Shouts of “Catapult! Catapult, do your stuff!” informed Forest Blakeman that something had gone amiss.
It dawned upon him instantly that Pop Bradshaw had double crossed him. Despite his anger he realized that there could be no retreat. To default would be to make himself ridiculous, and brand himself a coward. He waved to the crowd and rode alongside the stanchion.
As the bars dropped. Catapult rushed out into the arena. Partisans of the animal greatly outnumbered those of the man and cries of, “Throw him, Catapult,” muffled occasional urgings of, “Throw him, cowboy!” Blakeman appeared oblivious of the crowd as he drove home his spurs and rushed pell mell after the fleeing steer.
They traversed nearly the full length of the arena before the sorrel overtook the steer and raced him head to head. Then Blakeman shot through the air in a perfect leap as if hurled from the saddle by the uncoiling of a gigantic spring. Headforemost he dived, his body parallel to the ground. He grasped Catapult’s horns and brought him to a standstill.
Then, exerting the last iota of his strength, Blakeman made a supreme effort to bring the animal to the ground. Catapult’s head slowly turned under the tremendous force of the man’s tensed muscles. But he suddenly snorted and with a sharp toss of his head, hurled his tormentor into the air.
Blakeman sprawled into soft turf, twenty feet away. The crowd roared its delight; the air became thick with sailing sombreros. Lefty and Alkali laughed until they collapsed weakly against the fence.
“And him claimin’ to be a champeen bulldogger!” Lefty jeered.
Blakeman arose unhurt but with a mighty anger surging through him. Not a dozen paces away he saw Pop Bradshaw, the man he believed to be the author of his downfall. Furiously, he advanced upon the embarrassed rancher.
“So you double crossed me!” he said menacingly. “You’ll pay for this!”
“I didn’t know anything about it,” whined the old man.