Umatilla is known to be a great country for horses. I doubt if anywhere on this continent there can be found horses of greater speed or powers of endurance.

The feats performed by those people on horseback are wonderful, and past belief by those who know western horses.

How-lish-wam-po, chief of the Cayuse (Kiuse), is owner of several thousand horses. He is a stout-built man, has a dark complexion, wears his hair just clear of his shoulders, and is now past middle age.

This man is a natural horseman, and a match for any man of any race in matters pertaining to horses. He is really king of the turf in the Umatilla country.

In conversation with him regarding horses, he remarked to me that he had horses that could carry a man one hundred miles in a day, and bring him home the next day. I shook my head, when he proposed to back his judgment by betting twenty horses. I am satisfied that he could have won the wager.

The racing habits of these people are well known, and many a white man has found more than his match.

I remember, one day in the spring of 1867, a man and boy passing my residence on the mountain bordering the Reservation. They were leading a fine-looking horse, with a fancy blanket over him. I suspected his purpose, and inquired his destination. In his answer I detected a rich Irish brogue and a tone that sounded somewhat familiar.

“It’s meself that’s going down to the Umatilla ‘Risivation,’ to have a bit of sport with the ‘Injuns.’ You see, I’ve been in Idaho this few years, and I’ve made me a nice bit of a stake; and I thought that, when I’d be going home, I might stop off at the Umatilla, and get even with them red-skinned boys that swindled me and Mike Connelly out of a few dollars when were going up,—so they did.”

A few words of explanation, and I recognized him as the fellow who had, in partnership with another, bought an Indian pony, of which mention has been made in a previous chapter. I felt sympathy for him during his first adventure, and I did this time also, and said to him, “Be careful, Pat; you will lose all your money.”

“Och! never fear; that fellow there has claned them all out in the Boi-se basin. Oh, but he is a swange cat, so he is; and he will show them how to take a poor man in when he’s foot-sore and tired, so he will, too. Now, do you mind what I’m telling yous? That lad here can tell you how he flies. Och! but he’s a swate one, so he is.”

Pat went on his way with his heart full of hope. A few days after, the boy who had gone down with him returned homeward. To my inquiry about how Pat made out, racing horses, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, that “the Injuns cleaned us out!”

Another party, who had heard of the Umatilla race horses, passed down toward the Reservation. This man’s name was French Louie. He had several fine racers with him. I learned his destination, and gave him a few words of caution. But he replied that he “knew what he was about.” He had “a horse that had ‘swept the track,’ all the way from the Missouri river, at Denver City, Salt Lake, Boi-se, and Baker City. Never fear. I’ll teach those Indians something they never knew, before I get through with them.”

Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him. On his arrival on the Reservation he found chances to invest his money. The men he came to teach were apt scholars in tricks that are shrewd.

He led out a horse, and made a small bet and lost, as he intended to. The next run the Indians played him the same game, until, thinking he had learned the speed of their horses, Louie proposed to wager all his money, horses, saddles, and, in fact, stake everything upon one race.

That man and his attendants went home on little ponies which the Indians gave them in charity.

How-lish-wam-po, chief of the Cayuses, is the owner of a horse with which he has challenged any and every sporting man in the country.

Several parties have visited Umatilla, bringing with them men and boys to drive home the herds of Indian horses they were “going to win.”

One party imported a horse for the express purpose. He made known his desire, and he, too, soon found opportunity for an investment. The preliminaries were arranged, and the race was to be run over the Indian race-course, which was located on the bottom lands of Umatilla river, smooth, level turf, over two miles and a half in length.

At one end of this course a post was planted, round which the racers were to turn, and come back to the starting-point, making a distance of a little over five miles and a quarter.

Joe Crabb, the owner of the imported horse, had been present at a race months previous, when How-lish-wam-po had permitted his horse to be beaten; and as he had measured the distance, marked the time, and subsequently tested the speed of his horse with the winner, on that occasion, he, of course, had a “dead thing.”

The white men came with groom and riders, making a camp near the Indian, standing guard over his own horse, to prevent accident.

The Indians were not so careful of their horse; at least Joe Crabb thought they were not, and, since everything is fair in gambling as in war, he concluded to know for himself how the speed of these two horses would compare.

