"Oh, I don't know," said Bud quietly, as Sol Flatbush made this announcement of the ability of Magpie, or Idlewild, as he was known elsewhere.
"But I do," urged Sol. "I see that hoss run at Ponca City on ther Fo'th o' July a year ago, an' he jest run away from ther best Indian racers what ther Osages could bring over, an' yer knows they kin go some."
"Sol, my son, don't git excited. Yer Uncle Bud knows what he's doin' when he's going inter this yere race. He ain't tellin' ther ole man, nor none o' you fellers, what thar is in thet Hatrack hoss."
"Got somethin' up yer sleeve?"
"I reckon I hev. If I was a bettin' man, I'd wager my share o' Moon Valley that Hatrack would win this yere race."
"Sho; yer don't say!"
"Ted seen him run. Ask him. Now, don't you worry none about me. I know a hoss when I see one standin' on its four legs. That magpie hoss is a good one, whether his name is Magpie or Idlewild. Ther name don't make him run no better. But Hatrack is some, too, an' I want that magpie pony for Stella. She ain't got no hoss of her own down yere, an' that spotted pony is jest ther sort o' showy hoss what a gal likes."
"Well, I ain't wantin' ter be buttin' in none," said Sol, in a crestfallen way.
"Yer ain't butted in none, Sol. I'm obliged ter yer fer givin' me ther tip erbout ther old sharp. When he fust braced me I sized him up fer a sharp, an' when he told me he was a hoss trader from Missouri I had a straight line on him."
They returned to camp, where the old man was still regaling the boys with anecdotes, having proved himself a most entertaining story-teller.
The boy sat close beside him listening, but never saying a word, except when he was addressed. He was small and slender, and evidently weighed much less than a hundred pounds.
His face was small and thin, and apparently youthful, but his eyes were old and shrewd, and there was a crafty look about his face at times when the old man brought out a point in a story. Evidently he had heard these stories many times before. When he smiled it was in a sly and furtive way.
Ted Strong had come in from riding around the herd, having inspected it before it was bedded down for the night. He had heard all about the proposed race, and smiled quietly as Ben joshed Bud about the loss of his pony Hatrack on the morrow.
He had looked the boy over carefully, and his impression was not pleasant.
"I tell yer what, boys," said the old man, when conversation began to lag. "S'posin' we put this race off until to-morrow afternoon, an' run it over at Snyder, across the line in Oklahomy?"
"What's ther occasion?" asked Bud.
"Jest ter give ther people over thar a chance ter see a real live race. Besides, I'm out o' money, an' I reckon we could have a reg'lar race, an' charge admission. That would enable me an' my grandson ter git back ter ole Missou' again. We ain't much use out here. What d'yer say?"
"I ain't no professional racer," said Bud slowly, "an' I ain't in this race fer what I kin make out o' it. Yer made yer brag about yer hoss an' slurred mine, an' I'm jest game enough ter lose him if he can't beat that calcimined hoss o' yours, but I don't go in fer bettin' er none o' thet sort o' thing."
"I ain't said nothin' about bettin'," said the old man, in an injured tone.
"I know yer ain't, an' I ain't accused yer o' it none. What I wuz goin' ter say wuz thet if yer hard up an' need ther money ter take yer home I'm ther first feller ter jump in ter help yer."
"We're all willing to help on a thing like that," said Ted.
"Then ye'll consent ter pull off ther race in Snyder?" asked the old man eagerly.
"I am, if ther other boys will consent ter it," said Bud.
"All right with me," said Ted, and the other boys voiced their assent.
It looked as if there was a good bit of fun in prospect.
"Thanks, boys," said the old man, with a catch in his voice, as if he was deeply touched. "Ye'll do a good turn fer me an' little Bill here. Bill, we'll git home fer Christmas yit."
"If you're going to make it a public race, you'll have to get over to Snyder early to make arrangements," said Ted.
"I'll leave before sunup in ther mornin', an' we'll have the race at three o'clock. Is that all satisfactory?"
This proved satisfactory to the boys, and, having agreed to be on hand in time with Hatrack, every one turned in.
When the boys turned out in the morning the blankets which the old man and the boy had occupied were empty and cold, showing that they had departed long before daylight.
"There's something fishy about that old chap," said Ben Tremont, as they were at breakfast.
