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Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Race
By Pat Gott
After counting wild horses on the Crow reservation for the U.S. Government last fall, Bertha and Charlie Daye stayed the winter at their homestead on the North Fork of the Shoshone west of Cody, Wyoming. He was in his forties, clean-shaven showing his weather-lined gentle face, tall, lanky, reticent, loved mules and the mountains. She was in her early thirties, an attractive woman who received seven grades of schooling before her parents were killed in Johnson County and she went on the run. She was independent, outspoken, and an excellent horsewoman. Together they made a good team.
In between guiding hunters into the high country, they had spent their off hours gentling and training the four mustangs they had brought back from the reservation. The palomino mare and especially her sorrel foal, now a yearling, had been easy to gentle with just a few corral lessons. Being ponied on the 3-day trek back from the Pryor Mountains helped gain their trust and cooperation. Their wrangler Marlon had gelded the gray then turned him over to Bertha to train when he accepted a job in Cheyenne for the winter. Named Greystone, the now three-year-old turned out to be spirited but willing and trainable. This spring Bertha was riding him on the trail. However, the black, now four-years-old, was another matter.
Bertha had intended to have Charlie geld him upon their return. However, his superior conformation, intelligence, and agility persuaded them to keep him a stallion for breeding, at least for a while. Bertha planned to break him to ride as well to get maximum use from him. He had other ideas. Proud and handsome, she had named him Washakie and although she liked and admired his spirit and independence, she also found him arrogant, willful, sometimes cooperative, and always testing her. He was not going to give up his dominance easily.
“Charlie, if he’d only be consistent I could deal with him. The bugger is willing to have me ride him at a walk, jog and lope around the corral one day, and the next, he bucks the instant I mount…so I return to making him run and turn until he faces me and accepts me as his boss again. He’s good for the next few days, then he has another uncooperative spell and I start all over. Luckily, he’s not mean or I’d have him cut. I just don’t know…” she said in frustration.
“I’ve watched you two, and I know mules better ‘n horses, but I’d say he’s just playin’ games and havin’ fun getting you frustrated. Maybe you need to introduce somethin’ new or challengin’ so he’ll stop thinkin’ about bestin’ you.”
“I think you’re right, ol’ man. He knows his gaits and cues to turn and stop, so I guess it’s time to take him out of the small corral into a larger, but still fenced, area like the winter pastures where he can experience nature with me on his back. I’ll do that tomorrow…that is, if you’ll plan to be on hand.”
“I’ll be in the background, dear, just like always. Don’t want anythin’ untoward happenin’ to you; who’d be bossin’ me around iffn’ you wasn’t here,” Charlie said with affection.
“Just remember that ol’ man.” She smiled and winked.
Bertha always gave the black his time, running the small pen with the saddle cinched and stirrups flapping, to let him get out his bucks, kicks and kinks before mounting. She had been training him with a rawhide bosal headstall and decided that introducing the bit today would only add confusion. New territory would be enough to pique his interest without worrying about new equipment.
She mounted and jogged him a few times around the corral, then signaled Charlie to open the gate. Washakie’s ears pricked up as he pranced through the gate into the pasture. It was fenced with three strands of barbed wire, which stood four feet above ground. Compared to their summer pasture of 100 acres, the five acres was a small area. He, however, mistakenly thought he was free on open range again. His nostrils flared as Bertha felt his anxiety. Instead of holding him in, she let him jog, thinking he would be more comfortable on the move rather than confined to a walk. His gait was steady so she let him out a little more, into a lope. That was all he needed to encourage his wild instinct. He snorted, shook his head, and launched himself into a hand gallop then into racing mode as he quickly covered ground to the far side of the pasture.
Bertha thought, Oh no; fence coming up, won’t stop, won’t turn, intent on racing straight aheaddisaster looming. She was about to bail off when she felt him gather himself . . .and he flew, as if lifted by wings, over the fence and landed on the ground moving at a speed no less then a runaway train.
Charlie watched in dread as his wife, astride the black, headed straight toward the far fence line. He began running in their direction not wanting to think of the catastrophe that was about to happen. Then he stopped in amazement, as she and the black cleared the fence by more than two feet. He turned back to the barn where he quickly saddled his big buckskin taking chase after them as fast as his horse could run, while shaking his head and thinking, Bertha, you’re in for one-heckuva-ride; I sure hope you survive this day.
