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here and there.
    The ex-peddler, edgy on his mare, hoped to perform well, yet feared he would make a mess of the old chief’s faith in him as a talisman meant to come up with some sort of unusual performance. It was not only a question of the importance of the race, but it would also give him a chance to explore the surroundings on Bessie’s back, and maybe make practical plans to escape to his boardinghouse.
    The five riders lined up by a stand of pines, four braves seated on slender, speedy ponies. Indian Head rode a small white horse,
Corn Talk sat on a prancing chestnut, and Foolish Eyes reined an Appaloosa. Seven Fists was mounted on a strong gray, and Yozip, the stranger, sat on Bessie’s warm back.
    The chief cleared his breath of a pocket of phlegm, then uttered a strange harsh cry that shook Bessie to her withers and threw her off stride for six steps. Indian Head and his friends had streaked past Yozip on his mare, but Bessie impelled herself forward in leaps and exalted bounds, and was soon pursuing the Indian racers and gaining quickly on their lithe ponies.
    The course was a short one, about three miles through rough turf and then into what might be a section of smooth terrain.
    At the first half circle Indian Head led on his white charger, pursued by Corn Talk wearing black braids, and followed by Yozip’s s Bessie, making nightmare noises as though in pursuit of a dream; she quickly overtook Corn Talk, then Indian Head, and completed the circle with her immigrant master triumphantly in the lead.
    The chief grunted when Yozip stopped before him as if expecting his blessing; One Blossom stared at the white stranger in embarrassment; at the same time her poignant eye met Indian Head’s in an expression of regret at his loss of the race. Since no one had cheered for him, Yozip let out a sob of self-approval and Bessie produced a gay fart.
     
     
    When he had dismounted after the horse race, Yozip was surrounded by the braves he had competed with and had left in the dust. He extended both hands to forgive them, or to acknowledge congratulations, but got instead a sharp slap on the mouth by each Indian. One by one each plucked five red hairs from Yozip’s inflamed chin.
    And the chief slapped him on the face on three separate occasions.
    In this way they will make me into a red man, Yozip thought. So who needs paint when a slap shows better?
    The ex-peddler remembered Gussie, his mother, plucking feathers off a dead hen.
    At the chief’s whispered request Indian Head informed Yozip
that the forthcoming trial would measure his skill with a bow and arrow, and his courage under pressure. Yozip then explained he wasn’t sure about his courage, and he barely knew a bow from an arrow. His landlady’s son in the boardinghouse had once shown him a picture of an Indian gentleman in a fur cap shooting a tufted arrow with a long bow. The ex-peddler asked Indian Head if he would mind a fistfight instead. Yozip hated fighting in any form but occasionally he had such an experience.
    “To tell you the truth, I don’t like to hurt somebody who doesn’t hurt me.”
    “I don’t like fist games,” said Indian Head.
    “So let’s play something else.”
    Indian Head said the chief wouldn’t permit that. It would nullify the contest and Yozip wouldn’t be allowed to enter the tribe.
    The ex-peddler feigned disappointment. He sighed audibly. Indian Head then produced a long large sheep-horn bow and cutting arrow. To test them he aimed at a tiny cloud in the sky. A black hawk striving for altitude shrieked and fell to the ground. Neither Indian Head nor Yozip had seen the bird begin its fall and both were astonished.
    Bessie bolted, attempting to run, but Yozip grabbed her by the tail and deftly held tight until the horse, kicking at imaginary enemies, gradually calmed down.
    The Indian braves, standing in a circle around their venerable chief, now looked at the peddler as if he might be human. Though on the verge of