Episode 4 – The Harvester Race

I drew my sights hard to the saddle; felt Boone's tail flash and brush against my side. He turned his strong head; one-eyed stare engaged with me. I smiled; he grunted and stomped the ground with his front hoof. The grip of my hands over his saddle tensed as my gloves rubbed leather to leather.

"Mark!" another cry, "Ready!"

We waited for that singular moment to fall. Where the mere sound of silence drags that moment on forever into what seemed to be an eternity. I felt the sweat drip from my chin as my teeth gripped into a clinch.

"Go!" I heard the shot of his gun and this word all ring out in one flash of sound and fury.

"Heaven's gate!" I cried out; being vaulted from my stance and into a leg swing over Boone's shoulder; me square now into saddle and seeing the sights of an empty landscape before me. Boone pushed forward instantly and without waiver; his head nearly flush and hitting onto the hard ground as we ascended from our post. That roar from the crowd rose and elevated more than ever.

So much so, I could not hear my own thoughts there.

We all released almost identical and we thundered out onto the open plains. Twenty heads in a furious bob and heave; the gallant ride forth; the earth tumbling beneath our ways when all the horses and men converged in what seemed to be a single strand and line forward. I looked underneath my arm and I could see only the heavy dirge of dust and cloudy smoke misting out the clan of that crowd behind us all.

Shadowland edged out first; his strides long and majestic with such a black glow and brilliant darkness. Boone followed pursuit and cornered out with him till we were side by side, slightly ahead of the remaining eight horses. Our gallops matched length-by-length; unwavering; unyielding to the other; Branson stiff to his expression and he seemed perturbed by our ability to keep pace. Those eyes of his fell behind his heavy brow; his chin grunting into a glutton frown; the wave of his hand; his persistent stare all wore on Boone and I as he guided Shadowland ever closer to us.

His push was wild and strong when he bore out a half-length lead, then a slight full length till that high-arching black tail brushed up against Boone's face; only to rile him out further.

Boone would most gladly accept the challenge.

"You can't catch a pure breed!" Branson yelled back, "Half-breed!" His chuckle burned my blood red.

"A-ya A-na-s-gv-ti U-you-tsi-hi Ni-hi!" I cried out in Cherokee, which took him into a bit of shock.

"Cut the crackle!" He howled back.

"Na-quu!" I spit in return, "A-ya A-se-quu-i A-ni-gi-s-di-ni-dv-le-nv-da Ni-hi!"

And with this Boone released his own yell, dug deep to the ground, lept forward, and flushed right past Shadowland and Branson who, in turn, watched our acceleration with awe as we passed them both by.

I felt Branson become more desperate; his two-henchman pulled near until the three riders came directly to our rear.

"Call them out Randall!" I cried back to my friend.

I saw him attempting to gain some relevant speed, riding to my right corner rear. His stallion labored, huffed, made a gasp to gather momentum, though one of Branson's riders quickly brushed Randall out of position.

"You're alone in this friend!" Branson bristled; his horse trying to nip on Boone's flopping tail, "Now! Stop us!"

In unison they rumbled ever more to my most immediate shadow. I flipped my sights back and forth and I tried to gauge their next move.

From the brunt of their saddles the two fellow riders retrieved one whip each; rising high by one hand while the other hand kept steady to the reins. The lashes caught quick and hard to Boone's backside.

He railed into a mighty grit-clench of his bit; his eyes stoned from the pain, and he sneered with all the more aggression in an attempt to pull us free. Still the lashes fell, one right after another.

And no matter Boone's attempt to outrun them, the force only worsened. I made an attempt to grab onto one, then the other.

I felt Boone push his massive frame even harder; his head lowering to the horizon, and all the while taking the full force of their blows. I reached back in another try to grab the whips as they fell downward; though only to find my attempts to yank them away nothing more than futile.

They pursued us nearly a quarter to the mile, nearly two-thirds the way to the flagpoles.

"Stop it!" I shouted in retreat, "Stop it!"

Still, the lashes fell ever harder.

