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LET 'ER BUCK
A STORY
OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST
fT-LD4"'v'J;,':"ox
goaNOAr,
Photo by Charles Wellington Furlong
A Fight to a Finish
LET 'ER BUCK
A STORY OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST
y
BY
,^r?t
/-»
CHARLES WELLINGTON ^URLONG, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF "THE GATEWAY TO THE SAHABa"
WITH FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS TAKEN FROM LIFE
BY THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
^be IKnicftetbocfter press
1921
0
COPYRIGHT, 1921
BY
CHARLES WELLINOTON FURLONG
Printed in the United States of America
^l^
TO MY SON
ROGER WELLINGTON FURLONG
AND
IN TRIBUTE
TO THE AMERICAN PIONEER
THE ADVANCE GUARD OF EUROPE'S LAST FRONTIER
AND TO THE COWBOY
THE WEST'S FIRST BORN
BOTH OF WHOM
THROUGH AN INTREPID FAITH
AN UNHAMPERED BELIEF
HIGH IDEALS AND A DYNAMIC GOGETTEDNESS
EPITOMIZED THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA
AND
CEMENTED THE GREAT NORTHW'EST
INTO OUR NATIONAL BODY POLITIC
PUTTING ON THE BRAND
If I had never seen a Umatilla "fuzz-tail," didn't
know what "bulldogging" meant, and was altogether
a stranger to the Pacific Northwest — if, I say, such
misfortunes were mine, yet would I revel in Let 'Er
Buck, because of the downright dramatic interest of
the book and its extraordinary illustrations.
But as I happen to have had the good fortune to
reside in Oregon for some years, and as I know at
first-hand somewhat of the range country and its
people, Let 'Er Buck has found an especially ap-
preciative publisher. It is truly a breath of the real
West of yesterday and today, alluring for us in the
East, inspiring, I am sure, to every reader to whom
the West means home.
Charles Wellington Furlong is an ideal author for
such an epic of the out-of-doors. He knows. He has
lived the life of which he writes. He has worked
and played in the cattle country; its people are
his friends and its ways are his. He understands the
Round-Up intimately, not only as observer but as
participant. It violates no secret to state that the buck-
aroo pictured riding Sharkey, the bull (page 176), is
Furlong himself; he broke the world's record — and
his wrist! ,
vii
PUTTING ON THE BRAND
What an adventuresome, varied life our author has
led! Explorer, painter, writer, university professor,
lecturer, soldier, publicist! He has painted in Paris
and been a Professor at Cornell. He has written half
a dozen successful books and countless magazine arti-
cles. He has slept in the guanaco skin tents of the
primitive Patagonians, and has crossed the Atlantic
in a twenty-two ton schooner. He has lectured on art
in Boston and fought desert thieves in the Sahara. He
has ridden with the wild tribesmen of Morocco and
cow-punched with the Vaqueros of the Venezuelan
llanos. . . . And naturally he loves the ways of the Old
West, so gloriously repictured, in action and spirit,
each year at the Pendleton Round-Up — and loves the
Round-Up itself, whose story as here recorded be-
comes a lasting chapter in the history of the well-won
West.
Last autumn Furlong and I were automobiling near
New York City. We talked of Oregon, because we
both love its mountains, forests, and far-flung grain
and cattle lands.
"The Round-Up's a book in itself," said I, remi-
niscing of Pendleton.
"Of course," he replied. "And I am going to write
it. You publish it."
He did.
We did.
There is a very large measure of personal satisfac-
tion in being associated with this book, and an equal
pleasure in recalling the characteristically enthusiastic
support which the project has received from Pendleton
and her people. . . . And it is a further satisfaction to
realize that Let 'Er Buck undoubtedly will cause
many Eastern readers to go West and see for them-
viii
PUTTING ON THE BRAND
selves this wonderful Round-Up spectacle — which is
only another way of predicting their ultimate gratitude
to author and publisher !
G. P. P.
New York, June, 1921.
IX
THE FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE
AND WHY
"Sh! — She's asleep!" The tallest, roughest appear-
ing of five big, hard-boiled looking men raised a quiet
but warning finger to a newcomer and pointed farther
down the car. The train was a little freight with a
passenger annex that runs over the dust-swept plains
and through some little jerkwater towns of central
Washington.
Pretty Miss Virginia had heard the call of the West
and came. Fatigued by a year of teaching and repres-
sion in a tight, little sectarian college she was now
speeding toward freedom and the great outdoors to a
Western uncle's ranch.
The newcomer now made the seventh passenger —
six were men — she was the seventh. Her eyes had
wearied of the miles of fascinating, desert-looking
country with no signs of life, except little, timid, crawl-
ing things that scurried or slunk along through the
sage brush. But the one thing she had desired the last
month of her busy year more than anything was sleep
— so she curled up and — slept.
When she awoke, the well-worn coat of one of the
five was spread over her, another rolled up, had been
tucked gently under her head. No one was talking or
making the slightest sound. At noon the conductor
xi
FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE
came, sorry not to be able to offer her a regular lunch,
but said he would stop the train somewhere and get her
a cup of tea. When they did stop, each man debouched
from the freight and brought her something.
It was warm and dusty, the poor, rickety little car
had seemed impossible but Miss Virginia obtained a
new perspective of the real spirit of the West. The
West, that in many places still feels life is too big to
give change for a nickel — (all coppers taken in the
saloon at Ennis were flipped over the mirror top behind
the bar) , the West, where in some places it is still more
polite to ask a man what he calls himself than what
his name is, the West where it matters little what a
man's folks were or to some extent even what he's been
himself, it's what he is. Miss Virginia had pryed open
the heart of the West — and this happened today, since
the first of this book went to press. The reason the
book has gone to press is threefold.
To help to preserve one of the most important pages
of American history — the Winning of the West and
the part the pioneer and the American cowboy have
played in it.
To show the significance of the cowboy contests
which are fast disappearing, and particularly of that
passion play of the West, The Round-Up held at Pen-
dleton, in Eastern Oregon about which country so
much of the history of the Northwest is wrapped.
To help to perpetuate and enlarge the ennobling and
just Spirit of America through the true and positive
Spirit of the West, that in so doing, we may be ener-
gized to a greater national consciousness.
Our Atlantic seaboard is established, our western
still in the making. Our trade Star of Empire is still
West, the Far East. Puget Sound and its contiguous
xii
FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE
ports will some day be the great western mouth of
America, one of the greatest trade and transit em-
poriums of the World, a healthy competitor of, and
worthy cooperator with. New York.
America's greatest trade success lies in the Pacific
and beyond, likewise its greatest problem, its greatest
danger. America must know its own problems, get
acquainted with itself, see itself, know itself first,
adequately to protect and find itself. So too, America
must also follow and understand the movements of the
world tides, not just its own political eddies.
The Great Epic Drama of the West, the Round-Up,
is but an atomic episode in the modern, forward-mov-
ing West of today, but a drop of the red blood that
surges through the great throbbing heart of America,
but it helps us to understand its pulsing. H there was
never another rounding-up of the range clans in Pendle-
ton, its Pageant has already been a rich contribution
to the Spirit of America.
There is something in every healthy nature that re-
sponds to the spectacular and dangerous. When the
restraints of some artificialities of society are removed,
certain deep powerful, oft-times long-buried instincts,
irresistible and unfathomable, assert themselves. It
were better for the Nation if the blase, effete, lily-liv-
ered youths, which the complexities and hectic move-
ment of our modern life tends to develop, learned
through honorable physical contest the satisfaction of
a well-balanced body and character, the power of
self-control, the constructive force of positiveness and
that joy of spiritual uplift through a frank and sym-
pathetic contact with Nature and a certain healthy re-
version to type.
In this book I have sought to incorporate enough of
xiii
FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE
the early history of Oregon and the West to enable
me to paint with a broad brush in the simple, primary
colors of fact, a background which will serve as an
adequate stage-setting for the actors and episodes of
Pendleton's great annual epic.
I have sought to portray the big, free spirit and sig-
nificance of range life through type similes, simple in-
cident and outstanding feature and thus record a verse
or two of the swan song of the cowboy before his
range cries die away.
This book represents the results of some seventeen
years of close personal study of and participation in
the life of the range in our West and in the countries
of South America and also in four annual Round-Ups
at Pendleton.
But within these pages, one can but touch upon a few
of the many stirring performances and present only
a small portion of that lore and custom linked with
them. On each of the three days of the Round-Up,
a lifetime on the frontier is lived in an afternoon. The
picture drawn here is a composite one, extending over
more than a decade of round-ups. Contestants have
come and gone and some have ridden out into the
Farther West. But I have tried to make the picture a
true one, though composed of thumb-nail sketches,
snapshots caught as it were, through the open noose of
a flying lass rope.
As the cowboys are being run off the ranges and
cowhands are yearly less in demand many are turning
the art of their calling to more profitable use, by
"ridin' the shows," that is, competing for prize money
in the rodeos — little round-up shows held all over the
West — in which some make several times their forty
bucks and found. Still others, mostly star perform-
xiv
FIRST THROW OF THE ROPE
ers have gone from rodeo to movies and almost any
night you can see Hoot Gibson, Art Acord, Jane Ber-
noudy, Walter Sterling, Ben Corbett and others rep-
licating on the film some real romance of their
adventurous lives.
But of those big-hearted, open-handed, courageous
souls in the Great Game, none have followed the
romance of life or death, none played more headily,
yet openly with fate, than the cowboy of yesterday and
today. Of those buckaroos and Round-Up officials
who have graced the great Pendleton arena, there are
some familiar figures who have ridden out and beyond
across the Great Sunset — Bert Kelley, Mark Moor-
house, Harry Gray, Otto Kline, Floyd Irwin, Del Blan-
cett, Newt Burgess, George Peringer, Til Taylor,
Earl Pruitt, H. C. Caplinger, Homer Wilson, Winna-
mucca Jack and others. You see their silhouettes in
the passing, against its golden afterglow.
Some errors are naturally unavoidable, one cannot
always rope a "critter" right, but if anyone picks up
any "strays" both publisher and author will appreciate
it if you'll rope 'em and lead 'em in and we'll put on the
right brand if we ever make a second throw with this
rope. But I'll offer no apology to the West for having
slipped over a highbrow expression or two — or to the
East for having dropped into the vernacular of the
cowboy — because when you're through jogging along
chapps to chapps, in this story, you'll both know the
other feller better.
C. W. F.
XV
i
SLAPS ON THE BACK TO THOSE
WHO HELPED
A SMALL portion of the material in this book has ap-
peared in the form of magazine articles in Harper's
Magazine and World's Work.
My sincere acknowledgments are due to the follow-
ing:— Mr. Robert Swan of New York and Canton,
Mass., former ranch owner, for stimulating my inter-
est in the West through his own love of God's country
and for bringing me into first direct contact with the
cowboy and range on the old Nine Quarter Circle in
the Taylor Fork country of Montana : the late William
F. Cody (Buffalo Bill), who through his striking per-
sonality and healthy romance embodied in his Wild
West Show concept, first set my boyhood imagination
westward working.
To the following Pendletonians : Mr. James H.
Sturgis, of Sturgis and Storie, rancher and business
man and former Round-Up Livestock Director, whose
close friendship and generous assistance, not only
helped inspire my initial interest in this book, but aided
in the solution of some of the practical problems con-
nected with it; the late Sheriff Tillman D. Taylor,
eight years President of the Round-Up; the late Mark
Moorhouse, first Arena Director; Samuel R. Thomp-
xvii
SLAPS ON THE BACK
son, Rancher and Livestock Director and Lawrence G.
Frazier of L. G. Frazier's Bookstore and Grounds
Director for kind personal assistance in facilitating my
work with the Round-Up. To J. W. Earl, Non-Com-
petitive Events, R. E. Chloupek, Treasurer, George C.
Baer, Business Manager, D. S. Tatom, Accommoda-
tions, James Estes, Parade Director; Thomas Boylen,
Rancher and Judge and other members and ex-mem-
bers of the Round-Up Directorate for the granting of
privileges in the arena.
To Mr. Roy T. Bishop of the Pendleton Woolen
Mills, former Director of Indians and Mr. Chauncey
Bishop of the same firm and present Director of In-
dians for privileges extended and kind assistance in the
Indian section of the Round-Up; to Mr, Glenn Bushee,
Deputy Sheriff and Indian authority for much personal
assistance in gathering Indian data; Captain Lee
Caldwell, formerly commanding Troop D, 3rd Oregon
Cavalry — rancher and buckaroo, for detailed facts on
rough-riding technique; Major Lee Moorhouse, lead-
ing Oregon authority on the Northwest and the Indian,
for generously placing his invaluable illustrative and
literary collections at my disposal and aiding in veri-
fying certain moot questions.
To Mr. Charles H. Marsh, Attorney-at-Iaw and
Round-Up Secretary for invaluable personal assistance
over a period of nine years and particularly for aid in
compilation of the Round-Up tables at the back of this
book : to Mr. Henry W. Collins, President of the Col-
lins Flour Mills and President of the Round-Up for
helpful personal and executive action in furthering the
writing and publication of this book: To Mr. J. Roy
Raley, Attorney at law, of Raley and Steiwer, first
President of the Round-Up and Director of Happy
xviii
SLAPS ON THE BACK
Canyon for specific and valuable information : to Mr.
Herbert Thompson, rancher and Round-Up Assistant
Livestock Director for many personal favors in secur-
ing material, both on ranch and in arena.
To Mr. E. B. Aldrich, Journalist and Editor of The
East Oregonian for exceptionally kind and valuable
assistance since 1913, both through personal courtesies
and the use of the valuable files of the East Oregonian;
Mr. Harry Kuck, Journalist and Editor of The Pendle-
ton Tribune for numerous courtesies extended; Mr.
Samuel Jackson, Journalist and Editor of The Ore-
gon Journal for courtesies; Mr. Merle Chessman,
Journalist and writer and authority on the Round-Up
for information placed at my disposal ; Mr. Ernest L.
Crockatt, Secretary of the Eastern Oregon Auto Club,
for published material generously placed at my disposal
from which I have drawn freely in Chapter Two;
Dr. Cyrus C. Sturgis, of Peter Bent Brigham Hos-
pital, Boston, and formerly of Pendleton, for many
kindnesses; Elmer Storie, of Sturgis and Storie,
Walla Walla, for generous application of the balm of
both horse liniment and friendship when sorely
needed; Mr. and Mrs. F. Gordon Patterson, of Bos-
ton, and the many friends whose kindly interest and
helpfulness furthered the successful completion of
this work.
To Edwin P. Marshall, rancher and authority on
range life, for kindly rendering exceptionally useful
information; Mr. David Horn, early settler and
pioneer stage driver for information in regard to stage-
coaching and early Oregon conditions; Mr. Fay S.
LeGrow of Athena, rancher and banker, for field in-
formation and other assistance ; Mr. George and Allen
Drumheller for field and technical information and
xix
SLAPS ON THE BACK
courtesies; Miss E. J. Frazier of the L. G. Frazier
Book Store, Pendleton; the late Mr. H. C. Caplinger
of Athena, old time pioneer, for glimpses of the old
West; Mr. William Switzler of Umatilla, rancher,
and Mr. Ben Hutchinson of Crab Creek, Washington,
rancher and old time buckaroo, for numerous eye
openers.
To Mr. Fred Earl of the firm of The Peoples Ware-
house; Mr. Charles and Willard Bond of Bond Bros,
and Mr. J. K. Thompson of the Thompson Drug Co.,
for information and loyal support; Mr. James S. Johns
of the Hartman Abstract Co., Pendleton, for courte-
sies; to the People of Pendleton for kindly coopera-
tion and many courtesies.
Special acknowledgment and thanks is hereby ex-
pressed to Mr. Walter S. Bowman, Major Lee Moor-
house, Round-Up Association, Mr. Marcell, Electric
Studio, Doubleday, Dr. Tameisie and Mr. G. Ward,
for the use of the splendid photographs as credited
under the reproductions respectively.
To the Tantlingers (Mr. and Mrs.) of Lawton, Ok-
lahoma, formerly in charge of the cowboy and Indian
contingent, Miller Bros. 101 Ranch show for many
useful facts ; Mrs. Earl G. Reed, nee Jane Bernoudy of
Hollywood, California; Cuba Crutchfield and Chester
Byers for many points in roping; to Bertha Blancett for
illustrations and points of riding technique ; to the late
Dell Blancett of the Canadian Cavalry and buckaroo
and to all my friends and pals among the cowboys who
have given me points and initiated me into the fast-dis-
appearing vernacular, colloquialisms and ways of the
Umatilla Reservation, the Blackfeet Reservation and
Crow Agency, Montana, and elsewhere who have re-
vealed to me some of the secrets of their people. And
XX
SLAPS ON THE BACK
not least, though last, to Maj. George Palmer Putnam,
of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publisher and writer, be-
cause of his faith in the idea of the book and its author,
for his unusual personal encouragement and practical
cooperation and particularly for his unpublishery, un-
arm-chairy imagination, all of which is so essential to
book success.
Let 'er Buck!
XXI
FRONTIERSPIECE
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF
THE FRONTIERS OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY
We sat on the top rail of a corral fence, my pal and
I. We had ridden nearly one hundred miles over the
Montana Rockies, from Nine Quarter Circle Ranch
in the Taylor Fork country, loping into the little town
of Ennis in the Madison Valley to witness a local buck-
ing contest, the first I had ever seen.
The top rail was the grandstand, the gaps between
the logs were the bleachers, well crowded by the people
of the little hamlet and the outfits that had ridden in.
Montana Whitey was riding old Glass Eye, a brute of
a bucker, who, not satisfied with trying to scrape off
his rider against the corral fence, nipped viciously at
the quickly-hauled-up legs of the ''grandstand" specta-
tors. Crash I A tenderfoot fell backwards thru an
automobile top, landing squarely, if unexpectedly, in
the lap of a lady.
"Who's the tall, goodlooking cowboy, with the red
feather dangling Indian fashion from his Stetson?
The one in charge of the stakes," I asked Judge Call-
oway of Virginia City, who on the morrow was hold-
ing court in Ennis, but who now helped me hold down
the top rail.
xxiii
FRONTIERSPIECE
"What! Don't you know V ? He's not a
bad sort, but I had to send him up last spring for two
years — horse rusthng."
"Speaks well for him that he is out so soon."
"Out? He's not out. You see, he's one of the best
riders in the valley and the people hereabouts wouldn't
stand for keeping V in jail while this bucking
contest is on. But he goes back tonight."
This episode not only prefaces this book and my
own experiences in the life and sports of the old West,
but epitomizes those great human virtues with which
the West is replete — courage, daring, belief in work,
love of play, optimism, and above all, that balance-
wheel of life, humor; virtues which were not only nec-
essary to the winning of the West, but were those com-
posite constituents which enabled the early pioneer to
cement later the great Northwest into our national
body politic.
Five nations for two centuries, seeking the Oregon
country, tried to discover the great rumored "River of
the West." Then the New England skipper, Captain
Robert Gray of Boston, first cargoed by Boston mer-
chants and later sent by General Washington, let fall
the anchors of his two vessels the Columbia and Lady
Washington in the long sought River of the West,
later christened after the name of his flagship — and
Oregon was found. This great River of the West as
expressed in the poem picture of Bryant's imagina-
tion is supposed to be the waterway mentioned in
Thaftatopsis in the line "where rolls the Oregon."
A scant three hundred years ago, the Atlantic sea-
board was the frontier of Europe. But that eternal
urge, that migratory instinct — wanderlust — found
from man to butterflies, saw the eastern settler push
xxiv
FRONTIERSPIECE
over the Appalachian passes, onward to the Mississippi
and Missouri, and the frontier of Europe was
advanced. s
The search for the Northwest Passage had of neces-
sity brought those early explorers in close contact with
the Pacific coast, but the immense supply of skins to
be purchased from the Amerinds^ sidetracked the navi-
gators. It was no wonder that when one could pur-
chase two hundred otter skins for a chisel, as did
Captain Gray, that their passion was shifted from
"passage to peltries." Gray later traded in China his
cargo of skins for tea, and returned to Boston around
the Cape of Good Hope, the "first sailor under the
American flag to circumnavigate the globe."
About fifteen years later, those courageous young
explorers, Lewis and Clark, starting from St. Louis
and following the Missouri River, explored portions
of the Northwest clear to the Pacific. Despite the fact
that the Hudson's Bay Company pushing on to
the Columbia and south of it, had thrown out a west-
ern flank of conquest, Lewis and Clark's exploration
coupled with Gray's discovery established for the
United States a definite and recorded claim upon the
Oregon country, which at that time included the great-
er portion of the Northwest.
Americans pushed their claims and trade still harder
when John Jacob Astor of New York, the founder of
the great line of merchant princes, outfitted his ships
*The term Amerind derived by combining syllables of the
words American Indian is used to signify an aboriginal inhab-
itant of North or South America in order to distinguish be-
tween him and the Indian, the autochthonous inhabitant of In-
dia. The term Amerind was first used by Major Powell of the
Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D. C.
XXV
FRONTIERSPIECE
How many died of those who started westward dur-
ing this sixteen years of migration orhow many eventu-
ally arrived at the Ultima Thule will never be known.
But there is a record of a single column, fifty thousand
strong, and five hundred miles in length. The old em-
igrant road, like the Saharan trails, may be said to be
paved with the bones of wayfarers.
In 1852 was the fatal cholera. Between two cross-
ings of the Snake River eleven of twenty-three people
died in one wagon train, while one day and two nights
saw forty people of another train buried opposite the
trail. Seven persons of one family were interred in a
single grave. At least five thousand emigrants found
their last resting-place on the prairies in that fatal
year. The dead lay in rows of fifties and groups of
seventies; and many claim ten per cent is too low an
estimate for a single twelvemonth.
A scout, following over the trail from the Platte to
the Laramie, reported that on one side of the river
alone he counted six fresh graves to the mile for the
entire distance of four hundred miles. When it is
born in mind that on the north bank was a parallel col-
umn where the same conditions prevailed, some concep-
tion of the fatalities may be had. How many died?
Even the approximate number of the total toll paid
by these pioneers of the plains will never be known;
the roll call was never made.
The march of the Oregon pioneers was a vast move-
ment of families, a romance of adventure, enterprise,
patriotism and lofty ambition peculiarly characteristic
of America. We of this more effete generation, of
this day of steam heat, hot water and upholstered
Pullmans, may well pause a moment in our excession
of the human economic speed limit and pay tribute to
xxviii
FRONTIERSPIECE
these pioneers of the interminable forests, mighty
rivers, exhaustless mines and Hmitless plains, who have
made all these comforts possible. Well, too, if we
curtail our misuse of this heritage which tends to that
depleting epidemic of civilization, civilizitis.
The printed story of the adventures and sufferings of
these pioneer caravans over the great trek from 1843
to 1859 is a mere synopsis of the actualities. The story
of The Old Emigrant Trail, the only name by which
the pioneers knew it, is an epic in American life, and
the emigration to Oregon marks an era in American his-
tory— "Its like is not in all history."
In these pages it is my privilege to pass on in a
meagre way fragments of the pioneer's message and
to portray remnants of a portion of his pioneer life.
Altho those who read may have known him not, it is
believed that they will feel in these episodes and de-
scriptions at least a faint echo of his heart throbs
which have become the pulse beats of a nation's life.
The Star of Empire, ever beckoning toward the
Eldorado of man's hope, brought the last shift of the
frontier of Europe to the Sundown Sea. Our country
is productive, our position is strategic, and our climate
produces an energetic population ; all this coupled with
the fact that the United States was fundamentally
peopled by an Anglo-Saxon race, determines our des-
tiny.
The Orient, through the great tide of the Jehad or
Holy War of Islam, really the great Arab migration,
reached the very gates of Poitiers, before it was
stemmed and turned back by Charlemagne. The tidal
wave of the Orient is now flowing on the other flank
of Western civilization. On this last frontier of Eu-
rope our West meets East. Our trade expansion is
xxix
FRONTIERSPIECE
westward. China is the great trade emporium of the
future.
It is not the Cahfornia- Japanese question, Lower
CaHfornia, or even Yap as such, which raises the
threatening cloud on the western horizon of the Land
of the Rising Sun, but the control of trade in the Gold-
en Land of the Black Dragon. The movement of
Western civilization has met a counter-current of the
East, eddying about that pin point in the Pacific — Yap.
Hence we must not underestimate the importance of
the development of the West as a basis of those new
world influences, and we must be alive to the signifi-
cance of the Pacific.
From Cape Cod to Cape Flattery the country with
each shift of the frontier became Americanized, and
each shift produced its type. Each type whether he
be Easterner, Middle State, Southern or Western, pos-
sess those salient characteristics which stamp him with
the unmistakable hall mark — American.
The great emigration but placed these pioneers on
the threshold of that era which makes for the winning
and building of the West; and it is to our forefather
pioneers of this era that we owe the results of their
elemental life in conquering the desert plains, trackless
forests and great rivers of the vast American waste
they sternly invaded. The freedom of that elemental
life, the daily association with its poetry and charm as
well as its dangers, has developed a virile American
type. It is a debt of loyalty and understanding that is
imposed on us of this generation to pay tribute to these
scouts of a dawning civilization and to preserve the
heritage which these intrepid layers of the foundations
of the great West have bequeathed.
The stranger in the West is particularly impressed
XXX
FRONTIERSPIECE
with the fact that the West still retains its frontier
characteristics, its lore and songs. There are even now
living pioneers who, through the round openings at the
end of the ox-drawn prairie schooner, saw the East
diminish and the West grow big; who have lived
through the days of the log cabin with its puncheon
floor and the "shake" house, and stocked their first
larders with buffalo, antelope and bear meat from plain
and mountain.
Through arduous days and nights, hard at their best,
and rendered desperate by Indian wars, whole scattered
settlements had to "fort up"; through those days
when defiance of law was in the foreground and out-
lawry ruled, they endured until the level-headed better
class organized the "vigilantes" and "passed on" some
of the notorious bad characters by the "short cut" in-
stead of the usual "highway round" and brought the
"bad man" to the realization that human law is a neces-
sity. Thus through the pioneers' progress they have
passed to the today of palatial homes, protection of the
law, the telephone, telegraph and canned foods.
Many an actor who carried the principal parts
against the background of this greatest of national
melodramas still stalks in the flesh. There are yet to
be found, tucked away in stray corners, the cattle
rancher, cowboy, sheriff, horse-thief, ranger, road
agent, trapper and trader, the old stage driver, freight-
er, gambler, canoeman, the missionary, pioneer
woman, old-time scout, the placer-miner, the Indian —
all pioneer types, primeval actors in this great dramat-
ic Odyssey of American adventure and development,
the building of the West.
Yes, many of the actors are here, but the scenery has
changed and most of them are out of a job. Yet in
xxxi
FRONTIERSPIECE
some parts of the interior country the last vestige of
pioneer and range hfe, and the art of its calHng is still
carried on. Times are changing, the march of progress
is fast obliterating the dashing cowboy and those other
picturesque characters of the passing of the old West.
The Old West is dying out; but if one thinks the spirit
of the Old West is dying, a certain three days of any
September spent at the time of the gathering of the
clans in the little city of Pendleton in Eastern Oregon,
will soon change one's mind and will convince one that
here is seen the metamorphosis of the Old West into
that of the New.
Man ever seeks to perpetuate himself and his his-
tory. In almost all lands there are certain feasts and
carnivals. Sometimes they take the form of pageants
to commemorate certain anniversaries, the founding of
the nation, the founding of cities, to honor saints' days,
or in commemoration of historic individuals, events
or episodes. This idea is simply a symbolism of the
spirit of the people, the most precious, concrete, prac-
tical and ideal asset that a people may have.
The oldest national carnival, the Olympiad which im-
mortalized the art and athletic powers of classic
Greece, still calls to its Olympic Games in the stadia
of the western world the youthful contestants of all
nations. Perhaps the greatest and most famous of
community symbols is the Passion Play in the little
hamlet of Oberammergau, symbolizing a great relig-
ious idea; while the Mission Play at San Gabriel out
of Los Angeles has both a religious and historical
incentive.
Each year at Pendleton, Oregon, there occurs in the
fall a great carnival which epitomizes the most dra-
matic phases of the pioneer days of the West — and its
xxxii
FRONTIERSPIECE
spirit. There the real, practical work of the trail, cow-
camp and range is shown, through the sports of the
pioneer; for the play of a people is usually but a nor-
mal outgrowth and expert expression of its work.
This great carnival is supported by the community
spirit of Pendleton and the surrounding country. It
is essentially an American pageant and typifies a phase
of American life which will soon have passed forever
below the horizon of time, but should be eternally en-
graved on the escutcheon of our history.
The Round-Up is an epitome of the end of The
Great Migration on this continent and stands not only
as typical of Pendleton, but of Oregon, of the West,
of America. This panorama of the passing of the Old
West is a page torn literally from the Book of our
Nation, and it is for this reason that I offer this little
volume as a chapter of the pioneer story as shown in
the Epic Drama of the West. .
xxxm
CONTENTS
PAGE
Putting on the Brand vii
The First Throw of the Rope and Why . xi
Slaps on the Back to Those Who Helped . xvii
Frontierspiece xxiii
CHAPTER
I. — Out Where the West Begins ... 5
IL— Til Taylor— Sheriff .... 40
III. — Corral Dust 59
IV. — Milling With the Night Herd . . 98
v.— The Round-up 134
The Bucker's Own Table . . . 228
The Rode and Thrown Table . . . 230
The Bucking Time Table . . . 232
Tips to the Tenderfoot .... 235
XXXV
ILLUSTRATIONS
A Fight to a Finish .... Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
Pendleton and Its Wheat Lands From the Air 6
Pageant of the Passing of the Old West . 7
The Sheriff 54
The Epic Drama of the West on Parade . 55
A Shooting Star 68
Sailing High . 68
Spinning the Wedding Ring .... 69
Pawin', Hoofin' and Rarin' Ter Go . . .94
Saddle Him or Bust 95
A Pioneer of the Old West .... 106
Type of the Manhood and Womanhood of the
Range 107
A Mad-Cap Ride, Everybody For Himself . . 142
A Wild Swing and Tear Through a Smother
OF Dust 142
Swift and Reckless at the Turns . . . 142
Swinging the Turns Like Galleons in a Gale 143
Catch as Catch Can 148
Bidding the Steer Good-bye .... 148
Hook 'im Cow 149
The Cow-pony's End of the Game . . . 152
Hogtied! Hands and Heads Up . . . 152
A Merry-Go-Round 153
Stay With 'im Cowboy 153
xxxvii
ILLUSTRATIONS
AND
Dare Devil Riding at Top Speed
That's Tyin' 'im .
A Pretty Throw ....
An Epic Fight
The Navy Taking on Fresh Beef
Bite 'im Lip !
Thumbs Up!
Grabbed For the Horn of the Saddle
Picked Up a Handful of Dirt
When Beef is Highest
Landing at the Round-Up .
Seated on a Ton of Living Dynamite
Hitting the Grandstand Between the Eyes
All Wound Round With a Woolen String
The Ceremonial War Dance of the Red Men
Hop to it ! Charlie Irwin Wrangling For His
Daughter in the Relay
Two Indians
FACING PAGE
156
156
157
160
160
161
161
164
165
165
168
169
169
174
175
175
Ride Him Cowboy ! 184
Even the Horses Ride at the Round-Up . . 184
The Queen of Reinland Gracing Her Throne 185
A Pretty Ride With Hobbled Stirrups . . 185
Why This One Was Not in the Finals . . 190
We Would Ride That Way . . . . 191
All Over But the Singin' 191
Art in the Rough 202
Looking For a Soft Spot 203
The Greatest Rider of the Red Race . . 203
Let 'Er Buck! 210
Stay a Long Time, Cowboy! .... 211
One of the Greatest Rides Ever Made . .211
Hell Bent , 220
xxxvin
LET 'ER BUCK
LET 'ER BUCK
CHAPTER ONE
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
"From the East?" and the speaker, a husky lad,
whose voice occasionally skipped its lower register,
cast a furtive glance at my headdress — that inartistic
abomination, the derby; then he scanned my trousers,
still retaining a faint semblance of creases, despite the
long journey from the City of Public Spirit and East
Winds.
"Yes," I replied. "Ever been there?"
"I rounded up at Lincoln, Nebraska, once," and
another geographical illusion was dispelled. We were
jogging along on the tail-end platform of a train
from Walla Walla through Eastern Oregon toward
Pendleton.
"Coin' to the Round-Up?"
"Yes."
"That's some show. The boys have been riding in
for a couple of days now."
"You're going, I suppose?"
"Not and hold my job. Yer see" — ^and he tapped his
water-filled pail and fire-fighting apparatus with his
foot — "the country's pretty dry. I've got to hang to
5
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
What ! You don't know this country — never saw that mar-
velous view from pine-clad Cabbage Hill in spring, that won-
derview on the new highway of the Old Oregon Trail?
Spread over the lap of the Umatilla Valley, nestling on the
gently undulating bosom of its hills, lie the cultivated lands.
Over the valley floor is a marvelous, magic color-carpet of Na-
ture. Into this design, she has woven the yellow, pink, brown
and old rose rectangles of stubble fields and summer fallow,
alternated it with the emerald and distant turquoise of luxuriant,
verdant fields of spring sowing, and dark-accented it with rich
maroons and distant purples of the near-summer plowing. Into
it she has dabbed some odd plays of shadow which dash it with
lapis-lazuli, levantine, and violet and finally, has stitched through
its center, the careless-rambling, silver thread of the river.
Nature through her mist-charged atmosphere holds before you
crystal globes of amethyst, opal, tourmaline and bids you gaze
into this Valley of Rainbows.
