The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
according to the contest rule. (Gosh, but this Invalid horse was certainly throwing his feet!) Backward with the spurs—one, two, three, four, five—and that also was the rule. (Wonder what would happen if a horse didn't jump that many times?) Swing your hat and yip-yip-yip (Beginning to get good! And that coyote yell for the Harlan girl's especial benefit, darn her picture. Wanted to see him take a spill, did she? Well, it was just too bad, that was all; but he couldn't seem to pour himself out of the saddle very well to-day!) Invalid wheeled upon his hind feet, gathered himself together and came down with all the force his twelve-hundred pounds could put into the landing. (Ah-ha, so that was the game, eh? Bet there was another one.) There was, and the Kid felt as if his neck had shortened four inches after that jolt. Then the whistle blew and the assistants galloped up on either side, one taking the halter rein from the Kid's willing hand while the other rode close, so that the Kid could hop off.
"That Kid's a born rider, Chip!" Weary declaimed. "I told you he had the look of a rider, didn't I? And you'd make a doctor outa him, would you? Oh, Mamma!"
"He oughta be in pictures," Andy declared, with a shade of reluctance.
"Yeah—his head is almost big enough for a star, right now!" Pink reminded him bluntly. "It'd just take one picture to ruin that boy for life!"
"Oh, didn't that horse buck just darling?" Dulcie enthused. "Of course, Montana Kid will have to fall off sometime—if he doesn't, I'll never be able to face him again. You're right, Mr. Perkins; he's terrifically lofty."
"I don't want you boys to encourage Claude in this sort of thing," the Little Doctor here cautioned the group earnestly. "I simply won't have him losing his head over Wild West contests. He can't keep it up without getting hurt or crippled, and it's a shame to waste that splendid strength of his on bucking horses."
"Too late now—you've got to let him go ahead and get a spill or two, Dell," Chip contended. By the light in his eyes Chip was betraying a definite pride in his recalcitrant son and heir; and by his tone he was merely letting an unruly child discover for himself that fire will burn. But tones, as we all know, can be controlled. Eyes seldom lie.
The Kid felt better after what he hoped was a hundred-point ride. Walt and Billy had made good rides too, and some one in the team was almost sure to draw a day prize into the treasury—where it certainly would be welcome. As he rode back to the stables to change mounts for the fancy riding event, his hat was set at a jaunty angle over one handsome eyebrow and his whole being exhaled an aura of conscious excellence. He could even fling a glance upward to Dulcie Harlan, and an airy wave of the hand to his mother and dad and Uncle J. G. as he eased through the gate which some one obligingly opened.
Later, when he reappeared with Stardust for the trick and fancy riding, the little girl in the blue satin knickers and blouse was riding to the gate; slowly, because of the crowd gathered there and because, too, she was a little timid about riding out alone into the arena. As the Kid came up, she sent him the same wistful little smile that had made him want to cheer her somehow before the trick roping began. Still, it was not altogether the smile that brought the Kid boldly to her side. Partly it was his consciousness of Dulcie Harlan there in the box just behind him.
"Going to ride?"
"Yes; are you?"
"Going to try," he said lightly, and pushed the gate open for her to pass, following her as the loitering men made way for them. "We better be getting over that way, I guess."
"Oh, no. They told me to ride down to the other end of the arena and be ready to come dashing up this way when we're called," she told him shyly. "I came out here so I wouldn't have to ride down through those dark stables alone."
The Kid nodded, and they rode together down the track. He hoped that Harlan girl was getting an eyeful; and he was glad this little girl had chosen to wear blue. If she made good, he thought, he might invite her to join their team. Two or three good girl riders might be just the touch they needed to make a team popular.
With that nebulous idea in the back of his mind, the Kid watched her when she rode alone up the center of the arena, doing her special stunts. Cute little rider, all right. Needed some coaching on that crawl around under the horse's neck; too risky, the way she did it, and not so showy as a safer way he knew.
A fine lot of riders, take them all through, the little girl in blue giving promise of being one of the best, with a bit more confidence and another stunt or two. Light as thistle seed, she was. Kind of lonesome; didn't seem to know a soul. None of the other girls seemed to know her—or to want to, either. In the intervals between the Kid's own breakneck rides up the middle of the arena, he watched the girl. One or two of the boys ventured to speak to her, but so far as the Kid could see they got scant encouragement; and that did not displease him much.
But after all, he did not ride back with her, for the event closed with a wild dash down the arena, which brought them to the neighborhood of the lower stable entrance. Stardust had done enough for one day, and he needed a rubdown. The Kid therefore rode in and unsaddled the horse and rubbed him dry before starting back afoot to the chutes to see how the boys were making out with the steer riding. All three had entered for that and the wild-horse race which closed the program just after the Indian buck race. The Kid's work was over until evening, and take it all in a lump, he felt fairly well satisfied with the day. He was walking along down the passage behind the horses and taking his time for it when Boy came running down to find him.
"Kid! You said—you said somebuddy stole one of your shirts, and I seen a man a little while ago, and he was wearin' your blue shirt! And somebuddy stole that drunk man's chaps and hat too, while he was asleep. I was in here before, but you was gone. And the drunk was sure cussin' a blue streak! I know it wasn't any of your team—"
"Where was it you saw him?" The Kid's face hardened as he quickened his pace. "How long ago, Boy?"
"Not very long. It was when you was out there trick riding. I was comin' along from the men's room this side the telephone place, and this guy come along with white hairy chaps on and your shirt. And I watched him, and he went in, and I come to get you and you was gone. So I went back, but I didn't see him any place, and then I come to git you ag'in. Kid, he's sure got nerve wearin' your shirt!"
"I'll say he's got nerve!" The Kid took such long steps that Boy had to trot to keep abreast as they went up the incline and into the outer corridor, empty now of all save a few scattered concession stands doing no business, the keepers busy setting their booths to rights after the rush. Even the ticket boxes outside were empty and closed, the gatekeepers sitting idle. From above them came the muffled buzzing of the crowd, bursts of laughter and cheering now and then punctuating the hum. The Kid looked in the dressing room, found it empty and turned to Boy.
"I'm going to the chutes, and you aren't allowed. Go back to the folks—they'll have a fit if you aren't there when this crowd begins to move."
He struck off, hurrying now to see the boys ride steers. But just as he passed the curve in the wall he glimpsed, far down the corridor ahead of him, a tall man wearing a blue satin shirt of a shade there was no mistaking.
Chapter XIII. Robbery
Harlan went through the outer office, where a few cowboys were putting away chaps and spurs in their lockers, eager to get out ahead of the crowd for a visit to the city. At the door of the inner business office he met Blair standing before the closed door, and to him Blair turned with some surprise.
"Why, hello, Harlan! I thought you were having some secret conflab inside; going to get away with the gate money, maybe. The door's locked—"
"Locked?" Harlan tried it himself. "Who's in there?"
"Don't know—Smith, maybe; oughta have the money checked up by this time—the wagon's waiting for it."
"No reason why he should lock the door." Harlan knocked sharply with the cane he carried. As one of the most important members of the rodeo committee, he did