"Of course, there is," said Ted. "He's an old horse sharp. Sol Flatbush knows him. He wants a race in town, thinking he can draw us into betting. He doesn't know that we never gamble, but he evidently believes that in the excitement of the moment he will be able to get some of our money."
"Well, he'll get fooled on that," said Ben.
"He'll git fooled in several other ways, too," grunted Bud.
After breakfast Bud went out and roped Hatrack, and after a tussle that lasted several strenuous minutes, brought him into camp. Hatrack certainly was a sorry-looking beast.
His long, dirty, yellowish-brown hair was rumpled and fluffed up. His ribs showed sharp, and his tail was full of burs, while his short and scraggy mane was missing in spots.
His flanks had been rubbed bare of hair where he had lain for many nights on the rocks and in the sands of the desert.
"Well, dog my cats, if he ain't ther orneriest-lookin' beast what ever toted a saddle," said Bud, looking him over, as Hatrack stood with drooping head and ears.
"Bud, he isn't worth making cat's meat out of," said Ben. "I guess you made that race to get rid of him. It's easier and more humane than shooting him or abandoning him to the prairie wolves."
"Reckon so?" asked Bud, looking at Ben out of the corner of a twinkling eye.
"Oh, dear me, but he's awfully ugly," said Stella, coming from the tent which she and her aunt, Mrs. Graham, occupied a short distance from the camp.
She was as spick and span as a new dollar, nattily dressed in a bifurcated riding skirt, from beneath which peeped a pair of high tan riding boots.
Her white Stetson had just the right curl of brim to be most becoming, and her wavy hair fell in profusion over her shoulders.
She was pulling on a pair of fringed gauntlets, and her braided quirt, with a silver knob for a handle, hung by its thong from her slender wrist.
"Now, see here, Stella, don't yer go ter feelin' knocky about yer mount, er yer won't hev no confidence in him, an' will lose. I want ter say ter yer right now that this hoss what looks like ther last rose o' summer, ther last run o' shad, an' ther breakin' up o' a hard winter in a last year's bird's nest, is all right, an' he can't lose this race. Ride him true, an' don't give him ther gad none. All yer got ter do is ter encourage him by a word now an' then, an' pilot him straight ter ther wire."
"All right, Bud. I was only joking," laughed Stella. "It isn't the prettiest horse that wins the race. I know that well, but, you see, like every girl, I like pretty things, and a horse might as well look good as run fast. It has always seemed to me that the two go together."
During the middle of the forenoon the broncho boys started for the town of Snyder to attend the race.
Bud led Hatrack, and a troublesome job he had of it, for the animated skeleton objected to being on the halter, as any self-respecting range horse would, and he pulled back and sideways and almost dragged Bud from his saddle several times.
"Ding bat yer," Bud would shout, "yer ornery, unsanctified, muley, harebrained, contaminated son o' a zebra, git down on yer feet an' foller. Ye'll git all that's comin' ter yer when ther race starts. Save yer sweat until then."
But Hatrack thought differently, and before they were halfway to Snyder it took all the efforts of Bud in the lead and Ben, Kit, and Clay Whipple in the rear, to keep him moving in a forward direction.
Only enough boys were left with the herd to keep it from scattering. Ted and Stella rode in the lead as they entered the town, which was crowded with a motley assemblage of cow-punchers, gamblers, and Indians in their gay blankets and with painted faces.
The Indians of the plains are keen on horse racing, and among the various tribes are to be found some of the fleetest horses in the West, many of them trained to all the tricks of racing. An Indian jockey is the shrewdest of his class, and is an adept at all the tricks of the trade.
"Hi! Look at the livin' skeleton!"
Bud swung around in his saddle and stared at a cow-puncher standing on the sidewalk in Snyder, as he rode into town dragging behind him the dejected Hatrack, who looked as if he had been living on two oats for dinner and a spear of grass for supper all his life.
He ambled along like a tired and footsore dog behind Bud, with his ears drooping and his toes kicking up the dust. He was a sad-looking animal, and the word having gone abroad that he was the horse that was to enter the race with Magpie, he was jeered from one end of the street to the other, as Bud led him to the corral at the edge of the town. Bud pretended to be angry at the joshing his steed received, but when he had turned his back upon the jokers he would wink gently to himself in a way that would have been puzzling to the supporters of the spotted horse.
