Corson
stood up and peered about him.
"Who is Perris?" asked Marianne.
"A gent that come out of the north, up Montana way, I hear. He's been
betting on himself to win this bucking contest, covering everybody's
money. A crazy man, he sure is!"
The voice drifted dimly to Marianne for she was falling into a pleasant
haze, comfortably aware of eyes of admiration lifted to her more and
more frequently from the crowd. She envied the blue coolness of the
mountains, or breathed gingerly because the sting of alkali-dust was in
the air, or noted with impersonal attention the flash of sun on a horse
struggling in the far off corrals. The growing excitement of the crowd,
as though a crisis were approaching, merely lulled her more. So the
voice of Corson was half heard; the words were unconnotative sounds.
"Let the winner pick the worst outlaw in the lot. Then Perris will ride
that hoss first. If he gets throwed he loses. If he sticks, then the
other gent has just got to sit the same hoss--one that's already had the
edge took off his bucking. Well, ain't that a fool bet?"
"It sounds fair enough," said Marianne. "Perris, I suppose, hasn't
ridden yet. And Arizona Charley is tired from his work.
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