He thought, as thousands of other white men have, that it was no harm to cheat an “Injun,” no matter by what means.

There is a general belief that Indians sleep when their eyes are shut, and especially just before daylight.

Sending a careful, trusty man to get the Indian horse, leaving another in his place, he led his own out on the prairie, and made a few trials of speed with the two. The result was satisfactory. He found that his horse was able to distance the other.

Now How-lish-wam-po was the owner of two horses very nearly alike,—one the racer; the other half-brother to him, but not so fleet. They were “Pinto”—spotted horses; so the deception was complete.

The Indian horses are never stabled, groomed, shod, or grain-fed. Their system of training differs from a white man’s very much. After a race is agreed upon, the animal is tied up to a stake or tree, and if he is fat, they starve him down, giving him only water. If, however, he is in good condition, they lead him out to grass, an hour or so, each day, and at nightfall they run him over the course.

In this instance the half-brother was tied up and put in training, and left unguarded, with the hope that Crabb would steal him out, and try his speed. Sure enough, he fell into the trap that How-lish-wam-po set for him. The real race-horse was miles away, under proper training.

The fame of this wonderful winner had spread far and wide, as did the news of the approaching contest.

When the morning agreed upon arrived, the roads leading to the valley of Umatilla gave full proof of the interest the people of the surrounding country had in this important affair.

They came from places several hundred miles distant, and from the settlements surrounding the Reservation.

The little towns furnished their quota, and the farmers excused themselves for going, hoping, as they told their wives at home, that they should meet some one with whom they had business. And through various devices nearly every man, and a part of the women, also, found excuse to be there.

I know how that was done; at least, I heard men tell how they managed.

People who never gambled with dollars, and would blush to own they were fast people, found their way to Umatilla.

The race-course which I have described was parallel with a low range of grassy hills, that rose by gentle slopes from the valley to an altitude of fifty to one hundred feet.

Long before the time for the race, carriages, buggies, wagons, and horses, might be seen standing on the hills, or driving over the green sward, while at the standing-point was assembled a great motley crowd, on foot and horseback.

The Indians were in their gala-day dress,—paints, feathers, long hair, red blankets; in fact, it was a dress-parade for white and red men too.

The manner of betting at an Indian race differs somewhat from affairs of the kind among white men. One man is selected as a stake-holder for all moneys. Horses that are wagered are tied together and put under care of Indian boys. Coats, blankets, saddles, pistols, knives, and all kind of personal effects, are thrown into a common heap and tied together.

As the starting-hour approaches, two judges are elected,—one white man and one Indian. But two are required, since the horses run out, turn the stake, and come back to the starting-point. The first horse to get home is winner. No account is made of the start, each party depending on his shrewdness to get the better in this part of the race.

Indians are enthusiastic gamblers, and have a certain kind of pride, and to do them justice, honor, as well, in conducting their races. No disputes ever arise among themselves, and seldom with white men, growing out of misunderstandings, either about starting or the outcome. They take sides with their own people always, and bet, when the chances are against them, from pride.

The prevailing idea that they are always cool and stoical is not correct. They become very much excited at horse-races, but not generally until the race begins. While the preliminaries are being arranged, they are serious, even solemn-looking fellows, and with great dignity come up with the money to bet. “Capable of dissembling,” I should think they were, from the cool face of How-lish-wam-po, when the money is being counted out by the hundreds, in twenty-dollar gold-pieces,—not a few, but handfuls of twenties. One could not have detected the slightest twinkle in his eye, or other sign that he knew that Joe Crabb had stolen his horse, and run him secretly. Cool, calm, earnest as if he were saying mass, this chieftain came up and handed over his money to the stake-holder, while numerous bets were being arranged between the other Indians and white men. Horses were wagered, and tied together, and led away. Many a fellow had brought extras with him, for the express purpose of gambling, expecting of course to take home twice the number in the evening.

Crabb had confided his secret about his stolen run to a few friends, and advised them to go in, and win all the horses they wanted. There was no danger; he knew what he was talking about. He had the Indian’s horse’s speed by time, and also by trial.

