a sport--I got to give the old bird
credit. He rared back on his hind legs and made a stormy palaver;
as near as I could judge he told his ghost-dancers they'd been
cold-decked, but he expected 'em to take their medicine and grin, and,
anyhow, it was a lesson to 'em. Next time they'd know better'n to
monkey with strangers. Whatever it was he said, he made his point, and
after a right smart lot of powwowin' the entertainment proceeded. But
Mike and me was as popular with them people as a couple of polecats at
a picnic.

Mike certainly made a picture when he lined up at the start; he stood
out like a marble statue in a slate quarry. I caught a glimpse of the
chief's daughter, and her eyes was bigger than ever, and she had her
hands clinched at her side. He must have looked like a god to her;
but, for that matter, he was a sight to turn any untamed female heart,
whether the owner et Belgian hare off of silver service or boiled
jack-rabbit out of a coal-oil can. Women are funny thataway.

It's a pot-hunter's maxim never to win by a big margin, but to nose
out his man at the finish. This Mike did, winnin' by a yard; then he
acted as if he was all in--faked a faint, and I doused him with a
sombrero of water from the creek. It was a spectacular race, at that,
for at the finish the runners was bunched till a blanket would of
covered 'em. When they tore into the finish I seen the chief's girl do
a trick. Mike was runnin' on the outside, and when nobody was watchin'
her the little squaw kicked one of them blanket bundles about two feet
down the course, givin' Mike that much the "edge." She done it clever
and it would have throwed a close race.

Them savages swallered their physic and grinned, like the chief had
told 'em, and they took it standin' up. They turned over the flower of
their pony herd to us, not to mention about six quarts of silver money
and enough blankets to fill our tent. The old chief patted Mike on the
back, then put both hands to his temples with his fingers spread out,
as much as to say, "He runs like a deer."

Bimeby a buck stepped up and begun makin' signs. He pointed to the sun
four times, and we gathered that he wanted us to wait four days until
he could go and get another man.

Mike tipped me the wink, sayin': "They're goin' after the champeen of
the tribe. That phony faint of mine done it. Will we wait? Why,
say, we'd wait four years, wouldn't we? Sweet pickin's, I call it.
Champeen, huh?"

"For