Washakie was flying over the ground, up steep slopes, down into ravines and up the other side, leaping sagebrush and having the time of his life, headed west toward home. Fortunately, for Bertha the town of Cody was between them and the Crow reservation. I’ll just hang on ‘till then, he’ll slow down in time, she hoped. Just outside of Cody, near the construction site of the work-in-process Shoshone dam, he did slow down, partly out of anticipation of civilization and partly because he’d just covered five miles at a runaway gallop and needed to catch his second wind. Bertha regained control and reined him to a walk then after a few minutes she halted. She did not know whose heart pounded faster, the black’s or hers. Wow, she thought, I’ve ridden horses all thirty years of my life, but I’ve never ridden like that.
She wanted to dismount, hug her horse and have a good cry, but she was afraid she might not being able to hang onto him from the ground so she settled for petting him and crooning softly to him. “Washakie,” she soothed and patted his sweaty neck, “You are some kinda horseflesh, boy. If only I could learn to control you,” she added.
Charlie met them within a couple of miles after they had turned around and were walking back home. “I’m glad to see you’re still on his back and in once piece. You okay?” he said apprehensively. Pretty as she was, he had learned over the past ten years not to treat Bertha as a fragile flower; she was a tough lady. Not that he didn’t worry about her, she just didn’t like him to make a big deal of emotional situationslike now.
“If I get off, Charlie, will you help hold the black? I need to get my feet on the ground and stop my legs from shaking for a bit.”
“Sure, he’s pretty much calmed down after that run and Bucky’s here to keep him comp’ny; he’ll be okay now.”
As she came over and gave him a big hug she said, “In all my years, I ain’t ever ridden a horse like that one, Charlie. Wow, is all I can say; well not allhe sure can run, and jump. Did you see him fly over that fence, Charlie?”
“Yes dear. He took near six feet of air. I don’t want to see you doin’ that again soon; had me plumb worried ‘til I seen you land and keep moving. That’s the mustang in him, surefooted and fearless.”
On the way back home, they chatted about various ways, and training techniques, to control Washakie on the trail. Bertha mentioned that the black would be a good match in a race against their friend Buffalo Bill Cody’s famous white Arabian horse, McKinley. Bertha had tried unsuccessfully to beg, buy or negotiate for Bill’s stallion for years; maybe she could win him in a wager on a horse race.
Charlie thought this was a bad idea. “It’d be a losin’ situation, dear. IF we beat Bill’s horse, we’d lose a friend; and IF we lost the race, we’d lose a good horse who has the potential to be a money-makin’ breedin’ stallion.”
“Okay, so you’re right,” she conceded. “But, I’d sure like to race someone, somewhere; I’ve never seen or ridden a horse that can run like Washakie.”
To avoid further confrontation, Charlie uttered his usual, “Yes dear.”
Opportunity presented itself on their next trip into town for supplies. A poster pinned to the door of the feed and grain store read:
WANTED,
horses to enter
Cody’s 4th of July 1903
Stampede Race
10 miles cross-country
Must enter by June 15
Entrance fee $75, winner takes all
See Slim at the Irma
“I want to enter Washakie. He can win, Charlie; I know he can. Whaddya think?”
“Women don’t ride in horse races, Bertha and I sure ain’t ridin’ the black. I’m a mule and mount’in man, remember.”
“I’ll ride,” she retorted stubbornly.
“Okay, IF you decide to ride, I’ll support you, but there’s a couple of things you need to be considerin’: one, we’d have to sacrifice a month’s pay to cover the entrance fee and, the black definitely needs a lot more trainin’ on bein’ cooperative.”
“But look at the money we’ll win,” she countered. “And I’ve got four weeks, twenty-eight days, to train. I’ll work with him every day.”
They stopped at the Irma Hotel on their way out of town and paid the entrance fee, registering him as “Washakie, owned by Charlie and Bertha Daye”. No rider’s name given. Fifteen horses were already signed up, with two more weeks to enter.
