The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
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put it past 'em to frame you."
"I'm watching them all," the Kid assured him. "If they get close, I do. The ponies are wise too. No horse is going to do any shoving far as they're concerned. You notice how they duck in, don't you?"
"Yes, it's clockwork—and you keep that clock running on time, Kid!"
The Kid nodded, well pleased with the excellent teamwork his boys were showing. When one was contesting, the others were watching out for his interests, ready to give advice or warning if they thought it was needed. It seemed to him a splendid idea to pool their interests. His faith in the team idea grew apace. It ought to work. It would work.
That second day bore him out in his belief, for among the four they managed to get "in the money" in every event they entered. The Kid won a hundred dollars with his rope and Blazes, and got second money on his bronk riding. Walt won third. In the steer wrestling he stood first for the two performances. Billy and Beck came trailing in behind, but they had something to show for their day's work and they were correspondingly jubilant.
The Kid still held a large share of the crowd's attention, and that he tried to ignore. The judges watched him closer than they did some of the others, it seemed to him—and that put him on his mettle, keyed him up to make no slip. Everybody watched him. He felt as if he were performing under a microscope. They knew him by name—by his contest name, that is—and when he rode out to rope or to ride they yelled at him and told him, some of them, to keep his shirt on. The Kid hated the notoriety, but he refused to be distracted. His year on the Varsity football team helped him now. But he hated it just the same, and perversely wished that the crowd would stay at home if they couldn't keep their mouths shut.
The next day was much like the second; and the next and the next. The grind began to tell on men and horses alike. Day after day the colorful grand entry, flags swaying at the head of the column, rodeo pennants whipping in the breeze, the amplifiers sending "The Stars and Stripes Forever" blaring in from all sides of the great stadium until the air vibrated with the martial strains and pulses leaped in response. Day after day the ranks of the contestants thinned; a man hurt and carried away in the black ambulance that stood always waiting just under cover of the eastern tunnel, like a trapdoor spider peering out from its retreat, waiting and watching for the unwary fly; a man disqualified for breaking the rules, which were stringent and rigidly enforced. Was it not a world's championship contest? None but the fittest might survive the test of skill, courage, endurance.
A relay horse bolted across the field, threw his rider, and came galloping wildly back on the track in the wrong direction, menacing the other riders. They dodged him and went on, changed horses and must dodge those who were frantically pursuing the riderless animal. But the race went on. The Kid's "clock" continued to tick off the seconds with beautiful precision, still in the lead from sheer skill in riding. Dropping the trick roping helped, of course. The pace would have been too terrific otherwise. Stardust had a little more speed, it seemed to him. He needed it too.
Relay—calf roping—bronk riding—trick riding, with an interval of rest between. The Kid worked as if he were under a coach. The moment the judges passed upon his work, he headed straight for the stables and threw himself down in the hay for a few minutes of complete relaxation and rest. The other boys did the same, by his orders. Other contestants might fool around the chutes, or pile into a cab and go hunting excitement up town between shows—the blue shirts returned to quarters and stayed there. It was a grind. They missed a lot of fun. They made no friendships, they drew upon themselves an increasing amount of ridicule poisoned with dislike. But they were keeping themselves "in the money." First, second, third—the judges learned to know those blue shirts, learned to watch them with the appraising eyes of men who recognized championship material when they saw it.
Day after day, night after night, this man dropping out, that man forging ahead, some poor fellow taking the ambulance ride into the tunnel.
The Kid's fingers learned to feel carefully in Stardust's halter buckle, for the twisted note, unsigned, noncommittal, mysterious, faintly mocking but always stimulating as a glass of rare old wine.
"We want a touchdown!"
That did not sound like Joella Germain, just at first. But then the Kid remembered that Joella had a brother in the University of Idaho, and probably was ardently interested in sports. Come to think of it, he knew she was. Shy kid, Joella. When he saw her and talked with her during the trick riding she never so much as hinted at her little campaign of encouragement. Blushed, though, when the Kid told her he certainly appreciated her way of keeping a fellow on his toes to win.
"I—I want you to be a champion," she said once. "I'm sorry you gave up the roping, but I can see it was too much, coming right ahead of the relay." But she wouldn't give him any satisfaction about the notes.
"Stay with it, you've got the stuff," said another.
The Kid saved them all. Sometimes he unfolded and read them between performances, studying the compact, vertical handwriting, as he lay in his own little retreat behind a pile of hay bales, where he went to be by himself when he was more tired than usual. Sometimes the boys came and sat down in a close huddle or sprawled on their stomachs to take a nap. But they never saw the notes or knew that the Kid received them.
Boy had apparently fallen under the spell of grease paint and camera—which was not surprising—for he dogged the footsteps of the Happy Family and the Kid seldom saw him save at a distance and in the company of those who were as strangers to him. The defection would have hurt him more if he had not concentrated so completely each day upon winning that other things were pushed into the background of his mind. Still, it was another pin prick to his pride, another reason why he avoided every one save his loyal team.
Then came an afternoon when Stardust and Sunup ran sluggishly and the Kid dropped to second place. It was inexplicable. They seemed to be perfectly well, though they lacked the sharp appetite after the performance that had heretofore manifested itself in pawing and nickering when he rattled the oats basin. The Kid could not understand it. He brought the veterinary, who looked them over carefully and said they were in perfect form and there was no reason in the world why they shouldn't go on and do their best. There weren't a healthier pair of horses in the entire outfit, he declared.
The team was puzzled and worried. A hundred dollars each day they had been counting on from the relay, with the final prize of cash and cup and the championship in sight. But their spirits rose that evening when the Kid nosed under the wire a half-length ahead of the pinto, and took second money for the day. His calf roping was speedier that night because of the load lifted from his mind. And the work of the other boys speeded up also. Beck got first money in steer wrestling, Walt second. The blue shirts were more than holding their own.
But the next afternoon, which was the fifth day of the rodeo, the Kid got a real shock. It was the note which his fingers sought and found in Stardust's halter buckle. The Kid read it twice before the full significance struck him and left him dazed, incredulous and oddly thrilled. Yet it was brief as the others had been, almost.
Do you always stuff your horses with oats just before the relay? It's horribly brutal to make the poor things run on a full tummy.
Oats! He looked into the feed box and found it moist from the licking lips of Stardust, with wet grains in the corners where they had eluded him. Sunup's oats box held the same betraying signs. Some one had slipped the horses a big feed of oats while he was out in the grand entry parade. Simple—simple and effective; no horse would run his best just after a feeding.
But it was not that which thrilled the Kid to his toes and set his pulse beating erratically. It was the wording of the note. Now he knew! There was only one girl in the world who would write like that. The little devil! The darned little innocent-eyed devil! Why—why—
The Kid's thoughts raced round and round, without lucid beginning or a logical end. She'd been spooffing him from the very first—Pretending to know nothing about horses—! All that cruelty talk—Not interested, hunh?—Little devil! Put one over on him—
One thing he did, however, which showed sense. Blazes and Sunup looked a good deal alike, and Blazes was fast. He told Walt