Death Waits at Sundown

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Suddenly she was blinded by a glitter and she whirled to see Long Tom with belt aglitter just under the railing not twenty feet from her. So he was going to be in this race!

  Determinedly she slid through the railing and ran to the side of the youngster. She said swiftly, “I’ll take your place. The prize money don’t matter. I’ll pay it win or lose.”

  Before they could answer she was halfway back to the boy’s three mounts.

  Long Tom looked at her, startled. She turned away and inspected the saddle a puncher held out to her.

  The race was a relay of horses in which the rider had to change his own saddle. Three mounts and three times around the track.

  The starter saw that all was ready and held up his gun. It banged and the five contestants began hastily to saddle. Vicky had more reason to win than any of them. She was the first away. Flirting mud from the mount’s flying hoofs, she spurted past Long Tom without even a glance.

  She plied her quirt and the track raced by and when she passed back of the chutes and bandstand, the band was making hash out of the “Light Cavalry Overture.”

  The fence blurred as she came around the turn into the stretch. Ahead she saw that the puncher had her horse out. She was half a dozen lengths ahead.

  Mount still running, she flung herself off and skidded him to a stop. She flipped up the saddle skirt and unfastened the cinch buckle and flung the saddle to the other mount. She bothered not about the cinch this time.

  Quirt flailing, she rocketed off just as Long Tom plunged up to his second mount.

  This time the band was making better time, she noted. The sousaphone was the only one behind.

  The fence blurred and the stands blurred and again off came her saddle. Looking across it when she got it on the third mount, she saw Long Tom leading all the rest but at least half the track behind her.

  Her grin was deadly.

  Very carefully she fastened the cinch. She took a handkerchief and dusted the saddle. In a leisurely fashion she mounted. Long Tom was streaking up. He came off his mount to change saddles in a blur of activity. The others were stringing in.

  Vicky started out at a canter as though only to enjoy the scenery. Long Tom rocketed past her on the run. Vicky kept her horse down to a steady trot.

  The band, she noted as she passed, was all behind the sousaphone this time.

  Long Tom was in seconds before she leisurely cantered up. The others thundered across the line just behind her.

  Long Tom sat his lathered horse, breathing hard and staring at her.

  She was not at all concerned.

  The arena boss came over to them on the run and the stands craned their necks to see this that was happening under their noses.

  “What was wrong?” said the arena boss indignantly to Vicky.

  She flipped up her hat brim and stared coolly at Long Tom. Then she shrugged and turned to the arena boss.

  “There’s no percentage in beating a conceited fool.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Last Event

  IT was the third and last day of the rodeo. All morning it had rained and the track was soggy and the turf was like grease. But during the early part of the contest there had only been clouds and now the sun was threatening to break through.

  The rodeo was drawing to a close and the last contest rides were done. Two punchers were in the hospital with cracked bones and another was not feeling too well, though he hobbled around. The slippery grass was murderous. A bulldogger’s heels could find no hold and just kept plowing. Broncs went down at unexpected moments.

  Only the trick riders had come through unscathed, though wet ropes had not been easy to handle.

  Tension had come into the day with dawn for Long Tom Branner. And with the rain it had increased. Vicky had not come through on the bucking contest but Long Tom had. His mount, Crabapple, had fallen three times in three jumps and he had been shaken up more than he cared to admit.

  But his belt still glittered and people still persisted in calling him that distant, if respectful, “Mr. Branner.”

  He was uneasy when he saw anyone laughing from afar. He knew there was a great deal of merriment in the air about what Vicky had done.

  But she was not cocky about it. She merely continued to avoid him, which was just as bad.

  And so he sat on the top of a chute gate and hooked in his heels and stared gloomily across at the stands.

  It was funny. Here he had worked like a fool to get to be a champion. He had ridden buckers in his dreams and in his waking hours for six years. And he was the champion and everybody called him “Mr. Branner.”

  He had started out just to be able to hand the world to the girl he loved. And she hated him for it.

  A long, long time ago he had tried to convince her that he wasn’t just a bashful kid. He had almost broken his neck more than once to show her how he could ride.

  And before that things had not been too bad. She had been as nice to him as she was to anybody else. She used to like to steal a couple of Stuart’s horses after the day’s show and go ride out with him when the moon made everything blue.

  But somehow he had never had the courage to press that suit. He had made those dozen stumbling, blushing efforts and each time he had failed miserably. And so he had gone out and conquered the highest throne in the rodeo world just to be able to get high enough to make her see him.

  Yes, he had come near breaking his neck for a girl and now when she talked to him at all, she bit him.

  But she wasn’t like that to the rest of the world. She was all smiles and kindness and men respected her as a beautiful woman and an excellent rider.

  Why the devil had she ever taken up this riding anyhow? he asked himself. She had no reason like he had to go around smashing herself up on tricky man-killers. Somehow it wasn’t ladylike.

  Suddenly he straightened up. There was Vicky, walking down the fence toward the chutes from the back gate. One glimpse of her was all it took to make his bitterness fade. There was a patch of sunlight hurrying across the arena and it struck Vicky and her golden spurs glowed and the silver concha of her chin thong glittered.

  He wished he could always see her that way.

  Unfortunately for Long Tom, the diamonds and gold in his championship belt threw out blinding sparks in the same flash of sunlight. Vicky swerved her course toward him.

  Over to Long Tom’s right, half a dozen riders were hazing twenty horses into line, getting ready for the last event, the wild horse race. The din of yips and quirts and snorts and hoofs was deafening but Long Tom did not even hear them. He was watching Vicky come near.

  She nodded to the arena boss as he trotted by and the arena boss smiled and tipped his hat.

  Long Tom uncomfortably realized that she was going to approach him personally and talk to him. He slid down off the gate and stood in an attitude which looked defiant but which was merely defensive.

  He was a pretty picture of a puncher standing there, but he didn’t know it. He was something which had just stepped down from the rodeo posters.

  And Vicky did not miss the attitude.

  “Two men,” said Vicky, “were laid out this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” said Long Tom.

  “And that will leave their places in the wild horse race.”

  Long Tom looked at her suspiciously.

  “And,” said Vicky, “there isn’t any objection to you and I taking those places.”

  “So what?” said Long Tom.

  Vicky was very casual. She flicked her quirt against one flaring white wing of her chaps and looked at Long Tom’s glittering belt.

  “There are two mankillers in that crowd,” said Vicky, indicating the herd of wild horses which was still coming out. “Some of the boys are betting that neither one of them can even be saddled out in the arena.”

  “Yeah?” said Long Tom.

  Vicky smiled, but not very pleasantly. “Yeah. We’ve never tried this. We’ve never matched ourselves up in open
contest on broncs. One of those horses is Thunder and the other is Wild Bill. We obey the rules. We saddle and then go once around the track, if we can.”

  “And?” said Long Tom.

  “And I’ve got three thousand dollars saved up, Long Tom Branner.”

  “So have I.”

  “Okay, Mr. Champion Bronc Twisteroo, put up or shut up. If I win I get three thousand cash and you never say another word to me about anything such as how to ride. And if you win . . .”

  Long Tom didn’t know how he had suddenly gotten so bold. He squared off. “If I win, you don’t have to pay up. You marry me.”

  She gasped and stood motionless.

  “That’s right,” said Long Tom swiftly. “You think you’re better than me. Okay, you’ve got a chance to prove it.”

  She was breathless with shock. “But I didn’t think . . . I mean that’s . . .”

  “Put up or shut up!” said Long Tom truculently. “You win and you’ll never be bothered by me again and you’ll be richer by three thousand dollars. I win and I win. Is that clear?”

  She colored and raised her head defiantly. “Yes, that’s clear. God, but you hate yourself!”

  “Yeah?” said Long Tom.

