THERE was great excitement among the bunch of cowboys on the Shields’
ranch when the local newspapers came out with startling headlines and
full announcements in regard to the annual frontier celebration. That
night every line of the full page advertisements, also the columns of
editorial elaborations on the contests and other events, were read aloud
to an eager assemblage of all hands in front of the bunk house.
The Dillon Doublejack predicted that this year’s celebration would
undoubtedly afford the greatest Wild West show ever witnessed outside
of a regular circus display organized as a money-making undertaking.
Everything was going to be just the real thing—the miners’ drilling
contest, the roping competition, the bucking-broncho features, and so
on. More than a score of outlaw horses that had thrown every cow-puncher
who ever attempted to ride them had already been engaged. The Doublejack
further declared that the tournament would be both for glory and for
bags of yellow gold, with World’s Championships to the best rider, to
the best bucking broncho buster, to the best trick roper, to the
fastest cowpony, and to the most daring and lucky participant in the
bull-dogging of wild steers.
In the columns of the Encampment Herald special attention was drawn to
the fact that in the rough riding and outlaw bucking contest for the
world’s championship there was a purse of $1,000 to be divided—$450
for first prize, $300 second prize, $150 third prize and $100 fourth
prize, while in addition Buck Henry, the banker, offered a $200
championship saddle to the rider who took first place. It was also
announced that the fair association would pay $50 in cash for every
horse brought to the grounds that was sufficiently unmanageable to throw
every rider; each participant to ride any horse and as often as the
judges might deem necessary to determine the winner; chaps and spurs to
be worn by the riders, and leather pulling would disqualify.
Both papers referred to the band concerts as a feature of great interest
throughout the three days of the fair. Everything was to be decorated
in colors—red and green, black and yellow, blue and white, pink and
scarlet—from the grandstand down to the peanut boy. The race track was
fast and in excellent condition, and everything would be in readiness at
the appointed time.
After each item of news was read out there was a buzz of comment among
the assembled cowboys, challenges were made, bets freely offered and
accepted. As the gathering dispersed Roderick Warfield and Scotty Meisch
exchanged significant glances but spoke no word—they had been as
strangers to each other ever since their fierce quarrel on the morning
of the broncho-busting exercises. Roderick was glad that the day was
near at hand when the fellow would be made to eat his words. And with
the thought also came thoughts of Gail Holden. Gee, but it would be fine
to see her ride in such a contest of nerve and skill!
At last the eventful morning dawned and the people swarmed into
Encampment from all the surrounding country. They came from far below
Saratoga to the north. The entire Platte Valley from as far south as the
Colorado state line and beyond were on hand. In fact, from all over
the state and even beyond its confines the whole population moved in to
participate in this great frontier day celebration. A crowd came over
from Steamboat Springs and brought with them the famous outlaw horse
Steamboat, who had never been ridden although he had thrown at least a
dozen cowpunchers of highest renown.
When the programmes were distributed, Firefly was found upon the list of
outlaw horses, and also to the surprise of many of his friends the name
of Roderick Warfield appeared as one of the contestants in both the
bull-dogging and bucking broncho events.
It was a veritable Mecca of delight for the miners in their drilling
contests and for the cowboys in their dare-devil riding of outlaw
horses—testing their prowess and skill in conquering the seemingly
unconquerable. The lassoing of fleet-footed and angry cattle, the
bull-dogging of wild steers gathered up from different parts of the
country because of their reputation for long horns and viciousness, were
spectacles to challenge the admiration of the immense throng seated in
the grandstand and on the bleachers.
It was just ten o’clock on the morning of the first day when the
judges sounded the gong and started the series of contests. The first
event was a cow-pony race, with no restriction as to the sex of the
riders. Ponies were to be fourteen hands two inches or under. There
were seven starters. Up in one corner of the grandstand sat Grant
Jones surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls. Among them of course was
Dorothy Shields. All were in a flutter of excitement over the race that
was about to be run; for Gail Holden was among the contestants.
Gail Holden, quiet, unassuming, yet full of determination, looked
a veritable queen as she sat her pony Fleetfoot clad in soft silk
shirtwaist, gray divided skirt, and gray soft felt hat. With a tremor of
delight Roderick noticed that she wore on her sleeve as her colors one
of his college arm-bands, which he had given her when calling at the
Conchshell ranch one evening after the trout fishing expedition.
