then bolted out on the prairie, but got away with the loss of only about ten seconds, running the half mile like a scared wolf.  Until it came the roan’s turn to go again, no untoward incident happened, friendly timekeepers posting me at every change of mounts.  But when this bolter’s turn came again, he reared and plunged away stiff-legged, crossed the inward furrow, and before I could turn him again to the track, cut inside the course for two stakes or possibly fifty yards.  By this time I was beyond recall, but as I came round and passed the starting-point, the judges attempted to stop me, and I well knew my chances were over.  Uncle Lance promptly waived all rights to the award, and I was allowed to finish the race, lowering Earnest’s time over twenty seconds.  The eighth contestant, so I learned later, barely came under the time limit.

The vaqueros took charge of the relay mounts, and, reinvesting myself in my discarded clothing, I mounted my horse to leave the field, when who should gallop up and extend sympathy and congratulations but Miss Jean and my old sweetheart.  There was no avoiding them, and discourtesy to the mistress of Las Palomas being out of the question, I greeted Esther with an affected warmth and cordiality.  As I released her hand I could not help noticing how she had saddened into a serious woman, while the gentleness in her voice condemned me for my attitude toward her.  But Miss Jean artfully gave us little time for embarrassment, inviting me to show them the unconcluded programme.  From contest to contest, we rode the field until the sun went down, and the trials ended.

It was my first tournament and nothing escaped my notice.  There were fully one hundred and fifty women and girls, and possibly double that number of men, old and young, every one mounted and galloping from one point of the field to another.  Blushing maidens and their swains dropped out of the throng, and from shady vantage points watched the crowd surge back and forth across the field of action.  We were sorry to miss Enrique’s roping; for having snapped his saddle horn with the first cast, he recovered his rope, fastened it to the fork of his saddletree, and tied his steer in fifty-four seconds, or within ten of the winner’s record.  When he apologized to Miss Jean for his bad luck, hat in hand and his eyes as big as saucers, one would have supposed he had brought lasting disgrace on Las Palomas.

We were more fortunate in witnessing Pasquale’s riding.  For this contest outlaws and spoilt horses had been collected from every quarter.  Riders drew their mounts by lot, and Pasquale drew a cinnamon-colored coyote from the ranch of “Uncle Nate” Wilson of Ramirena.  Uncle Nate was feeling in fine fettle, and when he learned that his contribution to the outlaw horses had been drawn by a Las Palomas man, he hunted up the ranchero.  “I’ll bet you a new five-dollar hat that that cinnamon horse throws your vaquero so high that the birds build nests in his crotch before he hits the ground.”  Uncle Lance took the bet, and disdainfully ran his eye up and down his old friend, finally remarking, “Nate, you ought to keep perfectly sober on an occasion like this—­you’re liable to lose all your money.”