  “I know what would happen to me if I lost!” said Vicky.

  “I doubt that you’d keep the bargain,” snapped Long Tom.

  That was the blow which ignited the powder magazine of her anger. She got white and then whirled and stamped away.

  Long Tom watched her go. He didn’t feel just right. He didn’t want her to fight Thunder or Wild Bill around that slippery, mucky track.

  But she hated him when he refused to beat her.

  And this time he would beat her!

  “Joe!” yelled Long Tom to a rider. “I’m taking Bart Johnson’s place on Wild Bill.”

  The puncher looked startled. “Yes, Mr. Branner.” He turned in his saddle. “Hey, run Wild Bill back in!”

  Long Tom strode across the soft turf toward the stands. The arena boss had stopped beside Vicky and now he quirted up and came trotting toward Long Tom.

  “Miss Stuart is riding Thunder,” said the arena boss in a surprised tone of voice.

  “I’m on Wild Bill,” said the twister.

  “For God’s sake!” said the arena boss, hurrying away.

  Bart Johnson’s two friends were hurrying across with saddle and hackamore to Long Tom. And the friends of the other injured man were loping toward Vicky. Everywhere men were running with saddles or harassing snorting, stamping mustangs into various places in the arena.

  The announcer blared through the speakers, “Laaadies and genulmen, there are two additions, two startling additions, to the wild horse race! The last event on the program and the last event of the rodeo. The young lady in white whom you have seeeen taking events for three days against all comers, one of the world’s greatest riders, Miss Vicky Stuart!”

  A roar of sound swept through the stands. More than one gentleman up there had lost his heart during the last three days, though Vicky might be a dozen worlds away from them and would never even know their names, much less ever see them.

  The announcer went on. “And over there to your right is a tall young fellow with hair pants and tan Stetson. He looks pretty gaudy around the middle. That glitter you see is a belt studded with diamonds and worked with gold and on it is written, ‘World’s Champion Buckeroo.’ Ladies and genulmen, Mr. Long Tom Branner!”

  There was another roar and Long Tom blushed and got busy with the saddle.

  Wild Bill was forced up. He had his ears laid back and his eyes were wilder than his name. His nostrils were flaring and he tried to strike out with his front feet. A puncher tried to hold his head down but was sometimes lifted clear off the earth.

  The other puncher finally got hold on the head and began to bite Wild Bill’s ear to distract his attention.

  Vicky’s Thunder was striking out with vicious hoofs and screaming vengeance while her two punchers fought to make him stand still.

  All over the arena men were fighting twenty broncs in separate groups and more than one shin was being scarred. Punchers were fighting and swearing and horses were fighting and swearing.

  At last all was at least as calm as the Battle of the Marne. Saddle, mount, ride and the first one to make a complete circuit of the track was the winner.

  Vicky looked across the surging field at Long Tom. Her jaw was set and she blazed with determination. Once and for all she would show him.

  And Long Tom also blazed. Here was the chance he had prayed for and no punches would be pulled this time.

  A gun banged. Twenty mounts were startled into furious activity by the unaccustomed slap of saddles on their backs. Mounts and men went down in mad, muddy fights.

  Long Tom’s helpers threw the saddle on Wild Bill and the old bronc had never shown such deadly fury. Wrenching a tormentor clear of the earth, Wild Bill tried to plunge away. He was held down by sheer strength.

  Hurriedly Long Tom reached under for the cinch and brought it back. As he fastened it, Wild Bill surged away from him.

  Vicky had her saddle in place but Thunder was not going to let any more weight be put upon him. She thrust her foot into the stirrup and tried to swing up, holding the reins so that Thunder had to curve in toward her. But Thunder exploded.

  Wild Bill reared and struck down, missing. A puncher got the blind back on him and for an instant the outlaw stood still in fright.

  Long Tom leaped into the saddle. But before he could find the other stirrup, Wild Bill began to explode.

