by Gary Paulsen
“I just said that you weren't afraid of his boy, sort of.”
“What do you mean, ‘sort of?”
“I said you were so sure of winning that you'd bet your rifle against a good pony and a set of buckskins.”
“You did ivhatr
“Now don't get rattled, Mr. Tucket. Didn't those Pawnee boys teach you anything about wrestling?”
Francis's eyes scanned the crowd around them, looking for his possible competitor. “Yes, Mr. Grimes, the Pawnees did teach me something about wrestling.”
“Well, then …”
“They taught me how to lose.”
There were certain formalities that had to be observed before the match. Mr. Grimes had also brought the Sioux powder and lead. Francis watched him loosen the pack on one of the mules and remove a small keg. It couldn't have been more than a two-pound keg of powder, but the way the Sioux carried on, it could well have been two hundred pounds of triple-fine.
“They can't make it,” Mr. Grimes told Francis. “So the only way they can get powder is to buy it, or get it as a gift, or steal it.”
After distributing the powder there was more talk, and still more talk with Standing Bear. Francis almost went to sleep on the sorrel just listening to him. By this time all of the women had disappeared, the children had backed out of the circle of men, and Mr. Grimes seemed to be the only one listening to Standing Bear. The sun set while he was talking, the evening chill seeped into Francis's back, fires began to flare up around camp, the smell of buffalo cooking touched his nostrils, and still Standing Bear talked on.
Finally the Indian's voice stopped.
Mr. Grimes said something briefly in Sioux. The Indian replied, just as briefly. Mr. Grimes nodded, and turned to Francis. “Better get down and stretch a bit. Footloose is probably tired, too.”
Francis slid off to the left and fell flat on his face. Both his legs were asleep.
Mr. Grimes muttered something in Sioux and all the warriors laughed.
“What did you say?” Francis asked.
“I told them you were saving your legs for the match.”
“Well, if it hadn't been for old, old chief windbag there, my legs probably wouldn't have fallen asleep,” Francis said grumpily, flexing his knees. “What was he talking about, anyway?”
“Well, he said that his lands reach to where it is always cold in the North, to where great waters end the land in the East, as far as all the ducks and geese and small birds fly in the cold of the end of the time of the sun—”
“Couldn't you cut it down a bit?” Francis asked. “I'm hungry.”
“He said I could trap beaver on Sioux land. I thanked him. Then he said I was welcome. Then you fell off the horse—”
“All right. I understood that part. Now do I get a chance to eat before I lose my rifle?”
“Sure do, Mr. Tucket, prime buffalo. But I don't know as I like this negative thinking you're doing. Cheer up a mite. They probably won't have but a midget against you. Why not think instead of owning a pony and some good buckskins?”
“I told you. I'm too good at losing.”
Many things were stacked up against Francis's chances of winning the pony and buckskins. First, he was so hungry that when food was finally offered him, in the form of a large slab of hot buffalo meat, he ate until he could barely stand.
Then, too, two days hadn't completely worn out the stifmess in his legs, hips, and arms. And riding all day on the rounded haunch of the sorrel was hardly good training for wrestling. But the main obstacle was the Indian boy Standing Bear had picked to fight him. He was not a midget, he wasn't even small.
Francis stood on one side of a circle of braves. At his side, silent as usual, was Mr. Grimes. Across from him, and just inside the circle, was The Indian boy—a good thirty feet away.
He was about four inches taller than Francis, and he weighed about ten pounds more than Francis's one hundred and thirty-five pounds. And he hadn't spent the whole day riding on the sorrel.
“This is going to be murder,” Francis whispered to Mr. Grimes. “Pure murder.”
“I'm glad to see your confidence returning, Mr. Tucket. Just a few minutes ago you were ready to give up. Now you're talking about killing him.”
“I meant it the other way.”
“Oh.”
Francis looked across the circle. A large fire had been built to one side, and in the light he could see two men smearing something on the other boy.
“What are they doing to him?” Francis asked.
“Greasing him,” Mr. Grimes answered. “And it's about time you took your shirt off.”
