Tangled Trails: A Western Detective Story, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

  The less expert riders had been weeded out in the past two days. Onlythe champions of their respective sections were still in the running.One after another these lean, brown men, chap-clad and bow-legged, cameforward dragging their saddles and clamped themselves to the backs ofhurricane outlaws which pitched, bucked, crashed into fences, andtoppled over backward in their frenzied efforts to dislodge the humanclothes-pins fastened to them.

  The bronco busters endured the usual luck of the day. Two were thrownand picked themselves out of the dust, chagrined and damaged, but stillgrinning. One drew a tame horse not to be driven into resistanceeither by fanning or scratching. Most of the riders emerged from theordeal victorious. Meanwhile the spectators in the big grand stand,packed close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatchedat 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 onthe programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he madean 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 smallberry-brown youth in yellow-wool chaps retorted.

  Sanborn was astride a noted outlaw known as Jazz. The horse was asorrel, and it knew all the tricks of its kind. It went sunfishing,tried weaving and fence-rowing, at last toppled over backward after afrantic leap upward. The rider, long-bodied and lithe, rode like acentaur. Except for the moment when he stepped out of the saddle asthe outlaw fell on its back, he stuck to his seat as though he wereglued to it.

  "He's a right limber young fellow, an' he sure can ride. I'll saythat," admitted one old cattleman.

  "They don't grow no better busters," another man spoke up. He was aneighbor of Sanborn and had his local pride. "From where I come fromwe'll put our last nickel on Cole, you betcha. He's top hand with arope too."

  "Hmp! Kirby here can make him look like thirty cents, top of a broncor with a lariat either one," the yellow-chapped vaquero flung outbluntly.

  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 joband was straddling wide-legged toward the group, Kirby threw up a handof 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 loungedforward, moving with indolent grace, one might have guessed him aSoutherner. He was lean-loined and broad-shouldered. The long,flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved like those of apanther. From beneath the band of his pinched-in hat crisp, reddishhair escaped.

  Wild Fire was off the instant his feet found the stirrups. Again theoutlaw went through its bag of tricks and its straight bucking. Theman in the saddle gave to its every motion lightly and easily. He rodewith such grace that he seemed almost a part of the horse. Hisreactions appeared to anticipate the impulses of the screaming fiendwhich he was astride. When Wild Fire jolted him with humpbackedjarring bucks his spine took the shock limply to neutralize the effect.When it leaped heavenward he waved his hat joyously and rode thestirrups. From first to last he was master of the situation, and theoutlaw, though still fighting savagely, knew the battle was lost.

  The bronco had one trump card left, a trick that had unseated many astubborn rider. It plunged sideways at the fence of the enclosure andcrashed through it. Kirby's nerves shrieked with pain, and for amoment everything went black before him. His leg had been jammed hardagainst the upper plank. But when the haze cleared he was still in thesaddle.

  The outlaw gave up. It trotted tamely back to the grand stand throughthe shredded fragments of pine in the splintered fence, and the grandstand rose to its feet with a shout of applause for the rider.

  Kirby slipped from the saddle and limped back to his fellows on thefence. Already the crowd was pouring out from every exit of the stand.A thousand cars of fifty different makes were snorting impatiently toget out of the jam as soon as possible. For Cheyenne was full, full tooverflowing. The town roared with a high tide of jocund life. Fromall over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico hard-bitten,sunburned youths in high-heeled boots and gaudy attire had gathered forthe Frontier Day celebration. Hundreds of cars had poured up fromDenver. Trains had disgorged thousands of tourists come to see thefestival. Many people would sleep out in automobiles and on theprairie. The late comers at restaurants and hotels would wait long andtake second best.

  A big cattleman beckoned to Lane. "Place in my car, son. Run you backto town."

  One of the judges sat in the tonneau beside the rough rider.

  "How's the leg? Hurt much?"

  "Not much. I'm noticin' it some," Kirby answered with a smile.

  "You'll have to ride to-morrow. It's you and Sanborn for the finals.We haven't quite made up our minds."

  The cattleman was an expert driver. He wound in and out among theother cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the greatmajority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with thevanguard.

  After dinner the rough rider asked the clerk at her hotel if there wasany mail for Miss Rose McLean. Three letters were handed him. He putthem in his pocket and set out for the hospital.

  He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mindhighly indignant. "That doctor talks as though he's going to keep mehere a week. Well, he's got another guess coming. I'll not stay," sheexploded to her visitor.

  "Now, looky here, you better do as the doc says. He knows best.What's a week in your young life?" Kirby suggested.

  "A week's a week, and I don't intend to stay. Why did you limp whenyou came in? Get hurt?"

  "Not really hurt. Jammed my leg against a fence. I drew Wild Fire."

  "Did you win the championship?" the girl asked eagerly.

  "No. Finals to-morrow. Sanborn an' me. How's the arm? Bone broken?"

  "Yes. Oh, it aches some. Be all right soon."

  He drew her letters from his pocket. "Stopped to get your mail at thehotel. Thought you'd like to see it."

  Wild Rose looked the envelopes over and tore one open.

  "From my little sister Esther," she explained. "Mind if I read it?I'm some worried about her. She's been writing kinda funny lately."

  As she read, the color ebbed from her face. When she had finishedreading the letter Kirby spoke gently.

  "Bad news, pardner?"

  She nodded, choking. Her eyes, frank and direct, met those of herfriend without evasion. It was a heritage of her life in the open thatin her relations with men she showed a boylike unconcern of sex.

  "Esther's in trouble. She--she--" Rose caught her breath in a stressof emotion.

  "If there's anything I can do--"

  The girl flung aside the rug that covered her and rose from the chair.She began to pace up and down the room. Presently her thoughtsoverflowed in words.

  "She doesn't say what it is, but--I know her. She's crazy withfear--or heartache--or something." Wild Rose was alwaysquick-tempered, a passionate defender of children and all weakcreatures. Now Lane knew that the hot blood was rushing stormily toher heart. Her little sister was in danger, the only near relative shehad. She would fight for her as a cougar would for its young. "ByGod, if it's a man--if he's done her wrong--I'll shoot him down like agray wolf. I'll show him how safe it is to--to--"

  She broke down again, clamping tight her small strong teeth to biteback a sob.

  He spoke very gently. "Does she say--?"

  His sentence hung suspended in air, but the young woman understood itssignificance.

  "N
o. The letter's just a--a wail of despair. She--talks of suicide.Kirby, I've got to get to Denver on the next train. Find out when itleaves. And I'll send a telegram to her to-night telling her I'll fixit. I will too."

  "Sure. That's the way to talk. Be reasonable an' everything'll workout fine. Write your wire an' I'll take it right to the office. Soonas I've got the train schedule I'll come back."

  "You're a good pal, Kirby. I always knew you were."

  For a moment her left hand fell in his. He looked down at the small,firm, sunbrowned fist. That hand was, as Browning has written, a womanin itself, but it was a woman competent, unafraid, trained hard asnails. She would go through with whatever she set out to do.

  As his eyes rested on the fingers there came to him a swift,unreasoning prescience of impending tragedy. To what dark destiny wasshe moving?