The Preacher of Cedar Mountain: A Tale of the Open Country

by Ernest Thompson Seton

  CHAPTER XLI

  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 thatit 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 hisscornful reply.

  The Colonel held a hasty council of war with his officers. Their coursewas clear. In Red Rover they still had a winner and the race would comeoff as announced; such a horse as Blazing Star could not long beconcealed; 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 ridingat speed for the pleasure of speeding. Thousands of gaudy blankets--putout to air in the sun--seemed to double the density, colour, andimportance of the camp. New wagons came with their loads, new lifedeveloped; now came a procession of Indians singing their racing songs,for the Indian has a song for every event in life; bodies of UnitedStates troops were paraded here and there as a precautionary andimpressive measure; the number of Indians assembled, and theirexcitability, began to cause the authorities some apprehension.

  The Boyds were there in their democrat and had brought picnic food forall day; but Hartigan was a special favourite at the Fort, and he, withBelle, was invited to join its hospitable garrison mess, where sociallife was in gala mood. It was an experience for Belle, for she had notrealized before how absolutely overwhelming a subject the horse racecould be among folk whose interests lay that way, and whose lives,otherwise, were very monotonous. She was a little shocked to note thatevery one of the wives at the table was betting on the race--in somecases, for considerable money. The one restraining force in the case wasthe absence of takers, since all were backing Red Rover.

  An amusing incident occurred when, during the meal, a bead-eyed youngsquaw 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 bether baby against yours."

  A pretty good proof of a sure thing, for no race loves its children morethan the red folk. An Indian has no compunction whatever in staking histreaty money, which comes so easily and may as lightly go; he does nothesitate to risk all his wealth, for after all wealth is a burden; hewill even wager his wife, if the game possesses him; but he is very shyof staking his children. He does it on occasion, but only when heconsiders it a foregone result--a certainty of winning.

  The Indian Agent had many close conferences with the Colonel. Hestrongly disapproved the whole racing excitement and plainly indicatedthat he held the Colonel responsible. What would happen when theseexcited fifteen hundred Sioux and Cheyenne warriors--not to speak ofsome five thousand women and children--met defeat, was a seriousproblem. Had the situation been sooner realized, the whites could haveorganized into some sort of home defense. Red Cloud and Howling Bull, sofar 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 littlegreasy perhaps, but quite usable; and Jim recalled with interest theshoeing of the Buckskin. "This was what it was for; how did the heathensknow it was coming?" By mutual agreement, at length, the race waspostponed for two hours, which, under such a sun, would bring the trackback 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 madewhen the sun was over Inyan Kara, the tallest of the hills in sight tothe west; this meant, as nearly as possible, at four o'clock.

  At two o'clock all the world seemed there. There were mountedIndians--men and women--by thousands, and at least a thousand mountedwhites besides the soldiers. The plain was dotted with life and colourfrom far beyond the Indian camp to Fort Ryan; but the centre of all wasthe racetrack; and camped alongside, or riding or sitting near, was thethickest group of folk of both races, bound to lose no glimpse of thestirring contest.

  The delay made for new excitement; the nerve strain became greater aseach hour passed. The white soldiers did what they could to hold thecrowd, and the Indians called on their own "Dog Soldiers" or camp policeto do the same. Fortunately, it was a good-natured crowd; and theabsconding of the Crows had removed the largest element of risk, so faras 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 tojoin these boisterous runs, so he rode alone at first. But another womanrider was there; from the crowd Lou-Jane Hoomer spurred her bay, andraced beside him. She was an excellent horsewoman, had a fine mount, andchallenged Jim to a ride. Handsome, her colour up, her eyes sparkling,Lou-Jane could have ridden away, for she had the better mount, but shedidn't; she rode beside him, and, when a little gully called for a jump,they jumped together, and found abundant cause for laughter. Twice theywent careering, then back to Belle, and when next Jim's itch for speedand life sent him circling, Belle was rested enough to followeverywhere.

  At a quarter to two the bugle of the Fort was blown, and there issuedforth the proud procession with Red Rover in the middle, led beside hisjockey, who rode a sober pony. It was Little Breeches this time. Thereis one thing that cannot be explained away, that is defeat. Peaches hadbeen defeated; his chance came no more.