This thing leaked out, and was communicated from one to another. Some pretty good men, who were not accustomed to betting, became anxious to win a pony or two, and laid wagers with the Indians.

The trick that Crabb had played was finally made known to How-lish-wam-po. He and his people were cooled down, and seemed anxious to have the race come off before more betting was done.

This made the white men more anxious, and they urged, boasted, and ridiculed, until, in manifest desperation, the Indians began to bet again, and the noble white man generously took advantage of the Indian’s hot blood, and forced him to make many bets that he appeared to shun.

The horses were brought out to start, and while the imported horse of Crabb’s looked every inch a racer, the other stood with head down, a rough-haired, uncouth brute, that appeared then to be a cross between ox and horse.

The presence and appearance of the horses was the signal for another charge on the Indians, and a few white friends they had, who, having learned from the chief, the truth of Crabb’s trick, came, in sympathy for the Indian, to his rescue.

Money, coats, hats, saddles, pistols, pocket-knives, cattle, horses, and all kinds of property, were staked on the race.

The Indians, in their apparent desperation, drove up another band of ponies, and in madness wagered them also.

Those of my readers who are accustomed to exhibitions around our “fair grounds,” on days of “trials of speed,” may have some idea of the scene I am trying to describe, except that few of them have ever seen so many horses tied together, and so large a pile of coats, blankets and saddles, as were staked upon this occasion.

When the final starting-time came, a pure-minded, innocent man would have felt great pity for the poor, dejected-looking Indians, at the sight of their faces, now so full of anxiety; and, certainly, the Pinto, who stood so unconcerned, on which they had staked so much, did not promise any hope; while his competitor was stripped of his blanket, disclosing a nice little jockey saddle, and silver-mounted bridle, his whole bearing indicating his superiority.

His thin nostrils, pointed ears, and arched neck, sleek coat, and polished limbs, that touched the ground with burnished steel, disdaining to stand still, while his gayly-dressed rider, with white pants tucked into boots embellished with silver-plated spurs; on his head, a blue cap, and with crimson jacket, was being mounted, requiring two or three experts to assist, so restless was this fine, thorough-bred to throw dirt into the eyes of the sleepy-looking Indian horse, which stood unmoved, uncovered, without saddle or bridle, or anything, save a small hair rope on his lower jaw, his mane and tail unkempt, his coat rough and ill-looking.

On his right side stood a little Indian boy, with head close-shaved, a blanket around him, and to all appearances unconscious that anything unusual was expected.

The other rider’s horse was making furious plunges to get away.

How-lish-wam-po was in no hurry, really; indeed things were going very much to the satisfaction of that distinguished individual.

He was willing to see the other man’s horse chafe and fret,—the more the better; and he cared nothing for the sponge that was used to moisten the mouth of the great racer.

Look away down the long line of white men and Indians; and on the low hills, above, see the crowd eager to witness the first jump!

The chief gives a quiet signal to the Indian boy. The blanket dropped from the boy’s shoulders, and a yellow-skinned, gaunt-looking sprite bestrode the Indian horse, holding in his left hand the hair rope, that was to serve him for a bridle, and in his right a small bundle of dried willows.

Presto! The stupid-looking brute is instantly transformed into a beautiful animated racer. His eyes seemed almost human. His ears did not droop now, but by their quick alternate motion giving signs of readiness, together with the stamping of his feet, slowly at first, but faster and more impatiently the moment it was intimated he might go; and the other was making repeated efforts to escape, his masters manoeuvring for the advantage.

The little Indian boy managed his horse alone as the chief gave quiet signs. Three times had they come up to the scratch without a start. Crabb seemed now very solicitous about the race. I think, probably, he had by this time found the “hornet in his hat;” at all events, he was pale, and his rider exhibited signs of uneasiness.

At length, thinking to take what western sportsmen call a “bulge,” he said, “Ready!”—“Go,” said the little Indian boy, and away went twenty thousand dollars in the heels of the Indian horse, twenty feet ahead before the other crossed the mark, making the gap wider at every bound.

Away they sped, like flying birds. The crowd joined in shouts and hurras, hundreds of all colors falling in behind and following up.

