"If they hain't no one else wants to try their hand," began the Mayor,
when the Texan interrupted him:

"Reckon I'll take a shot at it if you've got a steer handy."

"Well, dog my cats! If I hadn't forgot you! Where you be'n at? If
you'd of got here on time you'd of stood a show gittin' one of them
steers that's be'n draw'd. You hain't got no show now 'cause the
onliest one left is a old long-geared roan renegade that's on the
prod----"

Tex yawned: "Jest you tell 'em to run him in, Slim, an' I'll show you
how we-all bust 'em wide open down in Texas."

Three or four cowpunchers started for the corral with a whoop and a few
minutes later the men who had been standing about in groups began to
clamber into wagons or seek refuge behind the wheels as the lean roan
steer shot out onto the flat bounding this way and that, the very
embodiment of wild-eyed fury. But before he had gone twenty yards
there was a thunder of hoofs in his wake and a cow-horse, his rider
motionless as a stone image in his saddle, closed up the distance until
he was running almost against the flank of the frenzied renegade.
There was no preliminary whirling of rope. The man rode with his eyes
fixed on the flying hind hoofs while a thin loop swung from his right
hand, extended low and a little back.

Suddenly--so suddenly that the crowd was still wondering why the man
didn't swing his rope, there was a blur of white dust, a brown streak
as the cow-horse shot across the forefront of the big steer, the thud
of a heavy body on the ground, the glimpse of a man-among the thrashing