The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
for the fee. Say, they're sure steep, aren't they?"
"Sure are. I'm flat, after entering. Too bad about Dud; I wanted him to trick ride on Sunup. Walt, you and Billy help me in the relay. I start with Stardust, and Beck can lead him back and rub him down, ready for the calf roping. Then—"
"Everybody get ready for the grand entry!" shouted a big man on horseback, coming down the line. "Mount and ride down to the gate by the Indian camp. Grand entry starts in ten minutes! Get your horses ready for the grand entry!" He rode on, his glance going this way and that, looking for delinquents.
"Got horses for the parade, boys?"
"You bet! All saddled. Couldn't take a chance on being left out in the cold, so we didn't try to find you first thing."
Boy pushed into the group, his face white with excitement.
"Kid, lemme ride Blazes! Tex Austin says I c'n ride in the grand entry if I c'n rustle a horse 'n saddle! Git me a saddle, Kid; I want t' ride with you! Tex gave me a badge so I could!"
"Heck, I don't know where there's a saddle, Boy. Why don't you go on back where the folks are?"
"Aw there's a drunk man back there layin' in the hay an' his saddle's right there by 'im an' he's dead to the world! I c'n take his saddle. A man said I could!"
"Well, my horses have got to run the relay race right after the parade, almost. Sorry, Boy, but I'm going to ride Blazes, and Sunup and Stardust have got to rest while they have a chance. I—you can ride in my place, if you like," Kid offered, mechanically, his whole consciousness swept suddenly away from the argument to center itself with startled attention upon a group of riders bearing down upon them from the far end of the stables.
Like phantoms conjured by his homesick memories, the Happy Family came riding up; Stetsoned, chapped and spurred, the same old boys who had been the gods of his childhood. Rangemen from hatcrown to stirrup, holding the reins jauntily just as they used to do; the same easy grace in the saddle, the same careless tilt to their hats; Weary's long legs thrusting the stirrups a little forward; the Native Son lounging a bit to one side so that his left toe dangled loose in the stirrup bow; Pink with his gloved hands clasped upon the saddle horn; Andy Green's right shoulder drooping forward while his hand rested on his thigh.
The Kid's lips, his whole face felt stiffened and bloodless while he stared. His throat tightened. The Happy Family—heart-breakingly unchanged, amazingly younger in the saddle than they had been when last he had seen them lounging on the porch of the Flying U in correct Hollywood attire, reliving like old men the days that were gone. And yet—
In their eyes he read the bitter truth. Phantoms from out the past they must be, as far as he was concerned, for as their eyes met his they held no glow of pleasure in the meeting. In a blinding flash of realization he knew that although they were the Happy Family to him, in their eyes he could never again be the Kid they had petted and teased and spoiled, returning his worship in full measure all the while. To them he was just a swell-headed college boob who thought he knew it all; an unmitigated fool who had betrayed all the laws of hospitality and then left home because his father had very naturally resented his attitude toward them. In their constraint, in their conscious effort to greet him as if nothing had ever happened to mar their friendship, he read dislike and cold disapproval of him and all his ways.
"Why, hello, Kid," Weary called out with an attempt at his old cheery tone. "Where'd you drop down from?"
"Hello," replied the Kid, and felt that his voice croaked the word.
"Going to top the salty ones?" The Native Son asked that, his languid drawl perverted to a sneer in that strange frozen mood of the Kid's.
"Maybe." The Kid wanted to say more, wanted to be cordial, wanted to explain away the wall of misunderstanding between them. But the words wouldn't come, somehow.
"Your folks are here," Weary added in a diffident aside, not wanting to seem reproachful.
"I know it." To save his life the Kid could not say more than that. It was as if invisible hands gripped his throat.
Weary looked at him, and it may be that he read a little of the misery in the Kid's eyes, half hidden though they were by the heavy lashes that gave the irises a smoky dark tinge. He sighed and leaned toward the Kid. "Wish you all the luck in the world, Kid," he said gently as they rode on. It seemed to the Kid, standing there watching them go, as if Pink and Andy Green avoided meeting his glance as they went by.
"Aw, it won't hurt Sunup a darn bit just to walk around the track!" pleaded Boy, plucking at the blue satin sleeve to call the Kid's thoughts back to him.
The Kid started, exhaled a long, quivering breath and stared down at Boy with clouded, unseeing eyes.
"Hurry up, Kid! A man said I could take that saddle over there if I'd put it right back—come on! They'll be starting in a minute!"
Like a man in a trance the Kid got the saddle and bridle from beside the sleeping cowboy, saddled Sunup and stood at his head while Boy scrambled up. His Laramie boys had hurried off to get their own horses, and as they came riding single file down to where he was, the Kid mounted Blazes and swung in beside Walt Myers, letting Boy go on alone, which was not wise since the horse Boy rode was one of the precious relay string. Beck Wilson and Billy Perry came along behind, almost as excited as Boy, but mannishly hiding it under an air of elaborate unconcern.
Out in the hazy sunlight the Kid blinked at the spectacle before him on the gentle slope before the white façade of the museum. When last he had seen that slope it had been empty, a wide expanse of lawn with the roadway running down at the side like a binding on a green velvet robe. Two hundred horsemen stood there now in double column, with more galloping alongside, anxious to find their places in the lines. Flag-draped automobiles, Indians in gay beaded costumes and war bonnets of eagle feathers. Two great flags fluttered at the head of the column down by the gate; and beyond them lay the huge coliseum with its steep slopes of massed humans and the distant droning as if all the bees in the world had gathered buzzing there.
The rodeo at last! No more was that vast horseshoe of masonry a silent place of mystery and gloom. It flowered with faces just as he had visioned it, and though he could not see them he became suddenly conscious of thousands of eyes all turned toward this gay, restless throng upon the slope. His face paled a little; his eyes darkened with excitement.
"Say, this is the real thing, Boy!" cried Walt, standing in his stirrups the better to gaze upon the long line of horsemen behind him.
The Kid nodded, soothing Blazes with little caressing pats on his sleek shoulder. Just ahead of him Sunup was tossing his head, beginning to dance a little, eager to go. Boy turned his round red face and grinned at Kid, who smiled back at him with his lips while his heart sagged heavy with emotions he could never put in words. Everything jumbled together; the Happy Family up there near the head of the procession, and he not with them; his dad, his mother, somewhere there in that wall of faces; good old J. G., game to the last, coming all the way to Chicago to see him ride, and never telling why; had he brought the wheel chair? Dulcie Harlan frankly hoping to see him make a fool of himself. Like a motion picture running so fast upon the screen that all the scenes are blurred, the Kid's thoughts raced from one to the other—to rest, oddly enough, upon the mystery of that blue satin shirt—Suddenly the loud blare of a band, amplified until it seemed to the Kid that they were playing close beside him, swung into the heady rhythm of "The Stars and Stripes Forever." The column began to move forward, the horses taking little nipping steps as if they too felt the exhilaration of that martial music. As they swept down the slope and into the arena waves of applause surged up to meet them.
Somewhere a man's sonorous voice announced the names of the celebrities as they passed the grand stand. "Luis Mendoza, the famous Western movie star!"—That was the Native Son. The Kid was too far back to see, but the roar of applause told its own story of the crowd's welcome. The Mayor; authors whose books of the West the Kid had devoured for the glamor that was in them. A glow of pride began to ease that heavy ache in his chest. He lifted his eyes to the wall of faces, scanned them as he rode by, caught a little of the friendliness in their smiles.
"Oh,