FEW short days wrought a great change in Jim Legg. His face had received its baptism of Arizona sun, and no longer was he the pale-faced city dweller. His skin was beginning to peel, and as Johnny Grant said—
“He peels off like a package of cigaret papers.”
His hands were seared from fast-traveling ropes, his silken shirt was minus half of one sleeve, and had a huge rent down the back. His ornate sombrero had fallen off in a corral, where a circling remuda had trampled it into the sand, giving it an antique air.
And out of self-defense he had quit wearing glasses. Just now he leaned against the corral fence, trying to roll a cigaret with cramped fingers. Beside him squatted Johnny Grant, his eyes fixed curiously upon this young man, whose eyes were filled with determination.
About fifty feet away from them were Oyster and Eskimo, saddling a horse. The animal was humped painfully, squirming uneasily under the pull of the cinch, but fearing to move, because a heavy bandage had been fastened across its eyes. The two cowboys were talking softly to each other.
“This has gone past the funny stage,” Johnny Grant spoke to Jimmy Legg seriously. “We was jokin’ when we dared yuh to ride Cowcatcher. You can’t ride him. He ditched Eskimo in four jumps, and Eskimo is the best there is around here, Jimmy.”
“I said I’d ride him,” reminded Jimmy Legg. “I haven’t quit yet, have I?”
Johnny Grant shook his head.
“That’s why I hate to see yuh fork that bronc, Jimmy. I don’t sabe yuh, kid. You ain’t strong. Yore body ain’t built for the shocks yuh get in this business. We was raised for this kinda stuff. You ain’t no youngster. That bronc will jist about flatten yuh for life—and whatsa use?”
“Johnny, I want to be a cowboy,” said Jimmy seriously. “It’s something I can’t explain right now. I appreciate you trying to save me. I’ve been thrown five times since I came here, and I’m still able to hobble around.”
“Yeah, I know. But this is a horse. He’s plumb bad. If there’s any slip in the boys bein’ able to herd him away after he’s spilled yuh, he might tromp yuh.”
“But,” Jim Legg spoke softly, “I’ve got confidence in Oyster and Eskimo. They’ll do their part. If I can ride Cowcatcher, will you admit that I can ride?”
Johnny smiled softly.
“I’ll admit that yo’re the best rider in the Blue Wells country.”
“All set!” called Eskimo. “Johnny, you pull the blind, after me and Oyster get all set, will yuh?”
Johnny held Cowcatcher while Jim Legg mounted. The rough-coated gray outlaw, which had defied the best riders of the Blue Wells ranges, stiffened slightly, but did not move. Oyster and Eskimo mounted and rode in on each side of him, prepared to block the bucker from heading into obstacles, and to herd him away from the rider, in case of a spill.
They did not see the sheriff, deputy and another rider swing around the corner of the corral and come toward them.
Jim Legg straightened up in his saddle, grasped the reins tightly and nodded to Johnny Grant.
Johnny reached up and grasped the bandage.
“Pull leather, Jimmy,” he said softly. “Don’t be ashamed to do it. It’s only fools and contest riders that don’t, when they feel themselves goin’.”
But Jim Legg shut his lips tightly and looked straight ahead. He had asked to ride Cowcatcher, after every half-way bucker on the AK had thrown him, and he was going to ride him, or get thrown clean.
Then the bandage was jerked off, and Cowcatcher was moving as he caught his first flash of sunlight, but not ahead, as they expected. Veteran of many battles, he hated the horses and riders which crowded him too closely; so he had whirled free of them, catching them flat-flooted, headed the wrong way.
Although Jim Legg was not unseated, he was flung sidewise, and his right spur hooked wickedly into Cowcatcher’s flank; hooked in while the outlaw was still in the air, heading, for the three riders which were not over a hundred feet away, just drawing up to witness the sport.
There was no chance for Oyster and Eskimo to ride herd on Cowcatcher. The gray outlaw churned into the dust, fairly screaming with rage, head down, running like a streak, forgetting to buck, because of that spur, socked to the full limit of the rowels into his flank.
Johnny Grant ran toward the corral, trying to see through the cloud of dust. Jim Legg was still in the same position, hands flung up, as if fearful of making a mistake and pulling leather.
The sheriff’s party tried to spur their horses aside, but their slow-moving mounts failed to move quickly enough.