There was hesitant cheering; Uncle Hank slipped from the saddle and ran to tie those four motionless feet. A sea of gratitude went over Hilda. Just as the old man’s weight was thrown upon him, the steer, which had been stunned for a moment, recovered breath and consciousness and reared, tumultuously. But no cocksureness had been Hank’s. If he failed this day, please Heaven, it should be because he could not possibly win through, the best that he and Buckskin could do. The rope had been made firmly fast to the saddle-horn—the rope which, prepared for Shorty’s use, they had tested and tried for this very exigency. With the creature’s first wild plunge, Buckskin heaved himself backward, while Uncle Hank’s strong arm grappled the big horns, and all his weight was flung upon the rearing head, which once more went down flat upon the plain, the long, brindled neck stretched out to Buckskin’s zealous pull. Once more the clapping and cheering broke forth, but this time with no assistance from Hilda. She was past speech. The sudden relief had left her weak. To an accompaniment of friendly applause, Uncle Hank tied his steer’s feet, sprang erect and threw up his hands. The cheerful noise held for a moment, then all was intensely still as Colonel Peyton was seen to ride up to the judge’s stand, stop-watch in hand. Judge Eldredge leaned across and spoke to the colonel. There was a brief space of uncertainty, during which Hilda was sure she aged rapidly; several voices were heard in unofficial statements, which cleft her heart like so many swords. “Sixty-two seconds, I make it,” announced one. “It’s a tie with Tazewell’s time.” “Better’n that,” declared another. “Pearsall made it in exactly—” Old man Morrison broke in with: “Oh, no, you’re ’way off. Hank’s time is only sixty seconds—jest one plumb minute. My watch—” “Ssh!” cried the crowd as one man, for Colonel Peyton and the gold-dust sorrel were coming forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Kentuckian began, as he bowed, smiling, “friends and fellow-citizens of our new county, I think we have all been given a surprise.” A vague murmur arose. The smiling speaker waited a moment, then continued: “I take pride in stating that the best time made to-day is fifty-eight seconds. The winner distanced all other contestants by just two seconds. Ladies and gentlemen—” The dark eyes enjoyingly swept the mute expectant faces before him—none knew better than Colonel Peyton of Kentucky how to heighten an effect by dramatic delay. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure in announcing to you that the prize goes to Henry J. Pearsall, riding for the Ranch of the Three Sorrows.” Colonel Jack Peyton smiled and pranced away on his gold-dust sorrel, without the least suspicion that he had just made an appearance and uttered a speech that would, by comparison, leave all after efforts of his life vain and useless.