“You mean I've got to do that?”
“No, you don't, Mr. Tucket. But the grease is going to make it harder to hold him than a wet catfish. It seems sensible to me that you'd sort of feel like doing the same thing.”
Francis took off his shirt slowly, and Mr. Grimes covered him from the waist up with cold buffalo grease.
“It stinks,” Francis complained.
“Don't say that too loud.” Mr. Grimes chuckled. “They think it smells nice—like perfume.”
More wood was thrown on the fire. Into The center of the circle stepped Standing Bear. He looked first at the Indian boy and seemed to snort something in Sioux. The Indian boy smiled and nodded. Standing Bear turned to Francis and snorted the same thing.
“Nod and grin,” Mr. Grimes told him. “He's asking if you're ready.”
Francis nodded and smiled, at least halfheartedly. He didn't really feel ready.
Standing Bear snorted some more, then spoke for a full five minutes.
“He's spouting the rules,” Mr. Grimes said. “No biting, no hitting with the closed hand, no hitting with elbows or knees, humph, I didn't know that.”
“Know what?”
“They allow kicking, but not with the toes. You have to curve your toes under and kick with the top of your foot. I guess you'd better take your boots off, Mr. Tucket. It wouldn't be fair to kick him with boots on.”
Francis sighed resignedly and stooped to remove his boots. You might know they'd allow kicking, he thought. In truth, his boots were in tatters, but he felt odd barefoot.
“The rest of the rules are simple. You fight in the circle and stay out of the fire. If one of you falls or is thrown out of the circle, he gets thrown right back in and the fight goes on. The match ends when one of you says uncle—go.” Mr. Grimes pushed Francis into the ring. The other boy had already entered from the other side.
Francis had wrestled a lot with the Pawnee boys, but he was hardly ready for this Sioux terror. With a loud scream the Indian boy, grinning widely, bounced across the clearing, spun lightly on his left leg, and placed the instep of his right foot dead in the center of Francis's still-undigested buffalo, hard.
It was a kick solid enough to drop an ox. Francis went down with his hands doubled over his stomach and a look of complete surprise on his face.
The Sioux boy landed on him like a cougar—a smiling cougar—and Francis's arm was twisted up his back and his face was mashed in the dirt.
A loud collective grunt issued from around the circle. It was going to be a quick fight, and the Sioux boy would have a fine new rifle. This white boy must have been terribly lucky in his dealings with the warrior Braid.
But Francis wasn't quitting, in spite of being out of breath, and having a mouth full of dirt. The arm lock looked wicked but it didn't hurt much. The Indian had failed to twist the arm enough to make it painful, and his mistake gave Francis much needed time to catch his breath. Then he used a trick he'd learned fighting with Max. He totally and completely relaxed, even The arm the Indian boy was holding. It worked. The Sioux wresder felt the relaxing, and took the opportunity to change his hold.
It was what Francis had hoped for. With a mighty heave, he arched his back upward and threw the Sioux boy. Then he scrambled and landed, as hard as he could, on top of the boy, grabbed him around the neck and leg, and arched his back.
Another grunt cam
e from the crowd. Maybe The fight would go on for a while yet. Francis heard Mr. Grimes on the side: “Well done, Mr. Tucket.”
In almost any other match it would have been the end, for the Indian was all but paralyzed. Francis was on the boy's back, pulling him up at both ends, and he couldn't move.
But because of the grease, Francis couldn't maintain his hold. His hand slipped from the boy's neck, the Indian rolled over, and before Francis really knew what had happened, he was in the dirt.
This time Francis saw something new in the Indian's eyes. It was respect. Whereas he had jumped in screaming the first time, he now circled warily as the two regained their feet.
This was Francis's kind of fighting. The circling, looking for a weakness, was how he had learned to wrestle with white boys, and he noticed now a weakness in the Indian. He favored his right leg, the one Francis had twisted.
It was simple, then. All Francis had to do was feint to the left, then come in hard on the right. The Indian boy would be slow that way, and Francis could get a neck hold, usually a match-stopper.
