# Rouge-et-noir

A "red man" imbibes the wisdom of three races. Will he profit from it?
ROUGE-ET-NOIR
By Wolcott LeCléar Beard
In the shade of the wickiup on the edge of the little plateau sat Wet Dog, gazing absently over the green valley which lay stretched at his feet. Not at all a good place for a camp, thought the patient squaws who had built it, for it was only a little, gravelly shelf on the parched, gray mountain which allowed the sun to beat full upon it while keeping off what breezes there were. Then the water must be carried all the way from the river, a hundred yards off horizontally and as many feet below; but what did Wet Dog care for that? He did not have to "pack" it—and, besides, there wasn't much to bring, for they used it only to boil things in—so he had decreed that there the camp should be, and Wet Dog's word was law. He had reasons of his own—liked the view, he said—so the squaws had made many weary journeys up the steep incline, bearing from the flat below armfuls of arrow-weed, which they wove into hurdles, securing them, edge to edge, on three sides of a square. Their lord had been impatient during this process, for the sun was hot, and he had hurried them with grunts, together with sundry pokes. When the walls were up he squatted contentedly in their shadow, and, leaving his womankind to put on the roof more at their leisure, gave himself up to a pleasant revery.
A happy retrospect it was, for things had prospered with Wet Dog. In his youth he had been sent to an Indian school under the control of the Federal Government, and situated in the East, far away from all degrading aboriginal influences. This is why Wet Dog ran away from it, but he learned much while there, learned to speak English and to read a little, together with many other things appertaining to the lore of the white man, but which are not included in the curriculum of that excellent governmental institution. On his return to the reservation, he had sold skins and baskets to the wives of the officers quartered there, and thereby obtained silver coins. This money he had invested in rifle cartridges, which he bartered with his brethren for the blankets served out to them by a paternal government. These he sold at a profit, so his wealth had grown and he had become a sub-chief of his tribe and the proprietor of many ponies. One reverse he had met with, to be sure, but he was not cast down, and turned it to his own advantage.
It was in this way. Racing, especially with horses, has always been a favorite sport with the Western Indian. The love of it was strong with Wet Dog, and so was the sentiment of tribal honor. When, for the great semi-annual races, the neighboring tribe of Papagos had entered their famous little cream-colored mare, two of Wet Dog's ponies, trained as carefully as his nature and knowledge permitted, ran against her, heavily backed. The mare added another victory to her unbroken score, and the Apaches lost heavily in blankets, ponies, and other valuable things. To lose them was bad enough, but that they should have gone to increase the wealth of the Papagos, the natural prey of the Apaches, a tribe that never fought nor killed anyone, and so was not esteemed even by the Government as worthy of rations, that was addicted to the wearing of hats, cultivation of the soil, and other unnatural and degrading practices, was unbearable, and even now Wet Dog grew indignant at the thought.
But Wet Dog was a man of resource, and on the evening of his defeat, having disinterred from under the floor of his residence the Springfield rifle which he had acquired from a deserter, and hidden, together with a bag containing sundry dollars and halves, he rounded up all his ponies—a goodly bunch—and departed Eastward. At Albuquerque he converted his horses into gold, which only an educated Indian will recognize as money, and boarded an East-bound freight train. For awhile his former haunts knew him not, but when the time for the next race-meeting was nearly arrived, he returned, and on horseback.
He said nothing concerning his new mount, but, nevertheless, the tribe turned out in a body to inspect it. They knew the small, lean head with its pointed ears and long, thin neck, for the better run of their own cow-hocked ponies had these, but the well-ribbed barrel, powerful quarters, and thin, flat legs appealed to them with all the force of a novelty, and they marvelled greatly. Even the old Chief of the Three Sections grunted his approval, and called a council for that night, where a tax was voted by acclamation to buy barley for the new-comer, and hay, for grass he must not eat.
Then the next day Wet Dog bought a buggy-whip at the post-trader's, which he took, together with his eldest son and the horse, to a secluded valley near by, and the training commenced. As the animal stood with the boy on his back. Wet Dog would fire a pistol held in one hand; with the other, at the same time, bringing the whip sharply across the forelegs of the horse, which would rear and whirl; another cut over the haunches, and he would spring away in the direction opposite that in which he had been facing. Soon the whip became unnecessary, for he would turn and start at the sound of the shot, and the training was completed.
