e police may prove interesting to you. Later on we shall discuss
your return to your camp."

Cameron expressed his delight at being permitted to remain in the court
room, not only that he might observe the police methods of administering
justice, but especially that he might see something of the great
Blackfeet Chief, Crowfoot, of whom he had heard much since his arrival
in the West.

In a few minutes Inspector Dickson returned, followed by a constable
leading a young Indian, handcuffed. With these entered Jerry, the famous
half-breed interpreter, and last of all the father of the prisoner, old
Crowfoot, tall, straight, stately. One swift searching glance the old
Chief flung round the room, and then, acknowledging the Commissioner's
salute with a slight wave of the hand and a grunt, and declining the
seat offered him, he stood back against the wall and there viewed the
proceedings with an air of haughty defiance.

The Commissioner lost no time in preliminaries. The charge was read and
explained to the prisoner. The constable made his statement. The young
Indian had got into an altercation with a citizen of Macleod, and on
being hard pressed had pulled the pistol which was laid upon the
desk. There was no defense. The interpreter, however, explained, after
conversation with the prisoner, that drink was the cause. At this point
the old Chief's face swiftly changed. Defiance gave place to disgust,
grief, and rage.

The Commissioner, after carefully eliciting all the facts, gave the
prisoner an opportunity to make a statement. This being declined, the
Commissioner proceeded gravely to point out the serious nature of the
offense, to emphasize the sacredness of human life and declare the
determination of the government to protect all Her Majesty's subjects,
no matter what their race or the colour of their skin. He then went
on to point out the serious danger which the young man had so narrowly
escaped.

"Why, man," exclaimed the Commissioner, "you might have committed
murder."

Here the young fellow said something to the interpreter. There was a
flicker of a smile on the half-breed's face.

"He say dat pistol he no good. He can't shoot. He not loaded."

The Commissioner's face never changed a line. He gravely turned the
pistol over in his hand, and truly enough the rusty weapon appeared to
be quite innocuous except to the shooter.

"This is an extremely dangerous weapon. Why, it might have killed
yourself--if it h