by Win Blevins
Dozens of men groused at Ashley as they walked away, “Next year bring whiskey.”
THE FUN DIDN’T stop, though, for Ashley’s trading. The men set up a race course that circled the tents and tipis. It wasn’t the smooth sort of course set up in towns and cities. In fact, a dry wash running toward Henry’s Fork cut through it twice, the second time only fifty yards from the finish line.
There were a couple of hundred saddle horses in camp, and a score that the men wanted to watch run, or that their owners believed fast enough to race.
Not that others weren’t valuable. Buffalo horses, for instance, needed a lot of bottom. A buffalo would outsprint a horse for a quarter mile, and might hold the lead for a mile, but eventually a horse with endurance would bring the hunter alongside for a shot. The strength of these animals wasn’t a burst of speed around the camp.
Trail horses had their own value. They needed to be calm and sure-footed for some of the steep, narrow mountain tracks.
These were excellent horses, but not race horses.
The men worked it out. Every competitor put up a pound of tobacco as an entry fee. The horses would run in pairs. If you lost a race to any other horse, you were out. Everyone could bet, and you could make side bets on your horse. But the big prize was winner-take-all. You had to win every race to win all the tobacco.
“Enter,” Hannibal said to Sam. “Paladin is fast.”
“I’ve never done this.”
“So learn.”
“Do I have a chance?”
“Against every rider but me.”
Down at the mouth, sure he’d lose, Sam put his tobacco on the pile. James Clyman, running things, acknowledged his entry with a nod.
Tom Fitzpatrick walked up with tobacco, too. He was leading his fine sorrel Morgan.
Blue Horse entered his paint mare.
Flat Dog said tobacco was too valuable to throw away.
Coy slunk behind Sam, as though he was ashamed of Flat Dog.
Godin, one of the Iroquois, came forward on a small horse the men called a “cayuse,” a term Sam hadn’t heard. “Pony bred by them Cayuse Indians up to the Columbia River,” someone said. “Sure-footed little things.”
Two other Iroquois brought up Indian ponies. Everyone distinguished between Indian ponies and what they called American horses, which were brought out from the States, and larger.
Several men led forward horses that looked nondescript to Sam.
“They don’t look like any racers,” said Sam.
“They aren’t,” agreed Hannibal.
The eighteenth and last entry was Micajah, with a grin that said he was sure of winning. He rode up on a big, powerful-looking bay. The horse looked every bit of eighteen hands high, a horse truly big enough for Micajah’s immense bulk. He handed down his tobacco from high in the saddle. “Meet Monster,” he said, “the hoss of the mountains.”
“Is Monster the one to beat?” Sam asked Hannibal.
The Delaware shook his head. “Micajah’s a clumsy rider who tries to jerk his horse around.”
Sam didn’t really understand that.
“That man mean as he looks?” said Hannibal.
“He is when he’s drinking,” said Gideon. He and Beckwourth had just walked up.
Hannibal appraised Micajah and said, “Good thing we don’t have any liquor.”
Coy made a loud yawning sound.
“Maybe pup’s a booze hound,” said Hannibal.
The riders loped around the course, checking footing and obstacles here and there. When they came to the dry wash each time, they picked places to cross. Most of them ran their mounts back and forth to get them used to diving into the wash and clambering out without losing much speed. The two crossings would be tricky moments of the race.
After most of the men headed back to the starting line, Hannibal was still repeating the jump into the wash. Sam took his cue and did the same until James Clyman hollered for them.
Beckwourth provided Clyman with a deck of playing cards. James shuffled just the hearts and spades, deuces through tens, and tossed them in a hat for the men to draw. Sam drew the deuce of spades, which meant he raced the fellow who drew the deuce of hearts, Art Smith, on one of the nondescript horses.
“I’m lucky,” said Sam.
“Your whole time in the mountains,” said Hannibal, “you’ve been walking in luck.”
“Except with women,” Gideon joked.
The first race was intriguing. Blue Horse was to run his paint against Micajah and Monster. The riders minced their horses up to the starting line. Blue Horse’s mare was fidgety, but Monster kept so still he might have been bored.