Then the great race-day, when Papagos and Apaches were gathered on opposite sides of the short, straight course, mingling only in the betting-place where they staked their possessions on the horses which carried the glory of the tribe, as well as nearly all its worldly goods. With what attention they watched the racers as they walked toward the starting-point! Not that Wet Dog showed any interest in the affair; that was proper only for squaws and Papagos and such things. But he felt it. It is a foolish practice, he thought, to post the horses with their tails to the finish. How quickly that mare turned! Much more readily than Wet Dog's horse, but that was the inherited instinct of the cow-pony. No training could equal that, and, truly, the mare ran fast; the Papagos were howling with joy. But soon their voices lowered, for the long stride of the thoroughbred was telling. The horse closed up; then his beautiful neck and shoulders appeared in the lead, and the Apache women broke into delirious shrieks as he won, hard held, by a length. The tribe was embarrassed with riches. Rifles and blankets were plenty, and the cartridges, hitherto treasured, were now used to shoot rabbits. To Wet Dog this was due, so his people honored him; his horses were three where there had before been one, and the bunch grew larger with each successive race, until no Indian would bet against this strange horse from the East. So he had come to Cactus City, where the white men were to hold a fiesta. There were to be races, and therefore wealth would result to him; to his kin as well.
Far below him the brown Gila crawled between its weed-fringed banks, dividing the two strips of rich pasture-land, the nearer one of which was dotted with the awkwardly moving forms of hobbled ponies. On a little rise, shaded by a Cottonwood tree, the racer was standing, being rubbed down with bunches of grass by two of Wet Dog's squaws. Beyond the other strip of pasture was a spur of the opposite mesa, lower and broader than the one on which Wet Dog's camp was placed, and there the two canvas saloons and the store which constituted Cactus City showed glaringly white against the black basalt cliff as the sun fell full on their gable ends.
Three men came out of the larger saloon, the Triangle, and, mounting their horses, rode away down the river. Wet Dog knew them all. Daddy Gab, the big one, was the proprietor of the Triangle. He had much money, which he would bet, and which, therefore, would accrue to Wet Dog. Another was Greaser Pete, who kept the Black Cat, next door. He also had money, but the Chief reflected sadly that with him it was not well for an Indian to have dealings. He was not of a trustful nature, and his suspicions and six-shooter would generally be aroused together. The third was a cow-boy; a thing which Wet Dog hated, as an Apache should. The three rounded a point of cliff and passed at once from Wet Dog's sight and mind, for his heart was at the place, a little up the river, where the course of the morrow was being laid out.
A few miles below, another horseman was riding up the river trail. The sun had passed the meridian, and the high cliff threw a grateful shade over the road which ran, at this point, half way up its face. A narrow shadow, for it was barely past noon—a shadow just broad enough to cover the slender path, making it appear almost in twilight when contrasted with the brilliant sunlight which lighted up the jagged masses of black rock littering the steep incline that broke down from its outer edge. The day was burning hot, even for Arizona. The horseman who moved slowly up the road did not seem to mind the heat—appeared rather to enjoy it. He would have attracted much attention had there been anyone there to look at him, for he was a negro, short of stature and thin of limb; his small, perfectly round body surmounted by a disproportionately large head, displaying a moon-face of a blackness seldom seen. Wearing a tall, well-worn silk hat, and clothed in a rusty black suit of clerical cut, the whole figure appeared like a travelling silhouette, the monotone being still further carried out by the black army saddle and the mare on which it rested. She undoubtedly would have drawn a horseman's attention, even from her rider. She was tall, in that land of ponies, and every line of her lithe body gave evidence of generations of breeding. That she had been long on the road was shown by her dusty coat, but she still snatched at her bit and fretted impatiently at the slow pace set for her by a tiny, pack-laden burro who plodded along in front. Every waggle of the donkey's enormous ears seemed to express his unalterable determination to go no faster, in spite of the prods and blows administered in measured cadence with a long stick by his master, who thus punctuated his rendering of a revival hymn, which he would interrupt from time to time in order to assail the unfortunate animal with epithets the most abusive his Virginia dialect could shape.
