When I was a boy of fourteen Tobacco Jim, who owned many dogs, Rose from the door of his tent And came to where we were running, Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox, And said to me in their hearing: "You are the fastest of all. Now run again, and let me see. And if you can run I will make you my runner, I will care for you, And you shall have pockets of gold." ... And then we ran. And the others lagged behind me, Like smoke behind the wind. But the faces of Young Coyote, Rattler, Little Fox Grew dark. They nudged each other. They looked side-ways, Toeing the earth in shame. ... Then Tobacco Jim took me and trained me. And he went here and there To find a match. And to get wagers of ponies, nuggets of copper, And nuggets of gold. And at last the match was made. It was under a sky as blue as the cup of a harebell, It was by a red and yellow mountain, It was by a great river That we ran. Hundreds of Indians came to the race. They babbled, smoked and quarreled. And everyone carried a knife, And everyone carried a gun. And we runners-- How young we were and unknowing What the race meant to them! For we saw nothing but the track, We saw nothing but our trainers And the starters. And I saw no one but Tobacco Jim. But the Indians and the squaws saw much else, They thought of the race in such different ways From the way we thought of it. For with me it was honor, It was triumph, It was fame. It was the tender looks of Indian maidens Wherever I went. But now I know that to Tobacco Jim, And the old fathers and young bucks The race meant jugs of whiskey, And new guns. It meant a squaw, A pony, Or some rise in the life of the tribe. So the shot of the starter rang at last, And we were off. I wore a band of yellow around my brow With an eagle's feather in it, And a red strap for my loins. And as I ran the feather fluttered and sang: "You are the swiftest runner, Black Eagle, They are all behind you." And they were all behind me, As the cloud's shadow is behind The bend of the grass under the wind. But as we neared the end of the race The onlookers, the gamblers, the old Indians, And the young bucks, Crowded close to the track-- I fell and lost. Next day Tobacco Jim went about Lamenting his losses. And when I told him they tripped me He cursed them. But later he went about asking in whispers If I was wise enough to throw the race. Then suddenly he disappeared. And we heard rumors of his riches, Of his dogs and ponies, And of the joyous life he was leading.