Everything was up in the air over the Fourth of July celebration that we intended to stage. It was to be a combination of Frontier Days, Wild West Show, and home talent exhibition. Indians came from the various reservations; cow-hands drifted in from the range; tourists collected around the edges; the rangers were there; and every guide that could be spared from the trail bloomed out in gala attire. We women had cooked enough grub to feed the crowd, and there was a barrel of lemonade, over which a guard was stationed to keep the Indians from
falling in head first.
The real cowboys, unobtrusive in their overalls and flannel shirts, teetered around on their high-heeled tight boots and gazed open-mouthed at the
flamboyance of the Fred Harvey imitations. Varied and unique remarks
accompanied the scrutiny. Pretty soon they began to nudge each other and snicker, and I saw more than one of them in consultation with the rangers. I felt in my bones that mischief was brewing.
The usual riding and roping and tying stunts were pulled off, and in the afternoon the Indians were challenged to race horses with the white boys. The race was for half a mile and back, around the curve of a hillside. Off they went amid the wildest war-whoops and cowboy yells I ever heard. The Indians had the
advantage, since they burdened their mounts with neither saddle nor bridle.
Stretched flat along the pony's back, the rider guided him by knee pressure and
spurred him to victory by whistling shrilly in a turned back ear. I was amused to see how the wily Indians jockeyed for the inside of the track, and they always got it too. Not a white man's horse won a dollar in the race. It might have been different, probably would have, in an endurance race, for Indian horses are swift only in short runs. They never have grain, and few of them have as much water
as they need.
Just before the sports ended, White Mountain announced that some of the cowboys had brought a badger into Headquarters with them and that they had another one located. If they succeeded in capturing it, there would be a badger fight at the Fred Harvey mess hall that night—provided no gambling or betting
was done. Since the show was to be put on by the cowboys, they themselves should have the honor of picking the men fortunate enough to hold the ropes with which the badgers would be tied. Among the rangers broke out a frenzied
dispute as to which ones should be chosen. That was more than the guides could
stand for. No ranger could put that over on them. They pushed in and loudly demanded their rights from the owners of the fightin' badgers. In fair play to both sides, Frank Winess was chosen from the ranger force and a sheik stage-driver, newly arrived, represented Fred Harvey. The guides were forced to be satisfied with this arrangement. We disbanded to meet at seven for the fight. In case the other badger made good his escape we could still have a look at the one already in captivity and the evening would not be wasted.
"Better wear your riding boots," Ranger Winess advised me. "Badgers scratch and fight like forty, and you know your failing when it comes to getting into the middle of a bad fix." I didn't reply to this, but I put on my high boots.
At seven we reached the scene of battle. I was not entirely pleased with the idea of letting two frantic animals scratch each other to death, but the Chief seemed quite serene and I had the utmost confidence in his kindness to dumb animals.
Two or three hundred onlookers, including tourists, were circled around an open
space, which was lighted with automobile headlights. Under each of two big wooden boxes at opposite sides of the circle, a combatant lay.
"Stand well back," ordered the Chief. And the crowd edged away. "Hey, you, Billy, I said no betting!" Billy Joint hastily pocketed the roll of bills he had been airing.
"What's wrong, Frank?" For Ranger Winess limped into the ring, flinching at every step.
"Nothin', Chief," bravely trying to cover up the pain with a grin.
"I asked you what's the matter!"
"Well, gee whiz, if you have to know everything, one of them broncs piled up with me this afternoon, and I busted my knee."
The Chief felt sorry for Frank, because he knew how his heart was set on the sport in hand.
"Sorry, Winess, but you'll have to step out and let Charley take your place."
Ranger Fisk began to protest: "Gee, Chief, I ain't a fightin' man. I don't hanker to hold that tearing varmint." Frank was too crushed to say anything. But Shorty—
in the foremost ranks stood Shorty! No guide so wonderfully chapped, so brightly handkerchiefed, so amazingly shirted, or so loudly perfumed as Shorty.
He had a tourist girl on his manly arm and he longed for worlds to conquer.
He advanced with a firm and determined tread. "Look here, Chief Ranger. Your man has been disqualified. The rangers have had their chance. It's up to us guides now. I demand the right to enter this ring."
The Chief considered the matter. He looked at the rangers, and after a few mutters they sullenly nodded.
"All right, Shorty. But you are taking all responsibility. Remember, whatever happens you have made your own choice. Charley, you and Frank look out for
Margie. You know how foolish she is. She's likely to get all clawed up."
I was mad enough to bite nails into tacks! Foolish! Look out for me! He was getting awfully careful of me all of a sudden. I jerked my arm loose from Ranger Fisk when he tried to lead me back from the front, and he reluctantly stayed beside me there.
The pretty stage-driver was nervous. With his gloved hand he kept smoothing his
hair back and he shifted from one foot to the other, while he grasped the rope firmly. As for Shorty, he was entirely unconcerned, as became a brave bold man.
He merely traded his sheepskin chaps for a pair of silver-studded leather ones.
Then he clamped his wide sombrero firmly on his head and declared himself ready.
"Jerk quick and hard when we raise the boxes," the referee directed. "If they see
each other at once, you boys aren't so liable to get bit up."
"Jerk them out," bellowed Frank.
