The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

2: The Man on Horseback

Not the least piquant feature of the Queen ménage was its major-domo. Now this inestimable word, which with our Nordic genius for plagiarism we have appropriated from the Spanish, invariably evokes visions of regal splendor, solemnity, and above all pomposity. The true major-domo must have (besides the crushing dignity of years) a paunch, flat feet, the vivacity of dead codfish, an emperor’s stare, and a waddle which is a cross between a papal procession and the triumphal march of returning Pompey. Moreover he must possess the burnished knavishness of a Mississippi gambler, the haggling instinct of a Parisian marchandeur, and the loyalty of a hound.

The piquancy of the Queens’ major-domo lay in that, except for loyalty, he resembled no major-domo that ever lived. Far from evoking visions of splendor, solemnity, and pomposity, sight of him called forth nothing so much as a composite picture of all the gamins that ever prowled the gutters of Metropolis. Where a paunch should have been there was a flat and muscular patch of tight little belly; his feet were as small and agile as a dancer’s; his eyes were bright twin moons; and his mode of locomotion can only be described as a light fantastic tripping in the best pixy-on-the-greens-ward manner.

And as for his years, he was “between a man and a boy, a hobble-de-hoy, a fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen.” Except, alas for Barham! he was neither fat nor little; but on the contrary was lanky as a spider and as lean as adolescent Cassius.

This, then, was Djuna — Djuna the Magnificent, as Ellery Queen sometimes called him; the young major-domo of the Queen household, who had early evinced a genius for cookery and a flair for new gastronomic creations which had for all time settled the domestic problem for the Queens. An orphan, picked up by Inspector Queen during the lonely years when Ellery was at college, Djuna came to the Queens a beaten little creature with no surname, a swarthy skin, and a fluid cunning which was undoubtedly a heritage from Romany ancestors.

In time he ruled the household, and with no light hand.

Now, so strange is fate, had there been no Djuna there might have been no mystery — at least insofar as Ellery Queen was concerned. It was Djuna’s gypsy hand which innocently moved the pieces that brought Ellery to the Colosseum. To understand how this came about it is necessary to reflect on the universal character of youth. Djuna at sixteen was all boy. Under Ellery’s subtle guidance he had pushed his dark heritage into a locked closet of his brain and expanded; he became a refined gamin, which is paradoxically the essence of all so-called “well-bred” boyhood; he belonged to clubs, and played baseball, and handball, and basketball, and he patronized the movies with an enthusiastic passion which more often than not taxed his generous allowance. Had he lived a generation earlier he should have appeased his rabid appetite for adventure by devouring Nick Carter, Horatio Alger, and Altsheler. As it was, he made his gods out of living people — the heroes of the silver screen; and particularly those heroes who dressed in chaps and Stetsons, rode horses, flung lassos, and were “fast on the draw, pardner!”

The connection is surely apparent. When the press-agent of Wild Bill Grant’s Rodeo caused the New York newspapers to erupt with a rash of hot red stories about its history, purpose, aims, attractions, stars, ad nauseam, he was playing directly to that wide unseen audience which makes its appearance in public only when the circus conies to town, and then fills the big tent with treble screams, the crackle of peanut-shells, and the gusty wonder of childhood. From the moment Djuna’s burning black eyes alighted on the advertisement of the opening, the Queens knew no peace. He must see with his own eyes this fabulous creature, this (reverently whispered) Buck Horne. He must see the cowboys. He must see the “buckin’ broncs.” He must see the stars. He must see everything.

And so, with no premonition of what was to come, Inspector Richard Queen — that little bird of a man who had guided the Homicide Squad for more years than he cared to recall — telephoned Tony Mars, with whom he had a speaking acquaintance; and it was arranged without Djuna’s foreknowledge that the Queens should survey the gladiatorial ruckus from Mars’s own box at the Colosseum on opening night.

Tugging on the leash of Djuna’s impatience, Inspector Queen and Ellery were constrained to “go early; come on!” Consequently, they were the first of the Mars party to arrive for the performance. Mars’s box was on the south side of the arena near the eastern curve of the oval. The Colosseum was already half full; and hundreds were streaming without cessation into the building. The Queens sat back in plush-covered chairs; but Djuna’s sharp chin was thrust over the rail, and his eyes smoked as they hungrily engulfed the broad terrain below, where workmen were still packing the hard earth of the arena’s core, and the cameramen on Major Kirby’s platform were still busy with their apparatus. He barely noticed the entrance of the great Tony Mars, a fresh derby on his poll and a fresh cigar clenched by his brown teeth.

