The Westerner understood and laughed. Reaching the stable, he unsaddled the Bay and giving him over to a caretaker, threw the saddle on White Star.
“Now Sis,” he spoke earnestly, “if you win this here ‘squaw race,’ I’ll buy you a swell present; cause I’m goin’ double up on bets. I raked home fifty bucks on the Bay Devil, and it’ll be a hundred on the Star. He’s sure some hummer when unwindin’, and the way to get his best, is not to whip. Just pull on reins ’nough to give him his head, then see the White Star do some meteoric shootin’.”
“Leave it to me while you may prepare to deliver that present,” was the self-confident reply. “I’m going over to the Kootenais and rent a buckskin dress. I have no native costume and this garb would be a dead give away; for they may kick on me riding this race.”
Then mounting, Cogewea cantered to the Kootenai camp, where she had but little difficulty in securing a complete tribal dress. Very soon she came from the teepee in full regalia, her face artistically decorated with varied paints. The Indian children saw and giggled among themselves. Remounting, she doubled the bright shawl over her knees, lapping it securely. When she rode back to the track, the H-B boys recognized her only by the horse.
Proceeding to the grandstand, Cogewea paid her entrance fee of two and a half dollars. Supposing that the Indian girl did not understand English, the judge turned to his companion with the remark:
“Some swell looker for a Kootenai squaw, eh? Mighty good pickin’ for a young feller like you. Wish I wasn’t so badly married! I’d sure keep an eye out for her. But the Missus would raise a hurry-Cain if she knowed that I rather like some of the squaws around here.”
The young man’s reply was of like sinister import, and then they began conversing in lowered tones. The girl’s eyes filled with tears, as she turned away; brooding over the constantly light spoken words of the “higher” race regarding her people: of the incessant insults offered the Indian women by the “gentlemen” whites. She regretted with a pang, the passing of an epoch, when there were no “superiors” to “guide” her simple race to a civilization so manifestly dearth of the primitive law of respect for womanhood; substituting in its stead a social standard permitting the grossest insult and indignity to the weaker, with the most brazen impunity.
Cogewea brought White Star in line with the seven other cayuses, with their Kootenai, or Pend d’Oreille women riders. These last were gaudy with silk handkerchiefs bound about their heads, bright shawls, and with beaded moccasined feet. Cogewea alone was bareheaded, her raven hair reaching loosely below the saddle cantle. She was met with glances of hatred for the despised “breed.” Some of the Indian men were still hanging to the restless racers, as their wives or sisters made secure their wraps and settled more firmly in the saddles. The audience lined either side of the track; on the one the whites clamoring vociferously, on the other the Indians sedately silent.
The eight horses moved prancing to the place of starting. Cogewea was assigned position near the centre of the group, where White Star manifested unusual spirit, causing more or less annoyance to the other riders. One of the Kootenai girls turned to her and spoke sharply in good English:
“You have no right to be here! You are half-white! This race is for Indians and not for breeds!”
Cogewea made no reply, but she was overwhelmed with the soul-yearning for sympathy. For her class—the maligned outcast half-blood—there seemed no welcome on the face of all God’s creation. Denied social standing with either of the parent races, she felt that the world was crying out against her.
The signal for starting was the accustomed pistol shot, and Cogewea, perturbed by the aspersions of the Kootenai woman, was caught unawares. For some distance, the full-bloods running well bunched, led by a good score yards; but soon she felt the scorching sting of innumerable sand and dust particles, thrown in her face by the hoofs of the flying seven. Shielding her eyes by half-closing them she bore on the reins with slightly increased force. The White Star responded by passing first five and then six of the contestants, and the main dust-cloud was in the rear. Gradually the distance between the two leaders lessened and at the end of the third quarter, the Star began to lap the pinto, whose rider was considered the best on the Flathead. Contrary to the known custom of the Indian race rider, this woman had, up to this point, refrained from using the whip. She now brought it into play and for a space was able to maintain the lead. But not for long was this to be. Soon the steeds were running squarely abreast, but as they dashed over the line, White Star was leading by half a neck.
As usual in a close race, those of the whites who had backed their favorites most heavily, crowded to the judges’ stand disputing, in language more emphatic than elegant. In marked contrast, there was no contention among the Indian track-gamblers. With them, both winnings and losses alike were accepted with stoic indifference. Jim came to Cogewea, in evident contentment, as he spoke:
“You won, Sis! The judge is in your favor. He says you beat fair and on the level and wants you to come to the stand and get your twenty five bucks. He asked me to bring you over there. He is anxious to see you.”
Together they rode to the stand and to the surprise of the judge, Cogewea answered his salutation in perfect English. “His Honour” soon found that this breed girl was not the type he had figured, and he cut the conversation short by directing his assistant to pay her the prize
