Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “I have nothing more,” he said.

  Once more the trader measured the lines of the mare.

  “Is she fast?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Thunder Moon, “but she is not to be traded.”

  Not even his dire need could make him part with any of the priceless chestnut blood.

  “Not to be traded,” said the keeper of the store. “But would you bet on her speed?”

  “Bet on her speed?” smiled Thunder Moon. “Yes, of course!”

  For betting was a thing with which he was familiar. He could remember the day when Little Beaver had betted away all of his possessions, even down to his Squaws. That day, Little Beaver had gone to sleep, a penniless man. The next morning, he borrowed a horse, and with that for a beginning, he had such fortune, that by the night he had won back all that he had lost and more besides. Any Indian would bet up to his last penny with a cheerful countenance.

  “You have now seven rifles,” said the trader, hastily gathering in the robes and the beaded suits.

  “Yes,” sighed Thunder Moon again.

  “I will bet you those against seven more rifles, and run a horse against your mare. Will you do that?”

  “Gladly,” said Thunder Moon. And he would have laughed, except that he remembered that at such times it is best not to appear too sure.

  “How long is the race?” he asked.

  The trader glanced once more to the mare. He wanted to make assurance doubly sure; and as he noted the high withers, and the scrawny neck, he made sure that though she might possibly possess the endurance of the Indian pony, she could never possess sprinting speed.

  “From here,” he said, “to the edge of the gates, and back again. Are you contented?”

  Thunder Moon measured the distance, likewise. Over a short stretch, he knew that only Sunset, among the chestnuts, could vie with the sprinting powers of the mare, and therefore he nodded.

  “I am content,” said he.

  “Good!” cried the trader. Then he called in English: “Sammy! Sammy! Get out Jester for me, will you?”

  There was a bustle of many voices. The rumor spread instantly far and wide that a stupid Indian was about to be trimmed by the clever storekeeper, and in less time than it takes to tell, a hundred men and boys were gathered to watch the race, while Jester was brought out.

  He looked fit enough to make a joke of the mare. He was of good Kentucky saddle stock, with a generous portion of the blood of the thoroughbred in his veins. High-headed, dancing, fiery-eyed, he fretted against the strong curb. The storekeeper swung his bulk into the saddle with a grunt.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Thunder Moon had stripped off the saddle, and left the mare with only a lead rope around her neck. She needed nothing more for guidance, because she would answer the pressure of heel and knee as readily as a man will answer a spoken command.

  “She has legs!” cried one of the spectators.

  “She’ll need eight legs like that to keep up with Jester!” answered one of the others, and there was a roar of laughter in response.

  Then a tall Indian, robed to the eyes — a Crow — said maliciously to Thunder Moon:

  “Young man, you will go home naked today. You are matched against the fastest horse that the palefaces can bring against you!”

  Said Thunder Moon:

  “Let the horses run the race. Afterwards, the men can do the talking.”

  It was an old saying among the Cheyennes, and it silenced the Crow and made him set his teeth with a sudden click.

  “Very well!” called the starter, who had taken his post with a red handkerchief in his hand, ready to let it fall. “Get out of the way, all of you. Somebody get up there by the gates, and warn every one against coming through. We don’t want this race upset. Let ‘Sawbones’ have her chance to run, if she don’t fall down when she tries to turn!”

  Thunder Moon could not understand any of these words, but he could understand the gestures, well enough, and, above all, he could understand the jeering laughter. And his heart grew harder and harder with the passing of every moment. They were very wise, these palefaces, or they would never have been able to, make such very big medicine as these rifles, which killed from afar. But also, they were cunning, cruel, and hard of heart. He did not like their faces. He did not like their leering, jeering glances. And most of all, he detested in them their lack of dignity.

  A sudden prayer went up from his heart that the mare might humble these brutal fellows in the very dust!

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “I AM READY,” said Thunder Moon to his opponent, and with a sidewise sweep of his eyes he studied the features of Jester. He knew horses as well as any man could know them. He had been raised with them. He had learned to judge the differences which existed between the Indian ponies and the tall chestnuts which had been brought from the Far Land by Big Hard Face; and he knew at the first glance that this Jester was indeed an admirable creature and capable of great speed. At the same time, he had seen The Minnow beat the others of her own race, those tall cousins of hers descended from the heroic horses of Big Hard Face; and he trusted implicitly in her lightness of foot. Even if she could not vie with Sunset in a five-minute gallop, still she was better than most of the others.

  Let Jester do his best, then, for Thunder Moon would be prepared for him.

  But, in the first place, he would throw away not a single chance.

  For that reason, he threw off the buffalo robe and jerked off over his head the fine deerskin tunic. Now he sat upon the back of the mare, naked to the waist, his trousers belted tightly around him. One could see, for the first time, the little medicine bag which he wore suspended from a braided bit of horsehair that ran around his neck. It was the skin of a chipmunk, brought from a far section of the prairie, and it was stuffed with various things known only to Thunder Moon. In that medicine bag, he was convinced, his immortal soul was lodged.

