Like most of the Plains tribes, the Cheyenne loved gambling, especially horse racing, and they had their share of those who lusted for the bottle just like we did. Before long, Indians were mixing in and out of the camp, and everyone settled back down to the fun at hand. There is nothing like the commonality of shared depravity to break the ice between cultures. So much of the Indian Wars could have been avoided if somebody had recognized the social benefits and soothing nature of a little drunkenness and the casting of lots.
The Cheyenne had brought along a few swift horses themselves, and before long the number of scheduled horse races grew. At about eleven o’clock Cap Arrington climbed on top of a wagon and shouted to gain everyone’s attention. He announced that there were to be two races before ours, and several afterwards. The first race was to be a mile long with five entries. The second race was to be a match race between one of the colonel’s horses and a runner that some men from Weatherford had trailed up.
Long and I made our way back to the chuckwagon and found Billy and the rest of our gang already preparing for the race. Long and Billy had a quick, friendly hello, and Andy like to have shaken Long’s hand plumb off at the shoulder.
“How are you, General?” Long asked.
“About to be rich and famous.”
We all laughed at Andy’s immodesty, but secretly we were all riding a wave of optimism and high spirits. Billy had put up two hundred of his bet with the colonel, and the rest of us chipped in to make the other half. Most of our crowd had already made their own personal bets, and from the talk I heard, many of them had bet everything they had on Little Paint. The gamblers, once they had most of the money in the camp on the line, were offering to allow bets of just about any personal property, providing an appraisal of its value could be agreed upon.
H.B. warned us right then and there not to bet our saddles, but I could tell by the squeamish look on several of the boys’ faces that they had done just that. If you had asked what time it was you would have been out of luck, because there wasn’t a pocket watch left among them. They were all piled on a table in front of Colonel Andrews’s tent along with a miscellaneous pile of firearms, jewelry, and other assorted valuables. A man stood guard over the table with a double-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms. Two more artillery-toting tough sorts stood guard at the door to the colonel’s tent, where all cash bets made with the coalition of Mobeetie gamblers were being held.
The rumor was flying around that there was ten thousand cash in the tent. That sounded pretty steep, but I guarantee you a pile was bet that day, and not just with the Mobeetie bookies. Many citizens made their own bets with each other, and nobody knew just how deep the Cheyenne were bailing in.
There wasn’t much time for socializing, because Billy and Andy were furiously working on a saddle they had acquired. The colonel had a special, lightweight racing saddle; since we lacked one ourselves, Billy had purchased an old cavalry McClellan to avoid the weight disadvantage one of our heavy stock saddles would have caused.
I managed to gather Billy off to the side, and hurriedly informed him about Harvey and the colonel. He didn’t seem to give that much thought. I could tell by the look on his face that he had already decided that Harvey and the colonel could go jump in the creek. I realized it was useless to ask him what he thought about racing Blue Knife’s paint right in front of him, because he apparently had decided that right then he had more important things to worry about than who was likely to kill us.
Then again, Billy wasn’t given to worry anyway. Tough men like Billy and Cap Arrington probably went to bed with clearer minds than most. It stands to reason that they figured they could get up in the morning after a good night’s rest and just shoot anyone who might make trouble.
Somebody was calling for the first race to start. We left Andy and Carlito to take care of our horse and made our way down to the start line. Stakes with red painted tops had been driven into the ground to mark the race course. They ran in a line dead away from the creek across the flat for a long, long ways, turned in a big loop, and arced their way back to finish where they had begun.
There were three Cheyenne horses entered and their jockeys rode up to the scratch mark bareback and half-naked. Their horses were painted up with all kinds of circus marks, their tails tied up, and bells and feathers braided into their manes.
Bill Thompson had a black horse entered and he joined the Cheyenne buffalo runners at the line. He snorted and bowed his neck at the wildly decked-out Cheyenne horses, and his rider fought to keep him from turning tail and running off with him.
The crowd parted to admit the last entry. It was one of the colonel’s horses that we hadn’t seen before, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was another thoroughbred for sure, although he wasn’t the looker that the big gelding we had seen a few nights before had been. The colonel’s Mexican boy was riding a funny little saddle set way forward on the horse’s withers.
The horse was trimmed in a loud coordination of matching colors, from the saddle blanket to the jockey’s silk shirt and cap. The boy wore a pair of goggles and carried a long, stiff quirt. The horse’s head was covered in what appeared to be a modification of a set of workhorse blinders.
Cap Arrington was to start the race, and he stood atop a wagon at the start/finish line. He stood grim faced with his pistol pointing at the sky like he was threatening God Almighty himself. The horses jostled around as the jockeys tried to get positioned at the mark. It was Arrington’s duty to fire the shot to start the race only when all horses were fairly and properly at the scratch line in the dirt.
The strategy and complications of getting five fractious horses all standing reasonably well at the line simultaneously seemed to go on forever, and then Cap’s forty-five cracked and they were off and racing in a cloud of dust.
The crowd roared and the Cheyenne jockeys whooped like they were on the warpath and whipped their mounts with long, limber quirts. The horses were bunched for a while, but soon lined out head to tail in a tight line, with one of the Cheyenne horses leading. The colonel’s thoroughbred was last, but his rider looked to be holding him in check.
