Twenty-five thousand packed the stands and made a blurred sea surging up from the other side of the track. The arena boss and the judges and wranglers were hurrying on important errands across the wet green turf of the arena. Flags and Indians and violent-shirted punchers made the day loud and bright. The band was playing “Cheyenne, Cheyenne,” but Long Tom Branner, sitting on the gate of chute five, saw and heard very little of it. He was watching with hungry eyes Miss Vicky Stuart as she climbed up to the runway and came toward the chute which held Dynamite. Long Tom sighed. Vicky was all in white, all creamy silk and leather. And just now she was pushing a strand of corn-colored hair back under her Stetson. Her golden spurs clink-jingled and they made the only sound in the world which Long Tom Branner could hear. He hooked his high heels more solidly into the third bar and sat up straighter, prepared for the worst. “Give him hell, Vicky,” said Long Tom. She stopped and looked across at him.
What do You think about Death Waits At Sundown (2012)?
