Death Waits at Sundown (4 page)
Ride 'Em, Cowboy!
CHAPTER ONE
TheWinner
T
HE
Ellensburg Rodeo
was in full tide.
Twenty-five thousand packed the stands and made a
blurred sea surging up from the other side of the track.
The arena boss and the judges and wranglers were
hurrying on important errands across the wet green turf of the arena.
Flags and Indians and violent-shirted punchers made the
day loud and bright.
The band was playing “Cheyenne, Cheyenne,” but Long Tom
Branner, sitting on the gate of
chute
five, saw and heard very little of it. He
was watching with hungry eyes Miss Vicky Stuart as she climbed up to the runway
and came toward the chute which held Dynamite.
Long Tom sighed. Vicky was all in white, all creamy silk
and leather. And just now she was pushing a strand of corn-colored hair back
under her
Stetson
. Her golden spurs clink-jingled and they made the only sound
in the world which Long Tom Branner could hear.
He hooked his high heels more solidly into the third bar
and sat up straighter, prepared for the worst.
“Give him hell, Vicky,” said Long Tom.
She stopped and looked across at him. Dynamite was
screaming murder and death and kicking the chute into splinters.
“Thank you, I will.”
He wished she wouldn't treat him so. She wasn't this
rough on the rest of the world. To everybody else she was a charming kid with
more nerve and skill than most buckaroos possess.
He knew that if he said anything he would make it worse.
But suddenly he heard himself saying, “Watch him. I had him last year at
Pendleton and he sunfishes right after he takes his first jump. Iâ”
“Thank you,” said Vicky with so much sweetness that it
was acid. “I am sure it is very kind of the champion bronco buster of the world
to give me advice.”
Long Tom felt his face getting red and knew he would get
mad in a minute. Damn it, why couldn't she treat him like she used to when Old
Man Stuart paid him wages?
A devil prodded him. She looked so cool and
self-possessed there on the runway.
“Yeah,” said Branner. “It ain't everybody that needs
it.”
She lifted her head and then abruptly whirled and swung
down into the chute.
Another devil jabbed Long Tom. “Don't fall off. You'll
get mud on yourself!”
She didn't even look at him. Settling her hat, she stood
with feet wide apart on the rails and Dynamite lunged and screamed under her
while two punchers tried to hold his head quiet.
“Drop!” yelled the man at the gate.
Vicky dropped into the saddle. The brute lunged sideways
and almost caught her leg.
“Let 'im go!” she yelled.
The gate swung wide and the blind came off and Dynamite went
plunging like a rocket into the open.
Long Tom held his breath. The arena was muddy and
Dynamite never bucked straight up. He sunfished.
Off was Vicky's white hat. She beat it against the
bellowing demon's flanks. She dug deep with her golden spurs and Dynamite went
five feet off the ground. He sunfished, head lowered, fighting the
hackamore
and when he hit he was stiff-legged.
Vicky took the shock. She beat harder with her hat and
dug deeper with her spurs and above the band and the crowd and the announcer
could be heard her cry, “Go it, you black devil!”
Long Tom was still holding his breath as he counted.
Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful
as a gull.
“Go it, you black devil!”
Dynamite slipped as he hit, fell heavily on his side and
leaped furiously up again.
Vicky whipped his flank with her white hat and dug her
golden spurs.
“Go it!”
The gun cracked and she had made a ride. Two mounted men
swerved in beside her, one to grab Dynamite's head and the other to haul Vicky
from the still-lunging mount. She made it and Dynamite was headed away, still
fighting.
The rider lowered her to the ground and she ran with
swift, excited steps back to the chutes.
Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was
limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.
She passed within three feet of Long Tom but she didn't
even look up at him when he said, “Swell ride, Vicky.”
Gloomily he looked at the grandstand again. Everybody
was cheering, but that didn't matter. Everybody was going crazy about that
ride, and that was natural.
