Sun and Sand Read online

  It was already an important contest, although surely not one man on the field understood just how great would be the consequences of the ride that young Tarlton was about to give the mare.

  But now the starter was in place. The line was freshened and drawn deeper to mark the finish. Spotted Calf himself gave the word, and the two were away.

  The mare, swift as she was, never had been trained for such work. Her long legs required momentum slowly gained before she could be at her best, and the result was that the Crow darted four lengths into the lead in the very first moment, and the Cheyennes sent up a shrill “Yip! Yip!” of agony.

  Once fairly started, however, Camille fairly ate up the shaggy pony and was at his tail when they reached the turf pile at the end of the first stretch. But she floundered heavily in getting about it, while the Crow horse, familiar with the active work of buffalo hunting, trained in exactly this neat maneuver of dodging about the post, whipped around and was off with hardly a single stride lost—off, digging his hoofs into the turf, humping his sturdy back to get again into full speed.

  He ran like a hunting dog, rather than like a horse.

  The Crows, delirious with pleasure, yelled and chanted and cared not for the ground the mare made up on the back stretch. For though she was close again at the turf pile, gaining all through the wide swing around the draw, still she lost terribly at the turn. Her legs seemed to shoot away beneath her, and she sprawled and staggered.

  The horses flew away. The crowd grew suddenly hushed, for many a fine buffalo robe and many a beaver pelt, many a knife, and many a good rifle lay piled for the betting. One side grew silent, lest the surety of their victory should be snatched from them, and the other side grew silent with a final, desperate hope. So the last pile was turned, and they shot off on the back stretch, with the Crow warrior a good six lengths in the lead.

  He could not be headed, and he knew it. And he sat straight up and threw away his club and smote the side of the willing pony with the flat of his hand.

  Tarlton saw this as he stretched the mare away for the finish, and he knew that his opponent was right. Nothing but wings could catch him now, along that course around the draw, and no matter how desperately the mare might increase her speed, the distance was far too short. Even now she was hardly gathered into her full stride.

  Then the great thought leaped into the mind of Tarlton, and he laughed, fierce and short, as he gathered the reins and leaned above the mare’s withers. He drew her in, well to the left of the course, on a straight line for the finish, on a straight line for the point where the draw was the deepest.

  And as the Cheyennes saw, they raised a deep-throated wail of misery. Their bets were lost. More than one knife was automatically fingered at that moment.

  But Tarlton, driving the mare on, did not slacken her to take the dip into the draw. Instead, he increased her pace as she went at it, and, rising a little, he threw her at the ditch.

  Three strides away she saw his purpose, and her ears flattened. It looked death to her, no doubt, for she saw the great width of the gap, and the sharp edge of the farther bank, hard, sunbaked, and edged with rocks like the teeth of a shark.

  She needed no telling to see that a slip and a fall, or a short leap, would mean a broken back or a belly ripped open. And she was, moreover, a young and untried mare with none of the confidence of the hunting field behind her. She had only the proud blood that flowed in her veins, and the love of her rider and her trust in the firm hands that held her and the strong will that thrust down the reins.

  So her ears at the last moment pricked gallantly forward. She rose and hurled herself gallantly upward. The big, pebble-strewn bed of the draw gleamed beneath her, the farther bank rose, sheer and high—and then she struck.

  Right on the edge she landed, but with her hoofs bunched beneath her. The shock slewed Tarlton sideways in the saddle. Then, scrambling fiercely, the mare struggled to the flat beyond.

  Before her lay a straight way to the finish; she heard the yells of the revived Cheyennes, the silence of the Crows and the Blackfeet.

  “By Jupiter!” cried Duncan.

  And Meany, remembering his message to Spotted Calf, gaped and felt his heart turn cold.

  There was still an excellent chance for the Crow rider, however, for though he rode upon a slant, so great was his original lead that he still was closer to the goal. But hardly had the mare got under way than this hope was lost.

