"Can I do anything to help?" he asked.

Hartigan shook his head, laughed lightly, and rode on. At Pat's shanty he tied his horse to the fence, stepped to the door, knocked, and, without waiting, went in. A woman's voice shrilled:

"Pat, here's that —— preacher again."

There were other voices, male and female, in the lean-to kitchen. Pat came in and glared at the intruder. There was a rising fury in his manner, but no evidence of drink.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Well, to be frank with you," said Hartigan, "I have reason for suspecting an unhelpful indulgence is planned here for to-night, and I was hoping that I might persuade you to reconsider it beforehand. And sure we don't want to get agitated, and I don't want to use language that might sound like disapproval."

He glanced around. There was no sight of any spree in prospect. A glimpse of the kitchen showed only the preparations for an ordinary meal, and Hartigan wondered whether or not there had been a mistake. Could it be that he was the butt of a practical joke?

Pat was sulkily waiting, not knowing just what to say, when voices were heard outside and heavy steps; then the door opened and in came three men, the first carrying under his arm a barrel-shaped bundle. The presence of the Preacher was obviously disconcerting to the new-comers.

"Gimme that," growled Pat. He seized the keg and was marching off with it when Hartigan strode over in front of him.

"Hold on, Pat, let me see that."

Bylow exploded into a torrent of abusive profanity. Some of those present had been witnesses of the previous affair, and realizing what the pastoral visit might mean, they added their voices to the uproar. The language was emphatic rather than concise. The women, too, gave free rein to their tongues, but their observations reflected on their male escorts more harshly than they did on any one or anything else.

However puzzled Hartigan might be by the complexities of the female mind, the mental processes of the unlettered male were quite familiar to him and he showed his comprehension by a simple challenge.

"Now, boys, I don't want to seem thoughtless or indelicate, but I want you to know that I can lick the whole bunch of you with one hand tied behind my back and the other in a sling. Not that I have any intention of doing it, and I apologize to the ladies for mention of the subject, but it may help us to an understanding. If you have not yet gathered my meaning, I will put it simpler. I am here to stop this spree before it begins."

At this moment there was a light shuffling step outside and the door swung back revealing the small, familiar figure of Jack Lowe. A quick, meaning look and some sort of indistinguishable signal passed between Lowe and Pat, whereupon the latter at once placed the keg on the table.

"How do you do, Mr. Hartigan?" said Lowe. "I think we are here for the same purpose."

"Maybe so," said Jim dryly, "I don't know. I'm here to remove temptation from our friends, and before I leave I mean to spill that cursed stuff on the floor."

"You are right," said Lowe, "absolutely right. Pat, let me have that keg," and the schoolteacher proceeded to hammer around the bung, in the way of the orthodox bung-starter. There were murmurs and strong words, but he went on while Hartigan stood guard. The bung came loose, he lifted it out, and put his nostrils to the hole.

"That's the real stuff, just as it dropped from the quill. Smell that, Mr. Hartigan. Ain't that the real magollyon? But all the same here she goes." He tipped the keg a little and some liquor spilled out.

"See that? You get the gold? I tell you, Mr. Hartigan, that green rot-gut is poison, but you can tell when it's real by the shine. If it is whiskey it shines yellow like corn, if it is vitriol it shines green." He took a glass and filled it. "See the gold, and it smells like corn tossel." He put it to his lips. "That's what puts heart in a man, and makes him forgive his worst enemy.

"But here she goes." He spilled a little more on the ground. Then:

"You know, Mr. Hartigan, I am wholly in sympathy with this visit of yours, but I don't go as far as you do. I've been talking to Pat and he's a good sport. He realizes that you put up a fine fight that other time and that you cleaned them up single-handed. He doesn't want any further unpleasantness, but he doesn't see what right you have to keep him and his friends from using a moderate amount of this keg. Is that your idea, Pat?"

"An' what's the matter with it," growled Pat. "Why shouldn't I have one or two drinks? No man gets drunk on that."

"There you are," said Lowe, turning to Hartigan, "that's in reason. Why not have a drink all round and then talk it over?"

Hartigan was frankly puzzled by the turn of affairs. It seemed to be an offer of peace, after a fashion, but he could not fit Lowe into the scheme of things. He tried to read what was going on behind the schoolteacher's shifty eyes, but the face was a mask. At last he said:

"If these men and women," and Hartigan let his eyes travel over the faces about him, "could have stopped with one or two drinks I wouldn't be here now. Ye take one or two, but that is only the beginning. I know what drink is; I've been through it all, I tell ye, and there's no stopping if it gets the hold on ye."

"Leave it to the d—d preachers and there wouldn't be nothin' left to do in life," said Pat with a contemptuous sneer.

"Come now," said Lowe, eager to prevent hostilities. "You wouldn't object to liquor if nobody took too much, would you, Mr. Hartigan?"

"No," said Jim with a grim smile, "but I'm not to be taken in by the plausibilities of the Devil. That keg is going to be emptied."

"I'm with you to the finish there," said Lowe, "but what harm is there in filling these small glasses so"; he emptied a moderate draught into a row of tumblers set out upon the table.

"If Pat is willing to meet you half way and see this keg emptied on the floor, you wouldn't refuse a small drink with him in his own house, would you?"

Hartigan hesitated. He could not convince himself that the offer was genuine. And yet if he actually saw, with his own eyes, the keg emptied of its contents, what trick could there be? It seemed churlish to refuse. Suppose the offer were made in good faith, by not refusing that which in the male code is the sign of brotherhood and equality, he might secure an influence for good with the elder Bylow. And Lowe seemed to sense the thought, for he said, "If you take just a taste with these men now, all will come to hear you preach next Sunday. Won't you, boys?" And there was a grunt of assent. "All right; it's a bargain."

Jim was actually weighing the proposition—his old craving for drink was not by any means eradicated. The sight of the liquor and the smell roused an appetite that only an iron will had subdued. As he stood uncertain, debating, Lowe said, "Hold on; we're a glass short. Never mind, I'll find one"; and he hastened back into the lean-to kitchen and returned with a glass, which was partly concealed by his hand till it was filled with whiskey. Then he said, "If it was 'pizen juice' I wouldn't let any one touch it; but this is the simple clear whiskey, as you can prove for yourself. I wish we could send this to the hospital."

He offered it to Hartigan, who smelled it. Then Lowe said, "Well, here's to the empty keg."

The seductive liquor was potent in his nostrils, even there it had stimulation; and Hartigan, acting on a sudden impulse, drained the glass, as the others drank in silence.

There said Lowe, "You see it is the mildest of the mild; it wouldn't hurt a child." And he prattled away of truth and soberness, so that the potion should have ample freedom for its work; till the planned and subtle mixture should have time to dethrone Hartigan's reason, blind his spirit, and unhinge his will. The ancient fury in his hot young blood was all too ready to be aroused. Without a word, Lowe filled the glass again and Jim, no longer his best self, but dazed and reckless, drank with all the rest; then soon threw all restraint aside; and in the bacchanalian orgy that followed fast and filled the night, he was the stable-yard rowdy once again—loud and leading—but here let the curtain fall—draw down the thickest, blackest veil.



CHAPTER XIX

The Day of Reckoning

The sun was high next day when the door of Pat Bylow's abode was opened, and a man entered. The scene that met his eyes is better undescribed, but to him it gave no shock. He came expecting to see it. In his hand he carried a tin pail. There were men and women lying about the floor. He stepped over them toward a tall form in soiled black clothes and knelt beside it. Pouring some water on a cloth he laid it on the pale forehead. The prostrate man opened his eyes and groaned.

"Mr. Hartigan," said the other. "It's me. It's Charlie Bylow. Won't you be after having a drink of water?"

Hartigan raised himself on his elbow, peered out of his bloodshot eyes, and drank eagerly. The cup was three times emptied.

"You better come over to my shanty and go to bed," said Charlie seriously. The Preacher groaned:

"Oh! God what have I done? What have I done?" He clutched his throbbing brow with both hands, as he rose and shakily followed Charlie.

"Oh! fool that I am. Oh, God! Ruined. All is ruined. I wish I were dead!" he exclaimed. "Oh! God forgive me."

As they passed the fence where Blazing Star had been hitched, Hartigan stopped and stared. Charlie said:

"It's all right, Mr. Hartigan, I took care of him. He is in the stable."

Coming to Bylow's house, Jim passed the entrance and went on to the stable. With trembling hands he opened the door and hesitated. He half expected Blazing Star to spurn and disown him. He was prepared for any and every humiliation, but the long, joyous neigh that greeted him was a shock, and a help.

"Oh! Blazing Star, if you only knew, you would not even look at me."

Charlie took the Preacher by the arm and led him to the house.

"Here, Mr. Hartigan, take off your clothes and go to bed. I will give you a wet towel for your head and, by and by, I will bring you some coffee."

"Oh! God be merciful, or strike me dead," and Jim broke down in an agony of remorse. "This is the end. All I hoped for gone. I don't want to live now."

"Mr. Hartigan, sure now I know how you feel. Ain't I been through it? But don't be after making plans that are rash when you ain't just yourself. Now go to bed and rest awhile," and his kind Irish heart was wrung as he looked on the utter degradation of the manly form before him, and the shocking disfigurement of the one-time handsome face. Charlie and his wife left Hartigan alone. They shut the door and Charlie went back to his brother's shanty to help the other victims of the orgy.

Jim tossed around uneasily, winning snatches of sleep, groaning, talking, abasing himself.

"Oh, Belle!" he moaned aloud. "Will you ever look at me again? Oh, God! And me a preacher."

Cedar Mountain was not so big but that every one knew everybody else's business; and Mary Bylow understood when she heard the name "Belle." But she didn't know just what to do. After an hour she again heard him.

