you had better look out!" megaphoned the
starter. "This 'ere bull may not look where he's a-goin'!"

The gate cracked again. A woman nearby screamed. Two men with lassos
ready waited on either side, their mounts aquiver. Ace's ruddy face had
grown strangely lined, but he stood his ground.

"The fellow that rides that bull is sure foolhardy," the Senator was
remarking, pulling his hat further over his iron-gray brows against the
slant of the sun. Then the Ranger rode up with Rosa, and she was invited
to a seat behind the fluttering flag.

"Either that or almighty sandy," amended Radcliffe.

Like a streak of lightning the bull arose, jaws slavering. One mighty
crack and he had burst the gate, a plunge and he was plowing his way
across the field, trailing a rope that still held his saddle horn. The
starter raced after, his big bay holding back with all his might on the
rope. The dust blew chokingly into the faces of those on the Senator's
side of the corral. Then the bull caught sight of that fluttering red,
white and blue.

For one awful instant Rosa found those staring white-rimmed eyes glaring
straight into her own. The bull's next leap would carry him over the
fence and into the machine. She blanched, but sat silent. Pedro, drawn up
beside her on his pinto, felt paralyzed. The Senator threw his engine on
as if to back away.

"Hold him!--HOLD him!" shrilled the starter, pounding back. The rope on
the saddle horn--would it hold? Then a lasso was thrown, tightening
neatly around the hind legs of the runaway.

"Got him stretched now!" came the triumphant shout, as the bull went down
with an infuriated snort, and lay there, chest heaving, while the
vaqueros made him fast.

"The ride's off,--nobody goin' to ride _him_ to-day!" decided the man on
the bay. The bull was relieved of his saddle and headed protestingly back
into the small corral.

Ace King's face was set in deep lines. He had been all nerved up to his
ride. Now that it was off, his knees felt shaky, and he climbed to a seat
on the top rail. And Pedro flushed to hide his pallor.

But Ted's time was yet to come. One rider in between, whose horse piled
him on the ground, and the announcement came: "Ted Smith from Peach Cove,
rides Spitfire from Huntington Lake."

"I'm sorry for that kid," stated Long Lester, who leaned lankily over the
gate, thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. "Want up, little miss?" and he
helped a child to a vantage point beside him.