The Indian made the signs: "Yes, at sunrise."
Chamreau smoked for a time, then said: "I'm afraid I'll lose the 'fire water' in that keg. It may be leaking under the wagon." To which the Sioux warrior said:
"Let us go now."
The keg was found intact, and to obviate all risk, was brought to the Indian camp. Chamreau deferred opening it as long as he could, so that it was midnight before the "Cowboy's delight" was handed round, and by three or four in the morning the camp was sunken in a deadly stupor.
According to the plan, Chamreau was to take a brand from the lodge and, in the black night outside, make a vivid zigzag in the air a few times, when his plot was obviously a success. But he became so deeply interested in giving realism to his own share of the spree that he forgot about everything else, and the rest of the scheme was omitted, so far as he was concerned.
But with the dim dawn there arrived in camp a couple of horsemen, one an Indian. The camp was dead. With the exception of a dog at the doorway and a horse in the corral, there was none to note their arrival. The dog growled, barked and sneaked aside. The Crow Indian hurled a stone with such accuracy that the dog accepted the arrivals as lawful, and sat down, afar off, to think it over.
The inmates of the lodge; man, woman, boy and Chamreau, were insensible and would evidently remain so for many hours. The Crow Indian and Kyle took brands from the fire and made vivid lightnings in the air. Within ten minutes, a group of horsemen came trampling down the slope and up the pleasant valley of the Yellowbank.
It was not without some twinges of conscience that Hartigan peeped into the lodge to see the utterly degrading stupefaction of the poison, but he was alone in feeling anything like regret. The rest of the party were given over to wild hilarity. At once, they made for the corral. Yes, there he was, really a fine animal, the buckskin cayuse that had proved so important. And there, carefully protected, was a lot of baled timothy hay and fine oats, brought there at great cost. It is not often that a lot of jockeys and horsemen are so careful of the enemy's mount. They handled that buckskin as if he had been made of glass, they watered him, they groomed him, they gave him a light feed and walked him gently up and down. Then, as the sun rose, he was taken for a short canter.
"He's pretty good," said the jockey as they came in, "but nothing wonderful that I can see."
Meanwhile, Red Rover was also watered, fed, rubbed down, limbered up, and after every loving, horse-wise care was spent on both animals, the jockeys were given their mounts and headed for the starting point on the two-mile course.
First they ambled easily around the track to study the ground. They started together and ran neck and neck for a quarter of a mile, then pulled rein, as this was a mere warm-up. Then they returned to the starting post, and the cowboy jockey on the buckskin said: "Well, boys, he's a good bronk, but I don't seem to feel any blood in him."
At the signal, they went off together, and behind them Captain Wayne, the Preacher, and a dozen more white men who were interested. These onlookers dropped behind as the racers went at high speed, but the view was clear, even when afar. The tall sorrel horse was a little ahead, but the buckskin displayed surprising power and speed. At the turning point he was very little behind. And now, on the home run, was to be the real trial. Would the bottom of the prairie pony overmatch the legs of the blooded horse?
The spectators were assembled at the place half way down, to meet them coming back, and follow close behind. It grew very exciting as both horses developed their best speed, and as they came to the winning post, it was clear to all that the buckskin had no chance in a fair race with Red Rover. It was incidentally clear to Hartigan, and those near by, that Red Rover had no chance against Blazing Star, even though the latter bore a heavy load; but that was not the point of general interest.
The serious business happily done, they tenderly groomed the buckskin and returned him to the corral, gave him a good supply of hay and said good-bye to the drunken Indians, the two-faced Chamreau, and the glorious Yellowbank, with its lonely lodge, its strange corral and its growlsome Indian dog.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVI
Preparing For the Day
They were a merry lot that galloped back to Fort Ryan that morning, and a still merrier crowd that gathered at Cedar Mountain, when it was whispered about that in a fair and square try-out the buckskin cayuse was badly beaten by Red Rover. The white men had a dead sure thing. "Now is the time, boys, most anything you like, raise money anyhow, you can't go wrong on this. We've got the wily Red men skinned. Now we'll get our money back and more." "Of course it's fair, anything's fair to get ahead on a horse race." And as the tale was whispered round, it grew until it would seem that Red Rover had cantered in, while the buckskin strained himself to keep within a couple of hundred yards of the racer.
