Tangled Trails | Page 6

and limped back to his fellows on the
fence. Already the crowd was pouring out from every exit of the stand.
A thousand cars of fifty different makes were snorting impatiently to
get out of the jam as soon as possible. For Cheyenne was full, full to
overflowing. The town roared with a high tide of jocund life. From all
over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico hard-bitten,
sunburned youths in high-heeled boots and gaudy attire had gathered
for the Frontier Day celebration. Hundreds of cars had poured up from
Denver. Trains had disgorged thousands of tourists come to see the
festival. Many people would sleep out in automobiles and on the prairie.
The late comers at restaurants and hotels would wait long and take
second best.
A big cattleman beckoned to Lane. "Place in my car, son. Run you back
to town."
One of the judges sat in the tonneau beside the rough rider.
"How's the leg? Hurt much?"
"Not much. I'm noticin' it some," Kirby answered with a smile.
"You'll have to ride to-morrow. It's you and Sanborn for the finals. We
haven't quite made up our minds."
The cattleman was an expert driver. He wound in and out among the
other cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the great
majority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with

the vanguard.
After dinner the rough rider asked the clerk at her hotel if there was any
mail for Miss Rose McLean. Three letters were handed him. He put
them in his pocket and set out for the hospital.
He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mind
highly indignant. "That doctor talks as though he's going to keep me
here a week. Well, he's got another guess coming. I'll not stay," she
exploded to her visitor.
"Now, looky here, you better do as the doc says. He knows best. What's
a week in your young life?" Kirby suggested.
"A week's a week, and I don't intend to stay. Why did you limp when
you came in? Get hurt?"
"Not really hurt. Jammed my leg against a fence. I drew Wild Fire."
"Did you win the championship?" the girl asked eagerly.
"No. Finals to-morrow. Sanborn an' me. How's the arm? Bone broken?"
"Yes. Oh, it aches some. Be all right soon."
He drew her letters from his pocket. "Stopped to get your mail at the
hotel. Thought you'd like to see it."
Wild Rose looked the envelopes over and tore one open.
"From my little sister Esther," she explained. "Mind if I read it? I'm
some worried about her. She's been writing kinda funny lately."
As she read, the color ebbed from her face. When she had finished
reading the letter Kirby spoke gently.
"Bad news, pardner?"
She nodded, choking. Her eyes, frank and direct, met those of her

friend without evasion. It was a heritage of her life in the open that in
her relations with men she showed a boylike unconcern of sex.
"Esther's in trouble. She--she--" Rose caught her breath in a stress of
emotion.
"If there's anything I can do--"
The girl flung aside the rug that covered her and rose from the chair.
She began to pace up and down the room. Presently her thoughts
overflowed in words.
"She doesn't say what it is, but--I know her. She's crazy with fear--or
heartache--or something." Wild Rose was always quick-tempered, a
passionate defender of children and all weak creatures. Now Lane knew
that the hot blood was rushing stormily to her heart. Her little sister was
in danger, the only near relative she had. She would fight for her as a
cougar would for its young. "By God, if it's a man--if he's done her
wrong--I'll shoot him down like a gray wolf. I'll show him how safe it
is to--to--"
She broke down again, clamping tight her small strong teeth to bite
back a sob.
He spoke very gently. "Does she say--?"
His sentence hung suspended in air, but the young woman understood
its significance.
"No. The letter's just a--a wail of despair. She--talks of suicide. Kirby,
I've got to get to Denver on the next train. Find out when it leaves. And
I'll send a telegram to her to-night telling her I'll fix it. I will too."
"Sure. That's the way to talk. Be reasonable an' everything'll work out
fine. Write your wire an' I'll take it right to the office. Soon as I've got
the train schedule I'll come back."
"You're a good pal, Kirby. I always knew you were."

For a moment her left hand fell in his. He looked down at the small,
firm, sunbrowned fist. That hand was, as Browning has written, a
woman in itself, but it was a woman competent,