  Red Rover was magnificent, trained to a hair, full of life and fire. Ofall the beautiful things on earth, there is nothing of nobler beautythan 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 spurnthe earth, and arch his graceful neck, and curvet a little for thesubtle joy that comes of spending power when power is there in a veryplethora. Every white man's eye grew proudly bright as he gazed andgloried in his champion and fear left all their hearts. At the startingpost, they swung about, Little Breeches mounted, and a mighty cheer wentup. "Ho, Red Cloud! Where's your horse? Bring on your famous Buckskinnow"; and the rumbling of the crowd was rising, falling, like the soundof water in a changing wind.

  Far down the valley, near the Ogallala Camp, a new commotion arose and awilder noise was sounding. There was the shrill chant of the "RacingPonies" with the tom-toms beating, and then Red Cloud's men cametrotting in a mass. As they neared the starting point, the rabble of thepainted warriors parted, and out of the opening came their horse, andfrom the whites went up a loud and growing burst of laughter. Such ahorse as this they had never seen before; not the famous Buckskin, but_the mysterious pinto pony_, wonderful, if weird trappings could makehim so. On his head he wore an eagle-feather war-bonnet; his mane wasplaited with red flannel strips and fluttering plumes; his tail was evengaudier; around each eye was a great circle of white and another ofblack; his nose was crossbarred with black and red; his legs werepainted in zebra stripes of yellow and black; the patches of white thatwere native to his coat were outlined with black and profusely decoratedwith red hands and horseshoes painted in vermilion; on his neck was aband of beadwork, carrying a little bundle of sacred medicine; and,last, he had on each ankle a string of sleigh-bells that jingled at eachprancing step. A very goblin of a horse! His jockey was, as before,Chaska, the Indian boy, stripped to the breechclout, with an eaglefeather in his hair and a quirt hung on his wrist.

  Never, perhaps, was a more grotesque race entry in all the West; and thedifference between the burnished form of Red Rover in his perfect trim,and this demon-painted Pinto gave rise to an ever-growing chorus ofshouting, laughter, rough jibes, and hoots of joy.

  Jim took in the Indian horse with the keenest of eyes. "Well, boys, hemay be only a pinto cayuse, but he's way ahead of their Buckskin. Lookat that action. Bedad, they've got him shod!"

  The Pinto seemed as tall as Red Rover and, so far as trappings al
lowedone to see, he was nearly as fine in build. Diverse feelings now surgedin the crowd. Many of the whites said, "Well, it was true after all, RedCloud, the old fox, he sent to Omaha, or maybe Illinois and bought aracer. 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 littletight, observing all; but he gave no sign of special interest.

  With two such keen and nervous racers it was no easy matter to get afair start; but at length they were man[oe]uvred into line, side byside. The pistol cracked and away they went, while all the crowd heldstill, so very still for a moment that you could have heard for ahundred yards the medicine song of the Indian boy:

  "Huya! Huya! Shungdeshka, Shungdeshka! (Fly! Fly! my Eagle! Fly! myPinto Eagle!)" And that wild-eyed Indian pony sprang away as fast as theblooded horse beside him. So far as any one could tell it was an evenmatch.

  The white man had won the inside track again; and remembering how theIndian 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 toshoulder. At the turning post was a waiting throng that received themwith a cheer, to follow again in their wake, like madmen let loose onhoofs. 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 thePinto lost a good half length. Now Little Breeches saw his chance and,leaning forward well, he smote with the quirt and pricked those bronzyflanks, 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!)" Andthe Pinto seemed to unchain himself, as a hawk when he sails no more,but flaps for higher speed. With thunderous hoofs the wild horsesplashed through a pool, came crawling, crawling up, till once again hewas neck and neck with the wonderful flying steed in the coat of gold.

  Little Breeches shouted, "Hi! Hi! Hi!" and spurred and smote. Chaskaglanced at him and smiled, such a soft little smile. The eagle featherin his hair was fluttering, and the smile was still on his lips as theyreached the last half mile. Then, in weird and mouthing tone, Chaskasang 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 boundeddouble strong. The white man yelled and spared not lash nor spur. RedRover flinched, then sprang as he had never sprung before. But the demonpony in the motley coat swung faster, faster, faster yet; his nostrilsflared; 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 lengthahead. The white man screamed and madly spurred. Red Rover was attopmost notch. The demon pony forged--yes, now a length ahead, and inthe rising, rumbling roar, passed on, a double length, and _in_. _Therace was won, lost, won lost_--the Pinto pony crowned; and the awfulblow had struck!