Vicky Stuart was the enigma of the buckaroos. She was
slightly built and had the manners of a duchess and talked much better English.
She was the kind of girl, on appearance, that one would expect to haunt teas
and operas, but, marvel of marvels, she could take a beating on the back of a
bucking horse and always come off smiling, just as though she had done nothing
so very unusual.
Long Tom sighed.
For two years, ever since Old Man Stuart had died, Long
Tom Branner had tried to keep near Vicky. At least a dozen times he had striven
to make a serious proposal, but Vicky was as quick afoot as she was mounted.
She always slid out.
Long Tom knew, vaguely, what was wrong. There was
nothing too terrible about his personal appearance, as he was lean and young.
But for some reason unknown to himself he kept winning championships as a
rider. And the more he won, the colder Vicky Stuart got.
A long time ago, when he was just a
puncher
riding for
her old man, he and Vicky had almost reached an understanding. Long Tom had not
pushed his suit, thinking that if he could make a name, he would be worthy of
her hand.
And then Stuart had died, leaving nothing. And Vicky,
raised among horsemen and an excellent rider in her own right, had suddenly
taken it into her head to win the world for her own.
There is no one quite so alone as a famous bronc
twister. And with Vicky
high-hatting
him, Long Tom could not help but feel low.
He had to do something.
He had to somehow make Vicky understand that he loved
her and wanted her. . . .
“Mr. Branner,” said the arena boss respectfully, riding
close, “you're out on Jesse James from chute six in about a minute.”
“Yeah,” said Long Tom. “Yeah, that's right. I forgot.”
He climbed up to the walk and went to the top of the
next chute.
Jesse James was a
sorrel
with one blue eye and one brown
eye. He had feet like ashcans and was so thickly built that he could throw most
men in the first three leaps.
The band changed off to “
Tipperary
.”
Long Tom stood up on the rails and watched Jesse James
lunge against the bars. Tom's feet were wide apart and suddenly he could
concentrate on only one thing, this ride.
The announcer roared, “Long Tom Branner! The Champeeen
bronco buster of the world! Coming out of chute six!”
Everything hushed. The band stopped and the judges were
motionless and the crowd forgot peanuts and sat very still.
Jesse James lashed out with a savage kick and splintered
the gate.
“Let 'er go!” said Long Tom.
He dropped, jamming toes into stirrups. He heard the
gate whine as it was rushed back. It was suddenly light in the chute.
Jesse James drew in like a spring compressing. Suddenly
he streaked straight out and up. Ten feet from the chute his hind feet hit.
Jesse James went skyward, turning. Earth and sun and
people and band were all scrambled in a swift montage. Jar, slam, blowie! With
buckjumps vicious enough to kill a man, the
outlaw
fought his rider.
Sunfish
, lunge and then
swap ends
!
Indians and punchers and judges and wet earth all mixed
up with clouds.
Long Tom rode straight up, head high, a grin on his lips,
shoulders loose, hat swinging in rhythm to the leaps of the maniac horse.
In a moment the gun would go. And nothing Jesse James
could do could disturb this lean and graceful rider.
And in that instant a horrible thought hit Long Tom. If
he made this ride, he would be beating Vicky. She was the runner-up. He would
not lose his belt as it was not at stake. He did not need the purse. And if he
beat Vicky Stuart, he would never have a chance. Not a chance.
He swung his arm around and touched his horn.
And the gun banged.
He felt funny. That was the first time he had ever done
that. He had
pulled leather
!
A pair of riders jerked the horse one way and Long Tom
the other. Long Tom eased himself down to the ground.
Vaguely he could hear people cheering and the announcer
was bellowing something which was flattering, and a rider said, “Gee, that was
pretty, Mr. Branner.”
Long Tom went swinging back to the chutes. He was
irritated suddenly by that “Mr. Branner.” Everybody called him “Mr. Branner”
now and nobody ever came near him. It was as though he had measles or
something.
