His plain rigging, the slick, smoothly worn, leather chaps, the undecorated saddle, bridle and spurs, his entire work-a-day outfit contrasted vividly with the gaudy get-up of most of the other riders.  Captain Jack moved along easily and freely, but quietly, and with an air of utter boredom with all the show and confusion about him.  The Ramblin’ Kid’s attitude, whole appearance, matched perfectly the mood of his horse.  He sat loosely in the saddle and carelessly smoked a cigarette.  The truth was his mind was far from the pageant of which he and the little stallion were a part.  He scarcely heard the music nor did he seem to see the thousands of human beings, packed tier above tier, under the mammoth roof of the grandstand.  His thoughts were at the upper crossing of the treacherous Cimarron, out at the Quarter Circle KT; he was seeing again, Carolyn June, as she looked up into his eyes when he dragged her out of the quicksand—­he was hearing, once more, her cry of agony as the bullet from his gun buried itself in the brain of Old Blue.

Louder hand-clapping, stamping of feet, and calling voices, than any that had sounded before, rolled out from the grandstand as the lone rider, on the quiet, unexcited little roan, came down the stretch in front of the great crowd.

Carolyn June looked back, saw the waving hats and handkerchiefs, heard hundreds of voices shouting: 

“Th’ Ramblin’ Kid!  Th’ good old Ramblin’ Kid!”

The crowd had recognized him as the slender rider who, a year ago, after the untamable Cyclone horse had killed Dick Stanley before their eyes and in front of where they sat, had ridden, straight-up and scotching him at every jump, that vicious, murderous-hearted outlaw.

Carolyn June’s eyes moistened and she felt a thrill of pride.

The Ramblin’ Kid barely glanced at the sea of faces, a faint smile hung for an instant on his lips, as he jerked his hand, the one in which he held the cigarette, to the brim of his hat when he came opposite the judges’ stand.

When the parade swung down the wide, one-sided, main street of Eagle Butte, Mike Sabota, from the door of the Elite Amusement Parlor, watched it pass.  He was standing there, by the side of the lanky marshal and surrounded by a group of pool-room loafers and “carnival sharks” when Carolyn June and Skinny came by.  She looked around in time to see him staring, with a vulgar leer, straight into her eyes.

“There is that big, dirty, animal-looking fellow we saw the other day!” she said, with a frown of disgust, to Skinny.  “He’s horrible—­”

Skinny glanced at Sabota.

“Yes, he is ornery,” he said.  “He runs that joint and boot-legs on the side.  He’s got a reputation as a slugger and keeps the crowd around him buffaloed.  They say he killed a feller—­beat him to death—­in a fight over at Sapulpa before he came to Eagle Butte.  I don’t like the filthy cuss.  He’s mean!”