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Show ,K MAUY O'HAUA .&tA TtlK Sl'OKV SO FARl Tn-yr-M Kon M'l mithlln, (len n 0M'r(iml(,v 10 cho0 any yr.iiltus colt on his family' .ihIic ranch, v'k y loco" marc turned KtH'ket. His i-holi'p nwrrlv n.l.ls to his father's angrr, llrh 1 already r.me1 hy the faet thai hen ha failed his school work ami ha shown no sc-ns of rfsHMslhtlll,y. It a Ken' mother who Anally persuaded Captain MelausMIn that havtnf the colt mUht h (O.hI tor Ken. unit the thane I" him has proved she was rlsht. Flicks Is badly hurt trvlns to Jump Hie corral fence, hut even Captain Mel aushlln has to admit that the little filly may not be loco after all. Now continue with the story. CHArTl'K MI Ken would stand in (rout of her find s.iy. "I am Ken." iThsit was important (or her to know.) "And I sm your friend. Flicka. I am so sorry, so very sorry, you are hurt, and I hope it doesn't hurt." He found a nicer place (or the filly. A fence ran from the corrals o( the cowbarn, straight north, dividing divid-ing the Calf Pasture from the practice prac-tice field; a path led along this fence, and, about three hundred yards from the corrals, reached a spot where several cottonwood trees made a wall of foliage. Under the boughs of the trees, the path sloped sharply down for ten feet or so to a Thorn wasn't a sound, except for the rlpplt of the stream where it run over stones and nhallovv unruly places, now and then the Kphish of a trout that (lipped out and In niialn, and, nil the time, n f.iipt hum, the Ini.-lni; of the raclnu Mies that wero always In the out-of-doors. It was u sound that went wllh summer part of the silence. Ho siched. Well it was time to eat- he must ko up to the house and get his lunch. Flicka was still standinR up when he left. When lie came back, running run-ning down the path with the dogs at his heels, his eyes were fastened on the spot Just over the brow of the hill where he so often saw Flicka's face watching (or him, but it wasn't there. He ran down the hill and Baw that she was flat on her side. As she heard him coming she made an elTort to get up and fell back again. It stopped Ken dead in his tracks. Then he ran to her and fell on his knees beside her. "Oh, Flicka," he cried, "what Is the matter, Flicka? What's happened to you?" She was dying . . . she had been dying all along or, something had happened while he was away at lunch . . . perhaps she'd fallen and hurt herself again . . . perhaps her back was broken . . . Hardly knowing what he was doing, do-ing, he patted her face and kissed it. He went behind her, crouched suddenly she couldn't net up from the ground. It was the last day of the llodeo. The Studohakor had gone Into I'hey-enue I'hey-enue on each of the four days of the big show, FK0NT1KK HAYS, called by Cheyenne boosters, The Paddy of 'em All. Ken went the first day and saw I.ady and Calico and Huck and Haldy in the parade, ridden by four of the City Fathers, nil dressed up in ten gallon hats and fringed chaps. He saw the famous bucking horse. Midnight, throw every rider that mounted him. Hut Ken didn't go in again, not even on this last day when there was going to be the wild horse race, and It annoyed his father; but McLaughlin said it was up to him. If he'd rather be alone on the ranch than at the Rodeo with his family, why, he could suit himself. Hut one thing was certain, cer-tain, no one was going to stay with him not Gus or Tim either, because be-cause they'd both been promised the day off. Gus would be back on the four o'clock bus to milk the cows, and until then Ken would be alone. Ken said he didn't mind he'd have Flicka. Ken stood by the car to see them off, and, the last thing, his father stuck his head out the window and called to him, "All right, kid leaving leav-ing you in charge! it's all yours!" And the Studebaker, carrying his 'mm,, , i ('' r jtf-' v Y';v;y 1 1 flat area of beautiful green turf, through which Lone Tree Creek ran. When the creek was in flood, all this flat part was covered; but now, in summer, it was dry, and the grass such a vivid green that, corning corn-ing upon it from the dryer land roundabout, it was startling to the eye. Golden sunlight lay upon part of it; part of it was dark and pleasant pleas-ant with the shade of the cottonwood trees that hung over the hill and sent their roots winding down its face to bore underground for water. wa-ter. Here, without having to hunt for it, Flicka had rich grass to eat and running