“You did well, Mr. Fraser from Texas,” Jed complimented him, with a smile that thinly hid his malice. “But it won't do to have you going back to Texas with the word that Wyoming is shy of riders. I ain't any great shakes, but I reckon I'll have to take a whirl at Rocking Horse.” He had decided to ride for two reasons. One was that he had glimpsed the girl among the firs; the other was to dissipate the admiration his rival had created among the men. Briscoe lounged toward the remuda, rope in hand. It was his cue to get himself up picturesquely in all the paraphernalia of the cowboy. Black-haired and white-toothed, lithe as a wolf, and endowed with a grace almost feline, it was easy to understand how this man appealed to the imagination of the reckless young fellows of this primeval valley. Everything he did was done well. Furthermore, he looked and acted the part of leader which he assumed. Rocking Horse was in a different mood from its brother. It was hard to rope, and when Jed's raw-hide had fallen over its head it was necessary to reënforce the lariat with two others. Finally the pony had to be flung down before a saddle could be put on. When Siegfried, who had been kneeling on its head, stepped back, the outlaw staggered to its feet, already badly shaken, to find an incubus clamped to the saddle. No matter how it pitched, the human clothespin stuck to his seat, and apparently with as little concern as if he had been in a rowboat gently moved to and fro by the waves. Jed rode like a centaur, every motion attuned to those of the animal as much as if he were a part of it. No matter how it pounded or tossed, he stuck securely to the hurricane deck of the broncho. Once only he was in danger, and that because Rocking Horse flung furiously against the wheel of a wagon and ground the rider's leg till he grew dizzy with the pain. For an instant he caught at the saddle horn to steady himself as the roan bucked into the open again. “He's pulling leather!” some one shouted. “Shut up, you goat!” advised the Texan good-naturedly. “Can't you see his laig got jammed till he's groggy? Wonder is, he didn't take the dust! They don't raise better riders than he is.” “By hockey! He's all in. Look out! Jed's falling,” France cried, running forward. It looked so for a moment, then Jed swam back to clear consciousness again, and waved them back. He began to use his quirt without mercy. “Might know he'd game it out,” remarked Yorky. He did. It was a long fight, and the horse was flecked with bloody foam before its spirit and strength failed. But the man in the saddle kept his seat till the victory was won. Steve was on the spot to join heartily the murmur of applause, for he was too good a sportsman to grudge admiration even to his enemy. “You're the one best bet in riders, Mr. Briscoe. It's a pleasure to watch you,” he said frankly. Jed's narrowed eyes drifted to him. “Oh, hell!” he drawled with insolent contempt, and turned on his heel.