At last the bell sounded and the word “Go” was given. A shout went
up from the grandstand—“They’re off—they’re off.” And away
the seven horses dashed—-four men and three lady riders. At the moment
of starting Gail had flung her hat to the winds. She used no quirt but
held her pony free to the right and in the open. It was a half-mile
track and the race was for one mile. When they swept down past the
grandstand on the first lap Fleetfoot had gained third place. A
pandemonium of shouts went up as the friends of each madly yelled to
the riders to urge their mounts to greater speed. At the far turn it
was noticed that Fleetfoot was running almost neck and neck with the two
leaders, and then as they came up the stretch, running low, it seemed as
if the race would finish in a dead heat between all three ponies.
Just then Gail reached down and was seen to pat her pony upon the neck
and evidently was talking to him. Fleetfoot leaned forward as if fired
with fierce determination to comply with her request for still greater
effort His muscles seemed to be retensioned. He began creeping away inch
by inch from his adversaries, and amid the plaudits and shouts of the
people in the grandstand and bleachers, who rose to their feet waving
handkerchiefs and hats in a frenzy of tumultuous approval, Gail’s
horse passed first under the wire—winner by a short head, was the
judges’ verdict.
The second feature was a great drilling contest of the miners from the
surrounding hills. There were twelve pairs of contestants, and Grant
Jones became wild with excitement when friends of his from Dillon were
awarded the championship.
And thus event followed event until the day’s program was completed.
Gail and Roderick were bidding each other goodnight at the gateway of
the enclosure.
“I owe you my very special thanks,” he said as he held her hand.
“What for?” she enquired.
“For wearing my old college arm-band in the pony race.”
“Oh,” said Gail, blushing slightly, “I had to have something to
keep my sleeve from coming down too far on my wrist Besides they are
pretty colors, aren’t they?”
But Roderick was not going to be sidetracked by any such naive
questioning.
“I refuse pointblank,” he answered, smiling, “to accept any excuse
for your wearing the badge. I insist it was a compliment to me and shall
interpret it in no other way.”
Her blush deepened, but she made no further protest. General Holden had
approached. She turned and took his arm.
“Until tomorrow then,” exclaimed Roderick, raising his hat to both
father and daughter.
“Until tomorrow,” she quietly responded.
The morrow brought resumption of the tournament. Gail Holden was to
display her prowess in throwing the lariat, while Roderick had entered
his name in the bull-dogging event.
In the roping contest Gail was the only lady contestant. The steers
were given a hundred feet of start, and then the ropers, swinging their
lariats, started after them in a mad gallop.
Gail was again mounted on Fleet foot, and if anything ever looked like
attempting an impossibility it was for this slender girl with her neatly
gloved little hands, holding a lariat in the right and the reins of the
pony in her left, to endeavor to conquer and hogtie a three-year-old
steer on the run. And yet, undismayed she undertook to accomplish
this very thing. When the word was given she dashed after the fleeing
three-year-old, and then as if by magic the lariat sprang away from
her in a graceful curve and fell cleverly over the horns of the steer.
Immediately Fleetfoot set himself for the shock he well knew was coming.
The steer’s momentum was so suddenly arrested that it was thrown to
the ground. Gail sprang from the saddle, and the trained pony as he
backed away kept the lariat taut. Thus was the steer hogtied by Gail’s
slender hands in 55 3/5 seconds from the time the word was given.
All of the lassoers had been more or less successful, but the crowd
stood up and yelled in wildest enthusiasm, and waved their hats and
handkerchiefs, as the time for this marvelous feat by Gail was announced
from the judges’ stand.
In the afternoon the bull-dogging contest was reached, and Grant
Jones said to those about him: “Now get ready for some thrills and
breathless moments.”
When the word was given a wild long-horned steer came rushing down past
the grandstand closely followed by a cowboy on his fleet and nimble
pony. In the corral were perhaps a score of steers and there was
a cowboy rider ready for each of them. Four or five steers were
bull-dogged one after the other. Some had been quickly thrown to the
ground by the athletic cowboys amid the plaudits of the onlookers. But
one had proven too strong for the skill and quickness of his adversary,
and after rather severely injuring the intrepid youthful gladiator
rushed madly on down the race track.