Week by week one may see this restful Eden of Colors meta-
morphose through summer to fall. Again Nature holds before
your gaze a transparent crystal now of iridescent gold, waves
her wand of time over the magic carpet and bids you behold the
products of one of earth's richest granaries.
Journey now by aeroplane over this huge, earthen bowl called
the county of Umatilla of nearly two million acres in extent, and
drained by the numerous streams from the Blue Mountains.
Over mountain slope and upland valley we skim the tree-tops of
forests of standing timber, fly over irrigated lands of vege-
tables and fruits and the fourth crop of alfalfa purpling in the
sun ; speed over grazing lands dotted with a million sheep and a
half million head of other livestock; glide over the vast areas
which are sown with softly, undulating seas of grain products,
producing five million bushels of wheat alone.
Swing over Hermiston, Stanfield, Umatilla, Milton, Athena and
Pendleton, the county seat, which here and there checkerboard
the landscape, their modern mills, factories and industries taking
care of the predominating agrarian pursuits. Hover now over
the Round-Up City, Pendleton, the trade emporium of eastern
Oregon. It lies like a clean-cut gem in a band of green, sur-
rounded with a setting of gold. But for the whir of the motor
you might hear the drone of its industry, for here the manu-
facturing of eastern Oregon centers. Main Street defines the
center of this biggest little city of its size in the West; the
great oval and the little cones of white to the left and almost
beneath us define the Round-Up Park and the lodges of the
Umatillas. Here we alight, for tomorrow the great carnival of
the cowboy and Indian is on. This is indeed "Out Where the
West Begins."
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THE PAGEANT OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST
This greatest of all human shows is a magnificent three-day
cowboy carnival, given over to the old sports and passing life
of the frontier, characteristic, unique, thrilling, a classic in which
the Old West stalks before one in the flesh. Here gather over a
thousand cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, stage drivers and cow-
country people. They ride in from Tum-a-lum to Hidaway,
they come from California and the Dakotas, and from beyond
the Mexican border and the Canadian line. These actors are
real range folk fresh from the ranges and reservations and
include the most superb contingent of rough riders ever brought
together.
From the time the starter's first pistol shot rings out at one
each afternoon until the wild horse race is finished there is not
an idle moment in the spectacles spread out before one, not a
break in the unbroken chain of head and heart thrillers, in the
wonderful feats performed.
In this pageant of the old range sports and pastimes, men of
agile body and iron nerve vie in fancy roping and trick riding;
compete in cowpony and standing races, in the relay and pony
express, in roping wild steers and bulldogging Texas longhorns;
participate in the grand mounted parade; dance in Indian cere-
monials; race with the old stagecoaches; contest on famous
bucking bulls, steers, and buffaloes and on the backs of the
world's worst outlaw horses. There is no set stage effect, all
events are competitive, the climaxes impromptu. It is all "best,"
marvelous, new and — all American.
It is the child of Pendleton's sturdy citizens, who have, as
though by magic, created a fascinating instructive object lesson
in Nature and modernized humanity. It is owned by the mimici-
pality of Pendleton, pays neither dividends nor profits and is
staged by a volunteer association of young men who serve with-
out salaries. Its money goes into prizes for the contestants and
the improvement of the city. The arena is enclosed by a quarter
mile track which is almost entirely surrounded by grandstand
and bleachers with a total seating capacity of 40,000, the largest
west of the Mississippi River. It is a monument to the little
city who birthed and matured it.
In all the world there is no more thnllmg impressive spec-
tacle, it nurtures the wonderful heritage our forefathers created
for us, it puts a glow into the minds of youth, it strikes you
squarely between the eyes, and reveals the great living, panting
West before you.
LET 'ER BUCK
the tail-end of this puffin' cayuse 'cause it snorts cinders
and I've got to watch out for fires along the trail."
The country was indeed dry. Some of the grain still
lay in the sheaf. Miles of golden-yellow stubble-
fields undulated away in the distance; willows and
cottonwoods stenciled green along the watercourses or
clustered about an occasional ranch-house or "nesters"
cabin. A few scattered herds of live stock grazed here
and there, where buffalo wallows still show green and
the slopes are scarred with the parallel trails of the
Great Herds which have passed, but whose remnant
have now moved back from the lines of steel to the
"interior country."
Wherever the railroads have thrust their antenme,
the open range becomes dotted with the homesteaders'
shacks and webbed with wire ; dry farming and irriga-
tion turn a one-time half-desert into fertile fields and
blossoming orchards. Thus agriculture crowds out
the pastoral, and industry in turn both aids and crowds
out agriculture; and the "chapped" (schapped) and
"booted" cowboy and stockman retreat to their last
stamping-ground, where the Indians, trappers, pros-
pectors, and buckskin-garbed scouts have preceded
them.
In Oregon, however, there remains even today some
interior country where the free life of the open is
still unhampered by a useless and deadening veneer
of paternal regulations and effete conventionalities.
There are still a few out-of-the-way corners yet un-
turned by the plow and unvexed by wire fences; and
a day in the saddle back from many of the railroads
brings one to a ranch country yet awaiting the settler
where the cowboy still "ropes" and "busts" steer or
bronco, "brands" and "hog-ties" calf and longhorn,and
8
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
occasionally rides into town a-whooping; where the
rustler still "rustles," and the sheriff and his posse pur-
sue with the same cautious dash or reckless bravado
that have given these unplumed knights of the range a
permanent place in American history.
The frontiersman, often the unnamed explorer, was
always the advance-guard of civilization, who, with
the cavalry outposts, held and ever advanced the fron-
tier. They were the pioneer winners of the West, the
protectors and sponsors for a thinner-blooded civiliza-
tion which followed in their wake.
Through the West of today one skirts fruit-laden
hillsides and valleys larger than many Eastern counties,
rolls past vast wheat-fields, as big as some nations, and
pauses at the cities — big, white, and new — seemingly
grown up in a night out of the prairies. There is a
breezy frankness in the way of the well-paved, broad
"Main" Street, wonderfully lit up with its cluster of
lights, strikes out at right angles to the track from a
well-designed station, inviting you through the town,
to let you out as frankly on to the prairie. It all be-
speaks, youth, growth and optimism.
Suddenly a small black wraith of smoke smooched
the low-rolling hillsides. The lad yanked the signal
cord, and before the train had stopped, was speeding
pail in hand, toward the cinder-started blaze.
"He'll pick us up around the bend at Athena," the
brakeman said.
In less than an hour we rolled into Pendleton. I
swung off the train in the tang of the September
morning. Ill suppressed exuberance and expectancy
seemed to emanate from the quiet stir of the attractive
little city. Bunting, streamers, and flags bulged and
flapped gracefully in the soft laft of air which draws
9
LET 'ER BUCK
up the river valley from the prairie. Two tented cities
had sprung up near the city edge and hundreds of sin-
gle tents white-dotted the yards of residents. The
charch, where one turns to go up the hill, hospitably
announced both cots and meals within. Months pre-
viously every hotel room had been engaged and every
private citizen who could do so offered accommoda-
tions. Now even box cars for quarters had been
shunted in on the sidings.
If you lived within a thousand miles of eastern
Oregon, you would know why, and if you were a ten-
derfoot, even from as far as the outer edge of Cape
Cod at low tide, you ought to. In fact, some travelers
journey across the seas, that for three whole days
they may live the spirit of the Old West and feel them-
selves a part of that epic drama for which Pendleton
stands — the Round-Up.
For some days before the Round-Up the vanguard
of visitors comes in, in the comfortable Pullmans, on
the smooth lines of steel laid along trails where once
hardy pioneers, with bullock-spanned prairie schooners,
had pushed back the frontier toward the western sea.
Even today, however, one feels the touch and senses
the romance of the passing West, as along every
trail and road which converges toward Pendleton,
cowboys and cowgirls come riding in to the jingling of
spur and the retch of leather. So, too, come the
Amerinds from their reservations — bucks, squaws, and
papooses — with tepee-poles and outfit, stored in every
kind of wheeled rig, and drawn by every variety of
cayuse, nigger pony to "calico." A few traveled as did
their fathers — with belongings lashed to long, trailing,
sagging travois (travoy). Over half a thousand strong,
these redmen of mountain and plain soon had their
10
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
lodge-poles pointing skyward, and, like mushrooms in
a night, a white tepee village had sprung up in the
picturesque cottonwoods near the Pendleton ford by
the old Oregon Trail.
Even before the first day of the Round-Up, Main
Street, which shoots over a rise into wheat fields,
was in gala dress. Beneath the banners and flags
strung overhead, lifting lazily in the soft stir of air,
cowboys in gaudy shirts of red, blue, purple, yellow,
and green, and kerchiefs of many hues, cowgirls in at-
tractive dresses of fringed buckskin, and Indians with
multicolored blankets and beaded moccasins, move like
an everchanging chromoscope among the neutral-
clothed townsmen.
Yes, it was "goin' to the Round-Up," as the lad had
said, which brought me like thousands of others to this
"biggest little city of its size" in the West.
The term "Round-Up" is taken from the old range
expression meaning the "rounding up" — encircling and
herding together of the cattle previous to the spring
"branding," "cutting out," or fall "drive." When the
Round-Up is spoken of, the carnival held at Pendleton
is meant. It is a grand carnival of the frontiersman
in commemoration of that fine old life with its thrills
and its dangers, many phases of which have already
passed into history.
The dynamic forces of modern "civilization" — ^ap-
plied science and industry — have caused most of the
old range country of the United States to be re-mapped
into town and homestead with astonishing swiftness.
In the old days — within the memories of men still in
the prime of life — the west country was essentially a
"cow country." Every ranch had its "cow hands"
who could rope and ride. Every ranch had its horses,
n
LET 'ER BUCK
those indispensable factors of range work, to break and
train. Often a man's standing or usefulness depended
on his ability in this work, so it was but natural that
each "outfit" tested out their men in bucking contests.
This led to these champions meeting in competition,
often at town or ranch on certain holidays or festival
occasions, usually at a time of year when work was
slackest in their locality.
But a few years ago, every camp and hamlet in the
cow country had its bucking contests. As the range
began to disappear before the wire fence, the cultivated
fields and the railroads, so did the cattle and the cow-
boy and the bucking contests. But his is a tenacious
clan and 'dies hard, as do all inherent potential elements
of a nation or civilization. Many a remote ranch or
hamlet still "pulls off" its old time bucking contest, tho
they are more centralized now in certain local points.
The contestants come in from greater distances to com-
pete, and give to many the character of great range
shows or carnivals.
Such carnivals are held in certain centers of the
West; to each is given its name. Cheyenne has its
"Frontier Days"; Fort Worth, Texas, the "Cattle
Men's Carnival"; Denver has its "Festival of Moun-
tain and Plain"; Winnipeg, has its "Stampede";
Grangeville, Idaho, its "Border Days"; Kearney,
Nebraska, its "Frontier Round-Up"; Idaho Falls, its
"War Bonnet Round-Up"; Salinas, California, its
"Rodeo"; Ukiah, Oregon, its "Cowboys' Conven-
tion"; and Walla Walla, Washington, has its "Fron-
tier Days"; a civic show in which there is more
real competition than in any other outside of Pendleton.
Then there are minor and more sporadic contests
held in Belle Fouche, South Dakota; Billings and
12
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
Bozeman, Montana; Bovina, Texas; Sioux City,
Iowa; Battle Ground, Tacoma, and Seattle in Wash-
ington, with others in Arizona and New Mexico, as
well as a thousand less known little ones.
To Cheyenne must be given the credit of presenting
what was probably the first big contest, Frontier Days,
staged as a show. This was indelibly put on the pages
of history by that ardent lover of the West and its
spirit, — the great American, the late Theodore Roose-
velt. Different ranch outfits put on the Frontier
Days exhibitions — McCarty and Guilford one year for
instance, Charlie Irwin another. The tremendous
success of these shows will always stand to the credit of
those efficient and enthusiastic managers.
Each show has a slogan, as indispensable as that of
clan or college, expressed in terms of the cow-camp.
A few of the words of that terse and expressive
phraseology are arbitrary and carry no special signifi-
cance of their origin or of themselves, but those in
common usage are wonderfully to the point to one
who knows chaparral and sage-brush and loves the
smell of leather. At Walla Walla the slogan is *'Let
'er kick"; at Grangeville, "Hook'em cow," a term of
encouragement to a roped or "bulldogged" steer. At
Pendleton it is "Let 'er buck," a phrase which, briefly in-
terpreted, means "get busy", but is primarily applied to a
cowboy about to mount the hurricane deck of a "buck-
ing" broncho; and when you hear that cowboy yell,
whether in the arena at Pendleton or on the range, it is
a safe bet that something startling is about to begin.
Human actions are but thoughts expressed, and
when a group of Pendletonians desire to start some-
thing distinctively original, yet adapted to the Pendle-
ton country, it is a safe bet that it will be put over.
13
LET 'ER BUCK
In the pioneer days when the long, tempestuous
journey around the tip end of South America, where it
was said men hung their consciences on the Horn, was
the only way of bringing freight to Oregon. In those
days before "Bill" Cody rounded up buffalo meat for
the Union Pacific and the railroads were built, Uma-
tilla, sixty miles down the river from Pendleton, was
the head of navigation and the focal point of depart-
ure for pack-trains to the placer mines of Idaho, which
were the great things in those days, as agriculture had
not then developed. Anybody who lived anywhere at
that time lived in Umatilla which had almost as large
a floating population as its permanent one, for it was the
center both for supplies and a "fling" to the far-flung
population of the greater portion of three states.
The rest of Eastern Oregon contained only scatter-
ing settlements; for instance, Pendleton itself at that
time consisted of the stage-stop hotel, the Pendleton,
a general store and the few typical false fronts of a
Western pioneer town. There were only two resi-
dences, the house of Judge Bailey and one other.
Thus Umatilla became the county seat of Umatilla
County, which at that time, 1863, included practically
all of Oregon east of the John Day River, as it was
the metropolis and great trade emporium of Eastern
Oregon, which included most of Washington, Oregon
and Idaho.
As the ends of those great ever-projecting probosces
of civilization, the railroads, thrust their feelers further
west, the Horn route fell into disuse and the overland
routes from the East increased the development and
population of Eastern Oregon. When in 1868 the Cen-
tral Pacific pushed into Nevada, the bulk of the Idaho
trade followed it. This killed Umatilla — which was
14
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
"some town" in its day — and decreased its population ;
while that of Eastern Oregon especially between '66
and '68 increased, and Pendleton became a more nat-
ural and easily reached center for the inhabitants.
These were the reasons advanced for the transfer of
the county seat to Pendleton, and this question was
agitated. All the settlers of Eastern Oregon now de-
manded by a signed petition that the county seat be
moved nearer their center of population. Pendleton
considered itself the logical site and when the petition
was granted by the legislature, tho no definite place was
decided upon, Judge Bailey in January, 1868, ordered
the county officers to remove the records to Pendleton.
This was done, but in lieu of a courthouse, Judge
Bailey's cellar was the official repository. Judge Wil-
son of Umatilla declared this removal premature and
the records had to be carted back over the old Oregon
Trail again to the Umatilla courthouse.
While the question burned, Pendleton worked The
change and location of a seat for the county, was not
going to be delayed through any fault of theirs, besides,
it was obvious that it should be at Pendleton, and now
that they had made up their minds, they built a court-
house in short order before the question was settled.
But the matter held fire too long for the "go get 'em"
spirit of the little town. Anyway, what's the use of
having a courthouse and nothing to put in it ?
On a certain week-end, a score of men, heavily
armed, rode down "The Meadow," lying to the west of
Pendleton along the river, across the desert, and under
the cover of darkness that Saturday night entered Uma-
tilla. Early the next morning at the hour when men
and dogs sleep heaviest, in the very heart of Umatilla,
they piled not only all of the records of the county and
15
LET 'ER BUCK
the county seal, but the county officers themselves, in a
commandeered wagon and under heavy mounted es-
cort departed quickly, and deposited their official
booty in the "courthouse" in Pendleton.
"Why didn't they recapture it?" Well, they say
because it was Sunday.
In brief, they stole the county seat and have been
sitting on it ever since.
This happened in 1869, So when in 1910 a half
dozen young men of Pendleton sat down over an im-
promptu luncheon in Portland during the Rose Festi-
val and originating the plan for the Round-Up, agreed
to "Go get 'em", it was also a safe bet that they would
put it over.
The year before at the Pendleton Fourth of July ball
game a saddle had been put up for the bucking event,
and Lee Caldwell won it. The enthusiasm over this
phase of the celebration left no doubt as to the eternal
human interest in riding and horsemanship, and in the
fight for supremacy between horse and rider. Roy
Raley laid before the others a plan to stage a big fron-
tier exhibition in which rough-riding for the cham-
pionship of the Northwest should form the main
feature, and the idea was then and there roped and
hog-tied.
Besides Roy Raley, Mark Moorhouse, Lawrence
Frazier, Tilman Taylor, James Gwinn, Harry D. Gray,
Lee Drake, Sperry and some others were the prime
movers and organizers, but to the two former men
should be credited the building of the framework of the
show. Of those outside of Pendleton perhaps no sin-
gle individual achieved more for the Round-Up than
Samuel Jackson of the Oregon Journal, a former
Pendleton boy.
16
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
Under the name of the Northwestern Frontier Ex-
hibition Association, "The Round-Up" was born, this
name having bobbed up several times in repHes to the
advertisements of the Association for a suitable appel-
lation for the show.
Six officers and a board of nine directors picked
solely for their individual qualifications led the organi-
zation, which comprised about two hundred and fifty
of Pendleton business and financial men. Roy Raley,
the first president and prime mover and organizer,
wrote the initial program, which, it is interesting to
know, has never been practically changed, starting fast
and snappy with the cowboy pony race and following
through a well-planned gamut of range sports of var-
ious sorts ; races, steer bulldogging and roping, grand
parade, and last but not least, that king of sports, buck-
ing. Eventually the contests led to the world cham-
pionships competitions in these sports.
Shares of ten dollars each were sold and but one
share to a man. Supported by the citizens of Pendle-
ton, the idea was backed up with a capitalization of
$5,000, and $3,200 worth of stock was sold. Then
a first directorate of fifteen prominent men of
Umatilla County were elected to take charge of the
Round-Up. Besides the president there were six
officers, including the secretary and those in charge of
grounds, live stock, arena events, Indians, transporta-
tion, parade and publicity, and last those who acted as
guardian angels over the Round-Up's interests to pre-
vent profiteering.
The problems were by no means simple ones, but as
one of the original directorate remarked to me, that
first Round-Up compared with the later great show,
was like a couple of kids playing ball in the sand lot
17
LET 'ER BUCK
as compared with a major league. The principal prob-
lems were publicity, transportation of the attendance,
and accommodation of the great crowds by the little
city, then a trifle over five thousand. But the great
problem was the show itself, as well as the arena, track,
and methods of entrance and exit, not only for the
crowds but for the contestants and animals. The en-
trances and exits were uniquely and carefully planned,
so as not to interfere with each other ; a quarter of a
mile track was determined upon as against the custom-
ary half mile oval in order to bring the events within
the easy vision of all the spectators.
Then came the program itself. The events were di-
vided into three classes, the competitive, non-competi-
tive and Indians. Pep and snap must always be the
prime characteristic of the show so there must be con-
stant contact between the contestants and audience. No
waits could even be chanced. There were always
three events ready or on; always three paddocks and
three openings, so in case any horse or contestant was
not ready, they always had one and to spare to shoot
in.
It was at first suggested that a sham battle between
soldiers from Vancouver Barracks and the Indians
would splendidly depict the passing of the last fron-
tier and furnish a thrilling climax. Here the first
snag was encountered when they could not get soldiers ;
and the second was the refusal of the Indians to come
in and be shot at, even with blank shells. However,
some of the old bucks agreed to come in if they were
allowed to do the shooting, regardless of the nature of
the shells. Then it was that the roping and bulldog-
ging and horse-bucking ideas went over big.
Old circus bleachers were placed around a track
18
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
fenced in only by a three-board fence, and a grand-
stand capable of seating three hundred, if crowded, was
the crowning feature of the structure. Some of the
directorate were so confident in the success of the ven-
ture that they figured a maximum of about three
thousand on the biggest day and bet hats and cham-
pagne (sic) on the size of the crowd.
Four thousand five hundred, a population almost as
big as the little city itself, poured in on the banner day,
giving receipts of about eight thousand dollars, and
leaving a net profit of three thousand dollars for the
stockholders. The price of single shares went from
ten dollars to fifty and a telegram from a New York
theatrical syndicate offered to buy the controlling in-
terest at fifty dollars a share.
Pendleton sat up and took notice, and right here the
Pendleton spirit manifested itself. A stockholders'
meeting was called. The stockholders were asked to
give up their stock, practically to throw away not only
the ten dollars they had paid for each share, but also
the opportunity to sell that share for five times what
they had paid for it, to give their show to the City of
Pendleton, and then dig further into their pockets for
an additional ten thousand to buy and build the present
Round-Up grounds. What did they say? Let 'er
buck!, that's all. And let 'er buck they did to the
tune of an additional ten thousand dollars with which
to buy and build the present Round-Up grounds.
This property, the Round-Up Park, was deeded to
the City of Pendleton, to which the Northwestern
Frontier Exhibition Association pays one dollar a
year for its use. The Association is a corporation in
name only, and the stock is of the nominal value of
ten dollars a share; but its only real value is the fact
19
LET 'ER BUCK
that it has voting power. The stockholders still elect
three directors and for that purpose alone the stock
is worth thirty dollars a share.
The compensation to the directors consists solely in
being a director of the Round-Up. That's all. In
fact it costs each one of them considerable money in
addition to actual time and labor. They have to buy
seats for themselves and folks, and sometimes being a
director costs them another $52 for a box or what-
ever it is, for friends. However, they did vote
themselves one favor. On the night before the ticket
sale numbers from one to eleven are put on pieces of
paper and shaken in a hat. Each draws a number rep-
resenting his place in the choice of seats, providing he
pays for them out of his own pocket. The first presi-
dent even was the seventh in his drawing; yet no
men in any private business work more indefatigably
and with greater sacrifice than do the directors to
insure the success of the Round-Up, and the entire
community stands back of them to a man. This is
why the Pendleton Round-Up has developed from a
little community affair to a national one.
The first show was held in 1910 on what was then
the ball park and on a little dinkey track, egg-shaped
on account of the form of the grounds, hardly one-
third as large as the present one. The home stretch in
front of the grandstand probably did not exceed one
hundred yards in length. The two or three Indian
tepees skirting the other side were on the very edge of
the river. The present copse of cottonwoods which
forms the background of the great Indian village was
then on an island, which the next year's improvement
included in the Round-Up grounds.
The second year saw the track extended to its pres-
20
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
ent dimensions, its sudden enlargement being due to
an incident which happened the first year in the Indian
race at the opening of the show. The rules provided
that all Indians should be clothed only in breech clout
and paint and should ride their own ponies. One In-
dian was painted from scalplock to toe In a vivid blue,
standing out strikingly in contrast with the others.
At the crack of the pistol they were away on a
wet, muddy track. They struck the first turn, which
was sharp and a veritable mudhole at the small end of
the egg-shaped track. Down went the leader, the
others piling on top. Every man went down and every
horse piled up. Few escaped without some cut or
bruise, while the blue Indian when he scrambled out
had turned black in the mud; in fact there was not
enough blue on him to make even the seat in a sailor's
breeches. Raley was terribly perturbed, but Mark
Moorhouse said, "Roy, the show's made." It was the
first thrill, but to obviate such dangers, the plan of the
quarter-mile track was put through before the show
last year.
Speaking of thrills, it will be interesting to comment
on the careful and basic consideration given to the
study of the psychological aspects of the plans. In or-
ganizing the features of the entertainment, the meet-
ings lasted often far into the night, the committee
agreeing that the essentials of entertainment could
be reduced to three — thrills, the spectacular and
laughter.
In their consideration of the thrill element they con-
cluded that contests would take away all the element of
affectation or acting in the mind of the participants, for
in a contest of the kind adapted to the purpose of the
Round-Up the contestant would have to concentrate
21
LET 'ER BUCK
his attention on what he was doing and not on the
impression he was making on the audience. So to
achieve this as well as to hold the attention of the
audience itself, it was decided that as far as possible,
all the elements which went ';o make up the Old West
were to be translated into competitive form.
In consideration of the spectacular element they
decided that the proper landscape eflfect and setting was
the primary consideration. A small gully, a remnant
of the river bed, was left unfilled, which really pre-
vented anything being built directly in front of the
Indian camp and gave a sunken landscape foreground
from which the Indian camp could be seen. Next, by
leaving the back stretch of the track free from bleach-
ers and filling this in with mounted cowboys, these
hundreds of horsemen in colored shirts, kerchiefs and
garb produced a magnificent spectacle as seen across
from the grandstand with the Indian tepees and the
cottonwoods for a stage setting, framed by the golden
hills of Oregon behind. The climax of this spectacle
was the great number of cowboys and Indians in the
arena in serpentine and other convolutions, terminat-
ing in a great charge across it, almost into the laps of
the spectators — it hit them in the face with over-
whelming numbers.
Laughter, strange as it may seem in the humor-lov-
ing West, was the hardest element of all to handle.
It was impossible to figure out any comedy that would
not be produced at the expense of the naturalness and
historic quality which above all they decided to retain,
and which above all must be retained as the vital ele-
ment in the show. They wisely decided they would
not make any deliberate attempt to plant comedy, and
that they would leave it to accidental incidents.
22
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
Thus the fundamental and basic asset of the show
was its psychological verity. But its success could
not possibly be assured, unless there was a spirit and
community interest back of it. So its organizers
wisely aimed to make everybody feel himself a part of
the show. This spirit exists in both grandstand and
bleachers and in town as well, and is contagious to both
the contestants and visitors. Everybody in Pendleton
begins a week before the Round-Up to bring in their
saddle horses from the ranges and don their ranch
clothes to swell the mounted contingent, both in the
parade and in the great spectacle of the arena.
And here are the two feature results — the feeling of
community spirit in townsman and visitor, and particu-
larly the fact that the cowboy and Indian consider the
celebration as their own : the spectators are incidental,
they do it mostly for their own satisfaction. And if
the future Round-Up committees and the people of
Pendleton hold fast to these guiding principles which
the primal organizers and time have proved out, the
Round-Up and its spirit will endure, as long as there is
a bad horse to ride and a cowboy to ride it, a steer to
be roped and a "boy" to rope it, or an Indian with a
war-bonnet and a squaw to make it.
The "Round-Up" means the gathering together of
the men, women — ^yes, and animals too — of the ranges
for a three-days' festival of cowboy sports and pas-
times. It is to that section of the West what the county
fair is to certain sections of the East, but with this dif-
ference : the seventy thousand people who journey to
the little city of Pendleton, with its seven thousand
population, are drawn from all quarters of the United
States, Canada, and Mexico, and even from across the
oceans.
23
LET 'ER BUCK
One may well ask why this little through-track town
draws such a stream of humanity on such a pilgrimage,
and holds them in a tense grip for three days and then
sends them away satisfied and enthusiastic. First and
foremost, the Round-Up is clean, pure sport, and
makes its appeal to the thousands who journey to Pen-
dleton every year to see those three primary attractions
of a frontier exhibition — the riding of a bucking horse,
the roping of a wild steer, and the bulldogging of a
Texas longhorn.
Pendleton is in the heart of the range country and
was once an outfitting station on the Umatilla stage
route. Thus it is particularly adapted in location, set-
ting, and understanding, but perhaps preeminently
through its united effort, to give full measure and to
eliminate graft. In fact, although $1,500,000 has been
spent by the Round-Up attendance and $35,000 cleared
as profits, this community play of the West is not a
money-making scheme, staged as it is by a volunteer
organization and paying neither salaries nor dividends.
The directors are leading business men of the city,
many of whom are also ranchers, who serve without
pay; all citizens cooperate with them, keep open-house,
and outdo themselves in extending hospitality to
visitors.
Prior to the first Round-Up the committee had hard
work convincing the railroads that it was necessary to
plan ahead for accommodations, but after the Pendle-
tonians got behind it, the interest spread like a prairie
fire. There was such a demand that the railroads
themselves began to get uneasy and sent their agent a
number of times to Pendleton to advise them that the
crowd would be so great that Pendleton itself did not
know what they were up against. Didn't they?
24
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
But here again the loyal and efficient backing of Sam
Jackson bore fruit, for through the Oregon Journal
he organized parties, himself guaranteeing the first
train, and then through the splendid cooperation of the
railroad and Pendleton established the custom of or-
ganizing parties, from Portland and elsewhere. These
round trip tickets covered all accommodations includ-
ing meals — not only while on the journey but while in
Pendleton, — reserved seats in both the Round-Up
grandstand and Happy Canyon, the night show. Visi-
tors came on special trains which were parked on
sidings in the heart of the town in full view of the
Main Street and the Westward Ho Parade. Here
water, sewage, electric light and telephone connections
were at once installed in the cars.
After the first Round-Up it was Sam Jackson who
realized the underlying spirit which has made for the
success of the Round-Up, and expressed it so clearly
when asked by the first president what he thought of
the show, in the reply, "You haven't got a show here;
it's an institution."
"What is done with the profits?" There is a man
who, like many others in the throng, wears a red badge.
On it letters in gold read : "Ask me, I live here." He
will tell you that the profits go to the city of Pendleton
for the next year's Round-Up, but, principally for the
benefit and improvement of this progressive and at-
tractive city, primarily for the making of the city park
which includes the Round-Up Grounds.
Moreover, when the great call came to stem and hurl
back that colossal martial Juggernaut, the vehicle of
that Organized State of Mind called Germany, which
threatened to quash the spirit of humanity and lay
waste the fruits of world democracy of which Amer-
25
LET 'ER BUCK
ica is the outstanding symbol, then the spirit of the peo-
ple of little Pendleton and hereabouts, laid in the lap of
Liberty at her first call over one million golden dollars
and consecrated their Round-Up to the Nation to
which it belongs and poured its proceeds into the cof-
fers of the American Red Cross. Thus, little wonder
is it that, altho the Round-Up is essentially a local insti-
tution, a civic possession just as much as is the school
system or fire department, it is more than that. Be-
cause of its significance and because of its spirit it be-
longs to all Umatilla County and the whole state of
Oregon, and has become a part of the great American
play-book.
They were driving cattle out of Pendleton as late as
1888. From there they were driven across Idaho to
Wyoming and some clear to Montana, in herds of a
few thousand, where they were sold to some of the big
outfits. The biggest outfit was Ryan & Long. There
were also Ray & Steadman, the Swan Company, a big
English concern which came West, and others. These
big outfits would buy from ten to twenty thousand
head of beef cattle from Pendleton, by which is meant
cattle old enough and heavy enough to sell.
Then the country changed over from a cattle to a
wheat country, and changed pretty quickly. But still
quite a lot of sheep are run, and there are still a few
small herds left, while horse ranges may be found in the
Crooked River and Harney Valley country; and there
is also a lot of open country around Camas Prairie,
where the Indians used to dig their camas, and from
the Pendleton point of view this means the region be-
ginning about twenty miles south and running to the
Nevada line. While this country is farmed some, it
really is range country for three hundred miles.
26
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
Any time during the year one may see cowboys,
ranch hands, old-timers and Indians about the streets
of Pendleton, but a few days before the Round-Up
Pendleton has all the appearance of a cow town.
Chapped and booted cowboys, riding that inimitable
close saddle, pass frequently to the jingle of chain and
spur, or loll in picturesque groups at the sidewalk
edges, where, in characteristic, well-modulated voices,
the relative merits of "bucker" and "buckaroo" are
discussed at length.
The "get up" of the American cowboy comes the
nearest of any we have, to being a national costume and
is by far the most picturesque, as well as practical, from
Stetson to spurs, for like most national costumes there
is a practical reason for every appurtenance of it. His
broad-brimmed hat with its soft color, casting a softer
shadow beneath, has become the crown of these mon-
archs of the range and is usually his first consideration
— his hat, which must be of a cliaracter to protect his
eyes against scorching sun and driving rain, is often
ornamented with a woven silver star or circled with a
multi-colored horsehair band of Indian workmanship,
or with a leather strap, black and silver studded. The
sombreros vary in styles and shapes, all of which have
their names, and the method of creasing, pointing,
crushing or rolling the brim varies with the locality
or with the individual whim of the owner; but in what-
ever shape or form, this characteristically American
headgear is one of the most becoming and practical
types of hats to be found.
The cowboy's loose flannel shirt with turn-down
collar is warm and comfortable, and protected at the
wrists by long leather cuffs of brown or black, tight-
fitting at the wrists, which keep the wind out of his
27
LET 'ER BUCK
sleeves and protect his wrists and forearm from being
burnt with a rope. His chapps, from chappareros,
the leather over-breeches, were first worn to protect
clothes and legs against the thorny chapparal or brush
of the southwest, and the old-time fringes, or more
modern broad wings, shed rain — as do the more dis-
tinctively Northwest type of angora goat's hair chaps
— ^and likewise keep the wearer warm.
His boots, often fancifully stitched with colored
thread, their tops slit front and back, with heels high
enough to inspire the envy of a little French grisette,
serve the purpose of preventing his being hung up in
his stirrup. His dull-pointed clanking spurs are for
emergency on the range, and whether they should be
worn, shanks up or down, depends on the part of the
country he is from and is one of the moot questions of
the West. About Pendleton the downs have it.
That fluttering, shimmering thing of color, the ker-
chief, is most characteristic of the Round-Up. You
will notice that its small end is tied with the loop worn
in front — ^just the reverse from a sailor's kerchief —
but there's a reason. Run cattle in the choking dust
of a corral or follow them in the blinding dust storms
of the range, and your kerchief will soon be drawn
tight over the bridge of your nose.
