"
Old Beaver-Tail fairly chuckled, then replied, between pipe puffs, "Some
of our Cree boys go to school. They learn the white man's ways, and
they are of no more use to their people. They cannot trap for furs, nor
scout, nor hunt, nor find a prairie trail. You are wiser than that,
Little Wolf-Willow. You are smarter than when you left us, but you
return to us, the old people of your tribe, just the same--just the same
as your father and grandfather."
"Not quite the same," replied the boy, cautiously, "for, father, I do
not now hate the North-West Mounted Police."
For answer, old Beaver-Tail snarled like a husky dog. "You'll hate them
again when you live here long enough!" he muttered. "And if you have any
friends among them, keep those friends distant, beyond the rim of the
horizon. I will not have their scarlet coats showing here."
Wisely, the boy did not reply, and that night, rolled in coyote skins,
he slept like a little child once more on the floor of his father's
tepee.
For many months after that he travelled about the great prairies,
visiting with the Government Indian Agent many distant camps and Cree
lodges.
Pages:
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394