Wild Western Tales 2: 101 Classic Western Stories Vol. 2 (Civitas Library Classics)

by Various

  Now, Jack was, as we have said, a horse of huge proportions, and needed "steadying" at the start, but the good deacon had no experience with the "ribbons," and was therefore utterly unskilled in the matter of driving; and so it came about that old Jack was so confused at the start that he made a most awkward and wretched appearance in his effort to get off, being all "mixed up," as the saying is,--so much so that the crowd roared at his ungainly efforts, and his flying rivals were twenty rods away before he even got started. But at last he got his huge body in a straight line, and, leaving his miserable shuffle, squared away to his work, and, with head and tail up, went off at so slashing a gait that it fairly took the deacon's breath away, and caused the crowd that had been hooting him to roar their applause, while the parson grabbed the edge of the old sleigh with one hand and the rim of his tall black hat with the other.

  What a pity, Mr. Longface, that God made horses as they are, and gave them such grandeur of appearance when in action, and put such an eagle-like spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the plodding motions of the ox, they can fly like that noble bird, and come sweeping down the course as on wings of the wind!

  It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's either, please remember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking old Jack was thus suddenly transformed, by the royalty of blood, of pride, and of speed given him by his Creator, from what he ordinarily was, into a magnificent spectacle of energetic velocity.

  With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming straight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet so little was the pace to him that he fairly gambolled in playfulness as he went slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that the honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send his heels antically through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle that the huge horse presented was so magnificent, his action so free, spirited, and playful, as he came sweeping onward, that cheers and exclamations, such as, "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!" "Look at him! look at him!" "What a stride!" etc., ran ahead of him, and old Bill Sykes, a trainer in his day, but now a hanger-on at the village tavern, or that section of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist, as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past with his open gait, powerful stroke, and stiffles playing well out, brought his hand with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said, "I'll be blowed if he isn't a regular old timer!"

  It was fortunate for the deacon and the parson that the noise and cheering of the crowd drew the attention of the drivers ahead, or there would surely have been more than one collision, for the old sleigh was of such size and strength, the good deacon so unskilled at the reins, and Jack, who was adding to his momentum with every stride, was going at so determined a pace, that, had he struck the rear line, with no gap for him to go through, something serious would surely have happened. But, as it was, the drivers saw the huge horse, with the cumbrous old sleigh behind him, bearing down on them at such a gait as made their own speed, sharp as it was, seem slow, and "pulled out" in time to save themselves; and so without any mishap the big horse and heavy sleigh swept through the rear row of racers like an autumn gust through a cluster of leaves.

  By this time the deacon had become somewhat alarmed, for Jack was going nigh to a thirty clip,--a frightful pace for an inexperienced man to ride,--and began to put a good strong pressure upon the bit, not doubting that old Jack--ordinarily the easiest horse in the world to manage--would take the hint and immediately slow up. But though the huge horse took the hint, it was exactly in the opposite manner that the deacon intended he should, for he interpreted the little man's steady pull as an intimation that his inexperienced driver was getting over his flurry and beginning to treat him as a big horse ought to be treated in a race, and that he could now, having got settled to his work, go ahead. And go ahead he did. The more the deacon pulled, the more the great horse felt himself steadied and assisted. And so, the harder the good man tugged at the reins, the more powerfully the machinery of the big animal ahead of him worked, until the deacon got alarmed, and began to call upon the horse to stop, crying, "Whoa, Jack! whoa, old boy, I say! Whoa, will you now, that's a good fellow!" and many other coaxing calls, while he pulled away steadily at the reins.

  But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressure on the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, and hooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood, the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouraging cries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirling along only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let out another link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and the two were going it nose and nose.

  What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage? Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so much as victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no sooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging him along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into the contest as two ungodly jockeys.

  "Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were pelting in showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer will beat us?"

  "Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon in reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctively lifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted encouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carried away by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"

  This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whose blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort; and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he gathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erect in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.

  Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--we may say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely be expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd.

  So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy New Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon on his driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that had come over Parson Whitney.

  And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day
and its fun had taken twenty years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go home and eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some reminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and a riot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and the deacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain Deacon Jones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales and their mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror.

  But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and the laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by, and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself, and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun in him." And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon had left him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that were in them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meant no wrong; and the dear old days were very happy."

  Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to thee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward so long that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze of memory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, I ween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates of the new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a day which is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, to lose them and it no more forever, thank God!

  Contents

  THE LAST PROTEST

  A Story of Montana

  by Henry Oyen

  WHEN the teachers at the government school had instructed Young Moon thoroughly in the various branches of knowledge prescribed in the course, they presented him with an engrossed diploma setting forth his qualifications as a scholar, and told him that the great wide world was before him -- his to conquer or serve as he saw fit.

  The teachers were very well satisfied with Young Moon. They had seen him come to the school from the tepees up in the valley with the dark, unreasoning savagery of the ages in his heart. They had taken him just as he came to them, and had wrought with him; and now when he departed there was enlightenment where there had been darkness, and civilization where the savage had held sway. So the teachers were vain of him, -- for was he not all their handiwork? -- and had visions of him performing miracles in the work of elevating his own people. Which was all very pleasant and satisfying.

  Young Moon took the diploma and went back to the tepees by the river. The great outside world which the teachers pictured so alluringly held no charms for him. He had been to the school of the white man, and he had seen, and he knew that the ways of the white brother were positively not as his ways. The fact was ridiculously evident to Young Moon. What possible good could there be in a community where one must of a necessity eat at regular intervals and wash himself with alarming frequency, where the beauties of a mysterious thing called duty were continually dinned into one's ears, and where the people lived, moved, and had their being under the rule of an insignificant whirring clock? What sense could there be in abiding in the tepees of a dubious thrall of work? Why live, if one must make of himself a slave? No, no; Young Moon's philosophy of life ran far from such lines.

