HRIS FARRELL was to rope at Bluejacket on the Fourth! That was the news that ran about the ranches in the Cherokee country days before June had yielded its verdant freshness to the sultry grip of July. It was sufficient to stir the anticipations of the sport-loving cowboys and urged them to "practice ropin' and throwin'" among their own herds and in the privacy of their own cow pastures. For others-many others

were to rope at Bluejacket; only they were the lesser stars, twinkling in the occasional glory of a chance throw, to set off the brilliancy of the one great planet of the "ropin'" universe.

There had been tales of Jim Hopkins, of his marvelous eighteen seconds' record for the catching and tying of a steer at the Memphis Fair, and young Tom Cochran, "The Indian," had sent up a frenzied yell at Chelsea when he had "tied in twenty-one." However, it was whispered that Hopkins' time was not official, and that it was a pleasantry of Cochran's friends to credit him with such wonder-working. But Chris had earned his title as King of the Bullies and Magician of the Lasso by years of spectacular work. If there had ever been a trace of scoffing when Chris' rope broke, as he wheeled his horse and brought the steer's heels in the air at the end thereof, it had been quieted by the redoubtable puncher's own declaration that, barring the accident, he would have made a record that the world would wonder at and discuss for years. If sometimes his rope had floated gracefully beyond the head of the plunging steer, to fall harmlessly into the grass, there was the cursed prairie hurricane to blame for it, and the devil himself could not be reviled if the rope, falling easily over one horn, was tossed off by a contrary brute.

Chris was a good fellow, with the persuasive way of a comedian. face was very broad, and his ample mouth, distended to a monstrous grin, shed a prodigal geniality over the just and the outlawed.

He was the friend of the furtive whiskey peddler; he was the companion of the hawk-eyed deputy marshal; he patronized the big cattlemen and bankers who sometimes drove out in buggies to a picnic to see the roping; he loved babies, calling them "bory-eyed little sons of guns" with an eloquence that set them crowing in his face, and to the girls of that unromantic prairie country he was the Galahad and Launcelot, the Dick Turpin and Sam Bass of the West. And above all he was the "king-pin twirler of the snaky manila!"

Chris was no modest, retiring genius, not the man to drag a little girl from before an on-rushing engine, then murmur diffidently, "I only done my duty." Not Chris! He would say, with appropriate dramatic pantomime, "I seen the old engine a-comin' hellety belt down the track jest as that pore little kid of a five-year-old child of Berry's comes a-toddlin' onto the ties. I jumps off my bronc' and makes a sprint for little Lizzie. I catches her so, throws her down the bank and rolls after her jest as the snout of that engine grazed my pants!" It was a recital to stir the blood- a man was a fool to ask if it was true.

Who but Chris could have been inspired, in a moment of elation, to throw his rope over the smoke-stack of a passing express engine, then rebuke the engineer for not coming to a prompt stop? "I sure done it," he admitted, grinning grotesquely through a maze of bandages, and there was nothing surprising in the action. It would have disappointed his friends if Chris had missed the inspiration.

From Paw Paw to the Bluejacket pic

nic, his rope coiled conspicuously, came Tom Thoburn, who towered above his horse giant-like, angular, and whined droll stories. From Thompson Creek rode JI C-Bert (which was not his name, but a combination of that and his cattle brand), a cool, smooth-cheeked young fellow, with a laugh that exploded like a firecracker. From LightFrom Lightning Creek came Russell Scott, a mousecolored puncher, his faded moustache and weazened face quite hidden under a spreading white hat. Upper Cabin Creek furnished Henry Jordan, fat, fairly shining with good nature, whose legs came up like stilts when he walked. Then there was "Ras Lefferts,

Blacky" Goring, and many others, a dozen of whom would rope.

Also there was the New York newspaper man, not quite so green as he appeared. "Who's to rope?" asked the stranger. He spoke to Tom Thoburn. Tom pointed, saying:

See that stumpy little feller on the dun? That's Chris Farrell. Watch him.”

"Two hundred and eighteen contests he's been in," confided Russell Scott, "and the times he's lost you can count on the fingers of your two hands." He spoke as speaks the man exhibiting theSomnolent Wonder," "sleeping straight through for three hundred days with no other nourishment than warm milk."

If Tom Thoburn was brief, JI C -Bert was laconic. To the newspaper man's query he answered, "Farrell," nodding across towards the chubby wizzard slouching over in one stirrup. But the stranger heard, as his back was turned, that sudden "He! He!" the cool fellow's snort of amusement. He shrugged his shoulderswas the joke to be on him?

