or with a lariat either one," the yellow-chapped vaquero flung out
bluntly.

Lane looked at his champion, a trifle annoyed. "What's the use o'
talkin' foolishness, Kent? I never saw the day I had anything on Cole."

"Beat him at Pendleton, didn't you?"

"Luck. I drew the best horses." To Sanborn, who had finished his job
and was straddling wide-legged toward the group, Kirby threw up a hand
of greeting. "Good work, old-timer. You're sure hellamile on a bronc."

"Kirby Lane on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer.

Lane slid from the fence and reached for his saddle. As he lounged
forward, moving with indolent grace, one might have guessed him a
Southerner. He was lean-loined and broad-shouldered. The long,
flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved like those of a
panther. From beneath the band of his pinched-in hat crisp, reddish
hair escaped.

Wild Fire was off the instant his feet found the stirrups. Again the
outlaw went through its bag of tricks and its straight bucking. The
man in the saddle gave to its every motion lightly and easily. He rode
with such grace that he seemed almost a part of the horse. His
reactions appeared to anticipate the impulses of the screaming fiend
which he was astride. When Wild Fire jolted him with humpbacked
jarring bucks his spine took the shock limply to neutralize the effect.
When it leaped heavenward he waved his hat joyously and rode the
stirrups. From first to last he was master of the situation, and the