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. The music swells in stirring cadence, but the dancers, enveloped in blankets crouching about the edges of the cleared arena, remain statued and immobile. They must not show haste or impatience. Suddenly a tall, grizzled old warrior stands up, and lifting high his ceremonial elkhorn club and whip combined, gives signal that the dance begin. The recumbent figures arise. Stripped of blankets, they appear dazzling and resplendent with feathers, wampum and native finery; with here and there the naked body of a bronze athlete glistening with symbolic emblems done in brilliant paint. The dancers must not lag or remain inactive after the signal to proceed. If they do, the leader is privileged to use the whip with no uncertain vigor, nor must the laggard resent such chastisement!10

Watch the dancers! There is that aged battle scarred warrior whose movements denote the gliding serpent⁠—the crouching panther⁠—the stalking cougar⁠—the leaping mountain-cat⁠—the onrushing swoop of the aerial eagle. Mark that visiting, stately Nez Perce! Although facing the sunset, decadence shows not on his sinewy form. A nephew of the immortal Chief Joseph, he was young, when, in 1877, he fought and scouted over that thousand mile trail in a mad dash for the Canadian border, a dash unprecedented for brilliancy of achievement, throughout the annals of American warfare. That warclub he so exultingly holds aloft, still retains the sanguine stains of mortal combat.11 His step is that of the conqueror rather than that of the vanquished and fallen.

See those young men! Their slouchy traipsing tells of contact with the meaningless “waltz” and suggestive “hugs” and “trots” of the higher civilization⁠—a vulgarity⁠—a sacrilegious burlesque on an ancient and religiously instituted ceremony. Like other of his tribal cultures, the Indian’s dance is suffering in modifications not always to be desired as morally beneficial.

There! that youth a mere lad! He has attained to the age when he is making his debut, as it were, declaring his intention of taking up the role of man and warrior in his tribe. For this privilege his parents or friends must give liberally in goods and horses, to be distributed among the assemblage at a later hour.

Not the least interesting is the dropping of a solitary feather from his regalia by an unfortunate young dancer. This trophy must not be recovered by the one losing it, but for his carelessness he will be required to pay such fine as the chief in charge may impose. No one touches the object until the conclusion of that particular dance, when the bravest or most noted warrior⁠—the Nez Perce⁠—calling upon his secret protective spirit-powers, proceeds to take it up. This is accomplished only after one or more seemingly futile attempts, amid the excited ki-yiahs of his dancing companions. The feather is retained by the Nez Perce, who then recites some thrilling incident of personal prowess in battle. For this honor, he donates a blanket to the general distribution fund, while the loser of the feather atones for his disgrace by contributing a saddle-pony.

There is a lull in the wild, circling war dance, which is ever measured by many breaks and rests. The old warrior in charge announces a change, which an interpreter renders in English.

“La-siah has spoken. The men will now take women for the final dance. For the benefit of those who do not understand, we will explain the custom, which has come down to us from our ancestors of other snows.

“Every man has this privilege. He can choose any woman from the assemblage to dance with him while the drummers sing the song of goodwill. But he must pay her something; anything he may see fit, as her value. If he likes his partner, he will pay well; but less if he does not care much for her. The woman has the same privilege of choosing and paying. As you circle in this dance, the position of the hand and arm of the man will make known how his heart and mind runs out to the woman. If he wants a maiden for wife, we will know it. He must not do crazy things nor speak the lie with sign-actions. He must do the truth towards the woman. A married man may dance with a maiden for friendship, and the young man may dance with a married woman for friendship. This is a ceremony of friendly good will; where all the distant tribes may meet in harmony; a peace to be regarded well. All may dance, but it must not be mockery. It must be from the heart which should always be true. La-siah has shown you his mind.”

The Chief of the Pend d’Oreille came into the dance space with Cogewea. His warbonnet of eagle feathers was the best, a great billowy mass of swaying plumes. The floating tail piece, extending down his back in long undulating waves, just brushed the ground. His moccasins were decorated with bead work done in symbol, representing many suns of labor by his patient squaw. His broad chest was emblazoned with native wampum, as well as ornaments and beads highly prized. These last, his grandfather had purchased with beaver skins from the Hudson’s Bay Company nearly a hundred snows before. In his hand he carried his te-kee-sten,12 with feathers and strips of fur attached.

