Connie was the fifth rider. Before her there were three local girls whose riding while good was not particularly colorful. The fourth contestant, Enid Bradshaw, by far outpointed her opponents. She knew she had done well and a satisfied smile played over her face as she left the arena.
“I’ll have to ride as I never did before if I beat that!” thought Connie.
Her turn came next. She mounted Tanglefoot from the fence.
“Let her go!”
As the shout went up, the gate flew open, and out streaked the roan, landing with a running buck in the midst of the judges, forcing them to wheel their horses.
A ripple of comment passed over the crowd. Here was a girl who could ride!
Tanglefoot, too, acted as if he were surprised. For a moment he seemed to be debating the disgrace of his failure to dislodge his fair rider. Then the wiry little mustang went into a veritable paroxysm of bucking.
Connie never knew that seconds could spin out to such an interminable length. The horse leaped into the air, twisting his lithe body like an ancient equine ancestor trying to shake off a puma or a jaguar from his back. Down he would come, stiff-legged, and then rise again into the air as if his muscles were made of spring steel.
From her waist up Connie held her body as relaxed as possible, at the same time shifting her weight with lightning-like rapidity to preserve her balance. Her torso remained vertical to the ground, regardless of Tanglefoot’s rapid maneuvers. Waving her hat with her rein-free hand, the girl kept a graceful seat through it all. Tanglefoot’s best was not good enough.
Connie at last heard the timekeeper’s pistol. The contest was over as far as she was concerned. She felt that she had acquitted herself well and she was sure of it when she heard the cheers of the crowd ringing in her ears.