“Yes,” said the cowboys in chorus, “that’s what we’ve ‘greed on,” and they carelessly laid their drawn revolvers across the pommels of their saddles.
“Judge,” continued the spokesman, “we’re predictin’ if ye cross that ‘ere tape line behind Bill Mounce, we’ll fill ye fuller o’ holes than the top end of an old-fashioned tin pepper-box. Do you see?”
The judge saw. He was easily the worst scared man in the big Southwest at that very minute.
The cowboys wheeled their ponies around and galloped for position, and the judge, unattended, walked thoughtfully back to the starting-place, still retaining his distinguished robe.
Now, when time was called, the people were treated to a number not on the program—a sight that must ever remain vividly fixed in the recollection of every man who witnessed the incident. It was the judge. He stepped out from under his huge cloak, and behold “the little man in red”—he underwent, as if by magic, a strange metamorphosis. He was clad in a skin-tight suit of flaming red material, and looked a veritable Mephistopheles. The people saw the grotesqueness of his make-up, and sent up deafening yells.
The blacksmith looked upon his athletic rival and trembled. The fantastic attire of the judge was evidently driving terror into his heart.
Judge Linus Lynn had come to win, even if it took blood, or the appearance of it, to encompass his adversary’s defeat.
Now, the burly horse-shoer was attired in his usual clothing, save his leathern apron used at the forge had been laid aside. His feet were bare and his trousers rolled up to his knees.
Seaton Cornwall shouted, “Ready!” The contestants lined up. Lynn crouched so low for the start that his round head seemed to be on a line with his knees.
“Ready!” repeated Cornwall, and then a pistol-shot started the men away over the course. The report of the pistol silenced every tongue. Even the lazy cattle looked up in mild-eyed wonderment at the pranks of men.