Carolyn June looked back, saw the waving hats and handkerchiefs, heard hundreds of voices shouting:
"Th' Ramblin' Kid! Th' good old Ramblin' Kid!"
The crowd had recognized him as the slender rider who, a year ago, after the untamable Cyclone horse had killed Dick Stanley before their eyes and in front of where they sat, had ridden, straight-up and scotching him at every jump, that vicious, murderous-hearted outlaw.
Carolyn June's eyes moistened and she felt a thrill of pride.
The Ramblin' Kid barely glanced at the sea of faces, a faint smile hung for an instant on his lips, as he jerked his hand, the one in which he held the cigarette, to the brim of his hat when he came opposite the judges' stand.
When the parade swung down the wide, one-sided, main street of Eagle Butte, Mike Sabota, from the door of the Elite Amusement Parlor, watched it pass. He was standing there, by the side of the lanky marshal and surrounded by a group of pool-room loafers and "carnival sharks" when Carolyn June and Skinny came by. She looked around in time to see him staring, with a vulgar leer, straight into her eyes.
"There is that big, dirty, animal-looking fellow we saw the other day!" she said, with a frown of disgust, to Skinny. "He's horrible—"
Skinny glanced at Sabota.
"Yes, he is ornery," he said. "He runs that joint and boot-legs on the side. He's got a reputation as a slugger and keeps the crowd around him buffaloed. They say he killed a feller—beat him to death—in a fight over at Sapulpa before he came to Eagle Butte. I don't like the filthy cuss. He's mean!"
"He looks it!" Carolyn June exclaimed, with the uncomfortable feeling that the big Greek's look had touched her with something vile and unclean.