Tangled Trails | Page 3

double-crossin' sidewinder. I'll come with a
six-gun. That's how I'll come. An' soon. I'll give you two days to come
through. Two days. If you don't--hell sure enough will cough."
Whatever else could be said about Cunningham he was no coward. He
met the raving man eye to eye.
"I don't scare worth a cent, Hull. Get out. Pronto. And don't come back
unless you want me to turn you over to the police for a blackmailing
crook."
Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray.
But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks. The sap of
strength still rang strong in him. In the days when he had ridden the
range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a
formidable two-fisted fighter.
But Hull was beyond prudence. "I'll go when I get ready, an' I'll come
back when I get ready," he boasted.
There came a soft thud of a hard fist on fat flesh, the crash of a heavy
bulk against the door. After that things moved fast. Hull's body reacted
to the pain of smashing blows falling swift and sure. Before he knew
what had taken place he was on the landing outside on his way to the
stairs. He hit the treads hard and rolled on down.
A man coming upstairs helped him to his feet.
"What's up?" the man asked.
Hull glared at him, for the moment speechless. His eyes were
venomous, his mouth a thin, cruel slit. He pushed the newcomer aside,
opened the door of the apartment opposite, went in, and slammed it
after him.

The man who had assisted him to rise was dark and immaculately
dressed.
"I judge Uncle James has been exercising," he murmured before he
took the next flight of stairs.
On the door of apartment 12 was a legend in Old English engraved on a
calling card. It said:
James Cunningham
The visitor pushed the electric bell. Cunningham opened to him.
"Good-evening, Uncle," the younger man said. "Your elevator is not
running, so I walked up. On the way I met a man going down. He
seemed rather in a hurry."
"A cheap blackmailer trying to bold me up. I threw him out."
"Thought he looked put out," answered the younger man, smiling
politely. "I see you still believe in applying direct energy to
difficulties."
"I do. That's why I sent for you." The promoter's cold eyes were
inscrutable. "Come in and shut the door."
The young man sauntered in. He glanced at his uncle curiously from
his sparkling black eyes. What the devil did James, Senior, mean by
what he had said? Was there any particular significance in it?
He stroked his small black mustache. "Glad to oblige you any way I
can, sir."
"Sit down."
The young Beau Brummel hung up his hat and cane, sank into the
easiest chair in the room, and selected a cigarette from a gold-initialed
case.

"At your service, sir," he said languidly.
CHAPTER II
WILD ROSE TAKES THE DUST
"Wild Rose on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer through a
megaphone trained on the grand stand.
Kirby Lane, who was leaning against the fence chatting with a friend,
turned round and took notice. Most people did when Wild Rose held
the center of the stage.
Through the gateway of the enclosure came a girl hardly out of her
teens. She was bareheaded, a cowboy hat in her hand. The sun, already
slanting from the west, kissed her crisp, ruddy gold hair and set it
sparkling. Her skin was shell pink, amber clear. She walked as might a
young Greek goddess in the dawn of the world, with the free movement
of one who loves the open sky and the wind-swept plain.
A storm of hand-clapping swept the grand stand. Wild Rose
acknowledged it with a happy little laugh. These dear people loved her.
She knew it. And not only because she was a champion. They made
over her because of her slimness, her beauty, the aura of daintiness that
surrounded her, the little touches of shy youth that still clung to her
manner. Other riders of her sex might be rough, hoydenish, or
masculine. Wild Rose had the charm of her name. Yet the muscles that
rippled beneath her velvet skin were hard as nails. No bronco alive
could unseat her without the fight of its life.
Meanwhile the outlaw horse Wild Fire was claiming its share of
attention. The bronco was a noted bucker. Every year it made the
circuit of the rodeos and only twice had a rider stuck to the saddle
without pulling leather. Now it had been roped and cornered. Half a
dozen wranglers in chaps were trying to get it ready for the saddle.
From the