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!