“Glad to see you again, Inspector. Oh, Mr. Queen!” He sat down, his small eyes roving about the vast scene as if he felt the necessity of keeping a vigilant eye on all details at once. “Well, it’s a new thrill for old Broadway, hey?”

The Inspector took snuff. “I’d say,” he remarked benevolently, “for Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Westchester, and every place but Broadway.”

“Judging by the provincial manners of your audience, Mr. Mars,” grinned Ellery. For the vendors were already busy hawking, and the characteristic sound of cracking peanut-shells filled the amphitheatre.

“You’ll get plenty of Broadway wisenheimers here tonight,” said Mars. “I know my crowds. Broadway’s filled with a hard-boiled bunch, an’ all that; but they’re all saps an’ suckers at heart, and they’ll come an’ chew goobers an’ raise hell just for the kick they’ll get out of actin’ like hicks. Ever watch a morning crowd of hard guys at the State when they put on an old-time Western? They whistle an’ stamp their feet an’ all that, and they love it so much they’d cry if you took it away from ’em. Old Buck Horne’ll get a good hand tonight.”

At the magic name Djuna’s prominent ears twitched, and he turned and slowly surveyed Tony Mars with a kindling respect.

“Buck Horne,” said the Inspector with a dreamy smile. “The old galoot! Thought he was dead and buried long ago. Good stunt getting him here, all right.”

“Ain’t a stunt, Inspector. It’s a build-up.”

“Eh?”

“Well, y’see,” said Mars reflectively, “Buck’s been out of pictures for nine-ten years. Did a movie three years ago, but it didn’t pan out so well. But now with the talkies goin’ full blast... He an’ Wild Bill Grant are buddies. Grant’s a good business man to boot. Now the pay-off is this: if Buck goes over in the big time here, if his appearance makes a splash in New York, it’s — well, rumored that he’ll make a screen come-back next season.”

“With Grant, I suppose, backin’ him?”

The promoter looked at his house. “Well I ain’t sayin’ I’m not interested in the proposition myself.”

The Inspector settled more comfortably in his seat. “How’s the big fight coming along?”

“Fight? Oh, the fight! Swell, Inspector, swell. Advance sales are way beyond my expectations. I think—”

There was a little flurry at the rear of the box. They all turned, and then rose. A very lovely and feminine creature in a black evening gown and ermine wrap stood smiling there. A press of young men with hard eyes and cocked snap-brims were behind her, talking fast; some of them held cameras. She entered the box, and Tony Mars gallantly handed her to a front seat. There were introductions. Djuna, who had turned back to devour the arena once more after a single brief look at the newcomer, suddenly shuddered.

“Miss Horne — Inspector Queen, Mr. Ellery Queen...”

Djuna kicked his chair aside, his lean face working. “You,” he gasped to the astonished young woman, “you Kit Horne?”

“Why — yes, of course.”

“Oh,” said Djuna in a trembling voice, and retreated until his back pressed against the rail. “Oh,” he said again, and his eyes grew enormous. Then he licked his lips and croaked: “But where — where’s your six-shooter, ma’am, an’ your — your bronc, ma’am?”

“Djuna,” said the Inspector weakly; but Kit Horne smiled and then said in a very serious tone: “I’m frightfully sorry, but I had to leave them home. They wouldn’t have let me in, you see.”

“Gee,” said Djuna, and spent five minutes staring at her radiant profile in fierce concentration. Poor Djuna! It was almost too much, this proximity to an idol. The great Kit Horne had spoken to him, to Djuna the Magnificent, by — by Buffalo Bill! That lovely wraith who had flitted over an impersonal screen, riding like a Valkyrie, shooting like a man, roping the dastardly villain... And then he blinked and slowly, reluctantly, turned his head toward the rear of the box.

It was Tommy Black.

There were two others with him — another radiant vision, to whom all the males instantly deferred, Mara Gay; and Julian Hunter, impeccably dressed — but Djuna forgot everything, even the great Kit Horne, as he gulped the bubbling, incredible elixir so casually offered to him. Tommy Black! Tommy Black the fighter! Cripes! He retreated to his feet, overwhelmed by shyness; but from that moment no one in Tony Mars’s box existed for him but the beetle-browed giant who shook hands all around and then, with easy possessiveness, slipped into the chair next to Mara Gay’s and began to talk softly to her.

