When the piebald shot across the chalk-line, Romero, upon Nig, his black horse, close after him, tears rose and swam in Hilda’s eyes; and when, with no mishap whatever, Lee made his cast and the noose settled as though predestined about the curving horns, the little girl’s throat ached, a great tear splashed into Rose Marie’s skittish gamboge hair, and she murmured bitterly, beneath her breath: “But—but Uncle Hank’s older. He—Lee Romero ought not to—They might know—Uncle Hank can’t—” Her chest contracted spasmodically and cut the poor sentences in two with painful gasps. And the last, choking, whispering cry was always: “He—Uncle Hank—he’s older’n they are!” Meantime Lee had dropped into the carelessness of the cock-sure. As the steer fell heavily to the jerk of his staunch pony, he took two or three dallies round the saddle-horn with an off-hand flourish, skipped smiling from horse, and hastened, cord in hand, to tie his victim. But the instant the steer felt the hand of man upon him, he surged to his feet, casting Romero into a somewhat unsightly wad on the dusty turf. Of Hilda’s emotions at this sudden collapse of Lee Romero’s fortunes probably least said is best. Nig pulled backward on the rope, but the Kid’s hasty dallies had not made it fast to the horn. With the first jerk it tautened, gave, gave yet again, and at the final vicious lunge, came off the saddle entirely, the piebald steer going over and over sidewise, Nig falling backward, just as young Romero was rising, somewhat dazed. A roar of amusement went up from the crowd; for nobody was hurt, and it would have been hard to say which of the three looked most sheepish, as they all got to their ten feet at once, the spotted steer, the vain-glorious Kid, or the pony, which had nowise been at fault. Hilda laughed and trembled and cried all together. She prayed, too, a little, under her breath and doubtfully, fearing that it might not be altogether respectful to approach God in such a connection. Yet refrain entirely, she could not. The next man was a rider of the C Bar C, Clarke Capadine’s ranch. He missed his throw repeatedly, and time was finally called upon him from the judge’s stand. There followed Zeph Baird, for the Bar 99, on his little horse, Scotty. When Baird at last negotiated a successful cast of the rope, the big, heavy steer, with a tremendous plunge, jerked the light horse and rider forward on to their heads. Baird rolled free. There were exclamations and cries of distress as pony and steer struggled to their feet and, connected by the lariat, ran and pulled back and forth dangerously near the prostrate man. At sight of him lying there, a sense of bloodguiltiness was upon Hilda, from which she was only rescued by mounted men going out and bringing him back, not seriously hurt.