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  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.

  CHAPTER III

  FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

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

  The bronco busters endured the usual luck of the day. Two were thrown and picked themselves out of the dust, chagrined and damaged, but still grinning. One drew a tame horse not to be driven into resistance either by fanning or scratching. Most of the riders emerged from the ordeal victorious. Meanwhile the spectators in the big grand stand, packed close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatched at 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 on the programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he made an 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 small berry-brown youth in yellow-wool chaps retorted.

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

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

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

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

  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 job and was straddling wide-legged toward the group, Kirby threw up a hand of 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 lounged forward, moving with indolent grace, one might have guessed him a Southerner. He was lean-loined and broad-shouldered. The long, flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved like those of a panther. From beneath the band of his pinched-in hat crisp, reddish hair escaped.

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

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

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

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

  A big cattleman beckoned to Lane. "Place in my car, son. Run you back to 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 the other cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the great majority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with the vanguard.

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

  He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mind highly indignant. "That doctor talks as though he's going to keep me here a week. Well, he's got another guess coming. I'll not stay," she exploded 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 when you 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 the hotel. 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 finished reading the letter Kirby spoke gently.

  "Bad news, pardner?"

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

  "Esther's in trouble. She—she—" Rose caught her breath in a stress of 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 thoughts overflowed in words.

  "She doesn't say what it is, but—I know her. She's crazy with fear—or heartache—or something." Wild Rose was always quick-tempered, a passionate defender of children and all weak creatures. Now Lane knew that the hot blood was rushing stormily to her heart. Her little sister was in danger, the only near relative she had. She would fight for her as a cougar would for its young. "By God, if it's a man—if he's done her wrong—I'll shoot him down like a gray wolf. I'll show him how safe it is to—to—"

  She broke down a
gain, clamping tight her small strong teeth to bite back a sob.

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

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

  "No. 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 it leaves. And I'll send a telegram to her to-night telling her I'll fix it. I will too."

  "Sure. That's the way to talk. Be reasonable an' everything'll work out fine. Write your wire an' I'll take it right to the office. Soon as 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 woman in itself, but it was a woman competent, unafraid, trained hard as nails. 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 was she moving?

  CHAPTER IV

  NOT ALWAYS TWO TO MAKE A QUARREL

  Kirby put Wild Rose on the morning train for Denver. She had escaped from the doctor by sheer force of will. The night had been a wretched one, almost sleepless, and she knew that her fever would rise in the afternoon. But that could not be helped. She had more important business than her health to attend to just now.

  Ordinarily Rose bloomed with vitality, but this morning she looked tired and worn. In her eyes there was a hard brilliancy Kirby did not like to see. He knew from of old the fire that could blaze in her heart, the insurgent impulses that could sweep her into recklessness. What would she do if the worst she feared turned out to be true?

  "Good luck," she called through the open window as the train pulled out. "Beat Cole, Kirby."

  "Good luck to you," he answered. "Write me soon as you find out how things are."

  But as he walked from the station his heart misgave him. Why had he let her go alone, knowing as he did how swift she blazed to passion when wrong was done those she loved? It was easy enough to say that she had refused to let him go with her, though he had several times offered. The fact remained that she might need a friend at hand, might need him the worst way.

  All through breakfast he was ridden by the fear of trouble on her horizon. Comrades stopped to slap him on the back and wish him good luck in the finals, and though he made the proper answers it was with the surface of a mind almost wholly preoccupied with another matter.

  While he was rising from the table he made a decision in the flash of an eye. He would join Rose in Denver at once. Already dozens of cars were taking the road. There would be a vacant place in some one of them.

  He found a party just setting out for Denver and easily made arrangements to take the unfilled seat in the tonneau.

  By the middle of the afternoon he was at a boarding-house on Cherokee Street inquiring for Miss Rose McLean. She was out, and the landlady did not know when she would be back. Probably after her sister got home from work.

  Lane wandered down to Curtis Street, sat through a part of a movie, then restlessly took his way up Seventeenth. He had an uncle and two cousins living in Denver. With the uncle he was on bad terms, and with his cousins on no terms at all. It had been ten years since he had seen either James Cunningham, Jr., or his brother Jack. Why not call on them and renew acquaintance?

  He went into a drug-store and looked the name up in a telephone book. His cousin James had an office in the Equitable Building. He hung the book up on the hook and turned to go. As he did so he came face to face with Rose McLean.

  "You—here!" she cried.

  "Yes, I—I had business in Denver," he explained.

  "Like fun you had! You came because—" She stopped abruptly, struck by another phase of the situation. "Did you leave Cheyenne without riding to-day?"

  "I didn't want to ride. I'm fed up on ridin'."

  "You threw away the championship and a thousand-dollar prize to—to—"

  "You're forgettin' Cole Sanborn," he laughed. "No, honest, I came on business. But since I'm here—say, Rose, where can we have a talk? Let's go up to the mezzanine gallery at the Albany. It's right next door."

