The Big-Town Round-Up | Page 3

Yet she did not run.
The rider, lifting his bronco forward at full speed, won by a fraction of
a second. He guided in such a way as to bring his horse between her
and the steer. The girl noticed that he dropped his bridle rein and
crouched in the saddle, his eyes steadily upon her. Without slackening
his pace in the least as he swept past, the man stooped low, caught the
girl beneath the armpits, and swung her in front of him to the back of
the horse. The steer pounded past so close behind that one of its horns
grazed the tail of the cowpony.
It was a superb piece of horsemanship, perfectly timed, as perfectly
executed.

The girl lay breathless in the arms of the man, her heart beating against
his, her face buried in his shoulder. She was dazed, half fainting from
the reaction of her fear. The next she remembered clearly was being
lowered into the arms of her father.
He held her tight, his face tortured with emotion. She was the very light
of his soul, and she had shaved death by a hair's breadth. A miracle had
saved her, but he would never forget the terror that had gripped him.
Naturally, shaken, as he was, his relief found vent in scolding.
"I told you to stay by the car, honey. But you're so willful. You've got
to have your own way. Thank God you're safe. If . . . if . . ." His voice
broke as he thought of what had so nearly been.
The girl snuggled closer to him, her arms round his neck. His anxiety
touched her nearly, and tears flooded her eyes.
"I know, Dad. I . . . I'll be good."
A young man descended from the car, handsome, trim, and well got up.
He had been tailored by the best man's outfitter in New York. Nobody
on Broadway could order a dinner better than he. The latest dances he
could do perfectly. He had the reputation of knowing exactly the best
thing to say on every occasion. Now he proceeded to say it.
"Corking bit of riding--never saw better. I'll give you my hand on that,
my man."
The cowpuncher found a bunch of manicured fingers in his rough
brown paw. He found something else, for after the pink hand had gone
there remained a fifty-dollar bill. He looked at it helplessly for a
moment; then, beneath the brown outdoor tan, a flush of anger beat into
his face. Without a word he leaned forward and pressed the note into
the mouth of the bronco.
The buckskin knew its master for a very good friend. If he gave it
something to eat--well, there was no harm in trying it once. The
buckskin chewed placidly for a few seconds, decided that this was a

practical joke, and ejected from its mouth a slimy green pulp that had
recently been a treasury note.
The father stammered his thanks to the rescuer of the girl. "I don't
know what I can ever do to let you know . . . I don't know how I can
ever pay you for saving . . ."
"Forget it!" snapped the brown man curtly. He was an even-tempered
youth, as genial and friendly as a half-grown pup, but just now the
word "pay" irritated him as a red rag does a sulky bull.
"If there's anything at all I can do for you--"
"Not a thing."
The New Yorker felt that he was not expressing himself at all happily.
What he wanted was to show this young fellow that he had put him
under a lifelong obligation he could never hope to wipe out.
"If you ever come to New York--"
"I'm not liable to go there. I don't belong there any more than you do
here. Better drift back to Tucson, stranger. The parada is no place for a
tenderfoot. You're in luck you're not shy one li'l' girl tromped to death.
Take a fool's advice and hit the trail for town pronto before you bump
into more trouble."
The rider swung round his pony and cantered back to the beef herd.
He left behind him a much-annoyed clubman, a perplexed and
distressed father, and a girl both hurt and indignant at his brusque
rejection of her father's friendly advances. The episode of the
fifty-dollar bill had taken place entirely under cover. The man who had
given the note and the one who had refused to accept it were the only
ones who knew of it. The girl saw only that this splendid horseman
who had snatched her from under the very feet of the ladino had shown
a boorish discourtesy. The savor had gone out of her adventure. Her
heart was sick