Each man should have only one trial, thus making the struggle short and sharp, and tincturing it with the stimulating element, chance. For the battle was lost to him who failed to get a quick start after the steer at the outset, who missed his cast too often, or whose horse stumbled in a prairie-dog hole. From the mouth of the smaller pen, a steer was to be loosed to each contestant, and the moment his steer crossed the chalk-line he should be free to follow. The contestants rode out and arranged themselves in front of the judge’s stand. Hilda loved the sight of mounted men, accoutered as she was used to see them, for action. But she gave these a leaden glance—Shorty was not there. Young Doctor Ellis was near the center; he had a ranch of his own—maybe he’d win, and his little girls would ride in that carriage and never know that it belonged to Hilda and Burch—that it belonged to them “thrice over.” Dark and hateful looked the faces of the Romero brothers; Hilda would have had no trouble in placing them in her ballad world just then. They were “the enemy.” Suddenly she straightened up, trembling. Her heart gave a vicious buck and seemed to stand still; for, the last of the line (apparently a hasty afterthought in the entries), rode—Uncle Hank on Buckskin! A breeze of bantering applause greeted the old man. Some of it came from the grandstand. “Go it, Hank!” “Hi, Pearsall, hi!” “Say, Hank, whirl in and learn the boys how to rope a steer and tie him.” One strange, squeaking, falsetto voice, the mere sound of which called out peals of mirth, piped: “Well, I’ll be hanged—from head to foot! If old Hank Pearsall ain’t a-linin’ out after that kerridge.” At the ludicrous tone and the laughter that answered it, a familiar voice bawled: “Yes, and watch him get it too!” Hilda looked to where Shorty stood, just below. She was thankful for a champion who could make himself heard. The great black eyes in her little peaked face flashed, and her lip trembled. They’d better not treat her Uncle Hank disrespectfully! But no—it was all right; the old man was laughing. He took off his sombrero and bowed, with a touch of burlesque in his manner, in response to the familiar, hearty rallying. Even on horseback, his commanding six-foot-two of stature made itself noticed, while his hard leanness and his tremendous reach of arm were unmatched in that group of more youthful candidates.