Bertha became a serious racehorse trainer; her reputation and a month’s wages were at stake. No more bosalshe settled on a bit with just a slight port because the black did not have a hard mouth, she just needed some leverage if he decided to run again. The bit had long shanks and a slot for a curb chain that, along with more training, should enable her to have the control she needed to quell his willful disposition.
She trained him daily, at first with Charlie and Bucky riding alongside, introducing him to buckboards, mule teams, gunshots, wooden bridges and other man-made obstacles that he had not encountered in the wild. Then as he grew to trust her, she rode him alone, with Charlie a half mile behindjust in case. She also rode him at a controlled pace through creeks, up mountains, down craggy ravines and across ledges. He was a natural at these.
Four weeks later, they were a team. Bertha announced, “We’re ready to race.”
A concerned Charlie and a confident Bertha rode into town before sunup the day before the race so no one would be around to check out the black. They secured two stalls at Cody’s west end stock pens: a corner stall to house the black, trying to keep him away from the chaos the middle stalls would bring, and another for themselves set up next to the black.
They met with the other twenty-four entrants at the Irma at noon. Buffalo Bill Cody himself handed out riding numbersthey were number sixteenand briefed everyone about the stampede race schedule. At seven the next morning they were to parade down the center of town so gamblers could see the horses and riders, thus increasing the wagering. At nine o’clock, the race would begin east of Cody, head toward Powell, around Heart Mountain and return, with the finish line this side of the wooden bridge crossing the Shoshone. There was a catch however; if a rider wanted, he could take an alternate route this side of the mountain, crossing some extremely rough ground, ravines and the river. Bertha did not intend to take this route as she was sure Washakie could outrun the other horses and would not need to chance unknown terrain, even if it did cut off two miles.
So far, no one had noticed the black, much less, knew Bertha was riding.
After the meeting, Buffalo Bill tried to corner his friends to get some inside knowledge about their horse named “Washakie” and who was riding, but they slyly disappeared out the back door and returned to keep ‘the black’ company. They planned to have one of them always around in case he caused trouble. Come suppertime, Bertha left to catch a bite to eat at the Silver Dollar Saloon; Charlie had the first watch. Three cowboys, having had too much to drink in too short a time, were standing around the corner checking out the black. When they got bolder, came closer and proceeded to heckle him, Charlie recognized one of them as the rider of the town’s favorite horse to win.
“Hey, old man. Nice horse; but he can’t race if you can’t ride, now can he?” one of the drunken cowboys said as he grabbed Charlie and threw him against the wood fence. The second cowboy pinned Charlie’s arms behind him while the third punched him in the stomach, sending Charlie crumbling to the ground.
They were about to kick and stomp on him when they heard, “STOP! I’M riding the black and I’M shooting on the count of three if you’re not out of my eyesight by then.” They stared down the barrel of a rifle held by a good-looking, but very, angry woman. They ran.
“Charlie honey, you alright?” Bertha sobbed, as she hugged and kissed him.
“Keep that up, dear, and it’ll be worth bein’ punched just to be tended to by you,” he said affectionately as he held her close.
Her composure returning she told him, “You go get something to eat; I’m staying right here with my rifle pointing at anyone who comes near.”
While Charlie was at the Silver Dollar, he placed a bet of $35 on the black. Their odds had changed to 15 - 1 since word was out a woman was riding, an angry one at that.
Washakie danced, pranced and sidestepped, with sweat running freely off his glistening body as he paraded down Cody’s main street, nervous as a jackrabbit in a den of coyotes. Charlie had to resort to ponying him beside Bucky to help Bertha keep the black under controlunfortunately, they had not exposed him to people-noises and crowds.
The parade was coming to the end when a bunch of young boys jumped out in front of Bertha and the black yelling, “Bang, bang, bang” and waving fake rifles at them. That was more than the black could take; he reared up and came down on his front end as his back legs went high in the air…Bertha hit the ground amidst the crowd’s laughter and jeering. “If you cain’t stay on him, howya gonna race him?” and “Go home woman; bake bread, have kids.” Bertha remounted, humiliated but still confident in her horse’s ability, and her own, to win the raceif she could stay on.