The trail made a turn and began to descend to the flat. At its foot the mesa divided, opening into a box cañon which extended far into the tableland. At its mouth, sitting on their horses, and evidently waiting for someone, were the three men from Cactus City. The song ended in a prolonged whoop, at which the largest of the trio waved his hand; then turning, he rode into the cañon, followed by his companions. The incline was steep; the donkey broke into a shambling trot as the easiest method of gaining the bottom, but was left to his own devices as the mare was given her head, and in a hand gallop she followed the other horses, The entrance was screened by a natural hedge of gnarled mesquit, and around the edge of this the negro rode, the flying tails of his long coat giving his mount somewhat the appearance of a shadow of Pegasus bearing a poet of more modern build than those who usually patronized that classic beast. The men had dismounted and stood in a row as he came up, looking at him in some astonishment.
"Are you the man we want?" asked one, a small man with a handsome, hard face.
"Yassir," replied the gentleman addressed. "Clay Randolph, suh, the Reverend Clay Randolph. Would a been soonah but fo' Balaam. He got contrairy. Dey is dat-a-way, mos'ly. Heah he comes now, lak he's got all nex' week. Ain't got no ambition, nohow."
"Never mind that now," said one of the others; "’twas I that sent fer you. Gabriel, me nem is, from the Triangle, above. It's the boss of a gang of Apaches that's got a horse that's fair cleaned out the country, and for the good of his soul he must be skun. Bad. Can ye do it, d'ye think?"
"Kin she do it? Dat mah'll lick dis ter'tory. Brought her fum de ol' place, an' I'se gwine ride her myself. Ain't rid no races sence I begun preachin', but I ain' fo'got de way."
He seemed particularly unjockeylike as he stood, hat in hand, rubbing the top of his polished, bald head with a big red bandanna handkerchief, and the others looked doubtful, while the Reverend Randolph shuffled uneasily, rubbing his head harder than ever in his embarrassment.
"Ye're sure then?" said Gabriel, at last. "Sure you'd best be, fer it's our money as well as yer carcass the mare'll carry."
"Yassah, jes' so," replied the negro, relieved. "I don' ride races no mo', an' I don' bet. Considah it inconsistant wiv my puhfession. But foh de present occasion, suh, I'd be glad ef you could get a bet wiv dat Indian an' put dis on fo' me," taking, as he spoke, a heavy buckskin bag from his pocket. "Don' bet wiv no white man. Dat's sinful; but an Indian's one of de los' tribes, an' mus' be luhned not to steer heself 'gains' de Gospel."
Gabriel slapped him on the back, laughing and agreeing volubly, but his companion only smiled. He was a taciturn man. "We'd better go, Gabe," he said.
"Faith, we had," responded the other. "They might miss us. Ye'll stop here, yer revrince, fer now. It is best the mare should not be seen. After dark, Sam, here, will show you the way. So long." He swung himself on his horse, and was about to ride away when the darky stopped him.
"’Scuse me, suh, one moment," he said. "Should you have occasion to speak ov me in public kin'ly call me Jones, suh, John Jones, widout no Reveren'. It's on account of de ol' wo—of Mrs. Randolph, suh. Women don' understan' these affaiahs, an' it's as well she shouldn' know erbout it. Good-day, suh."
The morning of the fiesta broke clear and hot, as is the habit of mornings in that country, and that portion of Cactus City that had been in bed, rose with the dawn to finish the preparations. The Triangle and the Black Cat were swept and garnished; the quarters of beef which had been slowly roasting over the great trenches of mesquit coals, were turned for the last time by the smoke-grimed cooks, who then gave place to those who came to relieve them and, after refreshing themselves at the Triangle bar, went off to get some needed sleep before arraying their persons for the festivities.
Soon the spectators began to arrive. On horseback and on foot, from far up and down the river, they came. Great four or six horse wagons came creaking in along the sandy road, some of them containing women, the wives or daughters of the ranchers. Already the men had crowded to suffocation the big saloons, where extra hands were busily employed in shoving the black bottles and thick-bottomed glasses along the bar, from one to another of the crowd of customers who rested their elbows on them, disturbing the swarms of flies which were feasting on the smears made by the wet bottoms of the over-filled tumblers. Outside, knots of men stood about, talking or uncinching their saddles. Many cow-boys there were, with their leather leggings and big-belled spurs. Vaqueros, dressed in tight-fitting trousers and short jackets of copper red, their broad-brimmed, peaked-crowned sombreros heavy with a year's wages in silver. Prospectors, hoboes, ranchers, and all classes that go to make up the sum of frontier humanity were represented—all except the saloon man. He was busy inside.