water to drink; there was both sun and shade. Ken called the place Flicka's Kursery, and each morning and evening eve-ning he walked down the little path carrying a can of oats to empty into the wooden feed box which he had set near the roots of the cotton-woods. cotton-woods. Standing as tall as she could at the foot of the bank, Flicka could just see over the top of it and catch sight of Ken coming. He could see her too. It made him tingle tin-gle all over, the first time he saw her head just the pretty face, with the blonde bang over her forehead and the dainty pricked ears framed in the down-hanging branches of the cottonwoods and realized that she was looking for him and waiting for - him. Ken bragged about it that night at supper, but Howard said, "Nuts! She's lookin for her oats, not for you." McLaughlin answered sharply, "Oats, or the bringer-of-oats, in the long run it gets to be the same thing." down, put his arms around her head and held It. At last he went back to the bank of the hill and sat down, wishing that the afternoon would hurry by and that Gus would come. The bus would drop him at four o'clock out on the highway. It would take him a half hour to walk to the house, change into his bluejeans (he'd be all dressed up in a tight shiny blue serge suit with a ten-gallon hat and fine shoes) and be ready to milk the cows. Ken was to bring the cows in and have them waiting in the corral, and he was to measure out the cow feed and put it in the feed boxes for the cows, so Gus would have nothing to do but drive them in and milk them. Flicka seemed to have gone to sleep. Presently Ken lay down on the hillside and fell asleep too. A sound came into his sleep. A loud, distressed crying. It got louder loud-er and louder and then was a terrible, ter-rible, anguished bellowing, and Ken was sitting up straight, wide awake, and tense with fear. It wasn't anything any-thing to . do with Flicka, but she too was holding her head up from the ground, listening. It was a cow bellowing. The sound came from the east, beyond the Calf Pasture. That was Crosby's Cros-by's land. IX wasn't one of the Goose Bar cows then. Ken was frightened and sickened by the sound. Something awful must be happening. What? Ought he to go and find out? (You're in charge ) Maybe the mountain lion. His thoughts jumped to the Winchester The bottom strand of the fence was broken. mother and father and Howard and Gus and Tim slid down the hill, rattled rat-tled over the cattle guard and bowled smoothly down the road. Ken stood there, watching it until it disappeared. How different everything every-thing was now that they had gone. All yours . . . He felt the responsibility responsi-bility his father had laid upon him ... he was in charge. The two dogs, Kim, the collie who looked like a coyote, and Chaps, the black spaniel, were standing beside him. They too were watching the empty road. They were used to doing that, and they knew the difference the road with the Studebaker on it, going or coming, the road empty, and silence all around. Ken went up to his room and stood before his book shelf. He picked out the "Jungle Book," then ran downstairs and out, across the Green, into the Calf Pasture, and down the path by the fence to Flicka's Nursery. She was drinking drink-ing at the brook when he came. He greeted her with a stream of talk; he visited with her a while, standing as close to her as she would let him. Then he seated himself him-self on the bank of the hill under the cottonwoods and began to read. Flicka wandered around her nursery. nurs-ery. Sometimes she wanted - sunshine, sun-shine, and stood under the dappled golden light until she was warmed through, then a few steps took her into the shade of the trees. Ken, glancing up, saw her standing quite near, watching him. He began to read aloud to her, and her ears came forward sharply as if she was listening. Flicka's head turned. As Ken's voice went on, she moved over to the empty feed box, sniffed it, put out a long pink tongue and licked up a few stray grains left over from her breakfast. Then she stood quietly, broadside to Ken, switching switch-ing her cream-colored tail to keep off the flies. Now and then Ken stopped reading, read-ing, put his book down and lay back on the hill with his arms under his head, looking up through the branches of the trees. He could see a patch of blue sky with a little vague half moon floating in It, the daytime moon, called the Children's Chil-dren's