knowing or caring how
hard or whom they struck--or that they themselves were being hit. Women
screamed frantically, hysterically, tears streaming from thousands of
eyes because of sheer joy at the wonderful thing the Gold Dust maverick
was doing. Even the stolid Sing Pete was jumping up and down, shouting:

"_Come on--come on--Lamblin' Kid! Beat 'em--beatee hell out of 'em_!"

Full three lengths in the lead of the "unbeatable" Thunderbolt the Gold
Dust maverick flashed under the wire in front of the judges!

Dorsey, shaken in every nerve, lips blue as though he were stricken with
a chill, reeled out of the box from which he had watched his whole
fortune swept away by the speed of the Cimarron mare. At his side,
profaning horrible, obscene oaths staggered Mike Sabota.

Old Heck, white-faced, but his lips drawn in a smile of satisfaction,
stood up in the Clagstone "Six" and watched the Ramblin' Kid--his eyes
set and staring, his body twitching convulsively, check the filly, swing
her around, ride back to the judges' stand, weakly fling up a hand in
salute and then, barely able to sit in the saddle, rein the Gold Dust
maverick off the track and ride toward the box stall.

Skinny drew a hand across his eyes and looked at Carolyn June.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

CHAPTER XVII

OLD HECK GOES TO TOWN

It was Monday morning, clear and cloudless, with a whiff of a breeze
kissing the poplars along the front-yard fence at the Quarter Circle KT.
On the sand-hills north of the Cimarron, Pedro was pushing the saddle
cavallard toward Rock Creek, where the last half of the beef round-up
was to begin. Parker and the cowboys were just splashing their bronchos
into the water at the lower ford. Sing Pete, on the high seat of the
grub-wagon, was once more clucking and cawing at Old Tom and Baldy as
they drew the outfit along the lane and followed the others to the open
range.

Old Heck, Skinny, Ophelia and Carolyn June again were alone at the
Quarter Circle KT.

The Eagle Butte Rodeo had closed, with one last riotous carnival of
wildness at midnight Saturday night.

Once more the straggling town, its pulse gradually beating back to
normal, lay half-asleep at the foot of the sun-baked butte that stood
silent and drowsy beyond the Sante Fe tracks.

Tom Poole, the lank marshal, loafed as usual about the Elite Amusement
Parlor, over which hung a sullen quiet reflecting the morbid emotions of
Mike Sabota, its