"Oh! Belle, Belle, what will you say?"

Taking the hot coffee from the stove, Mrs. Bylow knocked at the door and went in.

"Take this, it will make you feel better."

She hoped he would talk, but he didn't. He only thanked her feebly. Then Charlie came back from his brother's shanty. He had remembered that, it being Sunday, the Preacher would be missed and he saddled his horse to set out for Cedar Mountain. As he left, his wife came out and said:

"While you are there, drop a hint to Belle Boyd," and Charlie nodded.

Arriving at Dr. Jebb's, Charlie explained the case to the pastor without detail:

"Sure, Mr. Hartigan had a little accident at our corner last night and sprained his ankle. My wife is nursing him, but he won't be able to preach to-day."

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Well, it is all right, I will take both services," and the blind and gentle old man turned to his books.

Then Bylow rode to the Boyd home. Here, he realized, was a much more difficult job. But he was determined to go into no details. It was Belle who answered his knock. Charlie began:

"My wife told me to tell you that Mr. Hartigan got hurt last night. He is at our house. He won't be in town to-day."

"What? Did he interfere in a spree?"

"Yes."

"Is he shot?"

"No."

"Is he wounded?"

"No, not exactly."

"What is the matter?"

"Only a general shakeup, he had a bad fall," and Bylow moved uneasily.

It was a simple matter to bluff a simple old clergyman, but it was another thing altogether to mislead an alert young woman. Belle knew there was something wrong—something more and different from what she had been told.

"Is the doctor with him?"

"No."

"I will get the doctor and come at once."

"No, I wouldn't; at least, not till morning."

Bylow's manner roused Belle all the more to prompt action. Seeing that all his explanations made things worse, Charlie abruptly left, mounted his broncho, and went "rockity rockity" as the pony's heels went "puff, puff" on the dusty trail around the hill and away.

The doctor was not to be found that morning and Belle found it hard to await his return. In the meantime, some strange rumour must have reached the town for in Sunday-school Belle met Eliza Lowe, the recently arrived sister of the schoolteacher. The look on her face, the gleam in her eye, were unmistakable. She had not yet learned of her brother's part in the affair. Belle found herself avoiding the sister's gaze.

As the hours passed the conviction deepened in Belle that there was something seriously wrong; she could feel it in the air. It was something more than an accident to Hartigan. There was the indefinable shadow of shame about it. The oppression became unbearable and on leaving Sunday-school, she went down to the doctor's house. He had just got in from a case near Fort Ryan and was eating a belated meal. Belle went straight to the point:

"Dr. Carson, I want you to take me at once to Bylow's Corner."

"Why?"

"There's something wrong. Mr. Hartigan is in serious trouble. I don't believe that he has fallen from his horse as they say. I want to know the truth."

Her face was pale, her mouth was set. The doctor looked keenly at her a moment and then, comprehending, said:

"All right, I will"; and in ten minutes the mudstained buckboard with a fresh horse in it was speeding over the foot of Cedar Mountain on the trail to Bylow's.

* * * * *

While Belle was fretting under the delay and marshalling her forces for the trip to the Corner, Hartigan lay in the quiet Bylow cabin and under the influence of cold water, coffee, and a more collected mind, gradually acquired some degree of composure. He had risen and dressed and was sadly musing on the wreck of all his life which that one fiery sip had brought about, when the thought of Blazing Star came to him. He went eagerly to the stable and as he rubbed the animal down he found help in the physical action. He hammered the currycomb on a log to clean it before putting it in the box, then gazing to the eastward along the trail that climbed around the shoulder of Cedar Mountain, he saw a buckboard approaching. In the Black Hills one identifies his visitor by his horse, and Jim recognized the Carson outfit. Sitting beside the doctor was a woman in a light-coloured dress with a red parasol raised above her. It smote him as no man's fist had ever done. He turned into the stable, put saddle and bridle on Blazing Star, swung to the seat, gave rein to the willing beast and, heading away from Cedar Mountain on the Deadwood Trail, went bounding, riding, stricken, too hard hit and shamed to meet the eyes of the woman whose praise he had come to value as the best approval he might hope to win.

The doctor's buckboard came to the door, tied up, and the two occupants went in.

"Where is your patient, Mrs. Bylow?"

The woman pointed to the bedroom door, went to it, knocked, opened it, and finding the room empty said:

"He was here a few minutes ago. I expect he is out to the stable."

Belle sat down. The nervous strain of the past hours was telling on her. She felt unstrung and vaguely depressed.

The doctor and Mary Bylow went to the stable. The empty stall, with no sign of saddle, bridle, or preacher, were enough. They returned to the house.

In answer to Belle's look the doctor made a gesture, and said simply:

"Gone."

"Where?"

The doctor shook his head and pointed northward.

"Please tell me all about it, Mrs. Bylow," said Belle.

"There is times to tell lies," said Mary naively, "but this ain't. I'll tell you the whole truth," and she did in a quivering voice, while tears ran from her eyes.

"Trapped, trapped," was Belle's only comment. "Where do you suppose he went?"

"Not to Cedar Mountain," said Carson, "that's sure. No one passed us."

Charlie Bylow, coming into the cabin, heard the doctor's last comment.

"He was heading due north and going hard when last we saw him," was his contribution.

"Dr. Carson, he's headed for Deadwood, and I'm going after him to bring him back." Belle stood up with sudden decision. The need for action once more present, all her strength responded.

The doctor shook his head. "I don't think you should go. You know what all the town would say."

"You are going with me," was the answer.

"When?"

"Right now."

"Better go home first."

"And have a fight with my folks? No, no! We go now. I have an aunt in Deadwood, you know!"

"It's forty-five miles, and we can't get there till midnight, even if my horse holds out."

"We may overtake him before that," said Belle, though she knew quite well they would not, for Hartigan would ride like a madman.

It had not been difficult to enlist Carson's sympathies. A sincere friendship had sprung up between the boyish preacher and himself and their total dissimilarity had made them congenial. Carson was amused in his quiet way to note how exactly Belle was moving as he thought best and surest, so now he merely added:

"Deadwood it is," and with a farewell word to the Bylows they were off.



CHAPTER XX

The Memorable Trip to Deadwood

It was a long, hard journey, and it was one o'clock in the morning before they reached Deadwood. Every public house that could get a license to sell liquor announced itself as a "hotel." Those few that could not, made a virtue of their failure and flaunted a sign, "Temperance House." The "wet houses" were on the main gulch, the "dry" ones in off nooks, or perched on breezy hills. To the best of these latter the doctor drove, had the luck to find the owner still on duty, and secured a room for himself. Then they drove to the home of Belle's aunt, Mrs. Collins. One has to take a hotel on its rules; but a relative may be called up and inconvenienced at any time.

"Well, Auntie, it's Belle Boyd. I want you to take care of me till the morning. I will tell you all about it later," this to the inquiring head that emerged from an upper window. So Belle was left and the doctor went to his hotel.

Up very early next morning, Belle went at once to the stable of the Temperance House. Yes, there he was, Blazing Star, in all his beauty. Then she went into the hotel and mounted guard in the little parlour. Dr. Carson came down and was sent to sit out of doors. At length the sound of the foot she awaited came from the stairs and she heard the landlady say:

"There's some one in the parlour waiting for you." For a moment there was no sound; then the footsteps approached.

Belle was at the window looking out, partly hidden by the cheap lace curtains. As the Preacher entered, she turned fully toward him. Her back was to the light and he did not immediately perceive her. Then with a gasp:

"Belle!" and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

She went to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and stood there in silence. The great broad shoulders began to shake under that soft touch. There was no sound uttered for long, then, brokenly, his one refrain: "Oh, Belle!"

She sat down beside him, and took his hand—the first time she had ever done so—and waited in silence.

He wanted to tell her all, but found no words.

She said, "Never mind that now. Tell me what you are here for."

He tried again but in a wild, incoherent way. The sum of it all was that he was "ruined, degraded, and lost. He would go down to the Big Cheyenne and get a job as a cowboy."

"Now listen, Jim," she said. "You have made a bad mistake; but a man may make one big, bad mistake and still be all right. It is the man that goes on making a little mistake every day that is hopeless."

There was a long pause. Then she continued: "What is it you of all people admire most in a man? Is it not courage to see things through, no matter how black they look?"

In his then frame of mind Hartigan had expected drunkenness to be singled out as the worst of all sins; there was a ray of comfort in this other thought; he nodded and grunted an inarticulate assent.

"Jim, I don't doubt your courage. I know you too well, believe in you too much. I want you to drop the idea of the Big Cheyenne. Turn right around and go back to Cedar Mountain at once; and the sooner you get there the easier it will be."

He shook his head, and sat as before, his face buried in his hands. "I—cannot—do—it." He forced out the words.

"Jim Hartigan cannot—isn't brave enough?" she asked, her voice a little tremulous with sudden emotion.

In all his life, he had never been charged with cowardice. It stung. Of all things he most despised cowardice, and here it was, brought squarely home to him. He writhed under the thought. There was a dead silence in the little parlour.

Then Belle spoke: "Is this the only answer I am to have—after coming so far?" she asked in a low voice.

Oh, blind, stupid, cowardly fool that he was! He had not thought of that. How much was she braving for him! He was rated a man of courage among his friends, yet now he was yielding to miserable cowardice.

Then his impulsive nature responded. He blurted out: "Belle, I will do anything for you; I will do anything you tell me to." It was an unconditional surrender, and the wise victor gave the honours of war to the vanquished by changing the subject.

"Then come to breakfast," she said in a lighter tone and led him to Aunt Collins's house, whither the doctor had already gone.