  He took her into the Albany Hotel. They stepped out of the elevator at the second floor and he found a settee in a corner where they might be alone. It struck him that the shadows in her eyes had deepened. She was, he could see plainly, laboring under a tension of repressed excitement. The misery of her soul leaped out at him when she looked his way.

  "Have you anything to tell me?" he asked, and his low, gentle voice was a comfort to her raw nerves.

  "It's a man, just as I thought—the man she works for."

  "Is he married?"

  "No. Going to be soon, the papers say. He's a wealthy promoter. His name's Cunningham."

  "What Cunningham?" In his astonishment the words seemed to leap from him of their own volition.

  "James Cunningham, a big land and mining man. You must have heard of him."

  "Yes, I've heard of him. Are you sure?"

  She nodded. "Esther won't tell me a thing. She's shielding him. But

  I went through her letters and found a note from him. It's signed 'J.

  C.' I accused him point-blank to her and she just put her head down on

  her arms and sobbed. I know he's the man."

  "What do you mean to do?"

  "I mean to have a talk with him first off. I'll make him do what's right."

  "How?"

  "I don't know how, but I will," she cried wildly. "If he don't I'll settle with him. Nothing's too bad for a man like that."

  He shook his head. "Not the best way, Rose. Let's be sure of every move we make. Let's check up on this man before we lay down the law to him."

  Some arresting quality in him held her eye. He had sloughed the gay devil-may-care boyishness of the range and taken on a look of strong patience new in her experience of him. But she was worn out and nervous. The pain in her arm throbbed feverishly. Her emotions had held her on a rack for many hours. There was in her no reserve power of endurance.

  "No, I'm going to see him and have it out," she flung back.

  "Then let me go with you when you see him. You're sick. You ought to be in bed right now. You're in no condition to face it alone."

  "Oh, don't baby me, Kirby!" she burst out. "I'm all right. What's it matter if I am fagged. Don't you see? I'm crazy about Esther. I've got to get it settled. I can rest afterward."

  "Will it do any harm to take a friend along when you go to see this man?"

  "Yes. I don't want him to think I'm afraid of him. You're not in this, Kirby. Esther is my little sister, not yours."

  "True enough." A sardonic, mirthless smile touched his face. "But

  James Cunningham is my uncle, not yours."

  "Your uncle?" She rose, staring at him with big, dilated eyes. "He's your uncle, the man who—who—"

  "Yes, an' I know him better than you do. We've got to use finesse—"

  "I see." Her eyes attacked him scornfully. "You think we'd better not face him with what he's done. You think we'd better go easy on him. Uncle's rich, and he might not like plain words. Oh, I understand now."

  Wild Rose flung out a gesture that brushed him from her friendship.

  She moved past him blazing with anger.

  He was at the elevator cage almost as soon as she.

  "Listen, Rose. You know better than that. I told you he was my uncle because you'd find it out if I'm goin' to help you. He's no friend of mine, but I know him. He's strong. You can't drive him by threats."

  The elevator slid down and stopped. The door of it opened.

  "Will you stand aside, sir?" Rose demanded. "I won't have anything to do with any of that villain's family. Don't ever speak to me again."

  She stepped into the car. The door clanged shut. Kirby was left standing alone.

  CHAPTER V

/>   COUSINS MEET

  With the aid of a tiny looking-glass a young woman was powdering her nose. Lane interrupted her to ask if he might see Mr. Cunningham.

  "Name, please?" she parroted pertly, and pressed a button in the switchboard before her.

  Presently she reached for the powder-puff again. "Says to come right in. Door 't end o' the hall."

  Kirby entered. A man sat at a desk telephoning. He was smooth-shaven and rather heavy-set, a year or two beyond thirty, with thinning hair on the top of his head. His eyes in repose were hard and chill. From the conversation his visitor gathered that he was a captain in the Red Cross drive that was on.

  As he hung up the receiver the man rose, brisk and smiling, hand outstretched. "Glad to meet you, Cousin Kirby. When did you reach town? And how long are you going to stay?"

  "Got in hour an' a half ago. How are you, James?"

  "Busy, but not too busy to meet old friends. Let me see. I haven't seen you since you were ten years old, have I?"

  "I was about twelve. It was when my father moved to Wyoming."

  "Well, I'm glad to see you. Where you staying? Eat lunch with me to-morrow, can't you? I'll try to get Jack too."

  "Suits me fine," agreed Kirby.

  "Anything I can do for you in the meantime?"

  "Yes. I want to see Uncle James."

  There was a film of wariness in the eyes of the oil broker as he looked at the straight, clean-built young cattleman. He knew that the strong face, brown as Wyoming, expressed a pungent personality back of which was dynamic force. What did Lane want with his uncle? They had quarreled. His cousin knew that. Did young Lane expect him to back his side of the quarrel? Or did he want to win back favor with James Cunningham, Senior, millionaire?

  Kirby smiled. He guessed what the other was thinking. "I don't want to interfere in your friendship with him. All I need is his address and a little information. I've come to have another row with him, I reckon."