“David and Goliath,” Hannibal said.
Clyman stood off and threw his hat in the air. When it hit the ground, the racers were off.
Blue Horse whacked the paint’s hindquarters with his quirt. The bay got off half a step behind, and Micajah seemed in no great hurry.
Flat Dog cut loose a Crow war cry. “Hi-yi-yi-yi, Hi-yi-yi-yay.”
Blue Horse whipped the paint again. “Looks like he means to get in front and stay there,” said Hannibal.
The horses approached the dry wash, Blue Horse about two horse lengths ahead. The mare shifted her gait to go into the wash just right. At that moment Micajah whipped the bay and roared like a boulder crashing down the mountain. The bay charged hard and bumped the mare as she got her footing for the leap down, right in the hindquarters.
Blue Horse and the mare went a-tumble.
Micajah roared again, and Monster powered across the wash and up the other side. The big man was putting the whip to the bay now, and Monster showed his speed.
“Good horse,” said Hannibal.
Coy yipped a protest.
Amazingly, Blue Horse was on his feet, back on the mare, and sprinting after Micajah.
“Never will he make it,” said Gideon.
“We’ll see,” said Hannibal.
On the far side they only caught glimpses of the racers in between tents and tipis. Sam could make out that Blue Horse was riding like a fury and catching up.
As Monster came to the edge of the wash, Micajah’s balance seemed uncertain, and the bay hesitated.
Blue Horse closed fast. Sam thought maybe Blue Horse intended to bump the bay. No, Sam saw, that was just his jump-off into the wash.
As the paint neared the edge, Micajah slid to the right and blocked the way.
The paint pulled up and pranced off. The edge crumbled. Horse and rider rolled into the wash.
Coy sent up a mournful howl.
Blue Horse was on his feet instantly. Sam was relieved—he thought the mare had rolled on Blue Horse.
The rider grabbed for the reins, but the mare threw her head, and the reins whipped out of reach.
Blue Horse lunged and caught them. Up the opposite side of the wash they bolted.
Micajah had a big lead now, though, at least half a dozen horse lengths with about a hundred yards to run.
Blue Horse came on hard, positioned high toward the horse’s neck and whipping her hard.
“Look at that,” said Hannibal. “Blue Horse is perfectly balanced and Micajah chugs along like a keg tied to the saddle.”
Micajah won by two lengths.
Sam turned to Clyman. “He cheated. Micajah cheated. He bumped Blue Horse and made the paint fall.”
Clyman looked at him with long-nosed amusement. “We didn’t set any rules, as far as I can recollect.”
“That’s an educational remark,” murmured Hannibal.
Gideon and Beckwourth grinned at each other.
Blue Horse caught Sam’s eye and shook his head no. “I didn’t know how whites do it,” he said. “Next time I will.”
Sam couldn’t believe he wasn’t mad, but Blue Horse seemed calm and easy.
They watched two races between indifferent horses. Sam knew he could get Paladin to run better than that.
“What did you mean about Blue Horse being high and Micaj
ah chugging?” Sam asked Hannibal.
Hannibal and Blue Horse smiled at each other.
“Blue Horse had a good position in the saddle,” Hannibal said. “High, balanced, sending the horse messages only with the reins and the whip.”
“And speaking in her ear,” said Blue Horse.
“Micajah had his big weight bouncing up and down hard on the horse, which works against the ‘run fast’ message and, worse, throws the horse off balance.”
“What should I do?” asked Sam.
“You’re a good rider. Shorten those stirrups, ’cause you’re going to gallop or sprint all the way. Rise out of the saddle and really move with the horse.”
Some of the races were interesting, some weren’t. Sam noticed that the Iroquois on those cayuses won their races against the American horses.
Fitzpatrick ran against Godin. It was a terrific race until Fitz swung wide as they headed for the finish line. Suddenly Sam heard a loud crack! Horse and rider went ass over teacups.