A day's rest, a forty-mile ride in the wind, a change of scene, good friends, a buoyant disposition, a flush of youth, and Belle, absorbed in all he did and said—who would not respond to such a concentration of uplifting forces?

Hartigan's exuberance returned. His colour was back in his cheeks. His eyes sparkled and his wit sparkled, too. He won the heart of Mrs. Collins. She said he was "the beautifullest man she had ever seen." Even John Collins, a plough- and wagon-dealer by trade, was impressed with the mental gifts and manly appearance of the young preacher, and Belle knew that the thing she had set out for was won.

Instead of discussing plans she announced them as if they were settled. The doctor wished to stay a day or two in Deadwood, but that did not suit Belle at all. She was quite clear about it. Her aunt must drive back with her at once. The doctor and the Preacher must come, too, but arrive a little later in Cedar Mountain. So they boarded their buckboards, waved good-bye, and set their faces to the south.

The sun shone as it knows how in Dakota. The great pine-clad hills were purple in the lovely morning haze as the little party left Deadwood that day on the buffalo trail for Cedar Mountain. The doctor drove first in his buckboard, not without misgivings, for the good horse had had little rest since that forty-five mile drive. Next came the horseman on the gold-red horse that men turned to look after. Last, the prairie buckboard of the house of Collins with Aunt Anna driving and Belle at her side.

The prairie larks sang from low perches or soared a little way in the air to tell the world how glad they were on that bright summer morning. The splendour of the hills was on all things, and Jim on Blazing Star was filled with the glad tonic. For five miles they ambled along, and when the doctor stopped at a watering place—he had been told to stop there—the others caught up with him. Hereupon there was a readjustment, and their next going found the Collins rig leading with Blazing Star behind, and Belle with Hartigan in the second buckboard.

That was a drive of much consequence to two of the party. In that second buckboard the fates laid plans, spun yarns, and rearranged many things. Hartigan opened his heart and life. He told of his mother, of his happy childhood; of his losses; of his flat, stale, unprofitable boyhood; of Bill Kenna and his "word as a man"; of his own vow of abstinence, kept unbroken till he was eighteen. He gave it all with the joyous side alone in view, and when a pathetic incident intruded, the pathos was in the things, not in the words of the narrator. The man had a power of expression that would have made a great journalist. His talk was one continuous entertainment, and lasted unbroken to the half-way house, where they were to stay an hour for rest and food.

How sweet it is to tell one's history to a woman who takes in every word as of large importance! How pleasant it is to confess to a keen and sympathetic hearer. The twenty-five miles passed far too soon. It was short, but long enough for large foundations to be laid.

Belle was only twenty-two, but hers was a wise head. Hartigan had spoken freely about himself and thus had conferred in some large sort a right to advise. She had deliberately constructed a new mood for his thoughts, so that the horrors of the Bylow cabin were forgotten. The questions now for him and for her were, how to set him right with the church, and how begin all over again. Hartigan's idea was to go openly before the whole congregation with a humble apology, and publicly promise to abstain from drink forever. Belle vetoed this emphatically.

"Never rub your head in the mud," she said. "You make your peace with God first, then with Dr. Jebb, and the deacons. Pay no attention to any one else. There will be some talk for a while, but it will die away.

"You don't know the Black Hills as I do, Jim. People out here don't take things quite so seriously as eastern folk. Many a western preacher carries a flask of brandy as snakebite antidote or chill cure. Not long ago I heard of a minister up north who was held for horse-stealing. Yes, more than once. And how he explained it, I don't know: but he is preaching yet. I don't mean to make light of these things, Jim, but I want to keep you from a kind of reparation which will be more of a shock to the people than what they now know. We must have some sense of proportion. Since there was no public scandal, you will find that the whole matter will be overlooked."

Belle was right; he knew she was; and later events proved it.

Most men propose when they find "the one woman"; but some don't. Many marriages take place without any formal proposal. The man and the woman come together and discover such sympathy, such need of each other, that they assume much that remains unspoken. Nothing was said of love or marriage on that journey from Deadwood, but James Hartigan and Belle Boyd were conscious of a bond that happily and finally became complete. Thenceforth he made no move without consulting her; thenceforth she had no plans in which he was not more than half.

They were ten miles from Cedar Mountain when the last change was made. Those who noted their arrival some while later saw Belle ride up the Main Street with her aunt, and tie up at her father's door. Twenty minutes later Hartigan rode beside the doctor's rig to his home, at the other side of the town.



CHAPTER XXI

The Ordeal

Jim went at once to Dr. Jebb's to report. Mrs. Jebb opened the door, greeted him with a hearty handshake, and was more than usually cordial. Dr. Jebb was kind, but embarrassed. He offered Jim a chair and began nervously:

"There was a rumour—there—that is—we missed you on Sunday."

Jim, with characteristic directness, said: "Doctor, I'll tell you all about it." Just then there was a timid knock and Mrs. Jebb reappeared. "May I be present, Jim?" she said. "I understand that you have something to talk about, and you know, you were always my boy."

Dr. Jebb looked puzzled. Jim said: "If I can't trust you, who is there left to trust?" And then told the story of his fall. He painted himself not quite so black as he might have done the day before, but black enough.

Dr. Jebb looked terribly worried and distressed. "I don't know what to say," he kept repeating. "All my heart is with you, but my judgment condemns you. I don't know what to say."

Then Mrs. Jebb spoke. "Now, Josiah, you know perfectly well that your affections always were a safer guide than your judgment. There was no bad intention on the part of the sinner—for we are all sinners—this was just an unfortunate accident, and Jim shows in every possible way his regret. There has been no public scandal, and so I think you had better drop the whole thing and forget it. I know enough about Jim to know that he has made out the worst possible case against himself."

"That may be," said Dr. Jebb, "but I fear we must bring the matter up before the deacons, at least."

"As long as you don't make it public by bringing it before the church," said Mrs. Jebb, "all right."

Thus it was that Dr. Jebb sent out a notice, to such of the deacons as he could not see personally, that a meeting was to be held at his house that night.

In the same afternoon another interview took place in Cedar Mountain. School-trustee Higginbotham was sitting in his office when the schoolteacher came up the boardwalk and into the insurance office.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, John"; and the visitor sat down. Higginbotham glanced at him and noticed that his face was drawn and his eyes "like holes burnt in a blanket." His fingers trembled as he rolled a cigarette.

"Say, John," Lowe began nervously, "in case any rumour gets around that the Preacher and I were a little reckless at Bylow's, you can contradict it. At least there's nothing in it as far as I am concerned. I think the Preacher must have taken some before I arrived. He showed the effects, but not much."

"Hm," said Higginbotham. "You got there late?"

"Yes, you see we—that is, both of us—went there to stop that spree—and we did, in a way, but things got a little mixed."

"How was that?"

"Well, I went there to help him and I did what I could for him, but they had had some already. We spilled the keg on the floor and the fumes were pretty strong and affected him a little. Didn't amount to much. I did what I could. It was strong enough to affect me—unpleasantly, too. I thought I'd just let you know in case there was anything said about it."

As soon as he was gone, Hannah appeared. Apparently, she had overheard the conversation. "Well, did you catch on?"

"Partly; how did it strike you?"

"I think he is trying to save his own skin by dragging in the Preacher."

"I think so, too; but all the same, I won't use his story if it can be dispensed with. The less we dig into this thing the better."

A little later the notice came from Dr. Jebb, inviting Deacon Higginbotham to a meeting at his house that evening, for important business. As he walked across the village Charlie Bylow stepped out from a dark corner near Dr. Jebb's house.

"Say, Deacon," he began, "I've been waiting to see you. I know what is on to-night. I want you to know it was a put-up job. It was the schoolteacher worked it. The stuff was doped all right. The Preacher went there to stop it as he did the other time, but they fooled him and trapped him."

"Yes, I thought so," said the little deacon, "and how was it worked?"

"Well, I don't just exactly know. I haven't been on good terms with my brother since I joined the church, so I don't go to his house any more; but I heard some talk about its being the 'slickest thing ever.' I know the Preacher went there to stop it and that they trapped him and that it was Jack Lowe did it."

"Will you go before the deacons of the church and tell them that—if it is necessary?"

"No," replied Bylow uneasily; "at least I don't want to go before any meeting. I only know that's right; that's the way it happened; and I don't want any one to blame Mr. Hartigan." Here Charlie abruptly ended and went away.

Higginbotham turned back to his house. Hannah listened with the keenest attention and then said: "It's easy to straighten it all out. I'll see Belle and tell her to go to Jim at once and keep him from talking. You know what he is when he gets going. He'll talk too much and spoil it all." Thus these two loyal friends laid plans to screen him.

At Jebb's house, Higginbotham took the earliest occasion to warn Jim.

"Now don't talk. Simply answer one or two questions when asked and as briefly as possible. 'Yes' or 'No' is enough. You know we've got to satisfy the old Deacon Blight crowd somehow." And Jim promised to obey.

Dr. Jebb called the meeting to order and, at once, Higginbotham arose and said: "Mr. Chairman, I think it would be better for Mr. Hartigan to retire to another room." So Jim went out.

Dr. Jebb then gave a brief and rather halting account of a "certain rumour reflecting on the sobriety of his assistant." Before he had more than outlined the facts, Higginbotham jumped up:

"Dr. Jebb, you have alluded to a rumour. I call it a shameful fabrication, with no basis in fact. I have made a thorough investigation and am prepared, with two reliable witnesses, to prove that Mr. Hartigan went to the Bylow cabin to prevent a disgraceful spree, as he did once before. They had prepared by getting a keg of whiskey. This liquid sin, if I may so call it, Mr. Hartigan spilled on the floor; unfortunately, it was in a small, close cabin and the fumes affected his head so that he was temporarily ill. These are the facts; and to prove them I have two reliable witnesses. Call in Charlie Bylow and John Lowe." He looked with a pretense of expectation toward the door; getting no response he said: "Humph, not arrived yet. Well, we won't wait. In the meantime, I must say that to my mind altogether too much has been made of this accident and I am satisfied to dismiss the subject if the rest of the deacons consent."

