“Hey! get up there! you fellers!” yelled Jim as he yanked the blankets off Rodeo Jack and Celluloid Bill. “You ain’t goin’ sleep all day when Fourth of July comes but once a year?”

Rodeo stretched, and yawned sleepily as he got from his bunk, growling:

“Durn it! didn’t know ’twas so late. Sun shinin’ a ready an’ cayuses not out for final trainin’. Wough!”

Hurrying on his clothes, he glanced around to see Bill with head covered⁠—evidently to shut out the sunlight⁠—with no effort at rising. Banging him hard with a pillow, he screeched:

“Get up here, feller! Yo’ can’t ’spect our hosses to win in no races today if yo’ don’t hustle an’ give ’em some little exercisin’.”

“Gee whiz! Can’t yo’ let a feller sleep?” mumbled Bill drowsily. “To th’ loco with th’ hosses! They’ll win anyhow in the buckaroo ’formances. Yo’ may bet yo’ hat on that fac’.”

Jim and Rodeo were busy at the wash stand, furnished with a single tin basin, a towel of uncertain color and a broken mirror; the frame retaining but a small portion of the original glass. As Bill donned his clothing, he caught sight of Bob still in his bunk, and turned to his tormentors with the plaint:

“Say! yo’ fellers! Yo’ yanked me out an’ yo’ don’t get Bob up. I see where I ain’t got no friends. Get up there, Bob! I won’t let no galoot snooze while I have to train hosses this time o’ mornin’, even ’tis Fourth of July.”

With this, Bill rose from the side of his bunk with only one boot on. He strode across to Silent Bob and tore the covers away. The Southerner moaned in his slow voice:

“Aw! gwan! I hater have my mo’nin’ nap split for a little thin’ as a Fo’th o’ July cel’bration; I hater come home ter night drunk an’ sleep with my spurs on.”

“Yes;” rejoined Jim, “if the Kootenais don’t win ’em from you at monte; or you don’t loose ’em a scratchin’ them there broncs in the big doin’s today. They’re goin’ have some Fourth this year. Printed bills big ’nough to cover your bunk. Prizes for the best bronc twister; the ladies’ and squaw races and a great Injun war dance. Gee! boys! Let’s hurry and get things sailin’. Must win some money from them there swell city chaps. I’m goin’ to the barn and rub Diamond down. Sis will ride him in a try this mornin’. Wants to get ’quainted with him before handlin’ him in the races this afternoon. She must win! and she ain’t the one that can’t do it, either.”

Jim hurried to the barn and was surprised to find Cogewea already there, waiting for him. He had supposed that she was not yet up. Procuring a bottle of Indian herb-liniment, he proceeded to bathe with brisk rubbing, the legs of Diamond; a racer widely known as the “Bay Devil.” He had been bought by Carter on a recent trip to the Bitter Root country, and at a very fancy price. The horse was not used to “wimin folks,” as Jim expressed it, and at Cogewea’s approach, he arched his neck, his eyes dilating with excitement. She petted him, but it was not for the first time. She had attempted being friendly with him on several occasions and was succeeding slowly. He was still nervous and showed impatience at the rustling of her skirt.

The mettlesome Bay trembled as Jim placed Cogewea’s saddle on his back and brought him into the open. He held the bit while the girl lightly mounted, then sprang to one side as the fiery steed reared and was off like an arrow. Without the aid of stirrup, the lithe Westerner sprang to his own saddle and was away after the flying racer. He did not come up with Cogewea, till she reined in at the head of the gulch, ready for the trial dash over the temporary training track. The great Bay knew! He was pawing the ground restlessly; champing at the restraining bit. Jim gazed at the picturesque rider admiringly. The black tresses reaching far down her back, undulated in billowy waves as her steed pranced and cavorted from side to side. Her cheeks were ruddy from the morning air, her eyes brilliant and sparkling.

“Well, when are we going to get started?” she exclaimed impatiently. “What are you looking at me for? I’m not the boss!”

“Now Sis, don’t be so mean! I’m just a wonderin’ what a looker you are with them there fine cheeks this mornin’.”

“Aw! come off your perch! Quit kiddin’! Let’s hurry! I have so much to get ready before we start for town.”

“Alright! You run the Devil for all he’s got and we’ll see how far he beats the White Star. But the Star is a plumb good cayuse and believe me, he moves like a shootin’ sky-meteor.”

“You signal when we are to go. Easy! easy! there old boy,” patting a velvety shoulder. “Save your strength for the flying course.”

The Bay was reeking with perspiration; while the White Star closely watched his mate. The grey seemed to understand that he was being matched against a foe worthy of his metal. Bringing the steeds abreast Jim warned:

“All ready! Go!”