The starter was their friend Bill Cody. As he announced the name of each horse and rider, Bertha tried to stay calm so her horse would not feed off her anxiety and kept Washakie walking in circles to keep his mind occupied. Suddenly, Bill announced the crowd to stand back and fired his gun to start the raceat that moment, she and the black were facing the opposite direction.
“Easy does it,” Bertha whispered to the black as he spun around and lunged after the racers. “We’ve got plenty of time to catch them, boy.” They passed the tail-end horses effortlessly and within a mile had passed several more. Riding to catch the pack of eight front-runners, two riders whom she recognized as two of cowboys who beat up Charlie the night before, blocked her way. Fueled by fury, she tried to pass on the right, only to have them pull to the right in front of her; she reined the black to the left and was blocked there, also. She’d either have to circle way around them or…just then one of the riders swerved to avoid a sage bush; she quickly pressed Washakie with both legs and he cleared the bush landing between the riders. The cowboys looked at her with recognition and began squeezing her, bumping her horse. When that did not discourage her, one whipped her horse with the ends of his reins while the other tried to kick her foot out of the stirrup and push her off. She regained her balance, leaned over the black’s neck and whispered, “Go Washakie, go”.
He responded and left the two cowboys eating dust. However, she had lost precious time in the scuffle and she could no longer see the front-runners. Maybe we need to take the alternative route and stay away from the other riders, and trouble, she thought. She guided the black to the left, leaving the trail to find their way across unknown terrain to the river. The black ran effortlessly covering rock-strewn ledges as well as desert-like sand. This was his natural running environment. He never broke stride as he sailed over a deep but narrow gully wash, clearing the six-foot space with ease. Then she reined him to a walk and observed a deep ravine with a rider sprawled on the ground at the bottom.
She cautiously made her way to the base and began dismounting when the young man said, “No, keep riding. Rattler spooked my horse. My ankle is probably broken but I’ll be alright; just send somebody back when you get to town.”
“Okay. I’ll send help.”
“Thanks and good luck, lady. Fine horse; hope you win.”
“Me too,” she yelled over her shoulder as they galloped to the other side of the gorge. Climbing the crest with the sure-footedness of his mustang heritage, she spotted the river with the main trail on the other side of it. She crossed at a point where the Shoshone ran swift but not deep, stopping just long enough to let her horse take a few sips of water before continuing onto the well-trodden trail back to Cody.
Then she heard the thunder of pounding hooves as five horses and riders rounded the bend to her right. “This is it, boy,” she said to the black as she urged him into a gallop, bringing him in behind the pack. She outdistanced two of the racers as the other three spurred their horses and pulled ahead. With the wooden bridge coming into view, it was time to racejust how fast could he run with competition egging him on.
She leaned over his neck, hanging onto his mane, saying “Go Washakie, go,” feeling his strong muscles and long strides take him past one after the other. Tears from the wind spilled from her eyes, blurring her vision as they raced the lead horse across the bridge to the finish line.
She won. By a full head, they crossed the finish line in front of the town’s favorite racehorse. Charlie was there to catch and comfort both Bertha and the black.
Losers lodged complaints for allowing a woman to ride. However race official Bill Cody announced: “…Wyoming women were granted the legal right to vote in 1869, seems they’d have a legal right to horse race in 1903, if they want.”
He congratulated his friends, shaking hands with Charlie and hugging Bertha, saying, “I placed my bets on Washakie once I found out you were riding; made quite a stack of easy money thanks to you and that fine horse.”
“Suppose he could beat McKinley?” she asked with a mischievous grin.
Bill never answered.
*********
“Charlie, did I tell someone about the young man with the broken ankle?” Bertha asked as they cuddled in bed that night.
“You told me, and I told Bill. He said he’d be takin’ care of it.”
“You’re my hero, ol’ man; I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m purty pleased with you too, sweetheart. You and the black done good. Besides winnin’ the purse of $1875, I placed bets on you and won us another $1000. And with the black’s looks and his racin’ reputation, he’ll be makin’ us a pile of money as a breedin’ stallion …signed up six mares after the race whist you was restin’,” he said proudly.
“Maybe we can name our expanding homestead, Washakie Ranch,” she said. “Whaddya think?”
“That’s a fine name, dear,” he responded as he snuggled closer.
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