  Now that he was stripped to the waist, and ready to cut as little wind as possible, one might have thought that the men of the fort would have been amazed by the wonderful muscular strength which that back, and shoulders, and arched breast, and sinewy arms presented. But those frontiersmen were accustomed to seeing fellows of heroic proportions; and there was simply a grunt of admiration, and some surprise, that an Indian should be seen, with the muscular development which, generally speaking, belonged to the white man alone.

  It was not, then, the heroic proportions of Thunder Moon that caught their eyes, nor the odd little medicine bag that swung from his neck; it was rather the color of the skin of this Cheyenne. It was a deep, glistening nut brown, every bit of it; but there was not the faintest tint of the copperish glow which distinguished the Indians from the white men. Any frontier lad, used to spending many an hour in the swimming pools, and well baked by the sun, could have showed you a body well-nigh as tanned as this.

  “A funny looking Cheyenne, that one!” said someone.

  “Half-breed,” said another. “That’s what he is.”

  “Not more than a quarter,” said a third. “His face ain’t made like a redskin’s!”

  It was not, as a matter of fact. The features were cleanly chiseled, a little too powerful and decided to be called handsome, but certainly cast after a most Caucasian mold. However, no one there even dreamed of the real truth — that there was not a drop of any but white man’s blood in these veins. For, aside from little differences of features and color, in dress, in manner, in language, in headdress, and in the long black hair which flowed back over the shoulders and almost to the waist of Thunder Moon, he was typical Cheyenne. And when he heard English spoken, he turned upon the speakers an eye most convincingly blank.

  “You watch yourself, Jeff Larned!” called one of his friends. “This here Cheyenne knows how to ride, and he ain’t got such a bad horse. Cut the belly off of her, and she’d be a real speed machine.”

  “You leave her to Jester,” said the storekeeper scornfu
lly. “He’s never been beat yet, you got to remember!”

  This truth was enough to silence the doubter. The next moment the handkerchief fluttered down from the hand of the starter; and Thunder Moon, watching for the moment, tense, and quivering with an excitement which he had silently imparted to the good mare, shot away from the mark like an arrow from the vibrating string of a strong war bow.

  She was a half jump ahead of Jester, though that horse had answered the signal like the uncoiling of a watch spring; and now, as they settled into full stride, Thunder Moon, glancing down, saw the shadow of the racing Jester diminishing rapidly beside him.

  The Minnow, as she had often done before, was simply leaving her rival behind! Thunder Moon leaning down, whispered a word which she well knew. Gradually she abated her speed. Still her ears were flattened as though with the greatness of her effort, and still her head was stretched straight forth before her; but, nevertheless, her stride was less, and Jester began to pick up rapidly on his rival.

  “You got the early speed!” shouted Jeff Larned, as he drew up even. “But now watch what happens to your clown of a horse!”

  Thunder Moon did not understand these words, which had been spoken in English, but he could interpret the gesture and the tone, well enough.

  However, he said nothing, and he brought the mare gently to the side of the gate and, touching the wall, turned her. Jester had already whipped about and was digging up a cloud of dust to get under full way, once more.

  But what was a cloud of dust to a horse and a rider accustomed to riding into a mass of buffalo? Thunder Moon allowed himself one fierce, short laugh behind that cloud of dust, and then he flattened himself close to the neck of the mare and swung her forward into her full stride. Every swing of her stride was accompanied by a forward sway of his body.

  Jester came smoothly, rhythmically back to them; and before them, Thunder Moon saw a wild confusion, of waving arms and excited faces, and he heard a frenzy of noise. For it seemed as though the famous Jester was at last to be beaten. It was more than a seeming; for now, Thunder Moon sent the mare quickly past her rival and she went over the finish half a length to the good.

  He jumped to the ground and strode through the excited mob to the front of the store. There he picked up the booty, sorted it, and laid aside five of the rifles which he did not want.

  “How much powder and lead,” he said, “for these guns?”

  The storekeeper was in a frenzy of rage. It was true that he had been paid three times over for all the rifles of the first sale and those wagered in the bet; but he was in a black humor.

  “Confound the rifles!” he roared. “Here — I’ll change ’em for that much powder and that much of bullets all molded for you. That’s fair enough!”

  It was hardly a third of the value of the five extra rifles, in powder and in lead, but Thunder Moon thought it a handsome quantity. It was his first experience in conducting transactions with the whites. He was yet to learn of what trickery they were capable. And his eyes flashed with joy as he gathered in the bags of powder and lead. Surely his companions who waited in the prairie would be well pleased with all of this.

  But there was a murmur through the crowd. They were used to seeing people cheated. They rather admired a clever tradesman; and they had no love, certainly, for the redskins. But, after all, those methods of Jeff Larned were a little too raw; and if the whole Cheyenne tribe were to learn how one of their members had been grossly cheated, might not the whole of that body of matchless warriors go on the war trail?

  So the murmur swept through the mass, and Jeff Larned heard it, and grew more furious still. For he saw that he was losing not only a small portion of his dishonest profits, but a great deal of reputation as well.

  He could not stand that.

  “Friend, I shall let the same horse race against your mare, because I still think that he can beat her; and I’ll double the stakes!” he cried.

