WILD ROSE TAKES THE DUST
"Wild Rose on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer through a megaphone
trained on the grand stand.
Kirby Lane, who was leaning against the fence chatting with a friend,
turned round and took notice. Most people did when Wild Rose held the
center of the stage.
Through the gateway of the enclosure came a girl hardly out of her
teens. She was bareheaded, a cowboy hat in her hand. The sun, already
slanting from the west, kissed her crisp, ruddy gold hair and set it
sparkling. Her skin was shell pink, amber clear. She walked as might
a young Greek goddess in the dawn of the world, with the free movement
of one who loves the open sky and the wind-swept plain.
A storm of hand-clapping swept the grand stand. Wild Rose acknowledged
it with a happy little laugh. These dear people loved her. She knew
it. And not only because she was a champion. They made over her
because of her slimness, her beauty, the aura of daintiness that
surrounded her, the little touches of shy youth that still clung to her
manner. Other riders of her sex might be rough, hoydenish, or
masculine. Wild Rose had the charm of her name. Yet the muscles that
rippled beneath her velvet skin were hard as nails. No bronco alive
could unseat her without the fight of its life.
Meanwhile the outlaw horse Wild Fire was claiming its share of
attention. The bronco was a noted bucker. Every year it made the
circuit of the rodeos and only twice had a rider stuck to the saddle
without pulling leather. Now it had been roped and cornered. Half a
dozen wranglers in chaps were trying to get it ready for the saddle.
From the red-hot eyes of the brute a devil of fury glared at the men
trying to thrust a gunny sack over its head. The four legs were wide
apart, the ears cocked, teeth bared. The animal flung itself skyward
and came down on the boot of a puncher savagely. The man gave an
involuntary howl of pain, but he clung to the rope snubbed round the
wicked head.
The gunny sack was pushed and pulled over the eyes. Wild Fire
subsided, trembling, while bridle was adjusted and saddle slipped on.
The girl attended to the cinching herself. If the saddle turned it
might cost her life, and she preferred to take no unnecessary chances.
She was dressed in green satin riding clothes. A beaded bolero jacket
fitted over a white silk blouse. Her boots were of buckskin,
silver-spurred. With her hat on, at a distance, one might have taken
her for a slim, beautiful boy.
Wild Rose swung to the saddle and adjusted her feet in the stirrups.
The gunny sack was whipped from the horse's head. There was a wild
scuffle of escaping wranglers.
For a moment Wild Fire stood quivering. The girl's hat swept through
the air in front of its eyes. The horse woke to galvanized action.
The back humped. It shot into the air with a writhing twist of the
body. All four feet struck the ground together, straight and stiff as
fence posts.
The girl's head jerked forward as though it were on a hinge. The
outlaw went sunfishing, its forefeet almost straight up. She was still
in the saddle when it came to all fours again. A series of jarring
bucks, each ending with the force of a pile-driver as Wild Fire's hoofs
struck earth, varied the programme. The rider came down limp, half in
the saddle, half out, righting herself as the horse settled for the
next leap. But not once did her hands reach for the pommel of the
saddle to steady her.
Pitching and bucking, the animal humped forward to the fence.
"Look out!" a judge yelled.
It was too late. The rider could not deflect her mount. Into the
fence went Wild Fire blindly and furiously. The girl threw up her leg
to keep it from being jammed. Up went the bronco again before Wild
Rose could find the stirrup. She knew she was gone, felt herself
shooting forward. She struck the ground close to the horse's hoofs.
Wild Fire lunged at her. A bolt of pain like a red-hot iron seared
through her.
Through the air a rope whined. It settled over the head of the outlaw
and instantly was jerked tight. Wild Fire, coming down hard for a
second lunge at the green crumpled heap underfoot, was dragged sharply
sideways. Another lariat snaked forward and fell true.
"Here, Cole!" The first roper thrust the taut line into the hands of a
puncher who had run forward. He himself dived for the still girl
beneath the hoofs of the rearing horse. Catching her by the arms, he
dragged her out of danger. She was unconscious.
The cowboy picked her up and carried her to the waiting ambulance. The
closed eyes flickered open. A puzzled little frown rested in them.
"What's up, Kirby?" asked Wild Rose.
"You had a spill."
"Took the dust, did I?" He sensed the disappointment in her voice.
"You rode fine. He jammed you into the fence," explained the young man.
The doctor examined her. The right arm hung limp.
"Broken, I'm afraid," he said.
"Ever see such luck?" the girl complained to Lane.
"Probably they won't let me ride in the wild-horse race now."
"No chance, young lady," the doctor said promptly. "I'm going to take
you right to the hospital."
"I might get back in time," she said hopefully.
"You might, but you won't."
"Oh, well," she sighed. "If you're going to act like that."
The cowboy helped her into the ambulance and found himself a seat.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asked with a smile a bit twisted
by pain.
"I reckon I'll go far as the hospital with you."
"I reckon you won't. What do you think I am--a nice little parlor girl
who has to be petted when she gets hurt? You're on to ride inside of
fifteen minutes--and you know it."
"Oh, well! I'm lookin' for an alibi so as not to be beaten. That Cole
Sanborn is sure a straight-up rider."
"So's that Kirby Lane. You needn't think I'm going to let you beat
yourself out of the championship. Not so any one could notice it. Hop
out, sir."
He rose, smiling ruefully. "You certainly are one bossy kid."
"I'd say you need bossing when you start to act so foolish," she
retorted, flushing.
"See you later," he called to her by way of good-bye.
As the ambulance drove away she waved cheerfully at him a gauntleted
hand.
The cowpuncher turned back to the arena. The megaphone man was
announcing that the contest for the world's rough-riding championship
would now be resumed.