"No, I don't consent; I don't think we should," said Deacon Blight. "We can't afford to have a scandal about our spiritual leader. Let's prove it or disprove it right now."

And, acting on the majority vote, Dr. Jebb called Jim Hartigan to appear. Dr. Jebb was supposed to be chairman, but Higginbotham was irrepressible.

"I want to ask one or two questions," he called out; and, without waiting for permission, he began: "Now, Mr. Hartigan, I understand that you went to the Bylow Corner last Saturday night to prevent a whiskey spree, as we know you have done before; that in some way the fumes of the liquor entered your head and so overpowered you that you were ill afterward; and that it was a painful surprise to you, as one well known to be a teetotaller. Isn't that so?"

"Well, yes," said Jim, in some perplexity; "but it was this way——"

"Never mind the way of it," said Higginbotham emphatically. Then, turning to the others: "I don't see that we need go any further."

"Hold on, hold on," said Deacon Blight; "I'd like to ask one or two questions. You admit being under the influence of liquor at Bylow's?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Were you ever under the influence of liquor before?"

"I was."

"Once, or more than once?"

"More than once," said Jim. He would have said "many times" but for a scowl from Higginbotham.

"Oh, ho!" said the deacon. "When was that?"

"Before I was converted."

"Never since?"

"No; except last Saturday."

Here Dr. Jebb interrupted. "It seems to me that we need not follow the subject any further than to inquire into the mental attitude of the brother who fell into the snare. I know it is one of absolute contrition now, especially as the affair was of the nature of an accident during the discharge of his duty. It seems to me, therefore, that we should accept his expression of penitence coupled with a promise to abstain so long as he is here with us."

Jim volunteered to abstain for all time, but Higginbotham's moderate counsels prevailed.

Deacon Blight thought that the transgressor should be suspended from office pending a fuller investigation. Deacon Higginbotham thought that it had already been more than fully investigated. Deacon Whaup had never heard of the affair until this evening, but thought that Mr. Hartigan ought to retire during further discussion.

As soon as Jim was outside, Higginbotham, fully determined to stop all further talk, said: "Dr. Jebb, I move we accept the promise Mr. Hartigan has given and table the whole matter. It is absurd to follow it further in the light of what we know—making a big mountain of a very small mole-hill."

Blight, however, didn't think so. He argued for delay and for stern measures. Dr. Jebb put the motion and it was carried with but one dissenting vote; and so the matter was officially closed. As they dispersed, Dr. Jebb reminded them that the deliberations of the Board of Deacons were to be considered strictly confidential.

And Jim went forth with strange and mixed feelings. He was grateful for Higginbotham's determined protection and yet he would have held the Board in higher respect if it had punished him severely. Such was the nature of the ardent Celt.



CHAPTER XXII

The Three Religions Confront Him

Jack Shives's blacksmith shop, off the Main Street of Cedar Mountain, was noted for two things: the sound, all-round work it turned out in the smithy line, and the "perchers," an ever-present delegation of village characters that sat chewing straws as they perched on the shop lumber. Most of them came to hear old Shives talk, for Jack was a philosopher and no subject was out of his field. Hartigan liked Shives, enjoyed the shop with its smoke and flying sparks, and took a keen relish in the unfettered debate that filled in the intervals between Shives's ringing blows on the anvil.

Dr. Jebb thought himself a very up-to-date divine. He had tried to have a sort of free discussion in his study Sunday nights after meeting, but the restraint of parsondom was over it all. He was really a painfully orthodox old person; all his up-to-dateness was within the covers of the catechism, and the real thinkers kept away. Dr. Carson had better success, but he was a bitter politician, so that all who differed from him on national or local politics avoided his house. The blacksmith shop, however, was open for all, and the real discussions of the village were there. Shives had a masterful way of assuming the chairmanship, and of doing the job well, often while pounding the anvil; sometimes an effective punctuation of his remarks came in the hiss of hot iron thrust in the tank, and Shives enjoyed the humour of obliterating his opponent for the moment in a cloud of steam.

Jim Hartigan, with his genial, sociable instincts, was found in Shives's shop more often than in the tiny room which, with the bed, table, and books, was all he had in the way of home. Dr. Jebb was afraid to take any large part in these deliberations. They were apt to discuss what he considered the undiscussable foundations of the Church. But Dr. Carson was one of the most strenuous of the debators.

"I tell you, there ain't a bit o' use o' your talking," said Shives. "If I stick my finger in that fire, I'm a-going to get burnt and all the prayers and repentance I can put up ain't a-going to wipe off that burn. I've got to suffer for what I do just the same, whether I belong to church or not."

"Sure, now," said Hartigan, "if I see your point, there is little to it. You are talking about sin being its own punishment, which is true; but suppose a doctor came along and by his work and skill saved you from losing the finger altogether and in the end your finger was little the worse and you were much the wiser—what about your theory then?"

"That is not the point. If it was the same thing, when I hurt my finger I would only have to say, 'I repent; the Lord will take my punishment,' and at once my finger would be restored as it was before."

"Well, that may be your Church's creed, but it isn't mine," said Hartigan; and they wrangled till the blacksmith halted in his raking of the coals, turned to Hartigan, and beating in the air with his coal rake like a band leader with his baton, he said with punctuated emphasis: "My creed tells me I must suffer for my own doings just as surely as if I lay my finger on this anvil and hit it a crack with the hammer, and no man can save me from that, and if you tell me that God is a wild beast and merely wants a victim to punish, no matter who, then I want to know where the justice comes in. There is not any greater wickedness than to let the guilty escape, except it be to punish the innocent; and that's the whole sum and substance of your religion, which was neatly summed up by old Blue Horse down at Pine Ridge. After he had heard the missionary explaining it for about the thousandth time, he said: 'Ho, me see now; your God is my devil.'

"I tell you there's only one sum and substance of all religion that's worth while, and that is to be a kind, decent neighbour, do your work, and help others to do theirs. You will find that set forth, straight as a string, in your own textbook, where it says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself.'" And the blacksmith drew the radiant iron from the forge to pound, pound, pound, amid the laughter that proclaimed the defeat of the Preacher.

Hartigan was never strong on theology. At college he had neglected the chance to learn the cut and parry in that strangest of all games, and the puzzle for which he had no quick answer was that of the burnt finger. In the smithy debates the answer had to be quick, or it was no answer at all. He had lost the chance and was mortified to see the verdict of the crowd against him.

"Jack," he said, "I want you to come to church and see how simple it all is."

"Church. Huh! I think I see myself," said the blacksmith.

"That's not fair," said Hartigan. "You condemn church without going to see what it is."

"Oh, I've been there a-plenty."

"When?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Oh, pshaw! It's all changed since then."

"Is it? That's a good one. I thought God's religion was unchangeable for ever and ever. I tell you, young fellow, if you keep on working and thinking you will wind up with a religion of common sense and kindness which, as near as I can make out, is what the man Jesus did preach."

"Then why don't you come to hear it?" retorted Hartigan.

"Because ye don't preach it."

"That's not a fair way to put it," reiterated Hartigan.

"See here," said Shives, "I will go to church next Sunday and right along, if whenever you get off some fool statement that every one knows is nonsense, you let me or some one get up and say, 'Now prove that, or take it back before you go further.'"

Hartigan was worsted. He did not retreat, but he was glad of the interruption furnished by a wild horse brought in to be shod. Here he took the lead and showed such consummate horse sense in the handling of the animal that the blacksmith growled, "If you'd put some of that into your pulpit, I'd go to hear you."

As Jim mounted Blazing Star and rode away at an easy swing, all eyes followed him, and the blacksmith growled: "'Homely in the cradle, handsome on the horse,' they say. He must 'a' been a clock-stopper when he was a kid. Pity to waste all that on a pulpiteer."

Later, the Preacher had a full discussion with Belle. The blacksmith had dented Hartigan's armour in several places. Where was the justice in punishing one being for another's sins? Even if the sufferer was willing, it was still wicked injustice. How could repentance wipe out the self-brought injury? These were among the puzzles. Dr. Jebb was his natural helper, but the Preacher brought them first to Belle. She had gone deeper and further than he had. She dreaded doctrinal discussion, but at length said:

"Did you never hear of the transfusion of blood whereby a man may give of his strength and, by suffering, save a friend from death? Did you never hear of a man tottering and almost down who was found by a friend at the right moment, helped to greater strength by mutual suffering, and so restored to his balance before he went down to ruin?"

And the fervent answer was, "Yes, I have."

* * * * *

New vistas were opened to them by this open-hearted talk—truly communion—and as they rode through the gray-bloomed sage they followed still the thought. Then he waved a hand and raised his face toward Cedar Mountain with its column seeming small against the sky.

"I want you to see it, Belle. I want you to stand there with me and know how much it means when your spirit is just right."

She swung her horse with his and they headed for the trail. He had talked to her about it before, but he had felt a little disappointed that her imagination was not stirred as his had been—that the mystery and charm, the emotional awe, so easy for his Celtic blood, had not been conjured up in her by his words. But he still had hopes that the feeling of the far-up shrine would weave enchantment of its own; and he told her of the second sight that the fay of his mother's land could give if one sang a song of the one right pitch in the glen of the "very stone."