Away go the flying horses, and several thousand eyes following the yellow rider, still ahead, as they grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until the Indian horse turns the stake at the farther end in advance. Now they come, increasing in size to the eye as they approach, the yellow rider still in advance. Crabb gasps for breath, and declares that his horse “will yet win.”

The eagle eye of the old chief lights up as they come nearer, his rider still leading. Excitement is now beyond words to tell. Look again!—the Indian boy comes alone, rattling his dry willows over a horse that was making the fastest time on record, considering the nature of the turf.

The Indians along the line fell in, and ran beside the victorious racer, encouraging him with wild, unearthly shouts, while he comes to the starting-point, running the five miles and one-fourth and eighty-three yards in the unprecedented time of nine minutes and fifty-one seconds; winning the race and money, much to the joy of the Indians and their few friends, and to the grief of Crabb and his many friends. He, without waiting to hear from judges, ran down the track nearly a mile, and, rushing up to the gay jockey, with silver spurs, white pants, blue cap, and crimson jacket, who had dismounted, and was leading the now docile, fine-blooded English racer by his silver mountings, inquired, “What’s the matter, Jimmy?”—“Matter? Why, this hoss can’t run a bit. That’s what’s the matter.”

Do my readers wonder now that so many white men, along the frontier line, declare that all good “Injins are three feet under the ground”?

Before leaving this subject, it is proper to state that How-lish-wam-po gave back to Crabb the saddle-horse he had won from him, and also money to travel on; and with a word of caution about stealing out his competitor’s horse, and having a race all alone, remarking dryly, “Me-si-ka wake cum-tux ic-ta mamook ni-ka tru-i-tan klat-a-wa (You did not know how to make my horse run). Cla-hoy-um, Crabb” (Good-by, Crabb).

I will further state that many years ago these Indians had exchanged horses with emigrants going into Oregon, across the plains, and that this celebrated Indian race-horse is a half-breed.

The old chief refused to sell him, saying, “I don’t need money. I have plenty. I am a chief. I have got the fastest horses in the world. I bet one thousand horses I can beat any man running horses.”

He refused an offer of five thousand dollars for this renowned courser. Several efforts have been made to induce him to take his horse to the State fair.

He at one time consented, saying, “I will take my horse just to show the white men what a race-horse is.” But he was unwell when the time came, and failed to go.

The question has been raised, whether this horse actually made the time reported. I believe he did. Competent white men have measured the course carefully, and several persons kept the time, none of whom marked over ten minutes, while others marked less than nine-fifty.

If any man is sceptical, he can find a chance to leave some money with How-lish-wam-po. The chief don’t need it, because he has thousands of dollars buried, that once belonged to white men.

But he is human, and will take all that is offered, on the terms Joe Crabb made with him.

If there are real smart sports anywhere who desire a fine band of Indian horses, they have here a chance to obtain them, without stealing. Take your race-horses to Umatilla, and you won’t wait long. The probabilities are, that you may be disgusted with the country very soon.

For the benefit, it may be, of some of my readers, I would suggest that you have only to lead out the horse you propose running, and name the amount and distance. The Indians will find the horse to match the amount and distance, anywhere from fifty yards to one hundred miles. Don’t be tender-hearted if you should win a few hundred ponies. They won’t miss them. They only loan them to you to gamble on.

Having a long-standing acquaintance with How-lish-wam-po, as a neighbor, and subsequently as his “high tyee chief,” I am authorized to say to Commodore Vanderbilt, Robert Bonner, “Uncle” Harper, Rev. W. H. H. Murray, or any other horse-fancier, clerical or unclerical, that a sufficient forfeit will be deposited by How-lish-wam-po, and his friends, in any bank in Oregon, to defray the expenses of any party who will measure speed with his horse, on his own turf, five and a quarter miles, turning a stake midway the race; said expense to be paid on the condition that the said parties win the race; in which event they can return with ponies enough to overload the Union Pacific Railroad, and make business for the “Erie” for a long time to come; with the proviso that How-lish-wam-po’s race-horse is alive and in condition to make the run, as we believe that he is at this present writing, 1874.

