The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

by Ernest Thompson Seton

  Hartigan's reply was an emphatic "No." And that was the end of it.

  There was nothing for the whites to do but find another racer. There certainly was no such horse as they needed in all the country; had there been, they would have known it; and those who took the matter to heart were planning a visit to Illinois or Kentucky even, where it was simply a matter of money to get a blooded horse that would settle the issue.

  While on a long hard trip for the spiritual help of brethren in the South, Jim was left for a day at Chadron, Nebraska, a distributing point for settlers coming to the Platte. With the instinct born of his Western life, Jim made for the big horse corral, which is always on the outskirts of a prairie town and where he knew he could pass a pleasant hour or more. It was, as usual, crowded with horses of low and middle class degree—some old and worn, some young and raw, many extraordinary pintos, one or two mounts above the average of size or beauty, but nothing to secure more than passing attention.

  The scene in and about the corral held a great fascination for Jim. There were cowboys and stable hands; farmers whose horses were in the corral or whose homes were in the prairie schooners anchored on the plain near-by; men were coming and going, and groups of children rollicked about the camp fire.

  As Hartigan looked on, a young fellow—whose soft, slow speech and "r"-less words were certain proof of Southern birth—led from a stable a tall, clean-limbed horse and, flopping into the saddle with easy carelessness, rode away. As he passed, the horse's coat of bronze and gold fairly rippled in the sun as the perfect muscles played beneath, and the delight that Jim got, none but a horseman would understand. As the lad cantered away to a camping group and returned, the Preacher had a fair view. The horse might have been twin brother to his own, and he did not need the rider's assurance that the steed was a "Kaintucky blood all right."

  In all the Western towns an interesting custom has grown up in the matter of registering. The chief hotel is accepted as the social centre and clubhouse, so that a man arriving in town, whether he puts up at the hotel or not, goes to the register and enters his name. "Never fail to register; it may be handy to prove an alibi," has become a saying. Jim went to the hotel with an idea. He registered, glanced over the other names and learned that Cattleman Kyle was then in town. It was easy to find him in a place of this size, and after a brief search Jim hailed him boisterously from afar:

  "Say, Kyle, I've found what you are looking for."

  "What's that?"

  "A horse. A real horse. A winner."

  "What? Are you willing to sell Blazing Star?"

  "No!" was the forceful answer. "Come and see."

  And Kyle did see. His eye kindled as he watched the glorious creature in the sun.

  "By jinks! He's all right. He's better than Blazing Star."

  "Not on your life!" said Jim, with sudden heat, "but he's what you are after."

  They walked casually up to the young rider. Kyle began:

  "Say, young fellow, is that horse for sale?"

  "Yo' the fo'th pah'ty to-day to ask that," was the softly cooed answer. "No, he ain't fo' sale."

  "Looks to me like a Kentucky blood," said Kyle. "Are you going to keep him in this country or ride him back?"

  "Wall, I'm h'yah to stay, and I guess he stays with me."

  "What are you going to feed him on? You can't get timothy or beans or oats out here. He couldn't keep up on prairie hay; and, if you did try it, he'd get the loco weed."

  This was a good shot and the rider had no ready answer, so Kyle continued. "How old is he?"

  "Fo' last spring and sound as a bell; hasn't a fault," was the reply.

  "Why don't you swap him for something that can stand the country?" said Kyle. Then, as the Southerner did not reply, Kyle continued: "I'll give you two steady young saddle horses raised in the country and proof against pinkeye and loco weed."

  "If you add about a thousand dollars, I might consider it," was the response.

  That was the beginning of bargaining, and the end was that the Kentuckian got two native saddle horses and two hundred and fifty dollars cash. Cattleman Kyle got the beautiful Red Rover and Jim Hartigan experienced just a twinge of jealousy as he saw the new champion and heard his praises sung. Kyle's intention had been to keep Red Rover and rejoice in the beauty and power of the new possession; but the problem of how to win the next race made every other consideration secondary.

