The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
above the clatter of arrival, the last bustle of preparation. Saddles, "warbags," bridles, ropes, all the paraphernalia of the range rider were carried in and dumped against the hay, wherever the owner decided to claim a few square feet for his own. The Kid's long solitude was over. These men spoke his language, greeted him as one of themselves, called him Kid without bothering to ask his name. Contest talk went on day and night; crap games too. And cards. Shouts, laughter, good-natured jibes, boasts of the money they would drag down. Tales of other contests where they had won—or if not, why not, with minute explanations which never, the Kid observed, included a lack of skill. Always the alibi; always the man himself was not to blame. Once or twice a bottle went surreptitiously from man to man, got no one seemed to know where or how, sampled in a spirit of deviltry.
The Kid watched them, listened to their talk, weighed them against his ideals and found them wanting. They wanted to win, every man of them. They were grimly determined to win. Some for the prestige, because they were contest riders by profession, some because, like the Kid, they needed the money and must have it. But all of them smoked, some of them chewed tobacco, the majority never hesitated to take a drink of bootleg whisky if it was offered. Didn't they know they were shortening their wind and their endurance, placing a senseless handicap upon themselves in the contest? Fine fellows too. The Kid thought what a pity it was they were going at it by-guess-and-by-gosh, trusting to luck to break their way, when they ought to be under a coach, and made to live under regular training rules.
When his own boys came—Walt Myers, Beck and Dud and Billy if they could manage the expense of the trip—he'd be able to show these fellows, maybe, that clean living paid. In the meantime he kept his thoughts shut within himself, as was his habit—too much his habit, as his baffled parents could testify.
Another day or two, and headquarters rooms were opened off the passage next the big wire gate to the arena. Contestants began drifting in from every State that ever held open range for cattle. From morning until night the commotion in the passageway increased, high-keyed hilarious greetings more frequent. Entrants were being registered. "D'ja git y'r badge?" became the commonest question asked, for the badges would be honored day or night at Gate Fifteen, and through some oversight the badges were not at hand. Fellows who went out were not getting back in so easily and it worried them.
The Kid did not add his voice to the confusion; all the others had found friends, his casual acquaintances had turned their attention to others with whom they had more in common. A silent young fellow who would not even smoke a cigarette with them was bound to be overlooked when old cronies appeared. He looked on as from a distance, wondering if his own crowd would show up. He had written Walt from Bismarck, but he had not been able to give any specific address where a reply would reach him and he would simply have to wait, he supposed. He hoped if they did come they would have plenty of money with them. The entrance fees were higher than he had dreamed they would be; to shut out the pikers, some one had told him. They had very nearly shut out the Kid, for though he had saved a hundred and twenty-five dollars for the purpose and for living expenses during the rodeo, the events he chose had taken all but five dollars of it—and it was still two days to the opening! He couldn't enter the bronk riding now if he wanted to, and for that reason perhaps he was secretly wild to try it, even in the face of the world's champion who was there to defend his title, and half a dozen other lesser lights who were openly determined to wrest it from him. Crazy notion, perhaps, but the Kid began to wish he had chosen that instead of the calf roping, which cost about the same.
He was standing gloomily in the crowd just within the door of the office when some one laid a hand on his shoulder and whirled him half around. For a minute the Kid's pulse leaped, thinking it was one of the boys from Laramie; but it was Harlan's smooth, boyish face that smiled into his.
"How's the first cowboy? Have you got yourself all fixed up for the events? You know," he lowered his voice to a confidential undertone, speaking close to the Kid's ear, "if you're a little short—some of the boys are, I know—and need help in paying the entrance fee, I can arrange that for you; as a loan to come out of your winnings. Don't be afraid to say so—"
"No-o—" the Kid shook his head, "thanks just the same, Mr. Harlan. I've already entered for the relay race, the calf roping, the fancy riding and the trick roping; that's enough to keep me stepping, and if I make good in them I'll be satisfied." But in his heart he knew that wasn't true. He wasn't satisfied at all. He wanted to bulldog, and he wanted to ride the bronks. But more than that he wanted to be independent, with no help from any one. And his common sense told him that if he did justice to the four events he had chosen he must not waste his energies on any of the others.
"Well, just as you say, Cowboy. Have you got your badge? They've just come—sorry there was a delay in getting them over here, but you know how it is; a million things to attend to—Come over to the desk with me." Still holding the Kid by the arm he led him over to the desk where a harassed young woman was trying her best to attend to the chorus of questions and demands from insistent, tanned young men who surged up. These, Harlan pushed aside with little ceremony, though with a certain gracious air that disarmed resentment, and leaned confidentially over the desk.
"Miss Gray, have you started giving out the badges yet? You haven't given out Number One yet, have you?"
Miss Gray, running a pencil rapidly down her list of names, assured him she had not.
"We must find Number One for this young man. He was first, and he's entitled to it. Look through the box, will you, Miss Gray?" His soft, friendly voice urged her to eager searching, and his soft, shapely fingers dipped investigatively into the box. "Two? No, that won't do. This boy was first, and I'm determined he shall—" He broke off as his fingers closed over the badge he sought.
"There you are, Cowboy! Contestant Number One! That's you on the bucking horse, see? Or we'll say it is, anyway. Pin it on you and good luck to you! A boy that'll ride all the way from Montana—how are the ponies? Folks here treat you right? Have everything you needed?"
"More," grinned the Kid, thinking of his mystery. "I don't know how I shall ever thank you, Mr. Harlan—"
"Never mind the thanks—you can do a little favor for me, though. What I hunted you up for, really." He led the Kid to one side, and out another door into the passageway. "I'm so busy, looking after things, and my daughter insists on seeing all the horses and cattle—everything there is to see. Some club idea, I believe. The committee is rushing to have everything ready—do you mind taking her around and showing her everything?"
The Kid gave an involuntary start that came near being a shudder.
"Why—I'll be glad to show her around if you like, Mr. Harlan," he lied, wondering why nice men must have daughters.
Breathing gratitude and good will, Harlan hurried him off to where daughter waited.
"I've found you a guide, Dulcie; the cowboy we met on the road that day. He'll take you around wherever you want to go, and when you're through just come to the office, and wait for me if I'm not there." Whereupon he gave the Kid a final pat on the shoulder and hurried off after a big, flushed man who apparently bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looked so harassed.
A pert little slip of a girl, in a smart gray tailored skirt and jacket, white silk blouse and white hat; eyes wide and a baffling greenish-brownish-gray, with an upward inquiring look wholly disarming at first glance, but afterward—eyes that dared man and devil alike. A manner demurely assured, and a mouth capable of adapting itself unerringly to the mood of the moment.
The Kid's smoky gray eyes appraised her swiftly and looked away down the corridor where Harlan had already disappeared, his hand in the crook of the big man's arm.
Chapter IX. Dulcie Harlan Looks Around
"What do you want to see first, Miss Harlan?" The Kid somewhat doggedly turned himself to the task before him.
"Everything. All of it. I want," she said frankly, "to see what there is about it to hypnotize Dad the