"Sure thing," said Shives, "we do it every day." "How much?" "Five dollars." "Do him now?" "Yes, I guess so." The interpreter spoke to Red Cloud; the Chief motioned to the boy, who dropped from the blanketed pony and led it forward. "Bring him in here," and Shives indicated the shop. But that was not so easy. The pony had never before been under a roof, and now he positively declined to break his record. Some men would have persisted and felt it their duty to show the horse "who is boss." Shives was inclined to be masterful; it was Hartigan who sized up the situation. "He's never been under a roof, Jack. I wouldn't force him; it'll only make trouble." "All right; tie him out there." So the pony was tied on the shady side of the shop. Hartigan turned to the half-breed interpreter to ask, "What do you want him shod for?" It was well known that the Indians did not shoe their horses. The half-breed spoke to Red Cloud, who was standing near with his men, talking among themselves. The Chief said something; then the interpreter replied, "By and by, we race him, maybe on the Big Wet Sunday; prairie wet, so he go slow." There was a general chuckle at this. Sure enough, the Fourth of July, presumably the race day in mind, it nearly always rained; and for the wet track they wanted their racer shod. There are few short operations that take more horse management that the first shoeing of a full-grown horse, especially a wild Indian pony. Nearly everything depends on the handling and on the courage of the pony. In nine cases out of ten, the pony must be thrown. On rare occasions a very brave horse, of good temper, can be shod by a clever farrier without throwing. But it takes a skilful shoer, with a strong and skilful helper, for the assistant must keep one front foot of the horse off the ground all the time the hind shoe is being put on, or the shoer is liable to get his brains kicked out. As they were discussing the need of throwing the pony, the interpreter said: "Red Cloud no want him thrown. Chaska hold him." The bright-eyed boy from the mountain top--yes, the same--came forward and, holding the pony's head, began crooning a little song. The pony rubbed his nose against him, recovered his calm, and thanks to Hartigan's help--for he had volunteered eagerly to lend a hand--the operation progressed without mishap. There were, however, one or two little tussles, in which the great blanket slipped off the pony's back and showed a rounded, beautiful barrel of a chest, hocks like a deer, and smooth, clean limbs; a very unusually fine build for an Indian pony. "By George! He's a good one," said Jim, and his heart warmed to the brave pony. The falling of the blanket also showed some white spots, left by ancient saddle galls. Hartigan, after a discriminating glance, said: "Say, boys, this is their racer all right. This is the famous Buckskin Cayuse. He's a good one. Now you see why they want him shod."