“Ben Bragdon is the best man for Wyoming.”
“I know it. Put me on his committee right away.”
“You’ll be a tower of strength,” exclaimed Grant enthusiastically. “The champion broncho-buster of the world—just think of that.”
Roderick laughed loud and long. This special qualification for political work mightily amused him.
“Oh, don’t laugh,” Grant remonstrated, in all seriousness. “You are a man of note now in the community, make no mistake. You can swing the vote of every cow-puncher in the land. You are their hero—their local Teddy Roosevelt.”
Again Roderick was convulsed.
“And by the way,” continued Grant, “I never had the chance to congratulate you on that magnificent piece of work on Gin Fizz. It was the greatest ever.”
“Oh, we’ll let all that slide.”
“No, siree. Wait till you read my column description of the immortal combat in the Doublejack.” He turned to his writing desk, and picked up a kodak print. “Here’s your photograph—snapped by Gail Holden on the morning of the event, riding your favorite pony Badger. Oh, I’ve got all the details; the half-tone has already been made. The Encampment Herald boys have been chasing around all day for a picture, but I’m glad you were in hiding. The Doublejack will scoop them proper this time.”
But Roderick was no longer listening. The name of Gail Holden had sent his thoughts far away.