  It is well known that a skilful trainer can knock twenty-five seconds off a horse's mile time; or even more, if he can be trained on clean oats and timothy hay. There were oats, hay and skilful trainers in the cavalry barracks at Fort Ryan. There were none of these things at Kyle's ranch on the Big Cheyenne; hence, after much debate, Red Rover was transferred, without profit or loss, to Captain Wayne and was thenceforth the central figure and chiefest hope of the Fort Ryan stables.

  Naturally, one of the first things to be done was to get a gauge on Red Rover's speed by a race with Blazing Star. It was only a race "for fun," and Jim gave his place to a lighter man; but he watched with an eagerness not easily expressed in words, and his heart swelled with joy—yes, into his very throat—when it was made clear, that, while Red Rover was good, Blazing Star was better.

  All these things were events of the first magnitude to the horseman's world that centred at Fort Ryan. The love of horses is common to most men, but it is dominant in the West, and rampant in the mounted soldier. The general interest of officers and men grew into a very keen and personal interest as the training went on, and touched fever heat when it was definitely announced that on Treaty Day, September fifteenth, there was to be a race for a purse of one hundred dollars, as a nominal consideration, and betting to any extent on the side. Meanwhile, word was sent to the Pine Ridge Agency that the whites were not discouraged by their defeat in July, but would come again with their horse in the Corn Feast time for a new race.

  Then, one fine morning in early August, a long procession of Indians appeared on the hills, singing their marching songs, trailing their travois and tepee poles. They set up their camp not far from Fort Ryan; and soon, Red Cloud, with a few who were near him, rode in to call on Colonel Waller. The latter received them on the piazza of his quarters, and, after a smoke, learned that they had come to accept the challenge to race their horses. When and where should it be? It was arranged that on the fifteenth of September they should meet at Fort Ryan, and that the race should come off on the two-mile course at the Fort. After smokes, compliments and the exchange of some presents, Red Cloud withdrew to his camp.

  The following day, as his trainer was putting Red Rover through his paces around the course, there was a group of Indians on their horses at the racetrack; silent, attentive, watching every move. At dawn, the day after, the sentry reported that a band of mounted Indians were on the racetrack. From his window the Colonel watched them through a telescope. He saw them studying the ground; and then a naked youth, on a spirited buckskin, galloped round. It was easy for the Colonel to note the time by his stop-watch and thus have a rough idea of the pony's flat speed on the two miles. He was not surprised one way or the other. The time was considerably over four minutes, which merely proved it to be an ordinarily good horse. But, of course, he knew nothing of the handling; was this top speed? or was the driver holding the horse in? In ten minutes the Indians were gone.

  The next day, a party rode out from Cedar Mountain to see the Indian camp; and, leading the light-hearted procession, were Belle Boyd on her pony and the Preacher on Blazing Star. It was not easy to see Red Cloud. He was much wrapped up in his dignity and declined to receive any one under the rank of "Soldier High Chief" (Colonel). But they found much to interest them in the Sioux camp, and at length, were rewarded by seeing the war chief come forth, mount his horse, and ride, with others, toward the Fort. Turning aside, at the racetrack, Belle and Jim saw Red Rover come forth for his morning spin. The Red men drifted to the starting point, and just as the racer went away an Indian boy on a buckskin broncho
dashed alongside and kept there round the track. Whether it was a race or not no one could say, for each rider was jockeying, not willing to win or lose, and it had the appearance of a prearranged dead heat. One of the officers called out: "Say, boys, that's their same old buckskin cayuse. What do you make of it?"

  It was the white jockey who replied: "If that's their speeder, it's a cinch. I could have run away at any time."

  A senior officer spoke up: "I kept tabs on it, and it's just the same time practically as the Colonel took on his stop watch yesterday. We've got them this time."

  What the Indians learned was not revealed. But, next morning, Red Cloud called upon the Colonel. He smoked a long while before he made clear what he was after. "Did the Colonel want a fair race, or not?"

  "Why certainly a fair race."