Moon, because it is the only moon most children ever see. At first he thought it was a little soft cloud. It was another hot day, but down here it was pleasant and shady. . . . where was it? ... in the back of the Studebaker ... no, no, the officers had been shooting with it and afterwards his father had put all the guns back in the gun-rack -in the dining room . . . yes ... he could get it, could go see what was the matter . . . The boy got slowly to his feet. Should he get the Winchester first? Or go to the cow first? Would he be able to use the Winchester? It was heavy . . . perhaps better to get his own little twenty-two . . . perhaps go first and see what was the matter . . . Indecision; paralyzed him; then suddenly he came to life, turned and ran eastward. He flew along the edge of the brook, crossed and re-crossed re-crossed wherever the footing was best. Some places the willows crowded down thick to the edge of the stream and he had to go around. The bellowing continued. Well.. . . anyway, if it was the wildcat it hadn't got her . . . she was making mak-ing plenty of noise . . . maybe it had got her calf. Ken ran fast so he wouldn't be frightened. He saw the red hide of a Hereford cow not one of their own Guernseys. She was standing on the edge of the creek where a barbed wire fence crossed it. As Ken rolled under the fence and went around to her, he couldn't see that anything was the matter then he saw, and it made him sick. The bottom strand of the wire fence was broken; some other old wires were tangled with it, and the whole web of wire was wrapped around the cow's udder. Ken put his hand to the hind pocket pock-et of his overalls. He had been told by his father, "never let me catch you out without a pair of wire-cutters in your pants pocket." But the cutters weren't there. He remembered, remem-bered, clean bluejeans this morning, morn-ing, and the cutters lying on the table in his room. He headed for the cowbarn; there would be cutters cut-ters there. While he ran he i was wishing that Gus would come. He wondered if he should wait for Gus to cut the cow loose (it's all yours . .) No, he'd do it himself. It took him fifteen minutes to gel back to the cow with the cutters Then he had been running so hard, he had to kneel beside her for a few minutes until his breath came easily and his hands were steady enough to begin work. (TO BE CONTINUED) And Nell added dryly, "Are human hu-man beings any different?" No doubt about it, Flicka did love her oats. As Ken stooped over to empty the can into the feed box, she would be close beside him reaching her nose in; but when he put out his hand to stroke her, she pulled back. She would not let him touch her. The last week or so, all Ken and Howard had been doing with their colts was to lead them by the halter hal-ter around the pasture, saying Whoa now and then, at the same time halting halt-ing the colt; and making them go different speeds, from a slow walk up to a brisk trot. When they had walked them enough, they took them back into the pens, removed the lead ropes and played with them, patted and whacked them, waved blankets around them, leaned on their backs, fed them oats out of their hands. Right over the fence from the Calf Pasture, where the boys worked with their colts, was the practice field, and here, for many hours a day, Ken's mother and father, .and the bronco-buster worked with the four polo ponies, Rumba, Blazes, Don, and Gangway. At last the day came when the work was done. The four ponies were loaded into the truck and McLaughlin Mc-Laughlin drove them to the station to be shipped with Sargent's bunch. Then the little bronco-buster left. They all gathered around the battered bat-tered sedan, packed full of saddles and equipment, and said good-by to him and wished him luck at the Rodeo. "Don't take chances," Nell McLaughlin Mc-Laughlin said. "But I notice you're pretty careful." Ross' steady blue eyes looked at her in his direct and respectful manner, man-ner, and he answered, "A man that monkeys around wild horses don't kid himself any. Missus. It don't rio no good." Then he grinned, "I may be in hospital agin after the Rodeo, but if I ain't, I'll be back to see how Kn makes out with his filly." He grinned at Ken and Ken grinned back. Then he topk off his sombrero, shook hands all around, climbed into the driver's seat and rattled off. And the next tiling that happened was the Rodeo. Ken was entirely alone on the ranoh that day with Flicka, when ( |