The outlaw gave up.  It trotted tamely back to the grand stand through the shredded fragments of pine in the splintered fence, and the grand stand rose to its feet with a shout of applause for the rider.

Kirby slipped from the saddle and limped back to his fellows on the fence.  Already the crowd was pouring out from every exit of the stand.  A thousand cars of fifty different makes were snorting impatiently to get out of the jam as soon as possible.  For Cheyenne was full, full to overflowing.  The town roared with a high tide of jocund life.  From all over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico hard-bitten, sunburned youths in high-heeled boots and gaudy attire had gathered for the Frontier Day celebration.  Hundreds of cars had poured up from Denver.  Trains had disgorged thousands of tourists come to see the festival.  Many people would sleep out in automobiles and on the prairie.  The late comers at restaurants and hotels would wait long and take second best.

A big cattleman beckoned to Lane.  “Place in my car, son.  Run you back to town.”

One of the judges sat in the tonneau beside the rough rider.

“How’s the leg?  Hurt much?”

“Not much.  I’m noticin’ it some,” Kirby answered with a smile.

“You’ll have to ride to-morrow.  It’s you and Sanborn for the finals.  We haven’t quite made up our minds.”

The cattleman was an expert driver.  He wound in and out among the other cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the great majority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with the vanguard.

After dinner the rough rider asked the clerk at her hotel if there was any mail for Miss Rose McLean.  Three letters were handed him.  He put them in his pocket and set out for the hospital.

He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mind highly indignant.  “That doctor talks as though he’s going to keep me here a week.  Well, he’s got another guess coming.  I’ll not stay,” she exploded to her visitor.

“Now, looky here, you better do as the doc says.  He knows best.  What’s a week in your young life?” Kirby suggested.

“A week’s a week, and I don’t intend to stay.  Why did you limp when you came in?  Get hurt?”

“Not really hurt.  Jammed my leg against a fence.  I drew Wild Fire.”

“Did you win the championship?” the girl asked eagerly.

“No.  Finals to-morrow.  Sanborn an’ me.  How’s the arm?  Bone broken?”

“Yes.  Oh, it aches some.  Be all right soon.”

He drew her letters from his pocket.  “Stopped to get your mail at the hotel.  Thought you’d like to see it.”

Wild Rose looked the envelopes over and tore one open.

“From my little sister Esther,” she explained.  “Mind if I read it?  I’m some worried about her.  She’s been writing kinda funny lately.”

As she read, the color ebbed from her face.  When she had finished reading the letter Kirby spoke gently.