MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 25 
jaw. The Indian on his pony made a wild barbaric 
picture. 
The Indian rider placed the end of the deerskin 
thong under his left thigh. Then with a quirt in each 
hand nodded he was ready. Foster was on the line 
and the starter fired his pistol. The Indian pony got 
away first, his rider whipping him with both quirts at 
every stride and yelling truly like a wild Indian. The 
rest of the Indians rode at his side but a little behind him 
yelling Ay! Yi! Yi! Yi! with all their might. 
Foster was half a length behind at the hundred yards, 
a head behind at two hundred yards, and won the race 
by a head. He drily remarked as he dismounted, 
‘“The corn told in the last hundred yards.’’ The cow- 
boy judge at the finish looked at the Indian judge and 
pointing at Foster said, ‘‘He first,’’ and held up one 
finger. The Indians held a consultation for about two 
minutes, while their judge explained the end of the race, 
and then rode away to their camp without a word. 
The Indian is a great gambler and a good loser. 
The boys joked a lot about the wonderful gun I had 
won. But I was satisfied. The gun was a silent story 
tome. I tried to imagine the adventures the rifle could 
tell of pioneer days. One day Tom Tobin, a contem- 
porary of Kit Carson and one of the last of the old-time 
scouts and trappers, visited the ranch. He told me the 
gun was the real thing. The five small notches cut on 
top of the stock stood for ‘‘good”’ Indians. The eleven 
notches underneath the stock stood for grizzly bears. 
Killing grizzlies, single handed with a flintlock muzzle 
loader, shooting round balls thirty-two to the pound, 
was considered a feat worthy of record. 
Tobin added, ‘‘Indians are practical. To them the 
glory and spoils of war are the scalps and plunder. It 
