because of her slimness, her beauty, the aura of daintiness that
surrounded her, the little touches of shy youth that still clung to her
manner. Other riders of her sex might be rough, hoydenish, or
masculine. Wild Rose had the charm of her name. Yet the muscles that
rippled beneath her velvet skin were hard as nails. No bronco alive
could unseat her without the fight of its life.

Meanwhile the outlaw horse Wild Fire was claiming its share of
attention. The bronco was a noted bucker. Every year it made the
circuit of the rodeos and only twice had a rider stuck to the saddle
without pulling leather. Now it had been roped and cornered. Half a
dozen wranglers in chaps were trying to get it ready for the saddle.
From the red-hot eyes of the brute a devil of fury glared at the men
trying to thrust a gunny sack over its head. The four legs were wide
apart, the ears cocked, teeth bared. The animal flung itself skyward
and came down on the boot of a puncher savagely. The man gave an
involuntary howl of pain, but he clung to the rope snubbed round the
wicked head.

The gunny sack was pushed and pulled over the eyes. Wild Fire
subsided, trembling, while bridle was adjusted and saddle slipped on.
The girl attended to the cinching herself. If the saddle turned it
might cost her life, and she preferred to take no unnecessary chances.

She was dressed in green satin riding clothes. A beaded bolero jacket
fitted over a white silk blouse. Her boots were of buckskin,
silver-spurred. With her hat on, at a distance, one might have taken
her for a slim, beautiful boy.

Wild Rose swung to the saddle and adjusted her feet in the stirrups.