  So when the teachers at the school were through with him, he was very well satisfied to return to the loose, duty-free ways of his fathers, where soap and tooth-brushes were not, and where life was not a constant, strained pursuit of "golden moments."

  It was good to be back in the tepees by the river. This was the place to live; it was life to feel the sense of full freedom of the wide, free prairie, to see the Big Hills beckoning familiarly from the blue, hazy distance, and to hear the river, which, with its double rows of green cottonwoods, always sang down the valley. Verily this was the place for an Indian; here was his home, here his abiding-place on earth. Here, all undisturbed by any false notions of work and duty, the old life moved along in the old, old way. Each day was sufficient unto itself, and the days came in never-failing supply, and there was peace and quiet.

  But there was not the peace of his fathers for Young Moon. He had learned too much. He had imbibed the wisdom of the white man to a disturbing degree, and he had become possessed of ideas. This was bad, inasmuch as they were ideas scarcely compatible with the precepts of the teachers.

  The white man was master in a land where he should scarcely be tolerated. It was this idea that disturbed Young Moon's peace of mind. The white man was master. All over, everywhere, in the valley, were the signs of his superiority in numbers and power. His houses lay scattered over the face of the land, his irrigation ditches scarred the earth for miles and miles, and his fences were binding the valley and the foot-hills in a bond of hostile barb-wire. In a few years there would be only white men in the valley.

  Of course this idea was old and foolish. The old men laughed at Young Moon in the council-tepee.

  "Yoh, yoh," they said; "what the young man says is true -- very true. But others have said the same many times before him." And they lighted their pipes indifferently.

  Young Moon came away from the old men with a hard, dry lump in his throat. The humbled acquiescence of his people to the order of things that were had angered him. These things were all wrong, and the old men knew it. Yet they sat and smoked in indolent, dog-like content. The old men were surely squaws.

  Young Moon lighted a thin, flat cigarette and gazed out over the valley. He was not in a frame of mind conducive to sweet, conventional thoughts. He had gone to the council-tepee with his mind full of great ideas for the peaceful reform of conditions, and the old men had laughed at him. They had laughed and scoffed; they had scoffed at him, Young Moon, who had been to the school and knew, and all high motives and peaceful inclinations had fled from him.

  It was July -- hot, sultry July. The Crows came out of their tepees to sit cross-legged in the sun, gazing blankly out at the dancing heat-haze and experiencing the many weird emotions that come to the child of the tepees with the bright sun. The women of the tribe were methodically performing the duties of the household, but the men had forgotten that such things existed. An old man grumblingly ordered a boy to go to work in the corn, and the boy, sitting with wide-open eyes staring out into space, laughed without moving.

  The sun is bad for young bucks; it is the sun that brings back the old, half-forgotten desire for the war-path. Young Moon, as he sat gazing down the valley, began to feel and see as he had never done before. There was a red, misty haze over all the landscape. In it moved men and animals and things; but they were not of the time of Young Moon, at least the Young Moon whom the teachers had known.

  Young Moon dreamed, and there came into the mist of red a vision of the one-time glory of his people. But he knew that this was the past -- dead and gone. He dreamed again, and saw a picture of glorious, bloody strife. Things were clearer in the mist now, and Young Moon saw the visions change, and in the place of the one of strife was one of the glorious future: the Indian come into his own again, and the country once more free -- his alone.

  The sun grew red before Young Moon's eyes. The river running down the valley turned to a thread of blood. He rose slowly and went inside his tepee. All day he sat there, gazing blankly at the skin sides, but seeing far beyond. Gradually his sight grew stronger. He saw a streak of flaming red which ran from the door of his tepee far away toward the east, and which obliterated all evidence of civilization in the valley. Thus did the Great Spirit evidence itself to Young Moon. The Young Moon of the government school, diploma, and civilization had died, and in his place was the Young Moon of the tepees and primitive, sa
vage instincts.

  Outside in the sun the other young bucks of the tribe sat and awaited only a leader to turn them into heartless, ravaging warriors.

  When the night came, an old squaw sat in the edge of gloom and firelight and crooned softly an old war-song. This was bad; not for years had this song been sung in the tepees. The old men cursed the squaw fervidly and bade her be silent.

  "No, no!" growled the young men angrily, "she shall sing."

  The old squaw sang again, now an old song of prophecy and golden promise. A great medicine-man, impervious to death, was to come and lead his people to the retaking of their own. The time was now ripe for his advent. It was the old, old undying cry for the Messiah, and as the old squaw ceased there was deep silence around the fire. A child coughed feebly as the smoke veered into its face. Somewhere in the dark a tepee flap flew back, and in an instant the old men were on their feet, with angry imprecations on their lips; for Young Moon, arrayed in the full glory of a chief on the war-path, was standing by the fire. The old squaw ran to him. With both hands upon his shoulders, she gazed searchingly into his eyes. Then, raising a skinny claw into the air, she shrieked loudly and called him the great one, the invulnerable, of whom she had prophesied. There would be much fighting and blood, and freedom, now, she cried. The days of sickening calm were over. The old men sat and smoked, as impassive as graven images; but the young braves slid noiselessly away in the dark, and returned wearing the black feathers and buckskin apron of the Crow dancers. An old chief by the fire deliberately took the pipe from his mouth. "Young Moon looks well in the feathers -- almost as well as a cow in harness," he said pleasantly.