THE CATTLE THIEF

They were coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast;

For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last —

Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay,

Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.

Mistake him? Never! Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!

That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief —

That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain,

Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!

But they've tracked him across the prairie; they've followed him hard and fast;

For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.

Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame,

Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game;

But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had left his lair,

And they cursed like a troop of demons — for the women alone were there.

“The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; “he hides while yet he can;

He'll come in the night for cattle, but he's scared to face a man.”

“Never!” and up from the cotton woods rang the voice of Eagle Chief;

And right out into the open stepped, unarmed, the Cattle Thief.

Was that the game they had coveted? Scarce fifty years had rolled

Over that fleshless, hungry frame, starved to the bone and old;

Over that wrinkled, tawny skin, unfed by the warmth of blood.

Over those hungry, hollow eyes that glared for the sight of food.