ment, a flush of indignation burning in her face.
"That thing wasn't in the corral!"
The girl who had made the next best record to Sallie shook her head.
"They drove it in from back there," she said. "It's not on the square—they're goin' to let her rope a ghost."
Texas Hartwell looked hard at the lean and lifeless, desiccated, mangy steer. He stood as if paralyzed by amazement, incredulity in every line of his solemn face. Presently he walked back to the judges, taking the ground in immense strides, like a man who was either very angry or very earnest.
"Gentle-men, you're not goin' to permit this, surely?" He spoke in what seemed a gentle protest. The judges looked down on him indifferently. "Why gentle-men, that thing ain't an animal—it's a dead carcass!"
"We're judges of this game, young man," the eldest of the trio said.
He was a man of congested face and bleached-linen whiteness of hair which told of alcoholic curing. His purple lips were thick, his teeth black and broken, his eyes rimmed with red. A little line of scraggy white brows marked sharply the aggravated redness of his skin.
Texas marked him well, in slow and silent look,