He feinted, and came in on the right, and the Indian boy was waiting for him. The weak leg had been only a bait, and Francis ran straight into a backhanded slap across his windpipe. It stopped his breathing again, and in the brief second that he hesitated, the Indian tripped him and used Francis's own hold—the reverse back arch. But there was a new twist. Instead of grabbing Francis around the neck, the Indian boy wrapped his fingers in Francis's hair, where there was no grease.
Still another grunt came from the crowd. Surely this would be the end of the match. The white boy couldn't move, and he couldn't get away. Some of the men even turned to go back to their lodges.
Francis couldn't move. He tried relaxing again, but the trick didn't work a second time. The Indian boy had him. It wasn't over, diough, after all. Mr. Grimes leaned over from the edge of the circle and whispered: “Mr. Tucket, there's been talk of keeping you for Braid if you don't put up a better fight.”
Francis didn't really believe him. It was the sort of thing Mr. Grimes would say just to get him riled. But he wasn't quite sure. The Indians did some funny things, and tlie thought of being sent back to Braid's camp was a terrible thought.
The Indian boy did something completely natural. He spat to get the dust out of his mouth. He didn't spit at or on Francis. But the spit landed about four inches in front of his eyes.
Francis saw pink, then red, and finally just fire. “Now you didn't have to go and do that,” he yelled in English.
Later not even Mr. Grimes could tell how Francis got out of the hold. But get out of the hold he did, and within thirty seconds it was pretty clear to the crowd that one angry white boy was going to be a pony and a set of buckskins richer. His twist to get out of the hold knocked the Indian boy on his back in the dirt, and Francis, acting more from instinct than logic, made what Mr. Grimes later called a “goat leap.” He jumped high in the air and, in an almost perfect swan dive, landed headfirst in the center of the Indian's stomach. Before the boy could regain his breath, Francis had flopped down and wrapped a scissors hold around his chest. Five seconds passed, then ten, and on the fifteenth second—Mr. Grimes had been counting—the Indian boy gasped his defeat. “That's enough, Mr. Tucket,” Mr. Grimes called.
Francis released the boy immediately, no longer angry. He stood, and was surprised to see the Indian boy smiling up at him. On the spur of the moment, he leaned down and helped the still-gasping boy to get up. Around the circle there were many grunts of approval.
The Indian, as soon as his breathing settled down, began jabbering and laughing right away. Francis turned to Mr. Grimes.
“What's he saying?”
“He's saying it was well worth a pony to learn that new trick—he means that business of butting.”
“Well, I'm glad he's happy,” Francis said, laughing also. “And you can tell him that I learned something myself.” He rubbed his back. “I may have won a pony, but I don't think I'll be riding it right away …”
FRANCIS COULDN'T FIGURE OUT what to do. First he decided he wanted to stay on at Standing Bear's village, but then he found that he wanted to go on with Mr. Grimes. He had announced that he wouldn't be able to ride the pony for a while, but even so Mr. Grimes shook him awake at dawn the next morning.
“Come on, Mr. Tucket. There's a horse to be picked out, and we have to be on our way today. I swear, you sleep like a bear in winter.”
Actually, there wasn't “a horse to be picked out.” Standing Bear had already done the picking— and true to Indian form, he had chosen the best pony in the corral.
She was a mare, and except for a white splotch of hair across her rump in the shape of a bird's wing, she was as black as the night. Standing Bear pointed to her with pride, smiled, and talked in Sioux to Mr. Grimes, who reported to Francis:
“lie says he picked the pony for two reasons. One, she is good. Two, he hears you have a special liking for black mares. That's a joke and you should laugh.”
Francis laughed.
Standing Bear talked some more.
“He says that she's been trained to hunt buffalo, and you should steer her with you knees. Nod and smile.”
Francis nodded and smiled at the chief. It wasn't what he'd normally call a smiling morning. The sun wasn't warm yet, he hadn't gone to sleep until well past midnight, and he wouldn't have made it from his borrowed buffalo-robe bed to the corral if Mr. Grimes hadn't half dragged him. It seemed like all he had done since getting lost from the wagon train was get stiffer and stiffer.
