They took his pocket-knife and keys, and in the inner
pocket of his jacket they found the usual regimental
papers and weekly reports pertaining to the Police
Detachment. These are alike as peas throughout the
Territories, and not of the slightest value or interest,
save to those directly concerned, but to Riel it was a
great find. He spread them out, scanned a few lines here
and there, opened his eyes wide, pursed his lips, and
then, as if it were superfluous pursuing the matter
further, waved his hand in a melodramatic fashion, and
cried--
"It is enough! He is of the Police. He has also been
found spying in camp, and the penalty for that is death.
I hear he is one of the men who ran down and shot Heinault,
who was one of the people. Let him be taken to the same
spot and shot also. He took the blood of the metis--let
the metis now take his! Away with him!"
Such a wild yelling, whooping, and brandishing of guns
took place at these words that Pasmore thought there
would be little necessity to take him to the spot where
"Wild Joe" of tender memory slept. When an antiquated
fowling-piece actually did go off, and shot an Indian in
the legs, the uproar was inconceivable. Pasmore thought
of Rory's dogs having a sporting five minutes, and smiled,
despite the gravity of the situation. But order was
restored, and with Riel and two of his so-called "generals"
in the lead, and a straggling crowd of human beings and
dogs following, the prisoner was led slowly towards the
spot fixed for his execution.
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