CHAPTER ONE
The Winner
THE Ellensburg Rodeo was in full tide.
Twenty-five thousand packed the stands and made a blurred sea surging up from the other side of the track.
The arena boss and the judges and wranglers were hurrying on important errands across the wet green turf of the arena.
Flags and Indians and violent-shirted punchers made the day loud and bright.
The band was playing “Cheyenne, Cheyenne,” but Long Tom Branner, sitting on the gate of chute five, saw and heard very little of it. He was watching with hungry eyes Miss Vicky Stuart as she climbed up to the runway and came toward the chute which held Dynamite.
Long Tom sighed. Vicky was all in white, all creamy silk and leather. And just now she was pushing a strand of corn-colored hair back under her Stetson. Her golden spurs clink-jingled and they made the only sound in the world which Long Tom Branner could hear.
He hooked his high heels more solidly into the third bar and sat up straighter, prepared for the worst.
“Give him hell, Vicky,” said Long Tom.
She stopped and looked across at him. Dynamite was screaming murder and death and kicking the chute into splinters.
“Thank you, I will.”
He wished she wouldn’t treat him so. She wasn’t this rough on the rest of the world. To everybody else she was a charming kid with more nerve and skill than most buckaroos possess.
He knew that if he said anything he would make it worse. But suddenly he heard himself saying, “Watch him. I had him last year at Pendleton and he sunfishes right after he takes his first jump. I—”
“Thank you,” said Vicky with so much sweetness that it was acid. “I am sure it is very kind of the champion bronco buster of the world to give me advice.”
Long Tom felt his face getting red and knew he would get mad in a minute. Damn it, why couldn’t she treat him like she used to when Old Man Stuart paid him wages?
A devil prodded him. She looked so cool and self-possessed there on the runway.
“Yeah,” said Branner. “It ain’t everybody that needs it.”
She lifted her head and then abruptly whirled and swung down into the chute.
Another devil jabbed Long Tom. “Don’t fall off. You’ll get mud on yourself!”
She didn’t even look at him. Settling her hat, she stood with feet wide apart on the rails and Dynamite lunged and screamed under her while two punchers tried to hold his head quiet.
“Drop!” yelled the man at the gate.
Vicky dropped into the saddle. The brute lunged sideways and almost caught her leg.
“Let ’im go!” she yelled.
The gate swung wide and the blind came off and Dynamite went plunging like a rocket into the open.
Long Tom held his breath. The arena was muddy and Dynamite never bucked straight up. He sunfished.
Off was Vicky’s white hat. She beat it against the bellowing demon’s flanks. She dug deep with her golden spurs and Dynamite went five feet off the ground. He sunfished, head lowered, fighting the hackamore and when he hit he was stiff-legged.
Vicky took the shock. She beat harder with her hat and dug deeper with her spurs and above the band and the crowd and the announcer could be heard her cry, “Go it, you black devil!”
Long Tom was still holding his breath as he counted. Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.
“Go it, you black devil!”
Dynamite slipped as he hit, fell heavily on his side and leaped furiously up again.
Vicky whipped his flank with her white hat and dug her golden spurs.
“Go it!”
The gun cracked and she had made a ride. Two mounted men swerved in beside her, one to grab Dynamite’s head and the other to haul Vicky from the still-lunging mount. She made it and Dynamite was headed away, still fighting.
The rider lowered her to the ground and she ran with swift, excited steps back to the chutes.
Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.
She passed within three feet of Long Tom but she didn’t even look up at him when he said, “Swell ride, Vicky.”
Gloomily he looked at the grandstand again. Everybody was cheering, but that didn’t matter. Everybody was going crazy about that ride, and that was natural.
Vicky Stuart was the enigma of the buckaroos. She was slightly built and had the manners of a duchess and talked much better English. She was the kind of girl, on appearance, that one would expect to haunt teas and operas, but, marvel of marvels, she could take a beating on the back of a bucking horse and always come off smiling, just as though she had done nothing so very unusual.
Long Tom sighed.
For two years, ever since Old Man Stuart had died, Long Tom Branner had tried to keep near Vicky. At least a dozen times he had striven to make a serious proposal, but Vicky was as quick afoot as she was mounted. She always slid out.
