was not one of the "queens of the range" which the poster had announced, then she was a princess, at least. The spectators appeared to hold the same opinion. They would not be satisfied until she had ridden past, modest and blushing, her hair in disorder from her struggle with the steer, her hat in her hand. Sallie McCoy would have to go a pretty good pace to beat that girl's time, Texas thought, and began to fear for her reputation.
He looked again toward the stock-pen. There another girl had appeared on horse-back, and—there was no mistaking it—the very horse that he had ridden to a winning finish not more than an hour before. So that would be Sallie McCoy, beyond a doubt, and it was not the gorgeous lady in the velvet dress and silver spurs.
Anything, indeed, but gorgeous this little lady appeared as she rode into the arena and came to a stop not a rod from the spot where Texas stood. She was dressed plainly in a loose, shirtlike upper garment, laced at the front in the cowboy style, a modest blue necktie tucked into the bosom. Her gray blouse disappeared under the broad belt around her waist, with a plain suggestion of a tail to it equal to any cowboy's shirt on the Arkansas Valley range that day. The skirt was of corduroy, divided into voluminous trousers, set with large
