The chances against the new owner’s boy ever
“putting on much style” on that pony were not very numerous. Fearing as much, the next proposition was to sell the pony back to “Mr. Injun” at a heavy discount; which was done much against the wishes of the dethroned boy, whose aspirations for western honor were thereby “nipped in the bud.”
A lawyer of “La Grande,” celebrated for his shrewdness in business generally, and who was the father of several enterprising sons, made an investment in Cayuse stock, for the benefit of the aforesaid boys, and fearing that he, too, might go in mourning over the money thus spent, in fatherly tenderness determined that he himself would ride the pony first.
The horse was saddled, and led by a long rope to the office door. The lawyer said, “Now, Charley, I’ll fool that pony, sure. I’m little, you know, and he’ll think I’m a boy.” The rope was made fast to an awning-post, and then, in presence of a hopeful audience, he mounted slowly, though in full lawyer’s dress, a bell-crowned “plug” (hat) included. When softly springing in the stirrups, to assure himself all was right, and confident that his “nag” was there, subject to his will, he essayed to display his horsemanship. But pony was not ready then. The lawyer called for whip and spurs, and without dismounting they were furnished, and while holding out his foot to have the spur put on, remarked that “he did not half like the white of the pony’s eye. But, boys, I’ll stick while the saddle does.” With sober face and eye fixed on the ears in front, he coaxed again, and with soft speech sought to change the pony’s mind. But he was not ready now, until he felt the rowel stick into
his sides, and then away went horse and rider together, to the end of the rope, where the pony stopped, though the lawyer did not, until his head had struck the crown of his hat; and not then even, but, going at a furious rate, the lawyer, hat, and torn trowsers had landed all in a heap on the other side of the street; the awning-post gave way, and the lawyer’s Cayuse went off, with a small part of the town following him.
The language used by him on this occasion consisted not of quotations from Blackstone, or the Bible either, unless in detached words put strangely in shape to answer immediate use. It is not safe to say anything about fooling ponies, in court or elsewhere, in the town of La Grande, unless the speaker wants war. That lawyer, although a stanch Republican, and liable to be a candidate for Congress, is strongly opposed to President Grant’s peace policy with Indians,—the Umatilla Indians in particular.
To say that Chief Homli and his tribe enjoyed little episodes, growing out of horse-trading with the citizens of La Grande, is too gentle and soft a way of telling the truth, and have it well understood, unless we add the westernism “hugely.”
These visits had other beneficial results than those growing out of trade, since they extended over the Fourth of July, when all the people of the valley came together to celebrate the “nation’s birthday,” when, with fife and drum, the country-folks would join with those in town, who “marched up a street and then marched down again,” to the willow-covered stand, where readers and orators would rehearse, one, the history of the “Declaration,” the other, repeat some great man’s speech.
The tables groaned beneath the loads of viands, spread by gentle women’s hands. The reader and the orator of the day would take positions at either end, and the meek chaplain in between, while the bashful country boys would lead up their girls, until the table had been filled. Homli and his people, dressed in Fourth-of-July regalias, would look on from respectful distance, and wonder what the reader meant, when he said, “All men are born free and equal,” and wondered more to hear a wicked orator protest that the “flag above was no longer a flaunting lie.” The Indians were then serving in the house of a foolish old man, named Esau. When fair lips refused longer to taste, and manly breast was filled too full for utterance, Homli and his people were invited to partake. Some of his people accepted the gift of the remnants; but he, Homli, never.
In the absence of better pastime, the crowd would come again to the grand stand, to give opportunity for disappointed spouters to ventilate pent-up patriotism. Homli, too, made a speech, and with keen rebuke referred to days gone by, when white men had come to his lodge, and craved his hospitality; how his women had culled their berry-baskets to find something worthy of the white man’s taste, and how the finest trout had been offered in proof of friendship for the stranger guest, and boasted that he had given the finest horses of his band to help the stranger on, and sent an escort of trusty braves to direct him over all doubtful trails. He boasted, too, that no white man’s blood had ever stained his hand, even when he was strong, and they were weak; then, with well-made gesture, pointed to the valley, once all his own, and