It is on Saturday nights, or more especially during
the Round-Up when the boys ride in from the ranches,
that you see them outfitting in the high-grade shops of
the city, which carry for this occasion particularly gala-
colored shirts of sheening silk or rich velvet, and stud-
ded on collar, front and forearm with pearl buttons as
flat and big as dollars, and kerchiefs which would make
any self-respecting rainbow pale with envy.
On the corner a big-sombreroed, swarthy Mexican
28
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
puffs silently on his cigarillo; moccasin- footed Uma-
tilla Indians pigeon-toe along, trailed by heavy-siet pa-
poose-bearing squaws and beautiful daughters, paus-
ing before the allurements in the display windows.
Among the fancy and useful objects, naturally the
beautiful blankets and shawls make the greatest appeal
not only to the passing Indian woman, but to the white.
Altho these are of local manufacture they find their
markets in the shops of Edinburgh and the bazaars
of Peking.
An occasional cowgirl, in fringed buckskin or riding
costume, strolls by with that unobtrusiveness which is
a salient characteristic of these range women. Any
reader of men sees, however, beneath this natural care-
free poise a glint in the eye which tells of a self-control
and fearless courage that is also capable of reckless
daring.
The harness and saddlery stores naturally attract.
Worm through that crowd screening the show win-
dows of a big harness and saddlery store — there where
it's densest, — and you will see the most coveted prize
of the whole show, the Round-Up saddle which will go
to the winner of the cowboys' bucking contest for the
championship of the world. It is exquisitely hand-
tooled from horn and cantel to skirts and tapideros;
but that's not all, — it's artistically studded and inlaid
at certain points with big silver medallions; this year
they happen to be very finely etched discs, last year they
were silver butterflies.
"That's sure worth five hundred bucks, just as it sez
on the card, with all that sculpturin' 'n' everything,"
remarks the new comer.
"You tell 'em, stranger, that's branding it," chimes
in "Red" Parker, and he ought to know for he rode in
29
LET 'ER BUCK
for it last year. "But say," he continued, ''There's
more than one kind 'o strings ter that saddle. There's
four hundred and fifty bucks and a fancy plaster
hitched to it ter put on yer wall if yer don't need it ter
take yer soreness out. The next feller gits two hun-
dred bucks and the third an even hundred."
"Ugh! Hi-yu-skookum saddle," grunted old Chief
Little Hawk with a grin.
Those two sturdy buckaroos beside the drinking
fountain are Jim Roach of Bell Cow Canyon and Bert
Kelly of Walla Walla, both champions among the
early contestants who helped to make the Round-Up a
success. Jim Roach is the star maverick race roper.
There is Ella Lazinka, who finished in the grand finals
one year in the cowgirls' relay race, though a large
fence splinter had torn her leg in the second lap. She
will be at her high-school lessons the Monday after
the Round-Up.
When the stranger is not at the "tryouts" and elim-
ination contests he will find much of interest in the
bookshops, photographers and other splendid stores
in the center of the city; or on the way to the iron
works, he can look over the splendid big stores of
agricultural implements, tractors or farm machinery,
see how the Indian design blankets are made at the
woolen mills, or inspect the great flour mills which
hum their grinding night and day. Pendleton is not
only the focal point in, and county seat of one of the
greatest wheat countries of the United States, but is
the great emporium for trade for much of Eastern
Oregon.
When the call for men to help their country in the
war against autocracy came, Pendleton said, "Let's
go!" When the news spread over the range country
30
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
that a troop of cowboy cavalry was to be organized to
whip the Kaiser and his ranch hands, of course the
cowboys "saddled on" and came riding in from the
Blue Mountains and the John Day country, some cover-
ing over one hundred and fifty miles.
The first move made to secure this cavalry troop was
by Dell Blancett; but our government did not move
fast enough for Dell, and he was shortly on his way
"over there" with the Canadian cavalry.
The troop, like the Round-Up, was promptly organ-
ized through the cooperation of leading cowboys, busi-
ness men of Pendleton and ranchers. Probably that
company of a hundred, hardy, courageous Umatilla
County cowboys — every one of them could ride and
shoot — was the greatest rough-riding contingent ever
organized into the United States army.
Lee Caldwell, the greatest rider of bucking horses in
the West and the second man to enlist, was elected
captain. James F. Cook, who had served as sergeant
of Troop A on the Mexican border, was appointed
First Lieutenant; Marshall Spell, who had served in
old Company L in Pendleton, was Second "Lieuy." Eu-
gene Walters, top sergeant, and other members who
had had some military experience, were appointed "non-
coms," over as fine a looking lot of horsemen as ever
sat saddles, but the rawest kind of recruits.
Roll call mustered famous names in Round-Up an-
nals, with which you will be familiar after you have
seen the great show. There was Ben Corbett, one of
the first to sign up, all-round cowboy and champion
relay and Roman rider, a former top-sergeant in
the regular cavalry, but who later transferred; Frank
Cable, former bulldogger, was stable sergeant; there
was Tracy Lane, the cowboy poet and songster, and
31
LET 'ER BUCK
one of the greatest horse-gentlers in the country, who
with "Jock" Coleman, cowboy, ranch-hand and Scotch
comedian, made a top-notch pair of entertainers.
There, too, were CharHe Runyan, who has ridden at
nearly every Round-Up; Leslie McCubbins, a well-
known rider, and many others.
By the middle of July the troop was mobilized, with
the Happy Canyon dance-hall as their temporary quar-
ters. The strenuous daily routine of foot drill was
pretty hard on many of the cowboys, unused to walk-
ing; but the big blisters didn't lessen their enthusiasm.
It wasn't, however, the easiest thing to make all
of these individualists see at once the necessity of
exactitude in the method of drill and obedience to
orders.
Many of them figured that, give them a good horse
and a six-shooter, they'd undertake to ride into Berlin.
If it was not necessary to get the Kaiser and Von
Hindenburg dead, why, they'd rope 'em! But they
sure could not figure out why they had to stand guard
and drill on foot when they went into the cavalry.
"Aboot face !" commanded Sergeant Coleman, who
had served his time with a "Ladies from Hell" regi-
ment before the war.
Jess Brunn, a tall, finely set-up type of cowboy, later
as snappy a soldier as there was in the outfit, could not
seem to connect. Time and again he tried, but the
high heels of his boots seemed as rebellious as their
owner.
"Place th' toe of yer-r-r-r-r-r-ight foot behind and
to the left of the heel of — "
This was a little more than Jess could stand. It was
the most sudden breaking of ranks the outfit had seen,
when the strings of control of Jess's otherwise quiet
Z2
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
demeanor snapped, and like a mountain lion he sprang
from the line, fists up and clenched.
"Look here ! I'm man enough to lick any
man in this
outfit, or any officer either, that tries to tell me how
I've got to turn around."
Orders to entrain for Camp Withycombe at Clacka-
mas came. Portland, always such a loyal friend to
Pendleton and the Round-Up, seemed to turn out en
masse as the outfit went through, while word that the
Pendleton bunch was arriving, set the entire camp agog.
But if they expected a slicked-up, uniformed nurse-
maids-to-horses troop to march with eyes front and
120 steps to the minute, they had a surprise —
for of all the picturesque, care-free, self-contained
contingents that ever pulled into camp this "wild
bunch" was the wooliest outfit. There was no senti-
ment lost in their make-up, although there was a lot
to be found in it.
The only uniform they swung, was that of their
calling. Their broad-brimmed sombreros with leather
strap or braided band of horsehair went a-wobbling
and a-milling by like a herd of steers; red or other
colored shirts and kerchiefs with heavy trousers, most
of them tucked into high-heeled boots, covered their
lean, hard-muscled figures as they clumped along through
the company streets. A few wore chapps, but under
the coat of almost every man-Jack of them there
slightly bulged the handle of a .45, concealed like a
bustle on behind.
It was a hard, he-man bunch, but no harder than the
big barrel of cider which headed the procession, flanked
on either side by the captain and lieutenants respective-
ly, followed by the thirsty gang.
33
LET 'ER BUCK
Then came the weeks of whipping into shape.
Rifles had been issued but two days, when they got
some ammunition — heaven knows where they rustled
it. Suddenly the entire camp was greeted with a fusil-
lade which might have been mistaken for a Boche bar-
rage, only to find that Troop D was tossing into the air
from the middle of their company street, tin cans, bot-
tle-necks and nickels, and shooting them on bets — hit-
ting 'em, too.
The other companies stood in wholesome awe and
respect of the men of Troop D. This feeling was
somewhat crudely expressed, perhaps, by one recruit
from a little jerk-water town on the other side of the
state line to a new recruit in his company. "Don't get
mixed up with any of that Pendleton bunch. They
don't fight with their fists, — they just shoot."
Well, it was not a bad "rep" to have, as none of the
Pendleton outfit denied it^and there were a few who
did not have to. Even nickels flipped high in the air
dropped plugged, before the unerring aim of many of
these men. But, probably, no more marvelous shot
was found in the entire United States army than "Tex
Winchester," as Howard L. Knutson was called. He
was an old ranger and the quickest on the draw in the
outfit. Their confidence in Tex, as well as their nerve,
was shown when any one of Troop D would stand
with a cigarette in his mouth and let "Tex" shoot off
the ashes. The climax of his remarkable feat was
reached, though, when he did the same trick with his
front sight covered with a piece of paper, slipped on
the muzzle of his rifle.
Perhaps the hardest nut for the saddle-warming out-
fit to crack, was why they had to drill on foot when
they went into the cavalry. Charlie Runyan never did
34
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
quite figure it out. He'd never walked before, and
until he was shod with the Munson last, he was foot-
sore and worn down to the quick, marching up and
down in riding boots.
One night along came Major Charles McDonald,
courageous, loyal McDonald, one of the first of Ore-
gon's sons to make the great sacrifice, Runyan, seeing
him approach in the darkness, gripped his shooting
iron.
"Hell! Look who's here!" says Charlie.
There was dead silence for a minute. Then follow-
ed an introductory calling-down, which we will omit.
"What were your orders?"
"Well, sir — I was told to say 'Halt! Who goes
there!'"
"Well, you didn't. You said, 'Hell ! Look who's
here!'"
"Beg pardon, sir. I meant to say. Halt! Who
goes there 1' "
Runyan, in many ways the life of the company,
survived the above mentioned ordeal with the major,
to come near not surviving the deadly German gas.
The soldier timber of this outfit as soon as they had
barked a little of the rough off, proved to be sec-
ond to none and Troop D, 3d Oregon Cavalry, was
later turned into one of the most efiicient batter-
ies— the 148th Field Artillery. They swung their 155
millimeter G. P. F.'s into position at Chateau Thierry.
Over the shady roads of fair France, beyond the
Hindenburg line, along the shell-pockmarked roads
and landscape blighted by the Teuton scourge, their
guns, limbers and trucks rattled their way to skilful
and determined driving. The ruined walls of St.
Mihiel, the Woods of Belleau and the Valley of the
35
LET 'ER BUCK
Argonne echoed to their old slogans, "Powder River"
and "Let 'er buck." Every American regiment
within their line of march, as well as the French, be-
came well acquainted with this little bunch of Eastern
Oregon cowboys and their slogan, and more particu-
larly with the spirit of the West and the America
which they symbolized.
On every article of furniture of that outfit, guns,
trucks, cases, was painted the Round-Up's epic slogan
and graced too with a picture of that Pegasus of the
West and his rider — the cowboy on a bucking horse.
At the end of the great drive, this outfit was cited
twice by the French government and once by our own.
Back in Pendleton, as quickly as they could corral their
range togs, they dove again into their chapps and high-
heeled boots and dispersed to the ranges; and true to
cowboy nature left other bards to sing their praises.
Pendleton has a way of its own in extending its
hospitality in receiving its city's visitors, and William
McAdoo and his party will remember for some time
the long line of chapped and booted mounted Pendle-
tonians drawn up on the sidewalk at the railroad sta-
tion to receive him when his train pulled in to the
Round-Up. He was promptly adorned with full cow-
boy regalia and a splendid mount. In these he made a
great hit in the Arena when, instead of the conven-
tional rocking-horse lope of the average dignitary, to
the surprise of the crowd he gave his horse free rein
like a real cowboy. He will remember too how they
boosted the well-known Cheyenn*. prima donna, big
Charlie Irwin, up on a cart while he shook his ropes
off, from his famous world's championship love dit-
tie Alfalfa Hay, and sang it in his droll, serious man-
ner to the tune of "Bury My Bones in Alcohol,"
36
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
"Alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay,
"You're the sweetest weed that grows, alfalfa hay."
The chorus was equally touching :
"Alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay, alfalfa hay,
"You're the sweetest weed that grows, alfalfa hay."
Bill will also remember "Slim" Allen, the tall, husky
cowpuncher who measured over a couple of inches
taller than McAdoo himself. When Slim had got
acquainted a bit he rustled up to him and seized him
by the arm, saying :
"I'm going to whip hell out of you this afternoon !"
Pendleton will always remember McAdoo's reply,
when, looking his man in the eye he quietly replied,
"Well, we will see about that later."
But the "McAdoo" Slim referred to was the horse
named in honor of the distinguished visitor whom he
had drawn to ride in the bucking contest — which to
Bill's satisfaction, in about five bucks landed his rider
in Round-Up park.
Just as in the Round-Up arena the events portray
more especially the work of the range, and in Happy
Canyon, the night show is shown the life of the fron-
tier town, so the Westward Ho Parade, as it wends its
way along the pavements of little Pendleton on the
Saturday or last morning of each annual Round-Up,
presents a panorama which epitomizes the Old West —
the Old West on the move. Led by the mounted cow-
boy band, with the Governor of Oregon usually in the
place of honor, 'came the president and members of
the Round-Up committee, clean-cut ranchmen and
stockmen types, heading the parade. These committee-
Z1
LET 'ER BUCK
men have turned their attention also to manufacture,
merchandise, banking and law, and are the brains of
this marvelous passion play of the West. Then come
the range types that delight the painter and molder of
clay, vigorous, keen eyed, modest, and primitively
natural and likable. You see all the familiar charac-
ters you have become acquainted with at the tryouts
or seen in the contests.
There, too, you see the old time West literally
stalking in the flesh. The floats of the hunter, the
pioneer, the Indian, the gambler and others symbolize
its epic episodes. There go the oxcart, the chuck-
wagon, the freighter, the prairie schooner and the In-
dian travois. No advertising, no autos or any modern
innovations are allowed to mar the historic pictur-
esquesness of this revival of the past, then come the
Indians in a swirl of color and trappings which sight
is alone worth your long journey.
That heavy-set packer with the long string of pack
mules is Bill Russell. Bill's hospitable ranch home
nestles invitingly under a grove of trees just this side
of Walla Walla. The old hide packs, so well "hitched"
on, have a history, too — they are what the Indians
didn't want or didn't have time to take when they were
left strewn along the slopes of the Little Big Horn
after the Custer massacre. Bill's father was with Reno
at the time they gathered some of them up, so here
they are.
Anyone would know by the way that old-timer
maneuvers the reins of one of the stagecoach outfits
that it is but second nature, and so it is to old Dave
Horn who has handled reins, brake and lash over the
trail on his daily runs from Cayuse to Umatilla in the
old days, and has been recognized for years as the
38
OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
best six-line skinner that ever drove over the Blue
Mountains. Along behind, trudges gray-grizzled,
bearded Frank Beagle, another old-timer and pros-
pector, his burro loaded with the same outfit he panned
and dug with across a span of years.
I rode beside an old scout, H. C. (Hank) Cap-
linger, and somehow — just by fate perhaps — old
"Hank" was left out of history along with Peg Leg
Smith. We halted for a spell for the line to lengthen
out. "Yes, it's a Dutch name," old Hank told me,
"but I guess I'm Irish."
"When did you come out?"
"Crossed the plains with an ox team in '45. Scouted
for the government and fit in Indian scraps; two in
Montana, others in Southern Oregon, Northern Cali-
fornia, and in the Pitt River country. That's where I
was wounded. Of all the damned renegades that
crowd was the worst. I was with one hundred and
thirty Warm Spring Oregon Indians and Donald
McKay, a half-breed ranger and scout, and by God,
the best trailer that ever started out. Run 'em for over
two and a half months through the mountains. Run
'em down and got every mother's son of 'em. And
scalped every one of 'em, too. Been buckarooing in
every country where a white man dared to go and
never been arrested for stealing yet. Most of the time
I was with Buffalo Bill, Kit Carson and Peg Leg
Smith, and Peg Leg Smith was the gamest man in the
whole damn outfit, but he was never writ up."
Then the contingent moved on through the crowds.
Yes, there is many a hero of the West, unheralded, be-
cause "he never was writ up."
39
CHAPTER TWO
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
Many an old-time pioneer of to-day of scarce four-
score years, need but close his eyes to vision backward
to the time when the star empire rested on Oregon's in-
terminable forests, flowering, undulating prairie lands
of limitless bunchgrass, and on her fish-filled cascad-
ing streams, to trace through her eight decades of ad-
venturous, romantic, progressive story. This story was
not a tale of a contest with nature only, but with men,
of law and order against lawlessness and terror — the
ever-old story of the frontiers of civilization. These
sturdy, self-respecting pioneers, settlers and mission-
aries of Oregon, ahead as they were of territorial gov-
ernment, were a sufficint law unto themselves and it
is recorded that the first decade of Oregon history was
without law-statute law — and yet not a crime was com-
mitted in the American settlement. In 1841, however,
the first provisional court west of the Missouri River,
a probate court, was organized.
When that beckoning Circe of man's cupidity — gold
— was discovered in California, then in Oregon, the
promise of easy wealth flooded the country with out-
laws— the gambler, highwayman, horse and cattle thief
and all-round bad man, while saloons and gambling
joints sprang up like mushrooms in a night. During
40
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
these formative days when law was flouted and defied
by these desperadoes, many of them gravitated to the
mining camps of Eastern Oregon. They seemed to be
a conscienceless type. Many were men "wanted" or
not wanted in the East; many of them not only made
highway robbery a profession, but openly boasted of it.
Thus a form of organized brigandage developed.
No sheriff could bring in a criminal to justice without
becoming a victim of the "gang." This order of
things held sway and whole communities were terror-
ized until the law-respecting citizens organized into
vigilance committees and courts against these outlaws,
these law-preservers being known as "vigilantes." The
"short cut" was sometimes administered to some of
the worst by way of the "short end of a halter rope."
Among the names written blackest in this North-
west story are those of Romaine and his terrible band,
one of whom remarked to the outfit when about to
swing for his crimes, "Good-bye, boys. I'll meet you
in hell in fifteen minutes." There was the famous
McNab and the notorious "Hank" Vaughan raised in
The Dalles, who always slept with gun in hand. It
was he who, when fleeing from pursuit with a band of
horses he had rustled, killed the sheriff of Umatilla
and wounded the deputy.
Since then, there have been and probably always will
be, men who for one reason or the other live outside
the law. Those days were days of frontier terrors in
which the outlaw outdevilled the Indian and where the
.45 was often a man's best friend. They were days,
too, of romance and adventure, a vestige of which still
remains here and there in the dying embers which
the flame of conquest has left on scorched remnants
of a primitive frontier.
41
LET 'ER BUCK
Such were the conditions which molded the stal-
wart, dauntless men who held taut the reins of order
and government. But perhaps to no one class of men
can the law, pioneers and our government ascribe
greater tribute than to the western sheriff, watchdog
of the peace and upholder of justice. To the memory
of no recent sheriff can Oregon, the West, the United
States pay greater tribute than to that of the late
Tilman D. Taylor of Pendleton, "Til" Taylor to
Oregon and the Northwest — just plain "Til" to his
friends and acquaintances. Not only as sheriff of
Umatilla County and as second president of the
Round-Up, which office he held for eight years, since
the first year of its inception, but as the outstanding
figure among the sheriffs of the West of to-day,
Til Taylor's character and record is as remarkable
as it was romantic.
His career of upholding the law began twenty-two
years ago. The railroad had reached Pendleton a short
ten years before and the country was still in its meta-
morphosis from stock ranges to wheat lands. Pendleton
was very different from the trim progressive city of to-
day. It was then a small town of about three thousand
people. Like many a western town of that day, gam-
bling houses were run wide open, and there were at one
time twenty-seven saloons. Those days were a bit wild
and wooly, and the sheriff could walk the streets and
know just what criminals were in town; so when
something happened he could almost pick the man who
had committed the crime.
The horse thief, "stick-up man" and "cattle rustlers"
were wary of the late sheriff, for he had never lost a
horse thief and could identify a horse regardless of its
condition. He had an intuition that was almost uncan-
42
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
ny in handling criminals, and his abihty to spot men
with whom he had come into previous contact, or of
whom he had received descriptions, was exceptional.
One remarkable illustration of this occurred in 191L
Taylor was after a man sixty-five years of age on a local
charge, and to identify him had nothing but a photo-
graph which he selected from the files of the Walla
Walla penitentiary. This picture was of a man
twenty years old, and clean shaven, but proved to be
the same man arrested forty years later who had a
heavy growth of beard and mustache and features con-
siderably altered.
His ability to recognize criminals was attributed to
his manner of studying men. He had a system of
observation of his own, which was to study carefully
the features of the upper face, particularly the nose,
eyes and ears. The application of this can be appre-
ciated in a country where the mask often consists of
a kerchief tied over the bridge of the nose and whiskers
were not an uncommon hirsutian adornment.
Three men who broke jail in Pendleton in 1915 were
run down after a twenty mile chase in the mountains
and captured single handed by Sheriff Taylor. They
were drinking at a spring, when what was their con-
sternation to find themselves covered by Taylor's gun
before they had time to draw.
Out of twenty-eight men who broke jail from Uma-
tilla County, Sheriff Taylor returned twenty-six to the
same cells, while the other two were located elsewhere
in the country, one now being in a penitentiary in the
East. Over two thousand five hundred arrests, the
vast majority of which were followed with convictions,
and much work in connection with famous crime
mysteries, as well as the apprehension and bringing to
43
LET 'ER BUCK
justice of many escaped convicts from eastern and
southern states, are credited to his office. In fact, a
record of the daring captures of this noted typical
sheriff would fill a volume with true stories, vying in
thrills with those portrayed on the movie screen or
read in the pages of Wild West magazines.
One of the most desperate episodes occurred after
bank robbers had blown a safe at Hermiston, forty
miles from Pendleton, toward the Columbia River, to
which place Taylor immediately and unerringly track-
ed them, and captured them single-handed. While
holding the struggling prisoner with one hand, he
fought a revolver duel with the pal of the prisoner,
who first opened fire from a telegraph pole. This was
the only time in the memory of those who served under
him that the late sheriff ever shot to kill.
A strange fate caused Taylor's cartridges to jam in
his gun, forcing him to quit firing; but he brought
back the first prisoner. Tracing the second robber
through three states, Taylor finally checked up on him
in Montana. The bandit was then brought to the Mult-
nomah County jail in Portland, and here occurred an
example of Taylor's uncanny ability to visualize a man
and unerringly memorize his face, for out of a group
of sixty men, Taylor picked him out, identifying him
weeks, possibly months, after having seen him only
once under distracting circumstances and then from
behind a telegraph pole.
In early July of 1920, about the time the great com-
bines were starting to garner the first of Umatilla
County's vast golden wealth of wheat, word came into
the sheriff's office at Pendleton of a hold-up staged a
few miles east of the city by two bandits showing all
the earmarks of desperadoes. Taylor and deputies
44
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
soon picked up their trail and came upon them near
the Httle hamlet of Reith in the canyon.
Then came a running gun fight. Deputy Jacob
Marin captured the first bandit who traveled under the
alias of Neil Hart; — but his "pardner" under the alias
of Jim Owens, the more desperate of the two, took
to the hills pursued by Taylor, and a hide-and-seek
chase and gun duel, with life and death the stakes, and
odds even, was witnessed by the people of Reith in
the valley below. Playing one another, crouching like
panthers, they eventually closed in, Taylor getting the
drop on his man.
Like a flash Owens with the movements of a cat
grabbed the sheriff's gun, attempting to turn it on his
captor; but he did not count on the power of Taylor's
grip. Most men would have shot his man, but Tay-
lor, adhering to his policy of never killing a man to
capture him, soon had the outlaw in front of him
covered, and jailed him in Pendleton.
On a hot Sunday afternoon two weeks later, the
streets of little Pendleton were all but deserted. Those
who were not at the ball game at Round-Up Park were
resting in the cool shade of house or veranda. Even
the courthouse, in which the jail is ensconced, was de-
serted. About a quarter of two Deputy Sheriff Jacob
Marin with the help of Louis Anderson, a trusty he
had taken out with him, entered the jail with the mid-
day meal for the prisoners. Anderson, having noticed
that no one but the deputy was about the courthouse,
signaled to his companions that the coast was clear.
Marin was shortly dispensing the dinner to the
prisoners.
Crack ! He was felled from behind by John Rathie,
a prisoner, with a heavy stick of cordwood, striking his
45
LET 'ER BUCK
head against the iron raiHng. All but stunned, half
crouching, he reached for his gun. But his arm was
seized by Neil Hart, who dodged just in time a power-
ful swing of the bunch of keys by the gritty warden.
Thud! Again a terrific blow crashed upon Marin's
head. Even then, unable to tie the hands or stop the
calls for assistance of the half -dazed but struggling
warden, it required the combined efforts of the prison-
ers to carry him to a nearby cell and throw over the
bolt. Taking no chance with such a desperate fighter
even though imprisoned, they left one man, Dick Pat-
terson, to guard him while four of them, Hart, Owens,
Rathie and Lingren having the keys, entered the
sheriff's office. Lingren lit out at once for fresh air.
Led by Owens and determined to escape at all cost, the
others immediately began ransacking the office. Re-
volvers were secured at once, but not the ammunition
which it had always been the sheriff's habit to keep
hidden.
Papers, books, everything was being strewn all over
the place in their hurried search, and it was upon this
scene that Taylor and Guy Wyrick, a close personal
friend, unexpectedly entered, returning from their
ride.
There was no time to draw a gun ; Taylor grappled
Owens, the biggest of the three, and threw him to the
floor; while Wyrick, who was ably handling Hart, was
struck from behind by Rathie upon whom he turned.
The two men fell fighting to the floor.
There, too, lay the sheriff's gun which had dropped
from his holster in his hand-to-hand fight. With a
bound Hart, now free, snatched it, and in response to
Owens' call to shoot, raised the gun. The sheriff, re-
leasing one hand from his grip on Owens', with re-
46
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
markable quickness again grabbed the gun barrel in
time to divert the shot.
"Shoot him again," commanded Owens, as the two
men locked in a struggle for life and death.
Drawing the gun down to Taylor's heart he fired
again, the bullet entering the sheriff's chest just below
the throat.
"Guy, I'm shot," gasped the fatally wounded man
as he crumpled to the floor.
With the muzzle of his gun and a threat to kill, Hart
forced Wyrick to release Rathie, then again drawing
on Taylor cursed them both and demanded the loca-
tion of the ammunition, but received no response.
Again he threatened to fire, when Wyrick shouted.
"You wouldn't shoot a man when he's down, would
you?"
Taylor, realizing he was fatally wounded, in order
to save Wyrick told the men where the cartridges were.
The effort was a severe one for the dying sheriff, and
he asked for water. After some debate, in which no
little cursing figured, it was brought to him by one of
the men, while Wyrick under the muzzle of a gun
assisted him as much as possible, placing him on a bed
in an adjoining room. Meanwhile the other two des-
peradoes searched for a full supply of revolvers and
ammunition.
"What is the trouble?" asked R. E. Phelps, county
road master, who, hearing the noise, ran up to the
sheriff's office, accompanied by another man.
"Just a little jail riot," answered Anderson, standing
at the jail door, and whom Phelps did not realize was
a prisoner.
"Everything all right now?" queried Phelps.
"All right," came back from the adjoining room.
47
LET 'ER BUCK
"Let's go," shouted Owens. Patterson, leaving
Marin, joined the others, now all armed with loaded
revolvers, and the five lit out, heading for the railroad
tracks. Here one of those strange coincidences we
call fate, seemed to favor them — a freight train, an
extra, which was promptly jumped was just leaving
the city east-bound for the Blue Mountains.
Wyrick, caring for the fatally wounded sheriff
under cover of a gun until the five men fled, immediate-
ly upon their departure telephoned for a doctor. Phelps,
however, had been suspicious, but being unarmed,
walked slowly away until out of sight, then speedily
notified the chief of police, who gun in hand, rushed
to the jail to find the birds flown.
"Til's shot!"
The word was passed by mouth and phone. It was
a rude awakening which aroused the slumbering little
city from its Sunday siesta. The quiet, empty, hot
streets immediately became spotted with little groups
of people talking — at first in subdued tones. Then
came the second word — "The jail's broke 1 Til's mur-
derers have made a getaway."
Then the storm burst. People scurried to and fro,
autos shot down street, up street, and across street.
Telegraph wires were hot with messages to head off
the prisoners or asking for information. Determined
men mouths grim set and eyes steady, went quietly but
quickly to their homes and loaded their rifles. Hard-
ware stores were unlocked and their owners, with a
wave of the hand towards the gun racks, told the man-
hunters to help themselves. Deputies, headed by the
released Marin, took charge and the entire surround-
ing country was notified.
Wild rumors and groundless clues of the flight were
48
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
plentiful, but the first clue came from the brakemen
bloodhounds on the west bound extra, No. 21136.
They had seen five men drop off the freight at Mission,
six miles east of Pendleton, and make for the brush
near the river. Posses, hastily organized, struck out in
every direction, but when it was known a clean get-
away had been made, returned for definite orders and
found that Sheriff Taylor was dead. As men came
into the office of the late sheriff for orders, tears
glistened in their eyes, but their eyelids did not quiver
and their hearts were hard.
Following the clue, armed to the teeth, they shot out
in cars. One large posse thoroughly searched the
wheatfields and brush about Mission. Lingren, the
first to skip out and who had no hand in the fight had
evidently boarded the same freight, and was shortly
captured about twelve miles from Pendleton at Cayuse.
In less than ten hours he was again behind the bars,
but gave absolutely no information of the where-
abouts of the other five fugitives. Evidence was ob-
tained later, however, which proved that the posse was
within ten yards of where they were.
Bloodhounds from the state penitentiary at Walla
Walla, fifty miles from Pendleton, were rushed to the
scene ; all points on the railroads were carefully guard-
ed, even mountain cabins were notified, and the hunt
reorganized. Twilight found over one hundred men
at Mission with the hounds in leash. They stalked the
fugitives throughout the night, the largest posse, whip-
ping one long canyon, saw daylight on Cabbage Hill
in the foothills of the Blue Mountains eighteen miles
away.
Here they found that the meat house of a construc-
tion camp had been robbed. Cheese, sausage and
4 49
LET 'ER BUCK
dried codfish had been carried away. In a muddy spot
at the spring nearby a tell-tale footprint was identified
by one of the posse as corresponding to that of a shoe
worn by Owens. Thus the first clue was obtained and
bloodhounds were placed on the scent.
The heavy brush in the deep canyons and the ex-
treme dryness of the rocky hills greatly hampered the
hounds. When the trail was hottest, a hurry call came
from a town about thirty miles away to the west of
Pendleton, requesting all available posse men to help
close in on the fugitives who had been surrounded.
There was no time to debate the matter, and much
against the will of the officer in charge of the dogs,
the whole party of man-hunters was streaking down
mountain toward Pendleton. The report proved false
and the chase was again up in the air.
The courthouse in Pendleton now saw the hunters
gathered in and new plans were systematically laid,
maps of creeks, canyons, springs, cabins and every
possible point where the desperadoes might go were
made; stations were established at all points and tele-
phones taken to many of them from which reports
were phoned hourly. W. R. Taylor, "Ji^^s" Taylor
to those who know him, brother of the murdered
sheriff, a prominent rancher of the county, was ap-
pointed by the court to fill the unexpired term of his
brother, while posters announced a total reward of six
thousand dollars for the capture of the fugitives, dead
or alive. Invaluable assistance in the planning and or-
ganizing was rendered by two additional Oregon ex-
perts in this line of work — "Ace" (A. B.) Thompson
of Echo and E. B. Wood of Portland.
The search was now re-planned in a scientific man-
ner. All traffic was stopped through the county ; busi-
50
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
ness houses closed down and allowed their employees
to join the posses; sheriffs, deputies, government de-
tectives and railroad officials joined in the hunt; In-
dians of the Umatilla Reservation joined the friends
of the dead sheriff as they rode horseback over the
hills, while on all possible trails scouts were placed.
Not until after four days of exhaustive effort did
any of the posses get within sight of the outlaws ; then
two men were seen at a distance and shots exchanged.
Reports of various robberies committed in the nearby
cabins indicated that the fugitives were in the vicinity,
and after three days of the hardest trailing, sometimes
by tracking, sometimes with the aid of bloodhounds,
over rocky hills and into deep canyons heavily masked
with brush and almost impossible of penetration, a
posse of Pendleton and LaGrande men under Sheriff
Lee Warnack came to a deserted campfire.
Reaching a telephone they notified a posse from La-
Grande on the other side of the mountain to head the
bandits off. In response the LaGrande posse, scouring
the hills for isolated sheep camps, working on to the
Daxe Johnson ranch, came upon the darkened tent
house of a French sheepherder, who lay soundly sleep-
ing on a rough couch in the dark and obscure interior.
"Have you seen any strange men in this section?"
they called loudly.
The man roused himself. "Non, I have not," he re-
plied, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
Meantime, however, he pointed significantly toward
a figure asleep on the floor to one side of the door of
the tent. Again the Frenchman raised his swarthy
arm, this time pointing to a sleeping man on the couch
beside him.
Carbines were quickly unlimbered. Flashlights lit
51
LET 'ER BUCK
up the scene, and before they could awaken from their
deep slumber, the two sleepers in no uncertain manner
were roughly jerked to their feet. There stood Owens
and Hart.