I could see Boone beginning to foam around the edges of his gaping mouth; his head lower still. Those strong shoulders of Boone's were starting to yield; the pain too severe and sapping him from his strides.

In one final galactic rush, Boone anguished out with a yell and pulled us into a riled twist. We rolled into a near three-sixty spin that almost took me from his saddle. We found ourselves in a full stall. We both watched as the other participants passed us by and headed out to the distant flagpoles just ahead.

I heard the whoops and hollers of those three men drive a virtual spear through me. My hands held sturdy to the reins; eyes hot red to that glow, while Boone gnawed on his bit, and then suddenly pushed forward by his own will.

I felt the Boone of old there.

The steam heart of a champion came rushing through. His shoulders felt more like wings than of gallops; his hooves stronger than steel. And as we made pursuit upon that dusting-up-cloud of horses and men, I could see Branson's two henchmen directly in front of me.

"Get me there Boone!" I yelled for all to hear, "Get me there!"

Dust flew into my mouth and it began to choke me through; my eyes filtered the heavy brown dust, which seemed to throw itself back on us; still we were in a full gallop pursuit.

Boone pressed deeper into that wedge of this group till we found ourselves on the tail of Branson's most lagging rider.

"Closer," I commanded on Boone; he growled as his cold, dark eyes shot out in anger; his teeth exposed and appeared to nip on the horses' frantic heels.

"Closer!"

I reached out with an open hand, grabbed the horses' full wad of tail hair, yanked as hard as my pull would go; and so thrust that horse and rider into a roll and tumble that took both of them completely out of the race.

When all had come to a clear, I looked back to see the horse in a full stop and the rider kicking about the dust; appearing to be caught in a continual skip while taking doughnut circles around his horse.

His day for racing was over with.

Our convergence brought us to the very heart of this race once more; Branson's second henchman now just to my left. I edged Boone over when I saw Randall come laterally to me; now poking at the left corner of this very same rider.

"Take him!" I asked on Randall.

"Much obliged!" He bent low, smiled to his side on me, and he pushed his own horse to ride along that second rider.

"Let me have that rein!" Randall sternly groped for it.

"Says who?" The rider fussed and pushed about Randall, while I made my move to come undetected alongside of him.

"Says me!" I snatched his reins in a rush, "The Half-breed!"

That horse looked as if it had not only seen a ghost, but that a whole tribe of Indians had descended upon it without notice. The throws it went through; frightfully scared; bucking in a toss-spin, and then it kicking out with its hind legs until the rider finally fell into a rolled-up topple. As soon as the rider was tossed, the horse scampered about; leaving the rider to his own race home.

"You know what to do..." Randall winked on Boone and me.

"I must be off..." I shouted, "I have a race to win…"

"Woohooya..." Randall waved me on with a full smile.

Boone pressed between the wedge of three other riders; catch the draft, maneuver sidewise; there, to a certain point; take your stride more rapid and long, cut the distance, and shadow the opponent no further. This was the motto I had always known Boone to adhere to.

He simply would not be denied.

I felt the rumble of the earth as if I were in the very midst of a moving earthquake. I found myself thinking of the old Cherokee warrior races I imagined long ago; me, the young Cherokee new breed coming of age; amassing a run around the great mounds and circling back towards home. There waiting for me was my victory and the pride of everyone in my tribe. I was caught in a flashback of sorts; the memories were like a soft-lit candle; that when stirred into a smolder once more, I could still smell that aroma as though that candle had just been struck by a match.

The long waif of dust rose over the mighty landscape of this long and open range. The hooves of the most daring horses in our county rushed in a frantic manner and pace; the flagpoles awaiting us.

We passed through slopes and dipping valleys; gentle streams, bushwhacks, long-folding trees, and out amongst one platform was the throne of ten flagpoles, one each holding a particular color; mine being sky blue.

Branson was to reach first; caught first to my flag and wrangled it about his steed in a sign of protest; then pursuant to tossing it as far out as he could muster. I circled around the platform's rim only a matter of seconds later to find my holder empty; Branson now pulling his red-colored American flag from the opposite end.

