“Well then,” Monroe said jovially, “you’ve come to the right place. No tribe raises finer horses than the Sac and Fox.”
“How would you suggest I go about it?”
“Oh, there’s a certain protocol to these things. You’ll have to deal with the chief, at least at first. His name is Moses Keokuk.”
“Moses?” Tilghman said quizzically. “Where’d he get a name like that?”
“Fairly common,” Monroe noted. “The original agent here was a missionary. He liked Biblical names!”
“So did Moses lead the Sac and Fox to the Promised Land?”
“Well put, indeed, Mr. Tilghman. And not far from the fact, I might add. The Sac and Fox are the most influential tribe on the reservation.”
“How many are there?” Tilghman said. “I only heard about the Sac and Fox because of their horses.”
Monroe warmed to his favorite subject, the diverse nature of his wards. He explained that the reservation was home to several tribes, each relocated from distant parts of the country. The Sac and Fox, still nomadic in their ways, roamed the reservation with their horse herds. The Iowas, who followed the white man’s road, were now farmers with thousands of acres under cultivation. The Shawnee-Potawatomi were middle of the road, still in transition to becoming white Indians. Other than sharing a reservation, the tribes had little in common.
A good listener, Tilghman discerned that Monroe had little in common with those who ran the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The agent went on to relate that Washington was devouring Indian lands piecemeal. In their latest move, the bureaucrats had secured agreements by which members of the three tribes were each allotted one hundred sixty acres in severalty. The remainder of their lands, something over a million acres, had been ceded to the government. Thus another land rush, opening the land to settlers in early September, had been put in place. The reservation, for all practical purposes, was even now part of Oklahoma Territory.
To underscore the point, Monroe wryly observed that the Secretary of the Interior had already divided the reservation into two counties. One was named Lincoln, and in a twist of bureaucratic humor, the other was to be called Potawatomi. Federal surveyors had recently designated their boundaries and selected the county seat townsites. Washington, in a fit of noblesse oblige, had left it to the territorial legislature to provide for local government of the new counties. Which, in Monroe’s opinion, would allow Governor Steele to award plum positions through patronage.
“All neat and tidy,” he said with mild sarcasm. “Another instance of politics as usual.”
“Way it sounds,” Tilghman commented, “you’ll soon be out of a job.”
“Well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. Working for the Great White Father sorely tests a man’s conscience. I intend to join the land rush and stake a claim.”
“A homestead?”
“Hardly,” Monroe said with a gruff chortle. “I’m no farmer, Mr. Tilghman. The townsite for the seat of Lincoln County will be called Chandler. I plan to stake out a town lot.”
“Good idea,” Tilghman said. “What business have you got in mind?”
Monroe laughed. “I think I’ll open a saloon. Hard times or not, people always have money for liquor. I’ll probably wind up a rich man.”
“Never saw a saloonkeeper yet who went to the poorhouse.”
Monroe appreciated a man with a sense of humor. He decided to personally escort Tilghman and introduce him to the Sac and Fox chief. Otherwise, given the tribe’s nomadic wanderings, Tilghman might never find them. They went out to the corral to saddle Monroe’s horse.
Toward midafternoon, they found the tribe camped on Bell Cow Creek. Tilghman was again struck with a sense of familiarity about the spot. A grove of trees bordered a bend in the creek and the surrounding prairie was a natural grazeland. There was an eerie similarity to the family farm site of his boyhood.
Moses Keokuk, chief of the Sac and Fox, was something of a surprise. A commanding figure, grown heavy with age, he spoke his own brand of broken English. His angular features and hawklike nose were offset by the humorous cast of his eyes. He looked like a red-skinned pirate who enjoyed his work.
Monroe performed the introductions. He explained that Tilghman was interested in horses and had ridden a long way to look at the Sac and Fox herds. Tilghman seemed uncertain as to how he should address the tribal leader, and there was an awkward moment. Then Moses Keokuk gave him a sly smile.
“We talk trade. Mebbe you call me Moses. Mebbe you call me Chief. We see.”
“Sounds fair,” Tilghman said, warning himself that the man was shrewder than he pretended. “I’ve heard the Sac and Fox raise fast horses.”
“Plenty fast,” the chief said proudly. “Wanna eat dust, try to outrun our ponies.”
“Well, that’s good to know. What I’m looking for is a couple of stallions.”
Moses Keokuk grunted. “Gonna breed ’em to that mare you ridin’?”
“I might,” Tilghman said. “Then again, I might just race them. Either way, they’ve got to be fast.”
“Told you, we ain’t got no horses ain’t fast. Stallions, mares, all the same.”
“You suppose I could have a look at some?”
“Do lots better,” the chief said. “Let you see ’em run.”
Moses Keokuk was as good as his word. Several stallions were selected from scattered herds grazing at different points on the prairie. Lean, young horse herders bounded aboard the stallions and rode them at top speed. Any questions about stamina were resolved, and the rumors were indeed true. Sac and Fox horses were fast.
Tilghman settled on only one stallion, a sorrel stud that seemed like the wind in motion. Moses Keokuk, adopting the stony-faced manner of a poker player, proved to be a haggler of the first order. In the end, certain that they would do business again, Tilghman decided not to dicker too hard. He allowed the chief to extract a price that was high, but still short of robbery. They solemnly shook hands on the deal.
By then it was nearing sundown, and Monroe invited Tilghman to stay the night. The agent’s wife, a
