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to spare!”
    He turned and set off for that huge bedomed building again, and soon we were pushing through the doors. Inside, we were stopped by a fellow wearing a blue uniform with a brass star and a short, scabbarded sword—obviously a member of the Columbian Guard, the Exposition’s famous army of private police.
    “Sorry, gentlemen. The Administration Building’s not open to—”
    Smythe waved his blue ribbon. “Official business!”
    The guard stepped back and let us pass.
    “The contest’s gonna be in here?” I asked as we continued down a broad, marble-tiled hall.
    “No, no, no! The Exposition’s loaned us an office for the week, that’s all.”
    Smythe threw open a door and shooed us into a small room. A typewriter-topped desk had been shoved into one corner, but beyond that and a few lights along the wall—electric bulbs, I noted, not gas jets—the little room was free of any other furniture or fixture.
    Two tall stacks of boxes bookended the typewriter on the desk.
    “Alright,” Smythe said. “Time to get into your costumes.”
    “Our what ?” Old Red blurted out before I could.
    Smythe turned to the desk, opened one of the bigger boxes, and pulled out a ten-gallon hat so high-peaked and pure white, seen from a distance you’d think it was the Swiss Alps. This he handed to my brother. Then he reached into another box and produced a round-topped Boss of the Plains that was, amazingly, even larger—and bright red. This, to my horror, he handed to me.
    “They go on your heads!” Smythe snapped when we didn’t immediately slap the hats on.
    “It’s awful nice of you to give us these,” I said. “But … well … a red Stetson? Black, white, or brown, that’s all a real cowboy’d ever—”
    “What’s ‘real’ got to do with it? I’ve already made”—here Smythe’s voice went warbly—“a substantial investment in this undertaking. Even if it can’t be recouped, I don’t mean to see it wasted entirely. We have an opportunity to paint a public portrait of you that suits our purposes, and we’re going to make the most of it.”
    Smythe turned back to the packages. As he sorted through them, a magazine tucked between two boxes fell fluttering to the floor. It landed cover up.
    Smythe’s Frontier Detective, it was called. I’d never heard of it. Which was ironic, since it had heard of me.
    “OLD RED,” THE HOLMES OF THE RANGE,
    IN: “BUCKAROO SLEUTHS OF RUSTLER’S RANCH!”
    BY “BIG RED,” THE COWBOY WATSON
    Below all that was a picture of “Big Red” himself, large as life and blazing with color. He and “Old Red” stood back to back, Peacemakers drawn, a gang of desperadoes circling them on horseback.
    How did I know which one was Big Red? Well, he was the big one, obviously. The red Stetson was a bit of a clue, too. Not to mention the red chaps, red holster, and red vest worn over trousers and shirt of purest white, with white boots, no less.
    Old Red was his opposite—white hat, chaps, holster, and vest, but red shirt, trousers, and boots.
    They looked ridiculous, ludicrous, laughable … and that was exactly what Smythe had in mind for me and Gustav. He began pulling out outfits that were identical to the ones on the cover. That magazine had been his tailor’s pattern book.
    Smythe moved toward Old Red with a crimson gun belt.
    Old Red hopped back like the man was coming after him with a pitchfork.
    “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Oh, yes,” Smythe said, nodding.
    “Oh, no, ” my brother said, shaking his head harder.
    “Oh, yes, ” Smythe said, nodding just as hard.
    “Oh. No!” Shake shake shake.
    “Oh. Yes!” Nod nod nod.
    If it kept up much longer, one or the other was going to break his neck.
    “Look, Brother…,” I began.
    “I am lookin’!” Gustav raged. “At duds so ugly only a blind fool would wear ’em! And I may be half-blind, but I’m no fool! I ain’t gonna dress up like a blasted barber pole and I ain’t gonna let