"Search 'em," and as they went thoroughly and
quickly through the captives a big gun slipped from
Owens' holster and fell to the ground. With the quick-
ness of a cat he reached for it, and as he stooped over
to seize it he ran plumb against a rifle which one of
the possemen jammed square in his face.
"Move another inch and I'll shoot you dead in
your tracks," he threatened.
"To hell with you; shoot and be damned," mutter-
ed Owens but shoved "hands up" as the gun came into
play.
Half-starved and exhausted from their flight over
the mountains, cheeks sunken from loss of food and
sleep, feet bruised and blistered from six days of cease-
less hiking, the two were then with scant ceremony
bound together hand and foot.
Thus, after six days of trailing foot-prints and fol-
lowing with bloodhounds over some of the roughest
kind of country, the two most desperate of the quin-
tette were caught like rats in a trap, in a lone sheep-
herder's cabin six miles east of Toll Gate on the top
of the Blue Mountains. The pair were taken to the
Union County jail in LaGrande, again within the
clutch of the law.
Shortly after, Til's brother, "Jinks" Taylor, now
acting as sheriff, arrived in LaGrande and gave Sheriff
Lee Warnack a receipt for the "live bodies" of Owens
and Llart, who were immediately bundled into the ton-
neau of a high-power machine and the car made for
Pendleton.
52
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
The day proved to be a complete round-up of the
entire five, who on the third day of their flight had split
up. Rathie had been going it alone, and had eaten only
six times in six days under the terrific strain of being
hunted. He had thrown away his revolver, and made
no resistance when captured in the mountains twenty
miles from Pendleton at Gibbon, where he had ap-
peared at a cabin demanding food. It was over this
same country and at the very point at Gibbon on the
mountains, that the late sheriff, after a chase of many
days, had run down and captured the bandits who blew
a safe in Helix. At Toll Gate, Rathie's attempt to
pass over the mountain had been foiled by guards, and
the moves he made show that the posses were close
on him all the time. Though Rathie was captured
after Owens and Hart, he was the first to be brought
to Pendleton, few knowing until evening that he had
been smuggled into the jail.
The last to be run down were Patterson and Ander-
son. They, too, when captured by sheepherders, were
suffering f i-om hunger, having eaten nothing but green
oats picked from the grain fields since the previous
Sunday. In fact, so great was their fear of being
lynched that breaking down and crying, they pleaded
not to be placed in the same jail with Owens and
Hart.
News of the capture of Owens and Hart spread like
wildfire. Extras were issued and the courthouse lawn
was black with men waiting the return of the captives
to Pendleton. They were, however, rushed into the
county jail by a side entrance before the angry mob
could take action. The crowds outside, increasing
every moment, were so threatening when later Patter-
son and Anderson arrived, that the sheriff placed the
53
THE SHERIFF
Many were the romantic characters in that cast of unapplauded
pioneers and adventurers who culminated the last act of their
Odyessy in the great original epic scene of their drama "The
Winning of the West." Their stage was the prairie ; the wings —
the rivers; the foothills and mountains, the scenery; the drapes
— the sun, sky and stars ; the red-flickering campfires their foot-
lights.
But of that cast none played a more prominent part, none
could be less spared than the sheriff. The old time sheriff with
his deputies, not only symbolized the law, but generally zvas the
law — the only legal protection the law abiding had against the
lawless. He was often the court, police department, judge, jury,
jailer and executioner all rolled into one. It was a dangerous
roll compared to that of the average sheriff of today.
In some instances, as at Virginia City, Montana, in the heyday
of the gold rush, tlie bad element predominated and elected one
of their own ilk as sheriff, as was the case of Plummer whom
Langford mentions in "Vigilante Days and Ways." My friend
Pat Sheehan, who was a "nestler" in the Gallatin Valley and
whose yellow fishing rod I once spied among the quaking asps
along the Taylor on my way back from a "drive" can bear testi-
mony to that.
I dismounted and clumped along beside him leading old Glass
Eye. As we walked toward his cabin where he had staked out a
claim, he told me he had struck it rich in the Vigilante Days and
late one afternoon set out toward Virginia City but was waylaid
by two stickup men not far from the town. But he sent one of
the pair on by the "short cut," the other took one of his own,
so Pat kept his gold. Naturally he told his story to the next man
he met just out from the town as he chanced to be the sheriff.
"Well!" said Pat, "Fartunately a frind o' mine happened along
and after he'd poured o' drink of wathcr on me face and a drink
o' red eye down me mouth I came around alright."
"What happened," I queried.
"Give me yer hand." Shifting his rod he seized my free hand
and shoved it into his grizzly white hair hard against his skull.
My thumb sunk half way into a deep depression made by the
blow of a pistol butt.
"Do yer fale that?"
"Sure," said I, "how did that happen."
"Ploomer did it."
Even in these early days we see political power germinating
in the hands of the gangster and the gang, justice aborted and its
sacred dispensation held in the hands of the grafter and his
henchmen.
It was such conditions which led the better element to organize
their vigilantes or citizens protective committees during those
formative days and which brought the office of sheriff as one of
the most honored a community could bestow and its duties among
the most dangerous and arduous.
The demand for the work of the old-time western sheriff has
almost disappeared, likewise that noble, picturesque, courageous
type of citizen of whom Til Taylor, Sheriff of Umatilla County,
was an outstanding example.
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THE EPIC DRAMA OF THE WEST ON PARADE
On Saturday morning the last day of the carnival, the Round-
Up marshals its page and pageantry into a great panorama of
the Westward Ho parade — the Old West on the move. Pendle-
ton is filled to the brim with holiday humanity. Here, indeed, you
see the efficient, courteous character of its community for a com-
munity's real nature is usually worn on its holiday sleeve — and
you agree that Pendleton's faultless carnival jacket needs no
mending.
Preceded by the mounted cowboy band, the Governor of Ore-
gon heads the march, followed by the clean-cut western types
of the Round-Up president and committee. You now look into
the kaleidoscope of time; revolve it and its color particles on
your field of vision evolve into rainbow shirted, kerchiefed cow-
boys, hundreds of them four abreast, range types you'll never
forget. As they ride by, stir in you a forgotten, primitive,
natural something, an atavistic element you didn't know existed.
Again they evolve into cowgirls, scouts, old-timers, miners, mules,
oxcarts, prairie schooners, stagecoaches pack trains which shape
up and then disintegrate by. Now they dissolve into form — the
hunter scene which float by — and the pioneer, the Indian, the
camp fire, and all the principle epic episodes of the old life of
the hunt and range. And lastly into a magnificent, galaxied
mass of color which falls transforming into the mobile shapes
of Indians. You catch your breath, is this riot of color Indians
or an interweaving of broken up rainbows as the glorious
chaliced spectrum of the Indian section passes in its shifting
variety, — a seemingly endless human chromoscope — you agree it
is the most gorgeous mass and merge of color you have ever
conceived.
So it passes, this picturesque, romantic, adventurous Old West
in its last review, passes between the solid banked phalanxes of
neutral clad spectators, along these less inspiring gray lanes of
modernity, passes under the triumphal arches of color, bunting,
banners, and flags which gracefully back and fill in the soft lift
of air which breathes down Main Street. The most conspicuous
banners, next to those of America are those of the Round-Up
bearing its emblematic symbol, a rider on a bucking horse and
the Round-Up slogan— "Let 'er Buck."
The parade of Westward Ho, did they say, soft pattermg
down the pavements of Main Street? It is Westward Ho, re-
echoing down the corridors of time.
V
LET 'ER BUCK
prisoners first in the city lock-up, afterwards smug-
gling them into the county jail.
That five desperadoes could be captured at different
points in the same day without the firing of a single
shot, seemed unbelievable to the citizens of a region
where, throughout its pioneer history, the revolver had
been, and in some parts still is, regarded as a man's
best friend. When, however, the realization was
borne in upon them, that only a meager wall screened
from them the men responsible for the killing of Til
Taylor, the crowd about the courthouse was augment-
ed. As the evening wore on, the tense atmosphere in-
dicated that a break was inevitable.
Milling about the courthouse, a salient of the black
mass finally surged inside and packed the hall about
the office where the life of their well-beloved friend
and sheriff, less than a scant week before, had been
snuffed out. Here was no doubt of the guilty and
their accomplices. Men's hearts burned within them
and their souls surged with intense resentment. Law,
justice, yes, and that inherent man-thirst, revenge,
seemed to them best served by summary punishment.
Outside there was an ominous murmur from the con-
stantly swelling ranks of determined men.
Then above them in the open door of the courthouse
appeared a figure with bared head and in shirt sleeves.
It was the newly appointed sheriff. Beside him stood
a guard with carbine in hand.
"Boys, if Til were alive," the gleam of the street-
lamps reflected in the moist glisten in his eyes, "he
would want you to let the law take its course. You
who are friends of Til, I ask you to do as he would
wish if he were alive. Rest assured justice will be
done."
56
TIL TAYLOR— SHERIFF
For a moment there was silence ; then from here and
there words of approval came from the compact
group. Calmer citizens supplemented the sheriff's
appeal.
Little Pendleton upheld its record for intelligent ac-
tion, common sense and upholding of the law. Slowly,
haltingly, still in a state of partial indecision, the crowd
turned its back on the jail and trailed to their homes.
As the sheriff had promised, law took its course and
justice was done.
Til Taylor had those characteristics which engender
respect and endear a man to those with whom he came
in contact. Generosity was as much an inherent part
of his character as courage, and any man, regardless
of his crime, could go to him and get money — some-
times in gifts and sometimes in loans. Of the many
he had trusted, his murderers were the only men who
went back on him. Many men whom he had arrested
thanked him in later years and credited him with
turning them from criminal paths to lives of useful
citizens. Criminals knew they were going to be caught
when he took their trail; yet when he occasionally
visited the state penitentiary prisoners he had placed
there would ask permission of the warden to "talk with
Til." Perhaps the most remarkable tribute to his rec-
ord as sheriff was not alone the fact that he never lost
a man but that he never killed a man. But, in the end,
it was the man whose life his mercy had twice spared
who shot him.
There was a touch of pathos in the act of an old,
but reformed culprit, who came into the office of the
secretary of the Round-Up, the headquarters of the
Taylor Memorial Fund, with a tear glint in his eye,
and deposited his humble contribution with the remark •
57
LET 'ER BUCK
"Til did me the best turn a friend ever did — he set
me straight."
Perhaps this humble act of an old enemy of the law
not only best symbolizes the love and esteem in which
Sheriff Til Taylor was held by all who knew him, but
magnifies the indelible record he left as a sheriff, when
in the line of duty he rode over the Great Divide.
58
CHAPTER THREE
CORRAL DUST.
"Coin' to the tryouts?"
I replied by swinging my horse into the little group
of riders on their way to the Round-Up grounds. On
my off side rode Buffalo Vernon, one of the contest-
ants in the first Round-Ups and who set the pace in the
roping and steer bulldogging. Besides Vernon was
Art Acord, another first class bulldogger and one of
the best all-round buckaroos ; on my nigh side was Jane
Bernoudy, the attractive California girl and one of
the greatest of fancy ropers. Next to Jane was the
marvelous relay rider, Jason Stanley, and on the out-
side long and lanky "Skeeter" Bill Robbins.
We jogged along to the soft clink of spur, champ of
bit, the jingle of rein chains and softer retch of leather
trappings, music to the ear of range folk. This
level road, elm shaded, from between whose insterstices
pretty cottage homes peep out, along which we ride to
the soft putter of our horses' hoofs, was first a trail,
hard-padded by centuries of passings of the mocca-
sined feet of the Amerinds; then, after the acquisi-
tion of ponies, it widened into a series of parallel
paths, perhaps eight or ten, a little more than a rider's
distance apart. Then the prairie schooner, the stage
coach and the freighter rutted it and the scout, cowboy
and ponv express rider packed it harder.
59
LET 'ER BUCK
This road that leads past the Round-Up grounds,
was a part of The Great Trail of the Indians of these
latitudes; the great Amerindian highway — the first
recorded highway to cross the divide which separates
the Eastern and Western oceans, over which traveled
Pawnee and Blackfoot, Bannock and Shoshone. In-
stinctively the white pioneer followed these primal
trails which searched the best passes, the smoothest
ground and easiest fords.
Thus this, The Great Trail of the Amerind, became
the ox-team road of the emigrant, the stage and the
freight route of the pioneer, the modern highway of
present travel. The Old Emigrant Road through Ore-
gon, known later as The Oregon Trail, reached the Co-
lumbia River at The Dalles, but some contend that it
actually terminated at Oregon City where the emigrants
"called the journey over and separated to find homes."
The main ford, hereabouts, was like the stage station
and first settlement, about two miles below Pendleton
at a place called Marshall, and the road we now turned
off from into the arena, is the old Oregon Trail, So
history rides into the very gates of The Round-Up.
To one to whom the smell of sagebrush, the feel of
the stirrup and the whole gamut of the life of range
and cow-camp are endeared through associations, the
morning "tryouts," which occur on the days just pre-
ceding the great show, and the elimination contests on
the second morning of it, make an inherent appeal. The
elimination contests are just what the name implies —
contests to eliminate the many newcomers who cannot
class with the greatest riders of the world, or as "Buff"
Vernon would express it, "ter cut out the mavericks
and strays." At the tryouts old friends from British
Columbia to the Mexican border meet again. There
60
CORRAL DUST
is a comfortable naturalness in the way they lounge
about the arena or watch with keen interest as they
see the chances on their "stakes" rise or fall as un-
known riders or new buckers battle for supremacy.
There, a bit in the shadow, some of the most ex-
pert fancy ropers living — Chester Byers, Cuba Crutch-
field, Bee Ho Gray, Sammy Garrett, Jane Bernoudy,
Tex McLeod and Bertha Blancett — play with their
ropes as though those serpentine coils are living things.
Lassoing, rope throwing or just "ropin' " has its
many styles, such as horse roping, steer roping, calf
roping, done on the open range from horseback or in
corrals, from the saddle or on foot, each an art in it-
self. It by no means follows that a good steer roper
is a good calf roper, and few good straight ropers do
fancy roping. Trick and fancy rope work, according
to Will Rogers, one of the best in the game, was
first brought into the United States about twenty-
seven years ago by Vincenti Orespo, a Mexican.
Rogers says that Orespo was the first fancy roper
that any of the present day fancy ropers ever saw. No
other man had such accuracy and style as he did.
Though he had a less extensive routine of tricks his
catches were long and clean and what was particularly
to his credit was his standing as a great roper. In
catching horses he was a wonder, always throwing a
small loop and catching them right around the throat
latch, not by the middle, a hind leg or the saddle horn.
Fancy roping, such as spinning and making tricky
catches, may have originated through the play in tak-
ing the tangle out of ropes. Unlike straight roping,
fancy is advancing all the time, while due straight rop-
ing like the range and the cowboy is dying out. It was
a wonderful aggregation that each day opened the
61
LET 'ER BUCK
performance in front of the grandstand or "worked
their hands in" at the tryouts. Watch Sam Garrett,
resplendent in purple shirt, make his rope hum and
twist as if charged with an electric current.
Swish! Tex McLeod has roped four horses and
riders in a single noose. Zip! and Chester Byers, so
easy and slow of action in his fancy roping, has while
nonchalantly standing on his head suddenly thrown his
noose and roped a passing horse by its fore feet. Pick
whichever part of a horse you wish captured and
they'll rope it, whether it be by the neck, any or all
feet, or even with a flip, after the horse goes by, by the
tail itself. They all make their ropes take every con-
ceivable gyration, from the wedding ring or simple
circle to the ring spinning vertically through which
they skip. Standing, jumping, sitting, and even lying
down makes no difference as they spin circles with
eyes open or blindfolded. Then Jane Bernoudy places
her jacket on the ground and now dons and removes it
to the ceaseless spinning of her magic tord.
How simple ! Try it ! Any of them will be only too
glad to show you. Snarled first try. "Just a bit of a
knack," Cuba Crutchfield will encouragingly tell you.
He thinks nothing of jumping backwards and for-
wards in his vertically spinning loop or even inciden-
tally turning somersaults through it. Yes, a knack
that takes years of experimenting and an inborn "feel"
for a rope to accomplish.
The "bunch" has already rounded up in the arena,
by the grandstand — every type — but all branded with
the hall mark of the range. Yes, the great days of
the cowboy have passed and he is now riding against
the sunset of his time. His trails and camping grounds
have blazed his path through Texas, New Mexico,
62
CORRAL DUST
much of Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Western Kan-
sas, Nebraska, Montana, throughout the so-called "arid
lands" and "bad lands," also up through Dakota to the
Canadian Northwest territories of his range, reaching
at one time or another from the alkali dust-coated
plains of Mexico to the cool verdant mountain forests
of Peace River.
Perhaps the strikingness of his sombrero and chap-
perajos, and the jingle of his spurs have so struck the
imagination that they have blinded it to his qualities
and services. His is a highly skilled profession; if you
doubt it, try it. An early initiation, a long appren-
ticeship and years of training are required, both with
rope and horse, and that is only the manual part of his
work. To know the signs of the trail, the ways of
cattle, of horse and men almost a law unto themselves,
and all the innumerable arts of their calling is not
learned in a night or by looking at printer's ink on a
piece of white paper.
If one considers the kind of fighting, unbroken or
half broken refractory horses, the cowboys had to ride
in a country rough with rocks, or what was worse,
badger and prairie-dog holes, yet withal maintaining
a supreme and perfect control of their mounts which
must be handled with a manner and style peculiarly
effective for their purposes, they must be classed as
among the best horsemen of the world. Those of the
clan you now see about the arena, walking or lounging
with an easy grace, are the very pick of these knights
of the quirt and the stock saddle — the last of their
clan — a modest-talking, quiet-moving, humor-loving,
he-man bunch — yes, and a few women thrown in too.
That cowboy packing his saddle across the turf is
"Hughey" Strickland, game, quiet, a thorough sports-
63
LET 'ER BUCK
man, a great rider and one of the best all-round cow-
boys that was ever in the arena. In this class is Eddie
McCarty of Cheyenne, as well as A. E. McCormack,
and Tex Smith, both also world's champions in the
bucking game. Following on their heels were Dell
Blancett, Johnny Judd and others.
None is more typical than Johnny Spain. He's that
strapping buckaroo there with silver cuffs to his leather
chapps and heavy silver-studded trimmings and fringe
on his pocket covers. His right arm is gone below the
wrist — "burnt off" — got caught in a hitch in his rope
• — with the horse on one end and a steer on the other
pulling different ways. But John's there, with a happy
smile and his ever genial "that's right" reply — no mat-
ter if you tell him it's a pleasant day when it's raining.
John goes in for everything and is always right on top,
even as "lasher" on the hurricane deck of a rolling
stagecoach — and only one hand to work with, too.
Just beside John is Frank Carter, from Wyoming.
While he has never won a championship here or even
a place in the finals, he is a splendid rider and a classy
one, but he was used to riding with two reins and ap-
parently lacked strength when it came to riding here
with one. In fact, any man who rides into the main
lists must be a real rider, for all the good ones are
eliminated and only the best ride. There is also Ray
Bell, one of the best of the younger all-round men,
good at each of the three major sports — riding, rop-
ing and bulldogging — and who won all three at Boise,
Idaho.
"Hootcha-la! I'k out!" and Charlie Irwin neatly
drops his rope about the neck of Fred Spain, John's
brother. Fred, who is one of the best all-round buck-
aroos, slips off the noose with a laugh. Yes, of course
64
CORRAL DUST
you know Irwin, he's the biggest man in the arena — as
big in heart and good nature as he is in body and full
of high Hfe — a natural born organizer and leader and
probably the greatest maker of buckaroo champions.
He won't have a cowhand on his ranch in Idaho who
isn't a top notcher.
Irwin is now general and live stock agent for the
Union Pacific, and one of the greatest characters in
the West today. From his ranch he and his brother
put out on the road the Irwin Brothers Wild West
Show with cowboys from their own outfit. He was
one of the prime movers of Frontier Days at Chey-
enne and knows the game from every angle. He's
here with his string of relay racers.
The whole Irwin family, both the boys and girls
are experts, who usually capture many of the prizes at
Tiajuana, Mexico. Young Floyd Irwin, Charlie's son,
who rode into the Great Beyond on the track at Chey-
enne in 1916 while roping, could do anything in the
buckaroo game and was in a class by himself. Even
the 'boys' say he was the best all-round buckaroo that
ever hit a saddle.
In the crowd of riders looking over the saddles
treed on the arena fence, are some of the stars of the
rope and saddle. That good looking, short but well-pro-
portioned chap with "Le C." on the light field of his
black-bordered, silver-studded chapps is Caldwell, con-
ceded by the buckaroos themselves to be the peer of
champion rough riders. In the course of one morn-
ing after Lee had made a ride, he was hung up in his
stirrup and dragged part way across the arena and
through the fence, the horse meantime kicking at all
creation when the defenceless man put out an arm for
a post. The speed and force tore the ligament fright-
6 65
LET 'ER BUCK
fully but also tore the rider loose where he lay uncon-
scious on the track.
It was here I made my first personal acquaintance
with Caldwell when old Winnamucca Jack, the In-
dian wrangler and I helped pick him up and then
helped hold him in Fay LeGrow's flivver. He insisted
upon returning to ride, but we rushed him to the doc-
tor instead. He carried his arm in a sling and cast
the remainder of that Round-Up. Fay LeGrow's fliv-
ver Lee was rushed to the doctor in sprung a leak so
we came back in his yellow-brown touring car.
"Ugh !" gutturaled old Winnamucca, "buckskin
hi-yu-skookum — bobtail no go!"
Amongst this arena group, are other of America's
greatest buckaroo rough-rider champions — Yakima
Cannutt, who won two world's bucking championships
at the Round-Up and rode in second and third in two
other years. There's "Hippy" Burmeister and Rufus
Rollen, who both have ridden in for second world
championships, and picturesque Jackson Sundown, the
Nez Perce Indian who won a first ; then there is Dave
White who rode in third in Nineteen Seventeen,
standing with his arm over Arizona, who pulled in
second the following year. That fine type of hard-
boiled cowman at the end is Red Parker, of Valentine,
Nebraska, that auburn-haired boy who, though he has
never ridden into the finish here, is a real rider. Those
two lolling out there in the sun are Jesse Stahl who
holds the bulldogging record, and George Fletcher, —
both ride well.
One of the old "cowhands" best known to Pendle-
ton is missing this year, detained somewhere in Idaho,
they say, — started to run a "butcher shop" and got his
cattle "mixed."
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"Corralling a bunch of yearling mavericks ?" grinned
buckaroo Roy Hunter, a cavalryman from Vancouver
Barracks, to Walter Bowman, the photographer, who
had rounded up a laughing group of pretty cowgirls.
"Yes, but they are more than you can brand, Roy",
chirped back Hazel Walker of riding fame. With her
were those four marvelous riders of outlaws. Bertha
Blancett, Fannie Sperry Steele, Nettie Hawn, and Tilly
Baldwin, an unequalled quartette that had the unique
record among the women riders of "riding slick" —
that is without hobbled stirrups. There was also
"Prairie Rose" Henderson, auburn-haired Minnie
Thompson, Eloise Hastings and "Babe" Lee.
The well-proportioned, golden-haired cowgirl is that
queen of ropers, Lucile Mulhall of Oklahoma — the
only woman to successfully get a steer down on time,
and the only woman who has bulldogged a steer at
the Round-Up. She is a marvel at all three major
sports. She and Bertha Blancett have no superiors
as all-round cowgirls.
There, too, is Vera McGinnis, in the brown fringed
skirt, one of the greatest of all-round contestants, and
pretty Ella Lazinka who is a good all-round cowgirl.
But the palm, as an all-round cowwoman, must be
given to Bertha Blancett, probably the most daring,
gamest and as sportsmanslike a woman as ever rode
at a Round-Up, and as efficient as many a cowboy on
the range.
Out on the track, champion riders are exercising
their relay strings in turns, and are themselves getting
used to the one quarter mile track. There are Lorena
Trickey, Mable DeLong Strickland, Tilly Baldwin and
Ruth Parton, who owns and rides her own string.
They are training the horses to the track and the
67
A SHOOTING STAR
And Others Go
SAILING HIGH
They indeed catch 'em young, treat 'em rough — but — they tell
'em everything at Pendleton, at least they give them every oppor-
tunity to find out for themselves. I refer to the aspirants in the
buckaroo game. Hot Foot on the right, is again up to his old
tricks and keeping this young buckaroo guessing whether he's
about to be a-foot or a-horseback, but he's staying with him well.
I remember seeing Morris Temple, a wee laddie of barely five
years, knocking about Main Street alone on a big dobbin', and a
few Round-Ups ago I watched that young buckaroo Darrell
Cannon, an embryo new "star" on the Round-Up firmament,
make his first appearance in the arena heavens at thirteen years
of age.
Not only the game, but the prizes are enough to inspire any red-
blooded boy or man of the range country, to aspire to win them.
When he thinks he is all set and rarin' ter go, he can show up at
the Round-Up, sign up, get his number, and draw his boss, and
if he can — go get 'em. What can he get? Well, if he can ride
into the world's bucking championship, he rides home a $500 sad-
dle, made and presented by a Pendleton harness and saddlery
store, the biggest and most complete in the Northwest, and $450
in cash; the second place buckaroo totes home a magnificent
Stetson hat presented by a leading department store and tucks
$200 into his wallet; the third man in the grand finals buckles
round his waist, a beautiful sterling silver belt presented by a
leading jeweler, and jams $100 into the pocket of his chaps — some
of the rest of "the bunch" collect what their luck in riding or
judgment in horseflesh has won. But all have ridden into three
days of the old life, if not into the prizes, and get set for another
year.
Each outlaw bucker has his way of bucking and many have
many ways. Some "cake-walk" like Hot Foot, others "straight
buck," "weave," "double o," "cork screw," "circle," "pivot,"
"side-throw," "fall back," or "side wind" to rid themselves of the
clinging man thing.
Then again they initiate their riders into their "sky scrape,"
"sunfish" and "high dive" as Speedball is doing while "Sailing
high" with Corporal Roy Hunter, 21st United States Infantry,
formerly of Vancouver Barracks. Both of these buckaroos are
riding well, for they are riding "slick," that is, riding close seats,
fanning, avoiding all artificial means of support and riding in
good form and have scratched their mounts at every jump. The
most complete example of this, however, caught in the camera,
is the remarkable photograph on the cover, of Bill Mahaffey on
Iz which, when he said "Let 'er Buck," he said a mouthful.
o
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130
G
a.
CO
SPINNING THE WEDDING RING
No more subtle art is required, or delicacy of skill exemplified,
than in the captivating exhibitions of trick and fancy roping.
No fancy roper ever won greater applause or popularity, not
only through her supreme grace and variety of fancy roping but
through her character and attractive personality, than Jane
Bernoudy (now Mrs. Reed) the pretty Californian from Santa
Monica. Whether on foot or on horseback, Jane was equally at
home in the control and directing of that elusive thing the "lass
rope." These qualities are no better shown than in the ease, beauty
and perfect manipulation of her rope when "spinning the wed-
ding ring."
Cowboys, even those who are top-notch steer ropers rarely
attempt fancy and trick roping. It is an art in itself and bears
no direct use to the work of the range. It is but a recent ad-
junct to the varied forms of roping and probably originated in
the play of taking the snarls out of the rope.
There are several other fancy and trick ropers who stand as
top-notchers. Among the women known to the Pendleton arena
are Tillie Baldwin, Lucille Mulhall, and Bertha Blancett. While
among the men are Cuba Crutchfield, Chester Byers, Bee Ho
Gray, Sam Garrett, Leonard Stroud and Tex. McLeod. The
standing of a fancy and trick roper is judged by the greatest
variety of tricks both in spinning and catching on foot or a
"horseback" coupled with the ease, grace and general skill
displayed.
LET 'ER BUCK
changes. Watching them are two other cowgirl
riders, Donna Card and Vera Maginnis.
Bertha Blancett, the veteran at the relay game, has
entered six different years for this contest, winning
two first world's championships, in two seconds and
two-thirds. Ruth Parton has ridden away with two
championships and Mabel DeLong Strickland with
three, holding the second Round-Up record of
11.55 1-5 seconds, riding four horses two miles each
day for three days and changing horses and saddles.
Lorena Trickey holds the top-notch record in 11.40 4-5
seconds, also the best time — 3.52 — for one day's rac-
ing. Katie Cannutt won in 1918 and holds third record,
while Donna Card's close second place for four consec-
utive years will be remembered in this event as well as
Ella Lazinka's game racing and that of Fanny Steele,
Vera Maginnis, OUie Osborn, Miss Oughy and Jose-
phine Sherry. In these women is represented a resource-
ful self-reliance, yet they are intensely feminine withal.
"Shake hands with Allen Drumheller, down from
Walla Walla." He's the peer of relay riders and an
all-round sportsman, and holds the Round-Up record
in the pony express race. He rides for the pure love
of the game. He is the son of George Drumheller, one
of the biggest wheat and cattle farmers in the North-
west, and not only owns a wonderful racing and relay
string of horses but rides them as well — so does his
sister Jessie.
Come over here, and let me introduce you to some
other relay and pony express riders.
"This is Scoop Martin," — he holds the relay record
for 12 minutes 7 seconds.
"This is Darrel Cannon," — he first rode backers at
the Round-Up when only fourteen and now is one of
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the best relay riders here — in fact, he pulls down
second place in the record column for 12 minutes
21 1-5 seconds.
"I want you to know Knapp Lynch," — he follows
with third time.
"Meet Lloyd Saunders," — his time on the pony ex-
press is only two seconds behind Drumheller's and is
only 2 2.5 seconds better than Floyd Irwin's of 6 min-
utes 22 3.5 seconds, made three years before in 1916.
But you'll learn more about these records when you see
the races in the Round-Up itself.
"You've met Fred Spain, 'Sleepy' Armstrong,
Chester Parsons, Roy Kelly who rides Fay LeGrow's
famous string, A. Neylon who won in 1918, Bob
Liehe, Braden Gerking, Wade, Abbot, Zedicar and all
that bunch."
As you know, most of them ride pony express as
well as relay, but in this historic race, besides Drum-
heller, Saunders, Irwin, Spain, Lynch and Gerking,
you will get such names as Jason Stanley, who first
won in 1912, and Hoot Gibson who rode in for second
honors, Harry Walters who pulled in first in '18, and
Kenneth Kennedy who took the premier prize in 1920,
Jack Joyce is one of the old timers at the Round-Up
and is good at the other sports; also there's Johnny
Baldwin and Tommy Grimes.
It is but natural that men entering races requiring
such horsemanship as the relay and pony express,
should enter the list in the standing race, so you see
Hoot Gibson, one of the cracker- jacks in this race,
who took second in 1912 and first in 1913 against
three of the greatest riders in this line, Sid Searle, first
both in 1913 and 1915, Otto Kline, champion in 1914,
and Ben Corbett.
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LET 'ER BUCK
Corbett, short, well built and gritty, is the top-
notcher in the standing race, having the distinction of
riding six consecutive years at the Round-Up in this
contest in which he won two third prizes, three second
places and pulled off one first world's championship in
which he set a new record in 1916 by beating out
Hoot Gibson's 1913 record by only one-fifth of a
second.
Other names rank high in this eight-footed tandem
race. Cannon, Kennedy and Walters have all made
championship rides, also Jimmy Taylor in 1920,
Saunders, Joyce, Zedicar, Leihe and Homer Wilson
go in for this, and a new rider Walter Sterling.
Among these race entrants are six of the greatest
trick and fancy riders of the world. Take that clean-
limbed, fair-haired chap, as modest and likable as he
is good looking, — that's Otto Kline, star performer.
Then there are the two Scale brothers, Sid and Walter,
also Leonard Stroud and Johnny Baldwin. Just wait
till you see them. You will be interested in that buck-
skin horse, it's Tillie Baldwin's pet. The one with
those unnaturally long, curved up eyelashes which
fringe out like a pair of old paint brushes. Some of
the boys believe these bristles should be clipped, one
remarking "Tillie you ought 'er roach his blinkers."
"No sirree, Sampson had his hair cut and you know
what it did to him," came back Tillie with a twinkle in
her eyes.
Just before you reach the entrance of the grounds,
you recall we passed a line of old time stagecoaches
drawn up outside the gates. What a story some of
them could tell — so, too, could some of the drivers who
have raced them in the arena. Joe Cantrell, a remark-
able driver, holds the record on championship drives
72
CORRAL DUST
having won three different years. H. W. Smith there,
is another old-timer at this game, and has driven here
off and on from 1912 to 1920 and always drives a hard
race. E. O. Zeek, Johnny Spain, Clarence Plant, Jim
McDonald and Bill Hogg can all claim championship
drives, while Fred Spain, Guy Hoyes, Frank Roach
are all on record for second places, not forgetting the
two Indians, Gilbert Minthorn and Otis Half Moon,
Most of the buckaroos who go in for steer bulldog-
ging are agile but powerful men, for it takes weight
to throw a big-necked steer by the horns.
"Meet Ray McCarroll and Yakima Canutt."
They are both considerably over six feet, but Canutt
is one of the most powerful buckaroos in the arena.
McCarroll won the championship in 1918, throwing
two steers in 1.26 3-5 seconds, and throwing one in
29 1-2 seconds. Canutt won in 1920, downing two
steers in 60 1-5 seconds, his best throw being 28 1-5
seconds. Canutt has the unique distinction of having
taken the Police Gazette belt for the all-round cow-
boy championship three times in 1917, '19 and '20,
it being taken in 1918 by "Hughey" Strickland,
in 1915 by Lee Caldwell and in 1914 by Sam
Garrett.