  She was no dodger about corners, but in the open, she ran light as a frightened deer. Now could be seen the reason for the long legs of the English thoroughbred. She did not run. She bounded, and with every bound, there seemed the thrust and beat of wings buoying her in the air.

  The Crow, with face contorted, thrusting his torturing knuckles into the ribs of his pony, saw a velvet streak slide past him, and the sun flashed on the neck and the working shoulders of the mare. By that advantage she won the race.

  There had been a long channel beyond the finish, left empty of spectators so that the horses could be pulled up. Right to the end of this the mare labored before she could control the long stroke of her gallop, and then it was as though a sea shut in about her, for every Cheyenne swayed in with outstretched hands, shouting and laughing, and stroking her. And she, hand-raised and gentled as she was, sniffed at them kindly and moved with extreme care, lest one of her hoofs should descend with bruising weight upon the moccasined feet.

  However, they let her go on, though slowly, giving back a little on either side—the Cheyennes with bright, laughing faces; the Crows stunned; the Blackfeet sullen.

  Tarlton went straight on until he came to the place where Helen Meany sat her horse. She took his hand, with a gasp.

  How had he done it? How had he thought of such a thing?

  “Why,” said Tarlton, “the worst gambler has to win once in a while, and I suppose that I’d used up my share of the bad luck before.”

  “No,” she told him, “that was quick thinking . . . and good nerves. I . . . I could almost see your face when you turned toward home and got the idea. And what a beauty!” She touched the wet head of the mare.

  He drew her attention away from the mare, and away from himself, embarrassed.

  “Look yonder,” he said. “It seems to me that your father is in a good deal of trouble.”

  Just past the outskirts of the crowd, they could see Meany, and before him was Spotted Calf, talking with the air of a very angry man.

  VII

  Hot as Spotted Calf seemed, he was hotter than his looks. From poor Meany he demanded at once an explanation as to why the trader had passed on to him such wrong information concerning the young white man and his horse.

  Meany answered, as many another has answered in the same position: “Spotted Calf, I told you the thing I think. What else can a man say to his best friend?”

  “That is true,” said Spotted Calf. “But how had the young man proved himself a fool?”

  The trader struggled in his mind, and he was about to tell the other that this was a thing that he could not explain to any but a white man with a knowledge of other whites, when he realized that such an answer would be as good as none. And Meany began to perspire copiously. More than a little had been taken from the Blackfeet by the luck of the Cheyennes, but still the treasure trove was in the teepees of the Blackfeet—they had the wealth of beaver pelts. Now, in the hostile air of the chief, he read at once the loss of all chance to trade for a single skin.

  No doubt, by the morning, the Blackfeet squaws would strike their tents, and away the long column would travel toward the next fort. Not only would that chance of trade be lost, but forever after, unless some difficult stroke were accomplished, the Blackfeet would shun Fort Meany.

  “Brother,” said the perplexed trader, “this young man is a great gambler.”

  “It is very well,” said Spotted Calf—who was the most ardent gamester in his entire nation—“that a young man should love the warpath more than the gather
ing of wealth.”

  “Aye, but what of the dice box?”

  “The dice speak the will of Tirawa,” said the chief, looking up.

  “Very well,” said Meany. “This young man never has been on the warpath.”

  “Is it not true that all the white men, before they come to the Indians and learn the ways of a man, live soft and grow fat?”

  Blankly, Meany stared upon the angry chief. In his heart, he consigned young Tarlton to a deep and black and fiery pit. “You can see for yourself that he has no brass tacks in the stock of his rifle,” he ventured.

  “Yes,” said the chief, “but he has no rifle.”

  “What is a man without a gun?” asked Meany. “What would you say in your own tribe?”

  “In my tribe,” said the chief proudly, “we fill the hands of our brave young men with weapons. A big teepee does not mean a big heart, and painted buffalo robes do not make a strong hand.”

  Checked at every point, the trader exclaimed: “Everything about him is foolish! Look at his strange clothes, and his saddle, and the pink of his face!”