  The flapping stirrup banged into Long Tom’s shin. He kicked at it, on his way to the zenith. He found it when Wild Bill came down stiff-legged and roaring with rage.

  Wild Bill was not to be beaten so easily. He began to buckjump, short vicious stabs at earth with straight hoofs. He sailed upward again and came down the other way around.

  Long Tom rode and rode gracefully. But it was one thing to stick and quite another to get this screaming half ton of fighting horse headed out for the track.

  Vicky had no eyes for anything but the saddle. Thunder was going round and round as she strove to mount.

  Abruptly she reversed the tug on the reins and, for an instant, the mount was still. She sprang up. Thunder leaped skyward. Holding with her knees alone, she got the other stirrup. And then the grandstand was mixed up with the chutes and the fence was vertical and nineteen other horses were bucking through the clouds.

  Thunder wanted to run but he was headed wrong. She tried to turn him and he fought for his head, lunging blindly through scattering groups of men and horses.

  Mud and flying batwings made up the world for an instant and then Vicky saw that she was going right. She saw something else. The flash of diamonds in a belt told her that Long Tom was the first to reach the track and start around.

  With a mad rush, Thunder plowed through the white rails of the track, sending splinters flying. He almost fell as he skidded in the mud. Vicky pulled him upright by yanking the reins.

  Long Tom was on the track. But Wild Bill started into another fury of bucking and Tom was too much of a buckaroo not to fan.

  Wild Bill tried to rush the wrong way around and Long Tom harassed him into turning in another direction. Out of half an eye, Long Tom saw the white blur on an exploding mount and knew that he and Vicky were the first ones out in the track. It was treacherous work here, as any moment a mount might fall.

  “Ride ’em, Vicky!” yelled Long Tom from sheer exuberance.

  Suddenly he saw her just beside him, headed in the right direction, quirting Thunder.

  “Go it, you devil!” cried Vicky.

  A panic hit both horses in the same instant. Like catapulted arrows they shot forward. Long Tom was ahead half a length and the glitter of his belt was in Vicky’s eyes.

  The grandstand fled. Thunder tried to lunge through the board fence but she swerved him back. She hit against Wild Bill and both mounts abruptly broke into a mad
fury of bucking.

  Wild Bill was lunging and buckjumping as he went ahead. But Thunder sunfished with unexpected vigor.

  She was half unseated by the collision as she had had to withdraw a leg. And now she could not get the stirrup back.

  Thunder hit earth at an angle and started to fall. Vicky braced herself for a jump free. But Thunder suddenly recovered and lunged sideways in the opposite direction.

  The skid and reversal were so sudden that Vicky’s grip broke on the reins and suddenly she no longer had her saddle. She was falling to the left.

  Desperately in that moment she strove to free her left foot from the stirrup. But it was twisted and the golden spur was caught.

  She hit earth on her shoulder and it would have been broken had the mud not been so soft.

  Above her she could see a lunging saddle against the sky and a foot from her face struck the hoofs of Thunder.

  The sudden release of weight made the mustang leap ahead.

  Wild Bill also leaped ahead.

  But not until that instant did Long Tom Branner know that Vicky was off with one foot hung, and would be either dragged to death by her insane mount, or mangled when Thunder went through the fence.

  Immediately there was nothing which could be done. Wild Bill was in full stride, a length ahead of Thunder.

  And then Long Tom did a strange thing.

  He yanked Wild Bill to the left with such strength that the outlaw was broadsided to the track.

  A matter of feet from Long Tom’s shoulder and leg, Thunder was coming blind.

  And Long Tom jerked his mount’s head to the right and up and pulled with all his might, leaning back.

  Unbalanced twice on a slippery track, only one thing could happen.

  Wild Bill went down. Went down to throw Long Tom Branner under the striking hoofs of another maniac horse.

  Vicky had not been dragged twenty feet, so swiftly had it happened. Wild Bill piled Thunder up and the two mounts went down, entangled and screaming.