Cap Norris had done his work well.
Every one in town knew of the coming race, and word had been sent to the ranches in the surrounding country, so that before noon the streets were crowded with people.
"Say, fellows," said Ted, when the boys met at the hotel for dinner, "this fellow Norris is sure a sharp. That talk about his wanting to get enough money to take him back home was a lie. He's a gambler, and is in league with a bunch of gamblers in this town."
"How do you know?" asked Ben.
"How do I know? Why, man alive, they're betting on Magpie all over town. The tip seems to have gotten out that Bud Morgan and the broncho boys have a surprise up their sleeves, and that they are going to ring in another horse than Hatrack."
"How is that?"
"They believe we're going to slip in another horse, a professional racing horse with a record."
"Let 'em think so. It won't be a professional race horse—at least, not in this country—that we will put in, but jest ole Hatrack, an' if he don't win the race by a city block I'll eat him, hoofs an' all."
"Put us next, Bud," said Ben.
"That's what," said Kit. "You've sure got a trick concealed somewhere. What is it?"
"No, I haven't," said Bud. "But if I wuz a bettin' man I know what hoss I'd back to win."
That was all the boys could get out of him on the subject, but they were convinced none the less that Bud had a secret concerning the horse, and that they would learn what it was in good time.
The race was to be held at the fair grounds, and was to be a dash of three hundred yards.
Cap Norris would not consent to a longer race, although Bud said he would run Hatrack any distance up to a quarter of a mile, but the innocent old man with the long whiskers objected to running his horse a long distance.
As the hour approached for the race, the grounds began to fill up. Several races between Indian ponies took place to keep the crowd amused until the big race of the day was to come off.
"They've been working us," said Ted, coming up to where Stella and the boys were standing beside Hatrack, which looked more sad and dejected than ever.
"In what way?" asked Bud.
"This race is a gambling game to get the money away from the innocents," answered Ted. "They've had men going among the people from the country and the cow-punchers, telling them that it is a put-up job on our part, and that we're sure to win. In that way they have got a lot of people to bet on Hatrack. I've a good mind to draw out of it altogether and spoil their game."
"For fear the innocents will lose their money?" asked Bud.
"Yes. I don't want to be a party to robbing those fellows."
"Don't you worry. If you want to punish Norris and his friends, don't interfere. Let it go on, I tell you. They'll be the worst-beaten lot o' crooks that ever robbed a town."
"All right, Bud, if you say so."
It was now time for the race of the day, and Bud and Norris marked off the course.
Ben was appointed judge, with a large man, apparently a stranger in the town, who was chosen by Norris, and the two selected a third.
The third man was a stranger to Ben, but he picked him out of the crowd, and the other judge accepted him.
As Stella climbed into the saddle, Hatrack gave two or three kittenish jumps, and the crowd yelled. It had not expected this added feature to the race, a girl jockey.
Shout after shout went up as she rode over the course slowly, Hatrack having settled down into his usual dejected manner. The cheers and some of the jeers that greeted him came from the men who had been induced to bet on him.
"Now, Stella," said Bud, as Stella rode back again, "when you start, shout 'Vamose!' in Hatrack's ear. That's the word he has always been sent away with. Stick tight, an' let him go. Don't forget the word 'Vamose!'"
Hatrack and Magpie were now brought up to the starting point.
The boy who traveled with old man Norris was on the back of the latter horse, sitting in a regular jockey's saddle and stripped of all superfluous clothing.
He was the typical jockey now. He had put away all the appearance of youth, and was a crafty and sly man.
It was apparent that the whole outfit was in the racing business, and as the crowd looked at the discrepancy between the two horses, and observed that on the best-looking horse was a professional jockey, while on the crowbait was only a girl, something like a groan went up.
But some of them were game, and cheered Stella to the echo.
"You're all right!" shouted her supporters.
"Hurrah fer ther girl jockey," yelled the cow-punchers. "I got a month's wages that says she'll win the race."
But the other side had something to say, also. They made all sorts of fun of Hatrack, and roars of laughter went up as he ambled, stiff-legged, onto the course.
Clay Whipple was chosen to start the race, and stood beside the track with a red flag in his hand. The two horses were jockeyed back and forth for several minutes.
