Some Kind of Courage

by Dan Gemeinhart

  At the far side was a long, straight dirt track that had been worn into the landscape. I reckoned it was nearly a quarter mile long. A crowd of Indians was gathered at either end, and even from that distance I could hear them talking and yelling. Then, as I watched, the crowds fell silent. There was a waiting moment, then two Indians on horseback tore off from one end, racing down the track like the devil himself was at their heels. They were riding bareback, their bodies hugging their horses, their long hair whipping in the wind, and they slapped their horses to urge ’em on faster, faster. The crowds started hollering again, cheering and howling. Those horses flew with a wild speed, moving with their riders like they were one animal. It was sure enough something to see. When they reached the far end of the track, one just before the other, they slowed down to a trot, with one Indian raising his hands in triumph and screaming out a victory yell and the other dropping his head in defeat. The people crowded at each end either cheered or groaned, depending, I supposed, on which horse they’d picked to win.

  “Well, Ah-Kee,” I said, wiping at my sweaty forehead with my arm, “looks like we found ourselves an Indian horse race.” I’d heard of these competitions before, and what big affairs they were for the Indians. Groups got together and might spend two days racing, betting piles of hides and blankets and knives on which rider would win. I never thought I’d see one myself. But with that hurt Indian between us, right down into it Ah-Kee and I went.

  We were down the slope and halfway to the nearest teepee when three men came striding toward us. The little girl trailed behind them, running to keep up. Their faces were deadly serious as they stood before us, looking like they were carved out of dark stone.

  The biggest one among them sported a strong nose and streaks of gray in his hair. He said a few words to us, short and curt. It didn’t sound friendly.

  I just looked at him, but the boy I was holding spoke up, answering with a lot of words. At one point he held his injured ankle out, showing the swelling and bruising. There was no reaction in the older man’s face, but his eyes went from the boy’s ankle, to my face, to Ah-Kee, then back to the boy. He nodded and turned with the other men to walk back to camp. With a gesture and a reassuring grunt from the boy, Ah-Kee and I followed with him.

  Life was all a-bustle in the world between the teepees. Everywhere people were coming and going and laughing and calling to each other. Fires were smoking and babies were crying and the smell of strange foods wafted here and there. It was alive there in the Indian camp by the racetrack. We came to a teepee in the middle and a group of women rushed over. With a chattering and clucking they took the injured boy away from us and hurried him off into the teepee, leaving Ah-Kee and me standing there looking at each other.

  The three men who’d led us into the camp stood before us, faces still unreadable. I tried to smile at them but it didn’t seem to take, so I called it off. A crowd of Indians was growing around us, curious and whispering. Children peeked at us from behind their grown-ups.

  “That was a good move, saving a chief’s son like that,” said a voice behind us. I turned and was surprised to see a white man there, sitting on a big cinnamon-colored horse. He was lean and tall and wore a buckskin jacket with a dangling fringe, and a battered brown cowboy hat up on his head.

  “Sir?”

  “That boy you brought in. He’s the son of one of the chiefs here—Chief George. He was off scouting for deer with his sister. They were expected back last night, so you showing up with him today was quite a relief.”

  The man lowered himself off his horse with a squeak of saddle leather. He held out his hand, and I took it in a firm shake.

  “The name’s Strawn,” he said.

  “Jack Strawn?” I asked in disbelief.

  The man cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “We know each other?”

  “No, sir. Well, you don’t know me. But I sure enough heard of you.” Jack Strawn was something close to famous around those parts. He was one of the first white men to come over Colockum Pass into the Wenatchee Valley, and had been just about everywhere doing just about everything—prospecting for gold, trapping furs, trading with Indians. He weren’t a hero or a legend or anything, but it was just that everyone knew him, and I’d heard his name plenty of times the past few months at the trading post or from other homesteaders.

  “Huh. Well, mostly good, I hope.” He looked at Ah-Kee for a second, then back to me. “Where’s your kin?”

  I looked away from him, off at the hills, then back up into his eyes.

  “It’s just me and Ah-Kee,” I answered. “We’re coming from Wenatchee, heading to Ellensburg.”

