Unexplored!. Chaffee Allen

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СКАЧАТЬ shirt stepped forward, gorgeous in his borrowed chaps.

      “Some buckaroo!” grinned Ted.

      The pony, not quite so thin as most of the range stock, blinked startled eyes, and the fire-works began. The gorgeous one, barely surviving the first buck, and seeing himself riding for a fall in all his finery, leapt nimbly to the ground while the pony went on bucking. He landed right side up – with no damage to the purple shirt. A derisive jeer greeted this – fiasco.

      “He sure wasn’t goin’ to dust them ice-cream pants,” laughed one of the crowd hanging over the fence. The Indian signified a desire to try again. After a couple more riders were called, he was given the same mount again.

      This time he saved his finery by grabbing hold with both hands.

      “Pulling leather only gets two-fifty,” adjudged the megaphone man.

      “He sure had a good hand hold,” gurgled Ted. “Pretty hard on the wrists, isn’t it, Henry?”

      “Wait till we get you a medal!” boomed Ace.

      Next came a white rider, who won the nick-name “Easy Money” by riding a mule up with a surcingle, then another Indian, – they were mostly the youngsters working on local pack-trains, – who began by straddling the neck of his mount and ended by going over the animal’s head, landing flat on his back. A momentary hush, and the fence lizards began collecting around the limp form. The Indian’s round brown face had turned gray.

      “Stand back and give ’m air,” megaphoned the starter, fanning him with his hat. Some one brought water, then the Indian opened his eyes, and presently signified a desire to get up. He was helped to his feet. “He’s all right,” was the final verdict as the little group led off the field. “Somebody give ’m a cigarette.” The Indian leaned against the corral fence nonchalantly, lighting up, though with fingers that shook the flame out of several matches.

      “Gee!” nudged Ace. “Dad’s motioning us, and if he knows I’ve drawn that bull, he’ll sure–”

      “You’re nineteen.”

      “Aw, he’s the Gov’ner, just the same. If you had one you’d see. Let’s stick here behind this bunch till my turn comes ’round.”

      “Sure you’d better try it?” Ted laid a hand on his chum’s shoulder.

      “Sure thing! What’s the use of living if you never take a chance? Besides, you’ve got a reg’lar rocking-horse yourself, huh?” he scoffed.

      “That’s all right, I was born ridin’,” Ted made light of it.

      It was now time for the bay bull. As a saddle swings around on anything but a horse, it is easier to ride bulls and mules with a surcingle. It took three men to get the bull into the saddling pen, two with lassos and one with a pole, but the strap was finally adjusted around his chest, and the mount made.

      One Shorty Somebody was the rider. And Shorty rode him, – stuck clear across the corral. But there the bull torpedoed the middle log of the fence and went straight through, scraping Shorty off.

      Straight into a startled ring of spectators plowed the enraged beast, sending horses whirling and pedestrians dodging for their lives. The petite Rosa’s mount got to dancing, and finally staged a petite runaway on his own account, but Rosa kept her head and a tight rein. A small boy scrambled into a low-branching tree. But three lassos and a dozen mounted men finally headed off the bull and got him into a smaller corral.

      Ted looked inquiringly at Ace, but the Senator’s son evidently had his blood up. The white-faced bull, meantime, was again trying to thrust his massive shoulders beneath the lower bar.

      Two mules came next on the program, one rider bringing his mount to terms so quickly that people were laying bets it was just a pack-mule, while the other stuck when his jumped the fence.

      Ranger Radcliffe, galloping back beside Rosa’s now docile mount, waved a hand to the boys. Then a murmur rippled through the loungers that encircled the corral, as the white-faced bull was called for. Ace’s nerves began to tingle.

      This bull had been kept in close confinement for several days past, and it had not improved his temper. They had to throw him to put on the straps.

      “Hold him! – Hold him!” at intervals percolated through the hum of voices, as the great brute lay panting in the saddling pen, his eyes ringed with infuriated white, his snorting breath – audible thirty feet away – sending spirals of dust scudding before his nose.

      “Well, what do you say? Say it quick! I’m betting on the bull,” King was challenging the Ranger, little dreaming who the rider was to be.

      This bull was to be ridden with a saddle and one hand hold. The gate of the saddling pen cracked as its occupant tried to rise.

      “You folks around the fence, you had better look out!” megaphoned the starter. “This ’ere bull may not look where he’s a-goin’!”

      The gate cracked again. A woman nearby screamed. Two men with lassos ready waited on either side, their mounts aquiver. Ace’s ruddy face had grown strangely lined, but he stood his ground.

      “The fellow that rides that bull is sure foolhardy,” the Senator was remarking, pulling his hat further over his iron-gray brows against the slant of the sun. Then the Ranger rode up with Rosa, and she was invited to a seat behind the fluttering flag.

      “Either that or almighty sandy,” amended Radcliffe.

      Like a streak of lightning the bull arose, jaws slavering. One mighty crack and he had burst the gate, a plunge and he was plowing his way across the field, trailing a rope that still held his saddle horn. The starter raced after, his big bay holding back with all his might on the rope. The dust blew chokingly into the faces of those on the Senator’s side of the corral. Then the bull caught sight of that fluttering red, white and blue.

      For one awful instant Rosa found those staring white-rimmed eyes glaring straight into her own. The bull’s next leap would carry him over the fence and into the machine. She blanched, but sat silent. Pedro, drawn up beside her on his pinto, felt paralyzed. The Senator threw his engine on as if to back away.

      “Hold him! – HOLD him!” shrilled the starter, pounding back. The rope on the saddle horn – would it hold? Then a lasso was thrown, tightening neatly around the hind legs of the runaway.

      “Got him stretched now!” came the triumphant shout, as the bull went down with an infuriated snort, and lay there, chest heaving, while the vaqueros made him fast.

      “The ride’s off, – nobody goin’ to ride him to-day!” decided the man on the bay. The bull was relieved of his saddle and headed protestingly back into the small corral.

      Ace King’s face was set in deep lines. He had been all nerved up to his ride. Now that it was off, his knees felt shaky, and he climbed to a seat on the top rail. And Pedro flushed to hide his pallor.

      But Ted’s time was yet to come. One rider in between, whose horse piled him on the ground, and the announcement came: “Ted Smith from Peach Cove, rides Spitfire from Huntington Lake.”

      “I’m sorry for that kid,” stated Long Lester, who leaned lankily over the gate, thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. “Want up, little miss?” and he helped a child to a vantage point beside him.

      “Go СКАЧАТЬ