Across The Fence: When Fiddler quit running

From that day way back when, that day so long ago that no one remembers exactly when it was. It was the remarkable day when a man first threw his leg over the back of a horse. That was the day when a kinship began that would set the stage for the evolution of one of the most remarkable partnerships between man and beast, the cowboy and his horse.

To the cowboy of the old west his horse was more than just a mode of transportation. His horse was much more than a mere tool of the trade. His horse was a partner in the work to be done and a friend to accompany him on the long trails north from the Texas plains. A cowboy literally lived astride his horse and often owed his livelihood and his life to the abilities and intelligence of his horse. And to the cowboy, the health, wellbeing and care of his horse was more important than his own comfort. After a hard, hot and dusty day it was the horse that was first to get a long, cool drink of water, first to be unsaddled and brushed and first to be fed.

And so it’s not surprising that wherever cowboys and horsemen gather the conversation soon turns to horses. Around a campfire, when the light of lazy flames flicker across the shadowed faces under broad-brimmed hats, they talk about horses. They talk about the bays and buckskins, the sorrels and roans. They talk of their build and gait, the stocky ones, the short ones and the long legged ones with the easy rockin’ chair gallop and the ones with the bone-jarring trot. They’ll talk of the Roman-nosed, the jar headed, the pie bald and ring-tailed dinks. They’ll brag about the best cow pony they ever had and they’ll talk of the strength, stamina, smarts and speed of all the good ones they’ve ever rode.

Of course there are still outfits that operate the old way. Roundups are done horseback and brandings require a steady horse and an experienced roper. But campfire stories differ little in these days in spite of four-wheel roundups, squeeze chutes and branding tables. Despite these modern methods of the cow business there are still the stories of horses and men. One such story, that may still be heard in the Nebraska Panhandle, is the story of Jim Murray’s champion horse named “Fiddler” and a race at White Clay Creek when a Sioux warrior’s medicine mysteriously ‘fixed’ the race.

The story begins in the early 1880s with a particular Frenchman by the name of Joseph Larvie who had settled in the northwestern part of the Nebraska panhandle. Joseph had married a Sioux Indian maiden from the Dakota Territories and had settled near what is today White Clay Creek. Larvie was told, by his Native family, of a place in the Black Hills where healing waters poured hot and steaming from out of the earth. Larvie and his long-time partner investigated this unusual phenomenon and were able to acquire a tract of land that contained one of these amazing springs. Each of the men decided to move their families to this place and settled there. In time, other settlers heard of the healing qualities of the warm, medicinal waters and also settled in the valley where Larvie had taken his family. Eventually Larvie sold his holdings, which later became the town site of Hot Springs, South Dakota. In exchange for the land, Larvie received six hundred dollars as well as a handsome and athletic, grey thoroughbred stallion.

It wasn’t long before Larvie realized that the grey stallion was remarkably fast. Larvie took the stallion to the Red Cloud Agency and matched him against the Sioux’s best and fastest ponies. Neighboring ranchers also matched their finest horses against the grey but none could match the speed and stamina of the grey. Larvie and the grey became the idols of the agency and all of the Sioux were willing to wager their most prized possessions. Such was the confidence of those who were at the Red Cloud Agency that there was no horse anywhere, this side of the spirit world, that could outrun the grey.

As word of the grey’s undefeated status spread, there came to the Black Hills region a Texas cow horse named Fiddler. Fiddler was a big, muscular bay and was the pride of Texas and the Western Trail. The bay had also been undefeated in match races all the way from the Pecos River to the cow town of Ogallala. His owner, whose real name was Dahlman but went by the name of Jim Murray, soon drifted into the Red Cloud Agency with some of his fellow Texans and let it be known that they were spoiling for a horse race.

The Texas boys were bound to uphold the honor of their glorious Lone Star state and declared their confidence by a willingness to wager all that they possessed and would bet on the bay.

Those Texas cowboys had no difficulties in finding takers. From Chief American Horse on down to nearly every member of the tribe, the eager Oglala bet everything they had. Blankets, beaded shirts and moccasins, guns, knives, money and ponies were all wagered that Larvie’s grey would outrun Murray’s bay. Among those betting was Big Bat Pourier, a well-known scout who lived among the Sioux. Big Bat laid down a one thousand dollar bet to back the grey.

The race was to be a 600-yard-straightaway near what was then Dier’s Trading Post along a creek that would later be named White Clay. Jim Murray would ride his Texas stallion Fiddler and a small, wiry Dakota cowboy by the name of Tom Brady would ride the grey. Hundreds of Sioux, dozens of Texas cowboys and hundreds of others lined the 600-yard course. It was said that wagered horses, wagons, tack, blankets, weapons and other goods covered nearly two acres of ground.

Murray approached the starting line first with the big bay stallion prancing and snorting. So impressive was his grand entrance that some feared they had bet on the wrong horse. Out of the crowd that lined the raceway a Sioux warrior named Little Horse stepped onto the side of the track where the Texas stallion would run. Everyone watched as he knelt upon the ground and touched his hands to the earth. Then standing, he walked back into the crowd and spoke to those around him saying: “Let him run past here.”

When Tom Brady rode out on the grey the Sioux warriors shouted their war cries and the women launched into their high-pitched trills. The grey was a bit skittish and took some time to settle in beside the bay at the starting line. Finally the two horses stood calmly, side by side, the pistol shot split the air, cracked the pent up tension and the race was on.

Fiddler took the lead from the start and was quickly a full length ahead before the grey even left the starting line. Soon, however, the grey moved up and ran even with Fiddler. The big Texas bay flattened his ears and strained forward as he inched ahead of the grey and made his powerful drive for the finish line. Tom Brady leaned forward, shouted into the grey’s ear, and laid his quirt across the stallions flank and the grey responded by straining forward, once again neck and neck. So closely they ran that there appeared to be only one horse on the track.

Then suddenly, it happened. When the horses reached the spot where Little Horse had knelt down and placed his hands on the ground, Fiddler broke his stride, swerved and in the space of half a heartbeat, ran wide. In that brief, infinitely small, hiccup in time the grey gained a single stride and finished the race half a length ahead of Fiddler.

Both horses ran far out into the field before they could be checked. Murray was the first to return to the finish line amid the angry questions of his comrades. “I don’t know what happened.” Murray protested. “Fiddler quit running for the first time in his life.”

That night and for many nights after, when the Texas cowboys gathered round their campfire they reasoned that Fiddler must have stepped in a mole hole or inexplicably stumbled for a brief instant. The Sioux simply stated that it was a good day for Little Horse’s medicine.

Whatever the cause, the undeniable truth was that the Indians at Red Cloud Agency won a huge bet and the Texas cowboys were stripped of nearly everything they owned.

One year later Larvie’s famous grey stallion was killed when he was struck by a bolt of lightning. Texas cowboy Jim Murray moved to Omaha where he dropped his alias and took his given name of Dahlman and for many years was the honorable mayor of Omaha, Nebraska.

M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. To contact Tim, email: [email protected]