“Which the day is set an’ the Lance shows in the door, as monte sharps would say.  Black Cloud an’ the Lance tharupon expands themse’fs, an’ delights the assembled Creeks an’ Osages with their whole box of tricks, an’ each side is braggin’ an’ boastin’ an’ puttin’ it up that their gent is most likely the soonest medicine man who ever buys black paint.  It’s about hoss an’ hoss between the two.

“Black Cloud accompanies himse’f to this contest with a pure white pony which has eyes red as roobies—­a kind o’ albino pony—­an’ he gives it forth that this milk-coloured bronco is his ‘big medicine’ or familiar sperit.  The Lance observes that the little red-eyed hoss is mighty impressive to the savages, be they Creeks or Osages.  At last he says to Black Cloud: 

“’To show how my medicine is stronger than yours, to-morry I’ll make your red-eyed big medicine bronco go lame in his off hind laig.’

“Black Cloud grins scornful at this; he allows that no sport can make his white pony go lame.

“He’s plumb wrong; the next mornin’ the white pony is limpin’ an’ draggin’ his off hind hoof, an’ when he’s standin’ still he p’ints the toe down like something’s fetched loose.  Black Cloud is sore; but he can’t find no cactus thorn nor nothin’ to bring about the lameness an’ he don’t know what to make of the racket.  Black Cloud’s up ag’inst it, an’ the audience begins to figger that the Lance’s’ medicine is too strong for Black Cloud.

“What’s the trouble with the red-eyed pony?  That’s simple enough, son.  The Lance done creeps over in the night an’ ties a hossha’r tight about the pony’s laig jest above the fetlock.  Black Cloud ain’t up to no sech move, the same bein’ a trade secret of the Lance’s an’ bein’ the hossha’r is hid in the ha’r on the pony’s laig, no one notes its presence.

“After Black Cloud looks his red-eyed big medicine pony all over an’ can’t onderstand its lameness, the Lance asks him will he cure it.  Black Cloud, who’s sc’owlin’ like midnight by now, retorts that he will.  So he gets his pipe an’ fills it with medicine tobacco an’ blows a mouthful of smoke in the red-eyed pony’s nose.  Sech remedies don’t work; that pony still limps on three laigs, draggin’ the afflicted member mighty pensive.

“At last the Lance gives Black Cloud a patronisin’ smile an’ says that his medicine’ll cure the pony sound an’ well while you’re crackin’ off a gun.  He walks up to the pony an’ looks long in its red eyes; the pony’s y’ears an’ tail droops, its head hangs down, an’ it goes mighty near to sleep.  Then the Lance rubs his hand two or three times up an’ down the lame laig above the fetlock an’ elim’nates that hossha’r ligature an’ no one the wiser.  A moment after, he wakes up the red-eyed pony an’ to the amazement of the Osages an’ the onbounded delight of the Creeks, the pony is no longer lame, an’ the laig so late afflicted is as solid an’ healthy as a sod house.  What’s bigger medicine still, the red-eyed pony begins to follow the Lance about like a dog an’ as if it’s charmed; an’ it likewise turns in to bite an’ r’ar an’ pitch an’ jump sideways if Black Cloud seeks to put his paw on him.  Then all the Injuns yell with one voice:  ’The Lance has won the Black Cloud’s big medicine red-eyed pony away from him.’