A TRIAL OF SPEED FOR SCALPS.
Barry got a score of Indians, and soon a complete circus-ring was made,
all but the sawdust.
The lassoes were stretched around the ring, and then Barry walked his
horse into the ring.
The bridle was still on him, and leaping upon his back the circus-rider
sat down and rode around the ring several times.
The horse seemed delighted. For years he had been accustomed to
performing in the ring, and now that he found himself in his old place
again he was glad.
With a springy step he cantered around the ring, and the Indians could
not help admiring the shape of both man and beast, and the beautiful
appearance of the latter.
With a piece of chalk Barry whitened the bottoms of his pumps, and then
leaped to his feet. A chirrup from his lips sent the white steed off at
a rapid pace, and holding on to the bridle, Barry jumped up and down
after the manner of a countryman who is supposed to be going to market.
The spirits of the Indians arose. Their man could do that.
The Indian came into the ring and Barry went out. The red-skin went
through the same thing, and was greeted with shouts of approval by his
dusky comrades.
The latter now began to think that the pale-face was no wizard at all,
but just a good rider, so when Barry again entered the ring, seated on
his horse, they greeted him with groans.
The rider smiled, however. He knew that in a few minutes the tune of the
Indians would be wonderfully changed.
Again he rode around the ring, standing erect on his feet, and the
Comanches began to think that this was all he could do, and they felt
happy, accordingly.
They saw the rider lean over his horse and whisper a word in its ear.
Then he rose up again and the white steed went around the ring like a
flash. Suddenly the bridle dropped from the hand of the rider, and he
stood up alone without any support.
Ah, here was something worth looking at.
The Comanches love to watch good riding, and would doubtless patronize a
circus should one visit them.
Even though they knew that the rider was liberating the two prisoners,
yet their admiration was unbounded.
Their eyes opened with surprise, and they were speechless when the rider
went around the ring like lightning, with nothing to support him. He
stood with his arms folded across his breast, and a smile of triumph
upon his face.
But this was nothing. The best was yet to come.
At a word from his rider the white horse slackened his speed, and came
to a regular gallop, such as the circus horses alone know how to bring
out.
Then if the reader could have seen the eyes of the Comanches as they
watched the rider, they would not have wondered that they took him to be
a wizard.
Barry stood with his back to the horse’s head, and suddenly sprung up
into the air, turning over and making a complete somersault. He touched
the back of the horse, and again he went up. The Indians saw at once
that their man could never do this, and yet the Comanche was pluck.
As Barry Le Clare rode out of the ring, he rode in and made the attempt.
He succeeded very well in the first part, although he had to swing his
arms pretty wildly to balance himself, but when he came to the jumping,
he made a complete failure.
Instead of coming down upon the back of his horse, which acted well for
the first time in the ring, he came plump upon the ground, and rolled
over and over.
A shout of laughter arose from the dusky throng, and the discomfited
Comanche arose to his feet in a savage manner.
Striding up to Barry he asked him if he wanted to race.
The latter replied that he didn’t care if he did.
“Me make bet wid pale-face. Gray horse beat, me win, white ’un beat,
pale-face win,” said the Comanche.
“Show your money, old man. How much on it?” exclaimed Barry.
“Have no money, all gone.”
“Then how’re you going to bet?”
“Me bet scalp for scalp. Ef pale-face win, he take the scalp of the Red
Bear. Ef Indian win, he scalp pale-face,” was the rejoinder, and by the
look that Red Bear gave his rival, all knew that he would have no
hesitation in scalping the victorious rider, should his horse win the
race.
For a moment the rider looked at his horse, and then at the fleet
mustang of his foe. The proposition so unexpected, staggered him a
little at first, but he quickly replied:
“All right, Red Bear. Onto your horse. Do your best if you would not be
beaten, though heaven knows I wouldn’t scalp you. But no Indian can ever
cow Barry Le Clare.”
Delighted at this chance to redeem his reputation, the Indian leaped
upon the back of his horse, and then the preliminaries were arranged. A
dozen men on horseback rode out to a spot about a mile from the village,
and here a stake was put into the ground.
The dozen men stayed here to see that the race was conducted on a fair
principle. The two racers were to start from a stake which had been
driven into the ground near the village, and were to round the stake
where the dozen warriors were waiting, and then come back to the first
stake.
At a signal, the two started off, and for the first quarter of a mile
both kept together. Then the Indian began to draw slowly but surely
ahead. The Comanches felt some satisfaction when they saw that this was
a fact, but they were not confident yet.
They knew a great deal about horses, and they saw that the white steed
was as fast a runner as the gray one, if his rider chose to put him down
to it.
They began to think, however, as the Indian still kept drawing ahead,
that the white steed was not as good as they had taken it to be, and
their spirits rose.
When the Indian rounded the half-way pole, and came onto the back
stretch five lengths ahead of his rival, a yell broke from them.
They thought that perhaps after all the Indian might win, and that from
the look of things it seemed very much as though the gray would win the
race.
The Indian himself felt sure of it. He was certain that the white steed
was doing its best, and that he could at least win by five lengths. And
then he would have the pleasure of scalping the White Wizard.
He felt so sure of this that he yelled with joy.
Half the last half was done, and still he was five lengths ahead.
Suddenly a low whistle came from the lips of the pale-face.
It is a signal, and obeying it, the white steed quickly increased his
speed. Like an arrow shot from the bow, the horse darted forward,
gaining rapidly on the other.
The Indian began kicking and pounding his horse, yelling like a demon
all the while, but it was no use.
The animal was running at its greatest speed, and nothing could increase
it. The pale-face passed him before the last quarter was reached, and
came up to the home-stake six lengths ahead.
A shout from the prisoners welcomed the victor.
The Indian came in looking terribly sullen, for he would not have cared
could he only take the scalp of his enemy.
He would have been content to lose his own then.
Handing over his horse to a friend, he stepped up to Barry and stood
before him with open breast.
“Strike,” said he; “Red Bear has lost. His scalp is yours.”
“Never!” exclaimed Barry, moving back. “Red Bear’s scalp belongs to
himself. Let him live and learn wisdom.”
“The pale-face is afraid to strike. See, Red Bear is not afraid to die.
He spits at the White Wizard with his last breath.”
As the Indian spoke he drew his knife and stabbed himself to the heart.
Then with a loud yell he sunk back upon the ground, dead.
He had done well, for he could never have lived with the Comanches had
he failed to make good his wager.
The relatives of the dead man took the body away to be buried after the
fashion of the Comanches.