ean blood boiled. "But I know y'u will, and don't let
him go before he's real strong."

"No," she murmured, hating herself for the flush that bathed her.

He bowed like a Chesterfield, and went out with elastic heels, spurs
clicking.

Helen turned fiercely on her guest. "Why did you make me insist on
your staying? As if I want you here, as if--" She stopped, choking with
anger; presently flamed out, "I hate you," and ran from the room to hide
herself alone with her tears and her shame.

CHAPTER 14. FOR THE WORLD'S CHAMPIONSHIP

The scene on which Helen Messiter's eyes rested that mellow Fourth of
July was vivid enough to have interested a far more jaded mind than
hers. Nowhere outside of Cattleland could it have been duplicated.
Wyoming is sparsely populated, but the riders of the plains think
nothing of traveling a hundred miles in the saddle to be present at a
"broncobusting" contest. Large delegations, too, had come in by railroad
from Caspar, Billings, Sheridan, Cheyenne and a score of other points,
so that the amphitheatre that looked down on the arena was filled to its
capacity.

All night the little town had rioted with its guests. Everything was
wide open at Gimlet Butte. Saloons were doing a land-office business and
gambling-houses coining money. Great piles of gold had passed to and fro
during the night at the roulette wheel and the faro table. But with the
coming of day interest had centered on the rough-riding contest for the
world's championship. Saloons and dance halls were deserted, and the
universal trend of travel had been toward the big grand stands, from
which the sport could be best viewed.

It was afternoon now. The preliminaries had been ridden, and half a
dozen of the best riders had been chosen by the judges to ride again
for the finals. Helen was wonderfully interested, because in the six who
were to ride again were included the two Bannister cousins, her foreman,
McWilliams, the young man "Texas," whom she had met the day of her
arrival at Gimlet Butte, and Tom Sanford, who had last year won the
championship.

She looked down on the arena, and her heart throbbed with the pure
joy of life. Already she loved her West and its picturesque, chap-clad
population. Their jingling spurs and their colored kerchiefs knotted
round sunburned necks, their frank, whole-hearted abandon to the
interest of the moment, led her to regard these youths as schoolboys.
Yet they were a hard-bitten lot, as