Garrett won the steer bulldogging championship in
1914 and holds the third record. Dell Blancett who
twice won second place holds the sixth best time ever
made here, while Jim Massey holds fifth, winning the
championship in 1919, and Siedel who was second in
1920 and whom Canutt beat out on the time of two
steers by only a second and two-fifths, is the holder of
the fourth best time made. Paul Hastings in his win
in 1917 also holds second honors as to the grand time
record, while Jesse Stahl's record of 18 1-5 seconds
7Z
LET 'ER BUCK
stands as the official one, although there is an unofficial
record in 12 1-2.
Some of the other husky, nervy boys at that game
are not in the arena just now, — some are up town, a
few have not shown up at Pendleton yet this year —
among them are Art Acord and Walley Pagett, the
champions of 1912 and '13, Lou Minor, Frank Cable,
world's champ in 1915, and Frank McCarroU in '18,
Bill Nevin, Fred Spain, Henry Warren, Jim Lynch.
Oh yes, there's Mike Hastings and Orvil Banks —
they are just ridng through the gate now, they each
won third in 1919 and '20 respectively.
And we mustn't forget "Buffalo" Vernon. Vernon
hasn't showed up for some years now, but in the first
two shows, particularly 1910, "Buff" was it, — he was
half the show. He was one of the very first at the bull-
dogging game, won the first championship and showed
a lot of the aftercomers the way. In his ornate chapps,
yellow shirt and big well-seasoned sombrero which he
wore in a way to the manner born, he will always be
remembered as one of the most spectacular performers
in the early shows.
The last night of the 1910 Round-Up will also be
remembered when enthusiasm for Vernon ran so high
at the dance that "Buff" went home minus the famous
yellow topside clothing, for the dance wound up with
a maverick race by all hands, girls included, for pieces
of Vernon's shirt as souvenirs — such was the way
popularity was roped at the Round-Up that year.
Steer roping being one of the three major sports one
naturally expects to find contestants listed not only
from the fancy and trick roping contingent but from
that of the two other major sports, for roping is one
of the events for the all-round championship prize.
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CORRAL DUST
The star ropers are particularly well-proportioned,
clean-limbed men — take, for instance, that wonderful
trio there, the George and Charlie Weir, and Eddie
McCarty. McCarty is well known at Cheyenne as
one of its prime movers and organizers. He won the
world's steer roping championship here in 1913, also
in 1918, and has always been in the finish, his best time
for a single steer being 26 2-5 seconds, made with a
total of 55 4-5 seconds for his two steers in 1919 when
Fred Beeson, a marvel at roping, beat him out in 47
seconds, Beeson's best time for a steer was 20 seconds
flat that year, which stands as the top record here.
George and Charlie Weir are experts par excellence
in the steer roping game, George probably being slight-
ly the better of the two, although in 1917 Charlie beat
his brother out for first place, each roping two steers
in the remarkably fast time of 1 minute 7 2-5 seconds
and 1 minute 26 2-5 seconds respectively, Charlie's best
single throw being in 7 2-5 seconds above the 20-
second Beeson record, and that of George only 5 2-5
seconds away from it. George Weir was first world's
champion in this event in both 1915 and '16, while his
brother rode close behind him for second in the former
year. This quartette, I believe, cannot be equalled in
the entire country.
There's good old Jim Roach who rides in from the
tucked away Cabbage Hill, which does not mix much
outside and raises some of the best strawberries in the
country. Jim's an old hand at the range game and a
wizard in the maverick race. He won out first in the
steer roping in 1912 in the fast time of .55 for two
steers. Tommy Grimes in 1914 took the twelve hun-
dred dollar purse and the three hundred fifty dollar
Hamley saddle in 1914 with C. Prescott second and
75
LET 'ER BUCK
Jack Fretz third. In 1920 Ray Bell roped the cham-
pionship in the splendid average time for two steers,
one in 33 3-5 seconds the other 29 seconds, totaling
62 3-5 seconds. Roy Kivett was second and J. H.
Strickland third, both Roy's and "Hughey's" best time
being within four-fifths of a second and three-fifths
of a second respectively of Ray Bell's best time, and
in each case shorter than Bell's lowest time.
Sam Garrett, Red Parker, Johnny Judd, Tom
Grimes, Phil Snyder, Jason Stanley and Chas. Rein-
hardt have all ridden into the finals for second or third
championships — Joe Gardner taking third money in
1919, though a top-notch roper.
Another well-known roper, occasionally seen in the
arena contests, is Dan E. Clark, live stock agent for
the Oregon Short Line Railroad Company of the
Union Pacific System.
Three steers apiece were turned in from the pad-
docks by the Round-Up for the 1916 championship
contestants and it was a remarkable trio which rode
into the finals and hopped to 'em — George Wier, Ed.
McCarty and Chester Byers. They rode to the cham-
pionship in the order given and made the average of
2 minutes 5 1-5 seconds, 2 minutes 22 2-5 seconds and
2 minutes 52 seconds, all three together running down,
roping, busting and hog-tieing nine steers in 7 minutes
19 3-5 seconds. How long would it take you to drive
one of the long-horned brutes into a barn?
Wait just a minute. Let's watch this buckaroo —
he's tried out one bucker successfully, but this horse
is a bad one — Thrown ! but he "rode pretty" while he
rode. The old timers seem to know him.
"What's his name?"
"Helmick — Dave E. Helmick, of Madison County,
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CORRAL DUST
Iowa, he came out to Kansas in '68, farmed, rode and
trapped," says Jinks Taylor, leaning over from his sad-
dle. Helmick has just come from the John Day
country way where the miners struck it rich in the
sixties. Today this rough country with its many bluffs
south of The Dalles, particularly between the Forks
of the John Day and in the Harney River country, pro-
duce some of the best buckaroos in the world. They
sometimes begin to ride at the age of three and break
horses at ten in this country, and only quit when they
are stove up old cowpunchers.
Helmick's probably the oldest living active cowboy
in the country and is here to compete. Last year ne
won the championship bucking title at the Grant
County contests at Canyon City from eleven contest-
ants, all young fellows. Helmick insists on riding the
same old turtle-back saddle he has ridden for the past
twenty-nine years. The bucking board of Canyon City
offered him the best Thomas saddle that could be made
but he would not take it. His old standby has just been
repaired here this week, but despite its long service the
committee feel that it's not strong enough for the
Round-Up outlaws. How old is Helmick ? Oh ! yes —
why sixty-eight and not stove up yet.
At the tryouts, or the morning contests, one forgets
the arena and the all but empty bleachers ; one lives in
the spirit of the real life, with its settings of a memo-
ried past framing the background. One is just in a big
cow-camp, with saddles and blankets lying around;
cowboys, cowgirls, horses and Texas longhorns, knock-
ing about in a devil-may-care sort of way as though
on a range round-up or at a branding. One looks
away through the gap between the bleachers to the
smoke-tipped lodges of the Umatillas.
n
LET 'ER BUCK
Long before the coming of the paleface, the red man
had pitched his tepees along the banks of the little
river which carries down the rains and the melted
snows of the Blue Mountains in northeastern Oregon
to the Columbia. These Amerinds were of the Uma-
tilla tribe from which the river itself and the town of
Umatilla at its mouth derive their names. How fitting
that in these cottonwoods, but a stone's throw from the
arena, the descendants of this and neighboring tribes,
these children of forest and plain, should come to live
again the old tepee life of an almost bygone day.
Where do they come from, these autochthonous
Americans? A few miles east of Pendleton in the
Umatilla valley and on the slopes and in the draws of
the Blue Mountains lie their homes on what is left
of the Umatilla Reservation. This reservation was at
one time a territory four hundred and fifty miles
square bordering Pendleton on the southeast.
Following the treacherous killing of courageous Dr.
Whitman, the Presbyterian missionary and pioneer
leader, at Wai'-letpu station by the Cayuses in 1847,
the going on the war-path by the Indians was the
greatest dread of the pioneers. These uprisings oc-
curred against settlers and United States troopers
every now and then, while the lone dweller in the wild-
erness often had much reason to fear attack at any
time. After the noted massacre of Whitman and his
associates, others occurred — from the Rouge (later
Rogue) River massacre and the Modoc War, down to
when the Snake tribe stole over the Blue Mountains
from Pocatello and slaughtered the unwary ranchers
in the vicinity of Pendleton, and to this day they are
known to many old pioneers by no other name than
" 'Twelka" — enemy. These conditions resulted mainly
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CORRAL DUST
from the usurpation of the red man's hunting grounds
by the whites.
In 1856 a treaty was enacted with the Indians and
thus war was ended as far as the Umatillas were con-
cerned. But it was not until three years later that the
President of the United States ratified the treaty.
This resulted in the Umatilla Reservation being estab-
lished and assigned to the three neighboring tribes —
the Umatilla, Walla Walla and Cayuses, as a home
territory. There they lived under the United States
Agency until 1882.
Then a large portion of their land was sold and the
remnant of these tribes, only eleven hundred, including
breeds, were assigned allotments on the remainder of
the reservation. The Indian's lands have been so cut
up through sale and lease that now they are often de-
prived of range for their grass-fed horses, which may
be seen any day getting their meager picking along the
grassy spots of the roadside, and reaching as far as
their scrawny necks will permit over the barbed wire
to the green selvage of the wheat fields. Their feed
is so scarce and their condition so poor, with range
so curtailed, that this forage is not sufficient to prevent
many from perishing in any continuous cold stormy
weather, when their carcasses will sometimes be found
by hundreds over the country.
It is claimed by some that the first house erected by
a white man in the county was built by Father Brouil-
let. This cabin, later accidentally burned by Indian
boys while at play, was on old Chief Isakaya's land be-
tween the present warehouses and the new bridge at
the agency. It is recorded that when the first settlers
came in here from the east the nearest and only
whites were twelve squaw men, employees of the Hud-
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LET 'ER BUCK
son's Bay Company, who were living on the banks of
the Willamette.
Among the more interesting characters of the early
pioneer Missionaries was the young Belgian priest,
Father Louis Conrardy, one of the greatest students of
the Nez Perce language and who later joined Father
Damien at the famous leper colony at Molokai.
Among some of the principle characters of the
Indians of the pioneer period living in this vicinity is
Chief Tanitau, also a venerable old Indian named
Tiwelkatimini is mentioned as well as Welestimeneen.
It seems, too, that Chiefs Aulishwampo, Five Crows,
Alakat and Isakaya all pitched their tepees along the
banks of the Umatilla itself as do the Indians in the
Round-Up village today.
Here now you find about six hundred Indians, near-
ly the entire population of the reservation, and among
them not only representatives of the Umatilla (Yuwa-
tella), of the Cayuse (Wai'-letpu) from the land of the
Paska, or Yellow Flower and the Walla Walla, but of
the Yakimas and Columbias with whom they have in-
termarried, while occasionally Nez Perce, Bannocks
and Oklahomas dwell amongst them. The three tribes
of the Umatilla Reservation, brought together by the
government, originally known as the Wai'-letpu, have
now blended.
An open lane through the grove forms a village
thoroughfare, on either side of which the tepees are
pitched. The squaws of some of the later arrivals are
still busy unloading the cayuse-pulled rigs and pitching
with inborn know-howness, their tepees of blue, white,
striped and variegated canvas. Children rollick about,
turned-out horses feed nearby, and hunks of raw meat
are cached high up on poles out of reach of the dogs.
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That nearest tepee is of buffalo hide — most all were
buffalo hide in the old days — but now a buffalo-hide
tepee is rarer than the buffalo itself and brings a higher
price than many a small modern house will fetch. It
is also a fact that some of the native American cos-
tumes are far more valuable than those made by many
a king's tailor. The eagle feathers of a fine war-
bonnet, which may number fifty to sixty, are valued
at anywhere from two to five dollars a plume accord-
ing to size and quality. Then there is the exquisite,
solid beadwork of vest, trousers, belt and moccasins.
Every "tepee," which term is often used to mean a
family, preserves carefully its ceremonial costumes,
including among the possessions of the old people, no
doubt, a number of those symbols of the victories over
enemy tribes and the paleface — scalps. But these tro-
phies are never brought to light as far as the white
man is concerned.
It has been for many years the custom in the North-
west for communities to invite in the Indians for the
Fourth of July celebrations to such an extent that this
anniversary of our Independence Day is observed by
the Indians as their Shapatkan. At this time they
pitch a village of seventy-five or eighty encircling
tepees on their reservation and attire themselves as of
old, and at night by the light of their campfires you
behold flashlight glimpses of tableaux of a passing
people. In fact Shapatkan has become a real Indian
ceremonial, a celebration by the former owners of this
country in honor of the freedom of its present occu-
pants.
Here a wigwam is open ; you know the family is at
home because the noose of the lap is not run through
with little sticks. Glenn Bushee, that white man there,
6 81
LET 'ER BUCK
knows them all. Everybody likes Glenn; the Indians
call him Tall Pine. He can deceive all but the initiated
when in his inimitable chief's costume during celebra-
tions.
This is Red Bull's tepee. Glenn says something and
Agnes Red Bull, the pretty daughter, carefully goes
through some belongings, and spreads before us on
the rugs, with which the ground is carpeted, a spotted
blue woolen Indian dress. The spots are elk's teeth
selected for their quality and each carefully stitched
on — seven hundred all told — making the value of this
girl's gown about thirty-five hundred dollars.
In the corner is an Indian you have scarcely observed
— she's a stranger and is visiting this tepee. You will
observe her, however, intently enough in the women's
bucking contests, when she rides as the star Indian girl
bucking-horse rider and waves a small American flag
while she does it — she's Princess Redbird.
We wend through the forest of tepees and cotton-
woods. Naturally that group of Indians there are in-
terested in that band of tethered horses for they are
some of the Indian relay strings. The young buck who
is giving them some points on his relay string is
Richard Burke, who with his brother, Robert, not only
won the Indian relay world championship race in 1913
and 1916 respectively, but these two sons of Poker Jim
hold the two best Indian relay records.
Robert made the mile relay in one day riding on the
quarter mile track in 2 minutes 13 seconds, while his
brother Richard made it in 2 minutes 20 seconds.
Ralph Farrow rode in only two seconds behind Robert
Burke's total record time and Farrow's brother Jess,
who won the first honors in 1920, completes a remark-
able quartette of Indian relay riders.
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CORRAL DUST
However, Luke Cayapoo, Tom Shelal, Mox-mox,
and J. White Plume have also taken second champion-
ship places, and Lucien Williams, Bud Reed, Gilbert
Minthorn and Dave Shippentower, who have won
third places, have all of them given the Burkes and
Farrows a hot run for their money.
Most of these riders go in for the other major events
— the buckaroos in particular are excellent ropers and
nervy bulldoggers. Minthorn enters his team of four
horses which he drives in the stagecoach races. Then
there is Burgess, the Oklahoma Indian, who competes
in a number of events.
That splendid blue and white tepee sending a blue
smoke against distant golden hills, is Sundown's.
Jackson Sundown is a full-blooded Nez Perce, a superb
type of his race. Not only his remarkable riding, but
his splendid quality of mind and character have made
him a prime favorite with all. Physically he is a sight
for the gods with his erect carriage and lithe, agile
body, which still bears the scars of three bullet wounds
in fights against the whites in the long ago now, under
his intrepid and famous uncle. Chief Joseph. Little
wonder A. Phimister Proctor, the noted sculptor, se-
lected him as nearest to his ideal type of the American
Indian, and camped for six weeks on Sundown's land
near Culdesac, Idaho, while Sundown posed daily for
Proctor's "The Indian Pursuing a Buffalo."
The beautiful bead-embroidered buckskin- fringed
gauntlets, solid beaded with decorative roses on a white
background which he proudly shows us, were made by
his wife of whom he is very fond. "Hi-yu-skookum
gloves, (very good gloves) Sundown." Although
Sundown speaks some English, he will understand our
jargon, for the Nez Perce and Umatilla are linguis-
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LET 'ER BUCK
tically the same. Or if you speak "chinook" he will
understand that too for "chinook" is a universal Indian
language — the esperanto of the red man understood by
all tribes at least of the Northwest. The word "chi-
nook" is also applied to the warm wind from the Japan
current which melts the snow even in midwinter.
Numipu, as the Nez Perce tongue is called, is the
mother language of the Palouse, Cayuse, Umatilla,
Walla Walla and Yakima languages. Father A. Mor-
villo, the Jesuit, or "Talsag" — Curly-hair — as the
Indians called him, left a remarkable dictionary and
grammar of the Nez Perce tongue, but probably Father
Cataldo must be conceded as the greatest authority on
Indian language. But more of Sundown later.
To the initiated, the principal episode of the Indian's
life, his times and seasons may be read in the painting
of his person. Whether it be learning to hunt and
trap; reaching manhood, seeking a creed, or meeting
the spirit of his dreams, going to war, seeking a mate,
going to battle, coming home as victor, undergoing de-
feat, joy and feasting, death and mourning, seeking the
priesthood, medicine and burying, becoming a seer and
being able to travel far in spirit, of religious character
and used especially at the great annual festival of mid-
summer, peacemaking, traveling or visiting, — all may
be expressed by appropriate symbols.
In these face and body paintings are symbols that
he who runs may read, though few in this white audi-
ence know — or care — what those earth and mineral
colorings on face and form mean. Many of the Amer-
inds themselves know but little of that fast-disappear-
ing art of decorative symbolism; only the old people
amongst them know. But they use today the same kind
of mineral colors they used on the panels of the Buffa-
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CORRAL DUST
lo Lodge and Mooseskin Lodge of the tribes, and
when, after the coming of the horse, the redmen
daubed and painted his mount in his ceremonials as
well.
Also on the panels of his lodges he, like the white
man, has put on canvas in mural decorations the life
history of his race and tribe, of the courage, endurance
and skill of the warrior, hunter, and lawgiver who oc-
cupied them. Thus his lodges became the pantheon of
his immortelles and their deeds, — an object lesson dur-
ing the life-time of their glory.
Another generation will see the obliteration of the
old yet fascinating customs of their ancestors. Their
art, their songs, their dances, their sincere understand-
ing love of nature, their simple direct communion
with the Great Spirit, their admirable tribal social
structure, their formerly healthy minds and healthier
bodies, will have passed away, and civilizitis will have
accomplished its deadly work.
The medicine man under some conditions is some-
times even today brought in, and feigns to cure the sick
and avert death by performing certain contortions and
working his incantatipns. To some extent the old
rites and superstitions of the Indians still persist; the
tom-tom is their prayer, and they quite naturally cling
to their beautiful old legends and customs of bygone
days — days when they roamed meads and mountain
glens, when herds browsed on luxurious bunchgrass on
hilly slopes, and game abounded in every forest nook.
Listen! An old Indian slowly rides his horse
through the avenue of tepees, and every now and then
gives vent to a strange weird exclamation, continuing
his calls to the end of the village and rides slowly back.
It is the Indian town crier, advising the village of
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LET 'ER BUCK
orders in regard to preparing for the parade tomorrow.
They will all be busy now putting finishing touches on
their costumes.
"Go get 'em, cowboy!" yelled a wrangler. In as
many seconds as it takes to tell this a dozen buckaroos
leaped into their saddles, headed for the open Round-
Up gate entrance, disengaging their ropes from their
saddle bows as they rode to head off a cloud of dust
with a dark woolly object at its apex traveling through
space like a comet. Luckily this quick action headed
off the passage to freedom of one of the pair of
buffalo belonging to the Round-Up stock.
Can a buffalo run? Well, some of those boys re-
membered the vacation this animal took a year prev-
ious, when It eventually traveled nearly three hundred
miles across country before they ran it down. Three
ropes now encircled it — over horns, on a fore and on
a hind leg — then they lead the "onery" little beast back
through the Indian village to the stock corrals.
Open contests are often held for the naming of ani-
mals, "Sharkey" was selected for the champion buck-
ing bull, and Henry Vogt for his close Jersey second.
"Letta" and "Buck" won as names for the young cow
and bull buffaloes. During the war Buck died. Later
a war baby was born — Letta had a catteloe calf — sus-
picion was said to rest on Henry Vogt.
Earlier that morning a bunch of us, mostly members
of the committee, had been helping unload from the
cars some wild range longhorns fresh from Laredo,
Texas. A steer knows a gate when he sees it.
"Whoop'ee," and the entire herd was stampeding
straight through the Indian village, a wild bellowing
herd, running a race with a dust storm and our ponies
alongside at breaknecking speed. Pandemonium broke
86
CORRAL DUST
loose among the dogs ; squaws grabbed up the younger
children, while the older scudded for cover amongst the
cottonwoods and tepees.
"Head 'em off," yelled Sam Thompson — and "head
'em off" we did, but some went through the nearest
tent.
"Let's get these pets into the corral," shouted Bill
Switzler, and in a few minutes the gate swung in on
a dilatory steer and they were corralled.
Wild Bill Switzler lives most of the time up in the
Horse Heaven country. The rest of the time he lives
on a horse, when he is not running the Ferry at Uma-
tilla. Horse Heaven country? What, never heard of
it ? Well, there is lots of country, wonderful unbroken
country in Oregon and the West you haven't heard of,
besides the John Day and Harney Country you already
have heard about. There's Camas Prairie of the In-
dians, with its millions of feet of virgin timber await-
ing the railroad — may it wait long, — and there's Grant
County awaiting settlement. Which leads one to
v/onder why we Americans don't travel at home a bit
and get acquainted with God's country.
The way through Horse Heaven is only along par-
allel pattle trails with drift fences ending nowhere,
where man is scarce and the bunchgrass is thick and
winter shelter and feed are plentiful. Here the ordin-
ary wild bunchgrass grows knee high to a tall
Injun. "Rolling in clover" has nothing on this
for an equine dream. Here herds led by their stallions
practically run wild, never even seen by man sometimes
for many months at a time. Horse Heaven, indeed, — •
you'll find it marked on a good map of Oregon and
Washington in the center of a townless fork of country
between the Yakima River and the Columbia.
37
LET 'ER BUCK
Here Bill Switzler, an all-round range man has a
ranch across from Umatilla in the heart of the Horse
Heaven, seventeen miles. Which trail? Take any —
there are hundreds — cattle made them. They'll all
take you to Bill's ranch — or beyond it.
The wild horses used in the wild horse race at the
Round-Up come from Wild Bill's ranch; Bill and his
father once owned twenty thousand head. He begins
months ahead with his outfit to round up the wildest
from their retreats far from the haunts of man. Bill
had just come in with a wild bunch. There they are,
safely within one of the corrals, shy, fighting, biting,
kicking, squealing, cautious and cunning as the coyotes
with whom they had been reared.
The director of competitive events had called for
some of the buckers, as they were still trying out some
of the buckaroos in the arena. There they all were.
In the next corrals to the wild horse band were the
buckers themselves, including famous names amongst
their number, as well known in the Northwest as Ty
Coljb or Babe Ruth. Get up on the fence or ride up
closer here beside tall, slim Bill Ridings, one of the
wranglers ; he'll point 'em out.
"That big, heavy-built, dark sorrel. Long Tom, is
king of 'em all," drawls Slim. "Once he was a hard-
working plow horse, till someone thought he could ride
'im. He's been just thinkin' about it ever since, and
so have a lot of 'em."
"That sorrel mare is Whistling Annie. You can sure
hear the wind go by when yer on her. The white horse
with the half moon circle brand on his left flank is a
good un — that means a bad un, get me? He's Snake, a
sun-fishing devil and one of the hardest to wrangle;
so's Sledgehammer, that big dapple gray. Last year at
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CORRAL DUST
the Round-Up in the Friday mornin', old Sledge want-
ed to ride himself, so he just chased the boy right off
the saddle of the snubbing horse and got right up in
the saddle himself, but the judges wouldn't allow it.
"That white-faced black un is Hot Foot; he chills
'em when he stalls skyward and then volplanes down.
There's Angel, only he is in disguise, and that there is
Midnight, but mostly goodnight to those who think
they can ride him; the next is Bugs, but few of 'em
dare scratch 'im. Them there's Brown Eyes and Bat-
tling Nelson, Sunfish Mollie 'n' Fuzzy 'n' Rambling
Sam in that bunch," Bill pointed with his quirt. "And
in that other corral in yonder corner is Lightning
Creek, Rimrock, Corkscrew 'n' Desolation. You sure
do feel lonely on him. They were all used in the semi-
finals last year, and so was Bill Hart, over there under
the shade of that willow. Hughey Strickland showed
Sundance there a new step, though, when he rode him.
That feller Black Diamond — he's sure worth his
weight in gold to this outfit.
"See that hoss with his eyes closed, sleepin' like?
That's No-Name because the Round-Up ain't got no
name bad enough to express 'im, and the Round-Up's
so hard put to it to find one, that they're even willin'
to pay the feller that gits a worse name fer him than
any of the rest of the bunch. Name 'im and you can
have 'im, I says — he's why I'm limping — lucky fer me
he wern't shod,"
"The chestnut there is Unknown, by that I mean it's
what he's called, but we know him hereabouts all right,
and so we do old Leatherneck yonder, — he's tough as
tripe. But say, pard, the horse licking the other's
shoulder 's You Tell Em — most of 'em can't, after
they've patted his back. And say, pard, take it from
89
LET 'ER BUCK
me, — them two what's together now right here by this
trough sure are two of the heaviest buckers that I ever
did see. The nigh un's I Be Damn and the off un's U
Be Damn, and I'll be "
"Git them 'cattle,' " yelled Wild Bill as he rode for
some of the wild horses to be wrangled, with Jess
Brunn and other wranglers hot after him. Come on;
let's help cut out this "stuff."
If you have never tried to cut out and rope some
particular wild horses out of a stampeding bunch, rip-
tearing about a corral in a cyclone of dust, with lar-
iats, cowboys and fence splinters criss-crossing in all
directions like a Patagonian williwaw there are some
thrills left for you.
Any horse you may think you want, knows it as
quick as you do — human mental telepathy has nothing
on that wild cayuse. As quick as you think him, he will
put another horse or more between you and him, and
always maneuver into the most impossible position for
your rope or for you to handle it after you get it. He'll
dodge, duck and disappear in the herd. Even after he
is roped, particularly if by the neck, he'll fight until his
wind is choked off which is bad for the horse. Then
comes getting him out of the corral.
I well remember one little calico cayuse we went
after that morning.
"Rope him, cowboy, awful wild," yelled Ridings.
"No wild horse, it's a woman's horse. I believe you
can drive him," chuckled Wild Bill with a grin, watch-
ing from his saddle by the gate. "You told me you
wanted 'em wild, but I could only find these pets for
you," and Bill went on grinning.
S-s-r-r-r ! went Blancett's rope, but the little cayuse's
head ducked between two horses.
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CORRAL DUST
"If he'd had horns I shore'd've 'ad him," smiled
Dell as he hauled back his rope.
"Good 'a boy !" called Winnamucca Jack, the Indian
wrangler, when after ten m.inutes in the choking, blind-
ing dust, Dell made a pretty throw and the calico
"scrubtail" was roped.
Few phases of range work or of the Round-Up are
more risky or afiford a greater variety of inducement
for a man to harness up to a life insurance policy than
the gentle art of wrangling wild horses. The men who
have charge of rounding up, driving in, assisting in the
cutting out, roping, saddling and turning the animals
back to range are known as wranglers. Their business
is to know the location or drift of the horses, their
habits and ways.
On a cattle ranch, the horses to be used in the day's
work by the cowboys are brought from range or pad-
dock (and a paddock may be several miles square)
into the corral in the early morning, by the wranglers.
When breakfast is finished, there is no time lost in
"cutting out" the horses to use in the day's work and
getting at it; then the "stuff" not needed is at once
turned back into the range. There has been many an
unadvertised bucking contest between man and beast
pulled ofif within a corral during morning saddling up.
When it is time for the round-up of cattle and horses
for branding, marking, "cutting out" in the spring, or
for the fall cutting out and drive, the foreman and his
outfit of cowboys go out as far as he thinks cattle
would go for water, say eight or ten miles, throws out
two men together every half mile — strung over a dis-
tance of perhaps four or five miles. Everything is then
driven toward a common objective, generally, but not
always, towards water. This is a round-up.
91
LET 'ER BUCK
Then comes working the cattle or "cutting out," the
strays, i. e., branded cattle of other owners, or "mave-
ricks" which are the unbranded cattle ; separating those
they want from those they do not want — the others
they let go right back on the same grass. Say, out of a
herd of four or six thousand, there might be eight hun-
dred or a thousand which did not belong there. When
they have finished working the bunch, they push those
belonging on that range back again.
Horses always run on the range in bands and in-
variably stay in the same band. Even if there are a
thousand head which drink at the same water hole,
when through, the entire herd disintegrates to their re-
spective bands. The head stallion is monarch of his
band, and if a mare lags she is not likely to again, for
with the swiftness of the wind he will round her up,
likely as not biting a piece right out of her.
Now on a round-up, which in the old days or on a
few big ranches today, lasts a month or so, the range
work was exceptionally exhausting to the horses.
Sometimes a single rider would use a half dozen differ-
ent horses or more in a single day. Consequently a
large herd, or band of horses was required. The
bands of saddle horses used on a round-up are called
"cavies" and are used every day. On a round-up in
the '80's in Washington where the cavy comprised
some six or eight cavies — ^fifty to eighty in each — the
whole number totalled some six hundred horses.
These horses were in charge of the wranglers, who
were divided into a day and a night shift, for wrang-
lers during the round-up which was on the move,
stayed with the horses all night and brought them into
the corral in the morning. Each outfit had its "chuck-
wagon," in which food was carried and all the appur-
92
CORRAL DUST
tenances for cooking it. Each outfit was under its own
foreman until in the saddle for the day's work, when
they were then under the head foreman.
It seems hkely that the term, "wrangler," comes
from caverango — the Spanish for the man who had
the care of the saddle horses. East of the Columbia
River the term "wrango" or "rango" was used. From
"cavo" the term "cavy" was undoubtedly derived,
while "wrango" was undoubtedly derived from
"rango," from which in turn the anglicized ultimate
of er was added with an / and we have the range term
of "wrangler." Also it is not illogical to assume that
"rancho," "range," "rancher," "ranger" are all deriva-
tives of the same root origin.
When the rounding-up outfits are on the move, a
temporary rope corral is provided. A rope corral is
sometimes made of a rope simply laid off the ground
on some sagebrush, being safer it is said than some
fence corrals in keeping the horses in. The horses are
broken to a rope corral by being allowed to try to es-
cape from a fence corral over a piece of rope stretched
at a certain height across the open gateway. They
rarely jump clear of a rope, which gives them some
nasty spills and they learn their lesson.
Horses are trained for special work — ^hence a good
"ropin' boss" might not be a good "cut hoss," used for
cutting out cattle from the peratha, the bunch of cattle
which are being "cut into" for the purpose of being
"cut out."
The Round-Up has the hardest buckers to be found
anywhere and are sought everywhere from New Mex-
ico to Canada; for real top-notchers, like Long Tom,
for instance, fabulous prices are paid. The bucker U
Tell 'Em was originally bought by his owner for forty
93
"PAWIN', HOOFIN' AND RARIN' TER GO 1"
Even the empty bleachers at the morning try outs of some of
the newer horses during the week before the big show witness
some bucking events which are equal to many of those in the
arena. In this case Henry Warren is riding true to form on
the terror Bearcat, true to his name, he is even bent on scratching
the wrangler who has failed to make a quick getaway after
pulling the gunnysack blind.
The rules of the Round-Up for the cowboy's bucking contest
for the championship of the world, prescribe that the riders for
each day shall be determined by lot, that is they group them, so
as to efficiently balance and distribute the contesting on each of
the three days ; that the cowboys are to ride on horses to be
furnished by the management and the riders to draw for mounts.
Not less than six riders are to be chosen on the third day to ride
in the semi-finals and not less than three to be chosen from the
six to ride in the finals.
Each contestant must ride as often as the judges may deem
it necessary to determine the winner. The riding is to be done
with chaps, spurs and sombrero but no quirt, with a plain halter
and rope, one end of the rope free, all riding slick and no chang-
ing hands on the halter rope is allowed. No saddle fork over
fifteen and a half inches is permitted and when the great show
opens and the first bucker is wrangled and the rider is all set,
it's — tighten the cinch, take off the blind, let 'er buck in front,
let 'er buck behind.
© W. S. Bowman
Pawin', Hoofin' and Rarin' ter Go"
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SADDLE HIM OR BUST
Here is one seat not taken at the Round-Up — it has been re-
served for you. It shows how they wrangle a bad one at
Pendleton. No more striking illustration of the entire art and
technique of wrangling could be obtained though composed with
the free brush of a painter — the balance of the composition, the
centralized interest, the action, the story element is all there.
The bucker's dangerous forestriking made it too risky for men
on foot to handle his snubbing rope, so they brought the little
snubbing horse into play and with the rope have snubbed the
outlaw's nose close to the saddle horn, one man beneath the
horse's head handling the play or pay of the snubbing rope. With
a wild leap the fighting, biting demon endeavors to reach the
nervy wrangler in the saddle. He in turn, one foot out of stirrup,
as a precaution, seizes his antagonist in the most approved fashion
by an ear and is successfully tucking the blind under the further
haltei leather. The blinded man-fighter will now probably be
manageable until the saddle lying near him, is cinched up and
the rider ensconced in it.
In the background on old Nellie, Herbert Thompson, assistant
livestock director, and one of the pick-up men, who must be expert
horsemen, "stands by" ready to "take up" the horse at the
judge's pistol w'hich signals the ride is ended. Star riders like
Caldwell, always help the pick-up men by handing over
their halter rope as they ride alongside. In some big shows in
Winnipeg for instance, straight wrangling is done away with,
the horse being saddled and the rider mounting in a chute from
which he debouches into the arena and thus is done away with
one of the hazardous, but most picturesque phases of range life.