Presently Roderick Warfield came into view astride his favorite pony,
Badger, riding at full tilt down the race course, chasing a huge
cream-colored steer with wide-spread horns, cruelly sharp and
dangerous-looking. As horse and steer came abreast Roderick’s athletic
form swayed in his saddle for a moment, and then like a flash he was
seen to leap on to the steer’s back and reaching forward grab the
animal’s horns. An instant later he had swung his muscular body to
the ground in front of his sharp homed adversary and brought him to an
abrupt halt.
Gail Holden’s face grew pale as she watched the scene from among a
group of her girl friends on the grandstand.
The object of the bull-dogging contest is to twist the neck of the steer
and throw him to the ground. But Roderick accomplished more. The steer
lifted him once from the ground, and the great throng of people on
the grandstand and bleachers, also the hundreds who had been unable to
obtain seating accommodation and were standing along the rails, held
their breath in bated silence. The powerful cream-colored steer threw
his head up, and lifting Roderick’s feet from their anchorage started
on a mad run. But when he lowered his head a moment later Roderick’s
feet caught the earth again, and the steer was brought to a standstill.
Then the milling back and forth began. Roderick’s toes sank deep into
the sand that covered the race track; the muscles of his neck stood out
in knots. Finally, with one heroic twist on the long horns as a pry over
a fulcrum, he accomplished the feat of combined strength and endurance,
and the intense silence of the great throng was broken by a report
like the shot of a pistol as the bull-dogged steer fell heavily to the
earth—dead. The animal’s neck was broken.
There are very few cases on record where a steer’s neck has been
broken in bull-dogging contests. Roderick therefore had gained a rare
distinction. But technically he had done too much, for the judges were
compelled to withhold from him the honors of the championship because in
killing the animal he had violated the humane laws of the state, which
they were pledged to observe throughout the series of contests. But this
did not affect the tumult of applause that acclaimed his victory over
the huge and vicious-looking steer. Afterwards when his friends gathered
around him in wonderment at his having entered for such an event he
confessed that for several weeks he had been practicing bull-dogging out
on the range, preparing for this contest.
In the afternoon of the last day, the finals of the bucking-broncho
competition were announced from the grandstand. There were only three
contestants remaining out of the score or more of original entries, and
Roderick Warfield was among the number. Scotty Meisch was there—the
cowboy whom Roderick had challenged—also Bud Bledsoe, the bodyguard
and sleuth of W. B. Grady. Three of the unconquered outlaws were brought
out—each attended by two wranglers; the names of the horses were put
in a hat and each cowboy drew for his mount. Roderick Warfield drew Gin
Fizz, Bud Bledsoe drew Steamboat and Scotty Meisch drew Firefly. And in
a few moments the wranglers were busy.
Three horses and six wranglers working on them at the same time! It was
a sight that stirred the blood with expectation. These horses had been
successful in throwing the riders who had previously attempted to subdue
them. The outlaws were recognized by the throng even before their names
were called from the grandstand.
The method of the game is this: One wrangler approaches the horse while
the other holds taut the lariat that has been thrown over his neck; and
if the freehanded wrangler is quick enough or lucky enough he seizes the
horse by the ears and throws his whole weight on the animal’s head,
which is then promptly decorated with a hackamore knotted bridle. A
hackamore is a sort of a halter, but it is made of the toughest kind of
rawhide and so tied that a knot presses disastrously against the lower
jaw of the horse. After being haltered the outlaw is blindfolded with a
gunnysack. To accomplish all this is a dangerous struggle between
horse and the wranglers. Then the word “Saddle” is shouted, and the
saddles are quickly adjusted to the backs of these untamed denizens of
the wild. It takes considerable time to accomplish all this and have the
girths tightened to the satisfaction of the wranglers first and of
the rider last. Invariably the rider is the court of final resort in
determining that the outlaw is in readiness to be mounted.
