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

by Ernest Thompson Seton

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.