  More Indians had gathered ’round us now, pulling in closer. The three older men—were they all chiefs? I wondered—were still standing there, watching us.

  Mr. Strawn blew out a low whistle.

  “That’s quite a hike on foot, son. What you after in Ellensburg?”

  “A man,” I said. “Ezra Bishop.”

  There was a dark murmur from the Indians around us. There was no mistaking the quick flame of anger that my words sparked among them. Ezra Bishop, it seemed, was a name they knew. And didn’t like one bit.

  Jack Strawn licked his lips, and though his head was still and his body calm, I saw his eyes flash around at the Indians that surrounded us. They came back to me and when he spoke his voice was calm and measured but deadly serious.

  “You a friend of Ezra Bishop, son?”

  “Friend?” I answered. “No, sir. He has a horse that’s rightfully mine, and I aim to catch him and get her back.”

  A smile broke across Mr. Strawn’s face, and I saw his shoulders relax. He looked past me at the three Indian men and talked to them in their native tongue. A ripple of relief ran through the crowd at whatever it was that he said. He looked back to me.

  “Not being a friend of Ezra Bishop’s just made you a load of friends among these folks,” he said.

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Ezra Bishop left here this morning, after a day of horse racing and trading yesterday,” Mr. Strawn said. “He left here with a few more ponies than he arrived with. A few more than he rightfully should have, probably. And they feel more than a little sore about it.”

  “He stole their horses?”

  Jack Strawn pursed his lips and scratched at his neck.

  “Ezra Bishop is purty good at avoiding any crimes that he can actually be called to account for. He’s a slippery one. It’s more like he swindled and lied and bullied, then left before anything could be done. Did he steal them ponies? I s’pose not. But he didn’t exactly take ’em honest. Ain’t the first time, neither.”

  I thought of the way I’d seen Mr. Bishop whispering with Mr. Grissom, then waiting ’til I was gone before closing the deal and hightailing it out of there. I figured I knew exactly what Jack Strawn was talking about.

  “He left this morning, sir? Early?”

  “Afraid so. And he didn’t trade any of his ponies away, so yours must still be with him.”

  “Did you happen to notice her, Mr. Strawn? She’s a filly, a red-and-white paint. Half Indian.”

  His eyes widened.

  “With a notch in her ear?”

  “Yes, sir! You saw her, then?”

  “Son, we all saw her. Your pony won Mr. Bishop several horses and a pile of furs. He paid a boy to ride her, and she took both races she ran in.” He looked up and spoke some more Indian and a ripple of talk went through the crowd.

  One of the chiefs took a step forward and spoke a few words. Jack Strawn nodded and turned to me.

  “Chief George sure likes the idea of you taking that pony away from Mr. Bishop. He wishes you the best of luck.”

  I nodded, thinking. I looked at the horses all around, clustered here and there. I thought about Ezra Bishop leaving hours ago, on horseback and downhill. I thought about my own sore, tired legs. The hard truth gnawed at my belly. I’d never catch Mr. Bishop. Not on foot, anyway.

&nb
sp; I looked up into Mr. Strawn’s eyes.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “But I don’t need luck, sir. I need a horse.”

  Jack Strawn licked his lips.

  “I reckon you do,” he answered quietly.

  I looked at the stern-faced Indians.

  “What are my chances?” I asked him.

  “Chances of what?”

  “Of borrowing a horse.”

  “Borrowing a horse? From these folks? Hours after they been swindled by a crooked white man?” He smiled a sour smile and spit on the ground. “These folks have had enough taken from them by white men, and not just Mr. Bishop. I’d say you got a better chance of growing wings and flying after your horse.”

  At that moment, another race began over at the track. There was another storm of hollering and howling, more thunder of hooves. An idea shot into my brain like a flaming arrow. It was a desperate sort of idea, but I was in a desperate sort of situation.

  “What if I won one?”

  “Excuse me, son?”

  “What if I won one? In a race.” I patted my satchel. “I pick my horse. They can choose my competition. If I lose, they get my pistol.”