At last the moments of tense expectancy were ended. It was seen that one
of the outlaws was ready, and at a call from the judges’ stand, Scotty
Meisch the first rough-rider leaped on to the back of his untamed horse.
The “Ki-yi” yell was given—the blindfold slipped from Firefly’s
eyes, and the rowels of the rider sunk into the flanks of his horse.
Bucking and plunging, wheeling and whirling, all the time the rider not
daring to “pull leather” and so disqualify himself under the rules,
the outlaw once again proved himself a veritable demon. In just two
minutes after the struggle began Scotty Meisch measured his length on
the ground and Firefly was dashing for the open. The scene had been a
thrilling one. Roderick noticed that Scotty had to be helped off the
track, but he felt no concern—the rough-rider parted from his mount in
a hurry may be temporarily dazed but is seldom seriously hurt.
Steamboat was the next horse. Bud Bledsoe was wont to brag there was
nothing wore hair that he could not ride. But Steamboat, when he felt
the weight of a rider on his back, was as usual possessed of a devil.
But Bledsoe was not the man to conquer the noted outlaw, and down he
went in prompt and inglorious defeat.
Gin Fizz was a magnificent specimen of horseflesh—black as midnight
with a coat of hair that shone like velvet. His proud head was held high
in air. He stood like a statue while blindfolded and Roderick Warfield
was making ready to mount.
The vast assemblage in the grandstand held their breath in amazement and
wondered what would become of the rider of the giant black.
Then Roderick quickly mounted, and men and women rose to their feet to
see the terribleness of it all. Roderick sent his spurs deep into the
flanks of the black and plied the quirt in a desperate effort quickly to
master and subdue the outlaw.
The horse reared and plunged with lightning quickness, and at times was
the center of a whirlwind of dust in his determined zig-zag efforts
to dislodge his rider. He rose straight up on his hind legs and for
a moment it looked as if he were going to fall over backwards. Then
seemingly rising still higher in air from his back feet he leaped
forward and downward, striking his front feet into the earth as if he
would break the saddle girth and certainly pitch the rider over his
head. He squatted, jumped, corkscrewed and sun-fished, leaped forward;
then he stopped suddenly and in demoniacal anger, as if determined not
to be conquered, he threw his head far around endeavoring to bite his
assailant’s legs. But at last the horse’s exertions wore him down
and he seemed to be reluctantly realizing that he had found his master.
In the end, after a terrible fight lasting fully seven minutes, he
quieted down in submission, and Gin Fizz thus acknowledged Roderick’s
supremacy. He was subdued. Roderick drew rein, patted him kindly,
dismounted and turned him over to the wranglers. Gin Fizz was no longer
an outlaw; he suffered himself to be led away, trembling in every limb
but submissive as a well-trained cow-pony.
Approaching the judges’ stand, Roderick received a tremendous ovation
both from the onlookers and from his brother cowboys. The championship
ribbon was pinned to his breast, and now he was shaking hands
promiscuously with friends, acquaintances and strangers. But all the
while his eyes were roaming around in search of Gail Holden.
At last he was out of the crowd, in a quiet corner, with Grant Jones,
the Shields sisters, and a few intimates.
“Where is Miss Holden?” he enquired of Barbara.
“Oh, she took poor Scotty Meisch to the hospital in an automobile. She
insisted on going.”
“He’s not badly hurt, is he?” he asked drily.
“Oh, no. Just shaken up a lot. He’ll be all right in a week’s
time, Dr. Burke says.”
“Then Gail—I mean Miss Holden—didn’t see Gin Fizz broken?”
“No. But she’ll hear about it all right,” exclaimed Barbara
enthusiastically. “My word, it was great!” And she shook his hand
again.
But the day of triumph had ended in disappointment for Roderick
Warfield. He slipped away, saddened and crestfallen.
“It was all for her I did it”—the thought kept hammering at his
brain. “And she never even stopped to see. I suppose she’s busy now
bathing the forehead of that contemptible little runt in the hospital.
Stella wouldn’t have turned me down like that.”
And he found himself thinking affectionately and longingly of the little
“college widow.” He hadn’t been to the post office for three days.
The belated letter might have arrived at last. He would go and see at
all events; and to drown thought he whistled “The Merry Widow” waltz
as he grimly stalked along.