Tangled Trails | Page 5

by way of good-bye.
As the ambulance drove away she waved cheerfully at him a gauntleted
hand.
The cowpuncher turned back to the arena. The megaphone man was
announcing that the contest for the world's rough-riding championship
would now be resumed.
CHAPTER III
FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

The less expert riders had been weeded out in the past two days. Only
the champions of their respective sections were still in the running. One
after another these lean, brown men, chap-clad and bow-legged, came
forward dragging their saddles and clamped themselves to the backs of
hurricane outlaws which pitched, bucked, crashed into fences, and
toppled over backward in their frenzied efforts to dislodge the human
clothes-pins fastened to them.
The bronco busters endured the usual luck of the day. Two were thrown
and picked themselves out of the dust, chagrined and damaged, but still
grinning. One drew a tame horse not to be driven into resistance either
by fanning or scratching. Most of the riders emerged from the ordeal
victorious. Meanwhile the spectators in the big grand stand, packed
close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatched at its
thrills just as such crowds have done from the time of Caligula.
Kirby Lane, from his seat on the fence among a group of cowpunchers,
watched each rider no less closely. It chanced that he came last on the
programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he made
an audible comment.
"I'm lookin' at the next champion of the world," he announced.
"Not onless you've got a lookin'-glass with you, old alkali," a small
berry-brown youth in yellow-wool chaps retorted.
Sanborn was astride a noted outlaw known as Jazz. The horse was a
sorrel, and it knew all the tricks of its kind. It went sunfishing, tried
weaving and fence-rowing, at last toppled over backward after a frantic
leap upward. The rider, long-bodied and lithe, rode like a centaur.
Except for the moment when he stepped out of the saddle as the outlaw
fell on its back, he stuck to his seat as though he were glued to it.
"He's a right limber young fellow, an' he sure can ride. I'll say that,"
admitted one old cattleman.
"They don't grow no better busters," another man spoke up. He was a
neighbor of Sanborn and had his local pride. "From where I come from

we'll put our last nickel on Cole, you betcha. He's top hand with a rope
too."
"Hmp! Kirby here can make him look like thirty cents, top of a bronc
or with a lariat either one," the yellow-chapped vaquero flung out
bluntly.
Lane looked at his champion, a trifle annoyed. "What's the use o' talkin'
foolishness, Kent? I never saw the day I had anything on Cole."
"Beat him at Pendleton, didn't you?"
"Luck. I drew the best horses." To Sanborn, who had finished his job
and was straddling wide-legged toward the group, Kirby threw up a
hand of greeting. "Good work, old-timer. You're sure hellamile on a
bronc."
"Kirby Lane on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer.
Lane slid from the fence and reached for his saddle. As he lounged
forward, moving with indolent grace, one might have guessed him a
Southerner. He was lean-loined and broad-shouldered. The long,
flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved like those of a
panther. From beneath the band of his pinched-in hat crisp, reddish hair
escaped.
Wild Fire was off the instant his feet found the stirrups. Again the
outlaw went through its bag of tricks and its straight bucking. The man
in the saddle gave to its every motion lightly and easily. He rode with
such grace that he seemed almost a part of the horse. His reactions
appeared to anticipate the impulses of the screaming fiend which he
was astride. When Wild Fire jolted him with humpbacked jarring bucks
his spine took the shock limply to neutralize the effect. When it leaped
heavenward he waved his hat joyously and rode the stirrups. From first
to last he was master of the situation, and the outlaw, though still
fighting savagely, knew the battle was lost.
The bronco had one trump card left, a trick that had unseated many a

stubborn rider. It plunged sideways at the fence of the enclosure and
crashed through it. Kirby's nerves shrieked with pain, and for a moment
everything went black before him. His leg had been jammed hard
against the upper plank. But when the haze cleared he was still in the
saddle.
The outlaw gave up. It trotted tamely back to the grand stand through
the shredded fragments of pine in the splintered fence, and the grand
stand rose to its feet with a shout of applause for the rider.
Kirby slipped from the saddle