"Are you ready?" shouted Clay, as they came up.
"No!" shouted Stella.
"No!" answered the jockey.
Back again they went, and came up neck and neck, the riders nodding to Clay.
"Go!" cried Clay, bringing down the red flag with a swish through the air.
"Vamose!" Stella's clear young voice rang out.
Then an amazing thing happened. Hatrack seemed to be suddenly galvanized into life. He straightened out, and shot to the front with great, long horizontal leaps. His body seemed to be gliding close to the earth.
His head was between his legs, and he was running like a greyhound. Stella was bent low upon his neck, and every moment or two she would shout in Spanish, "Go it! Vamose!" or, "You're winning! Vamose!"
And winning Hatrack surely was. Now he was half a length ahead of the fleet Magpie, who was running the race of her life.
Behind her Stella could hear the crowd yelling like mad. The air fairly shook with the shouts of the multitude as the two horses shot forward. But it was a short race, and seemed to Stella to have ended almost as soon as it began.
As she flew past Bud, she got a fleeting glimpse of him jumping up and down in a very ecstasy of glee, and she knew that she had won, and began pulling in Hatrack. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Magpie was already down to a walk a short distance from the wire, and that Cap Norris and the jockey were talking earnestly.
In a moment she had Hatrack turned, and was going back to where Bud was waiting for her.
"Bully for you, Stella," shouted Bud. "Yer rode a great race. Jest ez I wanted it run. Nobody couldn't hev done it better. I told yer ye'd win."
"That was too easy," laughed Stella. "I wish it had been four times as long."
"That makes it all the better."
"How much did I beat him?"
"A whole length."
"That ought to be enough."
"It was, but I'll bet a cooky they'll make a kick. These crooks always lay out to win, and won't race unless they can win. If they don't, they set up a cry of foul, or something of that sort."
"But they can't do that in this case, because I didn't foul him."
Stella became indignant at the very thought.
"Sure you didn't, but that won't keep those wolves from claiming some sort of a foul."
"You're not going to stand for it, are you?"
"Not in a blue moon. I've got the boys posted. Here comes Norris and his jockey back."
The old racing sharp walked up to Bud, leading Magpie.
"Well, Magpie's mine," said Bud, not giving the other a chance to speak first. "Sorry for your sake that you lost, Cap, but the fortunes of racing often turn unexpectedly, eh?"
"You haven't won," said the old man excitedly.
"Oh, I reckon we won, all right," answered Bud lazily, although there was an ugly gleam in his eye.
"No, sir, you didn't win fair. Thar wuz a foul at ther start. I see it, all right; I wasn't shore until I talked with my boy thar, an' he says as how ther young lady bumped him outer his stride jest ez they wuz gittin' off."
"Oh, no, you can't work me like that, Cap. They were five feet apart when the flag fell."
"I tell yer I see it with my own eyes. 'Twas a foul, an' I claim ther race, er it hez got ter be run over ag'in."
"Never, on yer life. The race goes to the young lady. But I'm not going to stand here and chew the thing over with you. It's up to the judges."
They all approached the judges' stand, where apparently a lively argument was in progress.
Ben and the big man who had been chosen by Norris were talking excitedly, and the other man was listening.
All about the stand an angry crowd of men was surging, all talking at once, so that nothing could be made out of the babel of shouts, except when some person with unusually good lungs made himself heard in a denunciation of one or the other riders.
Ted had joined the crowd, waiting for the arrival of Bud and Stella. Bud was walking by the side of Stella, whose face showed the disappointment she felt at not being declared at once the winner.
It was so evidently a job to steal the race from Hatrack that the leader of the broncho boys was both angry and disgusted.
"This is what you get for having anything to do with this mob of gamblers and thieves," he said to Kit, who was standing by his side.
"What's that you said, young feller?" said a man, edging up.
"I wasn't talking to you, my friend," answered Ted coolly.
"No, but you was talkin' at me," said the other.
"Why, are you a thief and a gambler?" asked Ted, with a lifting of his eyebrows that expressed a great deal that he did not say.
"I guess it's the other way around," answered the fellow, snarling.
"I don't see how you make that out."
"Well, I do. The gal bumped the rider o' Magpie."
"She did nothing of the sort. I stood beside the starter of the race, and I was nearer to the horses than you were, and if any one could see them I could. The horses were several feet apart when they started."