  Mr. Strawn shook his head. “A pistol ain’t worth as much as a horse.”

  “Just to borrow, then. I lose, they keep my pistol for good. I win, I get the use of one of their horses. Just to Ellensburg.”

  Mr. Strawn pursed his lips.

  “Well. There is an honest Indian agent in Ellensburg. The Indians trust him. I suppose you could leave the horse there.” He nodded, then turned and talked again to the Indians. They had a little back and forth, and then he said to me, “You just got yerself a horse race, son.”

  I stood looking at the group of horses the Indians had led me over to. They were crowded all close together, their legs tied to keep ’em from wandering. Jack Strawn had dismounted and stood by my side. Ah-Kee hung close, too—I couldn’t imagine how confused he was as to what in the world was going on.

  “Can you ride bareback?” Mr. Strawn asked me.

  “Yes, sir. Since I was five.”

  “Good. All right, now, son. Pick your horse.”

  I walked around the herd, looking at their builds, their legs, their hooves, their eyes. I didn’t want a horse huddling in the middle—I knew the boldest ones would be here, on the outside.

  Halfway around, I saw him. A young stallion, strong-looking but on the small side. He was a deep red, with a black mane and tail. He stomped and pawed the ground, tossed his head. His muscles rippled and tensed. His eyes were aflame with high-burning energy.

  I walked closer.

  He rolled his eyes and snorted as I approached. The veins in his neck bulged like snakes.

  “This one,” I said.

  The Indians laughed and said a few words to Mr. Strawn.

  “I’d pick again, son. That one’s barely broke. He’s wild.”

  “Yeah,” I said quietly, mostly to the horse. “But he’s fast. And he’s ready to run.” I reached out to put my palm on the stallion’s neck. Before I could touch him, he whinnied and started to shy away, but I kept my hand out steady and sure. I murmured to him, nice and easy. He blew out his breath and eyed me, ready to bolt. But I stretched just a bit farther, and he let my hand rest on his skin.

  I could feel the stallion’s heart, powerful and prideful, beating through my palm. I looked into his half-wild eyes. And he looked into mine. I thought of my Sarah, of her wildness and her speed and her true heart.

  “This is the one,” I repeated. And it was.

  The horse track weren’t nothing but a long straight dirt path, two horses wide, that had been worn into the landscape by who knows how many years of races.

  I walked my stallion—struggling and rearing the whole way, much to the amusement of the gathered Indians—to the nearest end. A young Indian man, about eighteen or nineteen years old, had been picked to be my opponent. He was waiting, sitting atop a fine-looking black horse several hands taller than my own spirited stallion.

  He sneered, his face full of scorn and arrogance, and talk-shouted a couple of unfriendly sounding sentences down at me. The Indians around me laughed.

  “Good luck to you, too,” I said. Only Mr. Strawn laughed.

  Ah-Kee looked from me to my opponent. He looked down the track where I’d soon be racing. Realization lit up his face. He shouted at me in Chinese, then pointed down toward the crowd of waiting Indians at the finish. I nodded at him. His eyes went wide. Then he yelled a few more words and took off running, down toward the finish line. I smiled grimly. It’d be good to have a friendly face waiting for me at the end.

  “Best mount up, son,” Mr. Strawn said, pulling a pistol from his holster.

  I shook my head, straining to keep the horse under control.

  “Not ’til we’re starting,” I grunted. “This horse ain’t gonna sit and wait once I’m on him.”

  Mr. Strawn nodded.

  “Tell you what. You climb up when you’re ready. I’ll fire once you’re up.”

  I took a few deep breaths, making sure the stallion was pointing in the right direction. I braced my whole body for what was coming. Then in one swift motion I bent down and yanked the hobbling rope free from the stallion’s legs, grabbed hold of his mane, leaped up on his back, squeezed tight with my legs, and got a death grip with both hands on his black mane.

  The stallion reared and shrieked.

  Mr. Strawn fired his gun.

  The Indian on his black mount shot away from us, hurtling down the dirt track.

  I reached back and slapped at the stallion’s flank with all my might.

  And then we were off like we’d been shot from a cannon.