  “No,” said Thunder Moon, for he was anxious to make off with his loot. “No, I have what I wish, and now I must go!”

  He would have made off, but a great hand of steel gripped his shoulder and halted him.

  He turned swiftly around, and there was a glint of danger in his eyes.

  “Don’t manhandle a redskin, Jeff, unless you’re watching his knife hand!” warned a voice.

  “Mind your business!” barked Jeff. “Cheyenne,” he went on, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll wager you, two against one. You’ve got nine rifles, now, and you’ve got a tidy lot of powder and lead. I’ll match Jester against the lot, and I’ll match him against the mare, too! What do you say? Do you hear me, young man? You go back to your people rich and famous, or else you walk back with nothing. You go back with your mare and with a picture horse like Jester, or else you go back bare!”

  Thunder Moon listened; and his soul was sorely tempted. For surely the mare had beaten the fast horse with greater ease than this fellow could even guess. Yet somewhere there must be a trick, or the man would never wager so confidently. He swiftly scanned all the possibilities of which he could think.

  “What do you wager?” asked Thunder Moon reluctantly. “I have what I wish, and I am ready to go back, friend.”

  Jeff Larned was now in a white-hot passion. His judgment no longer cautioned him or even suggested some sharper way of cheating the Indian again, as he had before. He knew simply that the mare had been able to beat Jester by a scant half length; and he was positive that he had up his sleeve a manner of defeating the mare by an even greater distance. Therefore, what difference did it make if he increased the offer?

  He translated those rifles, and the powder and lead, which he had lost, into their real values, and hastily he piled together more guns.

  “No more rifles,” said Thunder Moon. “I have enough!”

  “How about this, then!”

  Knives, and bags of powder, and quantities of bullets were produced — enough ammunition for a regiment. The heart of Thunder Moon ached with desire as he saw it all heaped together. And still the storekeeper was putting more on the heap. He brought out bright beads and colored cloths, until Thunder Moon with impassive face stopped him again.

  For, though beads and colored cloths might please the Cheyennes, there was something in his soul which they failed altogether to touch. Besides, of what use would all of these trinkets be on the long march against the Comanches of the Southland? So thought Thunder Moon, and denied the things with an impassive face.

  But there was still a store from which he could be tempted. Revolvers were already worn freely, here and there, though old-fashioned men preferred pistols with one or two barrels. And now Jeff Larned jerked out a half dozen of the new weapons and scattered them on the porch, with a quantity of ammunition for them.

  “There, Cheyenne!” said the storekeeper. “Put your eye on those!”

  Thunder Moon picked up one of the guns. He had not the slightest idea that he had come to one of the important crossways of his life. He examined it and the oiled and easy mechanism with wonder.

  “Is it a small rifle?” he asked.

  “Rifle?” scoffed the excited Larned. “It’s six rifles boiled down small — at short range!”

  “Is it really not a toy?” asked Thunder Moon, still more rapt.

  “Toy, eh? Look at this!” And Larned snatched one of the weapons from his hip pocket and opened fire.

  It was beyond credence.

  Across the street there was a gaudy sign which proclaimed that the blacksmith shop of Hal Green was the best one west of the Mississippi. Six times, as fast as one could count, the little gun spoke from the hip of Larned; and six neat round holes were punched at the center of the sign across the street.

  The cloud of smoke blew away. Even the rough men of Fort Humphrey Brown had been impressed. Thunder Moon was plainly awed.

  “Will these others make the same medicine?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Aye, aye!” exclaimed Mr. Larned. “With the tr
iggers out you can shoot ’em all with the thumb. ‘Fan’ is the word for it.”

  “It is enough!” said Thunder Moon, and he half closed his eyes. For he saw a startling vision of a battle charge of the Cheyenne tribe, with himself in the lead. He saw the lines close on Pawnee enemies. He saw the rifles discharged, and the warriors sweeping on through, while from his hands, two little weapons were spitting forth a fiery rain of death!

  Better than rifle, bow, or knife were these treasures!

  “Make them so that they are all like that one,” said Thunder Moon, pointing to the still smoking weapon in the hand of Jeff Larned, “and we run the race again!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  THE TIME WAS to come when red men and white would curse the name of Jeff Larned, who placed these new and dreadful weapons in the hands of Thunder Moon; but that time was still in the future.

  As the spectators saw the storekeeper feverishly preparing the revolvers to meet the demand of the Cheyenne, they murmured, one to the other, that Larned for the first time in history was actually offering money’s worth. But what was the trick up the sleeve of this shrewd trader? What made him so sure that he would win the race, after being fairly beaten once? Certainly it could not be that he thought the mare was exhausted by her first effort. Not a hair of her coat had turned, and her eye was as bright as ever, as she stood back of her master.

  Jeff Larned’s two hired men were working rapidly, now, taking down the Colts, filing out the trigger mechanism inside, and assembling them again; but this time, and while the pause endured, the word went out, and more and more men gathered — soldiers and citizens, children and women, to stare at the sweating shopkeeper, long famous for his strength of hand and quickness of wit, and to stare, too, at the Indian’s mare, and at the tall Indian himself, wrapped again in his buffalo robe, and impassive of face.