So they rode through the sage to the trailing cedar robe and followed upward till the upper edge of the fragrant woods was reached. There they tied the horses and climbed on foot to the upland. The grass among the rocks was yellow now, and high gentians seized on the rare moment to flaunt their wondrous blue against that perfect background. A flock of autumn birds rose up and flew on, as the climbers, reaching the Spirit Rock, paused and turned to look out over the golden plains to the east, over the blue hills to the north, and into the purple glow that the waning sunlight left on all the west.

Belle rejoiced in it for its material beauty and its wealth of colour; and Jim, shyly watching her, said:

"Sometimes as I stand by this rock pinnacle and look over the plain, I feel as if I were an ocean rover, high up in the lookout, peering over the rough and tumbling sea. It possesses me with more than the power of a dream." Then, after a pause: "See, here is where the Indian boy was sitting as he kept his fast and vigil. I wonder what he saw. Some day, Belle, I want to take that vigil. Do you remember that the prophets of old always did so when they sought light? I am learning that the Indian had some light, and to-day I have done as he would do, I have brought my sacred medicine with me." He produced a little cedar box that his father had made. He opened it and deeply inhaled its fragrance. "That is cedar, Belle; it carries me back to other days when, under the cedar shingles, my mother put her arm about me and prayed that I might find the Eternal Guide."

He took out his mother's Bible, her photograph and the daguerreotype of his father. These were his sacred relics, and with them was a bundle of cedar twigs to keep the fragrance ever there—to keep continually with them the power, through smell, to conjure up those days and thoughts of her love. Belle took them reverently and gazed at the prim old pictures; then she looked him squarely in the eyes, intensely for a moment, like one who looks through a veil for the first time and sees a hidden chamber unguessed before.

"Belle," he said, and his voice was a little husky; "if I had gone on to the Big Cheyenne that time, I would have built a fire as soon as I had the chance and burnt all these to ashes; and then what—God only knows, for these were the vessels of my sanctuary; this was the ark of my covenant, with the rod that budded, the tables of the law, and the precious incense." She laid her hand on his in silent comprehension and he went on. "All my life I have had two natures struggling within me; and the destroyer would have won, and had won, when you turned the rout. If you had not come to me in Deadwood I would surely have burnt these relics. Now you understand. I couldn't speak about it down there; but up here it is easy. Some time I may be missing for a couple of days. Do not worry then; it will only mean I have gone up into my mountain. I am seeking the light that comes from prayer and fasting and vigil in a high place."

"I know those things as words," she said. "Just as we all learned them in Sunday-school; but you make them as real as this mountain, a part of my very life."

He replaced the relics in their cedar box and she realized that for the first time she had had a glimpse of the deep and spiritual quality of his soul.



BOOK III

THE HORSE PREACHER



CHAPTER XXIII

Blazing Star

The Angel of Destiny who had special charge of Jim had listed and measured his failings and had numbered them for drastic treatment. The brawling spirit of his early days, the proneness to drink, the bigoted intolerance of any other mode of thought than his own, the strange mistake of thinking physical courage the only courage, a curious disregard for the things of the understanding—each was the cause of bitter suffering. Each in its kind was alloy, dross, and for each the metal had to pass through the fires and, purified, come forth.

Hartigan's love of sport was rooted deep in his nature and Fate gave it a long fling. It took no cruel or destructive form, nor did it possess him as a hate; but certain things held him in passionate allegiance, so deep and so reckless that when their fever was upon him nothing else seemed worth a thought. And the chiefest of these was his love of horses. A noble thing in itself, a necessary vent, perhaps, for the untamed spirit's love of untrammelled motion but it was inwrought with dangers. Most men in the West in Hartigan's day—as now—were by nature horse-lovers; but never, so far as Cedar Mountain knew, had there been a man so horse-crazy as the Rev. James Hartigan. Already, he was known as the "Horse Preacher."

It was seldom that an animal received so much personal care as Blazing Star; it was seldom that a steed so worthy could be found; and the results were for all to behold. The gaunt colt of the immigrant became the runner of Cedar Mountain, and the victory won at Fort Ryan was the first of many ever growing in importance.

You can tell much of a man's relation to his horse when he goes to bring him from pasture. If he tricks and drives him into a corner, and then by sudden violence puts on the bridle, you know that he has no love, no desire for anything but service; in return he will get poor service at best, and no love at all. If he puts a lump of sugar in his pocket and goes to the fence, calling his horse by name, and the horse comes joyously as to meet a friend, and with mobile, velvet lips picks the sugar clean from the offering palm and goes willingly to saddle and bit, then you know that the man is a horse man, probably a horseman; by the bond of love he holds his steed, and will get from him twice the service and for thrice as long as any could extort with spur and whip.

"Whoa, Blazing Star, whoa", and the gold-red meteor of the prairie would shake his mane and tail and come careering, curvetting, not direct, but round in a brief spiral to find a period point at the hand he loved.

"Ten times," said Colonel Waller, of the Fort, "have I seen a man so bound up in the friendship of his dog that all human ties had second place; but never before or since have I seen a man so bonded to his horse, or a horse so nobly answering in his kind, as Hartigan and his Blazing Star."

The ancients had a fable of a horse and a rider so attuned—so wholly one—that the brain of the man and the power of the horse were a single being, a wonderful creature to whom the impossible was easy play. And there is good foundation for the myth. Who that has ridden on the polo field or swung the lasso behind the bounding herd, can forget the many times when he dropped the reins and signalled to the horse only by the gentle touch of knee, of heel, by voice, by body swing, by wishing thus and so, and got response? For the horse and he were perfectly attuned and trained—the reins superfluous. Thus, centaur-like, they went, with more than twice the power that either by itself possessed.

Fort Ryan where the Colonel held command, was in the Indian reserve and five miles south of Cedar Mountain. The life of the garrison was very self-contained, but Cedar Mountain had its allurements, and there were some entertainments where civilian and soldier met. The trail between was a favourite drive or ride and to Hartigan it became very familiar.

There was one regular function that had a strong hold on him. It took place every other Saturday afternoon on the parade ground, and was called general riding exercises, but was really a "stunt show" of trick riding. After they began to know him, the coming of Hartigan with his horse was hailed by all with delight. The evenings of these festal days were spent in the gymnasium, when there was an athletic programme with great prominence given to sword play, boxing, and singlestick, in which Hartigan was the king; and here his cup of joy was full.

"Ain't it a shame to waste all that stuff on a preacher?" was the frequent expression of the soldiers. Though what better use they would have made of it, was not clear.

Many a dark night Hartigan rode home from the Fort after the evening's fun was over leaving it entirely to his horse to select the road, after the manner of the wise horseman. In mid-August there had been one of the typical Black Hill storms. After a month of drought, it had rained inches in a few hours. The little Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne was a broad flood which carried off most of its bridges, including that on the trail to the Fort. The rain had ceased the day before, but the flood had subsided very little by Saturday night as Hartigan mounted Blazing Star and set out for the fortnightly affair at Fort Ryan.

The sky was still blocked with clouds and at eight o'clock it was black dark, so Hartigan left the selection of the trail, as a matter of course, to Blazing Star. From the time of leaving the last light in Cedar Mountain till they drew up under the first lantern at Fort Ryan, Hartigan never saw the horse he was riding, much less the road he was riding on: nor had he touched the reins or given by word or pressure of knee any signal of guidance. The night was too black for his senses, but he knew he was committing his way to senses that were of a keener order than his own, and he rode as a child might—without thought of fear. He could feel it when they were going down into the canyon of the Rapid Fork, and at the bottom of the slight descent he heard the rush of waters, and noted that Blazing Star lowered his head and snorted softly more than once. He heard the tap of the hoofs on the timber of the bridge, and then they ascended and came in a little while to the lantern at the door of the gymnasium in the barracks.

"Hello, Hartigan! Where in the world did you come from?" was the cordial greeting of Colonel Waller.

"Where could I come from but Cedar Mountain?"

"The deuce you did."

"Why not?"

"How did you cross the creek?"

"By the bridge."

"Oh, no, you didn't."

"I surely did," said the Preacher.

"Well, you didn't, because there isn't any bridge. It all went out last night," was the Colonel's astounding answer.

"Be that as it may," said the Preacher, "I have come here direct from Cedar Mountain. I left at eight o'clock and here I am, arrived by the road at eight forty-five; and I crossed the Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne on the bridge. I didn't see it. I didn't see my horse from start to finish. I didn't see one inch of the road; but I heard it and felt it. Anyway, I'm here."

That night the Preacher stayed at the Fort, but he was up at daylight. So were the officers, for they had laid bets on this matter. They came to the little canyon, the river, and the place of the bridge; the bridge was gone; but, yes, surely there was one long stringer left. It had been held by the bolt at one end, and the officer charged with repairing the bridge had swung it back into place that very afternoon, and made it firm to serve as a footbridge, though it was barely twelve inches wide.

There, plainly written in the soft earth, was the story of the crossing. Blazing Star had descended the bank, and had missed the narrow stringer by a yard. He had nosed along till he found it and had crossed over on that with the delicate poise and absolute sense of certainty that would have been destroyed had the rider tried to give a guiding hand. And the end would have been sure death had Hartigan not trusted to his horse so utterly. The best of steed and man had thus begot a creature on a higher plane—in spirit and effect the centaur of the ancient tale.



CHAPTER XXIV

Red Rover

August was advancing with everything shaping for a great local event. The Corn Dance of the Indians to celebrate the first of the new crop was an old festival and brought hundreds of them together. In addition, the government had selected September fifteenth for the semi-annual issue of the treaty money. This was a coincidence of festivals that insured a great attendance and at all such times horse-racing was the favourite sport.