The horse didn’t try to get up. Fitz looked at it, checked out the ground where it down, came back and got his pistol.
“Prairie dog hole,” said Hannibal.
Bang! Black smoke roiled up from the pistol. The horse made one convulsive movement and went rigid.
“Bad luck,” said Sam.
“Bad luck and poor observation,” said Hannibal.
And, for an average trapper, half a year’s earnings lost.
But it was time for Hannibal, who’d drawn the seven of hearts, to race. His opponent was the leader of the Iroquois, a fellow known to all, apparently, as Old Pierre, and he was riding a cayuse.
Sam felt nervous at the start. He had no doubt Pierre was wily, and was dying to know how Hannibal would run the race.
At the starting line Hannibal rose up close to the grulla’s left ear and spoke softly. Clyman’s hat sailed into the air. When it hit, Hannibal angled Ellie to the outside, well away from Old Pierre. He didn’t use the whip, but the stallion ran beautifully.
At the crossing Ellie bounded into the wash in one leap, and out in another—no clawing up and down for this horse.
Pierre started yelling in French. Gideon said, “Mon dieu, he is angry.”
On the far side Hannibal and Ellie had several lengths on Old Pierre, and their lead was growing. Ellie Elephant leaped into and out of the wash the second time in the same way. “That horse won’t be beat,” Blue Horse said.
“Unless he’s out-tricked,” said Sam.
Hannibal let the grulla run home, fast but comfortable. He never raised the whip in his right hand.
“My God, what a horse,” said Beckwourth.
“And rider,” said Gideon.
Sam’s race was the last of the first round. “Take your position on the outside. I’d try to get right ahead and stay ahead,” said Hannibal. “When you get to the wash, veer away from the other horse, so he can’t play any tricks.”
“Sam Morgan,” said Sam to the other rider. He looked like a Kentuck man. He didn’t take Sam’s offered hand, but muttered, “Asa.”
The race was pure fun. Paladin showed plenty of speed at the start and got a lead. Sam took Hannibal’s advice and kept well away from the other horse when crossing the wash. By the time he came to the second wash, Sam had enough lead on Asa not to worry about where he was.
Paladin made the sprint to the finish in fine form.
Asa led his mount away grumbling, without a word to Sam.
“That man’s just not having any fun,” said Hannibal.
“I want to quit,” Asa told Clyman loudly, “and I want my tobacco back. My horse is acting lame.”
Coy stood up and bristled at the man. Everyone else stared at him. They were all gathered near Clyman, holding their mounts by the reins. No one had seen any sign of lameness during the race.
“Seems the fellow doesn’t like losing,” said Hannibal softly.
“Dammit, I said I want to quit. And I want my tobacco back.”
“Well, hell, Asa, you already bet.”
“Shut up, Cam,” said Asa. “I’ll whip you all unless I get my tobacco back.”
Hannibal whispered to Sam, “Looks like some of the men have liquor.”
“Quit your damned whispering. I say I want my tobacco back. What do you say?”
“More power to you, my friend,” said Hannibal.
Clyman intervened. “We do have nine riders left, which is un-handy. If we had eight, an even number, it would work out better.”
“Quit mouthin’ and give me my tobacco back.”
“My friend, I’ll make you an offer,” said Hannibal. “If I win, I’ll return your pound of tobacco.”
“Not good enough. Do you all say the same?”
“I do,” said Sam.
Godin did too. One by one, each winner agreed, until they got to Micajah.
Micajah grinned fiercely and said, “To hell with you.”
“Then I’ll whip you and take it.”
Micajah laughed nastily and said, “That’s a deal.”
“Is it settled, then?” said Clyman. “The winner will give Asa his tobacco back, unless Micajah wins.”
“Which I will,” said Micajah.
“I’ll enjoy kicking your ass,” said Johnny.
“All right,” Clyman went on, “four races this round, two next round, and then the final.”
Everyone nodded. Coy barked like a town crier making an announcement.
Sam’s next opponent was Godin. His cayuse was a wiry thing, hard-muscled, looking like it had been through a lot of battles, and the losers of those battles were dead. Godin himself looked at Sam with a glint of amusement.
