“When did you come?”
“Arrived at sundown.”
“Where from?”
“Salt Lake.”
“Are you in the service?”
“No. Trade.”
“Pirate trade, I reckon.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I saw you when you came. I recognized your master. He is a bad sort. Trap-robber, horse-thief, squaw-man, renegado—Hank Butters—I know him very well. Stole you, didn’t he?”
“Well, it amounted to that.”
“I thought so. Where is his pard?”
“He stopped at White Cloud’s camp.”
“He is another of the same stripe, is Blake Haskins.” (Aside.) They are laying for Buffalo Bill again, I guess. (Aloud.) “What is your name?”
“Which one?”
“Have you got more than one?”
“I get a new one every time I’m stolen. I used to have an honest name, but that was early; I’ve forgotten it. Since then I’ve had thirteen aliases.”
“Aliases? What is alias?”
“A false name.”
“Alias. It’s a fine large word, and is in my line; it has quite a learned and cerebrospinal incandescent sound. Are you educated?”
“Well, no, I can’t claim it. I can take down bars, I can distinguish oats from shoe-pegs, I can blaspheme a saddle boil with the college-bred, and I know a few other things—not many; I have had no chance, I have always had to work; besides, I am of low birth and no family. You speak my dialect like a native, but you are not a Mexican Plug, you are a gentleman, I can see that; and educated, of course.”
“Yes, I am of old family, and not illiterate. I am a fossil.”
“A which?”
“Fossil. The first horses were fossils. They date back two million years.”
“Great sand and sage-brush! Do you mean it?”
“Yes, it is true. The bones of my ancestors are held in reverence and worship, even by men. They do not leave them exposed to the weather when they find them, but carry them three thousand miles and enshrine them in their temples of learning, and worship them.”
“It is wonderful! I knew you must be a person of distinction, by your fine presence and courtly address, and by the fact that you are not subjected to the indignity of hobbles, like myself and the rest. Would you tell me your name?”
“You have probably heard of it—Soldier Boy.”
“What!—the renowned, the illustrious?”
“Even so.”
“It takes my breath! Little did I dream that ever I should stand face to face with the possessor of that great name. Buffalo Bill’s horse! Known from the Canadian border to the deserts of Arizona, and from the eastern marches of the Great Plains to the foothills of the Sierra! Truly this is a memorable day. You still serve the celebrated Chief of Scouts?”
“I am still his property, but he has lent me, for a time, to the most noble, the most gracious, the most excellent, her Excellency Catherine, Corporal-General Seventh Cavalry and Flag-Lieutenant Ninth Dragoons, U.S.A.,—on whom be peace!”
“Amen. Did you say her Excellency?”
“The same. A Spanish lady, sweet blossom of a ducal house. And truly a wonder; knowing everything, capable of everything; speaking all the languages, master of all sciences, a mind without horizons, a heart of gold, the glory of her race! On whom be peace!”
“Amen. It is marvelous!”
“Verily. I knew many things, she has taught me others. I am educated. I will tell you about her.”
“I listen—I am enchanted.”
