Splashes of red

West comes East--and proves that its own methods for crime detection work as well in the big city as they do in the God’s country.

That star rodeo performer, but as bad an egg as ever moonlit a bronc, the “Oklahoma Kid,” wrestled his steer to a quick fall, and the voice of “Foghorn” McNamara, holding his horse quiet to face the crowded grand stand at Speedway Park, came booming across the field to where Millie Wayne, in her cowgirl clothes, stood waiting to participate in the next event on the program.

“That bulldogger was Jack Marling, the Oklahoma Kid. Time, seventeen seconds flat. Next and last contestant in today’s bulldogging is ‘Curly’ Bratton.”

Preston Campbell, the rodeo judge, gray-mustached Texan of the old school, raised a hand toward the chute where the next steer waited, and the red beast plunged wildly across the arena, desperate to leave behind him the lithe youngster with the blazing neckerchief who galloped on his flank.

Opposite the middle of the grand stand the horse overtook the steer, swerved in, and Curly leaped and got the horns with not one lost motion. Feet braced, he slid backward for two seconds, then man and steer came to a struggling stop. For one more second they might have been a statue.

The animal’s head, then, twisted slowly, grotesquely, as though it cocked its startled eyes to squint sidewise at the sky. Its feet went out from under it. Down together to the ground crashed bulldogger and bulldogged, and the youth’s right hand shot upward in signal to the judge.

The Oklahoma Kid, who meantime had been returning across the field, out of the public picture, stopped beside Millie Wayne.

“Can you beat it?” he demanded. “Drop that hombre into a dipping vat and he’d come up with a pocket full of oil wells! If I could ever get luck to break for me that-a-way----”

Millie was not listening. A bit breathlessly she was looking toward where Curly and the steer were rising out of the dust. It had been a wonderful throw. After exhibitions like that it had been Curly’s habit to wave his hand at her--until the previous day.

A messenger, cantering over from where old Pres Campbell sat on his horse in the center of the field, handed a slip of paper to Foghorn McNamara, who glanced at it and made due announcement:

“That bulldogger was Curly Bratton. Time, eleven and two fifths seconds. The world’s record is seven and two fifths seconds. Curly Bratton wins today’s bulldogging. Jack Marling, second. Billy Toms, third. The next event is the cowgirls’ trick-riding contest. The ladies taking part----”

* * * * *

Millie’s teeth shut tightly over her lower lip. Curly had not looked at her at all. He had waved his hand toward the stand--toward one spot in the stand, the same spot he had waved to yesterday afternoon, the spot where a brilliant toque hat made a splash of violent red. And under the crimson splash a feminine hand waved back.

It was a soft, pinkly manicured hand, quite different from Millie’s not unbeautiful but hard, competent ones. Millie had not failed to note the contrast when its owner--her name was Florrine--had been introduced to a lot of the performers by one of the resident managers of the show after the first afternoon’s contests. Millie had closely observed the face, too; an oval, olive face, artistically tinted, with languishing dark eyes. And the clothes.