In vain her eyes sought the faces of the cowboys.  She turned to Purdy who had edged his horse close beside the lumber pile.

“Where is your friend—­the one who raced with you for my handkerchief?” she asked.  “I haven’t seen him since you both rode up in that first wild rush.  He hasn’t been in any of the contests.”

“No, mom,” answered the cowpuncher, in tones of well-simulated regret; “he’s—­he’s prob’ly over to some saloon.  He’s a good man some ways, Tex is.  But he can’t keep off the booze.”

Kicking his feet from the stirrups the man stood upright in his saddle and peered over the top of an intervening pile of lumber.  “Yes, I thought so.  His horse is over in front of the Headquarters.  Him an’ Cinnabar Joe’s prob’ly holdin’ a booze histin’ contest of their own.”  Slipping easily into his seat, he unfastened the rope from his saddle, and began slowly to uncoil it.

“All ready!” called the Mayor. “Go git him!”

A huge black steer dashed out into the open with a cowboy in full pursuit, his loop swinging slowly above his head.  Down the middle of the flat they tore, the loop whirling faster as the horseman gained on his quarry.  Suddenly the rope shot out, a cloud of white dust rose into the air as the cow-horse stopped in his tracks, a moment of suspense, and the black steer dashed frantically about seeking an avenue of escape while in his wake trailed the rope like a long thin snake with its fangs fastened upon the frantic brute’s neck.  A roar of laughter went up from the crowd and Purdy turned to the girl.  “Made a bad throw an’ got him around the neck,” he explained.  “When you git ’em that way you got to turn ’em loose or they’ll drag you all over the flat.  A nine-hundred-pound horse hain’t got no show ag’in a fifteen-hundred-pound steer with the rope on his neck.  An’ even if the horse would hold, the cinch wouldn’t, so he’s out of it.”

The black steer was rounded up and chased from the arena, and once more Mayor Maloney, watch in hand, cried “Go git him!”

Another steer dashed out and another cowboy with whirling loop thundered after him.  The rope fell across the animal’s shoulders and the loop swung under.  The horse stopped, and the steer, his fore legs jerked from under him, fell heavily.  To make his rope fast to the saddle-horn and slip to the ground leaving the horse to fight it out with the captive, was the work of a moment for the cowboy who approached the struggling animal, short rope in hand.  Purdy who was leaning over his saddle-horn, watching the man’s every move, gave a cry of relief.

“He’s up behind!  That’ll fix your clock!” Sure enough, the struggling animal had succeeded in regaining his hind legs and while the horse, with the cunning of long practice, kept his rope taut, the steer plunged about to such good purpose that precious seconds passed before the cowboy succeeded in making his tie-rope fast to a hind foot, jerking it from under the struggling animal, and securing it to the opposite fore foot.