"Can't win fair," I shouted, atop of Boone; while spinning about in a desperate search for my designated flag.

"Fair or no," he laughed, "I'll best anyone who dares cross me..."

And he shot away from that midpoint; driving south once more. Meanwhile the other riders had all clustered in a group to settle about and gather up their necessary cargo; I, still in dire need for assistance, must have appeared like a mad man derelict to any riding skills. Boone pushed left, then right, back over the ridge, up the galley, and down over the lowest edge.

"Randall!" I called back, "I can't find it!"

"There!" I heard his voice call back, "Bush cloves, down between the third and fourth bush. There! There!"

I saw him pointing persistently no more than a few yards from where I was spinning aimlessly about. The pole handle was settled up with the colored flag buried in the mist of those heavy foliage bushes.

I stumbled from Boone's mount; scattered legs, arms and all; half-crawling and half-walking in a rush to retrieve my flag.

"I can't make it," I swore out on Randall, who, to his own right, was waiting for me to start up again.

"Yes you can," he cried and struck to Boone's backside with a hefty blow, all in one motion.

Boone nearly went into a fit; snorting about, riling high and driving hard to the south. We were nearly twenty horse lengths to the groups' rear. This would be the greatest distance ever recovered in the history of the flag heat preliminaries. No one had ever won the race from such a disadvantage, and yet we had only half the race to make it up with; a tall order for a middle-aged horse, his young rider, and the strange forces of fate to be so fortuned with.

But Boone shot away like a star crossing the darkest night sky.

I had no mind to direct him further; he knew what to do.

He roared out with the speed of a cannon thrust; his shoulders stretching to their limits, driving hard to the earth, pushing with all his might, and extending his stride for as long as it would go. I felt his wings beginning to spread; his locks of mane flapping all through my face when I bent as low to the saddle as I could.

Every gallop forced him to grunt harder, gnaw and chew to his bit until I could see the markings of his teeth rivet through it. His back legs kicked high at their farthest stretch. Then, in one culminating moment, his four hooves landed directly underneath his body to push through the ground once more.

I kept my eyes steady to the head of us; six riders in all.

The more we gained ground, the more Boone pressed his frame to the extreme. Several of the riders looked back, shouted out that we were gaining on them, and so moved to block our path. By this time we were at the three-quarter's mark. I could see the faint distance of that crowd jumping and becoming rowdy to the shouts. The dirty mist of those directly in front of us proceeded to yield on the sounds of their collective hooves beating the ground.

That thundering sound, so cracking like a heart-stopping rumble when the hooves drove hard into the dry earth; and which only comes from the rides of so many; where we were all locked into a small but mobile space; and to hear the echoes of those just before us stirred Boone on. His ears pulled down; his dark coal eyes found their sights and pushed out more with that same determination.

Everything suddenly captivated itself in slow motion about us.

Boone and I were at normal speeds, or so it seemed, but all that which was around us appeared to slumber down onto a turtle's pace; one rider, two riders, three, four fell under our pace.

Two riders still remained before us; the American flag now arched high and flapping regal against my side. I held it firm with one hand; the other gripping Boone's rein with all the strength I could muster. Another rider fell behind me, and then all that remained was only Branson and myself.

He turned to his left, shocked as before, bent almost level-head to his horse, and whipped his black stallion to push hard on still. That mass of people appeared to jump and fall with every gallop we took; the earth, as well, looked to rise and tumble with the very rhythm of our ride.

I pulled half-a-length to the right of Branson and Shadowland. He raised his arm out to see me quickly gaining on him; his hand flying back in a brash attempt to grab onto my flag and pull it free.

I steered back away, made a dash level to his, and we were off for one final push. Rider to rider; horse to horse; all that separated us was a whisker on the neck, a nose push ahead; and Branson gave me one lasting stare before we both directed our attention to the finish line.

"Now, I'll have my say!" I yelled to Branson.

We locked eye contact with only two hundred yards to go, squared about, and headed for home. I sensed Boone slipping a neck ahead of Shadowland, keep his pace, and force the black stallion to finally yield.

We crossed in first.