III
The man from Tsézhin had found his horse; now the last race was called. Laughing Boy placed everything except his bow-guard in bets. If he won, he would have nearly two hundred dollars. Now he stripped off his clothes to his breechclout, settled his headband, and adjusted the light hackamore around his horse’s nose.
They gathered at the starting place, good horses and eager, with shiny coats, erect ears, and quick, small hooves. Hurries to War, the starting judge, cautioned them. Laughing Boy saw Slim Girl, halfway down the track, watching him.
Here I am doing just this, and these others do not know who I am. They do not know they are racing against the man who goes with her tomorrow. Oh, I must win, I want to win, I must win!
He made a very brief prayer, and patted his pony’s neck. “Little sister, we must win. Do not fail me.”
They mounted. He felt the warm, silky hide between his knees, pushed her up to the reins and felt the play of muscles. Counting for the start; he leant forward, held his breath, raised his quirt. Go!
Arrows from the bow—no other simile. At the tearing gallop, flat-stretched, backs are level, the animals race in a straight line; all life is motion; there is no body, only an ecstasy; one current between man and horse, and still embodied, a whip hand to pour in leather and a mouth to shout. Speed, speed, but the near goal is miles away, and other speed spirits on either side will not fall back.
E-é-é-é-é! His left hand, held forward, would push the horse through slack reins, his heels under her belly would lift her clear of the ground. E-é-é-é-é!
A quiet, elderly Indian let his hand fall. The ponies cantered, trotted, were turned and walked back to the finish.
“The black mare was first.”
He rode off to his camp, to dress. We won. I am rich. Was there ever such a day? And tomorrow I go with that girl. Oh, beautiful! I wish it were tomorrow now. About a hundred and eighty dollars. My pet, my little black pet, well done. I wish it were tomorrow.