“Hurry, Sis!” called Jim, as Cogewea joined him where he was holding the Bay Devil. “Race is on in a few minutes and you want Diamond handled a little ’fore startin’. Ride through the crowd to the track and get him used to the yellin’ and shootin’-crackers.”

He helped the girl to mount, her face showing but slightly, the heart’s throb of anticipation. A riding habit of blue corduroy fitted her slender form admirably. Red, white and blue ribbons fastened her hair, which streaming to the racer’s back, lent a picturesque wildness to her figure. Securing the stirrups, she requested Jim to tighten her spur-straps, as they seemed a trifle loose, adding:

“We just must win this race from the whites. See! the Webster girls are among the mounted ladies and they have mighty good horses. But if any of them beat me, they will sure have to run for it.”

“My ‘spirit-power’ tells me you’re goin’ come out first in this here race,” replied Jim solemnly, as he gave a final tug at a refractory spur-strap. “Signs all favorable for winnin’.”

Cogewea was assigned place abreast the other riders, her number placing her on the outer circle or flank of the field. Verona, the eldest Webster girl, was a noted rider and her jet mount, known as the “Black Snake,” had never lost a race. This was the first match between the two famous riders, and as Cogewea fell into line, Verona, who had second place, stared at her contemptuously and spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by those standing near:

“Why is this squaw permitted to ride? This is a ladies’ race!”

Her companions were unanimous that it was a gross outrage and that they should protest. Stung by the biting insult, Cogewea retorted:

“Perhaps I am allowed because no ladies of the silvery-hue have entered and this race is being tolerated only that the audience may not be wholly disappointed.”

Further colloquy was cut short by the stentorian voice of the starter, as he raised pistol in air:

“A‑l‑l rea‑d‑y!” Bang!

The field was off! and it soon because apparent that the actual contest was to be between the two mighty racers. For the first quarter, the Black led the Bay, by a full length. In the next quarter, the Bay crept ahead until they were running neck and neck. The white rider plied the lash and the gallant Black responding retrieved in part, the lost ground. But at a touch of the spur, the Bay Devil forged along side, where, despite the fierce scourging by the white rider, he hung like a Nemesis. Soon he was a half-neck in the lead, when Verona, maddened at the thought of being beaten by a presumptuous “squaw,” swung her shot-loaded quirt, evidently designed at disabling Cogewea’s bridle arm. But the Indian girl’s quick eye enabled her to avoid the heavy swing, and as the next descended, she caught and wrenched the whip from the frenzied rider’s hand. Enraged at the brutality of the assault, she struck with all her force, but the blow falling short, landed athwart the Black Snake’s head. This slightly checked his speed and the Bay Devil won by nearly a full length.

The H-B boys yelled and threw their sombreros in air as the well matched leaders passed over the chalked-line, the balance of the field thundering in the rear. Diamond, the Bay Devil, circled far before his rider could stop him: and when at last she brought him about, he was reeking with perspiration and quivering with exertion and excitement. Jim was there and helped Cogewea to dismount. He blanketed the racer and led him to the stables, the girl walking at his side.

“By gad! Sis,” he exclaimed. “I’m some glad you won this here race. I knowed the Bay Devil would come through if only he had a nervy rider like you; my tiny squaw.”

Her eyes sparkled at the compliment, for “squaw” had not been intended as epithetical. She was silent and Jim continued:

“You’re sure one gritty little Injun, hittin’ back at that there high-toned white gal as you did. The H-B boys are all glad! They saw what she done to you first and know who’s in fault. But the white fellers a backin’ the Webster hoss are breezin’ trouble if the judge gives you the prize. They have the dough and that’s what talks, but the best rider of the⁠—”

“She struck first and I had a right to defend myself,” broke in Cogewea spiritedly. “It made no difference in hitting her horse, for I was ahead anyway. I had my eyes kinda half shut on account of dust and couldn’t see very well.”

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 money. He had lost all interest in the Kootenai squaw rider of only a few moments before. He was still more surprised when Cogewea addressed him:

“Pardon me! but there is forty-five dollars more coming to me, as winner of the ladies’ race.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that you are the one who rode in the ladies’ race⁠—that you are claiming the first money on both the ladies’ and squaw races?” he exclaimed with fierce bluster.

“Yes, I rode in both races! Did all that I could to add to their interest.”

“And you now have the effrontery to claim both prizes?”

“Why not? I won both of them.”

