The Oklahoma Kid, who meantime had been returning across the field, out of the public picture, stopped beside Millie Wayne.
“Can you beat it?” he demanded. “Drop that hombre into a dipping vat and he’d come up with a pocket full of oil wells! If I could ever get luck to break for me that-a-way——”
Millie was not listening. A bit breathlessly she was looking toward where Curly and the steer were rising out of the dust. It had been a wonderful throw. After exhibitions like that it had been Curly’s habit to wave his hand at her—until the previous day.
A messenger, cantering over from where old Pres Campbell sat on his horse in the center of the field, handed a slip of paper to Foghorn McNamara, who glanced at it and made due announcement:
“That bulldogger was Curly Bratton. Time, eleven and two fifths seconds. The world’s record is seven and two fifths seconds. Curly Bratton wins today’s bulldogging. Jack Marling, second. Billy Toms, third. The next event is the cowgirls’ trick-riding contest. The ladies taking part——”
Millie’s teeth shut tightly over her lower lip. Curly had not looked at her at all. He had waved his hand toward the stand—toward one spot in the stand, the same spot he had waved to yesterday afternoon, the spot where a brilliant toque hat made a splash of violent red. And under the crimson splash a feminine hand waved back.
It was a soft, pinkly manicured hand, quite different from Millie’s not unbeautiful but hard, competent ones. Millie had not failed to note the contrast when its owner—her name was Florrine—had been introduced to a lot of the performers by one of the resident managers of the show after the first afternoon’s contests. Millie had closely observed the face, too; an oval, olive face, artistically tinted, with languishing dark eyes. And the clothes.
Miss Florrine wore modish clothes; Millie, even at the moment when Curly, shaking hands with the city girl, had awkwardly murmured his delight at meeting her, had realized how they looked in comparison with her own picturesque but simple working garb. At the same moment she had sensed that the girl was attracted by Curly—as who wouldn’t be?—and that Curly was tremendously flattered and impressed.
Then, not much later, Curly and Miss Florrine had spoken together at the edge of the group, and Curly, that evening, carefully attired in his most striking raiment, had left the hotel immediately after dinner and was still absent when Millie went to bed. The previous day he had waved toward the red hat instead of at Millie. And now again on this day.