"Jack-Boy—Jack-Boy!" she called with a caress in her voice. "Careful! We're friends!" The attitude of the stallion changed instantly and the menace was gone from his eyes.
The Gold Dust maverick heard the voice and with a friendly little nicker rubbed her head against the outstretched hand.
In a corner was the Ramblin' Kid's saddle, bridle, blanket and worn leather chaps.
With a light pat of the outlaw filly's cheek Carolyn June turned and began quickly and deftly putting the riding gear on the beautiful mare.
* * * * *
For an hour and a half the Ramblin' Kid lay as he had fallen when he started to hand the coffee cup back to Gyp. Breathing heavily, his face flushed, he was as one in the deep stupor of complete intoxication. At last he stirred uneasily. An unconscious groan came from his lips. His eyes opened. In them was a dazed, puzzled look. Where was he? He tried vainly to remember—the clean life, the iron constitution and youth—aided perhaps by an indomitable subconscious will protesting against this something that had happened to him—were throwing off the effects of the drug hours before an ordinary man would have regained even a hint of sensibility.
He stood up—reeling unsteadily. He was deathly sick. Lightning flashes of pain throbbed through his head. Waves of blackness rolled before his eyes. Surges of numbness swept over his legs and arms. He tried hard to remember. There was something—what was it? Th'—th'—what th' hell?—th' race! That was it—th'—th'—th' sweepstakes! In an instant the thought was gone. It kept beating back: Th' sweepstakes—th' race—What time was it? Had it been run? He staggered to the door. It was locked! His head was bursting. If he could only get over the nausea. He felt his knees start to give way. No! No! My God, he wouldn't give up! He—oh, yes. Th' race! Captain Jack—no—th'—th'—maverick—he had to ride—He must get out! There was a—a—window—sometimes they had them—in the back of the stalls. Maybe the hay was over it. He climbed on the bales. Behind them he could see the opening. God, he was weak! With the sweat of terrible nausea bursting from every pore of his body he pulled the bales back. He fell over the bale on which he had been lying. One hand brushed his hat which had fallen from his head. Mechanically, with stiff fingers, he picked it up and jammed it on again. Then he climbed—crawled—over the hay and pitched forward through the opening, in a limp heap, on the ground outside.
For a moment he lost consciousness completely again: Th'—th' race—th' maverick! he mustn't forget—
He fought his way to his feet and groped along back of the building—the stall—which way was it? Down there? No—the other way—
As Carolyn June tightened the rear cinch on the Gold Dust maverick and turned toward the door of the stall with: "Look out, boys—I'm coming out!" the Ramblin' Kid, clutching at the side of the building, reeled around the corner of the stall. The cowboys saw him. He himself saw only black shapes where their horses were.