So the gossip went and one serious thing resulted: the training slackened. Why bother when the horse was going to have a walk-over? The Colonel was too much engrossed with other matters to do more than give good advice. The trainer's laxity pervaded those about him, and Red Rover was let down with all the rest. When they ran out of baled timothy the shortage was not revealed till it occurred. This meant a week's delay. The trainer, going to Cedar Mountain on a celebration, left an underling in charge who knew no better than to stuff the horse with alfalfa for a change, and a slight cold was the result. What the Colonel said when he heard of it was not couched in departmental phraseology.
Gambling has always been a racial sin of the Indian. He did not drink or horse-race or torture pioneers till the white man taught him; but gamble he always did. And under the stimulus of great excitement and new stakes the habit became a craze. Within a few days, Red Cloud appeared at the Fort with a great retinue, a whole village complete when they camped, and announced that he and his people had some fifty thousand dollars in sight to stake on the race; which, of course, was to be a scratch race for both. The soldiers, being very human, raised all they could—and much that they couldn't, really—to cover this handsome sum. Red Cloud then returned to his camp.
The next day he was back to say that, in case the whites had no more money to bet, the Indians were willing to bet horses and saddles, goods, etc., and thereupon a new craze possessed them. A government plough was wagered against a settler's looking-glass, a hen and her chickens against a buffalo robe, and many another odd combination. The Indians seemed to go wild on the issue. At last the U. S. Indian Agent came to the Colonel to protest.
"Colonel, I can manage these people all right if they are let alone, but this horse race and the betting are upsetting everything. I suppose you have a dead sure thing or you wouldn't be so reckless, but you are making awful trouble for every one else, and I wish you'd put on the brakes."
The Colonel either could not, or would not; for the excitement grew as the day came near. As a last effort the Indian agent, one of the few who were conscientiously doing their best for the Indians, went to Red Cloud to protest and warn him that the whites were laying a trap for him and his people and would clean them out of everything.
Red Cloud's eyes twinkled as he said: "Yes, they always do."
"I mean on the horse race; they will skin you; don't you know they've had your horse out in a trial race with theirs, and that it's no race at all?"
Again the Chief's eyes lighted up. He gave a little grunt and said. "Mebbe so."
Hartigan suffered all the agonies of crucified instincts in this excitement. He longed to be in everything, to bet and forecast and play the game with them all. What would he not have given to be the selected jockey, to smell the hot saddle every day, to hear the sweet squeak of the leather or feel the mighty shoulder play of the noble racing beast beneath him. But such things were not for him. He was shut in, as never monk was held, from earthly joy; not by material bars and walls, but by his duty to the Church, by his word as a man, by the influence of Belle.
She trembled in her thought for him at times, his racing blood was so strong. She o
ften rode by his side to Fort Ryan and watched him as he looked on at the training of the Rover. His every remark was a comment of the connoisseur. "Look at that, look at that, Belle. That's right, he stopped to change his feet. He's a jockey all right. He ought not to do that tap-tapping with the quirt—the horse doesn't understand it, it worries him. I don't like to see a man knee-pinch a horse in that way; it tells on a two-mile run. He's heavy-handed on the reins; some horses need it, but not that one," and so on without pause.
Never once did his conversation turn on the Church or its work; and Belle was puzzled and uneasy. Then, one day when she and Hartigan were to have ridden out, he sent a note to say that he was in trouble. Blazing Star was hurt. Belle went at once to the stable and there she found the Preacher on his knees, in an armless old undershirt, rubbing linament on to some slight bump on Blazing Star's nigh hock. A sculptor would have paused to gaze at the great splendid arms—clean and white and muscled like Theseus—massive, supple, and quick. Hartigan was very serious.