“I will tell a plain tale, calmly, without excitement, without eloquence. When she had been here four or five weeks she was already erudite in military things, and they made her an officer—a double officer. She rode the drill every day, like any soldier; and she could take the bugle and direct the evolutions herself. Then, on a day, there was a grand race, for prizes—none to enter but the children. Seventeen children entered, and she was the youngest. Three girls, fourteen boys—good riders all. It was a steeplechase, with four hurdles, all pretty high. The first prize was a most cunning half-grown silver bugle, and mighty pretty, with red silk cord and tassels. Buffalo Bill was very anxious; for he had taught her to ride, and he did most dearly want her to win that race, for the glory of it. So he wanted her to ride me, but she wouldn’t; and she reproached him, and said it was unfair and unright, and taking advantage; for what horse in this post or any other could stand a chance against me? and she was very severe with him, and said, ‘You ought to be ashamed—you are proposing to me conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.’ So he just tossed her up in the air about thirty feet and caught her as she came down, and said he was ashamed; and put up his handkerchief and pretended to cry, which nearly broke her heart, and she petted him, and begged him to forgive her, and said she would do anything in the world he could ask but that; but he said he ought to go hang himself, and he must, if he could get a rope; it was nothing but right he should, for he never, never could forgive himself; and then she began to cry, and they both sobbed, the way you could hear him a mile, and she clinging around his neck and pleading, till at last he was comforted a little, and gave his solemn promise he wouldn’t hang himself till after the race; and wouldn’t do it at all if she won it, which made her happy, and she said she would win it or die in the saddle; so then everything was pleasant again and both of them content. He can’t help playing jokes on her, he is so fond of her and she is so innocent and unsuspecting; and when she finds it out she cuffs him and is in a fury, but presently forgives him because it’s him; and maybe the very next day she’s caught with another joke; you see she can’t learn any better, because she hasn’t any deceit in her, and that kind aren’t ever expecting it in another person.
“It was a grand race. The whole post was there, and there was such another whooping and shouting when the seventeen kids came flying down the turf and sailing over the hurdles—oh, beautiful to see! Halfway down, it was kind of neck and neck, and anybody’s race and nobody’s. Then, what should happen but a cow steps out and puts her head down to munch grass, with her broadside to the battalion, and they a-coming like the wind; they split apart to flank her, but she?—why, she drove the spurs home and soared over that cow like a bird! and on she went, and cleared the last hurdle solitary and alone, the army letting loose the grand yell, and she skipped from the horse the same as if he had been standing still, and made her bow, and everybody crowded around to congratulate, and they gave her the bugle, and she put it to her lips and blew ‘boots and saddles’ to see how it would go, and BB was as proud as you can’t think! And he said, ‘Take Soldier Boy, and don’t pass him back till I ask for him!’ and I can tell you he wouldn’t have said that to any other person on this planet. That was two months and more ago, and nobody has been on my back since but the Corporal-General Seventh Cavalry and Flag-Lieutenant of the Ninth Dragoons, U.S.A.,—on whom be peace!”
“Amen. I listen—tell me more.”
“She set to work and organized the Sixteen, and called it the First Battalion Rocky Mountain Rangers, U.S.A., and she wanted to be bugler, but they elected her Lieutenant-General and Bugler. So she ranks her uncle the commandant, who is only a Brigadier. And doesn’t she train those little people! Ask the Indians, ask the traders, ask the soldiers; they’ll tell you. She has been at it from the first day. Every morning they go clattering down into the plain, and there she sits on my back with her bugle at her mouth and sounds the orders and puts them through the evolutions for an hour or more; and it is too beautiful for anything to see those ponies dissolve from one formation into another, and waltz about, and break, and scatter, and form again, always moving, always graceful, now trotting, now galloping, and so on, sometimes near by, sometimes in the distance, all just like a state ball, you know, and sometimes she can’t hold herself any longer, but
sounds the ‘charge,’ and turns me loose! and you can take my word for it, if the battalion hasn’t too much of a start we catch up and go over the breastworks with the front line.
“Yes, they are soldiers, those little people; and healthy, too, not ailing any more, the way they used to be sometimes. It’s because of her drill. She’s got a fort, now—Fort Fanny Marsh. Major-General Tommy Drake planned it out, and the Seventh and Dragoons built it. Tommy is the Colonel’s son, and is fifteen and the oldest in the Battalion; Fanny Marsh is Brigadier-General, and is next oldest—over thirteen. She is daughter of Captain Marsh, Company B, Seventh Cavalry. Lieutenant-General Alison is the youngest by considerable; I think she is about nine and a half or three-quarters. Her military rig, as Lieutenant-General, isn’t for business, it’s for dress parade, because the ladies made it. They say they got it out of the Middle Ages—out of a book—and it is all red and blue and white silks and satins and velvets; tights, trunks, sword, doublet with slashed sleeves, short cape, cap with just one feather in it; I’ve heard them name these things; they got them out of the book; she’s dressed like a page, of old times, they say. It’s the daintiest outfit that ever was—you will say so, when you see it. She’s lovely in it—oh, just a dream! In some ways she is just her age, but in others she’s as old as her uncle, I think. She is very learned. She teaches her uncle his book. I have seen her sitting by with the book and reciting to him what is in it, so that he can learn to do it himself.