"Why, sure. You and your pals are interested in the bone heap that went in first through a foul."
"That will be about enough of that."
A bright red spot burned on each of Ted's cheeks, the danger signal of his wrath.
"Now, see here, young fellow, you can't throw any bluff into me," said the fellow, approaching Ted with one shoulder raised.
"You let him alone. He's all right, and has got as much right to talk as you have," said another man, elbowing his way up.
He was one of those who had bet on Hatrack, and Ted recognized him as the foreman of the Running Water horse ranch.
"Well, the gal stole the race fer these fellers, an' we ain't goin' ter stand fer it. They needn't think they kin bring any o' their gals in here to do their dirty work. They all look alike to us."
"See here," said Ted coolly, "let me give you a piece of advice. Leave the young lady out of it, or I'll give you something else to think about for a while."
"Rats fer you," said the fellow, snapping his fingers under Ted's nose.
He picked himself from the ground ten feet away, wiping his bleeding nose and wondering what had happened to him.
"Say, boy," said the foreman of the Running Water, "that was as pretty and clean a blow as ever I see. You can handle them mitts o' yours right handy."
A score of men had rushed up and surrounded Ted and Kit, all shouting and gesticulating at the same time.
Meantime, Ben was having his troubles in the judges' stand.
He had, of course, decided in favor of Hatrack, while the big man had declared for a foul and no decision, and the third judge stood wavering.
On the face of it the whole thing was a steal on the part of the gamblers, who had evidently decided beforehand that if the race went against them to claim a foul and bluff it through.
But they had argued without their host. They did not know what they were opposing when they ran against Ted Strong.
Ted was sorry that he had gone into the affair at all, but once in he was there to stick to the finish. The fellow whom he had knocked down had retired to the rear to attend to his broken nose, and to give his friends an opportunity to fight his battle.
The foreman of the Running Water had disappeared. He had foreseen trouble when the gamblers got together, and attempted to force the race through, and had gone to collect the cow-punchers and others who had been induced to bet on Hatrack.
Ted stood his ground patiently, waiting until a decision should be handed down by the judges before declaring himself.
Stella was sitting in her saddle on Hatrack a few feet away from the stand watching the proceedings, and listening to the arguments on both sides made by the angry men.
Bud and Kit stood on either side of her, to protect her from the remarks of the disgruntled gamblers.
Suddenly a man pushed his way through the throng, mounted on a Spanish mule.
He was a fine-looking man, dressed after the manner of the plainsman, and might have been either a cow-puncher in prosperity or a ranch owner.
As the crowd made way for him he caught sight of Bud, and stopped and stared for several moments without speaking.
Bud had not noticed him, but when he did look up he returned the stare, and his forehead was wrinkled in thought.
Somewhere in the back part of his head he carried a picture of this man, but under different circumstances.
Who could he be, and where had he been met, were the things that were puzzling Bud.
"Hello, pard, you don't seem to place me," said the man on the Spanish mule. "But I haven't forgotten you by a dern sight. Think hard."
"I've saw yer som'er's," said Bud thoughtfully, "but it wa'n't like this. You're som'er's in my picture gallery o' faces, but yer ain't ther same as when I saw yer last."
"Right ye are," said the man. "How's Chiquita getting along?"
"Ah, I've got yer now. How did yer come out? Middlin' well, ter jedge from ther mule yer ridin', an' yer ginral appearance o' prosperity."
"You bet I be," said the man, "an' if it hadn't been fer you I wouldn't have been nowhere. I've come a long ways ter hunt yer up, ter thank yer, an' to get better acquainted with yer."
"Well, ye've got me inter a heap o' trouble," said Bud, laughing.
"So I see, an' I'll help yer get out o' it. What seems ter be the trouble?"
"Well, old Chiquita, er Hatrack, ez ther boys in ther outfit calls him, won a race just now, an' ther gamblers won't stand by it. They sent out word that Hatrack was a sure winner, an'—"
"Same old thing. Chiquita fooled them all."
"I didn't know he could do it myself, but I remembered what you said about him, an' when an ole maverick come along an' banters me fer a race I jest took him up, an' this is how it come out. He took us fer a bunch o' gillies, an' used us to try to fleece the people."
"What's his name?" asked the man on the Spanish mule softly.
