There was no preliminary whirling of rope. The man rode with his eyes
fixed on the flying hind hoofs while a thin loop swung from his right
hand, extended low and a little back.
Suddenly--so suddenly that the crowd was still wondering why the man
didn't swing his rope, there was a blur of white dust, a brown streak
as the cow-horse shot across the forefront of the big steer, the thud
of a heavy body on the ground, the glimpse of a man-among the thrashing
hoofs, and then a mighty heaving as the huge steer strained against the
rope that bound his feet, while the cowboy shoved the Stetson to the
back of his head and felt for his tobacco and papers.
"Gosh sakes!" yelled Mayor Maloney excitedly as he stared at the watch
in his hand. "Fifty-seven seconds! They can't beat that down to
Cheyenne!"
At the words, a mighty cheer went up from the crowd and everybody was
talking at once. While over beside the big steer the cowboy mounted
his pony and coiling his rope as he rode, joined the group of riders
who lounged in their saddles and grinned their appreciation.
"Ladies an' gents," began the Mayor, "you have jest witnessed a ropin'
contest the winner of which is Tex Benton to beat who McLaughlin
himself would have to do his da--doggondest! We will now conclood the
afternoon's galaxity of spurious stars, as the circus bills says, with
a buckin' contest which unneedless to say will conclood the afternoon's
celebration of the openin' of a institoot that it's a credit to any
town in reference to which I mean the Wolf River Citizen's Bank in
which we invite to whose vaults a fair share of your patrimony.
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