LET 'ER BUCK
dollars, not knowing how he could buck, and sold to
the Round-Up for five hundred, an offer of eight hun-
dred coming in a few minutes too late after the deal
was closed.
The Round-Up buckers are given the best care which
also means given a full free life on the range, and in
winter no matter under what difficulties or cost are
given hay; but they are never ridden except at the
bucking contests.
Sometimes the buckers take it into their heads to
break range and travel, and more than once the live-
stock director has had to send out a "posse" of expert
trackers to run them down. The last break of this sort
was when the pony, donkey, and Angel led by Ram-
bling Sam escaped over the hills and far away before
they were rounded-up.
The wrangler, in a way, is the stable man of the
range, the caretaker of the horses in use, and about
the corrals and stables of the Round-Up at Pendleton
one finds some old experts at handling. Fred Stickler,
who has been barn boss for many a Round-Up, has
that peculiar inborn knack of not only handling skit-
tish range horses in the stables, but of walking with
impunity right amongst a corral full of wild horses
where many a man would be kicked and stamped upon.
Fred has a quiet manner of gentling and speaking to
them which they understand, and as one rancher re-
marked, "without any fuss or feathers."
Some of the best wranglers in the country like Bill
Ridings and Jess Brunn have a chance to show their
caution, cleverness, understanding of horses and met-
tle in the arena during the contests in this he-man's
game, when the dangerous, wild, squealing, man-fight-
ing buckers are brought in. Being trampled upon is
96
CORRAL DUST
one of the least of wrangling evils, though Missouri
Slim, one of the wranglers sitting on that bale of feed
over there, has removed a boot and is nursing a badly
bruised foot.
"Fixin' up yer foot?" dryly comments a cowboy as
he dismounts, "Wastin' good liniment on that foot!"
97
CHAPTER FOUR
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
After the long shadows change the golden valley to
night, you wander under the clustering lights of Main
Street, where the crowds surge in that orderly, happy,
holiday spirit for which the Round-Up stands. Dur-
ing Round-Up Pendleton harks back a generation,
turns back the calendar a few decades, shifts its
clothes and steps into the life from which it has but
just crossed over the threshold. Pendleton does this
with such an easy grace and naturalness that while the
Round-Up is a great community drama it is also a re-
enaction of the verve and urge of its pioneer spirit, and
literally reeks with the atmosphere of an old frontier
town. Although any time the visitor may feel the
Round-Up spirit, see fragments of its setting or some
of its participants, booted, chapped or blanketed on the
streets, it is hard for him to realize that for three hun-
dred and fifty days Pendleton gives itself over to the
busy workaday life of ranch and industry and that it
is only for about seven days out of the year it lives
again the life of the old West in such a vivid manner —
perhaps it is still harder for the visitor to understand
why it doesn't.
The old original settlement of Pendleton was called
Marshall after a gentleman of the early days who, it
98
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
was said, could make a nickel look like a tidal wave
and who ran a rollicky place at that old stage-stop a
few miles west of the present city. This was after-
wards known as Swift's Crossing — because Swift the
carpenter lived there. Things and places hereabouts
or in any frontier country the world over go by the
names of people who wore or made the things or lived
in the places or because of certain happenings, condi-
tions, people or things connected with them, hence —
"Stetson" hat, chapps, Camas Prairie, Grizzly, Crooked
River, Wagon Tire, Happy Canyon, Half Way,
Swift's Crossing, and so on.
It was at Swift's Crossing that they changed horses
between Cayuse and Umatilla — you can see the spot
now down river a bit where the Umatilla makes a turn
and the old road takes steep up grade — just below the
new State Hospital. Later Swift's Crossing moved
up to Pendleton, at least its inhabitants did; today
there's not a vestige of a habitation left on its old site.
So then the old Pendleton Hostelry, the first hotel in
Pendleton, became the stage-stop and Dave Horn
and other stage drivers changed horses here, where
before they had only pulled up for passengers and mail.
The center of Pendleton, which took its name — and
thereby hangs a story — from Senator Pendleton of
Ohio, was marked, the old-timers will tell you, when
Moses Goodwin, whose wife Aura was known as the
mother of Pendleton, drove in a stake on his home-
stead, when first surveyed, at the corner of the block
where the First National Bank now stands, and gave
this site to the county.
"Here," he said, "is where the courthouse is to be"
and there it stood for many years, and this corner is
now the center of the city. The reason the city is not
99
LET 'ER BUCK
Jaid ofif due north and south is because Moses Goodwin,
when he laid the foundations for the old Pendleton
Hotel, did not set it straight. The lines of the new
hotel, an up-to-date, six-story structure, are on the ex-
act site of the old tavern.
For three days now, the contestants have been step-
ping into the American National Bank to sign up on
the Round-Up entry books. This year there are over
two hundred palefaces and over one hundred redmen.
But tomorrow is the first day of the Great Show. So
let's turn in here and climb the steep flight of stairs to
the committee's headquarters. It is a big barn of a
room ; you see it is crowded with practically the entire
buckaroo "outfit," — cowboys, cowgirls, Indians and
occasionally a Mexican — as swarthy, orderly and pic-
turesque a crowd as you could find. The man on that
table above the sombreros in the upper strata of tobac-
co smoke is one of the committee. He's calling the
names of the entrants for the events. See, each in
turn steps up and draws from the broad-brimmed hat
the number of the horse that he is to attempt to ride.
Watch "Tex" Daniels, that rangy, powerfully built
buckaroo worming through the crowd. He's drawing
now.
"Tex Daniels rides Long Tom!" is announced.
"Wow ! Wow !" and the banterings from the crowd
show that Long Tom is not only a well-known horse,
but is the bugbear of the riders and king of the buckers.
"George Attebury on McKay, Ed McCarthy on
Light Foot, Fred Heide on Hot Foot, Art Acord on
Butter Creek, Hoot Gibson on Mrs. Wiggs," so the
drawing goes on, and you become familiar with the
names and faces of the greatest contingent of experts
in frontier sports to be found on the globe. Among
100
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
those here just now are Hazel Walker, Blanche Mc-
Caughey, Minnie Thompson, and "Babe" Lee; there are
John Baldwin, Armstrong, Dell Blancett, and Gerking,
also Lucian Williams and other Indians, all wonderful
riders, and many others among the contestants, from
California to the Dakotas, from Mexico to Canada.
There are a number new to Pendleton, but there's Mc-
Cormack and Bob Gavin, besides many others who
rank high among the kings and queens of reinland,
whom you will have a better chance to meet tomorrow
in the Round-Up Grounds at the tryouts and at the
elimination contests in the morning.
Of course there were a few saloons here as every-
where and many of the boys in the old days turned
into one or another of the bars and their pool tables
and whiled away many an evening at The Idle Hour.
But, now, although an occasional tailor may inquire
of the successful cattle king whether he wants the hip
pocket of his new suit cut for a pint or a quart, while
the shadow of the dry season of prohibition in the
Northwest is probably no more of a total eclipse than
in other parts of the country, about the only way, it
is rumored, of getting a little reflected light is to
reach down into a badger hole and accidentally find it.
How usage of terms is limited to their application
and localized by the young, the untraveled, or those
without the background of literature and history, is
evidenced in the case of a Pendleton schoolboy, who
recently in the course of his literary studies was ex-
plaining a portion of Scott's Lady of the Lake. "Fitz-
James arose and sought the moonshine pure," he read,
then seriously, he paraphrased — "Fitz-James went out
and found a keg of moonshine on the beach."
It all takes one back to stirring border days, but the
101
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symbol conspicuously absent is the six-shooter or a
pair of 'em, lazing from the flapless western holster.
There are a few around, but out of sight. There's
enough of gun-play from grandstand and bleacher in
approval of the riding in the arena, at night in Happy
Canyon, or in appreciation of the dance-hall band to
lend color, or to satisfy any small boy. The ammuni-
tion is quite harmless, unless you try to use the gun
barrel as a telescope when the trigger's pulled.
There are probably more guns packed by law-abiding
American citizens today than is appreciated. But
there is at least one section of Oregon, not far from
Grant County and the John Day Country, where they
aren't satisfied with carrying only one. This was strik-
ingly evidenced in the case of a shooting scrape which
was recently brought before the court. The witness
was testifying for the purpose of showing that it was
a habit to tote guns.
"Is it the custom for people where you live to carry
guns ?" he was asked.
"Yes, sir-r-ree."
"More than one?"
"Yes, sir-r-ree."
"How many?"
"Well, sometimes mebbe I tote two 'n' sometimes
mebbe I tote three."
"What for?"
"Well, I dun'no, but they all do — mebbe I might
see a coyote or sumthin'."
The truth was, it is a habit from childhood, a relic
of border days. The railroad doesn't go through there
yet. They just don't think they are dressed up with-
out them.
In many corners, you find a last remnant of the old
102
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
frontier life, of those days of the survival of the fit-
test when it was most unwise to hold, and often dan-
gerous to apply an impractical theory. In a country
built by an empirically-acting generation, everything
had to relate and adapt itself to the positive conditions
to be faced there.
These border days imposed a peculiarly practical
application even of religion to daily life. Within the
memory of some Pendletonians church hours were ac-
commodated to horse races. More than one dance was
given in a saloon to raise money to furnish a ^hurch.
Even pleasure was not always allowed to interfere with
religion. Once the superintendent of the union Sun-
day school kept his expectant flock of lambs and angel-
children impatiently waiting for a considerable space
of time. Upon his tardy appearance, he confidently as
well as confidentially remarked, as though the reason
for the delay was a most worthy one, that "the poker
game I was sitting in on was so plumb interesting, I
couldn't break away from the boys."
Now turn into that Pendleton institution of human
ingenuity, Happy Canyon, which means a spot right
in the heart of Pendleton where every one can com-
plete a day of frontier fun. The main structure was
completed in 1916 at a cost of twelve thousand dollars,
the bleachers having a seating capacity of about five
thousand people. Out in the arena you see the rip-
roaring life of the range in its fullness, and at its best,
but in Happy Canyon you see, drawn more vividly
than any pen or brush can depict, the life of the fron-
tier town.
If you follow the Umatilla down from Pendleton,
it will take you to where nature has sculptured out a
wide defile before it broadens into the prairie. Today
103
LET 'ER BUCK
a store and three or four houses called Nolin nestle
here. This little hidden-away spot, in the days of the
stage coach and pony express, was the most fertile spot
of the surrounding country, a veritable little Garden of
Eden with its vegetable lands and orchards. Here in this
tucked-away paradise, many a dance was pulled off, not
to mention other episodes, when the crowd rode in to
the ranch house of one or the other of the settlers.
The fiddler and the doctor were two of the most im-
portant adjuncts to the community life of the frontier.
Of course, it was possible to get along without the
doctor, but the fiddler was indispensable, and as much
in demand as ice cream at a church picnic. It was
often necessary to scour the country for hundreds of
miles to locate and engage the music. Then there was
his side-partner, the "caller." Although month in and
month out the dancers stepped through the figures of
the quadrille, it was about as useless to hold a dance
without a caller, as to brand a "critter" without an
iron.
How they did "hop to it" to the fiddle of "Happy
Jack" Morton and the resonant calling of Jimmie
Hackett's —
"Honors to your partners,
Yes, honors to the left.
Swing that left hand lady round
And all promenade."
Then the midnight supper, and after the tables
groaned less heavily under the sumptuous "muck-a-
muck," on again whirled the dance. It was "al-a-man
(a la fnain) left" and "Sasshay and swing your part-
ners," and the other fellow's too. Then each "boy"
with all the strut and grace of an old gamecock, with
a scratch or two and a drag of his high-heeled boots
104
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
on the floor, a-cavorting and a-bobbing naively, did his
prettiest to outvie old Chanticleer. What with the
ever onward swing of the quadrille, spiced with an
occasional wink of "red eye," the party, though the
men were down to shirt sleeves, would begin to get
pretty well "het up." Even the old fiddler now roped in
a few maverick notes and skipped a bar or two, and
"Onery Missouri" Joe didn't want to "know why,"
when the big paw of a sheepherder left its black im-
print just above the waistline of the new "tarltan of
his little prairie chicken."
"Sass-shay all round. Promenade to your seats."
Dawn would be stealing over the horizon. Most of
the guests rode, it might be just a nearby twenty miles,
or it might be over the country a bit, fifty or sixty.
There would also be he-nights in that little gulch
with only the males rounded up. Then the stepping
would be high as well as lively, and they say — well,
no wonder they called it Happy Canyon; and no won-
der when the Round-Up staged the evening show of the
frontier town, they named it after the settlement in
the halcyon days of the gulch, and made much of the
program in replica of its "goin's on" and reproduced
as well the canyon walls and snow-capped mountains
behind it.
For the time being you are in a little frontier world
of fifty years ago. You look out from the bleachers on
its "Main Street," backed by the saloon, Chinese laun-
dry, millinery shop, a few smaller shacks, and the hotel
all bedecked with signs as witty as they are crude. The
hotel is an actual replica of the old Villard house, one
of Pendleton's early pioneer hostelries.
Every phase of the town of the days of Kit Carson,
Buffalo Bill, "Peg Leg" Smith, and old "Hank" Cap-
105
A PIONEER OF THE OLD WEST
A Type of Those Who Helped Cement the Great Northwest
Into Our National Body Politic
The Pilgrim was the outstanding figure on Europe's first
frontier of Atlantic America, the Pioneer of the Old West is
the outstanding character on Europe's last frontier, the Pacific
United States. The Mayflozver was the argosy which carried
the American Republic, and Capt. Gray's Columbia an ark of
covenant which extended its foundations and carried its laws and
life into the Orient.
The old time pioneer, typified the adventurous spirit of our
restless race: he typified the urge, the expression of that ever-
moving dynamic force we call human progress — the under-
standing, control and right use by man of nature and its forces.
The vast areas of the Pioneer's El Dorado have now been
mapped, rivers whose surfaces were scarce alien-disturbed, save
by the Indian's paddle or a salmon's leap, now are harnessed to
mill and canning factory; lairs of the wild things have given
way to cities, forests to cleared lands, prairies of bunchgrass to
teeming counties of grain, the lone square-rigger and clipper
ship of Massachusetts Bay and Manhattan Island no longer
"Round the Horn" and have given way to fleets of modern
turbine Leviathans.
We vision the slight figure of the pioneer, now sitting silently on
his horse or standing thoughtfully beside his ox cart. His journey
is done, but his eyes are turned toward the light still farther
West. Whether he came as explorer, missionary, rancher, cow-
boy, hunter, trader, teacher, artisan or intellectual, through his
far-seeing vision, intrepid faith, undaunted courage and positive
character he has handed to us, the Nation, this Territory of the
Northwest, so vast, so packed with riches, so girded with high-
ways of trade, so filled with chosen peoples that it staggers the
imagination. The pioneer of the Old West has left us indeed a
vast heritage — but also a vast responsibility.
The new West is the high school of an advancing democ-
racy. It is the geographic position from which we obtain our
moral, religious, and psychological viewpoint of Asia. Hawaii
is the key to the Pacific ; the Philippine group is the doorway to
Asia; China, India, Japan and their Islands of the sea have
turned their faces usward, and have set their feet on our shores.
We have already entered the gates of the Oldest World — the
Orient; our destiny is Pacificward.
The Northwest is still a giant in its needs, but also in its pos-
sibilities. Puget Sound is two steamer days nearer China than
San Francisco because of the curvature of the earth and five hun-
dred miles nearer Chicago by rail. Puget Sound is destined to
be the Great American Gateway to the Far East, for trade like
water takes the channel of least resistance. Portland by canal
connection and harbor developments should form an integral
part of this great outlet of the resources of the Northwest and
beyond. Providence has placed the Northwest geographically in
the Zone of World Power.
By Charles Wellington Furlong
A Pioneer of the Old West
Type of the Manhood and Womanhood of the Range
TYPES OF THE MANHOOD AND WOMANHOOD
OF THE RANGE
The buckaroo is a cowboy who can ride — and then some. No
pair of contestants on the Round-Up lists stand out more definitely
as strong types of the range or played the all-round game longer
or with a better spirit than the late Dell Blancett and his wife
Bertha Blancett, who has now retired from the contests.
They had competed in the Round-Up since its inception until
we entered the world war. But we didn't move fast enough in
that contest for Dell, so he joined the Canadian Cavalry in the
great war for civilization and now lies with the other heroes
under the poppies of Flanders Fields.
The American range man and the range woman, designated by
that picturesque title "cowboy" and "cowgirl" have no prototype,
any more than has that great, epic, pioneer movement which re-
sulted in the settling of the West. That West bore and bred in
the cowboy type, a character, a point of view and a soul with a
timbre quite his own.
His lonely life in the old days on the plains, when he had
often only his herd to sing to or only the coyotes to sing to him,
made him contemplative, introspective, strikingly individualistic,
at times a bit iriste and occasionally a bit "onery." Normally
he is quiet, generous, courageous, conservative, exceptionally mod-
est, loyal in his friendships and with a keen original sense of
humor, yet he is capable of great recklessness and daring and
not a man to trifle with.
He is a son of contrasts — in the day under a blistering burning
sun, at night under the cold bite of darkness; — a. full belly one
week, a flat belly the next, monotonous days suddenly turned to
hours of utmost excitement; long vigils under these conditions
generally far from the centers of population, broken only by the
seldom occasions in town often with a wild let-loose of repres-
sion. Most of his similes, adages and comparisons in life are
distinctive and local in color, taken from the life he lives and
its environment. He has an inherent deep-lying chivalry, but
while he'll ride fifty miles each way in the saddle to spend a few
formal hours with a pretty girl, he'll ride two hundred to run
down a horse thief.
We were ridin' along homeward one night below the lowest
river bench in the Madison Valley — "Scuttle," my pal Rob Swan
and I, chapps to chapps, you know* the feel. I had seen Scuttle
shoot pieces of broken glass no bigger than a nickel and then pul-
verize the smaller bits with a "twenty-two" against the twilight
that evening. Now the moon was half -set and a thin mist hung
in the valley bottom.
The Whitney outfit had been operating up from the Jackson
Hole Country, ten thousand reward had been offered and they
were now reported hereabouts. What's the chances I asked
Scuttle of the sheriff's posse getting them.
"Well mebbee they will, but more'n likely they Won't."
We jogged along for sometime the only sound the soft putter
of hoofs, the retch of saddle leathers and rub of chapps, then
Scuttle broke the silence.
"Say pard, d'ye know I've been thinkin' about them 'sassins —
they ain't men, 'sassins what I call 'em, and d'j'^e know, that
mor'n likely the feller what gits 'em meb'll be some ord'nary
kind'er cuss, just like me."
LET 'ER BUCK
linger, and others is shown. In it men of the cow-camp
and from many of the remote Oregon towns play their
part in such a natural way, that you in the bleachers
forget you are sitting on the soft side of a board.
Here ranger, Indian fighter, cowboy, and sheriff are off
duty, but hotel proprietor, barkeeper, and John China-
man are decidedly on. It is a drama in which many
of these players are in reality the characters they por-
tray. Not even a rehearsal is held. The "boys" are
simply told what is expected of them and when they
are to do it. The stage coach dashes careening in from
a hold-up, the town is shot to pieces by outlaws. Then
Indians creep stealthily in while Happy Canyon sleeps
and attack in the early morning hours, as in the days
w^hen the Snakes and Bannocks went on the warpath
and stole in on the settlers hereabouts forty years ago.
One of the most dramatic climaxes in the old life of
the red man of this continent will probably be that re-
markable scene witnessed by the va^t throng in Happy
Canyon the fall after the Armistice. It was known
among old settlers and others here in Pendleton that
some of the Indians still possessed scalps which, how-
ever, they kept carefully concealed from the eyes of the
paleface. No persuasion would induce these sons of
the forests and plains to produce them.
Suddenly just before the 1919 Round-Up the Indian
interpreter, Leo Sampson, came to Roy Raley, the
director and organizer of Happy Canyon. He said
that the head man, a sort of sub-chief, Jim Bad Roads,
had sent him to speak on behalf of the Indians. Many
of their young bucks, he said, had joined the army and
gone overseas and had helped in the defeat of the
enemy. His people, particularly the old people, wanted
to dance their Victory Dance in honor of their victor-
ies
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
ious warriors and their dead. If then, the program
of Happy Canyon could be arranged for this, they
would like to give this dance there and as scalps were
a ceremonial symbol used in this dance, they agreed
for the first time to bring out their scalps.
The dance was a never-to-be-forgotten one. The
Amerinds were marvelously attired and painted in
special war victory symbols — unusual trappings of
which no white man understood the significance or
nature. Very old warriors and old gray-haired women
came, and half blind, took part — who had never par-
ticipated in the other Amerindian ceremonials at the
Round-Up before. There, too, were the scalps, symbols
of conquest over an enemy, carried on the staffs called
cou sticks. In the course of the ceremony, when an
Indian representing the dead enemy was brought
down the mountain side to the camp ceremony, the
old squaws gave vent to the pent-up fierceness. It was
like one last, wild, exulting cry of the imprisoned heart-
burnings from the remnant left of a stoical, courage-
ous, repressed generation, the last flickering of the
spirit of the old-time Indian before the flame goes out.
And in those weird cries of victor over vanquished,
to those who witnessed and listened, was brought home
the full significance of why
"When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons
and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of
the squaws;
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those
stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the
male."
109
LET 'ER BUCK
Interestingly enough, I have observed this same
practice by the women of the southernmost Amerinds
of the Yahgan tribe of the regions of Cape Horn, but
it was in the case of a hve enemy Indian or one who
had committed a crime against the tribe, until they
beat him either into unconsciousness or to death.
It was a peculiarly striking testimony that the Indian
hereabouts not only regards The Round-Up as his
carnival, but considers it a true celebration of the red
man. So, too, was it fitting that here should occur
probably the last Victory Dance of the aboriginal
American, in actual tribute to their fallen as well as
their victorious warriors over a defeated paleface foe.
"Whoopee! Wow! Wow!" emanates from the open
space — yes, and from the bleachers, too, and with a
rattling fusillade of gun-play the show is on. You see
bad men and vigilantes come riding into town ; the bar-
room has its shooting scrape, and cowboy and cowgirl
gracefully reel through their dances on horseback and
take part in ranch and town games of various kinds,
but realism reaches its climax when a furious, long-
horned Texas steer is turned loose in the town street.
At the end of the "Street," the church building,
is, as one of the arena hands put it, "where they
kept that there wild steer." The brute had been con-
fined in a strong pen during the day and by way of
expressing his dissatisfaction, had hoofed a foot-deep
hole six feet in diameter out of the entire center. He
emerges from the corner behind the dummy church-
front with head down and tail up, charging everything
in sight.
The scattered population of Happy Canyon became
more scattered. The "caste" shin up the veranda
poles of Stagger Inn, dive through the windows of the
110
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
Chinese laundry, dodge up the alley by the blacksmith
shop, and now enter the doors of the lady milliner.
Up the alley follows the steer; out of another alley
pours the crowd. Buckskin-clothed scouts, cowboys,
fringe-skirted cowgirls and whiskery old-timers peek
round corners, from behind barrels, and from windows
and doorways. Slam go doors, and furtive faces dis-
appear again, surging in the opposite direction as the
bovine reappears and changes his course.
One old-timer, minding his own business, is comfort-
ably seated smoking his piece of pipe in peace, on the
veranda of the Inn, entirely unconscious of the steer's
debut, is picked up bodily, chair and all. Fortunately
the steer reaches low enough to catch the chair first,
depositing the occupant some yards away. He runs
like a hothead while the steer, with the chair dangling
by the rungs on one horn, puts after him. A steer is
no respecter of persons, and I have come to the conclu-
sion has no conscience.
Great Scott he's following his victim into the big,
empty dance hall. Crash ! he's through the partly
opened door, and is putting on by himself one of the
fastest "grizzliest shimmy-bear" effects ever seen in
Pendleton — as graceful as a hog on ice — for you see
by his reflection the floor was waxed to a finish. It
was all funny enough Rattlesnake Bill said to make a
jackrabbit jump in the air and spit in the face of a bull-
dog. At last he's back in "Main Street" where the feel
of terra firma seemed but to increase the virility and
fighting vim of this "onery beef -critter."
This steer was apparently not chosen for his lamb-
like qualities, but rather because he had been taken
from the Round-Up herd of wild Laredo steers, and
sold for butcher meat on account of his proclivity to
111
LET 'ER BUCK
gore horses in the arena. So they thought he was good
enough — or bad enough — for a Happy Canyon steer
fight.
As toreadors, well-known cowboys who had won
championships in the arena, entered this fight in which
the odds are all against them and in favor of the steer,
as nothing is done to hurt the steer while the only pro-
tection of each is a large square of red cloth, called a
scrape. There they are Dell Blancett, Ben Corbett,
Otto Kline, Bufifalo Vernon and a tenderfoot.
See they are on foot, armed only with those small
red cloths, but willing to take a chance, and now put
on a bull-fight which for daring is worthy of Spain's
most intrepid toreadors. By this time the steer is
"plumb cultus" and the bleachers now find no fault
with the heavy screen of wire fencing which separates
them from the arena.
It is a game which requires head, surefootedness,
and a bit of foolhardy courage thrown in, to play fast
and loose with the five-foot spread of stiletto horns
and the sharp hoofs of an eleven hundred pound steer.
Buffalo Vernon makes a daring leap and seizes the
steer's horns, a dangerous act on foot, — proceeds there
and now to bulldog the heavy brute. But the steer is
stronger-necked than he counts on. He loses his foot-
ing and is in danger of being gored but the tenderfoot
of the quartette of toreadors comes to his rescue. The
other evening his rescuer essayed the same feat, but
after a ten-minute struggle in which the enraged,
horned beast sought to crush him time and again
against the fence posts, he in turn was released by the
rest of the outfit.
This would-be bulldogger afterward said that when
he had seized the horns of the steer and could not let
112
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
go, he remembered he had a broken bone in his band-
aged right wrist, having been thrown the afternoon be-
fore from Sharkey the bull.
Time and again the cowboy toreadors seem to escape
the mad charges by a hair's breadth, making skilful
use of the red scrapes which flipped and snapped in
the melee. Rip 1 the tenderfoot is caught on a horn
and tossed aside; but it was only the chamois skin of
his jerkin and not his own hide which is torn. Each
is ever ready to attract the steer from or go to the
help of a comrade when necessary.
Charging, the beast heads for a retreating cowboy,
who springs suddenly to one side amongst the scant-
lings of the bleachers. The steer plunges on and sud-
denly is lost to view in the dark corner where the
bleachers join the eastern end of the town. You can
hear the clatter of hoofs on boards even above the din
of spectators but only the two toreadors nearest in his
wake disappear after him at increased speed.
The previous number on the program you recall was
a beautiful, dramatic spectacle of a dance of mountain
nymphs in the hill scenery above the town, staged by
a bevy of pretty Pendleton girls. The two cowboys
know that these young women are about to shift their
scenery in the dressing room for something more sub-
stantial; they know only too well that the board walk
terminates in this room beneath the bleachers toward
which the steer is heading.
Their worst fears are realized, for the steer does
not stop to knock. Into the room, of none too ample
dimensions, in the midst of Diana and her maidens,
he bolts. For a moment clothes, draperies, chairs and
tables are brought into play in a swirl of which the
steer is the vortex. Some courageously wield the
8 113
LET 'ER BUCK
chairs, but for most of them a mouse has nothing on
that steer.
But the two cowboys followed close, one buUdogging
him to starboard and the other throwing his stern
hard a-port, using his tail as a tiller, and guiding
the plunging, rampant beast out of the door, escort him
back from his rude intrusion into the boudoir of the
ladies. Thus ends a number not listed on the pro-
gram— The Bull in the China Doll Shop.
A little bewildered, the angry brute now takes his
position in the middle of the ring. He paws the earth
and shakes his lowered head threateningly and utters
an occasional warning moan. In a semicircle the four
contestants radius him. There is one "boy" directly in
front. It was his move. The steer didn't, so he must.
From a scant twenty-five feet away, steadily, stealth-
ily, never taking his eyes from those of the steer, he
moves forward step by step — and at each step willing
to give his horsehair braid, or even his new sombrero,
if that steer would move while there was still time to
dodge. The distance is shortening, he is now but ten
feet to the lowered head.
"Look out ! You won't be able to get outside those
horns," cautioned Dell Blancett.
A strange fascination draws him on. Five more
feet are cut down. Still the big brute paws the earth
but does not charge.
"You've hypnotized him," comes from a seat in the
bleachers.
A thought, as thoughts will, flits across the ap-
proacher's mind. Can he close in quickly enough to
seize the steer's horns, and bulldog him before the
charge and beat the steer to it ? But something quick-
er than mere visual perception even, that telepathic
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
sixth sense, registered the thought in the mind of Blan-
cett.
"You won't make it. Don't try," he remarks in a
low, even tone.
The position was tense. To step back now would
invite a sudden onrush while he is not in a position to
make a getaway. There is little chance by jumping to
one side of eluding that spread of horns, which seem
even from where he stands to half encircle him. A
thought comes. He had always heard a bull or steer
did not attack an inanimate body and men had saved
themselves by lying prone and still. The experiment
is worth trying. The nearer the steer when a man is
safely prone, the less chance of the steer getting his
head low and of the man being horned. Slowly, with
even movements, with eye ever on that of the animal,
instead of holding the serape square out as a screen,
retaining one corner in his left hand, for he was a
southpaw, he worked his right out arm's length behind
him to the opposite diagonal corner.
Snap ! The serape slaps forward square between
the eyes of the longhorn who simultaneously shoots
forward like a bolt from a gun ; but the man is quicker
and has dropped flat on the ground, not a bit too flat
for the vicious side sweep, — one horn barking a four-
inch souvenir of the pleasant occasion from his right
shoulder.
The steer hurdles the prostrate form. All is quiet;
even the spectators are still. There is the slightest
move of the head of the prone figure as he cocks an
eye to starboard to see the cause of the dead calm. But
it is not too slight for the steer.
Whang! he again barely misses his antagonist's
head. The recipient of this moon-dance and partici-
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LET 'ER BUCK
pant in this fool stunt, afterwards remarks, when
Elmer Storie rubbing horse liniment on his bruises
asked how the steer felt on him ; "I thought he was a
stone age centipede doing a four-step."
The public now have the coveted opportunity to pour
through the gaps of this same wire fence and stroll
through Happy Canyon.
"WELCOME STRANGER HOP TO IT,"
one sign invites.
You may enter its shacks and stores — yes, and
saloons, too, if you are content with soft drinks.
Your next move is made clear — "PROMENADE
ALL TO THE BAR." When you get there whether
you believe in signs or not, "COME ON KID. BUY
YOUR LIZZIE A DRINK— SHE AINT A
CAMMEL." In fact you may buy anything under
the sun with Happy Canyon ten-buck notes, which it
is absolutely necessary to provide yourself with before
entering, at the rate of ten cents per of Uncle Sam's
legal tender.
One may enter the front door of Stagger Inn and
stagger out the back door, but stagger in a right and
decorous way if you expect to get by the sheriff and
his deputies into the great dance hall with its superb
floor. There you may go, and to the music of the
splendid Round-Up band "DANCE YOUR FOOL
HEAD OFF," as that sign over the entrance suggests.
"ONLY REFINED DANCING ALOUD," you are
warned ; and the management advises you frankly,
"WE WANT NO BLUD OR TOBAKO JUCE
SPILT IN HEAR."
If you are not au fait on the finer points of ballroom
etiquette a way out is plainly indicated — "GENTS
WILL KINDLY SPIT OUT THE WINDOW—
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
WE USE WAX." So the life of Happy Canyon is
brimful to overflowing with excitement and the atmos-
phere of the old frontier days. There is enough fun
for all. So stay with the bunch and '*DONT AKT
LIKE YOU WUZ THE ONLY BRONK IN THE
CORRAL."
The night life is not the least interesting of the many
Round-Up attractions, and nowhere can it be seen as
well as entered into better than on and off Main
Street where the milling of the night herd centers.
Here you rub elbows with old-timers and strangers,
bankers and cowboys, business men and ranchers,
preachers and Indians, doctors and ranch hands,
judges and sheepherders.
You can turn with any bunch of strays into the
dance halls, shooting galleries, restaurants, movies or
the cowboy theater; or you can follow the trail of
tobacco juice to the principal hangouts of some of the
buckaroos. The poolrooms are all full, almost as full
as they were in the days of bars and "sunshine."
Here a bunch of the cowboys line the curb and win-
dow sill outside one of their main resorts. Let's go
in. Never mind that quartette at the little game in the
corner. It may be seven-up, California Jack or solo ;
but more likely the brand is poker.
"What's the verdant wad that feller's pulling from
his chapps, big enough to choke a cow ?"
"Oh! I reckon that's a plug of chewin'," says Red
Parker, with fingers crossed.
"Come over, Furlong, park in here. There's room
for your friend, too — move over there, Jock."
We work our way through chairs to a corner table
about which is a bunch of my old Pendleton cronies,
Jimmie and Cress Sturgis, Elmer Storie, Merle Chess-
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LET 'ER BUCK
man, Guy Wyrick, Brook Dickson, R. Chloupek, Ly-
man Rice and George Strand. They had rounded up
"Jock" Coleman and song was rife.
"What ! You don't know Jock — that well knit, good
looking laddie with a brogue as refreshing as the scent
of heather?" In his early days as a lad he had "sailed
it" on windjammers along the Highland coasts, but
came out from bonnie Scotland to the West in 1906
to go into the steel business as a steelworker, but, as
he put it, only found bronchos and sagebrush. He
cowboyed it, ranched it, then his inherent highland
humor and love of music saw him in vaudeville, where
through his original compositions and inimitable im-
personations he was termed the Harry Lauder of
America; then back to ranching, in charge of a big
combine crew, and now he's railroading it — happy-go-
lucky, good-natured Jock, the best sort and a prime
favorite with all. In the minds of many, Jock's rich,
Scotch baritone should have made its impress on
many a gold disc record along with McCormack and
others.