"Cap Norris."
"Oh, ole Pap Norris, eh? Calls hisself Cap now, does he?"
"That's what he does, an' he's a derned ole skin."
"None skinnier. But where is he? I should like to see him."
"He's sashayin' around here som'er's attendin' ter his dirty work. Lookin' after his grandson, little Willie, I reckon."
"What, is that thief still hangin' on to him?"
"Yes. I see you seem to know him."
"Know him! Well, I should gurgle I do know him. I thought every hoss man in the country knew him. Little Willie, the orphaned grandson, is almost old enough to be a grandfather himself. He's an outlawed jockey, an' he an' Pap go about the country skinning countrymen and cow-punchers with his fake races. He never won a square race in his life. I should say I did know him. Here he comes now. Watch me wake him up."
The old fellow was bustling up to the crowd.
"See here, young fellow, get ther gal offen that hoss, he's mine, er as good as mine in a moment. The jedges are goin' ter award ther race ter me on account o' ther foul," he shouted to Bud.
"I reckon ther hoss stays right with me," said Bud smoothly. "But I want ter tell yer thet yer better bring in that magpie hoss so's I kin git him quick. He ain't yours no more."
"Come, come! None o' yer foolishness with me," blustered the old man. "Git ther gal off before she's pulled off."
"You or any other man put your finger on thet young lady if yer dare," said Bud. "Jest try it once if yer think I'm bluffin', men."
"Hello, Pap," said the man on the Spanish mule. "Up ter yer ole tricks, I see."
The old man looked up at the man on the mule, then turned pale and slunk away without another word.
"Men," said the man on the mule, addressing the crowd, "you've been stung. This old bag o' bones is Chiquita, the best race horse ever produced in Mexico, an' I brought him over here, where I traded him for a plain cayuse an' gave something ter boot. If any o' you men know anything about hosses ye'll recognize ther great Chiquita, what made an' lost more money fer ther people o' Mexico than any one other thing. Pap didn't know it until he see me, then he suddenly remembered a little deal me an' him was in. I know this Magpie hoss well, an' it couldn't stand no more show of winnin' a race from Chiquita than a snail would. Take it from me that ye've been caught at yer own game, an' have been done."
At the name of Chiquita a groan went up from the gamblers.
"And who are you?" asked Bud.
"Come nearer, an' I'll tell you in your ear," was the reply.
Bud went close to him, and the man stooped in his saddle and whispered a word in his ear, at which the old cow-puncher looked startled, then burst into a fit of laughter.
"I tell you I'll never stand for it."
The voice of big Ben Tremont could be heard roaring above the noise made by the crowd around the judges' stand.
"It's a go. The race goes to Magpie on a foul."
The big man in the stand made this announcement in a voice of thunder.
"Bully for you, Shan Rhue!" yelled the gamblers, crowding to the stand in a body.
At the same moment Bud caught Hatrack by the bridle and led him out of the crowd, for he knew what was impending.
"I say it don't go," shouted Ben. "This man, who is in league with that old crook, Norris, declares a foul. I say there was no foul."
"How does the other judge go?" called a voice.
"He declines to give a voice in the matter," answered Ben.
"Throw the coyote down here, and we'll help him make up his mind," called the foreman of the Running Water. "If he's too much of a coward to decide for the right, we'll help him. Throw him over."
The foreman of the Running Water was a formidable-looking man.
He was tall and sinewy, with a seamed and scarred face, a map of many battles with the elements, the wild animals of mountain and plain, and with his fellow men.
He was heavily armed, and the town gamblers knew him for a bad fighter when he was aroused.
"Stick fer ther big show," he said to Ted, who was standing beside him. "I've got the boys bunched back there on the edge of the crowd. When it comes to a show-down we'll all be here. But it's no place fer wimmin an' children."
"I don't want to get into a fight if we can help it," said Ted.
"Yer ain't afraid o' these cattle, aire ye?" asked the foreman, looking at Ted curiously, but with a shade of disappointment in his eyes.
"Not for a minute," said Ted, throwing a straight glance into the other's eyes. "There's nothing to be afraid of, that I can see. But what's the use if we can get at it in some other way?"
"Well, I reckon yer right, bub," said the other slowly. "Some one is shore liable ter git hurt. But I'd sooner see ther whole crowd hurt than have this bunch o' thieves git away with their game."
