h, well," she sighed. "If you're going to act like that."

The cowboy helped her into the ambulance and found himself a seat.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked with a smile a bit twisted
by pain.

"I reckon I'll go far as the hospital with you."

"I reckon you won't. What do you think I am--a nice little parlor girl
who has to be petted when she gets hurt? You're on to ride inside of
fifteen minutes--and you know it."

"Oh, well! I'm lookin' for an alibi so as not to be beaten. That Cole
Sanborn is sure a straight-up rider."

"So's that Kirby Lane. You needn't think I'm going to let you beat
yourself out of the championship. Not so any one could notice it. Hop
out, sir."

He rose, smiling ruefully. "You certainly are one bossy kid."

"I'd say you need bossing when you start to act so foolish," she
retorted, flushing.

"See you later," he called to her by way of good-bye.

As the ambulance drove away she waved cheerfully at him a gauntleted
hand.

The cowpuncher turned back to the arena. The megaphone man was
announcing that the contest for the world's rough-riding championship
would now be resumed.

CHAPTER III

FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

The less expert riders had been weeded out in the past two days. Only
the champions of their respective sections were still in the running.
One after another these lean, brown men, chap-clad and bow-legged, came
forward dragging their saddles and clamped themselves to the backs of
hurricane outlaws which pitched, bucked, crashed into fences, and
toppled over backward in their frenzied efforts to dislodge the human
clothes-pins fastened to them.

The bronco busters endured the usual luck of the day. Two were thrown
and picked themselves out of the dust, chagrined and damaged, but still
grinning. One drew a tame horse not to be driven into resistance
either by fanning or scratching. Most of the riders emerged from the
ordeal victorious. Meanwhile the spectators in the big grand stand,
packed close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatched
at its thrills just as such crowds have done from the time of Caligula.

Kirby Lane, from his seat on the fence among a group of cowpunchers,
watched each rider no less closely. It chanced that he came last on
the programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he made
an audible comment.

"I'm lookin' at the next champion of the world," he announced.

"Not on