It was in this same hall that one night I sat in this
corner quietly alone, unobserved, and just as tonight
I listened and looked out on the same scene. You
know the sounds when a herd like that gets to milling
in a roofed-in corral — the murmuring drone of men's
voices, the occasional outstanding ejaculation, flavor-
ed with poetic vernacular or spiced with occasional un-
camouflaged profanity. Then the expectoration pause
before the expectant remark, the deep-toned, shake and
rattle of the leather cup and the softened rattle of the
edge-worn bones. A bit crude, yes. But only a primi-
tive shellac, which seems to bring out even more clearly
those splendid, fundamental, inherent qualities which
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
one has often to scratch much deeper to find beneath
the veneer of a more effete order.
The hght filters its golden way through the half-
wafting fog of tobacco smoke onto the great baize
tables sprinkled with their ivories like drops of a rain-
bow on a lawn of green; upon forward tilted sombre-
ros with a cockeyed slant shading keen eyes, deep set
in shadowed sockets; upon the sheen of colored shirt
as the strong figures reach in their play with the cue,
their clean-cut faces chiseled by a life and work in
which they ask of nature no compromise. All is a great
delicious, impressionistic splash of color on a canvas
soon to be grayed with that dull mediocrity we call
civilization.
The smoke grew thicker, the backgroimd turned to
a dark nothingness, the murmur of men's voices merged
with it and only the shirted, chapped, sombreroed fig-
ures moved across my vision. The lights were the
lights of campfires, the shadows on the men's faces
those cast by them, and time filmed backward a space
of years. I saw the western plainsmen on the great
stage of their calling. Perhaps no type of men or call-
ing have ridden into publicity and the interest of people
of all countries more completely than the vaquero and
particularly the vaquero of our western plains — the
cowboy. No vocation is so constantly spiced with ro-
mance, adventure, fight and fun as that of the cow-
boy— those elements which make an inherent appeal
to mankind.
Nor is any "getup" used in practical everyday work
more picturesque than the broad-hatted, chapped, care-
free, spur-jingling one of the American cowboy. One
of its charms lies in the fact that it is worn for business
and not for effect, and you know it. Look about this
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LET 'ER BUCK
crowd now with the added color of his best "harness,"
which he sometimes "shcks up" with for a Saturday
night in town, but more particularly as you see him
now during the Round-Up.
Perhaps, too, no phase of calling and type of man so
much in the limelight of the world is quite so little
really known and appreciated. Its very picturesque-
ness has thrown an eclat and a veil over the popular
vision and hidden not only many of the cowboy's true,
manly, and generous qualities, but has perhaps ob-
scured the value of his service to civilization, which
by the great majority is scarcely thought of. It was the
cowboy who was often the first discoverer of "some-
thing lost behind the ranges"; who first "entered on
the find" ; whose pony was the first to lead "down the
hostile mountains where the hair-poised snow-slide
shivered, and through the big fat marshes that the vir-
gin ore-bed stains." His ears were often the first to
hear the "mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers";
his eyes the first to see beyond "nameless timber the
illimitable plains." He has often been not only the
forerunner, but the pioneer over wide regions now
dotted with towns and cities, rivers hemmed with
water frontage, throbbing with industries and dammed
for "plants to feed a people." He may well say in the
words of The Explorer, of the clever chaps that fol-
lowed him that they
"Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted.
Used the water holes I'd hollowed.
They'll go back and do the talking,
They'll be called the pioneers."
Who is the cowboy and where does he come from?
Why, the cowboy fundamentally is the son of the pio-
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neer, for often the rancher in the old days was the
range master; the cowboy is not an imported product,
but was born and brought up in the Old West and was
the West's firstborn. Many newcomers from all
nations and callings of an adventurous or elemental
nature hired on as cowherds, and after serving their
apprenticeship, were enrolled in the ranks of the cow-
boy. The romance of this life made a particular ap-
peal to the men of red blood who realized the danger
of sedentary occupations and the stupidity of sitting
two-thirds of one's life on the end of one's spine, to
the man who loved nature, to the laboring man re-
stricted by overcrowding in his trade in his old world ;
even to the man of culture, of whom perhaps no one
section of the country, except possibly the old South,
has contributed more recruits than New England,
which also sent out the early explorers and a large por-
tion of the pioneers. Even today the most popular
pictures on the walls of many a school and college boy
of the East are those of Frederic Remington and
Charlie Russell, our two greatest painter historians of
the West.
Banded together the cowboys have dispensed wild
justice to many outlaws. There occurred sometimes
the inevitable war over property between ranch and
ranch, and the stockmen's wars between sheepmen and
cattlemen. But the cowboys have essentially stood for
the protection of law and property in a territory where
the only writ that ran was that signed by the strong
hand. Their fight against thieves has been a good
fight, especially against horse thieves, the arch crimi-
nals in a new country where everybody must ride.
A part of the day's work may be dragging a steer
out of quicksand and then dodging the grateful beast
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LET 'ER BUCK
to save being gored; to ford a freshet-swollen river;
to struggle through a blizzard, while cow-punching in
a stampede is not play for a floorwalker.
Such work demands not only a perfect presence of
mind but a perfect co-ordination of mind and action.
The picture of the cowboy as he is portrayed in his
reckless moments when he crazily careens a-whooping
and a-shooting through the town when he rides his
horses into saloons, or at the times of his gross merry-
making is a distorted one; and you are likely to for-
get in the whoop, the gun-play and the curse, the fringe
and the jingle, how much hard work, often under most
difficult conditions, he is doing. The cowboy, while
a type and adhering to his clan, is a marked individu-
alist, and anyone who knows and loves the open and
the great range of freedom, knows that the men who
live in those great expanses of life, who often must
be a law unto themselves, who carry dangerous weap-
ons and know that their associates carry them, are
usually self-contained and courteous. The cowboy is
of a keen-thinking, clear-eyed and resolute clan, far
from quarrelsome, but sudden in a fight, though not
seeking it, and doubly quick on the draw. This is the
true son of the plains, if you eliminate some recent
hands who have stepped into his chapps and think that
so doing and jamming on a Stetson, and looking tough
makes a cowboy. The cowboy is honest, hard-work-
ing, truthful and full of resource — and of course brave,
not merely in action but in endurance.
It was logical that when the railroads brought beef-
cattle on the hoof to be shipped to Europe by way of
the great cattle boats, Boston should become the great
porv of export and center of this trade. By reason of
its great shoe and textile industries it had a very direct
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
and vital connection with the cattle and sheep indus-
try of the West.
The life on these cattle boats with their congested,
seasick, stench-reeking, bellowing, bovine cargo and
the dangerous work of cleaning out, bedding down,
tending, feeding, watering, and removing carcasses of
cattle that had died on the voyage — often in a heavy
seaway and storm — naturally did not appeal to the
landsman of the western interior. Besides the few at-
tendant cowhands, who had come as far as the Chica-
go stockyards, most of them had hit the trail back
West. So the stevedores were generally picked up
somewhere along that attractive mudhole, Atlantic
Avenue.
The red-blooded youths whose homes were on or
near the stern and rock-bound coast of Massachusetts,
many of them descendants of the hardy Yankee skip-
pers or the seafaring folk of the North and South
Shores and "The Cape," shipped on Gloucester and
Boston fishermen for the dangerous cruising on the
"Georges" and Grand Banks. They were the progeny
of those sailormen who taught Britain on the sea in
1812, and the Dey of Algiers in 1815 to respect the
American marine; whose clipper ships outsailed the
craft of every nation, flinging our flag from their mast-
heads in every port of the globe, and whose clumsy
whalers out of the ports from Cape Cod to Cape Ann
outsailed and out-whaled the combined whaling fleets
of the world. It is not to be wondered at that the
Massachusetts school and college lad with such a heri-
tage chose during his summer vacation to take his
Odyssey as nursemaid to a lot of wild, seasick, long-
horned steers, and all for only his keep on the way over
with a five-dollar bill on arrival and a free passage back.
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Many of these youngsters doubtless met up with
some old hands, and were initiated into an interest in
the West. Thus the ancestral urge of adventure
strengthened the trade relationship of industrial Mas-
sachusetts with the agricultural West, which began
when Captain Gray sailed out of Boston harbor to
trade a chisel for otter skins with the Indians on the
Columbia. So we see an unbroken and very close re-
lationship between Massachusetts and the Northwest
and between her sons and those of Washington and
Oregon.
There was a time but a few years ago when the call
of the wild made such an appeal to many of the East-
ern college men that cow-punching became almost a
mania. There was almost an epidemic of reversion
to type. Cultivated youth, fascinated by the free open
life of the far West, obeyed Horace Greeley's injunc-
tion and went there. If he was not too much of a
"dude," he survived his dancing lessons to the tune
of a six-shooter, his saddle soreness, chuckwagon
dodgers, wet, cold, heat, isolation, deserts, swollen tor-
rents, swollen lips, sometimes swollen eyes, horns,
hoofs, rope-burns and rattlesnakes, and became a man.
Many of these Easterners assimilated rapidly the
contagious life and spirit of the West, for after all
they had only skipped a generation — it's only one gen-
eration from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves. They contrib-
uted to the West the culture and breadth of viewpoint
which this reciprocal intermingling helped to create,
emancipating the West from many prejudices and
localisms and helped to bring about that superb bal-
ance which characterizes the average Westerner of to-
day.
From the intermingling of these types, particularly
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
in Colorado, a curious and delightful society arose.
The ranchman was "only a cowboy in chief. ... In
particular it was noticed in El Paso and Denver in the
most high and palmy state of the cattle business that
cow-punching was a sure recipe for reducing the Bos-
tonian morgue." In fact there are many delightful and
social colonies of ranchers composed in greater part
of Eastern college and educated men and their families
who have formed delightful communities, as for in-
stance, the famous fruit region of Hood River Valley
where they have a better University Club than in many
a large city. Thus the call of the West of yesterday
echoes into today and will re-echo into tomorrow ; and
the call will be answered.
But I forget — this is not "the other night" and I'm
not sitting in this corner alone. The figures I see in
the smoke are not phantoms of the campfires or sil-
houettes against the horizons of time, but real, honest-
to-God plainsmen and ranchmen of now on the real
stage of their today.
The murmur of men's talk about me has softened —
vibrated away into almost a node of silence, only a
single voice, a voice you feel has breathed the fullness
of great distances, chronicles an episode in the life of
the buckaroo
The band it plays,
And a cowboy sways
On the back of a bucking horse.
He looks around,
Then he hits the ground,
But the bucker keeps his course.
Thundering applause shakes the whole structure.
The reason ? Why, Tracy Lane, the cowboy poet laur-
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LET 'ER BUCK
eate of the Round-Up, has just "busted" into verse
about the show. Tracy not only has written some
western verse, but is also one of the best horse-gent-
lers in the country. He does wonderful things with
horses — teaching riding-horses in particular, their
numerous gaits and many other things.
"Give us The Old Cowhand's Wish, Tracy."
Tracy spits, shifts a bit and wipes his hand across
his mouth.
"All right, fellers, here's hoppin' to it," he spits
again — "Well, boys, I'll throw you somethin' that I
wrote after a spell back East a-gentling some 'dude'
horses. It kinder expresses my sentiments better'n I
can talk 'em myself and I guess it kinder expresses
yourn."
Gee, but I am growing weary of the city and its glare ;
Weary of the blocks and blocks of crowded street and
square,
Weary of the noises, of autos and of cars;
I sometimes wish that I could fly upward to the stars.
I am longing for the prairies, where I rode so long ago,
Longing for the springtime, longing for the snow,
Wishing I was punching cattle on that horse I used to
ride;
The one I always was so proud of, the one that always
bucked and shied.
He was a bay and rather rangy, and he sure could kick
and snort.
And every morning when I'd mount him, he and I would
have some sport,
But after we had had our battle, and his bucking it was
done,
He'd be as nice as any horse that ever lived beneath the
sun.
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
I broke him with a hackamore, and he sure did know the
rein,
And I could rope and tie a critter, in the hills or on the
plain.
And no matter how he'd paw, how he'd bawl or how he'd
. fight,
This horse he'd stand and hold him, and he'd keep that
rawhide tight.
Then we used to drive the beef herd, to the railroad far
away
Then we used to ride for slick-ears, and we'd ride both
night and day,
And we took in all the dances, we would go for many a
mile.
Just to swing some pretty maiden, hear her talk, and see
her smile.
But alas ! the range is ended, for the settlers they came
west,
They brought hammers and barbed wire; well, I think
you know the rest,
They run the cowboys from the ranges, chased us to the
hills and town,
And they run me to the city, the damnedest place I've ever
found.
So now I'm old, I'm feeble ; soon I'll make another change,
And wherever I do go, I hope I'll find a bunchgrass range,
I hope I'll meet all those old cowhands, the cowhands that
I used to know
When I rode the Western ranges, over forty years ago.
When the crowd gets through hollooing and stamp-
ing and Tracy modestly rustles his seat, some one
bellows,
"Jock Coleman — ^Where's Jock ? Oh, there you are,
Scottie. Come on with one of your kiltie songs, Jock,"
and the well-knit, smiling Jock is pushed to the front.
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LET 'ER BUCK
There is a hush. The card games ceased as Jock's
melodious voice breaks into the Highland pathos of
Annie Laurie and Highland Mary. Even the clicking
at the pool tables stops. Perhaps it was the under-
standing which comes from familiarity with the knocks
and nuances of life that enriched the remarkable
quality of his voice, which could cause a smile to spread
over the visages, or a wet glint to glisten in the eyes
of the roughest-cut diamond of any crowd.
Round after round of applause showed there was
no sitting down for the singer; so it was "I hate ter-r-r
get-tup in the mor-r-rnin','' 'T love a lassie," and so on,
until an old skinner of a combine crew and a bunch
of ranch-hands called for the song they had heard
Jock had composed about working on the big
combine.
"Well, y' see, fellers, I'll tell y' how I came ter-r
write this wee bit song. Y' see last year-r I was on
the big MacDonald Ranch near Pilot Rock wor-r-king
as header-r puncher-r, and for th' benefit o' th' tender-
foots in the crowd I'll go a wee bit into detail — and I
have nae doot they'll understand the meanin' o' the
song better-r.
"Saturday nights the wheat r-ranchers would gi' a
party fer-r th' harvester-rs and most o' th' hands
would round up at some ranch hoose. Weel, at one
o' these someone suggested that as I had written a
Roond-Up song, why not one on th' big combine, per-
haps the most important and certainly the most strikin'
featur-re on a wheat ranch today — the big combine
which mows, winnows, thr-reshes and sacks up the
wheat — does what it used to take a hundr-rud
men and as many horses to do, and in half the
time.
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
"Weel, some o' the boys remarked that I was sort
o' quiet the next week, as though I was thinking aboot
somethin' an' I was. Weel, I decided I'd just tell aboot
the wor-rk while the great combine was a-r-rollin', and
bring in the wor-rk of the four men which for-rm the
crew and make it a bit o' a play on the character of each
. — not fur-r-getting the horses, thir-r-ty-two o' them.
You see, the crew is made up of the header-r punch-
er-r, the separator-r puncher-r, the skinner-r-r and the
sack sewer-r-r-r. Thaire was Oscar-r-r Nelson, — he
sewed up the sacks. Oscar-r-r traveled a' la side
door-r-r Pullman, a 'bo-socialist was Oscar-r-r and a
Wobbly (I.W.W.) forby. He'd be happier-r-r in the
jungles than in the Waldor-r-f Astor-r-ria.
"Then thaire was Floyd Smith, a healthy wee lad
frae the 'Valley.' He was the long-line skinner-r-r-r,
although only eighteen he could drive thir-r-ty head —
and he could eat like a bear-r-r-r,
"Then there was meself header-r-puncher-r-r. I had
to run the ootfit and tend the knives and had char-rge
of the wheel that raises an' lower-r-s accor-r-ding to
the height y' wish tae cut th' grain. So, I set my song
tae th' tune o' Casey Jones, but said nothin' until I
sprung it at the next big party. The combine crew
wer-r-re all thaire. Some of you hae hear-r-d it I've
nae doot, so y' can all jine in the chorus o' Working on
the Big Combine. All right wi' the ivories thaire,
Mister-r-r Pianer-r-puncher-r-r yer-r-r-r foot off the
soft pedal and hit 'er-r har-r-r-rd."
Now come, all you rounders, if you want to hear
The story of a bunch of stiffs a-harvesting here.
The greatest bunch of boys that ever came down the line,
Is the harvest crew a-working on this big combine.
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LET 'ER BUCK
There's traveling men from Sweden in this good old
crew,
From Bonnie Scotland, Oregon and Canada, too ;
I've listened to their twaddle for a month or more,
I never met a bunch of stiffs like this before.
"Come awa wi' the chorus lads — swing tae it !"
Oh, you ought to see this bunch of harvest pippins
You ought to see, they're surely something fine
You ought to see this bunch of harvest pippins,
This bunch of harvest pippins on this old combine.
There's Oscar just from Sweden — he's as stout as a mule,
Can jig and sew with any man or peddle the bull,
He's an independent worker of the world as well.
He loves the independence but he says the work is hell.
He's got no use for millionaires and wants ter see
Them blow up all the grafters in this land of liberty ;
Swears he's goin' ter leave this world of graft and strife
And stay down in the jungles with the stew-can all his
life.
"The chorus noo, hop to it."
Oh! Casey Jones, he knew Oscar Nelson,
Casey Jones, he knew Oscar fine;
Casey Jones, he knew Oscar Nelson,
When he chased him off of boxcars on the S. P. line.
Now the next one I'm to mention, — well, the next in line,
Is the lad a-punching horses on this big combine
The lad that tells the horses just what to do.
But the things he tells the horses I can't tell you.
It's Pete and Pat and Polly, you come out of the grain,
And Buster, there you are again, you're over the chain,
Limp and Dude and Lady, you get in and pull.
And Paddy, you get over there, you damned old fool.
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MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
"Altogether-r-r, boys — noo."
Oh ! you ought to see, you ought to see our skinner
You ought to see, he's surely something fine;
You ought to see, you ought to see our skinner,
He's a winner at his dinner at this old combine.
Now I'm the header-ptmcher, don't forget that's me
I do more work, you bet, then all the other three,
A-workin' my arms and a-\vorkin' my feet,
A-picking up the barley and the golden wheat,
I got to push up the brake and turn on the wheel,
I got to watch the sickle and the draper and the reel.
And if I strike a badger hill and pull up a rock.
They holler "Well, he's done it, the damn fool Jock."
"Hop tae the chorus, cowboys — knock 'em dead!"
Oh! I'm that guy, I'm the header-puncher,
I'm that guy though it isn't in my line,
I'm that guy — I'm the header-puncher
I'm the header-puncher on this old combine.
It was a remarkable portrayal of one of the by-
phases of modern ranch life. It got under the skins
of the crowd and a full five minutes elapsed before
the applause died away.
"Give us your Round-Up song, Jock, before this 'er
corral puts up the bars for the night."
"All r-r-right, boys — My Heart Goes Back to Dear
Old Pendleton. Now, you fellers put some high-life
into this chorus. Make it snappy Mister-r-r Piano-
puncher-r-r; put a handle on it and tur-r-rn it."
Now I've sailed the sea, I've seen gay Paree,
I've seen the sights of old London. Though I'm far away,
I never stray from that dear old town I was born in ;
131
LET 'ER BUCK
Now once ev'ry year there's one town looks dear,
Pendleton, you know the town;
My heart seems to cling, so that's why I sing
Of Pendleton's Round-Up renown.
We've fairs ev'rywhere, some good, some just fair.
Some towns went broke when 'twas over. But there
won't come a time
That this town don't shine, when her people won't be in
clover ;
Her women are fair, her business men square,
Good fellowship night and day;
From the mayor to the cop, she's always on top,
A hummer, a dinger, she's there.
CHORUS
For my he.iitt goes back to dear old Pendleton,
That's the on -ly place for
MILLING WITH THE NIGHT HERD
Pen-die - ton-Sep - tem-ber-Let'er buck. That's the place
for me.
Only a small group hangs outside after the doors
close and the lights go out, but the others scatter to
their homes or hangouts — soon only an occasional
song, a whoopee, a fusillade of shots, or a wild "Let
'er buck" breaks the night stillness. The big little city
sleeps on into the great tomorrow.
133
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ROUND-UP
Shortly after noon, if you do not want to walk and
haven't a horse, take one of the gray, "bus-Hke jit-
neys" and follow with that veritable human river —
spectators and contestants — which flows on the open-
ing day to the Round-Up Park. Like a gigantic herd
on the drive, this vast mass of humanity streams
through the gates and goes milling to their seats. Be-
fore you the broad quarter mile track, defined from the
centre arena by a low fence, lies empty and quiet. On
either side the bleachers are packed to the utmost. Ex-
pectancy can be sensed throughout the great amphi-
theater, where everybody wears the glad-to-see-you,
glad-to-be-here, "let 'er buck" smile.
Across the arena behind a wire fence, a long phalanx
of cowboys and Indians sit their horses as spectators
or as waiting contestants. Beyond these, the pictur-
esque tepees of the Umatillas snuggle in pyramids of
white or color in the shadow of a soft green grove of
cottonwoods suffused in the haze of Indian summer;
and beyond, the low hills seem to meet a turquoise sky
and drift lazily out to ranch and range. Near you the
Portland Band and the famous Round-Up Mounted
Cowboy Band, headed by Bob Fletcher, occupy the mo-
ments with well-rendered "rags" and martial airs while
134
THE ROUND-UP
thirty thousand people eagerly await the things which
one reads and dreams about — the West stalking in the
flesh.
You will undoubtedly meet up with old friends but
you are sure to see many people of note. There is
Proctor the sculptor's family, in the third box from
the center, and Anna Shannon Monroe, the authoress,
is with them. Proctor, himself, is in the arena, — there
with his sketch book getting material. In the next
box with Dave Horn is another old six-line skinner,
C. W. Barger, from 'Frisco, who has driven for Wells
Fargo, Farlow & Sanderson and others. He began
to handle the lines in 1874 and not only drove from
La Grande through Pendleton to Umatilla, but has
driven all over the Western country, through Eastern
Oregon, Montana and from British Columbia to Ari-
zona, winding up in the Yosemite sixteen years ago.
The man in the dark, slouch hat with his arms on
the rail, is Governor Olcott of Oregon, he is so in-
terested he prefers standing in the pen with the timers.
Of the many guests of note who journey to witness
this great pageant none have expressed their enthusi-
asm in a more concrete way than that man you see
with a group of friends in the center box — that's Louis
D. Hill of St. Paul. As long as he could not freight
the whole show back home with him over the North-
ern Pacific Lines, he invited the Round-Up Committee
and nearly a half hundred other leading Pendletonians
as guests of honor and to let-'er-buck at the great St.
Paul mid-winter ice carnival.
So next February with their wives, — those who had
them — ^they rounded-up in the beautifuf Snow City
in cowboy regalia. No visitors ever received a more
royal welcome or were encouraged to take greater
135
LET 'ER BUCK
freedom in any city. Among them was Bill Switzler
and Glenn Bushee (Tall Pine) in his inimitable Indian-
chief's costume, and few ever penetrated his disguise.
When the horses Louis Hill provided were brought
out, Wild Bill's keen eye focused a dotted line on one
particular animal in the bunch with the bridle bit
brand ^^ ^^ seared on its right stifle, and an
Xon its right side — Bill's own brands. It was a
long way from Horse Heaven Country, but
only goes to show how small is the world of
men and horses.
Though snows have come and gone, St. Paul will
long and pleasantly remember that Pendleton outfit;
riding horses into elevators of the leading hotel, light-
ly roping skilfully any pedestrian who crossed their
path in the parade, small boy, dog or pretty girl pre-
ferred— were some of the episodes in their whole-
souled merrymaking.
They had by no means reached the end of their rope,
when they lassoed Jinks Taylor out of a barber chair
and shaved the nigh half only, of his pet hirsutian ap-
pendage from his upper lip, for they shortly discovered
Wild Bill Switzler in a quiet corner having his fore-
hoofs roached by a pretty manicurist — didn't even give
him a chance to have the polish put on, or explain why
he was going — Swish ! and a dozen hands suddenly
hauled him backwards and out of the door.
Then there was that crowning episode of western
chivalry, which Glenn Bushee staged on the Capitol
steps. In the parade most of the Pendleton outfit had
fair partners in their saddles, while they rode behind
their cantles. A flight of Capitol steps meant nothing
in the young lives of men used to chasing longhorns
over rimrock, so up the steps they went. Suddenly
136
THE ROUND-UP
on the icy granite a horse fell. Tall Pine in his Indian
regalia went down. But the old arena instinct and his
inherent western chivalry caused him to think first
of his fair partner. Throwing himself, war bonnet,
feather, trapping and all under her. Tall Pine lit flat
on his back — she lit flat on his nose.
So, many humorous incidents paved their way, not
only in St. Paul, but on to New York, where the re-
nowned hospitality of the Pendletonians, was only
equalled by that of their gracious host. After a
round-up of every entertainment the Cosmopolis of
America could produce, they were willing to admit that
New York compared favorably with Pendleton.
Perhaps you recognize the man in that front seat
talking to Merle Chessman of the East Oregonian, the
one with a square set to his jaw, immaculately dressed,
straw hat at a slight independent angle, and a red car-
nation in his lapel, — that's Thomas W. Lawson of
Boston.
Tom Lawson, author, copper and stock-farm king
with his five children has come here all the way from
Egypt — Massachusetts.
He's always positive in his opinions as well as his
remarks, and you know by his manner he means it.
"It's all best, grand, marvelous and all new — all Ameri-
can, the greatest human entertainment shown on earth.
Another thing that strikes me forcibly is the absence
of what comes under the general head of brutality —
I have never seen any physical contest less brutal than
Pendleton's great human nature exhibition. It puts a
glow into the minds of youth and nurtures the won-
derful heritage our forefathers created for us."
Well, he has not only expressed tersely your thought,
but those of every normal human in this great epic,
137
LET 'ER BUCK
But there are some, not without honor in their own
country, occupying some of the humblest seats in the
bleachers whom you don't know. But as Rattlesnake
Bill says, "Them strangers may be top-notch salubri-
ties back from whar they hails from an' I've no doubts
but they're corn fed on thar alleged brains. I never
heard o' them before but I know a few salubrities
right 'n town 'n likely's 'nuff right 'n these bleachers
now — thar's 'Baldy Sours', he's a woodcutter — and
sure kin wrangle an axe, thar's Harry McDonald, they
sure rubbed soot in his Irish eyes, then thar's John
Jigger, the well digger — everybody's heerd tell on
'em, why "
To the minute at 1 p. m. on each of the three days
these contests for world's championships begin, — and
almost to the minute at five they end. Roping, racing,
and relays, by cowboys, Indians, and cowgirls;
steer roping, maverick races, steer bulldogging;
riding bucking horses, steers, bulls, buffaloes, and
cows; stagecoach racing, Indian ceremonial and war
dances, trick riding, mounted tug of war, the grand
parade, and that wonderful finale, the wild horse race
— and to any one not versed in the ways of the open
West all of this is as instructive as it is entertaining.
A glance convinces you that the men, women, horses
and steers are the real thing, and the sport — an out-
growth from the range — is genuine. It is the fastest
fight and fun to be found, in which a gripping, fas-
cinating life is enacted every moment.
From grandstand to bleacher you will soon look out
on the swing and swirl of movement of a great sun-
flooded oval, framed by the rolling hills of Oregon,
where meet the greatest roughriders of the globe, com-
peting for world's championships on the worst outlaw
138
THE ROUND-UP
horses, bucking bulls, and buffaloes; in roping wild
steers, in bulldogging Texas longhorns, and in the
various races — the cow-pony, relay, pony express, and
stagecoach.
The whole drama with its atmosphere and charac-
ter gives the Round-Up its charm, and makes it pre-
eminently the peer of all cowboy carnivals. This is
the great magnetic force which draws a vast audience
to Pendleton for three whole days of each year.
Just before the opening of the program it is the
custom for the President of the Round-Up Associa-
tion to appear on the track riding the first prize saddle
for the cowboy's bucking contest for the championship
of the world. Perhaps no more striking figure was
ever seen in the arena on this occasion than the late
Sheriff Til Taylor. Many will recall Til when he
rode in one year escorting Miss Jane Bernoudy, prob-
ably the most popular fancy roper the Round-Up has
ever seen. She was ensconced in the seat of the first
saddle for the girl's bucking contest dressed in her
well-cut pretty maroon-colored velvet suit and natty
sombrero.
Beneath the man's broad-brimmed Stetson you saw
a face — strong in character as well as physique —
square, but not heavy-jawed, eyes narrow, deep-set but
smiling, a mouth with the kind of firmness that lent
a charm to his quiet laugh, a man as big and noble of
heart as he was stalwart of body — a man's man. His
whole timbre and appearance was surcharged with that
peculiar type of virility and quality that lends itself
to the inspiration of the sculptor and makes him itch
to put it in bronze.
The saddle the President rides, covering the back
of his prancing mount, is a work of art, enriched with
139
LET 'ER BUCK
its heavy hand tooling, its long tapideros jauntily
swinging and flipping from his stirrups, the big silver
medallions heliographing to nearly a hundred thousand
eyes the message and the spirit of the Round-Up.
Some of the contestants leisurely cross the arena.
There's Dell Blancett, tall and rangy, followed by Cor-
bett, short and thick-set, and others of the well-known
contestants, each packing his own saddle, with latigo
trailing and spurs clinking. There's Bill Riding and
Jess Brunn, two of the wranglers, six foot plus, rangy,
clean-cut, and narrow-eyed, typical cow-punchers. But
whatever their set or hang, all carry that simple,
natural pose of men of the range — in manner straight
and quiet, in bearing fearless, and in nature generous,
but individualists all. They are a type in the passing —
a type which Pendleton holds at its true value.
You sit tense on the edge of that opening hour.
HOP TO IT
"Let 'er buck 1" With a thundering roar the slogan
rings out and the great epic drama of the West has
begun.
Bang! They're off!
A score of plains-bred men and horses flash from
the start, swing around the track in a wild, mad tear
and smother of dust, a rattling, hammer-and-tongs
run. For wild rush and reckless speed and turns,
nothing can outrival the cow-pony race. Yes, they
crowd at the turns, these chapped and booted cowboys,
they cut in on the stretch and they do everything that
the skill of those rough-riders of the range can do to
beat out their adversaries. It's a fight of man and
horse against men and horses, with every art known to
140
THE ROUND-UP
these centaurs of the plains thrown in, a cowboy and
horse is down, he's up before his horse — he's mounted
and is off again.
Bang ! There they go again.
But this time it is a band of mounted Indians, each
one of which, save for a breech clout and the paint his
squaw had decorated him with, is as unhampered by
the garb of conventionality as September Morn. They
shoot down the wind — see how they lash hide and
cling to pole in their mad hurly-burly sweep around
the oval, in a way which for utter fearlessness makes
tenderfoot and stranger catch their bieath.
Out come a score of mounted cowboys — each kicks
off his chapps onto the ground beside him and mounts.
They are facing the opposite direction from the way
the other races start, you wonder why. It's the quick
change race and shows skill in preparing to ride and
changing saddles. They start in a flash but bring up
as suddenly after a scant one hundred yards, swing
horses, dismount and remove saddles; mount again
and back ; jump into chapps, and now leaping through
the air they are back to saddles, which with astonishing
swiftness they have put on properly cinched up. Seem-
ing to shoot through space they have crossed the line
at the starting point.
The squaw race is announced, and the mounted
phalanx of full-blood, Umatilla Indian girls on Indian
ponies line up at the pole. For gameness and fine rid-
ing the twenty squaws who run the squaw race, also
on horses that are bare-back save for surcingle, are
worthy representatives of their tribe.
*'Go!" In brilliant garb, like a moving bouquet of
color, their black braids streaming in the wind, they
shoot like iridescent streaks around the great oval.
141
A WILD SWING AND TEAR THROUGH A
SMOTHER OF DUST
Swiftly FoUoii'ed by the Indians in
A MAD-CAP RIDE, EVERYBODY FOR HIMSELF.
Then the Relay
SWIFT AND RECKLESS AT THE TURNS
The maverick race "through a smother of dust" is one of the
most picturesque and characteristic events. Twenty to thirty-
cowboys in a turmoil of ropes, hoofs, horns and dust take after
the most "outrunningess" kind of a steer. The first rope over
the horns wins.
The bewildering, quick changes of the relay and pony express
are indescribable. Both closely akin, are a survival of the old
dare-devil riding of the cowboy mail-carriers through the coun-
try of hostile Indians. In both races, each rider has two
assistants, one to hold and one to catch, saddles to weigh not
less than twenty-five pounds, any cinch allowed, same horses to
be used each day barring accidents, each race a three-day con-
test, best total time winning. In the cowboy's relay champion-
ship, the rider has four horses. He must saddle, unsaddle, mount,
and dismount unassisted, ride two miles each day and change
horses each half mile. On the first day, riders draw for place in
paddock, afterwards they take them in the order in which they
finish.
Two timers are assigned to each horse in both pony express
and relay, as one relay between George Drumheller's and Fay
LeGrow's strings ran so close that at the end of the three days'
racing there was but 1-5 of a second between them. LeGrow's
string ridden by E. A. Armstrong winning in 12 minutes 56 1-5
seconds. The Round-Up relay record of 12 minutes 7 seconds
was made by Scoop Martin on a Drmnheller string in 1911,
also the best single day record of 4 minutes 1 second. Darrell
Cannon holds second record of 12 minutes 21 1-5 seconds made
in 1920.
