The
old showman we had brought up from Memphis was made master of
ceremonies, 'cause he could talk Choctaw, and Comanche, and other Indian
jargon, and things got busy. The Indians wouldn't run their ponies more
than an eighth of a mile, or a quarter, and we consented, because the
poor little things didn't look as though they could run a block, they
were so thin, and sleepy. Pa was afraid the humane society would have us
arrested for cruelty to animals. All our fellows were provided with
money, and they flashed rolls of bills in the faces of the Indians, and
finally Mr. Indian would reach down under his clothes and pull out a
roll, and wet his thumb and peel off big bills, and before we knew it we
were investing a fortune in the racing game. Then the racing began, and
the horses were sent off at the drop of a hat, or the firing of a
pistol.
I was given some money to bet with the little Indians, 'cause pa said we
wanted to get every dollar in the tribe, for if we didn't get it the
Indians would spend it for fire water. The first race was between one of
our best runners and a sleepy little spotted pony, and when the hat was
dropped the pony made a few jumps and was off like a rabbit, and our
horse couldn't see him for the dust, and our horse was distanced.
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