RIDE ’EM, COWBOYS! ANNUAL ROUND-UP AT BAD AX July 2, 3, and 4. ———— Best Bronco Busters, Ropers, And Bulldoggers From a Dozen States Will Compete FOR WORLD’S CHAMPIONSHIP ———— Pony Races, Indian Dances, Balls, and Street Carnival. ———— Also Fancy Roping and Riding ———— DON’T MISS THIS GREAT ROUND-UP. IT’S A BIG LEAGUE SHOW. ───────────────────────────────────── Ruth drew up to read it. She turned to her companion. “You’ll ride, I suppose? Mr. Flanders says you’re a famous bronco buster.” “I don’t reckon I will,” he answered. “Some of the boys entered me, but I’ve decided not to go in this year.” “Why not?” “Gettin’ too old to be jolted around so rough,” he replied, smiling. “The younger lads can take their turn.” “Yes, you look as though you had one foot in the grave,” she derided, with a swift glance at the muscular shoulders above the long, lean body. “Of course you’ll ride. You’ve got to. Aren’t you champion of the world?” “That’s just a way of talkin’,” he explained. “They have one of these shows each year at Cheyenne. Other places have ’em too. The winners can’t all be champions of the world.” “But I want to see you ride,” she told him, as though he could not without discourtesy refuse so small a favour. He dismissed this with a smile. From Flat Top they watched the sun go down behind a sea of rounded hills. The flame of it was in her blood, the glow of it on her face. She was in love with Wyoming these days, with the cool and crystalline air of its mornings, with the scarfs of heat waving across the desert at noon, with the porphyry mountain peaks edged with fire at even. There was this much of the poet in Ruth Trovillion, that she could go out at dewy dawn and find a miracle in the sunrise. Impulsively she turned to her companion a face luminous with joy. “Don’t you just love it all?” He nodded. The picture struck a spark from his imagination. By some trick of light and shade she seemed the heart of the sunset, a golden, glowing creature of soft, warm flesh through which an ardent soul quivered and palpitated with vague yearnings and inarticulate desires. Into the perfect peace of a harmonious world jarred a raucous shout. From a hill pocket back of Flat Top came a cloud of dust. In the falling light a dim, gray mass poured out upon the mesa. It moved with a soft rustle of small, padded feet, of wool fleeces rubbing against each other. A horseman cantered into view and caught sight of McCoy. With a jeering laugh he shouted a greeting: