The Pinto
Under such a cloud of disaster men cared little what the weather was;
the deluge of rain seemed rather appropriate. There was even a hope that
it might rain hard enough to postpone the race. But at ten it stopped,
and by eleven it had cleared off wholly. The race was to be at noon.
Word had been sent to Red Cloud, asking for two days' postponement,
which was curtly refused. "White man heap scared maybe," was his
scornful reply.
The Colonel held a hasty council of war with his officers. Their course
was clear. In Red Rover they still had a winner and the race would come
off as announced; such a horse as Blazing Star could not long be
concealed; they would follow up the Crows and recover him in a few days.
So, after all, the outlook was not so very dark.
Already the plain was surging with life. Gaily-clad Indians were riding
at speed for the pleasure of speeding. Thousands of gaudy blankets--put
out to air in the sun--seemed to double the density, colour, and
importance of the camp. New wagons came with their loads, new life
developed; now came a procession of Indians singing their racing songs,
for the Indian has a song for every event in life; bodies of United
States troops were paraded here and there as a precautionary and
impressive measure; the number of Indians assembled, and their
excitability, began to cause the authorities some apprehension.
The Boyds were there in their democrat and had brought picnic food for
all day; but Hartigan was a special favourite at the Fort, and he, with
Belle, was invited to join its hospitable garrison mess, where social
life was in gala mood. It was an experience for Belle, for she had not
realized before how absolutely overwhelming a subject the horse race
could be among folk whose interests lay that way, and whose lives,
otherwise, were very monotonous. She was a little shocked to note that
every one of the wives at the table was betting on the race--in some
cases, for considerable money. The one restraining force in the case was
the absence of takers, since all were backing Red Rover.
An amusing incident occurred when, during the meal, a bead-eyed young
squaw entered the mess room and stood a little inside the door.
"What does she want?" asked the Colonel.
Then the interpreter: "She wants to bet on the race. She wants to bet
her baby against yours."
A pretty good proof of a sure thing, for no race loves its children more
than the red folk. An Indian has no compunction whatever in staking his
treaty money, which comes so easily and may as lightly go; he does not
hesitate to risk all his wealth, for after all wealth is a burden; he
will even wager his wife, if the game possesses him; but he is very shy
of staking his children. He does it on occasion, but only when he
considers it a foregone result--a certainty of winning.
The Indian Agent had many close conferences with the Colonel. He
strongly disapproved the whole racing excitement and plainly indicated
that he held the Colonel responsible. What would happen when these
excited fifteen hundred Sioux and Cheyenne warriors--not to speak of
some five thousand women and children--met defeat, was a serious
problem. Had the situation been sooner realized, the whites could have
organized into some sort of home defense. Red Cloud and Howling Bull, so
far as could be discerned, contemplated the scene, and the coming event,
with absolute composure.
Huge pools of water had blue-patched the racetrack after the downpour;
but these had drained off to a great extent, leaving the track a little
greasy perhaps, but quite usable; and Jim recalled with interest the
shoeing of the Buckskin. "This was what it was for; how did the heathens
know it was coming?" By mutual agreement, at length, the race was
postponed for two hours, which, under such a sun, would bring the track
back nearly to normal; and since the Indians had had the Buckskin shod,
it was the same for both. It was decided that the start should be made
when the sun was over Inyan Kara, the tallest of the hills in sight to
the west; this meant, as nearly as possible, at four o'clock.
At two o'clock all the world seemed there. There were mounted
Indians--men and women--by thousands, and at least a thousand mounted
whites besides the soldiers. The plain was dotted with life and colour
from far beyond the Indian camp to Fort Ryan; but the centre of all was
the racetrack; and camped alongside, or riding or sitting near, was the
thickest group of folk of both races, bound to lose no glimpse of the
stirring contest.
The delay made for new excitement; the nerve strain became greater as
each hour passed. The white soldiers did what they could to hold the
crowd, and the Indians called on their own "Dog Soldiers" or camp police
to do the same. Fortunately, it was a good-natured crowd; and the
absconding of the Crows had removed the largest element of risk, so far
as violence was concerned. Jim was ablaze with the wildest of them all.
He rode away and back at a gallop to work it off. Belle was too tired to
join these boisterous runs, so he rode alone at first. But another woman
rider was there; from the crowd Lou-Jane Hoomer spurred her bay, and
raced beside him. She was an excellent horsewoman, had a fine mount, and
challenged Jim to a ride. Handsome, her colour up, her eyes sparkling,
Lou-Jane could have ridden away, for she had the better mount, but she
didn't; she rode beside him, and, when a little gully called for a jump,
they jumped together, and found abundant cause for laughter. Twice they
went careering, then back to Belle, and when next Jim's itch for speed
and life sent him circling, Belle was rested enough to follow
everywhere.
At a quarter to two the bugle of the Fort was blown, and there issued
forth the proud procession with Red Rover in the middle, led beside his
jockey, who rode a sober pony. It was Little Breeches this time. There
is one thing that cannot be explained away, that is defeat. Peaches had
been defeated; his chance came no more.
Red Rover was magnificent, trained to a hair, full of life and fire. Of
all the beautiful things on earth, there is nothing of nobler beauty
than a noble horse; and Rover, in his clean-limbed gloss and tensity,
was a sight to thrill the crowds that were privileged to see him spurn
the earth, and arch his graceful neck, and curvet a little for the
subtle joy that comes of spending power when power is there in a very
plethora. Every white man's eye grew proudly bright as he gazed and
gloried in his champion and fear left all their hearts. At the starting
post, they swung about, Little Breeches mounted, and a mighty cheer went
up. "Ho, Red Cloud! Where's your horse? Bring on your famous Buckskin
now"; and the rumbling of the crowd was rising, falling, like the sound
of water in a changing wind.
Far down the valley, near the Ogallala Camp, a new commotion arose and a
wilder noise was sounding. There was the shrill chant of the "Racing
Ponies" with the tom-toms beating, and then Red Cloud's men came
trotting in a mass. As they neared the starting point, the rabble of the
painted warriors parted, and out of the opening came their horse, and
from the whites went up a loud and growing burst of laughter. Such a
horse as this they had never seen before; not the famous Buckskin, but
_the mysterious pinto pony_, wonderful, if weird trappings could make
him so. On his head he wore an eagle-feather war-bonnet; his mane was
plaited with red flannel strips and fluttering plumes; his tail was even
gaudier; around each eye was a great circle of white and another of
black; his nose was crossbarred with black and red; his legs were
painted in zebra stripes of yellow and black; the patches of white that
were native to his coat were outlined with black and profusely decorated
with red hands and horseshoes painted in vermilion; on his neck was a
band of beadwork, carrying a little bundle of sacred medicine; and,
last, he had on each ankle a string of sleigh-bells that jingled at each
prancing step. A very goblin of a horse! His jockey was, as before,
Chaska, the Indian boy, stripped to the breechclout, with an eagle
feather in his hair and a quirt hung on his wrist.
Never, perhaps, was a more grotesque race entry in all the West; and the
difference between the burnished form of Red Rover in his perfect trim,
and this demon-painted Pinto gave rise to an ever-growing chorus of
shouting, laughter, rough jibes, and hoots of joy.
Jim took in the Indian horse with the keenest of eyes. "Well, boys, he
may be only a pinto cayuse, but he's way ahead of their Buckskin. Look
at that action. Bedad, they've got him shod!"
The Pinto seemed as tall as Red Rover and, so far as trappings allowed
one to see, he was nearly as fine in build. Diverse feelings now surged
in the crowd. Many of the whites said, "Well, it was true after all, Red
Cloud, the old fox, he sent to Omaha, or maybe Illinois and bought a
racer. The shoeing of the Buckskin was a blind. Or maybe, at that time,
their racer had not been secured."
Old Red Cloud slowly rode by with his square jaw set, his eyes a little
tight, observing all; but he gave no sign of special interest.
With two such keen and nervous racers it was no easy matter to get a
fair start; but at length they were man[oe]uvred into line, side by
side. The pistol cracked and away they went, while all the crowd held
still, so very still for a moment that you could have heard for a
hundred yards the medicine song of the Indian boy:
"Huya! Huya! Shungdeshka, Shungdeshka! (Fly! Fly! my Eagle! Fly! my
Pinto Eagle!)" And that wild-eyed Indian pony sprang away as fast as the
blooded horse beside him. So far as any one could tell it was an even
match.
The white man had won the inside track again; and remembering how the
Indian boy had got that advantage in the last race, he was on the watch.
But nothing happened; the horses led off side by side, shoulder to
shoulder. At the turning post was a waiting throng that received them
with a cheer, to follow again in their wake, like madmen let loose on
hoofs. The horses seemed to thrill to the sound and bent to it faster.
Around the post they had swung, perforce in a large circle, and the
Pinto lost a good half length. Now Little Breeches saw his chance and,
leaning forward well, he smote with the quirt and pricked those bronzy
flanks, while Rover bounded--bounded to his limit.
But the Indian boy's magic song rang out again: "Huya Huya, Huya deshka!
Huya, Huya, Huya deshka! (Oh, Eagle, fly, fly Eagle, my Pinto fly!)" And
the Pinto seemed to unchain himself, as a hawk when he sails no more,
but flaps for higher speed. With thunderous hoofs the wild horse
splashed through a pool, came crawling, crawling up, till once again he
was neck and neck with the wonderful flying steed in the coat of gold.
Little Breeches shouted, "Hi! Hi! Hi!" and spurred and smote. Chaska
glanced at him and smiled, such a soft little smile. The eagle feather
in his hair was fluttering, and the smile was still on his lips as they
reached the last half mile. Then, in weird and mouthing tone, Chaska
sang of wind and wings:
"Ho, Huya, Huya deshka,
Huya, Huya, Huya deshka,
Woo hiya, Woo hiya, Woo hiya,
Unkitawa, Unkitawa, Ho!"
Strong medicine it must have been, for the Pinto thrilled, and bounded
double strong. The white man yelled and spared not lash nor spur. Red
Rover flinched, then sprang as he had never sprung before. But the demon
pony in the motley coat swung faster, faster, faster yet; his nostrils
flared; his breath was rushing--snorting--his mighty heart was pounding,
the song of the wind and the flying wings seemed to enter into his soul.
He double-timed his hoofbeats and, slowly forging on, was half a length
ahead. The white man screamed and madly spurred. Red Rover was at
topmost notch. The demon pony forged--yes, now a length ahead, and in
the rising, rumbling roar, passed on, a double length, and _in_. _The
race was won, lost, won lost_--the Pinto pony crowned; and the awful
blow had struck!