Parties seeking investments of the kind will receive prompt attention by addressing How-lish-wam-po, chief of Cayuse, Umatilla Reservation, Oregon, care Joe Crabb, Esq.

This latter gentleman has been hunting this kind of a contract, in behalf of How-lish-wam-po, for several months, unsuccessfully.

The Umatilla Indians rear horses by the thousands, never feeding or stabling, but always herding them, when the owner has enough to justify the expense of hiring an Indian herder. The horses run in bands of fifty to one hundred, and seldom mix to any considerable extent. If however, there should be several bands corralled together, the master-horse of each band soon separates them. When turned out on the plains they are very exacting, and many a battle is fought by these long-maned captains, in defence, or to prevent the capture, by the others, of some one of their own.

Cayuse horses are small, from twelve to fifteen hands high; are of every shade of color, and many of them white or spotted, bald-faced, white-legged and glass-eyed. They are spirited, though easily broken to the saddle or harness. As saddle-horses they are far superior to the common American horse, and for speed and power of endurance they have no equals.

The Indians are accurate judges of the value of their animals and have strong attachments for them; seldom disposing of a favorite except in case of real necessity.

The small scurvy ponies are sold in large numbers, for prices ranging from five to twenty dollars each. A medium-sized saddle-horse sells for about forty dollars; a first-rate horse, one hundred dollars; and if a well-tried animal that can make one hundred miles one day, and repeat it the next, one hundred and fifty dollars.

The small, low-priced ponies are capable of carrying a common man all day long, without spur or whip. They are bought by white men for children’s use, and for ladies’ palfreys. They are docile, tractable, and fond of being petted. I know a small white pony, with long mane, and not more than forty inches in height, that was taught many tricks,—going through the hotel dining-room, kitchen, and parlor; sometimes following his little mistress upstairs; lying down and playing dead horse, kneeling for prayers, asking for sugar, by signs; in fact,—a fine pet. And yet the little fellow would canter off mile after mile with his mistress.

Major Barnhart, of Umatilla, owned a small Cayuse, about thirteen hands high, that would gallop to the Columbia river, thirty-one miles, in two hours, with a man on his back, and come back again at the same gait.

I once made an investment of five dollars in an unbroken pony, paid an Indian one dollar to ride her a few minutes, took her home and gave her to a little daughter, who named her “Cinderella.” After a few days’ petting, she often mounted and rode her fearlessly.

This one was a bright bay, with a small star in the forehead, with long mane extending below the neck, a foretop reaching down to its nose.

The Indians teach their horses, by kindness, to be very gentle. Often on the visits which they make to old homes, a little pic-i-ni-ne (child) is securely fastened to the Indian saddle, and the horse is turned loose with the band.

On all their journeys they drive bands of ponies, presenting a grotesque scene: horses of all ages, sizes, and colors; some of them loaded with camp equipage, including cooking arrangements, tin pans, kettles, baskets; also bedding of blankets, skins of animals; always the rush matting to cover the poles of the lodge, and going pell-mell, trotting or galloping. The women are chief managers, packing and driving the horses.

An Indian woman’s outfit for horseback riding is a saddle with two pommels, one in front, the other in the rear, and about eight inches high. The saddles are elaborately mounted with covers of dressed elk-skins, trimmed profusely with beads, while the lower portion is cut into a fringe, sometimes long enough to reach the ground.

These people seldom use a bridle, but, instead, a small rope, made of horsehair, in the making of which they display great taste. It is fastened with a double loop, around the horse’s lower jaw. They carry, as an ornament, a whip, differing from ladies’ riding-whips in this, that the Indian woman’s whip is made of a stick twelve inches long, with a string attached to the small end, to secure it to the wrist. The other, or larger end, is bored to a depth of a few inches, and in the hole is inserted two thongs of dressed elk-skin, or leather, two inches wide and twenty in length.

The Indian woman is last to leave camp in the morning, and has, perhaps, other reasons, than her duties as drudge, to detain her; for she is a woman, and depends somewhat on her personal appearance especially if she is unmarried. If, however, she is married, she don’t care much more about her appearance than other married women, unless, indeed, she may have hopes of being a widow some day. Then she don’t do more than other folks we often see, who wish to become widows, said wish being expressed by feathers, and paint on the face and hair.

