"She's bringing the Ford. I rode over. Have to have my own horse, you know. I can't mount the way I used to."
"No," said Mr. Tulloss. "No. How's Kay standing it?"
"It's mighty lonely for her, but she's" He flushed darkly. "She's a pretty fine little girl."
"No trouble then?"
"No trouble," said Tom valiantly.
When he left he knew the banker was still behind him, and he felt happier than for weeks. He strode out, made that awkward mount of his, and rode to the Fair grounds. After all, life was still good to him; he was not down and out, he had a herd of cattle and a ranch. And he had Kay. His heart swelled a little as he thought of her, dauntlessly driving the ramshackle Ford along the dusty roads, and there was a bit of swagger in the way he rode onto the field.
The grand-stand was full, and in front of it the local band was playing. Earlier in the day the crowds had thronged the buildings, and had viewed the exhibits proudly, and with reason. They themselves had made them possible, had fought their hard fight and were slowly winning out. The school display, the vegetables and fruits, the very pedigreed cattle and the great stallions with crimped manes and shining hoofs, they had made them possible. They had taken this forgotten corner of the world and made it bloom. It was theirs; God had given them the land, and they had nourished it and made it bloom.
And now they were ready to play.
"Look! There's Tom McNair. Surely to goodness he can't be going to ride!"
"Roping, maybe."
And a deep masculine voice:
"Bull-dogging, most likely. He's throwin' enough bull now to make him champion!"
But if they laughed there was affection in the laughter. His lameness, his marriage, his refusal to accept his handicap, even his attack on Little Dog, had added to his popularity.