On the Fourth of July of that year the Indians had produced an extraordinary buckskin cayuse which, in spite of its humble origin and raw exterior, had proved speedy enough to defeat all opposition and capture the big purse. Interest in the opportunity for revenge had grown every day since, and the fact that each Indian family was to get one hundred dollars in cash, enhanced the chances of a fat purse. A winning horse was the first need of the ranchmen and they turned at once to Hartigan and Blazing Star. They were much taken aback to receive from him a flat refusal to enter or to let any one else enter Blazing Star for a race. In vain they held out great inducements, possibilities of a huge fortune, certainly of a big lump sum down in advance, or almost any price he chose to ask for Blazing Star.

Hartigan's reply was an emphatic "No." And that was the end of it.

There was nothing for the whites to do but find another racer. There certainly was no such horse as they needed in all the country; had there been, they would have known it; and those who took the matter to heart were planning a visit to Illinois or Kentucky even, where it was simply a matter of money to get a blooded horse that would settle the issue.

While on a long hard trip for the spiritual help of brethren in the South, Jim was left for a day at Chadron, Nebraska, a distributing point for settlers coming to the Platte. With the instinct born of his Western life, Jim made for the big horse corral, which is always on the outskirts of a prairie town and where he knew he could pass a pleasant hour or more. It was, as usual, crowded with horses of low and middle class degree—some old and worn, some young and raw, many extraordinary pintos, one or two mounts above the average of size or beauty, but nothing to secure more than passing attention.

The scene in and about the corral held a great fascination for Jim. There were cowboys and stable hands; farmers whose horses were in the corral or whose homes were in the prairie schooners anchored on the plain near-by; men were coming and going, and groups of children rollicked about the camp fire.

As Hartigan looked on, a young fellow—whose soft, slow speech and "r"-less words were certain proof of Southern birth—led from a stable a tall, clean-limbed horse and, flopping into the saddle with easy carelessness, rode away. As he passed, the horse's coat of bronze and gold fairly rippled in the sun as the perfect muscles played beneath, and the delight that Jim got, none but a horseman would understand. As the lad cantered away to a camping group and returned, the Preacher had a fair view. The horse might have been twin brother to his own, and he did not need the rider's assurance that the steed was a "Kaintucky blood all right."

In all the Western towns an interesting custom has grown up in the matter of registering. The chief hotel is accepted as the social centre and clubhouse, so that a man arriving in town, whether he puts up at the hotel or not, goes to the register and enters his name. "Never fail to register; it may be handy to prove an alibi," has become a saying. Jim went to the hotel with an idea. He registered, glanced over the other names and learned that Cattleman Kyle was then in town. It was easy to find him in a place of this size, and after a brief search Jim hailed him boisterously from afar:

"Say, Kyle, I've found what you are looking for."

"What's that?"

"A horse. A real horse. A winner."

"What? Are you willing to sell Blazing Star?"

"No!" was the forceful answer. "Come and see."

And Kyle did see. His eye kindled as he watched the glorious creature in the sun.

"By jinks! He's all right. He's better than Blazing Star."

"Not on your life!" said Jim, with sudden heat, "but he's what you are after."

They walked casually up to the young rider. Kyle began:

"Say, young fellow, is that horse for sale?"

"Yo' the fo'th pah'ty to-day to ask that," was the softly cooed answer. "No, he ain't fo' sale."

"Looks to me like a Kentucky blood," said Kyle. "Are you going to keep him in this country or ride him back?"

"Wall, I'm h'yah to stay, and I guess he stays with me."

"What are you going to feed him on? You can't get timothy or beans or oats out here. He couldn't keep up on prairie hay; and, if you did try it, he'd get the loco weed."

This was a good shot and the rider had no ready answer, so Kyle continued. "How old is he?"

"Fo' last spring and sound as a bell; hasn't a fault," was the reply.

"Why don't you swap him for something that can stand the country?" said Kyle. Then, as the Southerner did not reply, Kyle continued: "I'll give you two steady young saddle horses raised in the country and proof against pinkeye and loco weed."

"If you add about a thousand dollars, I might consider it," was the response.

That was the beginning of bargaining, and the end was that the Kentuckian got two native saddle horses and two hundred and fifty dollars cash. Cattleman Kyle got the beautiful Red Rover and Jim Hartigan experienced just a twinge of jealousy as he saw the new champion and heard his praises sung. Kyle's intention had been to keep Red Rover and rejoice in the beauty and power of the new possession; but the problem of how to win the next race made every other consideration secondary.

It is well known that a skilful trainer can knock twenty-five seconds off a horse's mile time; or even more, if he can be trained on clean oats and timothy hay. There were oats, hay and skilful trainers in the cavalry barracks at Fort Ryan. There were none of these things at Kyle's ranch on the Big Cheyenne; hence, after much debate, Red Rover was transferred, without profit or loss, to Captain Wayne and was thenceforth the central figure and chiefest hope of the Fort Ryan stables.

Naturally, one of the first things to be done was to get a gauge on Red Rover's speed by a race with Blazing Star. It was only a race "for fun," and Jim gave his place to a lighter man; but he watched with an eagerness not easily expressed in words, and his heart swelled with joy—yes, into his very throat—when it was made clear, that, while Red Rover was good, Blazing Star was better.

All these things were events of the first magnitude to the horseman's world that centred at Fort Ryan. The love of horses is common to most men, but it is dominant in the West, and rampant in the mounted soldier. The general interest of officers and men grew into a very keen and personal interest as the training went on, and touched fever heat when it was definitely announced that on Treaty Day, September fifteenth, there was to be a race for a purse of one hundred dollars, as a nominal consideration, and betting to any extent on the side. Meanwhile, word was sent to the Pine Ridge Agency that the whites were not discouraged by their defeat in July, but would come again with their horse in the Corn Feast time for a new race.

Then, one fine morning in early August, a long procession of Indians appeared on the hills, singing their marching songs, trailing their travois and tepee poles. They set up their camp not far from Fort Ryan; and soon, Red Cloud, with a few who were near him, rode in to call on Colonel Waller. The latter received them on the piazza of his quarters, and, after a smoke, learned that they had come to accept the challenge to race their horses. When and where should it be? It was arranged that on the fifteenth of September they should meet at Fort Ryan, and that the race should come off on the two-mile course at the Fort. After smokes, compliments and the exchange of some presents, Red Cloud withdrew to his camp.

The following day, as his trainer was putting Red Rover through his paces around the course, there was a group of Indians on their horses at the racetrack; silent, attentive, watching every move. At dawn, the day after, the sentry reported that a band of mounted Indians were on the racetrack. From his window the Colonel watched them through a telescope. He saw them studying the ground; and then a naked youth, on a spirited buckskin, galloped round. It was easy for the Colonel to note the time by his stop-watch and thus have a rough idea of the pony's flat speed on the two miles. He was not surprised one way or the other. The time was considerably over four minutes, which merely proved it to be an ordinarily good horse. But, of course, he knew nothing of the handling; was this top speed? or was the driver holding the horse in? In ten minutes the Indians were gone.

The next day, a party rode out from Cedar Mountain to see the Indian camp; and, leading the light-hearted procession, were Belle Boyd on her pony and the Preacher on Blazing Star. It was not easy to see Red Cloud. He was much wrapped up in his dignity and declined to receive any one under the rank of "Soldier High Chief" (Colonel). But they found much to interest them in the Sioux camp, and at length, were rewarded by seeing the war chief come forth, mount his horse, and ride, with others, toward the Fort. Turning aside, at the racetrack, Belle and Jim saw Red Rover come forth for his morning spin. The Red men drifted to the starting point, and just as the racer went away an Indian boy on a buckskin broncho dashed alongside and kept there round the track. Whether it was a race or not no one could say, for each rider was jockeying, not willing to win or lose, and it had the appearance of a prearranged dead heat. One of the officers called out: "Say, boys, that's their same old buckskin cayuse. What do you make of it?"

It was the white jockey who replied: "If that's their speeder, it's a cinch. I could have run away at any time."

A senior officer spoke up: "I kept tabs on it, and it's just the same time practically as the Colonel took on his stop watch yesterday. We've got them this time."

What the Indians learned was not revealed. But, next morning, Red Cloud called upon the Colonel. He smoked a long while before he made clear what he was after. "Did the Colonel want a fair race, or not?"

"Why certainly a fair race."

"Then send to Red Cloud a load of the white man's grass that has a tail like a rat; and give him also some of the long white seed, a pile as high as a man's knees, so that the pony might eat and be strong, and make good race."

The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ho, ho!" he thought, "the crafty old villain has been learning something."

Now though the Colonel of a frontier post has ample power, it would have been very unwise of him to sell any stores to the Indian; he might, however, without risk of censure, have given him the asked-for supply, had he deemed it advisable. But why should he help the enemy's horse? So he shook his head and said he was "not allowed to sell government stores." And Red Cloud turned away, with an expression of scorn.

The next day, a minor chief tried to buy some oats from the stable man; but, being refused, went off in silence; and, two days later, the Indian Camp was gone.

The news soon spread abroad that the famous buckskin cayuse had been up to go over the track, and that Red Rover had played with him. "It was a cinch," they could win any money they liked; and then the betting became crazy. The Indians have no idea of anything but an even bet, but that was good enough. The day of the race there were to be fifty thousand government dollars distributed among them; and every white man, soldier or civilian, who could raise a little cash, was putting it up on a certainty of doubling.

The days and all they held were a terrible strain on Jim Hartigan. How he itched to be in it! Not once, but many times, he rode to Fort Ryan to see Red Rover training; and more than once he rode around the track to pace the Rover. His face, his very soul, glowed as he watched the noble animal, neck and neck with his own fair steed. "The only horse that ever had made Blazing Star let out."

Then, near the end, in very pride—he could not help it—he put Blazing Star to it and let them see that while Red Rover might be good, he was only second best after all.