To Ellery it was faintly amusing. The reporters buzzing about; Djuna’s speechless worship; the cool self-possession of Kit Horne and Mara Gay’s supercilious condescension toward her; Julian Hunter’s smiling silence and tight lips; Mars’s nervous watch on the jammed bowl; Black’s fluid movements and snaky gestures — as usual when a group of personalities gathered, Ellery reflected, there were undercurrents and crosscurrents; and he wondered what made Hunter smile so tightly and what made Kit Horne so suddenly silent. But most of all he wondered what was the matter with Mara Gay. This darling of Hollywood, one of the most highly paid screen personalities in the world, was something less than the pure and glamorous beauty she appeared on the magic screen. Yes, she was daringly dressed, as usual, and her eyes were also as extraordinarily bright as they always seemed in her films; but there was a thinness, an emaciation about her features that he had never been conscious of before; and her large eyes did not seem quite so large. Besides, here — where her gestures where unschooled by a watchful director — she was vividly nervous, almost quicksilver-ish. A thought came to him, and he studied her without seeming to do so.

There was polite conversation.

And Djuna, his heart big in his throat, jerked his head from side to side as the celebrities gathered in surrounding boxes. And then, of course, things began to happen in the arena; and from that instant he was insensible to the coarser realities and devoted his whole earnest attention to the spectacle below.

The bowl was packed with a boisterous, good-natured crowd. Society was out en masse, rimming the rail above the arena with an oval panel studded with glittering jewels. In the arena there was flashing activity; from the smaller entrances horsemen had appeared, each a whirling smear of color — red bandanas, leathery chaps, fancy vests, dun sombreros, checkered shirts, silvery spurs. There was roping and thunderous riding, and the steady crackle of pistol-shots. The cameramen were busy on their platform. The whole bowl was filled with a prodigious drumming of horses’ hooves on the tanbark... A tall slender young man gayly caparisoned in cowboy regalia stood in the center of the arena. The overhead arcs gleamed on his curly hair. Little puffs of smoke surrounded him. He operated a catapult with his foot and with nonchalant skill caused little glass balls to disappear as he twirled his long-barreled revolver. A shout went up. “That’s Curly Grant!” He bowed, doffed his Stetson, caught a brown horse, vaulted lightly into the saddle, and began to trot across the arena toward the Mars box.

Ellery had moved his chair closer to Kit Horne, leaving Mara Gay with Tommy Black, while Hunter sat quietly by himself in the rear of the box. Mars had vanished.

“You’re fond of your father, I take it,” murmured Ellery as he noted her eyes roving about the arena.

“He’s so darned — Oh, it’s hard to explain those things.” She smiled, and her straight brows came together in a solemn way. “My affection for him is — well, perhaps greater because he’s not really my father, you know; he adopted me when I was a kid-orphan. He’s been everything the best father could be to me—”

“Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t know—”

“You needn’t be apologetic, Mr. Queen. You’ve committed no social error. I’m really very proud. Perhaps,” she sighed, “I haven’t been the best daughter in the world. I see Buck so very seldom these days. The rodeo is bringing us together for the first time in more than a year — closely, I mean.”

“Naturally, with you in Hollywood and Mr. Horne on his ranch—”

“It’s not easy. I’ve been busy on location in California almost without let-up, and with Buck secluded up in Wyoming... I haven’t been able to visit him for more than a day or so every few months. He’s been a lonely man.”

“But why,” asked Ellery, “doesn’t he move to California?”

Kit’s brown little hands tightened. “Oh, I’ve tried to make him. But three years ago he tried a screen comeback and — well, they just don’t come back, it seems, in the movies any more than the prize-fighting game. He took it rather hard and insisted on shutting himself up on his ranch, like a hermit.”

“And you,” said Ellery softly, “the apple of his eye, to be more than slightly horticultural.”

“Yes. He has no family or relatives at all. He leads a horribly lonely life. Except for his yellow cook-boy and a few old-timers who punch the small herd he’s got, he’s alone. Really, his only visitors are myself and Mr. Grant.”

“Ah, the colorful Wild Bill,” murmured Ellery.

She regarded him rather queerly. “Yes, the colorful Wild Bill. Occasionally he stops over at the ranch to spend a few days between rodeo shows. I have been remiss in my duty to Buck! He’s not been well for years now — nothing really wrong with him. I guess it’s just old age. But he’s been losing weight, and—”

“Hi, Kit!”

