Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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“Johnny, why did you kill White Sachem?” It was a minute before the man deigned to answer. ‘•He killed Charlie,” pointing to the figure at the table, “and I killed him.” • ♦ “The Shawnee fired twice.” the sheriff said the next morning as he recruited a posse, “and both bullets took effect.” Little Chief Tom Tom softly closed the door on the room and its occupants and walked out into the open air. Slowly he realized what he had done, lie had killed a “big” man of the neighborhood and among these people—he glanced at their houses—he, an Indian, would have the same chance of living as a coyote when a hunter finds him in his steel trap. He mounted his pony and turned its head toward the mountains, black in the distance. For hours the Indian rode, seeing nothing but the white road before him and listening to the frogs in the ponds along the wayside and the pounding of his pony’s hoofs. The hour before dawn found him high in the hills which overlook the town of Susanville. lie had dismounted to rest his pony and stood looking down through the darkness at the valley below. The morning breeze rustled the leaves over his head and numerous small sounds came thru the solemn stillness, the bark of watch-dogs anti now and then the voice of some one talking. After a while lights appeared in scattered places and twinkled like stars. The new day was beginning. In the valley below lay the village of Susanville. Chief 'Pom Tom was almost as well informed about happenings there as if it were his own town, lie knew that a racing tournament was in progress and that today the final race was to be run—the grand sweepstakes with two thousand dollars as prize. He thought of what lie could do with that much money, hirst, he would secure the services of Covey Hooper, the. best lawyer in seven counties—a man who could prove the moon was made of cheese. That man could save—even an Indian. It he could but enter his pony in the races. But no. Tepee was old; his last race was probably run. Never again would she flash over the line at the head of a flying body of horses. Besides, Tepee was tired. But there was yet a chance. In the town below there was a great Arabian stallion who had not been entered in the race. According to his master, no one could ride him with sufficient ease. Little Chief Tom Tom could ride him. Tom Tom, Shawnee brave, the Indian who could ride a horse where a horse could not be ridden. Yes, there was still a chance. He would make a fifty-fifty proposition to the owner, sell Tepee for money with which to pay the entrance fee and then ride, ride. ride. A pale light in the east cut short the Indian’s thoughts. He gathered Page Twenty-five

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the pony's bridle under his arm and rode down the steep side of the mountain. It had hurt Little Chief Tom Tom to sell his pony, but it hurt him worse to hear the caller announce, “Tepee, Indian pony, has been entered in the race.” As he led his horse out on the track he called himself a fool for having sold the pony as a good runner. Tepee took the lead at the very beginning and toward the end of the race was a dozen yards ahead of her nearest opponent. A cheer rang out as the little pony rounded the last curve and stretched out down the long course for home. She could hear behind her the thundering hoofs of the big Arabian. Her keen ears heard the pleading voice of her own rider urging her to make a last desperate sprint. With beautiful ardor she sought in vain to respond. Tepee was tired, tired, tired. Her breath came with alarming irregularity and her worn lungs expanded with stabs of pain. Tepee was slowly failing under the terrific pace, and to make it worse she could sec the shadow of the great Arabian creeping upon her. Little Chief Tom Tom rose higher in his stirrups and gave his steed the cue tor the final burst of speed. The Indian was leaning over his horse's neck, his teeth gleaming white against his copper skin and a smile of triumph on his lips. 'Phe little stand of the judges seemed to be flying toward him. Then in its place lie could see the prize money—two thousand dollars. He knew that waiting for him was a tired looking man with a dust-covered horse, lie had seen him just as the race began walking up and down and jingling a metallic something from his hand. But Little Chief Tom Tom did not care. He would flaunt the prize money in the sheriff’s face and dare the law to do its worst. Then freedom, happiness perhaps, at least not the hangman’s gallows. A cheer went up from the followers of Number Nine as the Indian slowly forged ahead. Little Chief Tom Tom turned in his stirrups to view again his beloved pony in action and his smile faded on his lips. He saw the tired, patient eyes of his pony, he heard the pitiful gasps for breath. His pony, his own unbeaten steed, whose pride was as his own. was going down with gallant courage in the first defeat of her life. The big Arabian appeared to falter, just for a moment, but long enough. Tepee went by like a whirlwind and Little Chief Tom Tom rode up to the man with the big hat and the dust covered pony and smilingly extended his hands. Wit, 1.1 AM El.l IMTT. '21. Pane Twenty-seven