The scene on which Helen Messiter's eyes rested that mellow Fourth of July was vivid enough to have interested a far more jaded mind than hers.Nowhere outside of Cattleland could it have been duplicated.Wyoming is sparsely populated, but the riders of the plains think nothing of traveling a hundred miles in the saddle to be present at a "broncobusting" contest.Large delegations, too, had come in by railroad from Caspar, Billings, Sheridan, Cheyenne and a score of other points, so that the amphitheatre that looked down on the arena was filled to its capacity.
All night the little town had rioted with its guests.Everything was wide open at Gimlet Butte.Saloons were doing a land-office business and gambling-houses coining money.Great piles of gold had passed to and fro during the night at the roulette wheel and the faro table.But with the coming of day interest had centered on the rough-riding contest for the world's championship.Saloons and dance halls were deserted, and the universal trend of travel had been toward the big grand stands, from which the sport could be best viewed.
It was afternoon now.The preliminaries had been ridden, and half a dozen of the best riders had been chosen by the judges to ride again for the finals.Helen was wonderfully interested, because in the six who were to ride again were included the two Bannister cousins, her foreman, McWilliams, the young man "Texas," whom she had met the day of her arrival at Gimlet Butte, and Tom Sanford, who had last year won the championship.
She looked down on the arena, and her heart throbbed with the pure joy of life.Already she loved her West and its picturesque, chap-clad population.Their jingling spurs and their colored kerchiefs knotted round sunburned necks, their frank, whole-hearted abandon to the interest of the moment, led her to regard these youths as schoolboys.Yet they were a hard-bitten lot, as one could see, burned to a brick-red by the untemperedsun of the Rockies; with muscles knit like steel, and hearts toughened to endure any blizzard they might meet.Only the humorous wrinkles about the corners of their eyes gave them away for the cheerful sons of mirth that they were.
"Bob Austin on Two-Step," announced the megaphone man, and a little stir eddied through the group gathered at the lane between the arena and the corral.
A meek-looking buckskin was driven into the arena.The embodiment of listlessness, it apparently had not ambition enough to flick a fly from its flank with its tail.Suddenly the bronco's ears pricked, its sharp eyes dilated.A man was riding forward, the loop of a lariat circling about his head.The rope fell true, but the wily pony side-stepped, and the loop slithered to the ground.Again the rope shot forward, dropped over the pony's head and tightened.The roper's mustang braced its forefeet, and brought the buckskin up short.Another rope swept over its head.It stood trembling, unable to move without strangling itself.
A picturesque youth in flannel shirt and chaps came forward, dragging blanket, saddle and bridle.At sight of him the horse gave a spasmodic fling, then trembled again violently.A blind was coaxed over its eyes and the bridle slipped on.Quickly and warily, with deft fingers, the young man saddled and cinched.He waved a hand jauntily to the ropers.The lariats were thrown off as the puncher swung to the saddle.For an instant the buckskin stood bewildered, motionless as a statue.There was a sudden leap forward high in air, and Bob Austin, alias "Texas," swung his sombrero with a joyous whoop.
"Fan him! Fan him!" screamed the spectators, and the rider's quirt went up and down like a piston-rod.
Round and round went Two-Step in a vicious circle, "swapping ends" with dizzying rapidity.Suddenly he went forward as from a catapult, and came to sudden halt in about five seconds.But Texas's knees still clung, viselike, to the sides of the pony.A series of quick bucks followed, the buckskin coming down with back humped, all four legs stiff as iron posts.The jar on the rider would have been like a pile-driver falling on his head had he not let himself grow limp.The buckskin plunged forward again infrenzied leaps, ending in an unexpected jump to one side.Alas for Texas! One moment he was jubilantly plying quirt and spurs, the next he found himself pitching sideways.To save himself he caught at the saddle-horn.
"He's hunting leather," shouted a hundred voices.One of the judges rode out and waved a hand.Texas slipped to the ground disqualified, and made his dejected way back to his deriding comrades.Some of them had endured similar misfortunes earlier in the day.Therefore they found much pleasure in condoling with him.
"If he'd only recollected to saw off the horn of his saddle, then he couldn't 'a' found it when he went to hunt leather," mournfully commented one puncher in a shirt of robin's egg blue.
"'Twould have been most as good as to take the dust, wouldn't it?" retorted Texas gently, and the laugh was on the gentleman in blue, because he had been thrown earlier in the day.
"A fellow's hands sure get in his way sometimes.I reckon if you'd tied your hands, Tex, you'd been riding that rocking-hawss yet," suggested Denver amiably.
"Sometimes it's his foot he puts in it.There was onct a gent disqualified for riding on his spurs," said Texas reminiscently.
At which hit Denver retired, for not three hours before he had been detected digging his spurs into the cinch to help him stick to the saddle.