  Said the Blackfoot: “The Pawnee wolves have cropped heads, but they shoot straight, and their heads are wise. May they have bad fortune. Why should a man be judged by the clothes on his back or the length of his hair?”

  “Even his horse is not like the strong and quick-footed horses men use on the prairie for hunting the buffalo,” said Meany at last.

  “No, no!” exclaimed the chief, his face and eyes suddenly burning. “That is a horse that men would use for hunting men.”

  “Friend, friend,” said Meany, “as a matter of fact, this man does not even know how to shoot a rifle. He uses only a pair of little pistols.”

  “Does he do that? I believe it,” said the chief. “His heart is so big that he laughs at the warriors when they shoot at a distance. He wishes to rush his horse in close and fight hand-to-hand. The fire of his gun burns the body of his enemy. Is that the act of a fool, or of a hero?”

  “Brother . . .”—Meany began hopelessly and helplessly, but the chief struck in sharply: “You call me brother and friend many times, but sweet words do not fill the pot.”

  Without further speech, he threw his robe over his shoulder and was about to go off, when Meany determined to make a last effort.

  He exclaimed: “My friend, Spotted Calf, my heart is sore, because you have become angry with me! I understand why you have turned against me. It is because you have lost many good robes, and you have bet some weapons, some knives and rifles, also. But now I will prove to you that I am something more than a friend in words. Come to my teepee. There you will find long rifles that cannot miss the mark. You will find bullets and powder. You will find the finest knives and keen hatchets that sink into wood the breadth of your hand. There are bags of colored beads, and there are bags of bright, crystal-clear beads. There are spearheads of steel that run through a shield of tough bull hide like a finger through sand. You shall come up with me, and you shall say what you have lost in the betting. Then take twice as much from my lodge. It shall be yours . . . we shall be brothers!”

  This forensic effort left Meany quite winded, and his heart jumped when he saw the chief start with surprise and delight, but instantly the brow of the Blackfoot darkened again.

  “When the sun rose,” said Spotted Calf, “my people called me a chief. The young men smiled when I passed them. The old men followed me with their eyes. When I spoke, even the women were silent.” He scowled at the trader. “I was given a word by you. I thought it was a true word. I, Spotted Calf, have only one tongue, and it is straight. So I gave them freely the knowledge that you had given to me. I could have bet on the race to fill my own teepee. I would not do that. I wish to make the hearts of the warriors glad. It would be a proper thing, then, that all the others should lose, and that only I should have my losses repaid to me?”

  He paused. And, for a brief instant, the trader even contemplated repaying the losses of the entire body of the Blackfeet through that unlucky gambling. But then he saw that the thing was impossible. Their rapacity would instantly strip him of everything. Therefore, he had to remain silent, while the chief went on.

  “I have walked on many warpaths. I have led many war parties. We have ridden out on our own horses, and we have ridden home on the horses of the enemy. But now when I pass, men will turn their heads and look the other way. Voices will mutter behind me. All the work of my life is made nothing today.”

  He gathered his robe suddenly about him and strode away without uttering another word.

  Meany gloomily looked after him, bitterly cursing the day that he ever had laid eyes upon him. And, at that moment, he saw Duncan riding toward him, with an expression by no means pleasant.

  They met each other, scowling.

  The trader had no chance to speak before Duncan exclaimed: “The devil is loose on all sides! The Crows are boiling. They blame me, because I suggested that they match their man against young Tarlton. Who could have guessed that he would take such a chance? But no . . . it’s exactly the chance that a fool would take and a sensible man wouldn’t dream of.”

  “Are the Crows very hot?” asked Meany darkly.

  “Hot? They’re boiling. That fellow who rode the horse is Rising Bird. I didn’t know he was a chief, but it seems that he is, and he swears that I have tricked him. All the Crows are furious. They say that we’ve trimmed them, and the luck is up. Rising Bird says that he is going to pack his goods and leave in the morning, and the rest of the Crows will undoubtedly follow them.”