The sports began. Chicken-pulling, shooting, and rough-riding followed each other, but few took much interest in them. Even the roping match, generally the principal event in these fiestas, attracted but little attention; everyone was waiting for the race. The Apache wonder was well known, and the possibilities of a dark winner had been talked of far and near.
A quarter of a mile below the settlement a course had been laid out. Though still short, it was longer than those generally used in that country, and was a curved one instead of the usual straightaway, in order that those who chose might ride down the chord of the arc and thus have an opportunity of seeing something of the whole race. Close by the ranging-poles, which showed where the finish was to be, a large tent had been pitched, and around this stood a few white men, but the vast majority of the crowd which swarmed the course from end to end were Indians—Indians of all degrees and from many tribes. Moquis, Maricopas, and Yavapais mingled freely with the Papagos, who wore the hats which were the scorn of their warlike neighbors, and talked together in garrulous groups. Among them stalked the Apaches, alone in the crowd, while the squaws, sitting in groups by themselves, showed their budding civilization by criticising their sisters of the other clans.
From the clearing in the thicket near the start, where his horse had been taken, rode Wet Dog, studying the course for the hundredth time. This was his first race against the whites, and he meant to take no unnecessary chances, though, in truth, everything seemed going his way, for the course was a long one, and did not his horse show to the best advantage where his long stride could tell? Farther, it had been asked of Wet Dog as a favor that the horses should stand facing the finish instead of pointing the other way, and having to turn at the start as the custom was, and as a favor he had granted it, but he would rather have given his second best horse—the one he was riding—than not to have had it so. Then, the night before, a panther had sprung on a colt and had been shot by one of Wet Dog's sons; there could be no more fortunate omen than this, as everyone knows. The horse of the white man must be in that tent, but why thus house the beast? he wondered, and sent his second son to find out, and the boy wriggled through the undergrowth in a manner really creditable to his training, but before he could raise the canvas to look inside, the heavy lash of a stock-whip had fallen across his back, raising a purple welt on the bronze skin. Still, it did not matter.
From the plaza of Cactus City, with a whoop, came a mob of horsemen, followed by men and women on foot, for the other sports were now ended. The afternoon was wearing on. The first races were quickly run; then Indians and whites gathered about an open spot opposite the tent near the finish, forming a living ring around it. Into the middle of this space strode Wet Dog, followed by a squaw leading three ponies, their manes and tails gay with feathers. At her lord's feet she drove a picket pin, and securing the neck-ropes to it, retired. This signified that they were offered in wager, and a tall Papago placed a saddle by the pin, but Wet Dog regarded it scornfully. A bit was added; then some rifle cartridges, and the Apache bowed in token of acceptance, moving away and signalling with his hand for more horses. Other ventures were offered, and soon the betting became fast and heavy, even white men staking silver against the ponies or Navajo blankets, and all without a word save when the whites bet among themselves.
When nearly all the movable property of those present had been wagered, they turned to the course, where the hope of the Apaches, his chestnut coat shining in the sun, was slowly led up and down. He wore a bridle instead of the single rein tied around the under jaw that Indians generally affect. Instead of a saddle a piece of cowhide rope was loosely tied around his body, just behind the withers. Wet Dog's son, his entire costume consisting of a very small breech-cloth and a two-tailed whip, sprang on to the horse's back and thrust his knees under the cowhide rope. Both were then ready and cantered toward the starting-point, followed by an admiring throng.
Wet Dog sat on his horse near the tent. Its flap was raised, and the black mare led forth by her reverend jockey. That morning Wet Dog had seen Clay Randolph, but now what a change! As he noted the breeches, tops and silk jacket, the memory of other races, seen long ago, flashed across the Chief's mind. He observed that the faded purple and yellow blouse was wofully tight for its wearer, and had been clumsily let out at the waist, so that the weight would be to his disadvantage, but still the course was not long, and Wet Dog was harassed with doubts, for this costume was of the fashion of the East, where they know how. Many horsemen accompanied the stranger as he walked to the start. The Apache joined them, but stopped two-thirds of the way up the course and waited for the starting shot. Many things are thus started in Arizona. Some are ended so. At length it came, followed by a yell and the thunder of galloping hoofs, as the spectators pelted along the shorter path.