She flushed, and leaned forward with eagerness. Ellery through half-closed eyes saw Mara Gay’s lips tighten, and her voice faltered the merest trifle as she saw what was happening. The curly head of the glass-ball exterminator was grinning at them from below the rail. Curly Grant had with an easy leap left the saddle, caught the rail, and now hung suspended over the arena. The horse waited philosophically below.

“Why, Curly,” said Kit, “you’ll— Get down this instant!”

“And you a lady acrobat,” grinned Curly. “No, ma’am. Kit, I want to explain—”

Ellery mercifully turned his attention elsewhere.

There was another diversion. The short military figure of Major Kirby appeared at the entrance to the box by the side of Tony Mars, who now seemed in the ultimate heaven of nervousness. He greeted Curly’s disembodied face with a smile, and bowed with a precise little click of his heels to the ladies, shaking hands quietly with the men.

“You know young Grant?” asked the Inspector, as the curly head disappeared below the box and Kit sat back with a flushed smile.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the Major. “He’s one of those fortunate young devils who makes friends everywhere. I met him on the other side.”

“In service, eh?”

“Yes. He was attached to my command.” Major Kirby sighed, and smoothed his little black mustache with an immaculate fingernail. “Ah, the War... A peculiarly rotten brand of delicatessen, if I may say so,” he added. “But Curly — well, he was sixteen, I believe, at the time the great war to end wars called; enlisted under false colors, and very nearly lost his damn fool life at St. Mihiel when he tried to break up a machine-gun nest single-handed. These youngsters were — rash.”

“But heroes,” said Kit softly.

The Major shrugged, and Ellery suppressed a smile. It was evident that Major Kirby, who had probably acquitted himself with distinction in the War, had very few illusions about the glories of battle and the privilege of laying down one’s life for the doubtful importance of wresting two yards more of torn earth from the enemy. “I’m in a bigger war right now,” he said grimly. “You don’t know what competition is until you try to score a scoop on some photographic story. I’m in charge of the newsreel unit here tonight, you know. We’ve got an exclusive.”

“I—” began Ellery with some eagerness.

“But I must be getting back to my men,” continued Major Kirby evenly. “See you later, Tony.” He bowed again, and quickly left the box.

“Great little guy,” muttered Tony Mars. “You wouldn’t believe it to look at him, but he’s one of the crack pistol-shots of the U.S. Army. Used to be, I mean. In the Infantry during the big scrap. Some kind of expert, he’s turned out to be. Newsreels!” He sniffed, and nervously eyed the arena as he fumbled for his watch. Then a vast intensity came over his rather blurred features, and he sat down with the suddenness of a dog coming to point. They all turned their attention to the arena.

It was emptying. Cowboys, cowgirls were riding briskly toward the exits. In a short time there was nothing left to see but the deserted track, the hoof-pocked dirt core of the oval, and the men on the newsreel platform. Major Kirby’s erect little figure appeared, half-running, from one of the side doors; it closed behind him; he bounded across the arena, clambered like a monkey up the wooden ladder, and took his place on the platform among the sound and cameramen.

The crowd hushed.

Djuna drew a curiously musical breath.

Then from the big western gate came small sounds, and a uniformed man swung back the large leaves of the gate, and a lone man on horseback rode forth. He was a squat powerful man dressed in tattered old corduroys and a rather aged Stetson. At his right side hung a holstered revolver. He galloped recklessly across the track to the very center of the dirt oval, brought his horse to a sliding stop in a cloud of flying clods, stood erect in his stirrups, took off his hat with his left hand, waved it once, put it back on his head, and stood there that way, smiling.

Thunderous applause! Stamping feet! One Djuna’s feet particularly.

“Wild Bill,” whispered Tony Mars. His face was pale.

“What the devil you so nervous about, Tony?” asked Tommy Black with a deep chuckle.

“I’m always twitchy as a snow-bird at these damn openings,” growled the promoter. “Shh!”

The man on horseback shifted his grip on the reins to his left hand, with his right jerking the revolver out of his holster. It had a long dulled-blue barrel which winked wickedly under the arcs. He flung his arm roofward and the gun kicked back, exploding with a roar. And he opened his heavy old mouth and screamed: “Yooooowwww!” with such a sustained wolfish quality that the echoes slithered off the rafters and startled the crowd into silence.

The revolver was hammered back into the holster. And Wild Bill, sinking down into his saddle, put one hand affectionately on his saddle-horn and opened his mouth again.