The dancing was immediate, with other couples joining the ever lengthening, and widening circle. Moving to the left, the short measured sidestep was a unit, with emphasis on the advanced foot. The music at the drum had changed to a softer melody, suggestive of love-passion, peace and goodwill. Unlike the fierce, stirring notes of war, thrilling with the thunder’s shock of death, there was the murmur of rippling water over pebbly mountain beds; the soughing of summer breezes through leafy groves; the glad carolling of birds at the mating season. And over all was visioned the halo of an ancient glory, when the protective spirits dwelt more near the tribes.

The song died to a note like an echo from the canyon’s cliffy depths. The dancers stopped, holding their places. La-siah and his “Caller” came forward to name the presents. The Pend d’Oreille Chief spoke in a low, dignified tone, to be interrupted by the Caller.

“To this maiden of another tribe, I give, as a token of my good will to her and her people, one of my best horses. It is the pinto, ridden by my wife and which took second prize in today’s race. My gift!”

Cogewea’s heart bounded with gladness but Indian etiquette forbade any outward demonstration of gratitude. It was for her to reciprocate in a subsequent friendship dance.

The Nez Perce Chief, who had danced with the “shy girl,” took from his shoulder a splendid “King George” blanket and passing it to the gift-exchanger, through him spoke:

“Members of the different tribes meet here and are no longer strangers. This robe, which has sheltered me from the winter storms, carries with it the warmth of the Nez Perce’s heart for this girl and her people. It is good to be friends!”

Jim gave to Stemteemä a blanket of rare design, which he had purchased from another Indian for that purpose, and from whom he had secured a dancing costume. At that moment he ingratiated himself in the old heart, far more than he ever realized. That gift, received in stoic silence, was bread cast in the van of a fast gathering flood destined to break, dark and turbulent on the border shores of both their lives.

The sun bending to the western horizon, Mrs. Carter and Mary, with Stemteemä, prepared for the home going. Bob could not be found, and John Carter who had been detained in Polson for the past three days on a cattle deal, was obliged to drive the hack on the return trip.

The moon was peeping over the great Rockies, before Jim and Cogewea rode out of the little town. They were both well content despite the unpleasant episode of the races but he noticed that she was in an unusual hurry; at last they were started. The girl was thinking of her patient at the ranch. While busy celebrating, she had almost forgotten Densmore, but now his face came before her. Jim would have ridden slower, but she urged a faster pace. Where the road permitted, an easy swinging lope was maintained by the mile. More to break a monotonous silence, the Westerner spoke:

“Sis! you comin’ tomorrow for more of the big doin’s?”

“I do not care to. One day is enough for me to celebrate; although I suppose the Indians will carry this on for the next week.”

“Guess they’re goin’ have ten more days of it. I bet we don’t get none of our boys back for a week. Bob was lost this evenin’ and they all will not be satisfied till they go broke. It’s time ’nough then, they figure, to come home and tame down. Last I see of Bill and Rodeo, was at the Kootenai camp a playin’ monte with La-siah and them; a keepin’ hid from the Government ossifers. They was a hittin’ the jug heavy, too.”

With a chuckle, Jim touched his horse with a blunt rowel and they galloped over the long slope homeward. His surmise proved correct. It was seven days later before any of the riders returned. Bill and Rodeo each carried a black eye, while Bob’s nose was very much in evidence. There was not a dollar left among the trio.

“Well, yo’ know durn well how it is; when yo’ hit them there jugs how thin’s go,” explained Celluloid Bill. “Yo’ jus’ can’t quit till th’ money’s all gone. If me an’ Rodeo have a pair of bad lookers, it’s ’cause we fought like men with them there long haired Kootenais. We hadter have th’ darn thin’ out an’ out with ’em.”

“I hater have my nose a feelin’ so bad; I hater have th’ blame thin’ a pintin’ North,” soliloquized Silent Bob, as he tenderly caressed his swollen proboscis.

Jim made good his promise of a present to Cogewea for winning the squaw race. It was a handsome silver mounted bridle.