Wet Dog turned and cantered slowly back, looking over his shoulder. As the horses flashed into view his hand twitched once, for he could see that the chestnut was leading. Wet Dog's son, on the racer's back, gripping from thigh to ankle-joint, leaned forward with reins flying slack, and. urged by the sting of the double-lashed quirt, his mount was doing its utmost. Close behind strode the black mare, her chin on her breast, her rider sitting well back in the tiny saddle, which he more than filled. Could it be that the black was gaining? Yes, she was; gaining even with the jockey's weight on her bit, and Wet Dog pushed his pony into a run as the racers flew past. He could just see the poles of the finish now, with their background of faces, red, white, and yellow. As they neared the end, the horses came between him and the finish, and the dust screened them from his sight. The shouts which rang over the flat told him that the race was over, and that he had lost; so, without drawing rein, he turned away from the course and, crossing the river, made his way to the wickiup on the shelf of the mesa, and sat down in its shade, his head resting on his folded arms.
The squaws and his sons came, but departed; it was not well to disturb him, then. The racer was fed and cared for and the remaining ponies were hobbled and turned out to graze. Food was cooked, and the youngest squaw, taking her lord's portion, crept timidly up to where he sat. His head was raised, now, and as cheerful an expression as his dignity would allow played over his features. He ate the food and then called his sons, who sat at his feet as he talked to them far into the night.
Looking across the river, he could see that Cactus City was rejoicing. The canvas walls of the saloons, lighted from within, the camp-fires of the Indians and Mexicans, and the yells of the revellers, vaguely recalled to his mind the transparencies and torches of a political parade and the shouting crowds on the side-walks where Wet Dog had stood in his school-days, years before.
The canvas houses continued their pearl-like glow, but one by one the fires faded to dull, red spots in the darkness, and the shouts grew fainter and finally ceased. Then, followed by their sire, the two boys departed into the gloom of the cliff-shadowed flat of the river. The crescent of the new moon climbed over the mesa opposite, filtering a faint light on the yellow sands below.
At the foot of the precipice a hole, a yard or so in diameter, led into a fissure in the rock. In front of this hole, and facing it, knelt Wet Dog. On a piece of board before him lay the severed legs of the panther shot the night before, and he was taking them, one after the other, and printing their feet in the sand, then shuffling backward, carefully obliterating, with the flat side of the board, the marks of his knees, and repeating the operation until the footprints reached the thick weeds which grew by the river. Then he gathered up his properties and vanished.
It was just at daybreak, and Cactus City was in its soundest sleep. The tents showed a ghastly gray in the gathering light, and the red eyes of the camp-fires had long since closed, when the black figures of men and horses silently crossed the ford. The camp of Wet Dog and his friends was breaking. They waited awhile until the squaws joined them, and all moved westward along the trail save a few, who, detaching themselves, rode toward the cliff. This was just the hour invariably chosen by the Apaches for their attacks, so when a chorus of shrill yells rent the air, to an accompaniment of dropping rifle-shots, Cactus City was roused in a moment. Men started from their blankets around the ashes of their dead fires, clutching hastily snatched weapons; they came pouring from the saloons and corrals, only to see an excited group of Indians pointing from the ground to the hole in the cliff and talking together in apparent alarm. Evidently no attack was intended, so they left the rocks and knolls behind which they had sought shelter from the expected fire, and joining the absorbed group of aborigines, inquired as to the cause of the excitement. It was an animal, they were told, something like a panther, but larger—much larger—and with long legs, so that it moved with exceeding swiftness. It had struck down a squaw and killed her. When they had fired, it had not minded the shots, but had struck down another squaw; then carried its first victim away with it. They had followed the tracks thus far, but now they were afraid to go farther. They, the Apaches, were afraid. The beast was not natural.
Greaser Pete had been among the first to arrive, and was now examining the tracks critically. "What's wrong with you fools, anyway?" he asked. "Leery of a puma? say!"
