“Take your tainted money! I do not want to touch anything polluted by having passed through your slimy hands! And, since you are disbursing racial prizes regardless of merit or justice, pass it on to the full-blood Kootenai woman, who, like your white protégée, won second place only. She is as much entitled to it as is Miss Webster to the money which you are so chivalrously withholding from me. I am as much Caucasian, I regret to admit, as American, and measured by your rum-fogged ideals, a mere nobody; with no rights to be respected.”
In low tones she then spoke to Jim in their own tongue. The Westerner, slightly hesitating, readjusted himself in his saddle, turned and rode away by her side without so much as a backward glance at his gun-bestudded enemies. The spiked-heel of might had, as ever scored, but at the cost of no inconsiderable amount of self dignity.
Silent Bob, who had unobserved moved to a point of vantage, sighed audibly:
“Mos’ glad th’ meller-dramy’s over. I’d hater get all shot up an’ my ’surance ’sessment unpaid; I’d hater miss a chanct of again skinnin’ th’ Kootenais.”
The Southerner was well aware that he was assuming an extremely unpopular attitude, and one likely to be resented, but aside from scowls and muttered imprecations, his challenge passed unnoticed.
Discomforted by the withering disdain of Cogewea, and the burning contempt for their prowess by her companion, the pugnacity of the “bunch” had suffered a most undignified backset.
VIII
The Indian Dancers
To the sound of flute and singing,
Hiawatha
To the sound of drum and voices—
The bucking contest—without finals—was to take place in the big corral, where Jim and Cogewea now repaired. Expert riders of the range were there with several outlaw broncs. For an hour the sport waxed warm and furious, many a lithe horseman biting the dust. Finally Croppy was led into the arena and while held by professional snubbers, Jim lifted his silver mounted saddle to the quivering back. The maddened struggles of the horse availed nothing against mechanical contrivances in the hands of superior intelligence, and the saddle was quickly and securely clinched. Jim turned to the spectators and called banteringly:
“Twenty bones to the feller who can scratch this here gentle cayuse, and sixty bucks more if he wins first prize as a scienced rider.”
Croppy was widely known and no one accepted the challenge. Jim well knew that he alone of all the “rangers” could “stick” him. He continued:
“Two dollars to one, to the limit of five hundred, that no ‘twister’ can stay with this here lady’s saddle horse to a finish.”
“He knows he’s plum safe in howlin’ such bluff,” growled a lank cowpuncher perched on the corral fence. “No rider has ever stuck that there whirlin’ devil ’cept Jim hisself.”
“Yo’ hatched a truth if never afore,” replied his companion. “Th’ only time I ever chawed gravel was from th’ back of that there tornado. I must a went purty high, up where ’stronomers say th’ air is too light to breathe, ’cause I didn’t find no breath for quite a spell after navigatin’ back to earth. No! I ain’t hankerin’ for Jim’s money to again tackle that there dose of animated pizen.”
The Westerner slowly tucked his beaded gauntlets under his belt, as he concluded dramatically:
“The same money that old Jim, though not feelin’ the best, will now ride the only Croppy of the Pend d’Oreille, straight up.”
This boast was passed unchallenged, and Jim turned to mount. Placing his foot in the stirrup, the snubbers fell back and the battle was on. Horse and rider went into the air, but when they came down, the “best rider of the Flathead” was firmly settled in the saddle. Croppy seemed to buck as never before. Around, and across the corral he went; “pivoting” and “spiking,” “sunfishing” with all the intricate movements of the confirmed “twister”; but to no purpose. He could not dismount his tormenter. Jim, in abandoned enjoyment of “this here rockin’ chair,” was complacently fanning himself with his sombrero. Rearing high, the frenzied horse fell backwards, but the active rider saved himself by slipping from the saddle. The baffled steed regained its feet only to find the man again on its back. Bawling with rage, Croppy renewed the fight with increased vigor, but all in vain. In the midst of the most frightful plunging, Jim drew his watch and called the time of day; the audience screaming its delight.
At length, that the horse might not be conquered and its staying qualities impaired for further exploitation, the rider with rare agility sprang to the ground, landing squarely on his feet. The spectators were wild with enthusiasm and gave Jim an ovation as the champion bronc twister of the Pend d’Oreille.
With the bucking contest over, many now hurried to the big brush shed where the Indians were to dance. Jim and Bob worked their way through the crowd to the center space set aside for the performances. The music, discordant and monotonous to the whites, is all rhythm to the Indian ear. The sudden break in time and pitch has a significance well understood by the initiated. The musicians are usually trained professionals and are held in high regard by their tribesmen. Sacred and emanating from the Great Spirit—giver of all life—no sacrilege is permissible at either the spirit or the war dance. The great drum,9 placed on an outspread blanket on the ground, is surrounded by the players, sitting in a cordon about it. These strike the instrument in perfect unison with single batons or sticks, terminating with elongated knobs of cloth or soft buckskin. The women contingent sits in an exclusive circle adjacent to the drummers, their voices blending harmoniously with those of the men.
All is ready; and “attention” bursts from the drum, to be echoed by the leader in animated song; decorously taken up by the other singers.
