“Go to it, old pal!” Ace thumped the contestant breath-takingly.
“Spitfire! O-o-wah-hoo-o!” bellowed a group of cow-boys, in imitation of the falsetto Indian yell.
“OO-wah-hoo-oo-oo!” the Indians bettered them.
Senator King honked in joyous abandon. Pedro’s dark eyes flashed. “Spunky kid!” commented Radcliffe. “I’m betting he’ll ride him straight up!”
“He’ll be killed!” Rosa shivered.
“Not with those long legs to get a grip with,” the Ranger reassured her.
“Ain’t that hoss a dinger!” admiringly Long Lester demanded of the assemblage, as Spitfire danced forth with three lassos trying to hold him for the blinders. Again he tried to climb the fence, eyes wide, nostrils quivering.
“I’m just itchin’ to ride him,” Ted replied to Ace’s questioning gaze. Every nerve in his wiry body was keyed electrically. Then the saddle was adjusted, Ted was in the stirrups, and the blinder was jerked free. “R-r-ready! Let ’er go!” was megaphoned.
About that time things began to happen. Spitfire, as if feeling that his reputation needed demonstrating, began to double in his best bucking form.
“Ride him, Ted!” yelled Ace. “Hey, Ted rides him, eh?”