Before he got to the chutes he saw Vicky. Three mounted
judges were gathered about her and she was slim and straight and angry.
When Long Tom came near they all turned and stared at
him, so he edged in that direction.
He could see that Vicky was mad. When she got mad she
got taller and prettier and her eyes were hot sparks. She got very dignified
and held her chin high and frost was white upon her words.
“Mr. Branner,” said a judge, “we saw you touch your
horn. Possibly we were mistaken. You were making a beautiful ride and I can't
understand. What was the cause of it?”
“I touched it,” said Long Tom.
“Of course, you know that that will give today to Miss
Stuart,” said the judge.
“Yes,” said Long Tom.
Vicky looked at him levelly. Her clenched hand was
trembling at her side. “You deliberately threw that contest to me!”
Long Tom looked uneasy. He could not quite understand
this. What was there about winning which could make her so mad?
“You're despicable,” said Vicky coldly.
“Huh?” said Long Tom.
“You purposely threw this contest to humiliate me!”
Long Tom blinked and then suddenly he was angry. He
stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Well, why not?” he said savagely. “There's
no percentage in beating a woman!”
He turned on his heel and stalked away.
CHAPTER TWO
Vicky Retaliates
V
ICKY STUART
walked through the Indian village which was
studded with horses and
papooses
on this, the second day of the rodeo. Here and
there sat heavy-jowled elders upon blankets, looking very wise and
self-satisfied. In the tepees and back of them scurried the women, dressed in
beaded elkskin but working just the same.
A few young bucks wearing business suits and braids
looked cautiously at Vicky as she passed. They knew her and were most
respectful. The old men nodded and the women smiled brightly and the papooses
gurgled.
But Vicky's mood was black. Her silk-crowned head was
held high and the golden spurs jangled viciously as she stamped over the green
turf.
A hundred dollars was heavy in the pocket of her
batwings. The hundred-dollar day money which she had won by Long Tom's
condemned dishonesty. Nothing had ever been as heavy as those paper bills. She
could feel them dragging down her spirit as though she were burdened with anvils.
She had to stop to let a young kid get a string of
mustangs in line and she looked around her and had the funny feeling that the
whole Indian village was about to leap at her.
A young buck was arguing vigorously with a squaw,
evidently his mother, and the woman was shaking her head. Vicky knew the boy as
a good
bulldogger
.
She saw them stop and look at her and nod. She forced
herself to say, “Hello, Bucking
Colt
. How's everything?”
“Rotten,” said the youth, spitting. “I've got the
fastest pony here and she won't let me have a nickel to bet on him.”
Vicky straightened up. She gave her Stetson a swift tug
and stepped nearer to Bucking Colt. Out of her batwing pocket she pulled the
hundred dollars and extended it.
He took it swiftly enough.
His mother tried to stop him. “He spendum, get drunk!”
“Throw it away for all I care,” said Vicky.
She went on. But she didn't feel right yet. Before
twenty-five thousand people, Long Tom had pulled leather and now he was going
around telling everybody that “there's no percentage in beating a woman!”
She looked coolly beautiful. But she felt mean and
little inside.
This had started so long ago that she had almost
forgotten the beginning. Long Tom had been a bashful, gangling kid, getting
thirty a month for helping handle Stuart's rodeo string. Nobody had thought he
would ever amount to much because he was so quiet. But he had begun to practice
riding and roping. He had worked and he had grown.
And if he had not persisted in showing her how he did
everything, she would never have gotten so mad at him. He was always so
superior, always telling her what to do and what not to do, always bossing her
around.
She had said that she would show him someday. And when
Stuart had died, leaving her without a cent but with a riding education seldom
equaled, she had started on her way.
Long Tom had a belt. A beautiful belt. He wore it all
the time. It was diamond-studded and upon it were letters in gold, “World's
Champion Buckeroo.” That was hateful. She could never get such a belt. She was
a woman. They always told her how surprised they were that she could ride, damn
them! Punchers were always making up to her with, “You're too pretty to wear
chaps.”