  A crooked cannon. Set up sideways. And loaded awful clumsy.

  I’d been right about that stallion’s spirit and strength. But the Indians had sure enough been right about him being only half-broke.

  The stallion ran, and ran some kind of fast, but he zigged and zagged on that dirt track. He kicked his hind legs out from time to time, trying to shake me. He broke stride here and there to buck me. We were moving in the right direction, but that black horse up ahead was getting farther ahead every second.

  “Come on!” I shouted, risking letting go with one hand to slap at him again. “Come on!” I screamed again, slapping him harder and clinging tight with my knees to his bucking body as we careened down the trail. The horse picked up his pace and straightened out a bit but I could still feel more fight locked up inside him.

  I rose up on shaking legs to put my mouth right up near that stallion’s ears. He was running more or less flat-out now and I was in danger every second of toppling off his slippery hide. But I needed more speed, and I needed it now.

  “Aiyiyiyiyieeee!” I hollered, a crazy shout just as wild and wordless as the stallion himself. And my heart beat hard and fierce, right into his heart, just like my mouth shouted into his ear. And my heart said: Run! Run, horse! Show me your speed!

  The horse, and his heart, heard me.

  His long stride straightened out. His muscles bunched and sang like a bowstring. His sloppy, jerking run boiled down into a hard, hot, pure sprint.

  Sarah is a lightning-fast horse.

  I’d never admit another horse was faster than her.

  But, boy. That half-broke stallion—he’d make me consider it.

  We gained on the cloud of dust that was our competition. My body rose and surged with the body of the stallion so that we moved like one breathing, flying thing.

  Mr. Strawn had said I’d have to grow wings to catch up to Mr. Bishop. When that stallion really started running, I felt like I darn near had.

  We were two lengths back. Then one. But the finish line with its crowd of watchers was close. I didn’t know if we’d make it. The stallion’s breaths were coming hard with each mighty spring of his legs. I breathed with him.

  The stallion’s nose came even with the black horse’s flank. Then the Indian’s knee. The Indian loo
ked back in surprise, seeing my stallion drawing even with him. His face furrowed in determination and he doubled his shouting and slapping at his horse.

  But it was no use.

  There was no beating that stallion if he decided to win. Just like my Sarah.

  When we rumbled past the cheering crowd, the head of the black horse was by my side. The head of the stallion was an easy arm’s length out ahead.

  Ah-Kee was jumping up and down, grinning and whooping.

  I relaxed my wound-up body and let the stallion run itself out among the sage and pine ’til he was ready to turn around and walk panting back. The Indians crowded around me, smiling and patting at the stallion.

  I’d won myself a horse, for a bit. But what I’d really won was a chance at getting my own horse back for good.

  * * *

  The Indians wanted us to stay for a while. They offered us food: smoked salmon, jerked buffalo meat, steamed roots. It sounded good to my belly.

  But Ah-Kee wouldn’t linger.

  When he got the gist of what Mr. Strawn was telling us, back at the teepees, he shook his head emphatically and pointed at the road, yammering in Chinese.

  Ah-Kee stepped up to Mr. Strawn and the few Indians standing with him. He pulled out that little carved black bird and held it out to them, asking his mysterious questions in his desperate voice, looking from face to face.

  They shook their heads, confused. Ah-Kee’s shoulders slumped and he returned the bird to his pocket. He looked at me with sad and beseeching eyes, then pointed again back at the road.

  “All right,” I said with a quick nod. “We’ll keep moving.”

  “What’s he after?” Mr. Strawn asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “But he sure wants it bad.”

  “Just like you.”

  I looked up at Mr. Strawn. “Yeah. I s’pose so.”

  The Indians let me choose another horse to borrow—a bigger one this time, fit for two riders, and with a lot less wild in his veins. Jack Strawn walked with us back up to the main road toward Ellensburg, along with a few of the Indians, including the little girl that we’d met on the road. Her brother was nowhere to be seen, but I caught her peeking shyly at me from behind a few of the grown-ups. I smiled and gave her a little wave. Her face flushed, and she braved a small wave of her own back.