They raced away into the distance, and then were rounding the far turn. The same Cheyenne horse held the lead, but the colonel’s horse had moved to second by the time they came out of the turn and started the long straight stretch back to the finish line.
Three hundred yards away and it was a two-horse race. The Cheyenne horse and the thoroughbred ran neck to neck, and so close you couldn’t have walked between them. They were two hundred yards out when the brave leaned out and cracked the Mexican boy with his quirt. The Mexican returned the favor with his stiff bat, and even from that distance you could see the dust fly off of the Cheyenne’s chest.
When they came across the line it was the colonel’s horse a winner by two lengths, and the Cheyenne with the big red welt across his chest a faltering second. The people at the finish line cheered wildly, and their raucous noise was matched by the agony coming from the Cheyenne gathered on the other side of the track. I watched as one of the squaws fell to her knees wailing, and then jerked out a knife and hacked off one of her braids.
The jockeys had gotten their horses pulled up and were coming back to the line. The Mexican boy made his way toward their camp, and he was followed by the Cheyenne who had come in second. I was returning to our campsite, and so got to see the Cheyenne dismount in front of where the colonel stood at his tent. Solemnly, the brave handed the reins of his lathered horse to the colonel and walked away. The colonel looked over his prize with several of his friends while the dejected Cheyenne trudged back to his people.
You can’t keep a good man down, and seeing Little Paint being shined up and readied for his race drove all doubts from my mind. When I walked up, Andy was putting on a new, bright red shirt with a large C embroidered on the back of it in white. Kate and a couple of the other girls, wanting to be part of the action, and just through friendship and good nature, had made th
e shirt for the occasion. They stood around waiting for him to model their handiwork.
Andy tucked the shirt into his checkered pants, and strutted around for all to see. He turned red as his shirt when one of the girls pinched his ass and kissed him on the cheek.
The girls hadn’t forgotten Little Paint either, they had braided up his mane with red ribbons. Together, Andy and that horse were going to look as gaudy as those Cheyenne buffalo runners. Although, I was just as proud as Andy was, and from Billy’s smile I could tell that he was too.
The second race was starting, but we were too busy running into each other while we frantically went about searching for something to do to get ready to race. The only calm one in the bunch was Billy. He was wearing a new white shirt, and a green neckerchief with white polka dots. He leaned against a tree with the sole of one boot propped back against the trunk and calmly smoked a cigarette down to the butt in ten seconds. The way he was puffing on that thing made him look like a locomotive with the coal bin heaped full and the throttle laid wide open.
Being of a cautious nature, and overly wise for my age, I hadn’t bet a single dime on the race other than the twenty dollars required for my part of the two hundred Billy hadn’t had to bet. I had only parted with that money out of loyalty to a friend short of funds, rather than giving in to the gambling urge like the rest of those boys. Most grown men realize that money earned is easily lost and hard to come by. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and so on. Realizing that I had very little time before our race was to start, I ran like the fool I was to the gamblers’ tent. I had forty-two dollars in my pocket, and I bet every red cent of it. I even threw my pocket watch and pistol in for another twenty-five at even odds.
As I was walking back to our wagon I heard Arrington’s pistol pop again, and I knew the second race had started. On my way back I met two young Cheyenne girls walking toward me. They were both pretty, and I couldn’t help but smile at them and tip my hat. Both of them ducked their heads shyly as we passed. There was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier following them, and the look he gave me was a heap full of bad medicine. He hurried the girls away from my vicinity, while keeping an eye on me over his shoulder. The Cheyenne were awfully protective of their women.
Not that I was anything to worry about. Barby Allen was the girl for me, and I wondered what she was doing for the holiday.
A representative from the colonel’s camp came over and asked if all was ready with us. We agreed that it was, and he went back to where he came from. Billy untied Little Paint and led him out into the open. Andy started to mount, but H.B. stopped him.
“Get those spurs off, they’re too heavy.”
Andy quickly shed them and started once again to mount, but he stopped himself. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of small change, and his pocket knife. Then he pulled off his belt and took his tobacco makings out of his shirt pocket.
“Here, Tennessee, hold these for me. I need to lighten up.”
I took his belongings while he swung a leg over Little Paint. We watched while he walked the horse out into a big circle and brought him back again. Little Paint seemed to be feeling good and traveling fine. Andy continued to walk him around while we waited.
Soon the people down at the start line parted and made a long alley of bodies opening up to the race course. That was our signal and we started in their direction. Several of the cowboys off roundup walked with us, and we were followed by Kate and a group of the “girls.” Before we had gone very far one of our crowd started playing “Dixie” on a harmonica. Billy loved that Rebel stuff, and even I felt as proud as if we were marching in a parade and going off to war.
As we passed the colonel’s tent, the Mexican jockey came out on Baby and pulled in alongside of Andy and Little Paint. If something had happened and the race had never been run that day, it still would have been something to see those two horses together in one place. Baby looked like a queen with her neck arched proudly against the bit, her little nostrils flaring in her muzzle, and her feet moving over the ground like snowflakes in the summer.