“La-dees and Gentle-men,” he bellowed, and the words carried far distances, so that those in the topmost tiers heard clearly: “Per-mit me to wel-come you to the Grrrand Open-ing of Wild Bill Grrrant’s Rrro-deo! (Applause) The Larrrgest Ag-gre-ga-shun of Cow-boys an’ Cow-girrrls in the Worrrld! (Cheers) Frrrom the sun-baked plains of Tex-ahs to the Rrrroll-in’ Rrrranges of Wy-oming, frrrom the Grrreat State of Arrrizo-nah to the Mount-ins of Montanah, these Darrre-devils have come for Yore Enter-tain-ment! (Wild Stamping of Feet) To risk Life an’ Limb in Dange-rrrous Con-tests of Skill in Rrrropin’, Rrrridin’, Bull-doggin’, Shootin’ — all the stunts that go to make the Grrreat-est Sport in the Worrrld — the Good Ole-Fashion’ Rrrrodeo! An’ T’night, La-dees and Gentlemen, in ad-di-shun to my reg’lar show, I have the Grrreat Hon-or to pre-sent to the Grrreat Cit-y of Noo Yawk A SPECIAL EXTRAH ADD-ED AT-TRACTION!”

He stopped with something like triumph, and the echoes rolled forth majestically, to be drowned in a cataract of approval.

Wild Bill raised a meaty hand. “An’, folks, he ain’t no Drrrug-store Cow-boy neither! (Laughter) Folks, I know you’re rrrar-in’ to see ’im, so I won’t take up no more of yore time. La-dees and Gentle-men, I take Grrreat Pleas-ure in intro-ducin’ the Grrreat-est Cowboy in the Worrrld, the hombre who put the Rrrrroarin’ Ole West on the Silv-ah Screen!.. A-merri-cah’s Grrrand Ole Man of the Mo-vies — THE ONE AN’ ON-LY BUCK HORNE! Let ’er rip!”

They tore the roof down. And, of course, leading the chorus of assorted bellows, roars, thunders, screams, and shrieks was one Djuna Queen, yelling himself a lovely olive-green in the face.

Ellery grinned and glanced at Kit Horne. She was sitting tensely forward, an anxious expression on her soft brown features, watching the eastern gate of the arena with eyes of troubled gray-blue.

A uniformed attendant, very small and puny at this distance, manipulated the doors, they swung back, and out into the glare of the amphitheatre galloped a magnificent horse, a powerful animal with shining tight flanks and proudly tossing head. On his back sat a man.

“Buck!”

“Buck Horne!”

“Ride ’im, cowboy!”

Horne leaned forward in his saddle, riding with fluent ease, the gallant old buckaroo. In a roped-off section of the box-tier a band struck up. There was an unearthly din. It was like opening night of the circus in Kankakee, or West Tannerville, Ohio. Djuna was banging his palms together madly. Kit had sunk back with a smile.

Ellery leaned forward and tapped her knee. She turned, startled. “Nice animal he’s riding!” shouted Ellery.

She threw back her head and laughed from a full throat. “He certainly ought to be, Mr. Queen! He cost five thousand dollars.”

“Phew! A horse?”

“A horse. That’s Rawhide, my favorite, my gorgeous pet. Buck wanted most especially to ride Rawhide tonight. Said it would bring him luck.”

Ellery sat back, smiling vaguely. The man on horseback had doffed his splendid black ten-gallon hat, bowing right and left, and had urged his animal forward with his knees until they pulled up near the eastern turn of the oval after almost a complete circuit of the track, below and a little to the right of the guest-box in which the Mars party sat. He sat astride like an old god, with perfect ease; the brilliant lights caught the metal and leather glints on his rich Western regalia, the glints on his white hair where it blanketed his neck below his hat-brim. The horse posed like a model, proudly, his sleek right forefoot delicately extended before him.

Kit rose, a smartly gowned young woman, filled her deep chest with air, opened her red mouth, and gave vent to a long ululating cry which raised the short hair on Ellery’s nape and brought him, blinking, to his feet. The Inspector grasped the arms of his chair. Djuna jumped a foot. Then Kit quietly sat down, grinning. In the din the man on horseback half-turned his head as if searching for someone.

Someone behind Ellery said venomously: “Slut!”

Ellery said hastily to Kit: “The call of the wild, eh?”

Her grin had vanished. She nodded pleasantly, but her little brown jaw tightened and her back was soldier-stiff.

Ellery turned casually. Big Tommy Black was sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees. He was whispering to Mara Gay. Julian Hunter smoked a cigar silently in the background. Tony Mars was staring as if hypnotized at the arena.