“Every Saturday she hires little Indians to garrison her fort; then she lays siege to it, and makes military approaches by make-believe trenches in make-believe night, and finally at make-believe dawn she draws her sword and sounds the assault and takes it by storm. It is for practice. And she has invented a bugle call all by herself, out of her own head, and it’s a stirring one, and the prettiest in the service. It’s to call me—it’s never used for anything else. She taught it to me, and told me what it says: ‘It is I, Soldier—come!’ and when those thrilling notes come floating down the distance I hear them without fail, even if I am two miles away; and then—oh, then you should see my heels get down to business!
“And she has taught me how to say good morning and good night to her, which is by lifting my right hoof for her to shake; and also how to say goodbye; I do that with my left foot—but only for practice, because there hasn’t been any but make-believe goodbyeing yet, and I hope there won’t ever be. It would make me cry if I ever had to put up my left foot in earnest. She has taught me how to salute, and I can do it as well as a soldier. I bow my head low, and lay my right hoof against my cheek. She taught me that because I got into disgrace once, through ignorance. I am privileged, because I am known to be honorable and trustworthy, and because I have a distinguished record in the service; so they don’t hobble me nor tie me to stakes or shut me tight in stables, but let me wander around to suit myself. Well, trooping the colors is a very solemn ceremony, and everybody must stand uncovered when the flag goes by, the commandant and all; and once I was there, and ignorantly walked across right in front of the band, which was an awful disgrace: Ah, the Lieutenant-General was so ashamed, and so distressed that I should have done such a thing before all the world, that she couldn’t keep the tears back; and then she taught me the salute, so that if I ever did any other unmilitary act through ignorance I could do my salute and she believed everybody would think it was apology enough and would not press the matter. It is very nice and distinguished; no other horse can do it; often the men salute me, and I return it. I am privileged to be present when the Rocky Mountain Rangers troop the colors and I stand solemn, like the children, and I salute when the flag goes by. Of course when she goes to her fort her sentries sing out ‘Turn out the guard!’ and then . . . do you catch that refreshing early morning whiff from the mountain pines and the wild flowers? The night is far spent; we’ll hear the bugles before long. Dorcas, the black woman, is very good and nice; she takes care of the Lieutenant-General, and is Brigadier-General Alison’s mother, which makes her mother-in-law to the Lieutenant-General. That is what Shekels says. At least it is what I think he says, though I never can understand him quite clearly. He—”
“Who is Shekels?”
“The Seventh Cavalry dog. I mean, if he is a dog. His father was a coyote and his mother was a wildcat. It doesn’t really make a dog out of him, does it?”
“Not a real dog, I should think. Only a kind of a general dog, at most, I reckon. Though this is a matter of ichthyology, I suppose; and if it is, it is out of my depth, and so my opinion is not valuable, and I don’t claim much consideration for it.”
“It isn’t ichthyology; it is dogmatics, which is still more difficult and tangled up. Dogmatics always are.”
“Dogmatics is quite beyond me, quite; so I am not competing. But on general principles it is my opinion that a colt out of a coyote and a wildcat is no square dog, but doubtful. That is my hand, and I stand pat.”
“Well, it is as far as I can go myself, and be fair and conscientious. I have always regarded him as a doubtful dog, and so has Potter. Potter is the Great Dane. Potter says he is no dog, and not even poultry—though I do not go quite so far as that.”
“And I wouldn’t, myself. Poultry is one of those things which no person can get to the bottom of, there is so much of it and such variety. It is just wings, and wings, and wings, till you are weary: turkeys, and geese, and bats, and butterflies, and angels, and grasshoppers, and flying fish, and—well, there is really no end to the tribe; it gives me the heaves just to think of it. But this one hasn’t any wings, has he?”