  "Then send to Red Cloud a load of the white man's grass that has a tail like a rat; and give him also some of the long white seed, a pile as high as a man's knees, so that the pony might eat and be strong, and make good race."

  The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ho, ho!" he thought, "the crafty old villain has been learning something."

  Now though the Colonel of a frontier post has ample power, it would have been very unwise of him to sell any stores to the Indian; he might, however, without risk of censure, have given him the asked-for supply, had he deemed it advisable. But why should he help the enemy's horse? So he shook his head and said he was "not allowed to sell government stores." And Red Cloud turned away, with an expression of scorn.

  The next day, a minor chief tried to buy some oats from the stable man; but, being refused, went off in silence; and, two days later, the Indian Camp was gone.

  The news soon spread abroad that the famous buckskin cayuse had been up to go over the track, and that Red Rover had played with him. "It was a cinch," they could win any money they liked; and then the betting became crazy. The Indians have no idea of anything but an even bet, but that was good enough. The day of the race there were to be fifty thousand government dollars distributed among them; and every white man, soldier or civilian, who could raise a little cash, was putting it up on a certainty of doubling.

  The days and all they held were a terrible strain on Jim Hartigan. How he itched to be in it! Not once, but many times, he rode to Fort Ryan to see Red Rover training; and more than once he rode around the track to pace the Rover. His face, his very soul, glowed as he watched the noble animal, neck and neck with his own fair steed. "The only horse that ever had made Blazing Star let out."

  Then, near the end, in very pride—he could not help it—he put Blazing Star to it and let them see that while Red Rover might be good, he was only second best after all.

  "It wasn't racing," he explained to Belle, "it was just speeding up a little. Sure, I want the white man's horse to win over that Indian pony. It would never do to have the broncho win."

  There seemed no probability of that; but there was one group of interested white men who were not quite so satisfied. Cattleman Kyle and all the ranchers on the Cheyenne wanted a sure thing; and there was no way to make sure, but by a trial race that was a real race. So they used the old-time trick of the white man who wishes to get ahead of the Indian: they hired another Indian to help them.

  There had always been war and hatred between the Crows and the Sioux. The war was over for the present; but the Crows were very ready to help any one against their former enemies. Enlisted by the ranchers the Crow spies reported that the Sioux were training their horse not ten miles away in a secluded secret canyon of the Yellowbank, a tributary of the Cheyenne River. And thither by night, with all possible secrecy, went Kyle with a dozen more. Among them was Hartigan. Why? Partly because they wanted him along, for his knowledge of horses and jockeys, and chiefly because he himself was mad to go, when he heard of it. The whole colour of the adventure, the mere fact of its being an adventure, were overpowering to his untamed twenty-five-year-old spirit.

  They hid their horses in a distant valley; then, in the early dawn, they followed their dusky guide to a little butte, where they made themselves as comfortable as possible to await the sunrise.

  "Well," said Jim, "considering I'm freezing to death an' mortal hungry, and sitting on a bunch of cactus, and playing pick-pocket with another man's secrets and ashamed of myself, I'm having a divil of a fine time!" And they chattered and their teeth chattered, till a dog barked far below, and they heard the coyotes singing back their long soft call; and in the growing light they discovered an Indian tepee, with smoke issuing from the vent hole. Near by was a rude corral. The smoke increased—then grew less; soon sparks flew out; the light in the sky grew brighter; the music of the coyotes died away; and, in a little while, the glory of the sun was over the world.

  Now they saw an old woman go forth to the corral and, following her, a youth. Unfastening the rude gate, they entered; and the boy presently rode forth on a beautiful buckskin pony, well made and spirited. Yes, the very same one they had seen on the race track at Fort Ryan. They saw him ridden to water; then, after a short canter, back to the corral. Here they watched the old woman rub and scrub him down from head to foot, while the boy brought in a truss of very good-looking hay from some hidden supply. The old woman went carefully over the bundle, throwing away portions of it. "She throw away all bad medicine plants," said the Crow. After half an hour, another Indian came forth from the lodge and brought a bag of something for the pony. They could not see what it was, but the Crow Indian said it was "white man's corn, the little sharp kind that makes a horse's legs move very fast."

