The furious bronco surrendered without an instant's warning, and its rider slipped at once to the ground.As he sauntered through the dust toward the grand stand, Helen could not fail to see how his vanity sunned itself in the applause that met his performance.His equipment was perfect to the least detail.The reflection from a lady's looking-glass was no brighter than the silver spurs he jingled on his sprightly heels.Strikingly handsome in a dark, sinister way, one would say at first sight, and later would chafe at the justice of a verdict not to be denied.
Ned Bannister rose from his seat beside Helen."Wish me luck," he said, with his gay smile.
"I wish you all the luck you deserve," she answered."Oh, wish me more than that if y'u want me to win.""I didn't say I wanted you to win.You take the most unaccountable things for granted.""I've a good mind to win, then, just to spite y'u," he laughed.
"As if you could," she mocked; but her voice took a softer intonation as she called after him in a low murmur: "Be careful, please."His white teeth flashed a smile of reassurance at her."I've never been killed yet.""Ned Bannister on Steamboat," sang out the megaphone man.
"I'm ce'tainly in luck.Steamboat's the worst hawss on the range," he told himself, as he strode down the grand stand to enter the arena.
The announcement of his name created for the second time that day a stir of unusual interest.Everybody in that large audience had heard of Ned Bannister; knew of his record as a "bad man" and his prowess as the king of the Shoshone country; suspected him of being a train and bank robber as well as a rustler.That he should have the boldness to enter the contest in his own name seemed to show how defiant he was of the public sentiment against him, and how secure he counted himself in flaunting this contempt.As for the sheepman, the notoriety that his cousin's odorous reputation hadthrust upon him was extremely distasteful as well as dangerous, but he had done nothing to disgrace his name, and he meant to use it openly.He could almost catch the low whispers that passed from mouth to mouth about him.
"Ain't it a shame that a fellow like that, leader of all the criminals that hide in the mountains, can show himself openly before ten thousand honest folks?" That he knew to be the purport of their whispering, and along with it went a recital of the crimes he had committed.How he was a noted "waddy," or cattle-rustler; how he and his gang had held up three trains in eighteen months; how he had killed Tom Mooney, Bob Carney and several others--these were the sorts of things that were being said about him, and from the bottom of his soul he resented his impotency to clear his name.
There was something in Bannister's riding that caught Helen's fancy at once.It was the unconscious grace of the man, the ease with which he seemed to make himself a very part of the horse.He attempted no tricks, rode without any flourishes.But the perfect poise of his lithe body as it gave with the motions of the horse, proclaimed him a born rider; so finished, indeed, that his very ease seemed to discount the performance.Steamboat had a malevolent red eye that glared hatred at the oppressor man, and to-day it lived up to its reputation of being the most vicious and untamed animal on the frontier.But, though it did its best to unseat the rider and trample him underfoot, there was no moment when the issue seemed in doubt save once.The horse flung itself backward in a somersault, risking its own neck in order to break its master's.But he was equal to the occasion; and when Steamboat staggered again to its feet Bannister was still in the saddle.It was a daring and magnificent piece of horsemanship, and, though he was supposed to be a desperado and a ruffian, his achievement met with a breathless gasp, followed by thunderous applause.
The battle between horse and man was on again, for the animal was as strong almost in courage as the rider.But Steamboat's confidence had been shaken as well as its strength.Its efforts grew less cyclonic.Foam covered its mouth and flecked its sides.The pitches were easy to foresee and meet.
Presently they ceased altogether.
Bannister slid from the saddle and swayed unsteadily across the arena.The emergency past, he had scarce an ounce of force left in him.Jim McWilliams ran out and slipped an arm around his shoulders, regardless of what his friends might think of him for it.
"You're all in, old man.Y'u hadn't ought to have ridden, even though y'u did skin us all to a finish.""Nonsense, Mac.First place goes to y'u or--or Jack Holloway." "Not unless the judges are blind."But Bannister's prediction proved true.The champion, Sanford, had been traveling with a Wild West show, and was far too soft to compete with these lusty cowboys, who had kept hard from their daily life on the plains.Before he had ridden three minutes it was apparent that he stood no chance of retaining his title, so that the decision narrowed itself to an issue between the two Bannisters and McWilliams.First place was awarded to the latter, the second prize to Jack Holloway and the third to Ned Bannister.
But nearly everybody in the grand stand knew that Bannister had been discriminated against because of his unpopularity.The judges were not local men, and had nothing to fear from the outlaw.Therefore they penalized him on account of his reputation.It would never do for the Associated Press dispatches to send word all over the East that a murderous desperado was permitted, unmolested, to walk away with the championship belt.
"It ain't a square deal," declared McWilliams promptly.
He was sitting beside Nora, and he turned round to express his opinion to the two sitting behind him in the box.
"We'll not go behind the returns.Y'u won fairly.I congratulate y'u, Mr.Champion-of-the-world," replied the sheepman, shaking hands cordially.
"I told you to bring that belt to the Lazy D," smiled his mistress, as she shook hands.
But in her heart she was crying out that it was an outrage.
