ddle.

"He's pulling leather," shouted one of the judges, and the man was waved
aside.

The third cowpuncher made a good showing, but his horse lacked the
energy and spirit of Teddy Roosevelt. The unanimous decision of the
judges was in favor of Kilmeny. But when they sought for him to award
the prize the new champion was nowhere to be found.

Moya Dwight felt with genuine disappointment that the man's courtesy had
failed. She and her friends had applauded his exploits liberally. The
least he could have done would have been to have made a short call at
their box. Instead, he had ignored them. She resolved to bear herself
more coldly if they met again.

The early shadows of sunset were stretching down the rough mountain
sides by the time the visitors from the Lodge reached the river canon on
their homeward way. Soon after this the champion rider and his friend
Colter passed them on a stretch of narrow road cut in the steep wall of
the gulch. The leathery face of the latter took them in impassively as
he gave them a little nod of recognition, but the younger man reined in
for a few words. He accepted their congratulations with a quiet "Glad
you enjoyed it," but it was plain that he was in a hurry. In his eyes
there was a certain hard wariness that seemed hardly to fit the
occasion. Moya could not avoid the impression that he was anxious about
something. As soon as he well could he put spurs to his horse and
cantered after his companion.

"I don't like your savage as well as I thought I was going to. If he
can't be pleasanter than that you may keep him yourself, Moya," Joyce
announced with a smile.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that the sound of hard riding
reached them from the rear. Five dusty, hard-bitten men, all armed with
rifles and revolvers, drew level with them. The leader threw a crisp
question at Lord Farquhar.

"Two riders pass you lately?"

"Yes."

"One on a big sorrel and the other on a roan with white stockings on the
front feet?"

"Yes."

"Say anything?"

"The younger one stopped for a few words. He is a Mr. Crumbs, camped on
the river just below us."

The lank man with the rifle across his saddle bow laughed grimly. "Yes,
he is--not. His name is Kilmeny--Jack Kilmeny. I'm the sheriff of
Gunnison County--and I want him bad."

"Did you say Kilmeny?" asked the captain sharply.

"That's what I said--the man that won the broncho busting contest
to-day."

To Moya, looking aro