"They won't do that. Never fear."
The crowd was now watching the men in the judges' stand.
Evidently Ben and Shan Rhue were wrestling in spirit with the third judge, who was still wavering. He knew that the right was with Ben, but he was afraid of the big bully Shan, and the gamblers, who were most in evidence.
He did not know that the cow-punchers and the townspeople who had bet on Hatrack were being organized on the outskirts of the crowd, and that Kit and Clay and the other broncho boys were with them to direct them to the attack when it might seem necessary to assert their rights.
Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd. Shan Rhue had struck Ben Tremont a staggering blow. They heard Ben let out a roar like a wounded bull, as he threw the great bulk of his body upon the man who had struck him.
Now they were wrestling, and the frail stand in which they were, fifteen feet above the ground, swayed with their struggle.
"Kill him!" shouted the gamblers.
"Throw him down here!"
"Let us finish him!"
"Stay with him, Shan!"
These and other cries and threats were shouted by the mob. But Ted Strong said nothing. He was watching the struggle intently and quietly.
He had no fear but that Ben would be able to hold his own. His great strength hardly matched that of Shan Rhue, who was a giant, and the most feared man in the Wichita Mountains. But Ben was more than his match in wrestling skill, and, moreover, he was younger and more supple for all his bulk, and his work on the football gridiron when in college had taught him tricks of the tackle of which the big bully did not dream.
He had a hold on the bully now, and was gradually forcing him backward toward the frail railing that inclosed the floor of the stand.
Ted saw his intention. It was to throw Shan Rhue against the railing, then spring away. Rhue evidently divined the same thing, for he struggled with all his force against it, striking Ben in the ribs and occasionally in the face.
But his blows were not very effective, as Ben had him caught so closely that his blows lost their power. Thus the struggle went on for a few moments. Then, when it was least expected, there was a crash of breaking wood.
A yell went up from the crowd as it surged back, and the gigantic body of Shan Rhue came hurtling through the railing, which went into splinters from the impact of his bulk.
Shan Rhue grasped at the air, as with a roar he went over. He turned a complete somersault as he descended and landed on his shoulders. For a moment he lay quivering, half stunned.
There was dead silence in the crowd and none dared go to his assistance. But presently the bully sat up and passed his hand over his eyes. With a roar of pain and rage he sprang to his feet and looked around.
The nearest person to him was the leader of the broncho boys, who stood on the edge of the crowd, alert and smiling. Ted knew that it meant fight now.
He was convinced that Ben was in the right, but right or wrong, Ben had started it, and it was now up to the broncho boys to see that their side did not get the worst of it.
Realizing that Ted was an enemy, Shan Rhue made a rush at him. Those beside Ted turned and ran. But Ted did not move. He only stood a little tenser.
It took but a moment for the bully to cross the distance that lay between him and Ted. His rush was like that of a bull, and as irresistible. But Ted did not propose to take the brunt of it. He knew several tricks better than that.
As Rhue was about to launch himself upon Ted, the latter stepped lightly aside. So sure was Rhue of landing on Ted and bearing him to the ground that he had leaped into the air, and, finding nothing to stop his progress, was overbalanced. A sweep of Ted's foot completed it, for the legs of the bully were swept from under him, and he went to the sod on his face with a crash that seemed to shake the earth.
Like an eagle upon its prey, Ted was on the back of the bully. The crowd shouted like mad, eager to go to the rescue of their champion. But Ted heard the voice of the foreman of Running Water high above the din.
"It's the boy's fight, an' any man that breaks through the line will get a ball from my forty-four plumb through him. Stand back, you cattle!"
"Let 'em go, fellers. Shan will kill him in a minute," shouted one of the gamblers.
Shan Rhue had been badly shaken up by the jolt that had been his when he struck the ground. For several moments he did not stir, and Ted thought he had been knocked out.
Many of the men in the crowd knew things about Shan Rhue which Ted did not.
Rhue was considered the strongest man in the Southwest at that time. He was barely forty years old, in the prime of his life, and a man who had never dissipated. But he was a thoroughly bad man for all that, and the number of men whom he had killed had been forgotten.