The scribe approached the King from the left, the side where Chris' foot did not touch the stirrup, and away from which his eyes were naturally turned. Crowding in on his right came two girls, dodging easily among the restless horses. One was "Tommie " Rogers, Chris' cousin, a girl who liked him and laughed at him. The punchers stared at the other, for hers was a new

face. As the newspaper man began to caress that unoccupied left stirrup insinuatingly he heard Miss Rogers say :

Miss Barton, my cousin, Mr. Farrell." With the quick, cavalier sweep Chris' big hat came off, his smile broadened prodigiously. "Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Barton." He wheeled his horse quickly to face the new arrival. The newspaper man started in alarm, just escaping the horse's hind feet. Chris saw the stranger's danger and cried out cordially :

"Excuse me, pardner; I didn't know you was anywhere in the neighborhood." Miss Tommie came up to offer the New Yorker her hand. He was introduced to the pretty Miss Barton and formally presented to the sovereign of the lasso.

'Where'd you find him, Tom?" Chris queried genially, heedless of the stranger's embarrassment.

Oh," replied Miss Rogers, “he's taking a close-to look at the West, for a New York newspaper. He wants particularly to see some good roping. That's why he came up here for the Fourth instead of enjoying the fine show at the Vinita Fair Grounds."

"All ready there, JIC?" shouted the judge of the contest, a whiskered man, carrying a supple buggy whip which he flourished regally. The cool fellow loped to the starting line dangling his ready loop.

An overgrown two-year-old was separated from the little herd held close in a corner of the big pasture. Down between two lines of expectant cowboys the steer was urged, a hundred feet beyond the waiting roper, then catapulted into the open pasture as the starter's flag dropped. JI C-Bert leaned forward suddenly, clapped his spurs hard to his big sorrel's flanks, and the two were streaking over the prairie before the brute had time to decide which way he wanted to go. JI C-Bert wanted him to swing over to the west, for there was most room in that direction. sorrel dug out viciously to turn the steer, revolved half round on his hind hoofs, and was racing away at his heels in a brief five seconds.

The

Away across the grass, toward a dis

tant ravine, the cool roper ran his victim, the great loop swinging round in lazy sweeps until, two hundred yards from the start, he cast that big coil. Down it settled over the steer's head, as inevitably, it seemed, as fate. Twenty yards farther they raced, J IC-Bert paying out slack enough to cast across the brute's rump. Then he stopped, wheeled the sorrel sharply to the left and waited, straining forward, for the impact of nine hundred pounds of active beef. The shock came, the steer's head doubled down under his fore legs and his body. thumped the earth. The cowboy spurred the horse to a steady strain, then, vaulting down, ran forward tugging at the heel rope fastened about his belt. There was the deliberate ease of perfect coolness in the way the big

slow and deliberate-too slow to break any records, but middlin' certain to catch and tie. But he's young yet." Miss Barton looked as if JI C-Bert ought to bow down to the King and cry aloud his name for an opinion so favorable. She glanced across to where the cool young giant was talking to "Ras"

fellow hauled at the kicking legs, snapping a half-hitch over a hind hoof and drawing the two front legs back to form an awkward knot of squirming red legs and shiny hoofs. The last hitch completed, JIC-Bert tore off his hat, sent it spinning skywards with the upward sweep of his arms, and liberated a yell that startled even the sorrel, still straining obediently at the rope.

The judge snapped his watch, and raced to the captured steer. He came down from his horse to inspect the work of the cowboy. Safely and well tied the steer was; the judge rode back to announce to the assembled wagons, buggies, buckboards, surreys and horsemen that JI C-Bert had tied in fiftyeight seconds.

"Looked to me like it was better than fifty-eight," said Chris as he rode up to his cousin and her party.

"I thought it was half an hour, at least," hazarded Miss Tommie, glancing at the newspaper man.

"JIC-Bert's a good hand with the rope," Chris volunteered. "A little

Lefferts and Jordan. She saw his rugged, suntanned face wrinkle into merriment and heard the laugh explode. Fat, good-natured Henry Jordan was afoot, his hand caressing the big sorrel's mane. As he talked to JI C-Bert he assumed a protecting, half-adoring air, as of a parent with a small child-but he did only what most of them felt moved to do with the big boy.

