The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
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but for all that he was conscious of a queer, lonesome, heavy feeling in his chest. All those thousands and thousands of people staring down upon him, and not a single one he knew, or that knew him or cared whether he lost or won! He was just one contestant among a hundred and fifty or so; part of the show, the same as one of the horses. Only for Beck and Billy and Walt there beside him the sense of desolation would have been intolerable. But he had his work to think of—the relay, and the calf roping especially. That was where they counted the seconds on a fellow—yes, the fractions of a second. He was contesting against a fast bunch of boys too. He'd have to buck up and put his mind strictly on his work; forget the crowds.
As he rode back for Stardust and his ropes, however, the mood of depression still held him. What ailed him? Eggs too hard, giving him indigestion? That bandit stuff? That darned reporter nosing around? A little of all three, he decided, and immediately felt better. Anything like that he could handle; but he certainly would be disgusted with himself if he thought for a minute the folks' staying away had anything to do with it. No, he was actually glad they weren't here. There was nothing now to distract his mind.
He was standing with Stardust in the passage before the gate, waiting for the bareback riding to finish and the roping act to be announced. He was thinking all these things about his mood, when Harlan appeared from nowhere, apparently, and grasped him by the arm.
"Tie your horse here, Cowboy. I want you for a minute," he said briskly. And when the Kid had done as he was told, Harlan opened a smaller gate and led him into the press box, which was just behind the fence and filled with chairs and people.
"Mrs. Bennett, I want to introduce Montana Kid, the hero of this rodeo," he said cordially. "This is the boy who caught the robber with the money hidden in the legs of a pair of stolen chaps, as I was telling you. Mr. Bennett, Mr. Whitmore, this is Montana Kid."
Had Harlan dashed a quart of ice water in his face the shock would have been less. The Kid stood in bleak silence while they looked at him.
"Well, Claude, aren't you going to give your only mother a kiss?" the Little Doctor demanded with a short laugh that eased the awkward situation perceptibly.
"Sure," said the Kid, and kissed her while the blood pounded like hammers against his temples. "How are you, Dad? Hello, Uncle J. G., taking in the rodeo, are you? How's your rheumatism?"
Afterward, the Kid tried to remember what he had said and how he had acted while he said it, and found that, like the actual moment of a collision, his memory refused to register. He was afraid he had been a complete washout, as he expressed it. But he couldn't have been that, because in discussing him afterward his mother spoke of his absolute poise and coolness, and wondered where he had learned the grand manner; his dad had called it a swelled head and declared that he'd be damned if the young whelp could patronize him like that. It would have comforted the Kid no doubt to have overheard them and to know that at any rate they did not suspect his actual stupefaction.
"Why that particular shade of blue, Claude?" his mother asked irrelevantly; probably because it was the most trivial thing she could think of at the moment.
"Why? Don't you like it?"
"It would make a gorgeous sofa pillow."
"I'll try and remember to save you the pieces, then. How do you like the show, Dad?"
"Pretty good, in spots," said Chip, stubbornly refusing to praise the young whelp.
"They've run in some race horses on yuh, Kid," grumbled the Old Man. "Why don't yuh complain to the judges about it? A relay is for cow ponies. Dog-gone it, they got no business to let in track horses."
"Oh, that's all right, Uncle. Stardust's got running blood himself. I guess I'll get by, all right."
"Cowboy," cried Harlan, "I never suspected I was making a family reunion of this! Now I know why I sort of liked you, that day I met you on the road; because you look and act so much like your dad, that's why. You must have wanted to keep it a secret—your dad knew there would be nothing too good for his boy, here! But you see, blood will tell, no matter how you try to hide it. You're your father's own son, I can see that now. You'll win, all right. You're too much like your dad not to win!"
"Oh, I don't know," drawled the Kid, and sent a swift, sidelong glance at his father, staring out across the arena at a convulsive bronk that was hopeful of shedding his rider. "I guess we don't notice so much resemblance, in the family."
"Well, it's there, nevertheless. See you a little later, folks. Good luck to you, Cowboy!" and Harlan, having innocently done what damage he could, hurried away and left them.
But there was scant leisure for embarrassment, for another person breezed into the roomy press box.
"Oh, hello, Cowboy blue! Has Dad been blowing your horn, as usual?"
The Kid turned and found himself looking down into the impish eyes and the demure face of Dulcie Harlan.
"Where's your bandit?" she asked, not waiting for him to answer her first thrust.
"Back here in a cage," the Kid retorted, his brain still functioning without the help of his mind, it seemed, since he had no idea that he was going to say just that. "Tame him and train him for a pet, if you want him."
"I know how you tame them! I heard all about that terrible beating you gave him. Aren't you the least bit ashamed of yourself?"
"No. I love to torture dumb brutes."
"I know. I saw you doing it to-day. But it does seem—"
"Claude," said his mother, turning half around and looking up at him where he stood behind her, "you might come and see us, don't you think?" The Little Doctor must have been greatly perturbed, not to have noticed Dulcie Harlan behind her.
"I don't know where you're staying."
"Write down the address. The Drake Hotel, corner of Michigan and—well I don't remember the other street—"
The Kid unbuttoned the flap of his shirt pocket, drew out a small memorandum book in which he had started a condensed schedule of his team's contest record, and obediently wrote down the name of the hotel.
"I don't know when I can come," he hedged uncomfortably. "I may not get out at all. I'm—I'll be busy every minute of the contest, just about."
"Why? You running the whole show without any help at all?" Chip spoke dryly, glancing over his shoulder at the Kid.
The Kid winced under his father's well-known sarcasm, then his lips formed the stubborn, bitter lines they had worn in that last interview at the Flying U.
"Well," he retorted, "I'm running my part of it without any help, you notice."
Here Miss Dulcie took it upon herself to distract his attention and avert the impending unpleasantness.
"Will you explain to me, bandit-beater, why you are wearing that S.A.E. pin out of sight under your pocket flap?" she demanded severely. "A Sigma Alpha Epsilon pin on a wild, man-eating, broncho-busting—"
"Oh, that?" The Kid tilted the diamond-shaped, jeweled pin of his favorite fraternity so that the letters showed more definitely. "You're all wrong, Miss Harlan. That stands for 'Some Are Easy.' It refers to bandits, bronks, flappers—"
"Claude!" This, of course, from his mother.
"Well, glad to have met you all," drawled the impenitent Kid as he turned to go. "Have to tear myself away; got to collect a few more records—cups and things." It was sheer bravado, flung out in desperation lest his father should see his hurt.
"And you'll go on collecting long time on your alleged calf roping too, I suppose!" twitted Chip, quite as angry and hurt as was the Kid.
"It would be just too bad if I won the championship, wouldn't it?" sneered the Kid, and got out of there before his dad could think of another unforgivable taunt.
"You know that only makes him worse, Chip," the Little Doctor reproached in an undertone. And then to the girl, "You mustn't mind Claude, Dulcie. I'm afraid he's a spoiled boy."