the least number of seconds, would be the winner, that the girl's
thoughts turned to the cowpuncher who earlier in the day had so
skilfully demonstrated his ability with the lariat.

In vain her eyes sought the faces of the cowboys. She turned to Purdy
who had edged his horse close beside the lumber pile.

"Where is your friend--the one who raced with you for my handkerchief?"
she asked. "I haven't seen him since you both rode up in that first
wild rush. He hasn't been in any of the contests."

"No, mom," answered the cowpuncher, in tones of well-simulated regret;
"he's--he's prob'ly over to some saloon. He's a good man some ways,
Tex is. But he can't keep off the booze."

Kicking his feet from the stirrups the man stood upright in his saddle
and peered over the top of an intervening pile of lumber. "Yes, I
thought so. His horse is over in front of the Headquarters. Him an'
Cinnabar Joe's prob'ly holdin' a booze histin' contest of their own."
Slipping easily into his seat, he unfastened the rope from his saddle,
and began slowly to uncoil it.

"All ready!" called the Mayor. "_Go git him_!"

A huge black steer dashed out into the open with a cowboy in full
pursuit, his loop swinging slowly above his head. Down the middle of
the flat they tore, the loop whirling faster as the horseman gained on
his quarry. Suddenly the rope shot out, a cloud of white dust rose
into the air as the cow-horse stopped in his tracks, a moment of
suspense, and the black steer dashed frantically about seeking an