Finding the Lost One
Colonel Waller had been telegraphing from Cedar Mountain to all reachable parts of the North where the Crows were likely to be, without getting one word of comfort. Then up to the door of his house the morning after the devastating race came Red Cloud of the calm, square face, and behind him riding, a dozen braves.
At precisely the right moment prescribed by etiquette, he opened: "Me savvy now why you no run heap good horse."
"Humph!" said Waller.
"Didn't I tole you watch when Crow come?"
"Humph!" was the answer.
"You no got him back yet—no?"
"No," said the Colonel, with some asperity.
"Why? White scout no follow trail?"
"The rain wiped out all trail," was the answer.
"Your scout heap no good," said Red Cloud. Then, after a dozen slow puffs at his pipe, during which he gazed blankly and far away, the Indian said: "Ogallala very good scouts. Maybe so they find trail. What you give for follow Crow? Maybe find, bring back your pony."
Without a doubt, this was the easiest way. The Ogallala scouts would gladly pursue their ancient enemies and force them to give up the stolen horse. These men knew which line the Crows would most likely take, and could probably pick up the trail in a day. Prompt action was necessary. The Indian bands were breaking up and going home laden with plunder, their fresh trails would render it impossible to follow the trail of the horse thieves. The Colonel's mind was quickly made up.
"Red Cloud," he said emphatically, "I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars cash if you find Blazing Star and bring him back here in good condition within one week."
The Indian Chief smoked for a few puffs and said: "Seven suns, no good. Crow country far away; one moon maybe."
Reckless riders like the Crows might easily ruin a horse in one month; so, at length, a compromise was reached, whereby Red Cloud was to receive two hundred and fifty dollars if within two-weeks; and one hundred if a month passed before the return. Then the Sioux Chief rose "to find his young men," and his party rode away.
It was nine the next morning when the sentry discovered a considerable body of mounted Indians in the northeast, riding rapidly toward the Fort. Had it been from the south, he would scarcely have made a report. Before ten o'clock they had arrived. They numbered about fifty warriors in full war paint. They were singing their war songs, and fastened to their coup sticks were one or two terribly fresh-looking scalps. At their head was Red Cloud. A hundred troopers were under arms, so they did not hesitate to admit the Indians. The warriors passed through the gate; then spreading out before the Colonel's house, their opening ranks revealed the noble form of Blazing Star. Bestriding him was the boy Chaska, his bright eyes and clear white teeth gleaming in a smile.
A mighty shout went up among the white men as the blooded racer was led to the Colonel's office. One or two formalities, and the two hundred and fifty dollars was paid over to Red Cloud. Blazing Star was hastily examined, found in perfect trim, then handed over to the Irish hostler.
"You take him to the stable," was all the Colonel said, but he said it in large capital letters and it was full of grim threats and reminder, hostler Mike led the lost darling back to the stable where a crowd of men were waiting.
Red Cloud crammed the new wealth into his tobacco pouch and rode away at the head of his men.
Al Rennie felt sick with disgust that he should fail when the trail was fresh, while the Sioux, on a washed-out trail, made such a showing in so short a time. He was puzzled, too, by the scalps. The two he managed to examine were not fresh. But he had to swallow his disgust.
All that day the Indian bands had been going off. Their camps were breaking up; they were dispersing to their homes. The Plain was nearly deserted that afternoon when hostler Mike took Blazing Star out into the heat of the sun to give him the thorough washing and cleaning that he surely needed. A minute later, Mike came rushing across the square to the Colonel's office.
"Colonel, Colonel," he gasped, "come here, sir."
"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel in a voice of wrath which boded ill for a new blunder.
"Colonel, come at once. Come, it's Blazing Star."
There was a total lack of soldier decorum in the hostler's address. He was so intensely excited that the Colonel overlooked the informality and went quickly to where Blazing Star was standing tied to the washing post.
"There, sir; look there—and there!" ejaculated Mike with growing excitement, as he pointed to Blazing Star's legs. "And look at that!" and he swept his bony finger round the big liquid eye of the racer. The Colonel looked, looked closer, parted the hair, looked down to the roots and saw paint—red paint, white paint, black paint—traces of horseshoes, red hands, white patches and stripes; not much, but enough to tell the tale.
Without a question, Blazing Star was the Pinto that had won the race!
The simple Red men knew that the Buckskin was overmatched, so they secured the only horse on the plains that could win. They drove the Crows away at the right moment to leave a red herring trail. Then, having captured the stakes, they calmly collected two hundred and fifty dollars for restoring him to his owner. The simple Red men!
And when Jim Hartigan heard of it he yelled with joy. He laughed; he almost cried. After all, his horse had won; his Blazing Star was the steed of all the plains. He was tossed with different moods—regret and joy, grim humour, sadness and madness; he was stirred to the depths; all his primitive nature was set free. He did not sleep for hours, and when the dawn was near, his boyhood memories filled his brain and he was back in the livery stable garret once again, and repossessed of all his boyhood's ways and words he softly swore himself to sleep.