Yells, cat calls
and shrill whoops rent the air.
All at once a pistol barked, the black pony's feet plowed the dust,
bringing it to a sharp halt.
The suddenness of the movement caused Chunky's feet to rise straight
up into the air. For a few brief seconds he was standing on his head
on the pony's neck like a circus performer.
Then, as the animal lowered its head, the rider toppled over, still
clinging to the neck of his mount. Such a chorus of laughter and
shouting the Jessup ranch had never known before.
"How is it, Mr. Umpire?" piped Stacy, releasing one hand from the
pony's neck and raising it questioningly.
"This isn't a baseball game, young fellow," jeered the foreman. "This
is a hoss race and you've won it. The black wins and you get the
rifle."
The grimy hand that the lad had held aloft still clung to the remnants
of the roast sandwich that he had carried throughout race.
CHAPTER XVIII
TAD WINS A ROPING CONTEST
In their enthusiasm two of the ranchers hoisted Chunky to their
shoulders and marched about singing. Others fell in behind them until
fully half the spectators had joined the procession. Chunky leered
down at his companions as he passed them and winked solemnly.
"I didn't suppose he could ride like that," marveled Tom Phipps.
"Neither did any of the rest of us," answered Walter.
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