“Which was irregular and will not be allowed. A protest has already been filed against you in this race, in behalf of Miss Webster, to whom the first prize money will be paid. You never would have led coming in had you not quirted her horse over the head. You will get only the prize for the squaw race. Here Sam!” speaking to his assistant for the second time, “pay this squaw the twenty five dollars as I directed. It is the money she won in the squaw race. Pay her that and no more.”

Cogewea again demurred, when Jim, who still sat his horse, interposed:

“Here! Sis, you take this here money as the Judge offers it. The prizes are different and you don’t want to get the two mixed.”

Cogewea did as directed and the judge turned away to greet some newly arrived friends: The Westerner accosted him:

“This here business should be settled fair. Everyone who saw the race know how the quirt fightin’ come ’bout. If the money don’t belong to the little gal, why then she ain’t goin’ to ask for it. But if she won it, then it’s hers and you ought give it to her. I am willin’ you decide, as you’re the proper judge.”

“I have decided it and she has been given all the money that she will get.” was the emphatic reply. “No Injun can come around here and dictate to me in regard to judging these races. Do you savey that?”

“The white man’s rulin’ is law,” rejoined Jim calmly, “but maybe you’ll tell the little gal just why she’s not to have this here prize she won so fairly in the ladies’ race.”

“Because,” sneered the now irate judge, “she is a squaw and had no right to ride in the ladies’ race. I would advise you,” he added in a menacing tone, “to get away from here if you do not want trouble. This thing is settled and settled for keeps!”

“That’s right, pardner,” exclaimed a heavy-faced man who, with a group of followers edged his way through the crowd of spectators. “When it comes to the pass that a squaw can enter a ladies’ race and be permitted to win over a girl like Verona Webster, and that too, by quirting her horse over the head, then it is time that white people step out and let the damned Injuns run the races! For one, I’m not goin’ stand for it and all the boys are with me! If any low born breed is looking for trouble, he can now find it in sight!”

The last words were directed to Jim, and the speaker’s hand rested dangerously near his pistol’s grip. But the half-blood, who had been brought up amid the rough elements of the range, displayed no perturbation at this tirade from the newcomer, who stood to the right and apart from the disputants. The position was strategic and Jim was at a disadvantage, should there be gunplay. With stoical disregard, he again addressed the judicial dispenser of prizes:

“Only one word more, Judge, and I ain’t trailin’ for no disagreeableness. You paid the little gal the twenty five dollars ’cause she’s a squaw?”

“Yes, and I am not going to pay her the forty five dollars for the same reason; that she is a squaw! Do you get that?”

“Stay by it, Judge! We’re with you to the last cartridge!” vociferated the heavy face and his backers.

“My hearin’ ain’t no ways defective,” came the serene reply without notice to this side clamor, “But I may be locoed as to your meanin’. I take it that the little gal bein’ a squaw, she can’t be a lady! Is that it? She’s a waitin’ to hear you say that. Tell these here people your ’cisin regardin’ the character of the little gal.”

The judge was astounded. Here, contrary to all precedents, was a tribesman persistently contending against a deal⁠—however unfair⁠—meted out by his, in every way⁠—“superior.” Sitting sidewise his saddle and chewing at a scant moustache, he was looking into the eyes of his antagonist with exasperating calmness. The brazen effrontery of the breed was maddening. The judge, a man of tried nerve in more than one gun fight, like a storm-cloud about to pour its wrath upon a waiting world, paused; choking with livid rage. Addressing a stalky individual wearing a police badge of exaggerated dimensions, who had just stepped within the circle, he brusquely ordered:

“Here, Marshal, put the irons on this rider and lock him up as a dangerous character! He is charged with malicious interference with an honest distribution of race awards, by coming here armed and attempting intimidation of the program officials. There will be plenty of witnesses to make the complaint stick, and he can consider himself fortunate in spending a few months behind bars rather than dangling at a rope’s end, which would have happened within a very few seconds had you not so opportunely arrived.”

“Slide down from that hoss, Injun, while I ornament yo’ with the bracelets,” blustered the constable, advancing as he produced a pair of burnished handcuffs. “An’ don’t make a mistake by thinkin’ it only a joke, savey?”

Jim remained immobile, and something in his demeanor caused the minion of the law to hesitate. It was at this moment that Cogewea, with swift dexterity, dashed the wadded bills which she had received, full in the face of the fuming judge, and vehemently broke forth:

“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.