"I don't know just what it is, Belle; it looks like a puff, but it may be only a sting or a bot. Anyway, I'm afraid it's rest for a week it means," and he rubbed and rubbed the embrocation in with force, while Blazing Star looked back with liquid eyes.
This seemed like a misfortune, but it proved a blessing, for it kept Hartigan out of the racing crowd for a week at a time when he was skating on ice that was very, very thin.
As Saturday came, the Rev. Dr. Jebb received an unexpected call from a very regular caller—the Rev. James Hartigan—to ask if Dr. Jebb would kindly take both sermons on Sunday next. Blazing Star had a puff on his nigh hock, inside, a little above the leg-wart; it might not amount to much, but it required a good deal of attention every few hours, both day and night, to prevent the possibility of its becoming serious from neglect.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII
The Start
September came, with all the multiplied glories of the Black Hills—calm, beautiful weather in a calm and beautiful country. For days back, there had been long strings of Indians, with their families and camp outfits, moving down the trail between the hills, bound all for the great raceground at Fort Ryan. Lodges were set up every day. Each of the half-dozen tribes formed its own group. Ranchmen came riding in, followed by prairie schooners or round-up wagons, for their camps; motley nondescripts from Deadwood and places round about. There were even folk from Bismarck and Pierre and, of course, all Cedar Mountain and the soldiers from the Fort.
"Sure, I didn't know there were so many people," was Hartigan's remark to Belle, as they rode on the morning of the fifteenth about the camp with its different kinds of life. Then, after a long pause and gaze around, he added, in self-examining tone: "Faith, Belle, it seems to me that, being a Preacher, I ought to get up and denounce the whole thing, preach right now and evermore against it, and do all I can to stop it, but—heaven help me if I am a hypocrite—I don't feel that way at all; I just love it, I love to see all these people here, I love to see the horses, and I wouldn't miss that race if it were the last thing on earth I was to look on. Oh, I haven't been betting, Belle," he hastened to explain as he saw the look of dread on her face. "I've kept clear of it all, but God only knows what it means to me."
"Never fear, Belle," he went on, "I won't ride in a race, I won't bet; I've given my word."
"Oh, Jim, you are a riddle; you are not one, you are two men; and they fight the whole time. But I know the wiser one is winning and I think the best friend you ever had was that big fellow that threatened you with the 'bone-rot' if ever you broke your word. I believe in you more and more," and impulsively she laid her hand on his with a warmth that provoked such instant response that she smote her horse and swung away—fearful of a situation for which she was not ready.
At three o'clock, an officer from the Fort rode over to Red Cloud's lodge and notified him that in one hour the race was to begin. The War-chief grunted.
At four, the crowd was dense around the track, and the country near seemed quite deserted. Near the starting post, which was also the finish, were a huge crowd and a small army of mounted men. Suddenly shots were heard, and a great shout went up from the Indian camp; then forth came Red Cloud, in all his war paint and eagle feathers, followed by other warriors; and carefully led in the middle of the procession was the famous buckskin cayuse, sleek, clean-limbed, but decorated with eagle feathers in mane and tail, with furry danglers on his fetlocks and a large red hand painted on each shoulder and hip. He had no saddle and was led with an ordinary hackima of hair rope around his lower jaw. He walked alertly and proudly, but showed no unusual evidence of pace or fire.
Then a cannon boomed at the Fort, and from the gate there issued another procession, soldiers chiefly, following their Colonel. First among them came a bugler, the officers, then next a trooper, leading the white hope—the precious Red Rover. His groomed and glossy coat was shining in the sun; his life and power were shown in every movement as he pranced at times, in spite of the continual restraint of his trainer, who was leading him. On the other side, rode Peaches, the little English jockey. It was a bitter pill to the Americans that they should have to trust their fortunes to an English rider, but all their men were too heavy, except Little Breeches, and, he, alas, had fallen into the hands of the whiskey mongers. The ladies of the garrison rode close behind; and last, came the regimental band, in full thump and blare. As they neared the starting post, the band was hushed and the bugle blew a fanfare; then, with the Colonel leading, the racer was taken to the starting post.