His feats of strength were the talk of barrooms and bunk houses. He had been seen many times to break horseshoes with his hands, and as for bending a bar of iron by striking the muscles of his forearm with it, that was one of his ordinary tricks.
But the thing of which he was proudest was his ability to buck a man off his back. In this feat he barred none, no matter how heavy. He would get on his hands and knees, place a surcingle around his body under his arms for his rider to hold on by, and then proceed to buck.
It would seem impossible for a man to stick to him under such circumstances, and no one had been found yet who could do so.
Thus it was that those of the crowd who had witnessed this feat sometimes in a fight, and more often in friendly contest, looked to see Ted sailing through the air, and then the finish, for Shan Rhue was a merciless enemy.
Ted was now straddling the prostrate bully, who was breathing heavily, his body heaving as his lungs tried to get back into commission.
Presently he was all right again, and, feeling a weight upon him, shook himself. This not having the effect of relieving him of his burden, he twisted his head around and saw Ted sitting on him.
With a growl like a wounded bear he slowly lifted himself to the height of his arms, then slowly rose to his knees.
"By golly, he's goin' ter buck him off," shouted one in the crowd.
"Look out fer some fun, lads," cried another.
"He'll kill ther kid sure," said a third.
In a moment Ted realized what was coming off. The hold he had on the back of Shan Rhue was none of the most secure at best, but he got a clutch on the fellow's shirt under the arm, just back of the armpits, and he felt that he had in his fingers great bunches of the bully's muscles.
By the merest chance he had secured the only hold by which he could hope to stick to the giant's back. Then the fun began. Shan Rhue plunged back and forth, sideways and up and down.
The movement was incessant. He reared and pitched, and, having cunning and intelligence, he was able to distinguish when Ted's seat was least secure and take advantage of it.
Ted had ridden many bucking bronchos, but Shan Rhue beat any of them in the surprises which he furnished. But Ted stuck grimly to him.
He knew that if the bully succeeded in throwing him off his life would not be worth a rushlight, for Shan was a rough fighter and would not hesitate to kick him brutally, if he did not shoot him to death before the boys could come to his assistance.
Thus the struggle went on for several minutes, Shan doing his utmost and Ted hanging on. But the big fellow was getting winded by his exertions.
He was not in the best condition, for all his tremendous power. He was going fast, and Ted was badly shaken up and out of breath, also. If Shan held out a few minutes longer Ted must be thrown, for his hold on the muscles under his antagonist's arms had begun to loosen, and he dared not let go for an instant to get a fresh grip.
It was close to the finish, and the crowd knew it.
"He's goin', Shan. A few more will finish him," shouted the gamblers.
"Stick to him, Ted. He's almost in," cried the boys.
Ted took heart at this, although his body was racked with pains, caused by the innumerable wrenchings to which it had been subjected.
Suddenly Shan Rhue was all in. His body flattened out upon the ground, and he lay there panting laboriously. Ted sprang to his feet gasping. Thus for a few minutes both remained, amid intense silence from the crowd.
Shan Rhue's body was heaving painfully. It was evident that he had never had before a struggle like this.
Little by little he recovered, but Ted's recovery was quicker than that of the man. His youth and strength were responsible for this.
But finally Shan Rhue was himself again, and suddenly he leaped to his feet and glared around. His eyes fell upon Ted, and he looked him up and down in a sort of amazement.
Had this stripling accomplished what older and stronger men had failed in?
Shan Rhue could hardly believe it, but it took some of the conceit out of him at that. However, his anger at Ted had not been in the least assuaged by the fact that the first honors had gone to this youth who now stood watching him with a smile on his lips, but with the light of battle in his eyes.
With a sneer Shan Rhue rushed at Ted. This time he would annihilate him.
But Ted was crouching, awaiting him. His muscles were like steel springs. His breath had come to him again, and he was ready to fight for his life, for it had come to that now. Suddenly there was a smack, sharp and clear in the silence that hung over the crowd.
Shan Rhue staggered back on his heels. The blow from Ted's fist had struck him fairly below the eye. Before he could recover Ted was upon him like a panther.
One, two, three, blows fell with a sharp, sickening sound upon the face and throat of the famous Shan Rhue, as he lurched backward, vainly trying to defend himself.
His body went to the earth with a crash, and he lay there moaning and quivering, beaten, discredited, and no more the hero, for he had been conquered by a boy.