"It wasn't racing," he explained to Belle, "it was just speeding up a little. Sure, I want the white man's horse to win over that Indian pony. It would never do to have the broncho win."

There seemed no probability of that; but there was one group of interested white men who were not quite so satisfied. Cattleman Kyle and all the ranchers on the Cheyenne wanted a sure thing; and there was no way to make sure, but by a trial race that was a real race. So they used the old-time trick of the white man who wishes to get ahead of the Indian: they hired another Indian to help them.

There had always been war and hatred between the Crows and the Sioux. The war was over for the present; but the Crows were very ready to help any one against their former enemies. Enlisted by the ranchers the Crow spies reported that the Sioux were training their horse not ten miles away in a secluded secret canyon of the Yellowbank, a tributary of the Cheyenne River. And thither by night, with all possible secrecy, went Kyle with a dozen more. Among them was Hartigan. Why? Partly because they wanted him along, for his knowledge of horses and jockeys, and chiefly because he himself was mad to go, when he heard of it. The whole colour of the adventure, the mere fact of its being an adventure, were overpowering to his untamed twenty-five-year-old spirit.

They hid their horses in a distant valley; then, in the early dawn, they followed their dusky guide to a little butte, where they made themselves as comfortable as possible to await the sunrise.

"Well," said Jim, "considering I'm freezing to death an' mortal hungry, and sitting on a bunch of cactus, and playing pick-pocket with another man's secrets and ashamed of myself, I'm having a divil of a fine time!" And they chattered and their teeth chattered, till a dog barked far below, and they heard the coyotes singing back their long soft call; and in the growing light they discovered an Indian tepee, with smoke issuing from the vent hole. Near by was a rude corral. The smoke increased—then grew less; soon sparks flew out; the light in the sky grew brighter; the music of the coyotes died away; and, in a little while, the glory of the sun was over the world.

Now they saw an old woman go forth to the corral and, following her, a youth. Unfastening the rude gate, they entered; and the boy presently rode forth on a beautiful buckskin pony, well made and spirited. Yes, the very same one they had seen on the race track at Fort Ryan. They saw him ridden to water; then, after a short canter, back to the corral. Here they watched the old woman rub and scrub him down from head to foot, while the boy brought in a truss of very good-looking hay from some hidden supply. The old woman went carefully over the bundle, throwing away portions of it. "She throw away all bad medicine plants," said the Crow. After half an hour, another Indian came forth from the lodge and brought a bag of something for the pony. They could not see what it was, but the Crow Indian said it was "white man's corn, the little sharp kind that makes a horse's legs move very fast."

"Bedad, there's no mistaking that," said Hartigan; "they're training on oats; an' that hay is too green for prairie grass and not green enough for alfalfa. I wonder if they haven't managed to get some timothy for their 'hope of the race!'"

The first important fact was that the cattlemen had discovered the training ground of the Indian racer; the second that the Red men were neglecting nothing that could help them to win. Now to be a complete story of a good scouting, these watchers should have stayed there all day, to see what the Indian methods were; but that would have been a slow job. They were too impatient to wait. It was clear, anyway, that the redskins had adopted all they could learn from the whites, and that the buckskin cayuse was no mean antagonist. The Crow scout assured them that every morning, an hour or so after eating, the pony was raced up to "that butte, round and back here. Then, by and by, sun low, go again."

So, fully informed, the white spies retired; sneaked back to their horses and in less than two hours were at Fort Ryan.

"Well, Colonel, we sure saw the whole thing," said Hartigan. "They are not taking any chances on it. 'Tisn't much of a stable—nary a shingle overhead—but they're surely training that buckskin; and it's hand-picked hay they give him and sandpapered oats, worth gold; and they don't neglect his coat; and by the same token it's out for a race they are."

And now Kyle unfolded his plan to the Colonel. It was nothing less than this: to send a half-breed trader to the Indian training camp with a supply of whiskey, play on the weakness of the Red man till man, woman and boy, and others if there were any, were stupid drunk; then have Red Rover brought secretly, and at dawn, take the buckskin out of the corral, put a jockey on each, develop the best speed of both horses around the Indian training track, and so get an absolute gauge to guide the betting.

At first, the Colonel demurred. "Was it quite honourable?"

"Why not? Didn't they come and run their horse against ours in a trial, right here on the garrison track, without asking our leave? We are not going to hurt the pony in any way."

The temptation was too much for human nature. The Colonel finally agreed; and all that was needed was the working out of details. Hartigan was eager to be one of the jockeys. "Sure it wasn't a real race in the sense that stakes were up." The Colonel shook his head. "If you were about one hundred pounds lighter we'd be glad to have you, but one hundred and eighty pounds is too much for any horse."

It was no easy matter to get the right weight. The cavalrymen were all too heavy; but an odd character had turned up, the second son of an English baronet, a dissipated youth, barely a hundred pounds in weight; an agglomeration of most weak vices, but thin, tough, and a born and trained horseman. He was selected for one, and Little Breeches, a cowboy of diminutive proportions, for the other. All the material was now in sight for the scheme.



CHAPTER XXV

The Secret of Yellowbank Canyon

Lou Chamreau was of French and Indian blood, chiefly Crow Indian. For twenty years he had been trading out of Pierre, Dakota, among the western tribes. He spoke French and Crow perfectly, he knew a little Sioux, and he was quite proficient in the universal Sign Language. Lou had lost money on the July horse-race, and was quite ready to play the white man's game.

On a certain afternoon in the latter part of August the trader might have been seen driving a very rickety wagon along the rough trail through the Badlands twenty miles to the eastward of Fort Ryan. Much hard luck had pursued him, if one might judge by the appearance of his outfit and from his story. In his extremity his teamster had left him and he was travelling alone. It was just as he reached the boulder-strewn descent into Yellowbank Creek that the climax came. The wagon upset and, falling some twenty feet, was lodged between the cutbanks in very bad shape. The horses were saved though the giving way of the harness; and having hobbled and turned them out to graze, Lou mounted a butte to seek for sign of help.

The sun was low in the west now; and across the glowing sky he noted a thread of smoke. Within a few minutes it had been his guide to an Indian tepee—a solitary tepee in this lone and little-known canyon of the Yellowbank—and entering, he recognized an old acquaintance. After sitting and smoking, he told of his troubles and asked the Red man to come and help get the wagon out of the gully.

The Indian made the signs: "Yes, at sunrise."

Chamreau smoked for a time, then said: "I'm afraid I'll lose the 'fire water' in that keg. It may be leaking under the wagon." To which the Sioux warrior said:

"Let us go now."

The keg was found intact, and to obviate all risk, was brought to the Indian camp. Chamreau deferred opening it as long as he could, so that it was midnight before the "Cowboy's delight" was handed round, and by three or four in the morning the camp was sunken in a deadly stupor.

According to the plan, Chamreau was to take a brand from the lodge and, in the black night outside, make a vivid zigzag in the air a few times, when his plot was obviously a success. But he became so deeply interested in giving realism to his own share of the spree that he forgot about everything else, and the rest of the scheme was omitted, so far as he was concerned.

But with the dim dawn there arrived in camp a couple of horsemen, one an Indian. The camp was dead. With the exception of a dog at the doorway and a horse in the corral, there was none to note their arrival. The dog growled, barked and sneaked aside. The Crow Indian hurled a stone with such accuracy that the dog accepted the arrivals as lawful, and sat down, afar off, to think it over.

The inmates of the lodge; man, woman, boy and Chamreau, were insensible and would evidently remain so for many hours. The Crow Indian and Kyle took brands from the fire and made vivid lightnings in the air. Within ten minutes, a group of horsemen came trampling down the slope and up the pleasant valley of the Yellowbank.

It was not without some twinges of conscience that Hartigan peeped into the lodge to see the utterly degrading stupefaction of the poison, but he was alone in feeling anything like regret. The rest of the party were given over to wild hilarity. At once, they made for the corral. Yes, there he was, really a fine animal, the buckskin cayuse that had proved so important. And there, carefully protected, was a lot of baled timothy hay and fine oats, brought there at great cost. It is not often that a lot of jockeys and horsemen are so careful of the enemy's mount. They handled that buckskin as if he had been made of glass, they watered him, they groomed him, they gave him a light feed and walked him gently up and down. Then, as the sun rose, he was taken for a short canter.

"He's pretty good," said the jockey as they came in, "but nothing wonderful that I can see."

Meanwhile, Red Rover was also watered, fed, rubbed down, limbered up, and after every loving, horse-wise care was spent on both animals, the jockeys were given their mounts and headed for the starting point on the two-mile course.

First they ambled easily around the track to study the ground. They started together and ran neck and neck for a quarter of a mile, then pulled rein, as this was a mere warm-up. Then they returned to the starting post, and the cowboy jockey on the buckskin said: "Well, boys, he's a good bronk, but I don't seem to feel any blood in him."

At the signal, they went off together, and behind them Captain Wayne, the Preacher, and a dozen more white men who were interested. These onlookers dropped behind as the racers went at high speed, but the view was clear, even when afar. The tall sorrel horse was a little ahead, but the buckskin displayed surprising power and speed. At the turning point he was very little behind. And now, on the home run, was to be the real trial. Would the bottom of the prairie pony overmatch the legs of the blooded horse?

The spectators were assembled at the place half way down, to meet them coming back, and follow close behind. It grew very exciting as both horses developed their best speed, and as they came to the winning post, it was clear to all that the buckskin had no chance in a fair race with Red Rover. It was incidentally clear to Hartigan, and those near by, that Red Rover had no chance against Blazing Star, even though the latter bore a heavy load; but that was not the point of general interest.

The serious business happily done, they tenderly groomed the buckskin and returned him to the corral, gave him a good supply of hay and said good-bye to the drunken Indians, the two-faced Chamreau, and the glorious Yellowbank, with its lonely lodge, its strange corral and its growlsome Indian dog.