Red Cloud was there calmly waiting with his counsellors and braves and the buckskin cayuse.
"Are you ready?" shouted Colonel Waller.
"Ho," said Red Cloud, and with an imperious wave of his hand he indicated "Go ahead!"
The light racing pad was put on Red Rover, the jockey mounted and rode him at a canter for a hundred yards and back, amid an outburst of applause as the splendid creature showed his pace. Then the groom approached and tightened the cinch.
The buckskin cayuse was brought to the front. Red Cloud made a gesture. A sixteen-year-old boy, armed with a quirt, appeared; an Indian gave him a leg up, and, naked to the breech clout on the naked horse, he sat like a statue. Jim got a strange thrill as he recognized him for the vigil-keeper of Cedar Mountain.
"Well," grumbled the Colonel, as he noted the jockey, "that's a twenty-five pound handicap on us, but I guess we can stand it." Yet, when they saw the two horses together, there was less disparity in size than they had supposed. But there was something about the buckskin that caught Hartigan's eye and made him remark: "It isn't going to be such a walk-over as our fellows think." And the trainer of Red Rover, as he noted the round barrel, clean limbs, and flaring nostrils of the buckskin, had for a moment just a guilty twinge as he recalled how lax he had been in the training after that run at Yellowbank Canyon.
But all was ready. The white men won the toss for choice and got the inside track; not that it mattered very much, except at the turn. The crowd was sent back to the lines, the riders held the racers to the scratch and, at a pistol crack, they bounded away.
Those that expected to see something spectacular at the start were disappointed. The English jockey leaned forward, touched Red Rover with his whip, and alongside the Indian boy on the buckskin did the very same thing. The Indian boy smiled and the Englishman responded, but in a superior way. He felt it was almost unfair to run against such a child, and in such a race, which wasn't a real race at all, in spite of the heavy stakes.
Thus they rode side by side at a good pace for half a mile, during which the buckskin drifted behind a little, now a length, now a length and a half. Next the copper-coloured jockey touched him up and, before the white man knew it, the bounding buckskin closed again and came right up, but now on the inside track. If the Englishman had not felt so confident, he would have stopped this well-known trick. It might not have been easy, since there were no lines or posts except the turning point, bu
t it could have been prevented by deft man[oe]uvring. However, the Indian was now abreast on the inside and as the Englishman watched him he concluded that this child of nature was not so simple as he looked. He comforted himself with the thought that the other would need all he could get out of jockeying.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Finish
The first mile was covered in good, but not remarkable time. Then they came to the turning point. There was just the chance of changing places here, for the inner horse had the disadvantage of the sharper turn, but the Indian boy made sure by dropping back a half length and the turn was made without a reverse. After them now with shouts of joy went all the mounted men who had been waiting and rode in a thundering charge, yelling and cheering. The white jockey knew now that he was not dealing with a fool. The red boy, though not so well mounted, was just as good a rider as himself, and twenty pounds lighter, besides being without leathers, which raised the handicap to fully twenty-five pounds. In that first half mile on the home stretch the buckskin still was head and neck behind. Then the riders put forth all their skill and each did his best to call forth every ounce of strength and every spurt of speed in his mount.
The Indian boy let off his native yell and cried: "Ho, Huya—Huya—Huya!" and the keen quirt flashed and the buckskin flew.
"Ho, Rover! good boy, git, git!" and the white man smote the shining flank; and both the noble brutes responded as they had not done before. The sense of play was gone. It was now the real and desperate race. The gazing thousands ranged about knew that, and the mingled roar of all their voices rose to a mighty booming sound.
"Ho, Rover! Run, boy, run!"
"Huya, Shunguna, Ho! Ho! Yeh! Yeh! Yeh!" and the redskin rider smote hard those heaving flanks.
The Preacher of Cedar Mountain Page 15
