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the Sergeant, but it was difficult to ascertain whether they understood him. As he lowered the paper, a group of them charged us, waving their rifles in the air. The foreman scuttled away, and I tightened my grip on Buck’s reins. I glanced at the Sergeant, wondering if I should draw my Winchester. He gave a slight shake of the head.
    The braves thundered toward us, drawing their horses to a halt only at the last possible moment. One of their ponies nudged against the Sergeant’s horse, causing it to take a step back and toss its head. Others crowded in close to Buck, who stood his ground bravely. The Indians waved their rifles at us and jeered in their own tongue, no doubt shouting insults.
    Sergeant Wilde was unmoved by the display. He pulled his watch from his pocket and consulted it.
    “You have one-quarter of an hour to pack up your tepees and go,” he ordered. “If by the end of that time you haven’t complied, we shall force you to move on.”
    The Sergeant glanced meaningfully at me — and at my Winchester. By now the railway navvies were nowhere to be seen; they were beating a hasty retreat down the tracks, followed by the train engineer and mechanic, who had abandoned their engine. Part of me wished I could join them. I didn’t relish the odds: two mounted police against an entire band of Cree.
    The warriors continued to shout and prod at us, trying to goad us into making the first hostile move. I was thankful not to smell liquor on their breath; whiskey whips the Indians into a fury. For once I was glad that the North-West Territories had been declared dry.
    There was one tepee that stood at the centre of the circle of tents. In front of it sat Chief Piapot, wearing a trailing war bonnet and smoking a long-stemmed pipe from which a single eagle feather hung. Every now and then he would raise the pipe: first to his left, then in front of him, then to his right, and then over his head. After he had repeated this performance four times, he took one last draw on the pipe and knocked it out. Rising to his feet, he began walking toward us. I hoped he was going to call off his braves and parlay with us.
    Piapot had wide cheekbones, a long hawklike nose, and a square jaw. He wore his hair loose over his shoulders, and had a kerchief knotted about his neck. He stared at me with small eyes set close together, and in them I saw a thoughtful look, almost one of recognition, although I had not met the man before.
    Sergeant Wilde snapped the cover of his pocket watch shut. “Time’s up!” he shouted. Then he slipped his watch back in his pocket and handed me the reins of his horse.
    “What are you doing?” I asked in dismay as he dismounted.
    “I’m going to teach these heathens a lesson.”
    Shouldering his way through the mounted braves, Wilde walked in a determined line toward the central tepee. I saw a confused look cross the chief’s face as the Sergeant strode past him. The chief paused — then shouted in alarm as he saw what Wilde was up to.
    With a swift kick, the Sergeant knocked over the tepee’s key pole. The buffalo-skin shelter creaked to one side — then crashed to the ground. Something struggled beneath the collapse of wooden poles and heavy hides, and then three women and two children burst out of the tangle. The eldest of the women shouted at Wilde and shook a fist at him while the other two clutched their children to their breasts and scurried away.
    The Cree braves were as stunned by the Sergeant’s performance as I was. They watched, mouths open, as he stomped from tepee to tepee, kicking each one over in turn.
    “Get!” he shouted at the women and children who emerged from each one. Wilde waved his hands in the air like a farmer shooing geese. “Go on! Get out of here. Go on back to your reserve!”
    The Indians closest to me were muttering darkly. The Sergeant’s horse, whose reins I still held, sensed the tension in the air and pawed with one hoof at the ground, its eyes and nostrils