It was not a puma, they insisted. Somewhat like one, to be sure, but bigger and more fierce; behaving in such a manner that their hearts became as the heart of a squaw. If anyone disbelieved, there was the den. It was at home, and if it was a panther it might be shot. But no Indian would try it.
Then spake Wet Dog. The white men said that this was a puma. Very good. He, Wet Dog, said that it was not. If any man was foolish to prove what it was, he, Wet Dog, would back his opinion with a wager. He waved his hand and one of the squaws led out the Apache racer, dropping the picket-pin into the ground and pressing it home with her substantial foot.
Men looked askance at this. There must be a trick somewhere—the stakes were too high. Wet Dog, as they well knew, valued this horse more than the whole of his other possessions, squaws and all. It was a temptation, however, and several hesitated, until, at last, the Reverend Randolph stepped out of the shadow, placing at the Chiefs feet a canvas shot-bag, partially filled. "Dar's de dust," he observed. "Does she go?"
Wet Dog stooped and lifted the bag. It weighed well, and he was glad, for of all men, he would rather despoil this one, and he signified that the wager held. But who was to carry out its terms? Not the Indians, for they had specifically declined doing so, and the reverend jockey seemed to have little inclination in that direction, so there was a pause of some seconds, broken by Pete.
"Stand by to help, boys, if I don't kill," he said, and, turning, he walked toward the cave. The Indians drew away, except the squaw, who still stood by the horse's head. In his hand Pete held a shot-gun of the kind used by express messengers, with sawed-off barrels and heavy charges of buckshot in them. It was pitch dark inside the cave, and Pete edged his way carefully, seeing nothing until the passage took a turn. Then, beyond, glowed two spots of dull, green flame. They were the eyes of the beast; the Wells Fargo burned a red hole in the darkness, and the echoing walls gave back a crash like thunder. Then another shot, and Pete backed into the open, coughing and choking from the sulphurous fumes. He caught a breath of fresh air, and, dropping the shot-gun, drew a pistol and dove into the black hole once more.
"Is it a puma, Pete?" someone asked at length. It was not. Pete's answer was lengthy and hyperbolic, but on that point it was quite clear, and the squaw, catching up the precious bag, which she thrust into her bosom, bundled on to the wagered horse, and lashing him furiously, followed her companions.
Then once more Pete's voice was heard from inside the cave, raised in earnest profanity, which grew louder and more distinct until Pete appeared in the opening, his six-shooter in one hand and in the other the bloody remains of a large black cat of the domestic variety.
It was Tom. Tom, the sign and totem of the Black Cat saloon; Pete's especial pet, and the only tame cat within fifty miles. Around his neck there was a thong, by means of which he had been tied in the cave. Pete's wrath grew greater as he looked, and he became quiet, as was his wont when angry. It was a trick. A trick played on him, and by an Indian who was gone, now, and gone with many of his tribe about him. Besides, an Indian, more especially one of a tribe that occasionally varies the monotony of reservation life by the murder of defenceless settlers, one must not shoot, for they draw Government rations and are protected by Federal laws and officers, A Mexican, however, is different. No one protects him, or wants to, and Pete looked at the swarthy faces about him for a sign of levity, but more dejected appearing specimens of the Latin race it would be impossible to find; so he retired to his saloon, closing the door after him.
Wet Dog was soon overtaken by the squaw who had been left behind with the horse, and they had ridden on for some time. They were going slowly, for the way was steep. When he beckoned her to him he was rocking in his saddle with silent mirth, for the Apache, unlike many other Indians, will laugh heartily enough when anything strikes his somewhat peculiar sense of humor, and his dignity allows, and now he was on exceedingly good terms with himself as his wife, with a dutiful little murmur of joy, handed him the bag. He undid the string and poured part of the contents out in his hand. His face grew dark, for this was not gold—far from it—but little black pellets, and many of them. About a pound and a half of No. 4 shot.
Wet Dog was dazed for a moment, but the squaw wailed. This recalled him to himself, and he was impolite enough to throw the handful of shot in her face. Then he rode on, lost in thought. The wisdom of the red man he had been born to; he had acquired that of the whites, and of the black man he now had seen something, but his heart was heavy within him, and he desired to know no more.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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