CHAPTER XXVI

Preparing For the Day

They were a merry lot that galloped back to Fort Ryan that morning, and a still merrier crowd that gathered at Cedar Mountain, when it was whispered about that in a fair and square try-out the buckskin cayuse was badly beaten by Red Rover. The white men had a dead sure thing. "Now is the time, boys, most anything you like, raise money anyhow, you can't go wrong on this. We've got the wily Red men skinned. Now we'll get our money back and more." "Of course it's fair, anything's fair to get ahead on a horse race." And as the tale was whispered round, it grew until it would seem that Red Rover had cantered in, while the buckskin strained himself to keep within a couple of hundred yards of the racer.

So the gossip went and one serious thing resulted: the training slackened. Why bother when the horse was going to have a walk-over? The Colonel was too much engrossed with other matters to do more than give good advice. The trainer's laxity pervaded those about him, and Red Rover was let down with all the rest. When they ran out of baled timothy the shortage was not revealed till it occurred. This meant a week's delay. The trainer, going to Cedar Mountain on a celebration, left an underling in charge who knew no better than to stuff the horse with alfalfa for a change, and a slight cold was the result. What the Colonel said when he heard of it was not couched in departmental phraseology.

Gambling has always been a racial sin of the Indian. He did not drink or horse-race or torture pioneers till the white man taught him; but gamble he always did. And under the stimulus of great excitement and new stakes the habit became a craze. Within a few days, Red Cloud appeared at the Fort with a great retinue, a whole village complete when they camped, and announced that he and his people had some fifty thousand dollars in sight to stake on the race; which, of course, was to be a scratch race for both. The soldiers, being very human, raised all they could—and much that they couldn't, really—to cover this handsome sum. Red Cloud then returned to his camp.

The next day he was back to say that, in case the whites had no more money to bet, the Indians were willing to bet horses and saddles, goods, etc., and thereupon a new craze possessed them. A government plough was wagered against a settler's looking-glass, a hen and her chickens against a buffalo robe, and many another odd combination. The Indians seemed to go wild on the issue. At last the U. S. Indian Agent came to the Colonel to protest.

"Colonel, I can manage these people all right if they are let alone, but this horse race and the betting are upsetting everything. I suppose you have a dead sure thing or you wouldn't be so reckless, but you are making awful trouble for every one else, and I wish you'd put on the brakes."

The Colonel either could not, or would not; for the excitement grew as the day came near. As a last effort the Indian agent, one of the few who were conscientiously doing their best for the Indians, went to Red Cloud to protest and warn him that the whites were laying a trap for him and his people and would clean them out of everything.

Red Cloud's eyes twinkled as he said: "Yes, they always do."

"I mean on the horse race; they will skin you; don't you know they've had your horse out in a trial race with theirs, and that it's no race at all?"

Again the Chief's eyes lighted up. He gave a little grunt and said. "Mebbe so."

Hartigan suffered all the agonies of crucified instincts in this excitement. He longed to be in everything, to bet and forecast and play the game with them all. What would he not have given to be the selected jockey, to smell the hot saddle every day, to hear the sweet squeak of the leather or feel the mighty shoulder play of the noble racing beast beneath him. But such things were not for him. He was shut in, as never monk was held, from earthly joy; not by material bars and walls, but by his duty to the Church, by his word as a man, by the influence of Belle.

She trembled in her thought for him at times, his racing blood was so strong. She often rode by his side to Fort Ryan and watched him as he looked on at the training of the Rover. His every remark was a comment of the connoisseur. "Look at that, look at that, Belle. That's right, he stopped to change his feet. He's a jockey all right. He ought not to do that tap-tapping with the quirt—the horse doesn't understand it, it worries him. I don't like to see a man knee-pinch a horse in that way; it tells on a two-mile run. He's heavy-handed on the reins; some horses need it, but not that one," and so on without pause.

Never once did his conversation turn on the Church or its work; and Belle was puzzled and uneasy. Then, one day when she and Hartigan were to have ridden out, he sent a note to say that he was in trouble. Blazing Star was hurt. Belle went at once to the stable and there she found the Preacher on his knees, in an armless old undershirt, rubbing linament on to some slight bump on Blazing Star's nigh hock. A sculptor would have paused to gaze at the great splendid arms—clean and white and muscled like Theseus—massive, supple, and quick. Hartigan was very serious.

"I don't know just what it is, Belle; it looks like a puff, but it may be only a sting or a bot. Anyway, I'm afraid it's rest for a week it means," and he rubbed and rubbed the embrocation in with force, while Blazing Star looked back with liquid eyes.

This seemed like a misfortune, but it proved a blessing, for it kept Hartigan out of the racing crowd for a week at a time when he was skating on ice that was very, very thin.

As Saturday came, the Rev. Dr. Jebb received an unexpected call from a very regular caller—the Rev. James Hartigan—to ask if Dr. Jebb would kindly take both sermons on Sunday next. Blazing Star had a puff on his nigh hock, inside, a little above the leg-wart; it might not amount to much, but it required a good deal of attention every few hours, both day and night, to prevent the possibility of its becoming serious from neglect.



CHAPTER XXVII

The Start

September came, with all the multiplied glories of the Black Hills—calm, beautiful weather in a calm and beautiful country. For days back, there had been long strings of Indians, with their families and camp outfits, moving down the trail between the hills, bound all for the great raceground at Fort Ryan. Lodges were set up every day. Each of the half-dozen tribes formed its own group. Ranchmen came riding in, followed by prairie schooners or round-up wagons, for their camps; motley nondescripts from Deadwood and places round about. There were even folk from Bismarck and Pierre and, of course, all Cedar Mountain and the soldiers from the Fort.

"Sure, I didn't know there were so many people," was Hartigan's remark to Belle, as they rode on the morning of the fifteenth about the camp with its different kinds of life. Then, after a long pause and gaze around, he added, in self-examining tone: "Faith, Belle, it seems to me that, being a Preacher, I ought to get up and denounce the whole thing, preach right now and evermore against it, and do all I can to stop it, but—heaven help me if I am a hypocrite—I don't feel that way at all; I just love it, I love to see all these people here, I love to see the horses, and I wouldn't miss that race if it were the last thing on earth I was to look on. Oh, I haven't been betting, Belle," he hastened to explain as he saw the look of dread on her face. "I've kept clear of it all, but God only knows what it means to me."

"Never fear, Belle," he went on, "I won't ride in a race, I won't bet; I've given my word."

"Oh, Jim, you are a riddle; you are not one, you are two men; and they fight the whole time. But I know the wiser one is winning and I think the best friend you ever had was that big fellow that threatened you with the 'bone-rot' if ever you broke your word. I believe in you more and more," and impulsively she laid her hand on his with a warmth that provoked such instant response that she smote her horse and swung away—fearful of a situation for which she was not ready.

At three o'clock, an officer from the Fort rode over to Red Cloud's lodge and notified him that in one hour the race was to begin. The War-chief grunted.

At four, the crowd was dense around the track, and the country near seemed quite deserted. Near the starting post, which was also the finish, were a huge crowd and a small army of mounted men. Suddenly shots were heard, and a great shout went up from the Indian camp; then forth came Red Cloud, in all his war paint and eagle feathers, followed by other warriors; and carefully led in the middle of the procession was the famous buckskin cayuse, sleek, clean-limbed, but decorated with eagle feathers in mane and tail, with furry danglers on his fetlocks and a large red hand painted on each shoulder and hip. He had no saddle and was led with an ordinary hackima of hair rope around his lower jaw. He walked alertly and proudly, but showed no unusual evidence of pace or fire.

Then a cannon boomed at the Fort, and from the gate there issued another procession, soldiers chiefly, following their Colonel. First among them came a bugler, the officers, then next a trooper, leading the white hope—the precious Red Rover. His groomed and glossy coat was shining in the sun; his life and power were shown in every movement as he pranced at times, in spite of the continual restraint of his trainer, who was leading him. On the other side, rode Peaches, the little English jockey. It was a bitter pill to the Americans that they should have to trust their fortunes to an English rider, but all their men were too heavy, except Little Breeches, and, he, alas, had fallen into the hands of the whiskey mongers. The ladies of the garrison rode close behind; and last, came the regimental band, in full thump and blare. As they neared the starting post, the band was hushed and the bugle blew a fanfare; then, with the Colonel leading, the racer was taken to the starting post.

Red Cloud was there calmly waiting with his counsellors and braves and the buckskin cayuse.

"Are you ready?" shouted Colonel Waller.

"Ho," said Red Cloud, and with an imperious wave of his hand he indicated "Go ahead!"

The light racing pad was put on Red Rover, the jockey mounted and rode him at a canter for a hundred yards and back, amid an outburst of applause as the splendid creature showed his pace. Then the groom approached and tightened the cinch.

The buckskin cayuse was brought to the front. Red Cloud made a gesture. A sixteen-year-old boy, armed with a quirt, appeared; an Indian gave him a leg up, and, naked to the breech clout on the naked horse, he sat like a statue. Jim got a strange thrill as he recognized him for the vigil-keeper of Cedar Mountain.

"Well," grumbled the Colonel, as he noted the jockey, "that's a twenty-five pound handicap on us, but I guess we can stand it." Yet, when they saw the two horses together, there was less disparity in size than they had supposed. But there was something about the buckskin that caught Hartigan's eye and made him remark: "It isn't going to be such a walk-over as our fellows think." And the trainer of Red Rover, as he noted the round barrel, clean limbs, and flaring nostrils of the buckskin, had for a moment just a guilty twinge as he recalled how lax he had been in the training after that run at Yellowbank Canyon.