Chapter VII: A Trial of Speed for Scalps

Barry got a score of Indians, and soon a complete circus-ring was made, all but the sawdust.

The lassoes were stretched around the ring, and then Barry walked his horse into the ring.

The bridle was still on him, and leaping upon his back the circus-rider sat down and rode around the ring several times.

The horse seemed delighted. For years he had been accustomed to performing in the ring, and now that he found himself in his old place again he was glad.

With a springy step he cantered around the ring, and the Indians could not help admiring the shape of both man and beast, and the beautiful appearance of the latter.

With a piece of chalk Barry whitened the bottoms of his pumps, and then leaped to his feet. A chirrup from his lips sent the white steed off at a rapid pace, and holding on to the bridle, Barry jumped up and down after the manner of a countryman who is supposed to be going to market.

The spirits of the Indians arose. Their man could do that.

The Indian came into the ring and Barry went out. The red-skin went through the same thing, and was greeted with shouts of approval by his dusky comrades.

The latter now began to think that the pale-face was no wizard at all, but just a good rider, so when Barry again entered the ring, seated on his horse, they greeted him with groans.

The rider smiled, however. He knew that in a few minutes the tune of the Indians would be wonderfully changed.

Again he rode around the ring, standing erect on his feet, and the Comanches began to think that this was all he could do, and they felt happy, accordingly.

They saw the rider lean over his horse and whisper a word in its ear. Then he rose up again and the white steed went around the ring like a flash. Suddenly the bridle dropped from the hand of the rider, and he stood up alone without any support.

Ah, here was something worth looking at.

The Comanches love to watch good riding, and would doubtless patronize a circus should one visit them.

Even though they knew that the rider was liberating the two prisoners, yet their admiration was unbounded.

Their eyes opened with surprise, and they were speechless when the rider went around the ring like lightning, with nothing to support him. He stood with his arms folded across his breast, and a smile of triumph upon his face.

But this was nothing. The best was yet to come.

At a word from his rider the white horse slackened his speed, and came to a regular gallop, such as the circus horses alone know how to bring out.

Then if the reader could have seen the eyes of the Comanches as they watched the rider, they would not have wondered that they took him to be a wizard.

Barry stood with his back to the horse’s head, and suddenly sprung up into the air, turning over and making a complete somersault. He touched the back of the horse, and again he went up. The Indians saw at once that their man could never do this, and yet the Comanche was pluck.

As Barry Le Clare rode out of the ring, he rode in and made the attempt. He succeeded very well in the first part, although he had to swing his arms pretty wildly to balance himself, but when he came to the jumping, he made a complete failure.

Instead of coming down upon the back of his horse, which acted well for the first time in the ring, he came plump upon the ground, and rolled over and over.

A shout of laughter arose from the dusky throng, and the discomfited Comanche arose to his feet in a savage manner.

Striding up to Barry he asked him if he wanted to race.

The latter replied that he didn’t care if he did.

“Me make bet wid pale-face. Gray horse beat, me win, white ’un beat, pale-face win,” said the Comanche.

“Show your money, old man. How much on it?” exclaimed Barry.

“Have no money, all gone.”

“Then how’re you going to bet?”

“Me bet scalp for scalp. Ef pale-face win, he take the scalp of the Red Bear. Ef Indian win, he scalp pale-face,” was the rejoinder, and by the look that Red Bear gave his rival, all knew that he would have no hesitation in scalping the victorious rider, should his horse win the race.

For a moment the rider looked at his horse, and then at the fleet mustang of his foe. The proposition so unexpected, staggered him a little at first, but he quickly replied:

“All right, Red Bear. Onto your horse. Do your best if you would not be beaten, though heaven knows I wouldn’t scalp you. But no Indian can ever cow Barry Le Clare.”

Delighted at this chance to redeem his reputation, the Indian leaped upon the back of his horse, and then the preliminaries were arranged. A dozen men on horseback rode out to a spot about a mile from the village, and here a stake was put into the ground.

The dozen men stayed here to see that the race was conducted on a fair principle. The two racers were to start from a stake which had been driven into the ground near the village, and were to round the stake where the dozen warriors were waiting, and then come back to the first stake.

At a signal, the two started off, and for the first quarter of a mile both kept together. Then the Indian began to draw slowly but surely ahead. The Comanches felt some satisfaction when they saw that this was a fact, but they were not confident yet.

They knew a great deal about horses, and they saw that the white steed was as fast a runner as the gray one, if his rider chose to put him down to it.

They began to think, however, as the Indian still kept drawing ahead, that the white steed was not as good as they had taken it to be, and their spirits rose.

When the Indian rounded the half-way pole, and came onto the back stretch five lengths ahead of his rival, a yell broke from them.

They thought that perhaps after all the Indian might win, and that from the look of things it seemed very much as though the gray would win the race.

The Indian himself felt sure of it. He was certain that the white steed was doing its best, and that he could at least win by five lengths. And then he would have the pleasure of scalping the White Wizard.

He felt so sure of this that he yelled with joy.

Half the last half was done, and still he was five lengths ahead.

Suddenly a low whistle came from the lips of the pale-face.

It is a signal, and obeying it, the white steed quickly increased his speed. Like an arrow shot from the bow, the horse darted forward, gaining rapidly on the other.

The Indian began kicking and pounding his horse, yelling like a demon all the while, but it was no use.

The animal was running at its greatest speed, and nothing could increase it. The pale-face passed him before the last quarter was reached, and came up to the home-stake six lengths ahead.

A shout from the prisoners welcomed the victor.

The Indian came in looking terribly sullen, for he would not have cared could he only take the scalp of his enemy.

He would have been content to lose his own then.

Handing over his horse to a friend, he stepped up to Barry and stood before him with open breast.

“Strike,” said he; “Red Bear has lost. His scalp is yours.”

“Never!” exclaimed Barry, moving back. “Red Bear’s scalp belongs to himself. Let him live and learn wisdom.”

“The pale-face is afraid to strike. See, Red Bear is not afraid to die. He spits at the White Wizard with his last breath.”

As the Indian spoke he drew his knife and stabbed himself to the heart.

Then with a loud yell he sunk back upon the ground, dead.

He had done well, for he could never have lived with the Comanches had he failed to make good his wager.

The relatives of the dead man took the body away to be buried after the fashion of the Comanches.