Bratton spoke through his teeth, hardly more than a whisper.
“I’d rather you didn’t mention no ladies’ names.”
“Who the blazes are you, to be telling me——”
A shadow fell upon them and Pres Campbell, ex-Texas Ranger, quietly wheeled his horse. His voice was level but authoritative.
“If you boys got any quarreling to do, wait till after the show. You know the rule about rowdyism. Well, I’ll enforce it against both of you if I have to. What’s it all about? If you’re kicking about your bulldogging time, Marling, you’re plumb wrong. I fined you five seconds because there wa’n’t no daylight showing between you and the steer at the dead line, but that didn’t change the result; even if you hadn’t lost that five seconds Bratton still beat you.”
“Aw, that’s all right, judge,” Marling said.
“And you, Bratton, what you got that gun in your hand for? You know there’s a rule against carrying a gun except where they’re called for in the show.”
“I lent it to Red Peeks. His was busted. He just give it back to me.”
“All right. Go put it up. And don’t let me hear any more ruckuses startin’ on this field.”
Fully master of the rodeo and its contestants, old Pres turned and cantered back to the center of the field. The Oklahoma Kid had disappeared into a tent and Curly, with not much time before the calf-roping event, hastened to his own.