However, these Umatilla Indian maidens, who have not abandoned the savage habits of their people, are proud and dressy, and they carry with them, as do the young men, looking-glasses, and pomatums, the latter made of deer’s tallow or bear’s grease.

They also, I mean young people especially, carry red paints. Take, for illustration, a young Indian maiden of Chief Homli’s band, when on the annual visit to Grand Round valley.

Before leaving camp she besmears her hair with tallow and red paint, and her cheeks with the latter. Her frock, made loose, without corset or stays, is richly embroidered with gay-colored ribbons and beads, and rings of huge size, with bracelets on her wrists and arms.

Then suppose you see her mount a gayly caparisoned horse, from the right-hand side, climbing up with one foot over the high saddle, sitting astride, and, without requiring a young gent to hold the horse, place her beaded-moccasined feet in the stirrups, and, drawing up the parti-colored hair rope, dash off at what some folks would call breakneck speed, to join the caravan.

No young man had ever caught up her horse from the prairie, much less saddled it. But, on the other hand, she has probably brought up and saddled for her father, brother, or friend, a horse and prepared it for the master’s use.

The young men who are peers of this girl do not wait to see her mounted and then bear her company. Half an hour before, they had thrown themselves on prancing steeds, and with painted cheeks, hair flowing, embellished with feathers, and necklaces of bears’ claws, and brass rings, and most prominent of all, a looking-glass, suspended by a string around the neck.

The women manage the train and unpack the horses, make the lodge in which to camp, while their masters ride along carelessly, and stop to talk with travellers whom they meet; or it may be dismount at some way-side house and wait until it is time to start for the camp, where the lodge is built for the night.

There are, however, Indian men who are servants, and these assist the women.

When the site of the camp is reached, our young squaw dismounts, and, throwing off her fine clothes, goes to work in earnest, preparing the evening meal, while the gay young men, and the old ones, too, lounge and smoke unconcerned.

Remember, I am speaking now of Homli’s band of the Walla-Wallas. There are Christianized Indians on Umatilla Reservation, that have left behind them their primitive habits,—men of intelligence, whose credit is good for any reasonable amount in business transactions, and who occupy houses like civilized people. But the major portion are still wrapped in blankets, and thoroughly attached to the old customs and habits of their ancestors. They have a magnificent country, and are surrounded by enterprising white men, who would make this land of the Umatilla the most beautiful on the Pacific coast.

It may be many years before these people will consent to remove. In one sense it does seem to be a wrong, that so many prosperous homes as this should afford, must be unoccupied.

In another sense it is right, at least in that those who live upon it now are the lawful owners, and therefore have a right to raise horses on land that is worth five, ten, and twenty dollars per acre, if they choose. So long as they adhere to their old ways, no improvements may be expected. They will continue to raise horses and cattle, to drink whiskey and gamble, becoming more and more demoralized year by year; and in the mean time vicious white men will impose on them, often provoking quarrels, until some political change is made in the affairs of the Government, and the present humane policy toward them will be abandoned, and then their land will become the spoils of the white man. It were better for these people that they had a home somewhere out of the line of travel and commerce; or, at least, those who continually reject civilization. It is not to the disadvantage of those whose hearts are changed that they should remain. While the Government protects them they will enjoy the advantage of intercourse with business men. With those, however, who do not evince a willingness to become civilized, it is only a question of time, when they will waste away, and finally lose the grand patrimony they now possess.

I do not mean that it will ever be taken by force of arms, for the sentiments of justice and right are too deeply seated in the hearts and lives of the people of the frontier to permit any unjustifiable act of this kind to be committed; but designing men will, as they have ever done, involve good citizens in difficulties with Indians, who, so long as they cling to their superstitious religion, will retaliate, shouting “blood for blood;” and then the cry of extermination will be extorted from good men, who do not and cannot understand or recognize this unjust mode of redress.

Under the treaty with these Indians, they are to enjoy the privilege of hunting and grazing on the public domain in common with citizens; but this right is scarcely acknowledged by the settlers of places they visit, under the treaty.