Death Waits at Sundown Read Online Free PDF Page A

it
was acid. “I am sure it is very kind of the champion bronco buster of the world
to give me advice.”
    Long Tom felt his face getting red and knew he would get
mad in a minute. Damn it, why couldn’t she treat him like she used to when Old
Man Stuart paid him wages?
    A devil prodded him. She looked so cool and
self-possessed there on the runway.
    â€œYeah,” said Branner. “It ain’t everybody that needs
it.”
    She lifted her head and then abruptly whirled and swung
down into the chute.
    Another devil jabbed Long Tom. “Don’t fall off. You’ll
get mud on yourself!”
    She didn’t even look at him. Settling her hat, she stood
with feet wide apart on the rails and Dynamite lunged and screamed under her
while two punchers tried to hold his head quiet.
    â€œDrop!” yelled the man at the gate.
    Vicky dropped into the saddle. The brute lunged sideways
and almost caught her leg.
    â€œLet ’im go!” she yelled.
    The gate swung wide and the blind came off and Dynamite went
plunging like a rocket into the open.
    Long Tom held his breath. The arena was muddy and
Dynamite never bucked straight up. He sunfished.
    Off was Vicky’s white hat. She beat it against the
bellowing demon’s flanks. She dug deep with her golden spurs and Dynamite went
five feet off the ground. He sunfished, head lowered, fighting the hackamore and when he hit he was stiff-legged.
    Vicky took the shock. She beat harder with her hat and
dug deeper with her spurs and above the band and the crowd and the announcer
could be heard her cry, “Go it, you black devil!”
    Long Tom was still holding his breath as he counted.
Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was limp-shouldered, as graceful
as a gull.
    â€œGo it, you black devil!”
    Dynamite slipped as he hit, fell heavily on his side and
leaped furiously up again.
    Vicky whipped his flank with her white hat and dug her
golden spurs.
    â€œGo it!”
    The gun cracked and she had made a ride. Two mounted men
swerved in beside her, one to grab Dynamite’s head and the other to haul Vicky
from the still-lunging mount. She made it and Dynamite was headed away, still
fighting.
    The rider lowered her to the ground and she ran with
swift, excited steps back to the chutes.

    Dynamite was exploding all over the sky. Vicky was
limp-shouldered, as graceful as a gull.
    She passed within three feet of Long Tom but she didn’t
even look up at him when he said, “Swell ride, Vicky.”
    Gloomily he looked at the grandstand again. Everybody
was cheering, but that didn’t matter. Everybody was going crazy about that
ride, and that was natural.
    Vicky Stuart was the enigma of the buckaroos. She was
slightly built and had the manners of a duchess and talked much better English.
She was the kind of girl, on appearance, that one would expect to haunt teas
and operas, but, marvel of marvels, she could take a beating on the back of a
bucking horse and always come off smiling, just as though she had done nothing
so very unusual.
    Long Tom sighed.
    For two years, ever since Old Man Stuart had died, Long
Tom Branner had tried to keep near Vicky. At least a dozen times he had striven
to make a serious proposal, but Vicky was as quick afoot as she was mounted.
She always slid out.
    Long Tom knew, vaguely, what was wrong. There was
nothing too terrible about his personal appearance, as he was lean and young.
But for some reason unknown to himself he kept winning championships as a
rider. And the more he won, the colder Vicky Stuart got.
    A long time ago, when he was just a puncher riding for
her old man, he and Vicky had almost reached an understanding. Long Tom had not
pushed his suit, thinking that if he could make a name, he would be worthy of
her hand.
    And then Stuart had died, leaving nothing. And Vicky,
raised among horsemen and an excellent rider in her own right, had suddenly
taken it into her head to win the world for her