The Greatest Works of B. M. Bower - 51 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower
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it had suffered the most, had deliberately turned from him that afternoon to talk and laugh with a trick rider from Texas. He hadn't cared at the time, but now the defection recurred to him as one more instance of how he was being flouted by his friends.
Not a word from his mother, not a sign from his dad; even J. G. had not been near him nor sent any message of good will. Boy never showed up any more. It did not occur to him that he had deliberately kept out of the way of every one when he was not actually in the arena, and that Boy—and any of the others for that matter—would have small chance of finding him, or that it was more than probable that some of them had tried and failed. The boys wouldn't have told where he was, that was certain. Even the little twisted notes had ceased. He resented that too, and did not attempt to understand why. She had got his pin—she could count coup, and that was all she had wanted, very likely.
It was a glowering Montana Kid who went into the contest that night. Tight-lipped he rode and gave no quarter. Frowning he went out and roped his calf, tied it down and threw up his hands within nineteen seconds of his start; let it go and mounted amid cheering that could not smooth the scowl from his forehead. They were careless strangers who cheered and clapped. He had no friends.
Billy and Beck, carefully avoiding his immediate vicinity, went out when their names were called and did whatever was required of them, and told each other between while that they couldn't see where they were any the worse because they had eaten what they pleased. They wanted to tell the Kid that, but didn't, chiefly because he would not give them a chance.
On this night the Kid did not return to the stable to rest between his contests. He did not want to lie there alone with his unhappiness. He remained by the chutes instead, among a group of men who had plenty to say to one another but little to say to him. He did not know that he was wearing all of his aloofness in his look and manner that night and that men glanced at him and looked again curiously, wondering what was wrong with Montana Kid. They wondered, too, what disruption had occurred in the college team, but they were not at all tempted to ask the Kid about it.
"Here y'are, Cowboy—you've drawed a dinger, shore 'nuff!" a kindly voice recalled the Kid to himself.
He had been moodily watching Billy Perry pick himself up after a vile-tempered gray had sent him spread-eagling. Billy was probably wishing he had stuck to his simple diet, the Kid told himself, wondering how it felt to fall that hard on a stomach too full of pie. Billy came stiffly back to the fence, shying off when he saw the Kid standing there.
"Mon-tana Kid, riding Wilcie—outa chute Number Six!" cried the announcer, after Walt had ridden a crooked jumper straight and came back, grinning maliciously at the sulky Billy. Walt felt that he could afford to grin, since he was pretty sure he was in the day money. Now if the Kid got a good one, they could crow over Billy and Beck.
"Look out for this one—he's a fence peeler," a slim young fellow warned the Kid as he settled himself in the saddle.
"Thanks," said the Kid, flashing the other a surprised smile—the first time his lips had relaxed since supper.
Just at first, the caution seemed needless, for Wilcie gave a leap that carried him a full length out away from the gate. He stopped there, shook his head while the Kid's muffled spurs raked him teasingly from shoulder to thigh. Suddenly he stood up—and up—the Kid thought he was going over backwards and leaned, ready to jump as the horse went down. But Wilcie had other plans.
He felt the Kid loosen himself in the saddle, felt his balance shift, on guard against being crushed under the horse when he struck the ground. Then with a mighty heave of his sleek body the horse pivoted on his heels, gave a long jump and was bucking broadside to chute Number Seven, scraping the heavy plank gate with shoulder and hip.
The Kid swung in his right heel and fairly lifted the murderous brute away from the gate with the jab he gave. Wilcie gave a forward lunge as he swung off and the Kid felt a sickening blow upon his knee and thigh where he raked the post as he went by. For a minute he thought he was gone. The arena whirled drunkenly before him and he had a strange illusion of not being in the saddle at all. But the horse gave another lunge and the Kid's head cleared, his intuitive sense of balance returned. His right leg felt numb and limp. When he tried to swing it forward and back, spurring according to the rules, it seemed to him that all power was gone, all volition. Then, because the horse seemed bent on repeating the trick, the whistle blew and two riders galloped up on either side. The Kid slipped off, putting his weight upon his sound left leg.
He was close to the gate alongside chute Number Ten. The horse had not at any time been more than a few rods away from the chutes. One of the judges rode up and asked if the Kid was hurt.
"Not to amount to anything," said the Kid, though beads of moisture not caused by the exercise stood on his forehead and lips. The judge looked doubtful when the Kid hopped to the fence and leaned against it with tightly closed eyes and fingers clutching at the stout wire mesh.
"Your knee? Better have it looked after."
The Kid shook his head, opening his eyes to look at the big Texan.
"Thanks, no. Got my funny bone for a minute, is all. It's all right. Skinned a little, maybe, but nothing to hurt." The Kid managed to grin, though not very convincingly.
The judge looked sceptical and rode off as the announcer called the name of another rider coming out of chute Number One. Walt came up and took the Kid's arm over his shoulder, helping him through the gate and on to where Blazes was tied, back out of the way. The Kid was in the saddle when Tex came looking for him.
"What's the matter, Kid? Get hurt?"
"No," lied the Kid. "Knocked my knee a little—hit my crazy bone, and it sure sung for a few minutes; but it's all right, Tex—thanks just the same."
"Won't cost you a cent to ride over to the Red Cross station—you know where it is, on around here—and have it looked at. Better do that, Kid."
"I would, Tex, if it was necessary. Thanks." Then, because Tex was still looking at him rather intently, the Kid laughed. "I guess that fence-peeler managed to peel about sixty dollars off my day money, darn him," he said.
"I don't know," Tex answered, still regarding him. "You made a good ride, Kid. That damn horse is going to kill somebody yet. I think I'll take him out. You did all right, far as I could see. I'm not one of the judges, though. Just keep on the way you're going, "Kid, and—" He turned and called to a man who passed, hurrying to overtake him. Perhaps he did not want to express himself further to the Kid, anyway. A rodeo manager must be a past master in diplomacy and never show favoritism. He did not tell the Kid that Chip had sent him to see if the Kid was hurt, or that the Little Doctor had nearly fainted when Wilcie crashed into the fence. He did not feel that it was his place to butt into family affairs.
"How about it, Kid?" Walt demanded when Tex was gone. "How bad did he get you—on the square?"
"Not fatal, Walt. I'll be all right. You stay here and kinda keep an eye on the boys. I'll go back and get ready for the trick riding."
"Well—all right," Walt assented, but like Tex he eyed the Kid dubiously. A man might say what he pleased, but he didn't have that look in his face for nothing. The Kid was suffering, any man with eyes in his head could see that. Yet he rode off whistling—something he hadn't done at all through the whole week. Walt watched him out of sight with a feeling of helplessness, and snarled savagely at Billy and Beck when they met at the chutes for the steer wrestling, just to relieve his nerves.
Chapter XXII. What's a Champion Anyway?
With two events—the cowgirls' relay race and the steer wrestling—following the bronk riding, the Kid did not feel that he must hurry his preparations for the trick riding; yet he had no time to-night for that relaxation which had sent him out rested and with renewed energy for the ordeal. To-night he turned Blazes into his stall and went to his own particular nest in the hay where his bed was rolled and his suitcases