Bannister slid from the saddle and swayed unsteadily across the arena. The emergency past, he had scarce an ounce of force left in him. Jim McWilliams ran out and slipped an arm around his shoulders, regardless of what his friends might think of him for it.
“You’re all in, old man. Y’u hadn’t ought to have ridden, even though y’u did skin us all to a finish.”
“Nonsense, Mac. First place goes to y’u or—or Jack Holloway.”
“Not unless the judges are blind.”
But Bannister’s prediction proved true. The champion, Sanford, had been traveling with a Wild West show, and was far too soft to compete with these lusty cowboys, who had kept hard from their daily life on the plains. Before he had ridden three minutes it was apparent that he stood no chance of retaining his title, so that the decision narrowed itself to an issue between the two Bannisters and McWilliams. First place was awarded to the latter, the second prize to Jack Holloway and the third to Ned Bannister.
But nearly everybody in the grand stand knew that Bannister had been discriminated against because of his unpopularity. The judges were not local men, and had nothing to fear from the outlaw. Therefore they penalized him on account of his reputation. It would never do for the Associated Press dispatches to send word all over the East that a murderous desperado was permitted, unmolested, to walk away with the championship belt.
“It ain’t a square deal,” declared McWilliams promptly.
He was sitting beside Nora, and he turned round to express his opinion to the two sitting behind him in the box.
“We’ll not go behind the returns. Y’u won fairly. I congratulate y’u, Mr. Champion-of-the-world,” replied the sheepman, shaking hands cordially.
“I told you to bring that belt to the Lazy D,” smiled his mistress, as she shook hands.