Standing Bear acknowledged Francis's smile. He said something in Sioux.
“The pony is now yours,” Mr. Grimes translated. “You can take her to your lodge—I guess he means where you slept last night, up by old Footloose.”
The mare had a rope halter. Francis opened the corral gate and tried to grab the halter. She backed away, mixing in with some other ponies. He looked questioningly at Mr. Grimes. “How do I catch her?”
“You could run her down,” trie mountain man answered.
Francis gave him a nasty look. He could barely walk. At that moment, Mr. Grimes stepped into the corral with a horsehide rope. He flipped it out once, twice, and on the third try the noose fell over the mare's head. She stopped then at the feel of the rope on her neck and Francis hobbled up to her.
“Come on, Mr. Tucket,” said the mountain man. “Climb on. Let's see how she takes to your weight.”
“But, Mr. Grimes …” Francis complained. “I'm like a board. Give me a day or two to loosen up-”
“The best way to loosen up is to move a bit. Now climb on, before Standing Bear gets trie thought you don't like his pony.”
All the time he had been talking, Mr. Grimes was fashioning from a second piece of rope a war bridle—a slipknot—around the mare's lower jaw.
In two tries, Francis managed to get his stomach over the back of the mare. He swiveled slowly until his legs hung down either side, then sat up, straight and stiff.
“Please, little pony,” he said quietly, “remember my condition.”
The strange part was that the pony did seem to understand. She didn't move quickly, or buck, or even tremble. And when Mr. Grimes handed him the end of the war-bridle rope, she walked toward the gate as meekly as a kitten.
It was Standing Bear who caused the trouble. Just as Francis and the pony came through the gate, the Sioux chief picked up a switch, moved behind the mare, and brought the switch down across the white splotch on her rump.
“Eeeeyah!” he yelled.
Actually, as Mr. Grimes pointed out later, Francis should have thanked the old chief, because what happened next loosened Francis in a hurry. But when that switch landed, he was too surprised to do anything but grab the mane of the black mare and close his eyes.
The mare became a dark comet, flashing through the middle of the awakening Sioux village like a fast wind. She knocked dogs out of the way and cleared cooking fires—jumping completely ove
r one old woman kneeling over a pot of food. Through all this, Francis managed somehow to stay on her back.
When the mare reached the edge of the village, she stopped. Francis naturally kept on going, and finally he stopped with his face buried in a pile of still raw buffalo hides, but his troubles weren't over yet.
Coming hot on the heels of the little mare was the old woman, throwing rocks as fast as she could. Francis might be a good wrestler, and very smart to outwit Braid—but nobody jumped a horse over the old woman and her cook fire and got away with it.
Francis was quick to recognize disaster. Forgetting the mare, he made a dash back toward the safety of Mr. Grimes.
Mr. Grimes wasn't offering much safety. In fact, he wasn't offering anything. He and Standing Bear were wrapped over the top of the pole of the corral, laughing till tears ran down their cheeks.
“Keep it up, Mr. Tucket,” the trapper said, as Francis ran by. “She's gaining on you.”
Within a hundred yards Francis outran the old woman and her deadly rocks, and had also managed to kick away about ten of the camp dogs that had been snapping at his heels.
“Jokers,” he mumbled, returning to the corral. The mare had walked back, looking as meek as she had before the wild ride. “Real jokers. I bet you get a lot of laughs out of throwing people off cliffs.”
“Now, Mr. Tucket. Old Standing Bear just wanted you to know you were getting a pony that knew how to run.” The mountain man was barely holding back laughter. “Besides, look how loose you are. You might as well be an old washrag …”
Francis nodded, looking down at himself. “And I look like one, too.” But his anger weakened fast, and he smiled. The truth was he had loosened up.
“We'll stop early today,” Mr. Grimes said. “I feel like some fresh antelope. And you can just carry your buckskins until then, so you can take a bath and start all new.”
“I guess I will go with you,” Francis said.
“Oh. Well, that depends, Mr. Tucket.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you can spend half a day riding downwind of me. You smell positively ripe from those hides.”