Cogewea scarce heard the command, as the horses leaped away. A less expert rider would have been hurled from her saddle. Out the smooth track the racers stretched themselves. Objects along the wayside seemed to swing by at an astonishing speed. The road was a gliding ribbon of earth. Cogewea’s Indian love for exciting sport was augmented when she felt the hot breath of the grey at her stirrup. The quirt hanging at her saddle bow was now brought into use and at the sting of the lash, the Bay Devil forged ahead. Again the nose of the Star began to lap the middle of the Bay, and again was the whip made use of. But all too late! The goal was passed without any retrievement of lost ground. Jim circled, pulling up to Cogewea as she checked her mount. The “best rider of the Flathead” laughed in glee as he accosted her:

“Well, Sis! who won? Twenty yards more and the Star would a beat that there brag thoroughbred. I told you the Star’s a greased streak, though a busted up cayuse. Used to be the fastest on the range and he’s won lots of dough for me. Kinda spoiled him by usin’ him for a cow hoss, but he remembers old traits and he don’t take dirt from many on the track. You can ride him today if you wish. He’s gentler than that there hoss and you know what he can do. Better let old Jim handle the Bay Devil at the crowded track. It takes the best rider of the Flathead to⁠—”

“In‑deed! You think I can’t ride a real race horse? Guess you have forgotten how I bested you to the tune of an even hundred at the races when I was home on vacation two years ago. But maybe that was before you was known as the ‘best rider.’ ”

“Now Sis, don’t pout! I didn’t mean anything. Am only anxious for you to win the ladies’ race today. Want to see you put it over them there high toned white gals who think they can beat the Injun gals a ridin’. If you ride White Star, I’ll bet my summer’s wages on you and I know durn’ well he’ll come out in the lead.”

“Say, Jim! I’ll ride the Star in the squaw race,” exclaimed the girl in elation. “I’m part Injun and can participate in that as well as in the ladies’ race. They can’t stop me from riding in both races, can they? If there’s any difference between a squaw and a lady, I want to know it. I am going to pose as both for this day.”

“That’s a go, little squaw! The Devil in the ladies’ race; the Star in the squaw race. Come! let’s get home.”

Turning their mounts, they rode back to the corrals on a slow trot. A curl of smoke from the kitchen flue denoted activity in that department, while the boys were all busy at the barn. Bill was giving his saddler training exercise at the end of a rope; Rodeo was braiding his cayuse’s tail, decorating it with ribbons. Bob was leading the two bays up from the river bank where he had taken them to water; all harnessed and with manes and tails gaudy with tricolored streamers. Leaving the racer with Jim at the barn, Cogewea hastened to the house to help her sister prepare the morning meal. She set the table, when Julia said to her:

“I wish that you would get the Stemteemä ready. She insists on going and says that this was why she came so far to visit us; to see the Fourth of July celebration and the Kootenais give their war dance. I know you will not mind going horseback. The hack is too small for all of us and Mary should be with the grandmother.”

“Sure!” was the genial response. “I’d just as soon go in the saddle; in fact prefer it. So the Stemteemä is going? Well, there is class to her.”

“Oh! Cogewea! Do not speak lightly of poor grandmother.”

“Why! I’m not saying anything mean about her. Was just admiring her grit. I know why she is going. It is not for the firecracker celebration of the Declaration of Independence⁠—which is not for our race⁠—but for the Indian pom-pom. She is thinking of the olden days when she was younger than now. The joy of her heart is participating in the war dance and the medicine dance.”8

These ceremonies, held sacred by the more primitive tribesmen, are now, shame to say, commercialized and performed for a pittance contributed by white spectators who regard all in the light of frivolity.

Breakfast over, the lunch basket was filled and the children hurriedly dressed. Bob drove the bays to the gate and yelled:

“Hurry! yo’ fellers. I hater be late at them there races; I hater be last at th’ grub pile.”

Cogewea came out and informed him that they must first go to the teepee for the aged Stemteemä who was waiting, as Mrs. Carter was not quite ready. She sprang to the seat by his side and they were soon at the lodge. The grandmother was waiting. Her luggage consisted of several blankets, a bag of dried meat, berries and roots. Her eyes beamed with childish delight, as they drove back to the house for the rest of the party.

As the hack rolled away leaving a dense trail of dust, Cogewea turned back into the house. Densmore was lying on a couch, too badly shaken to undertake the trip. She gave him instructions in the care of his wounds. He was not suffering, but he appeared rather depressed and she was half tempted to stay and minister to his wants.

But the call of the races was loud in her ear. She turned to the window and watched a string of cowboys from other ranches passing. Some were leading horses while others had only their mounts. They were several hundred yards away, when Jim came from the barn leading Diamond, the racer. She tripped back to her patient, bade him a cheery goodbye and hurried from the room.

Cogewea was at the gate when the foreman rode up and dismounted. He held Diamond while she mounted, the horse surging at the bit. The Westerner, leading Croppy whom he intended riding in the “outlaw” contest, vaulted to his own saddle and they were off. Cogewea was unusually silent, Jim doing most of the talking. When they reached the big flat, she said impulsively:

“Let’s gallop! I hate to ride slow through here. This vast expanse seems in keeping with swift hoof-beats.”

“Yes, but not too fast,” admonished the more prudent Jim. “Remember we’re ridin’ our kale winners, but a little change of gait kinda routs a hoss’s walkin’ mussels.”

Striking an easy canter, several miles were passed before rein was drawn at the foot of an ascending grade. Reaching the crest of the hill overlooking the little town they saw the people gathered in hundreds on its outskirts. The yells of the range-riders came wafted on the breeze, while the scene was enlivened by the silently stalking, gaudily blanketed Indian. Jim dismounted to tighten saddle cinches before descending; this done, they were soon mingling with the crowd. But the H-B boys were not to be seen. Entering their horses for the various sports, they had sought the monte games or gone in quest of the bootlegger.

Cogewea entered Diamond for the ladies’ race and White Star for the squaw race. She found her sisters with the children at one of the ice cream stands, enjoying the cooling luxury after their hot, sweltery drive. Stemteemä was with a large number of Indians, men and women, who were engaged in native gambling games under a long, improvised shed roofed with pine and cottonwood boughs. Beneath this shelter, the dancing would take place later, to be continued far into the night.