“No.”
“Well, then, in my belief he is more likely to be dog than poultry. I have not heard of poultry that hadn’t wings. Wings is the sign of poultry; it is what you tell poultry by. Look at the mosquito.”
“What do you reckon he is, then? He must be something.”
“Why, he could be a reptile; anything that hasn’t wings is a reptile.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me, but I overheard it.”
“Where did you overhear it?”
“Years ago. I was with the Philadelphia Institute expedition in the Badlands under Professor Cope, hunting mastodon bones, and I overheard him say, his own self, that any plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium that hadn’t wings and was uncertain was a reptile. Well, then, has this dog any wings? No. Is he a plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium? Maybe so, maybe not; but without ever having seen him, and judging only by his illegal and spectacular parentage, I will bet the odds of a bale of hay to a bran mash that he looks it. Finally, is he uncertain? That is the point—is he uncertain? I will leave it to you if you have ever heard of a more uncertainer dog than what this one is?”
“No, I never have.”
“Well, then, he’s a reptile. That’s settled.”
“Why, look here, whatsyourname—”
“Last alias, Mongrel.”
“A good one, too. I was going to say, you are better educated than you have been pretending to be. I like cultured society, and I shall cultivate your acquaintance. Now as to Shekels, whenever you want to know about any private thing that is going on at this post or in White Cloud’s camp or Thunder-Bird’s, he can tell you; and if you make friends with him he’ll be glad to, for he is a born gossip, and picks up all the tittle-tattle. Being the whole Seventh Cavalry’s reptile, he doesn’t belong to anybody in particular, and hasn’t any military duties; so he comes and goes as he pleases, and is popular with all the house cats and other authentic sources of private information. He understands all the languages, and talks them all, too. With an accent like gritting your teeth, it is true, and with a grammar that is no improvement on blasphemy—still, with practice you get at the meat of what he says, and it serves. . . . Hark! That’s the reveille. . . .
“Faint and far, but isn’t it clear, isn’t it sweet? There’s no music like the bugle to s
tir the blood, in the still solemnity of the morning twilight, with the dim plain stretching away to nothing and the spectral mountains slumbering against the sky. You’ll hear another note in a minute—faint and far and clear, like the other one, and sweeter still, you’ll notice. Wait . . . listen. There it goes! It says, ‘It is I, Soldier—come!’ . . .
“. . . Now then, watch me leave a blue streak behind!”
Soldier Boy and Shekels
“Did you do as I told you? Did you look up the Mexican Plug?”
“Yes, I made his acquaintance before night and got his friendship.”
“I liked him. Did you?”
“Not at first. He took me for a reptile, and it troubled me, because I didn’t know whether it was a compliment or not. I couldn’t ask him, because it would look ignorant. So I didn’t say anything, and soon liked him very well indeed. Was it a compliment, do you think?”
“Yes, that is what it was. They are very rare, the reptiles; very few left, now-a-days.”
“Is that so? What is a reptile?”
“It is a plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium that hasn’t any wings and is uncertain.”
“Well, it—it sounds fine, it surely does.”
“And it is fine. You may be thankful you are one.”
“I am. It seems wonderfully grand and elegant for a person that is so humble as I am; but I am thankful, I am indeed, and will try to live up to it. It is hard to remember. Will you say it again, please, and say it slow?”
“Plantigrade circumflex vertebrate bacterium that hasn’t any wings and is uncertain.”
“It is beautiful, anybody must grant it; beautiful, and of a noble sound. I hope it will not make me proud and stuck-up—I should not like to be that. It is much more distinguished and honorable to be a reptile than a dog, don’t you think, Soldier?”
“Why, there’s no comparison. It is awfully aristocratic. Often a duke is called a reptile; it is set down so, in history.”
“Isn’t that grand! Potter wouldn’t ever associate with me, but I reckon he’ll be glad to when he finds out what I am.”
Great American Horse Stories Page 14