  “Of course they will,” said Meany. Then he added: “The Blackfeet are going, too.”

  “That leaves the Cheyennes,” said Duncan, and sighed. “And the market is already almost crowded with buffalo robes. Beaver, beaver, is the thing we must have.”

  Meany said: “Duncan, who told you that this man was an idiot?”

  “Who, Tarlton?”

  “Aye, Tarlton.”

  “You could see for yourself.”

  Meany was not above quoting. “You can’t tell a man by the length of his hair or the cut of his coat,” he declared.

  “Hello!” exclaimed Duncan. “And that’s it, is it? You’ve turned your teeth on me, Meany?”

  “You’ve ruined the fort before it had a chance to do business,” said Meany bitterly. “I’ve put the work of my life into the building of that fort, and you’ve torn it down for me with this day’s work!”

  “Then build it again or let it rot,” said Duncan. “I’ve done with a man who cries when his fingers are burned in a fire that he helped to make. Who sneered the loudest at Tarlton, I ask you? But I see now that he’s the sort of man that you want out here. Your daughter seems to have the same idea.”

  And he turned his horse and rode off.

  Meany looked after him with an increasing despair. No matter how he felt about the situation, he saw that he should have been silent about his troubles before the trader. There was no more experienced man among all those who dealt with Indians than was Duncan. There was no man whose word went so far with other traders. And now there was no doubt but that he would turn his back on the fort and that the other traders would be apt to follow him away. In that case, Fort Meany, indeed, would be the grave of the Meany fortune.

  Then he looked with a wild eye across the crowd, and it happened that he saw at that moment his daughter, Helen, riding beside young Tarlton, and the two laughing gaily together.

  Meany ran suddenly and breathlessly up to them. “Get to the fort!” he shouted at his daughter. “Your gadding about in the crowd is making a fool of me. Get to the fort, and stay in your room till I come there!”

  And then he brushed past the astonished pair and went off through the crowd, bitterly noting the triumphant Cheyennes, their arms loaded down with the plunder of the betting.

  VIII

  When that paternal bomb had been exploded before Helen Meany, she looked about her with a startled air, but Tarlton nodded r
eassuringly.

  “It’s nothing you’ve done except being with me,” he said. “It’s my luck. If I don’t get into trouble myself, I get my friends there.”

  “But what can you have done?” asked the girl.

  “The way I work it out,” he said, “there’s only one answer that’s right, and there’s a thousand that are wrong. So I’m not surprised when I’m wrong. I don’t know how I’ve added up here, unless your father was betting on the Crow horse.”

  “Ah, he’s not so small as to keep malice for that,” Helen insisted. “I must go on to the fort. How angry he was. I suppose . . . I suppose . . .”she faltered.

  And Tarlton, going on beside her, looked her steadily in the eyes, as he had looked at more than one girl before her in his reckless life.

  “Suppose I want to have even a glimpse of you again . . . unless I’m sent out of the fort?” he said.

  She hesitated and flushed. “My room is in the southwest corner . . . the second story of the log cabin there. I . . .” Her flush suddenly grew hotter. She nodded to him jerkily and rode off, as though ashamed of what she had said.

  Young Tarlton looked after her with a good deal of satisfaction and even with a faint smile on his lips that had in it as much contemptuous amusement as admiration. Then a hand twitched his stirrup, and he looked down into the ugly, full-lipped face of the half-breed Blackfoot who had served him as a teamster on the way across the prairie.

  This rascal had a face like a stupid mask, except that now and again his little eyes glinted like the eyes of a pig. They glinted now, as he said in good English, for he had been long among the whites—for a certain time in prison: “Little Bull wants to see you.”

  “And who is Little Bull?” asked Tarlton. “What kind of a bull may he be, Young River?”

  Young River grinned vastly. “Little Bull is the Cheyenne chief,” he said. “There are others. He is the big chief, the war chief. Just now his heart is very warm. He wants to talk to you.”