Races were won by noses. Hats, handkerchiefs, and even coins were
snatched from the ground by riders who hung head and shoulder below
their horses' bellies. Mounts were exchanged at full gallop. Playing
cards were pierced by the bullets of riders who dashed past them at
full speed. And men emptied their guns in the space of seconds without
missing a shot.

In each event the gaudily caparisoned Jack Purdy was at the fore,
either winning or crowding the winner to his supremest effort. And it
was Purdy who furnished the real thrill of the shooting tournament
when, with a six-shooter in each hand, he jumped an empty tomato can
into the air at fifteen paces by sending a bullet into the ground
beneath its base and pierced it with a bullet from each gun before it
returned to earth.

A half-dozen times he managed to slip over for a few words with Alice
Marcum--a bit of explanation of a coming event, or a comment upon the
fine points of a completed one, until unconsciously the girl's interest
centred upon the dashing figure to an extent that she found herself
following his every movement, straining forward when his supremacy hung
in the balance, keenly disappointed when another wrested the honours
from him, and jubilantly exultant at his victories. So engrossed was
she in fallowing the fortunes of her knight that she failed to notice
the growing disapproval of Endicott, who sat frowning and silent by her
side. Failed, also, to notice that as Purdy's attentions waxed more
obvious she herself became the object of many a glance, and lip to ear
observation from the occupants of the close-drawn vehicles.

It was while Mayor Maloney was announcing the roping contest and
explaining that the man who "roped, throw'd, an' hog-tied" his steer in