Long Tom knew, vaguely, what was wrong. There was nothing too terrible about his personal appearance, as he was lean and young. But for some reason unknown to himself he kept winning championships as a rider. And the more he won, the colder Vicky Stuart got.
A long time ago, when he was just a puncher riding for her old man, he and Vicky had almost reached an understanding. Long Tom had not pushed his suit, thinking that if he could make a name, he would be worthy of her hand.
And then Stuart had died, leaving nothing. And Vicky, raised among horsemen and an excellent rider in her own right, had suddenly taken it into her head to win the world for her own.
There is no one quite so alone as a famous bronc twister. And with Vicky high-hatting him, Long Tom could not help but feel low.
He had to do something.
He had to somehow make Vicky understand that he loved her and wanted her. . . .
“Mr. Branner,” said the arena boss respectfully, riding close, “you’re out on Jesse James from chute six in about a minute.”
“Yeah,” said Long Tom. “Yeah, that’s right. I forgot.”
He climbed up to the walk and went to the top of the next chute.
Jesse James was a sorrel with one blue eye and one brown eye. He had feet like ashcans and was so thickly built that he could throw most men in the first three leaps.
The band changed off to “Tipperary.”
Long Tom stood up on the rails and watched Jesse James lunge against the bars. Tom’s feet were wide apart and suddenly he could concentrate on only one thing, this ride.
The announcer roared, “Long Tom Branner! The Champeeen bronco buster of the world! Coming out of chute six!”
Everything hushed. The band stopped and the judges were motionless and the crowd forgot peanuts and sat very still.
Jesse James lashed out with a savage kick and splintered the gate.
“Let ’er go!” said Long Tom.
He dropped, jamming toes into stirrups. He heard the gate whine as it was rushed back. It was suddenly light in the chute.
Jesse James drew in like a spring compressing. Suddenly he streaked straight out and up. Ten feet from the chute his hind feet hit.
Jesse James went skyward, turning. Earth and sun and people and band were all scrambled in a swift montage. Jar, slam, blowie! With buckjumps vicious enough to kill a man, the outlaw fought his rider.
Sunfish, lunge and then swap ends!
Indians and punchers and judges and wet earth all mixed up with clouds.
Long Tom rode straight up, head high, a grin on his lips, shoulders loose, hat swinging in rhythm to the leaps of the maniac horse.
In a moment the gun would go. And nothing Jesse James could do could disturb this lean and graceful rider.
And in that instant a horrible thought hit Long Tom. If he made this ride, he would be beating Vicky. She was the runner-up. He would not lose his belt as it was not at stake. He did not need the purse. And if he beat Vicky Stuart, he would never have a chance. Not a chance.
He swung his arm around and touched his horn.
And the gun banged.
He felt funny. That was the first time he had ever done that. He had pulled leather!
A pair of riders jerked the horse one way and Long Tom the other. Long Tom eased himself down to the ground.
Vaguely he could hear people cheering and the announcer was bellowing something which was flattering, and a rider said, “Gee, that was pretty, Mr. Branner.”
Long Tom went swinging back to the chutes. He was irritated suddenly by that “Mr. Branner.” Everybody called him “Mr. Branner” now and nobody ever came near him. It was as though he had measles or something.
Before he got to the chutes he saw Vicky. Three mounted judges were gathered about her and she was slim and straight and angry.
When Long Tom came near they all turned and stared at him, so he edged in that direction.
He could see that Vicky was mad. When she got mad she got taller and prettier and her eyes were hot sparks. She got very dignified and held her chin high and frost was white upon her words.
“Mr. Branner,” said a judge, “we saw you touch your horn. Possibly we were mistaken. You were making a beautiful ride and I can’t understand. What was the cause of it?”
“I touched it,” said Long Tom.
“Of course, you know that that will give today to Miss Stuart,” said the judge.
“Yes,” said Long Tom.
Vicky looked at him levelly. Her clenched hand was trembling at her side. “You deliberately threw that contest to me!”
Long Tom looked uneasy. He could not quite understand this. What was there about winning which could make her so mad?
“You’re despicable,” said Vicky coldly.
“Huh?” said Long Tom.
“You purposely threw this contest to humiliate me!”
Long Tom blinked and then suddenly he was angry. He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Well, why not?” he said savagely. “There’s no percentage in beating a woman!”
He turned on his heel and stalked away.