senger, rather sheepishly, but in a much lower tone.

Then, still raising his voice again, he persisted, ”Here's two dollars for your feather.”

The Indian never even glanced at him, but with a peculiar, half regal lift of his shoulders, hitched his blanket about him, turned on his heel, and walked slowly away. Just then the train conductor walked past, and the bewildered pa.s.senger a.s.sailed him with, ”I say, conductor, that Indian over there wouldn't take two dollars for that chicken wing in his hair.”

The conductor laughed. ”I should think not!” he said. ”'That Indian' is Chief Sleeping Thunder, and ten miles across the prairie there, he has three thousand head of cattle, eighty horses, and about two thousand acres of land for them to range over. _He_ doesn't want your two dollars.”

”Oh!” said the pa.s.senger again, this time a little more sheepishly than before; then he wisely betook himself to the train.

Meantime the boy with the scarlet blanket had not moved an inch, only let his eyes rest briefly on Norton when the latter had reproved the shouting pa.s.senger.

”And this,” continued the conductor kindly, as he paused beside the boy, ”is Chief Sleeping Thunder's son, North Eagle.”