Wild Bill was roaring frantically against the surge of noise. The band played: “Ta-ra!” several times, fortissimo, its uniformed conductor waving his baton desperately. Then Horne himself held up his hand for silence, and it came with a gradual subsidence of sound after the lapse of mere seconds, like a thunderous sea receding swiftly from a deck.

“La-dees and Gentle-men,” shouted Wild Bill. “I want to thank ya, an’ Buck wants to thank ya, one an’ all, for this Won-der-ful Rrrrecep-shun! Now the first e-vent will be a Rrrrip-Snortin’ Ride aroun’ the A-re-nah, with Buck leadin’ Forrrty Rrrri-ders in a Hell-Bent-fer-Leather Chase! Just the way he used to lead th’ posses after the Dirrrt-y Vill-’ins in his movin’ pitchers! That’s just a starter, an’ then Buck’ll get down to bus’-ness, per-formin’ In-div-id-u-al Feats of Horrrse-man-ship an’ Sharrrp-shoot-in’!”

Buck Horne pulled his hat firmly down on his forehead. Wild Bill hefted his revolver from the holster, pointed it at the roof, and once more pulled the trigger. At the signal the eastern gate swung open again and a large cloud of riders, men and women on wiry Western horses, charged out on the track, whooping and waving their hats. At their head rode Curly Grant, his head bare and his hair gleaming; and One-Arm Woody, upon whom for the moment all eyes centered; for his mastery with one arm of the dappled brute he was riding was amazing. Then the chapped and throat-swathed cavalry swept on around the farther, northern length of the track, racing toward the west...

Ellery twisted his neck and said to the Inspector: “Our friend Wild Bill may be heaven’s own gift to the great outdoors, but he really should brush up on his arithmetic.”

“Huh?”

“How many riders did Grant bellow would follow Buck Horne on this epic-making charge around the arena?”

“Oh! Forty, wasn’t it? Say, what in time’s got into you?”

Ellery sighed. “In my unreasonable way — probably because Grant was so specific about the number — I’ve been counting ’em.”

“Well?”

“There are forty-one!”

The Inspector dropped back with a snort, and his gray mustaches quivered with indignation. “You... you... Oh, shut up! By God, El, sometimes you get my goat. What the devil if there are forty-one, or a hundred and ninety-seven!”

Ellery said placidly: “Your blood-pressure, Inspector. At the same time—”

Djuna whispered with ferocity: “Oh, shush!”

Ellery shushed.

The milling riders came beautifully still on the southern length of the oval, and once more silence fell. They were lined up in twos, a long string of them; Curly Grant and the one-armed Woody at their head were still some thirty feet behind the lone figure of Buck Horne.

From the center of the arena, where he sat his horse like an elevated ringmaster, Wild Bill rose in his stirrups and bawled: “Ready, Buck?”

Behind him on the trestled platform Major Kirby had disposed all his cameras; the photographers were taut, motionless, awaiting the word.

The single rider on the track swung his body a little, drew a big old-fashioned gun from his right holster, poised it muzzle roofwards, pulled the trigger, and out of the explosion came his voice: “Shoot!”

Forty-one arms dipped into forty-one holsters behind him, forty-one guns leaped into view... Wild Bill from his commanding position shot straight up in the air, once. Then Buck Horne’s broad shoulders hunched, he leaned slightly forward, and his right arm still pointing the gun at the roof, hurled his horse ahead on the tanbark track. At the same instant the entire cavalcade swirled into a roaring motion picture of sound, uttering piercing cowboy yells. In an incredible flirt of time’s tail the horses had sped along the track to almost directly below the Mars box, led by that gallant figure on Rawhide some forty feet ahead now, just rounding the farther side of the eastern turn.

And as the troop followed, their big revolvers, uniformly pointed upward, came alive as one, belching toward the roof, enveloping horses, men, and women in a momentary explosion of gun-smoke. That single fusillade in answer to the one shot from the gun of the man riding swiftly before them...

Twenty thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on the man riding ahead. Twenty thousand pairs of eyes saw what followed, and did not believe what they saw.

At the instant the fusillade cracked out, Buck Horne had been leaning sideways out of his saddle to the south, his revolver raised high above his head in his right hand, his left hand high above the pommel as he clutched the reins. Rawhide was finding his huge stride and had now advanced around the turn to a position directly in line with the troupe of riders and the Mars box.

And at that very instant the body of the man on Rawhide’s broad back jerked, sagged, slipped from the saddle, and crashed to the tanbark... to be trampled upon all in a moment by the cruel hooves of the forty-one horses behind.