outlaw, though still fighting savagely, knew the battle was lost.

The bronco had one trump card left, a trick that had unseated many a
stubborn rider. It plunged sideways at the fence of the enclosure and
crashed through it. Kirby's nerves shrieked with pain, and for a
moment everything went black before him. His leg had been jammed hard
against the upper plank. But when the haze cleared he was still in the
saddle.

The outlaw gave up. It trotted tamely back to the grand stand through
the shredded fragments of pine in the splintered fence, and the grand
stand rose to its feet with a shout of applause for the rider.

Kirby slipped from the saddle and limped back to his fellows on the
fence. Already the crowd was pouring out from every exit of the stand.
A thousand cars of fifty different makes were snorting impatiently to
get out of the jam as soon as possible. For Cheyenne was full, full to
overflowing. The town roared with a high tide of jocund life. From
all over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico hard-bitten,
sunburned youths in high-heeled boots and gaudy attire had gathered for
the Frontier Day celebration. Hundreds of cars had poured up from
Denver. Trains had disgorged thousands of tourists come to see the
festival. Many people would sleep out in automobiles and on the
prairie. The late comers at restaurants and hotels would wait long and
take second best.

A big cattleman beckoned to Lane. "Place in my car, son. Run you back
to town."

One of the judges sat in the tonneau beside the rough rider.