Down dropped the starter’s flag, and off dashed Walt down the lane of faces, his mount going like the wind. As he neared the post he crouched and drove his lance, as he thought, straight for the ring. But alas! he hit the arm of the tilting apparatus and around came the sawdust bag, hitting the Border Boy a blow on the head that almost knocked him out of the saddle. A chorus of yells and jeers that made Walt’s ears burn, greeted his failure. He was much downcast, as he rode back to the starting place to await his turn to try again.
Ralph came next and fared no better than Walt. But he was more easy-going about it.
“Guess I’ll do better next time,” he shouted to the laughing Mexicans, none of whom understood him.
Now came Jack. On account of his mount,—little Firewater,—he perhaps attracted more attention than the others. At all events, a great ripple of sound swept like a wave through the crowd as he dashed down the lists. But as the Border Boy neared the ring and couched his lance for the tilt, a sombrero was hurled from the crowd, striking Firewater full in the eyes and causing him to stop and swing with an abruptness that would have sent a less practiced rider flying, and perhaps have caused him serious injury. But if this had been the intent of the man who hurled the hat, it failed, for Jack kept his seat almost without a perceptible shifting.
“A hundred pesos to the man who finds and captures that scoundrel!” shouted the Don angrily. “Senor Merrill, come here.”
Thus summoned to the stand, Jack became the center of all eyes.
Jack swept by in a cloud of dust and transfixed the ring.
“That was an outrage, senor, for which I apologize to you in the name of my country,” said the Don, his voice quivering with real chagrin.