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Connor, Ralph, Pseudonym, 1860-1937

"Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police; a tale of the Macleod trail"

Like a flash Cameron's hand was on the Indian's throat so that
he could make no outcry. A moment later Raven came in view. Swifter than
light his guns were before his face and levelled at Cameron.
"Don't shoot!" said the Inspector quietly from above. "I have you
covered."
Perilous as the situation was, Cameron was conscious only of the
humourous side of it and burst into a laugh.
"Come here, Raven," he said, "and help me to tie up this fellow." Slowly
Raven moved forward.
"Why, by all the gods! If it isn't our long-lost friend, Cameron,"
he said softly, putting up his guns. "All right, old man," he added,
nodding up at the Inspector. "Now, what's all this? What? Little
Thunder? So! Then I fancy I owe my life to you, Cameron."
Cameron pointed to Little Thunder's gun. Raven stood looking down
upon the Indian, who was recovering his wind and his senses. His face
suddenly darkened.
"You treacherous dog! Well, we are now nearly quits. Once you saved my
life, now you would have taken it."
Meantime Cameron had handcuffed Little Thunder.
"Up!" he said, prodding him with his revolver. "And not a sound!"
Keeping within cover of the bushes, they scrambled up the ravine side.
As they reached the top the Indian with a mighty wrench tore himself
from Cameron's grip and plunged into the thicket.


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