  "Bedad, there's no mistaking that," said Hartigan; "they're training on oats; an' that hay is too green for prairie grass and not green enough for alfalfa. I wonder if they haven't managed to get some timothy for their 'hope of the race!'"

  The first important fact was that the cattlemen had discovered the training ground of the Indian racer; the second that the Red men were neglecting nothing that could help them to win. Now to be a complete story of a good scouting, these watchers should have stayed there all day, to see what the Indian methods were; but that would have been a slow job. They were too impatient to wait. It was clear, anyway, that the redskins had adopted all they could learn from the whites, and that the buckskin cayuse was no mean antagonist. The Crow scout assured them that every morning, an hour or so after eating, the pony was raced up to "that butte, round and back here. Then, by and by, sun low, go again."

  So, fully informed, the white spies retired; sneaked back to their horses and in less than two hours were at Fort Ryan.

  "Well, Colonel, we sure saw the whole thing," said Hartigan. "They are not taking any chances on it. 'Tisn't much of a stable—nary a shingle overhead—but they're surely training that buckskin; and it's hand-picked hay they give him and sandpapered oats, worth gold; and they don't neglect his coat; and by the same token it's out for a race they are."

  And now Kyle unfolded his plan to the Colonel. It was nothing less than this: to send a half-breed trader to the Indian training camp with a supply of whiskey, play on the weakness of the Red man till man, woman and boy, and others if there were any, were stupid drunk; then have Red Rover brought secretly, and at dawn, take the buckskin out of the corral, put a jockey on each, develop the best speed of both horses around the Indian training track, and so get an absolute gauge to guide the betting.

  At first, the Colonel demurred. "Was it quite honourable?"

  "Why not? Didn't they come and run their horse against ours in a trial, right here on the garrison track, without asking our leave? We are not going to hurt the pony in any way."

  The temptation was too much for human nature. The Colonel finally agreed; and all that was needed was the working out of details. Hartigan was eager to be one of the jockeys. "Sure it wasn't a real race in the sense that stakes were up." The Colonel shook his head. "If you were about one hundred pounds lighter we'd be glad to have you, but one hundred and eighty pounds is too much for any horse."

  It was no easy mat
ter to get the right weight. The cavalrymen were all too heavy; but an odd character had turned up, the second son of an English baronet, a dissipated youth, barely a hundred pounds in weight; an agglomeration of most weak vices, but thin, tough, and a born and trained horseman. He was selected for one, and Little Breeches, a cowboy of diminutive proportions, for the other. All the material was now in sight for the scheme.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXV

  The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon

  Lou Chamreau was of French and Indian blood, chiefly Crow Indian. For twenty years he had been trading out of Pierre, Dakota, among the western tribes. He spoke French and Crow perfectly, he knew a little Sioux, and he was quite proficient in the universal Sign Language. Lou had lost money on the July horse-race, and was quite ready to play the white man's game.

  On a certain afternoon in the latter part of August the trader might have been seen driving a very rickety wagon along the rough trail through the Badlands twenty miles to the eastward of Fort Ryan. Much hard luck had pursued him, if one might judge by the appearance of his outfit and from his story. In his extremity his teamster had left him and he was travelling alone. It was just as he reached the boulder-strewn descent into Yellowbank Creek that the climax came. The wagon upset and, falling some twenty feet, was lodged between the cutbanks in very bad shape. The horses were saved though the giving way of the harness; and having hobbled and turned them out to graze, Lou mounted a butte to seek for sign of help.

  The sun was low in the west now; and across the glowing sky he noted a thread of smoke. Within a few minutes it had been his guide to an Indian tepee—a solitary tepee in this lone and little-known canyon of the Yellowbank—and entering, he recognized an old acquaintance. After sitting and smoking, he told of his troubles and asked the Red man to come and help get the wagon out of the gully.