"How's the leg? Hurt much?"

"Not much. I'm noticin' it some," Kirby answered with a smile.

"You'll have to ride to-morrow. It's you and Sanborn for the finals.
We haven't quite made up our minds."

The cattleman was an expert driver. He wound in and out among the
other cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the great
majority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with the
vanguard.

After dinner the rough rider asked the clerk at her hotel if there was
any mail for Miss Rose McLean. Three letters were handed him. He put
them in his pocket and set out for the hospital.

He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mind
highly indignant. "That doctor talks as though he's going to keep me
here a week. Well, he's got another guess coming. I'll not stay," she
exploded to her visitor.

"Now, looky here, you better do as the doc says. He knows best.
What's a week in your young life?" Kirby suggested.

"A week's a week, and I don't intend to stay. Why did you limp when
you came in? Get hurt?"

"Not really hurt. Jammed my leg against a fence. I drew Wild Fire."