My father was in his corral trying to lasso a young horse to put on the track, a spirited little animal with bald face and large white spots on his sides. When, with some difficulty, he was caught and bridled, he stood pawing the ground, impatient to go, tossing up his head from time to time and moving his ears excitedly. My father led him up to where the people were gathered; other men had already brought their horses there. Boys about Brush’s size, lithe of figure, stood by the racers ready to mount when it was time to start.
My father looked around, and finally his eyes rested upon Brush. “Boy, can you ride?” he asked.
“I can,” was the prompt answer.
My breath was fairly taken away at this reply. I did not know that Brush could ride well enough to mount a running horse at a race.
“I want you to ride my horse in this race,” said my father.
“All right,” replied the lad, taking off his school uniform. In a moment he was ready, stripped naked, with only a breech cloth.
Taking the reins and grasping the horse by the mane, Brush attempted to spring on his back, but the animal, all excited, trotted round and round. Father seized him by the bit, Brush lifted his right foot, father caught it, and in a twinkling the boy was on the horse. The mount was superb; the fiery creature sprang forward at a brisk gallop, but was checked by a skilled hand.
“Give him a canter a short distance; he’ll quiet down,” said father. Brush did so and soon returned, the horse prancing about most gracefully.
The course was on the bottom and as smooth as a floor. The twelve horses which were to run were taken to the farther end, about a mile away, and with them went the two men who were to manage the race. When the horses reached the starting point, they were ranged in line, and their riders were told to gallop them slowly and evenly to a point marked on the course. The two men rode along to see that the line was kept fairly; when the marked place was reached, the men shouted, “Ah—hu!” then every boy put his horse on the run.
To us on the hill, the horses looked like small specks in the distance; but, by the sudden rising of a cloud of dust, we knew when the signal was given to run. For a time they were too far away for us to distinguish those in the lead; but, as the horses came nearer, we began to recognize them; two in the front were well ahead, neck and neck.
“It’s the roan!” shouted a tall man.
“No, it’s the bald face!” cried another.
“Hurrah! Brush is in the lead!” yelled the freckled-faced white boy, swinging his ragged hat in the air as he ran up to where I was standing. “Gee whiz! look at him! look at him! My! I wish I could ride like that!”
Brush leaned forward a little, loosened the reins a bit; the horse gathered fresh speed and gained a length. The boy on the roan leaned forward too, and, raising his right arm, brought down his whip on the flank, the animal bravely sprang forward, but his strength was exhausted, he could do no more. On came the bald face, and reached the goal nearly three lengths ahead.
The men shouted themselves hoarse, and the women, with long-drawn breaths, praised the plucky little rider. Brush trotted up to my father, and delivered the horse.
“Who are you, little brother?” asked father.
For a moment Brush looked embarrassed, then lifting his eyes to father’s face answered, “I am Tae-son’s grandson and Sas-su’s friend.”
“Your grandfather was my friend,” said my father, looking kindly at the lad; “I am glad you like the company of my boy. You must always come with him on his visits home from the House of Teaching.”
Brush was touched by this recognition, and the tears started to his eyes. Seeing this, I intercepted the white boys who were running toward him. When I thought Brush had had time to master his feelings, I took the two boys to him, and they put their arms around him exclaiming, “Brush, that was grand!”
As this was his first visit to my home Brush did not feel quite easy, and long before the usual hour for my returning to the Mission, he suggested our going back. When we entered the school yard, which was deserted, for the boys and girls had not yet returned, we noticed a woman at the front gate holding a horse by a lariat and close beside her stood a colt mounted by two boys. She called to us and said she wanted to see the superintendent. Brush went to find him, and soon returned with that official.
“Tell the White-chest,” said the woman to Brush, “that I have brought my two boys to stay here. They wanted to come, so I have brought them. Their father is dead; they have been my only comfort; but they want to learn to write. I hope he will be kind to them.”
“They are bright-looking boys,” said the superintendent, shaking hands with the mother. “I will take good care of them.”
The boys dismounted, and the woman prepared to go. She kissed each of the little fellows and wiped a tear from her eyes.
“Don’t cry, mother,” said the older boy; “we’ll be all right. We will come home often to see you.”
We watched the mother as she went down the hill, leading her horse and the colt, until she disappeared at a turn on the bottom.
“Well, Brush, here’s a job for you and Frank,” said the superintendent. “Take these boys to the dormitory and give them a good wash, then bring them to the storeroom, and I will see if I can