“He has a thousand tricks,” said Gideon.
“You can’t be ready for all of them,” Hannibal said. “He saw you steer clear of Asa, so he’ll be expecting that. If I were him, I’d jump out hard and all the way inside, get a lead. Then, if you catch up, he’ll probably whip Paladin’s face. That means you’ll have to go far outside to pass him, and run a longer distance.”
Sam’s heart sank. “So what would you do if you were me?”
Hannibal told him. Sam didn’t like it.
“He’s right,” Gideon said. Beckwourth nodded.
“Let’s get going, Sam,” said Clyman.
Sam swung up into the saddle. He looked hard at Hannibal, who was smiling big.
“Just do it,” said Hannibal.
Sam decided he would.
Sam gave Godin the inside position. The riders smiled at each other like predators. Both horses pranced, ready to run, about to fight the reins.
Up went the hat.
When it knocked up a puff of dust, Sam turned Paladin right into Godin’s cayuse and whipped her hard. Her front shoulder banged into the cayuse’s hind quarters.
After a moment, the horse and rider caught their balance. The cayuse wheeled and snapped at Paladin.
Sam and the horse, though, were already a step in the clear, taking the far outside.
The cayuse came after Paladin like a rocket, neck stretched out, head lowered, teeth bared. One length, three, five, the cayuse attacked ferociously. Paladin fled like mad.
The cayuse was getting close. Sam shifted his weight to the inside and reined Paladin sharply that way. As they turned, the cayuse nipped Paladin’s left hip with his teeth. Paladin bounded forward with a speed Sam didn’t know she had.
Instantly, they were hard on the wash. Sam nudged Paladin to a crossing spot that was difficult but possible. This time she leaped, took two jumps in the wash, and hurled herself up the other side.
Sam didn’t need to give her whip again. She could probably hear the cayuse on her outside and coming up. She ran like hell.
The cayuse shrieked. That horse was never going to quit.
For a little while Sam thought Paladin might just outrun the cayuse. In the far turn, though, opposite the starting line, the critter managed to get close.
Sam put the whip to Paladin, but wa
s careful to give no sign until he executed his plan. When the cayuse’s head came alongside Paladin’s rump, he slashed the animal in the face, hard.
The cayuse veered sideways, screamed, and pulled up. Then he collected himself, urged by Godin’s shouts, and set out in pursuit that was hotter yet.
Too late. Paladin had more speed anyway, and now she was running beautifully. The cayuse had shown the moxie to put on a burst and catch up once, but not twice.
Sam took a safe, quick route across the wash and kicked her home.
The biggest grin on the field belonged to Hannibal.
Sam jumped off the mare before she was fully stopped, threw his arms in the air, and yelled “Yi-ay-ay-ay, Yi-ay-oh!”
Coy made the best imitation of that cry he could manage.
Godin was full of dark looks. He had to rein the cayuse away hard. That horse still wanted to fight.
“Don’t mind him,” said Hannibal. “You give him a chance, he does the same to you.”
Suddenly Paladin began to limp on her front right foot. Hannibal went to her quickly and lifted the foot. He poked at it and flipped something out. “A pebble in the frog,” he said. “She should be all right.”
Sam checked Paladin’s left hindquarter. The hair was rubbed all wrong, the skin scraped but not broken.
“I’m sorry,” Sam told her.
The mare took a step on the front right foot, a little gingerly, as though to say, “This is where the hurt is.”
Blue Horse and Flat Dog walked up. They’d borrowed buckets and brought water from the river. “Let’s rub her down,” said Blue Horse.
All three of them did. Sam also gave her a drink from the crown of his hat, just a little. Coy insisted on getting a drink from the hat too. When Sam slapped the wet hat back on his head, it felt great.
Paladin still put that foot down as though it was tender. “Walk her around,” said Hannibal. “Let her work it out.”
Sam hardly saw the next two races. He was too busy with Paladin, and too concerned about her. Hannibal won easily. Micajah won.