Just before Russell Scott's steer was sent

jumping through the cowboy lane and onto the open meadow, Chris motioned for JI C-Bert to join him and the girls. The proper introductions were achieved, and then Miss Barton confided to the

newcomer :-

"Mr. Farrell said your roping was fine." JIC-Bert looked interested. "He said you were very cool about it usually," she continued; but still the big round blue eyes only looked an absorbed politeness. "But he said you were still young!" There was a challenge in her tone. JI C-Bert's face began to wrinkle, but he subdued the explosion to an impotent "he! he!" that suggested the snapping of the two first grains of corn to pop in a popperful.

"I ain't remarkable old," replied the boy gravely. He was looking over towards the steer, zig-zagging down the lane of gesticulating horsemen, and he seemed to be interested in the procession. "There's Scott trailin' outwatch him sift!" JIC-Bert was not so cool and restrained when it was some one else handling the rope. Miss Bar

ton watched the young gaunt giant, with his staring, childish blue eyes. In some ways he was more interesting than the back of the flying roper. She saw a shade of sympathetic disappointment come over the face as Scott threw his rope.

It had been too big a loop, and one of the steer's front legs had been caught with the head. Russell swung away to throw, the steer plunged forward, one knee ploughing the earth, then rose to stand stolidly. The cowboy straightened the rope again with a jerk, and once more the steer came to his knees, nose outstretched. Three times Russell charged, until at last his gray pony lunged madly ahead, the rope snapped at the saddle horn, and the steer arose to trot away with thirty feet of rope trailing.

"Hard luck!" muttered J IC-Bert under his breath. Miss Barton saw genuine disappointment on the boy's face, and was glad to overhear that ejaculation. Chris' verdict was different, more fully expressed :

"If Russell will go ahead usin' twenty feet of rope for a loop, what can he expect? He's so afraid of not catchin' that he jest throws a rope corral around 'em-and they jump clean through the bars."

Miss Barton was sorry for the little puncher whose rope had parted-she was disappointed to hear the King criticise. But shouldn't he? For he was the King. She liked J I C-Bert's view of the matter, however. Her dark eyes fixed the puncher's blue ones as she asked:

"There is a lot of luck in roping, isn't there?"

"Uh-huh, a right smart." The boy leaned down to twist his bridle rein where it buckled to the bit.

His eyes

fell before the girl's gaze. "I got to help pen that steer," he said suddenly, straightening up and lifting the sleepy sorrel into a quick lope. He half turned, jerked an awkward salute toward the group, and was soon bending purposefully toward the steer that dragged the rope, as he raced closer and closer. quick dig with the spurs, a long, downward swoop of his arm, and JIC -Bert had picked the loop from the

A

steer's back where it had been drawn taut. A mighty jerk opened it, the steer stumbled through, and the boy fox-trotted back to hand Russell his rope. It was superbly done. Miss Barton saw the difficulty of the performance, though it had been done with such apparent ease. She saw that it was the short way out of a predicament -any way she considered it she was pleased. She wished the boy would come back to them; that droop of the big eyes was worth a girl's watching. She could make him lower them, she felt, by praising his last feat. She realized that with a glow of wicked pleas

ure.

But the boy stayed away from the group at the buggy while eight punchers took turns at roping. Tom Thoburn offered his steer a loop even bigger than Scott's had been, and the brute vaulted through clean. His second throw was too quickly made the steer had not straightened out when he tried, and his rope only brushed one elusive Thoburn came back to confide to the newspaper man, now wandering at large, his opinion of "little cattle " that dodge.

ear.

Henry Jordan's rope broke with the first jar of the captured steer. He trotted back to his fellows holding six feet of remnant and grinning as though he had done a marvelous thing. "Ras" Lefferts missed his first throw, but caught on the second, tying his steer in a fraction over two minutes. Dick Wilson went out silently, threw twice, failing at both attempts, rode back silently to plump into the little pool of cowboys with scarcely a ripple of comment.

"Lefferts might 'a' made a good hand in the milk lot." Chris damned the nervous punchers effectively, but to Miss Barton's untutored mind the wizard's remark did not seem appropriate, Her idea of dairy maids was of groups of inexpressibly dainty, Delft lassies in rustling cloth gowns and clean white aprons and caps. Ras" wasn't like that. Yes, specialists certainly became over-captious. She wondered what Chris thought of that attractive, stout boy, Jordan, who was laughing still-and melancholy little Dick Wilson.