packed close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatched
at its thrills just as such crowds have done from the time of Caligula.

Kirby Lane, from his seat on the fence among a group of cowpunchers,
watched each rider no less closely. It chanced that he came last on
the programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he made
an audible comment.

"I'm lookin' at the next champion of the world," he announced.

"Not onless you've got a lookin'-glass with you, old alkali," a small
berry-brown youth in yellow-wool chaps retorted.

Sanborn was astride a noted outlaw known as Jazz. The horse was a
sorrel, and it knew all the tricks of its kind. It went sunfishing,
tried weaving and fence-rowing, at last toppled over backward after a
frantic leap upward. The rider, long-bodied and lithe, rode like a
centaur. Except for the moment when he stepped out of the saddle as
the outlaw fell on its back, he stuck to his seat as though he were
glued to it.

"He's a right limber young fellow, an' he sure can ride. I'll say
that," admitted one old cattleman.

"They don't grow no better busters," another man spoke up. He was a
neighbor of Sanborn and had his local pride. "From where I come from
we'll put our last nickel on Cole, you betcha. He's top hand with a
rope too."

"Hmp! Kirby here can make him look like thirty cents, top of a bronc