Damn them!
She hated men. She hated punchers. But most of all she
hated Long Tom Branner.
He was so sure of himself, so superior! He knew he was
lean and good-looking. He knew that women fell all over themselves to get at
him. He knew that he looked like a god on the back of a raging horse.
Tan Stetson and golden, glittering belt.
She hated him!
She got to the gate and the ticket-taker stood back to
tip his hat and let her through. She went swinging through the carnival grounds
and the hoot-hoot bing-bang of the merry-go-round infuriated her.
She kicked at a tin can and sent it soaring.
The contests were still going on. Today she had a good
horse. A good, tough horse. Whiskers, they called him. He sometimes went
straight up and came down on his side. She'd teach him manners.
As she came through the grandstand side, people turned
and looked at her, the men very admiringly. Somebody made so bold as to say,
“Lo, Vicky.” She froze him into a pillar of ice.
She realized that she was doing things backwards. She
should have walked around to the other gate in the first place. But she had
been too angry to obey anything.
Down below her she saw groups of mounts on the track
just under the stands and knew that the pony express race was about to begin.
Something was happening. A youngster was standing on one
foot and holding his side and arguing with the arena boss down on the turf.
Suddenly she knew what was wrong. The youngster was part of this pony express
race and he had been hurt in the bucking contest of the day.
Suddenly she was blinded by a glitter and she whirled to
see Long Tom with belt aglitter just under the railing not twenty feet from
her. So he was going to be in this race!
Determinedly she slid through the railing and ran to the
side of the youngster. She said swiftly, “I'll take your place. The prize money
don't matter. I'll pay it win or lose.”
Before they could answer she was halfway back to the
boy's three mounts.
Long Tom looked at her, startled. She turned away and
inspected the saddle a puncher held out to her.
The race was a relay of horses in which the rider had to
change his own saddle. Three mounts and three times around the track.
The starter saw that all was ready and held up his gun.
It banged and the five contestants began hastily to saddle. Vicky had more
reason to win than any of them. She was the first away. Flirting mud from the
mount's flying hoofs, she spurted past Long Tom without even a glance.
She plied her quirt and the track raced by and when she
passed back of the chutes and bandstand, the band was making hash out of the
“Light Cavalry Overture.”
The fence blurred as she came around the turn into the
stretch. Ahead she saw that the puncher had her horse out. She was half a dozen
lengths ahead.
Mount still running, she flung herself off and skidded
him to a stop. She flipped up the saddle skirt and unfastened the cinch buckle
and flung the saddle to the other mount. She bothered not about the cinch this
time.
Quirt flailing, she rocketed off just as Long Tom
plunged up to his second mount.
This time the band was making better time, she noted.
The sousaphone was the only one behind.
The fence blurred and the stands blurred and again off
came her saddle. Looking across it when she got it on the third mount, she saw
Long Tom leading all the rest but at least half the track behind her.
Her grin was deadly.
Very carefully she fastened the cinch. She took a
handkerchief and dusted the saddle. In a leisurely fashion she mounted. Long
Tom was streaking up. He came off his mount to change saddles in a blur of
activity. The others were stringing in.
Vicky started out at a canter as though only to enjoy
the scenery. Long Tom rocketed past her on the run. Vicky kept her horse down
to a steady trot.
The band, she noted as she passed, was all behind the
sousaphone this time.
Long Tom was in seconds before she leisurely cantered
up. The others thundered across the line just behind her.
Long Tom sat his lathered horse, breathing hard and
staring at her.
She was not at all concerned.
The arena boss came over to them on the run and the
stands craned their necks to see this that was happening under their noses.
“What was wrong?” said the arena boss indignantly to
Vicky.
She flipped up her hat brim and stared coolly at Long
Tom. Then she shrugged and turned to the arena boss.
“There's no percentage in beating a conceited fool.”