Little Paint may have not been as professionally outfitted in race colors and shiny tack, but he knew he was “the man” on that afternoon. He wasn’t as pretty as Baby, but he was ready and rearing to go, and the closer he got to the crowd the more his spring wound up, until he was going sideways. The sheer vitality of him leapt out at you. Anyone looking at him knew that he was a runner, and was ready to race.
As we walked I kept my eye on the people lining either side of our path. When we came to the track I saw the colonel waiting, and Harvey stood at his side. He didn’t say a thing as we walked past, but I noticed Billy kept his hand near his pistol until we had reached the far side of the finish line.
The course Billy and the colonel had agreed on was three hundred and seventy-five yards of the first straightaway that the earlier races had been run upon. They had taken a team of horses and a homemade drag, made out of a large iron cauldron turned upside down, and knocked the top off the grass for the length of the three-hundred-and-seventy-five-yard race. Everyone had chipped in and walked over the track, removing the larger rocks, grass clumps, and clods. Two poles had been cut and placed in the ground on either side of the track at the far end. The horses were to start there and race back to the line the other horses had been starting from.
The crowd grew strangely quiet when the two horses paraded down the track, especially considering the level of excitement and the amount of whiskey consumed by many. Maybe everyone knew they were about to see something special, or maybe they were just catching their breaths for a bit.
They had moved Cap Arrington’s wagon down to the far end, but he stepped out into the middle of the track and called for everyone’s attention. All talking ceased while he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen you are about to witness a match race at three hundred and seventy-five yards between Colonel Andrews’s Baby and Billy Champion’s War Bonnet,” Cap announced.
I turned to Billy in confusion. “What the hell?”
Billy looked equally as confused. The jockeys walked the two horses around Cap as he spoke, and as Andy came by we tried to motion him over to see if he knew what was going on. He grinned sheepishly. “They asked me earlier what we called our horse, and I couldn’t help it. War Bonnet sounded better.”
We didn’t have time to argue; what was done was done. Besides, if we murdered him we would be short a jockey. So that’s how the famous race between Baby and War Bonnet came about. When folks talk about that race years later, and they mention War Bonnet, they have the imagination of an ignoramus kid to thank for it. But I have to admit, it did sound better.
Cap Arrington continued, “I will judge a fair start, and sound the gun when both parties answer at the mark. Scratches and false starts will be called back, and we will restart. Please keep back from the course and give them room at the finish line.”
He started to make his way up the track, and then stopped and turned back to face the crowd. “I’ll personally shoot anyone who gets in their way.”
Being the old Ranger he was, everyone believed him.
Our bunch stood on the far side of the finish line opposite of the colonel and his gang. While two boys stretched a long length of ribbon across the finish line the colonel raised a glass he held up to us in salute. Billy returned the gesture with a tip of his hat.
We all waited expectantly as the two horses lined up. Both horses were a little high and were hard to get ready at the mark in coordination with the other horse. Finally, Andy and the Mexican started both horses side by side at the walk and approached the scratch line at the same time. It worked, and they only paused a split second before Cap fired off his pistol and they were running.
That race was one of the most glorious things I have ever seen, and a sprint race doesn’t last but a few seconds. Both horses shot out of the hole and ran nose to nose, necks outstretched, bellies down, and tails a flying. The crowd was so loud in my ears
that I hardly realized I was yelling myself.
They came to the finish line and for a minute I thought we were beat. Baby looked to have a nose on us, but in the last instant, thirty yards out, Little Paint, or War Bonnet if you will, seemed to drop even lower and gather more speed. When they came across the line it was War Bonnet by a nose.
We all ran onto the track jumping around like schoolchildren. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t hug H.B. and pat him on the back like I loved him. After a moment we realized that the race hadn’t been called yet, and all of our attention turned to the two Army officers appointed to judge the finish.
Both of them stood conferring in the center of the finish line. They didn’t keep us waiting, because they announced War Bonnet the winner by a nose. If we cheered wildly the first time, it was nothing compared to what we did then. Andy came back with our horse and bailed off right into our midst while Carlito took the bridle.
We were all dancing around and acting silly when H.B. quieted us. In the middle of the throng of people who had rushed on to the track he faced us all.
“Boys, we’re loaded,” he said with tears in his eyes and a quivering lip.
We all shouted in agreement and started to celebrate again. He waved his arms frantically for us to quiet. “Boys, you don’t understand. I said we’re loaded. I took the money Wiren gave me to make payroll for the summer, and I bet her all.”
Billy shouted to the sky and grabbed up old Hell’s Bells and lifted him plumb off the ground. We all beat on his back until he lost his pipe and his hat. Andy grabbed him by the ears and planted a big kiss on his grimy forehead. H.B. took a wild swing at Andy, but the kid was too fast and ran away.
Some of us were already heading out to collect on bets, and I was left standing alone for a moment in the middle of the track. A big Cheyenne came walking right up to me and it was Blue Knife. I danged near went for my gun, but I had bet it on the race. Before I could fight or flee he was upon me.
Panhandle Page 13