Watch Allen Drumheller on Lillian Ray as with hat gone, he
races apparently "swift and reckless at the turns." See his style,
far forward, low and close on his horse, riding zvith him, prob-
ably sitting thirty pounds lighter than either of the other men.
The most important thing in the relay is horsemanship in
arriving at stations. Drumheller after dismounting takes one
step to grab cinch to unhook, one step ahead to throw on saddle
to waiting horse, and one grab in hooking up, then on and away.
A steady head may win a relay or pony express race for it's a
long one and many things may happen.
Allen Drumheller's record makes him the most remarkable
all-round racing rider who has ever run at Pendleton. He has
ridden into two world's relay championships and one second in
the three consecutive years he raced, with Sleepy Armstrong a
close second. Allen not only holds third record in the cow-
pony race, but first in the pony express, time 6 minutes 18 1-5
seconds; also best time one day 2 minutes 5 seconds. In 1915 he
took first in all three, relay, pony express and cow-pony.
Jessie Drumheller, petite and the very essence of refined fem-
inity, is a splendid counterpart of her brother, a superb relay
rider and holder of the 1918 girl's cow-pony championship and
also the record time of 54 seconds on the Pendleton track.
boto by W. S. Bowman
A Wild Swing and Tear through a Smother of Dust
Photo by W. S. Bowman
A Mad-Cap Ride, Everybody for Himself
Photo by Maj. Lee Moorhouse
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SWINGING THE TURNS LIKE GALLEONS IN A GALE
The stagecoaches, those old caravels of the plains, are guided
in their courses around the quarter-mile track with no slowing
down at the turns and horses on the dead run from start to
finish. It is little wonder that only one year in Round-Up his-
tory has seen the three days running go through without one
or more accidents.
Wells Fargo, one of the first and the first thoroughly organized
express, ran their leather, thoroughbraced. Concord coaches with
four to six horses in the finest Concord harness wherever a train
did not go and there was enough of a demand. Their first
stagecoach came around the Horn in 1852 and may be seen in
their stables in San Francisco.
In. the old days a stagecoach generally made forty to sixty
miles a driver, with a relay every twenty miles or so. Some of
the well-known Wells Fargo six-line stringers like Dave Horn
and C. W. Barger of Pendleton have gone sixty miles each
way, being "on the seat" for forty-eight hours.
The "stages" in the stagecoach race are genuine old timers
and are furnished by the Round-Up management. Each race
goes to the "best time," winning each day. Each contesting
driver is allowed as many assistants as desired. These comprise
the driver or stringer, the "lasher" who wields the whip, as may
be seen on the near and winning coach driven by Jim Roach,
and the passengers. The passengers are the two or three extra
cowboys who barnacle on the side of the coach nearest the arena,
from where they hang far out to keep it from capsizing at the
turns.
H. W. Smith is the veteran driver here having driven of? and
on from the first contest in 1912 until 1920 with a once around
the track record of 32 seconds. The race is a half mile, the
record being 1 minute 14 seconds made by John Spain in 1913,
with E. O. Zeek second in his 1912 record of 1 minute 14 1-2
seconds. Joe Cantrell, who thrice won the championship, is a
close third on time with 1 minute 18 seconds.
The race is purely a Round-Up product. Although wanted the
first year it was considered too dangerous but finally made its
appearance the third year being established before the safety
first idea.
LET 'ER BUCK
There are Kamay Akany, Mary Joshua, Wealatoy,
Lucy Luton, Sophia Amika, Nelhe Minthorn, Wyna-
poo and Georgia Penny, well bunched and all splendid
riders. Now they string out a bit, now more and more
and Lucy Luton pulls in first. The Indian girls have
marked up a record of .58 seconds in the squaw race.
This daring racing is attended with some spills and
injuries, but as I help to carry from the track one of
the riders before the galloping hoofs again encircle
the track, her finely featured face, while bearing a bad
gash, also shows through her suffering that superb
self-control and stoicism of her race.
There now quickly follow others of the never-to-be
forgotten races. Whether it be cow-pony, Indian,
quick change, squaw, or catch saddle and ride, they
but create in you an anticipation for the greater thrills
later of the maverick, relay, or pony express. In the
whirlwind rush, amazing dexterity, grit and headwork
is a desperate daring, and each teems with a nerve-
racking, devil-may-care riding which characterizes this
feature of the Round-Up.
A thrill of the past must be felt by everyone in that
vast throng when in the late afternoon glow the three
lumbering four-horse stagecoaches draw near to the
start. There are men sitting among the spectators
watching, who in the holding of the reins in days gone
by, held life as well. The rules prescribe a driver,
lash-plier, and passenger.
Crack, go the long whips, and they are off. Break-
ing into full speed the lumbering old carriers rattle
and swing as they rock on the turns like galleons in a
gale. They circle the track as they once circled the -
foothills or sped on twist and turn through canyon
and gulch, going at a gait that surprises even some of
144
THE ROUND-UP
the old timers — and well it might for H. W. Smith's
outfit is running away.
On the back stretch a wheel horse stumbles and falls,
the pole breaks, and with a smash heard over the entire
audience, you see driver, lash-plier, and passenger cata-
pulted from the coach headlong into the melee of
struggling horses. Ordinary folk would have been
killed, but, being merely dare-devil cowboys, they
spring for control of their horses, and cuss a blue
streak at their luck.
Who would ever think of continuing to drive a
horse in a team of four after one of its forefeet
had been caught up in the trace of the horse
ahead of it ?
"Pull out of the race, driver?" — Not on your life,
or on his, either. So driver and horse hang to the
game and around they go — once — twice — the plucky
little horse galloping the whole distance on three legs
and helping to pull in a close second to the winning
coach, driven by Clarence Plant of Long Creek.
A yell, there is a dull, scraping sound — the crowd
springs to its feet. At the most dangerous turn of all
— ^the one before the homestretch, a brake has acciden-
tally jammed on one of the age-worn vehicles, and
the momentum and swing has caused the whole body
of the coach with hind wheels spinning, to be thrown
absolutely vertically in the air, where it travels like a
moving watch tower with a shuddering sound.
Crash! it careens onto its side and though buried
from sight in a cyclone of dust its course can be traced
by the crackling, splintering sounds in its wide smoky
trail. See! it suddenly rights as unexpectedly as it
has capsized, and one of the most exciting runaways
ever witnessed full-tilts by the grandstand.
"> 145
LET 'ER BUCK
What of the buckaroos left in the walks of the dis-
aster? They have all picked themselves up out of the
dust and the wreck — only a bit bruised and cut up.
The worst one hurt is Braden Gerking, who had the
biceps muscles of his left arm torn and laid down near
the hollow of his elbow — enough of a shock to make
many a stout man faint. Braden, however, is walking
off the track alone, nursing his injury with his other
hand, but now the first aids have collared him. He
walked away between two of them with a sickly smile.
This ends one of the most spectacular episodes ever
witnessed in an arena.
If at first you could not get hold of the imagination
and the sentiment that is back of all this, and if it
seems only a rough and tumble cowboy carnival,
nevertheless, you find yourself on your feet, whooping,
cheering with the rest of them.
ROPE 'IM COWBOY
To rope, "bust" and "hogtie" a wild Texas long-
horn single-handed, within two minutes, is a sport
which represents the daily work of the range. Unus-
ual turns and incidents may easily send hopes glimmer-
ing as the precious 120 seconds slip by. Men of quick
eye and steady nerve each start their thirty feet behind
the longhorn, who may jump the arena fence like a
deer and again and again dodge when it hears the first
swish of the rope.
The rope may break on the tautening, or the saddle
may slip, as in the case of Bill Mahaffey, who landed
on his head with foot caught in the stirrup and but for
the splendidly trained cow-pony might have been drag-
ged and killed; or as in the case of the intrepid Floyd
146
THE ROUND-UP
Irwin who rode into the West at Cheyenne through a
most unusual accident. The cowboys were running
steers across the arena under false throws in the try-
outs, to train them so they would make for the exit
after being roped in the show. Irwin supposed he
had missed and turning, swung his horse away to join
his pals who were just leaving the arena. But his
unerring skill had made it impossible for him to miss
even when he tried. Thus unexpectedly his rope taut-
ened with the tremendous pull of the steer. The horse
was thrown violently sideways on Irwin in a fatal fall.
Irwin was such a marvelous roper that, like Ed
McCarthy, he could "down and tie" a steer from a
bridleless horse in better time than many good ropers
could make with a bridle on.
A steer is loosed ! It's Buffalo Vernon after him —
Swish ! he is roped — ^thrown, but the little cow-pony,
Spot, too, plays his part well, for now that the steer is
down he must hold the rope taut, while Vernon dis-
mounts and with surprising dexterity "hogties" the
steer, looping a number of half hitches about the hind
feet and one fore foot, thus lashing three legs of the
steer together. All from start to finish in twenty-two
seconds. Busting! Well! right under your nose, all
through, is proof that the art of the lariat or rope, as
your cowboy has it, is not lost. "Down and tying" —
the finest wrinkles of the art of the old range, are all
there.
A sudden hush; every eye is focused toward the
western side of the arena. The "first-aids" go scurry-
ing to cover, as with a fierce snort a rangy Texas steer
dashes into the great open space, and with the ease of
a greyhound leaps at will the three-foot fence separat-
ing race-track from the arena center. As the steer-
147
CATCH AS CATCH CAN
Until They Are
BIDDING THE STEER GOOD-BYE
Steer bulldogging? Well, you'll learn all about it in good
time. Steer bulldogging is perhaps the most daring sport of all —
and is a feat one must see to believe. In comes a full grown,
strong-necked, Texas steer, its stiletto-like horns glistening in
the sun, thirty feet start over the line and the starter's pistol
barks out and the contestant — the steer buUdogger, is away with
his "hazer" as his mounted helper is called. The hazer assists in
helping to keep the steer on the track and "stands by" with
lasso to keep the bulldogger from being gored in case of emer-
gency. He also assists the bulldogger in getting up and away
from the steer after he has bulldogged, as shown, where they
seem to be affectionately "bidding the steer good-bye." Mean-
time the hazer is holding the struggling brute down by the most
approved method — the tail, then on releasing him both run for
their horses.
This contest consists of three phases — running down and
jumping from the horse, wrestling and throwing the steer and —
making the getaway. In the first phase which is here described
the man rides alongside the steer, reaches forward, judging care-
fully his distance without hesitation, springs forward and out
from his saddle and literally plunges — dives head first — seizes the
steer by its horns, though it is running like a deer. He is now,
if he maintains his hold, carried or dragged, as in the case of
Frank McCarroll in "Catch as Catch Can." Sometimes a man
falls short of the horns and gets a nasty fall. Sometimes he
over-reaches, accidentally or on purpose and thus "hoolihans" the
steer by causing a complete somersault. This, however, is not
permitted at Pendleton and disqualifies a contestant. All ques-
tions of cleanness of throw and fall lie entirely with the judges
whose decision is final.
The "hazer" as he is shown, "Bidding the Steer G9odbye,"
assists in keeping the steer on the track and stands by with lasso
to keep the bulldogger from being gored in case of emergency.
He also assists the bulldogger, who in this case is Art Acord,
in getting up and away from the steer after he has bulldogged
it. The hazer is holding the struggling brute down by the most
approved method, the tail and horns, then on releasing him,
both run for their horses.
o by Charles Wellington Furlong
•'Catch as Catch Can"
^ Maj. Lee Moorhouse
Bidding the Steer Good-bye
I O. G. Allen
Hook 'im Cow!
HOOK 'IM COW!
It is a grim tussle, this second phase of steer bulldogging, in
which Lafe Lewman is engaged in a fierce hand-to-horn tussle,
as barehanded, the man against brute, seeks to throw the animal
by a wrestling twist of the neck, using the horns and muzzle
as leverages. Time and again, his horned adversary resorts to a
little habit steers have, of trying to crush a man against the
fence posts. Sometimes they endeavor to break away or shake
him off.
This bulldogger, is in a somewhat precarious position, having
missed his first attempt of twisting the animal's neck clear over
when his body weight was on the lower horn. The steer having
thwarted this move, now has the man between his horns. If the
bulldogger succeeds in his present move of twisting up the head
by the muzzle and throwing the steer off balance, he wins, but
the fence is in the way for this move and at present the odds are
with the steer. Time and again the brute tries to crush the man,
grimly, the man too, plays the game, asking no odds, receiving
none. Sometimes the steers win out, sometimes the men.
LET 'ER BUCK
roping contest is on "time," these conditions put the
knights of the range to the severest test.
There goes Fred Beeson. He overtakes his steer.
Swish! swish! his lariat zips through the air — a
beautiful throw over the horns; his cow-pony, respon-
sive to the slightest lay of the rein, swings off at just
the right angle. The rope tautens like a harp string;
something seems to snap — to give — but it's not the
rope and it's the great horned adversary who suddenly
describes a complete somersault. Thud ! and the steer
is thrown — "busted." The rope is now held tight by
the cow-pony; the rider is already running afoot with
a short length of rope in hand toward the steer, de-
pending for his own safety on his trained cow-horse
to hold that rope taut and the steer in position. With
marvelous speed he "hogties" the steer, stands erect
and snaps both arms in the air. Beeson has not only
won the steer roping championship this year, but has
ridden down, roped, thrown and hogtied a steer in
twenty seconds fiat and established the best record
ever made here, and this made on the Pendleton steers,
which are, as one cowboy new to the Round-Up re-
marked, "the outrunniness lot of steers I ever did see."
BITE 'IM LIP
Steer bulldogging? Never heard of it? Turn to
any Westerner on these bleachers and he'll tell you
that it is one of the most "knock down and drag 'em
about" events of the Round-Up. When you under-
stand that it is a battle of skill and science on the man's
part, in which he must leap from the back of his run-
ning horse, catch and throw a Texas steer with bare
hands then hold it motionless by its upper lip with
ISO
THE ROUND-UP
his teeth, and all this against the strength — yes, and
sagacity, too — of a fighting steer, you'll agree that it
is a man's game and one of the sports of the range
which is not overrun with competitors.
At Cheyenne the object used to be to force the ani-
mal's horns into the ground; thus man and steer
turned a complete somersault. This has an unneces-
sary element of danger — to both man and steer — the
man may be crushed under the steer, while the steer's
horns or even its neck broken. But this "hoolihan-
ing" is not allowed at Pendleton, where the rules favor
the steer.
When the fifty megaphone horns with which the
arena is installed announce the steer bulldogging con-
test for the championship of the world, there is a hush ;
all eyes turn toward the stock pens at the western end
of the arena.
Here he comes 1 The long-horned brute, with head
and tail raised, glaring defiance at the vast throng
safely screened behind the strong wire fencing, flaunts
down the track with that half hesitant, shufiiing gait
which bespeaks the angry steer. Thirty feet is his
start from a mounted cowboy and his helper called a
"hazer"; then, on signal, the pair "hit the wind" at
breakneck speed. As the bulldogger swings to the
left, his helper swings to the right, for the helper's
main purpose is to keep the steer in the track.
In a perfect turmoil of hoof, head, and huddle, Run-
yan, the bulldogger, dives from his saddle for the
steer, but instead of landing on the steer's head, lands
on his own. Visitors from large cities and sedate
centers of learning gasp.
"Whoop!" goes the cowboy and ranch contingent.
"Go get 'im steer 1" "Hook 'im cow 1", while Runyan
151
THE COW-PONY'S END OF THE GAME
Until All Is Well at the Other End and It's
HOGTIEDI HANDS AND HEADS UP
The cow-horse is a specialist, he's a skilled laborer. When
cattle roamed the plains, they were generally disturbed only in
the spring gathering when calves were branded and then were
thrown back on summer ranges ; and again in early fall when
they were rounded up, late calves branded and all "beef" "cut,"
driven to nearest railroad station and shipped to market. In all
this work, no adjunct was more necessary to the cowboy than
the cow-horse. He, like his master, must serve his apprenticeship
on the plains ; without him steers could not have been captured,
"cut," tied, branded, penned or shipped and there would have been
no cattle industry on a large scale.
His feed was bunchgrass, his drink water, often poor and
alkali-spoiled and he frequently went twenty-four hour stretches
without a drop, yet standing up to fifty miles a day, often includ-
ing his work.
But as has been seen the cow-pony's great use is as a "cut
boss" and "rope boss." When the rope over the imprisoned horns
tautens, he knows just the right angle to swing off at and the
exact moment to make the sudden halt to throw or "bust" the
dangerous steer. He knows, too, how to withstand the physical
shock, which sometimes will not only tear a cinch like a piece
of paper, literally wrench a saddle horn from the saddle tree,
but occasionally violently throws down the cow-pony sideways,
often to the injury and sometimes to the death of its rider.
H the cowboy is alone or working separately, he must capture
the animal by his rope, then dismount and hogtie the thrown
steer before it can rise and charge him. It is at this stage of
the game that the supreme test of the cow-pony's work and in-
telligence comes — he here often actually holds his master's life
in his keeping. Alone now, the cow-pony watches the steer, re-
sponding to the slightest change in the unbound captive's position
made through its struggles to rise. If there is the slightest
slackening of the rope, the knowing cow-pony at once moves
so as to take it up and thus constantly maintains a taut rope.
This always keeps the steer head down and helpless, while the
cowboy securely ties his legs together.
In this case of old "Spot," a well-known, beloved character at
Pendleton, and probably the best trained cow-pony in the coun-
try you see him well upholding the cow-pony's end of the game
while Buff Vernon hogties the steer. In the picture of "Hog-
tied ! heads and hands up" you see one of the cleverest cow-
pony veterans "Sunrise" signalling to the judges, along with his
master, that expert roper Dan Clark, General Livestock Mana-
ger of the O. W. R. & N. Little wonder that the cowboy grew
to love his faithful ally upon whom not only his vocation but
his very life frequently depended.
loto by W. S. Bowman
The Cow-pony's End of the Game
i
i
3to by Ward
!.JI T^ l» ._^ ly^nAc
Photo bv W. S. Bowman
A Merry-Go-Round
Photo by Burns
A MERRY GO ROUND
And Then
STAY WITH TM COWBOY!
Steer bulldogging originated in cowboys first wrestling with
young calves, then gradually larger and larger animals were
taken on. It is one of the few sports that does not appear to
have been a recognized ranch sport emanating from the work of
the range, but it has now found its place as a Round-Up classic.
It was first introduced into Pendleton by Buffalo Vernon, that
first king of bulldoggers. He bulldogged at the first Round-Up
in 1910 for exhibition, then the next year along came Dell Blan-
cett and entered the contest as they had both done it at Chey-
enne and at the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch in Oklahoma.
Buff Vernon also introduced bulldogging at Cheyenne and
with a sprained wrist to boot. This was when Colonel Theo-
dore Roosevelt was there and put Cheyenne on the map as a
result. "Teddy" shook hands with Buff and complimented him in
the inimitable way that T. R. had.
As far as it is possible to find out, a man named Pickett seems
to have been the first buUdogger on record. He even tackled,
barehanded, a thoroughbred, imported, Andulusian bull with a
reputation to bulldog it at a Mexican bull fight. When their pet
toro was actually getting the worst of it, the crowd showered
Pickett with bouquets — oh no ! boiiteilles instead — ^and knives to
express their appreciation of his nerve, with the result, that poor
Pickett was forced to let go and only escaped death by another
man flagging the angry beast.
Each phase of this contest is exciting, but this second phase
of the struggle is its main feature. The power and size of the
brute is shown in the case of Henry Rosenberg of Pendleton,
who though a big man is for the moment being swung a la merry-
go-round, after receiving a bad gash on the knee. Ray McCar-
roll of Pendleton, who is going to "stay with him" is a superb
boxer, wrestler and buckaroo and is exemplifying the power
and endurance of a man over his horned and heady fighting
adversary. Rosenberg is in the first position of the wrestling
or second phase, McCarroU in the last just as the steer is about
to fall.
LET 'ER BUCK
gamely picks himself out of the dust, shakes some of
it out of his system, and waves a hand as a signal that
he is unhurt.
There were many game fights put up, for it was a
contest of champions, the best total time for the three
days winning. The first day the steers had the best
of it, not one being thrown ; and the second day was
nip and tuck; but Saturday the cowboys came into
their own. But it must be remembered that there
were no half-grown, underfed animals in the Pendle-
ton outfit, which were from the herd that had been
brought from Laredo, Texas, the year before, and had
been roaming free on the range with the best of feed ;
as fine a lot of big-necked longhorns as one would
wish to see.
Here comes Jack Fretz — a pretty catch. He's
wrestling with only a one-horn grip; the steer drags
him to the rail and there tries to gore him, and the
plucky cowboy finally lets go. Now he's lost his hold
and the sharp-hoofed brute proceeds to jump on him
with all four feet. Still the bulldogger' fights on, ward-
ing off, dodging the hoofs above him, actually fighting
now for his life, until the steer puts for a photog-
rapher.
Bang! it's "Mike" Hastings, whose all-round bull-
dogging record proclaims him one of the peers among
bulldoggers. Once around the track, he swoops down
upon the longhorn before the grandstand; a short
tussle, and the animal falls amid a roar from the
audience.
"Bite 'im lip!" — This culmination of the contest
Hastings proceeds promptly to do by leaning over
and fastening his teeth into the upper lip of the
steer, and while maintaining this hold, raises his
154
THE ROUND-UP
hands in the air, all accomplished in twenty-three
seconds.
John Dobbins puts up a game fight but the judges
decide a foul in favor of the steer and disqualifies
Dobbins for tripping. Jim Massey fights his steer for
almost ten minutes and is finally hung up on the arena
fence in the steer's last efforts to free himself.
Throughout all the events we see that some of the
most remarkable features were the game and superb
exhibitions by the losers; but one of the greatest
hand-to-hand struggles between man and brute is the
harassing battle between the soldier cowboy, Cor-
poral Roy Hunter of the 21st United States Infantry,
and his wild-eyed, long-horned foe we are now wit-
nessing.
He has disdained to chase his animal until it is tired,
and has run it down in a scant hundred yards. He ap-
proaches the grandstand at a furious pace and now
directly in the center of it reaches forward, plunges
from his running horse, seizes the big horns in a
powerful grip, swings and drags another hundred
yards before the steer's impetus is even checked.
Twice Hunter brings the steer to a standstill.
Look! he works more in front of the wild-eyed
animal, more between his horns, and essays the second
phase of the game — the twisting of the brute's head
for a fall.
Every muscle is tense. Using the horns as levers,
he slowly and surely twists the steer's neck; the nose
gradually comes up. See! Hunter feels he can hold
his advantage by the weight of his body on the lower
horn. He reaches an arm over the strong neck and
grasps the upturned muzzle. Both hands now slide
under it, tighten on it. Watch now — he's making a
155
DARE DEVIL RIDING AT TOP SPEED
On the Track, But in the Arena You'll Admit
THAT'S TYIN' TM
In the third phase of the steer roping contest the cowboy dis-
mounts and hogties the steer by crossing its three feet, and
securing them by two wraps and a half hitch with a hogtieing
rope which he carries about his waist — sometimes the cowboy
crosses three fingers at the same time. "That's tyin' 'im," the
way Homer Wilson of Oklahoma is doing it. The importance
with which this event is regarded is obtained by the amount of
the prizes offered, which in cash value totals nearly $2,000.
The world's champion roper receives $600 and a $350 saddle
presented by the Pendleton Commercial Association, including
the jack pot divided into day money on a 50, 30, 20 basis from
the $25 entrance fees charged in this event.
George and Charlie Wier and Ed McCarty stand out as the
top-notch championship Round-Up ropers, but the best official
record for a single steer here is 20 seconds by Fred Beeson with
Joe Gardner second and Ed McCarty third. These three ran
down, roped, threw, dismounted and hogtied six Texas steers in
the remarkable time of 2 minutes, 8 1-5 seconds, an average of
21 3-5 seconds for each steer. How long would it take you to
drive one of the longhorned brutes into a barn?
One event here is as old as the hills — even the Seven Hills of
Rome. It is the standing or Roman race — for as far back as
the days of Ben Hur we find its prototype. It is a race which
demands consummate clear-headedness, agility, balance, horse-
manship, coordination and endurance. _ The trick and relay
riders are also in this class. The riders, each allowed an
assistant, start at the gong and must rise to a standing position
within fifty yards and remain standing until they have circled
the quarter-mile track.
Ben Corbett, in 1916 broke the men's record in 59 1-5 seconds,
beating Hoot Gibson's 1913 record by only 1-5 of a second.
But the most superb Pendleton record is held by Bertha Blan-
cett, four times first champion in the cowgirls' standing race —
being but once beaten for first place by Vera Maginnis. In
addition she also holds the supreme time record on the Pendleton
track of 59 seconds flat.
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A PRETTY THROW
Hootcha la! If you have never seen the "outringess" kind of
steers overtaken by the "knowingest" kind of cow-ponys, and
roped and thrown by the cleverest experts of the lariat, you still
have something to live for.
The cowboy's success in range work with cattle depended
first on possessing a cow-pony, secondly on his own roping
ability with all the innumerable minor arts of the vaquero's call-
ing. The cowboy who was a handy roper easily found com-
petitors to determine who was the best of "the bunch." Men of
a ranch or champion ropers from neighboring ranches held rop-
ing contests on the open prairies with only cowboys as spectators.
Thus these contests developed into open-to-all competitions
and today we find the public interested and these roping contests
brought to cities. In the arena at Pendleton the great experts
of the lasso, compete in the steer-roping contest for the cham-
pionship of the world. Certain rules have been adopted by the
ropers. At Pendleton the contests in this, as in all the competi-
tive events, are done on "time." The steers must be roped,
thrown and hogtied within a minute and a half. The purpose
of throwing a steer on the range may be to brand, mark, identify
or inspect an animal or perhaps to kill it.
The chase and capture of a wild steer is so familiar to an ex-
perienced cow-horse that even bridle, reins and a guiding hand
are not necessary. Into a moving prairie herd he will proceed
knowingly toward a certain steer. Furtively, avoiding any haste
which might cause a stampede, he quietly forces the animal out
of the herd where danger of excitement is over.
Responsive to the slightest lay of the rein, or often without
guidance he follows the quarry at every turn, bringing the cow-
boy into the best position for the throw. So these cow-ponys
used in the Round-Up contests are some of the best the ranges
of the Northwest produce, bringing even five hundred dollars
in the open market.
Bang ! The steer shoots into the arena like a deer. Thirty
feet start and the cowboy and cow-pony are after him on the
jump. Around and above the cowboy's head swings the revolv-
ing noose of his rope. Swish ! and the long coil snakes through
the air, the noose opens fairly then drops in a neat throw over
the horns and tightens on them. The pony changes his direction
at an angle. Thud ! the steer is thrown. So ends the first and
second phases of the steer-roping contest.
LET 'ER BUCK
courageous effort for the throw. Missed! the steer
is as crafty as the man and changes the position of his
body. He now has the man on the defensive.
Look! the man has worked his steer to the same
position a second time, and now to the surprise of the
great crowd the steer has suddenly dropped — thrown
from its feet. Bleachers and grandstand now go wild.
"Stay with *im cowboy!" "Bite 'im lip!" encour-
agingly yip and whoop the vast throng. But too soon !
The steer is again up — and coming. Before Hunter
could take advantage of the fall, his hold was broken.
His position is now critical for he is off his feet and
being dragged. But Hunter's life on the range,
coupled with his superb army training, come into obvi-
ous play. Though weakened, he is undaunted. Again
he grabs the horns, but this time to save himself from
being gored. He is even forced to wrap his body
about the fighting brute's head and in this grim grip
the fighting demon dashes the cowboy-soldier into the
fence in a vicious effort to crush him.
Whack! Crack! Splinter! but the soldier stays.
In a supreme effort he half rises and attempts another
throw but now slips again under the onrush of the
horned devil. With strength failing fast, he makes a
last but futile effort to regain his feet, an almost im-
possible act when once way down and the steer mov-
ing forward. Hanging by the horns, he is dragged a
full quarter of the way around the track; again and
again the heavy brute, gouges and bruises as he treads
him with his sharp hoofs.
It is a grim fight : but the soldier still refuses to
release his hold. Now hanging on to a single horn
only, utterly exhausted, clothes torn and body cut, the
steer with a final, vicious, side swipe flings him off,
158
THE ROUND-UP
But Hunter has still head enough to save himself
from being gored by lying motionless face downward
in the dirt.
Whish ! his helper's rope sings through the air just
in time. Herders now quickly lift him to his feet. A
wave of his hand assures us that, at least from his
point of view, though a bit mauled, he is uninjured.
A mighty cheer goes up in recognition of the gamest
fight in this contest ever witnessed at the Round-Up.
Hunter's battle is an epic. Even the hard-boiled buck-
aroos agree that he was beaten by a steer that would
have beaten anyone.
In these contests of men and brutes on even terms,
often with all the odds in the favor of the latter, one
sees men with determined souls win out in struggles
which grip deep and make the blood tingle, and cause
a latent call of the wild to surge in healthy response to
the great living, panting West before him.
You hasten to record in your note book that your
evening and morning calisthenics and your setting up
exercises, even your work with the gloves of which
you are rather proud, is child's play beside steer bull-
dogging.
HOOK 'EM COW
"Let 'er buck!" This slogan generally signifies that
some famous outlaw horse is about to be mounted by
the rider who has drawn him the night before at the
Round-Up headquarters. But this time it is black
"Sharkey," the famous nineteen hundred and twenty-
five pound, unridable bucking bull, who, in charge of
his "wranglers," is just poking his nose from the
corral and is soon followed by the contingent of bulls,
buffaloes, and steers.
159
MAN VERSUS BEAST
While "Below Decks" Is
THE NAVY TAKING ON FRESH BEEF
As they play this sport at Pendleton, steer bulldogging is one
of the most novel and man-nervy feats of the Round-Up. The
steers often big, strong, four year olds and have often won out.
Roy Hunter, the cavalryman, to the astonishment of spectators
and judges had sprung a surprise, by jumping his steer, forcing
its head and horns suddenly down into the ground, causing it
and himself with it, to turn a complete somersault plumb in front
of the grandstand, while Roy lay smiling amidst the debris, the
steer bulldogged fiat out in tlie best time that year of 24 1-5
seconds, but the judges disqualified his throw for "hoolihaning."
The contest of the "man versus beast" is a dramatic moment,
when Hunter with a gradual weakening is being dragged around
the arena track in the famous epic of this game described in this
chapter.
Yakima Cannutt the big buckaroo and winner of the world's
steer bulldogging championship in 1920, when he bulldogged two
steers in just 1 minute and 1-5 second, the first in 28 1-5 seconds,
the second in 32 seconds flat, decided, that during the war he'd
serve in the Navy. He considered two world championships on
the hurricane deck of a bucking bronc would well qualify him to
ride the waves or buck any sea his country might require — so he
just slipped down to Pendleton for the Round-Up to take on a
little "fresh beef for the Navy."
Photo by Charles Wellington Furlong
An Epic Fight
I
Photo by W. S. Bowman
The Navy Taking on Fresh Beef
Photo by Maj. Lee Moorhouse
Bite 'im Lip!
i
Photo by Round-Up Association
Thumbs Up !
BITE 'IM LIPl
Is Now
THUMBS UP
The vast oval gasped at the cjaring of those who indulged in
fast play and danger of this one of the three major sports of the
Round-Up. Bite 'im lip ! this is the yell from the bleachers when
anticipating the last part of the second phase of buUdogging a
Texas Longhorn.
Bite 'im lip ! and Dell, having thrown his steer has now
reached over from between its horns, in accordance with the
rules and classics of the game, seized the upper lip between his
teeth and is now holding his hands up for the count of four
seconds. But that was before some agents of the honorable
society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, which has done
splendid work in its own field, overstepped its mark when one
year they objected to this phase of this contest. They failed to
realize that there was no harm or hurt to a steer in having a
man hold a steer's lip, merely as a matter of form, for the space
of four seconds in his dull teeth without even bruising the skin.
The neck twisting is no more injurious or hurtful than that of
wrestling. However, the Round-Up complied and now the rules
prescribe that the steer must be thrown flat on his side and held
with one hand released, as Orville Banks is shown with his
"thumbs up." Unless a steer is thrown within two minutes the
bulldogger is disqualified.
The best time for two steers wins — the best time on record is
that of Yakima Cannutt of 1 minute 1-5 second, beating Jim
Massey's championship record of 1919 by only 1 3-5 seconds.
The best time recorded for a single steer being that of Jess
Stahl in 18 1-5 seconds with Paul Hastings record of 23 seconds
made in 1917, next.
The champion in this contest takes home with him besides the
$330 purse, one of the finest of Stetson's, the pride of the cow-
boy, that a leading Pendleton furnishing house can secure, the
second and third presentation of merchandise certificates go to
the second and third winners in addition to the $150 and $100
prize money respectively. Well they have earned it, for while
each has downed his steer within 30 seconds he has risked his
life and limb more times than the average man does in thirty
years.
LET 'ER BUCK
The buffaloes give their wranglers no end of trouble
as they viciously charge this way and that, but no
wrangler cares to tackle these vicious, powerful, little
brutes on foot. Not only a nose ring, but a rope about
both a fore and hind leg and a horse on each end of
the rope holding taut in opposite directions, is neces-
sary to hold the half -grown bison for the blind and
saddling. A buckaroo mounts. A rough ride for a
second or two and he's thrown, narrowly escaping
being gored by the sharp horns of the animal.
The two young Jersey bulls discharge all obliga-
tions to their riders with interest but without trouble,
much to the delight of the spectators. There's "Lovin'
Louise," the bucking cow, but the only affection in
her nature she shortly proves is her love to get rid of
her man. So, too, with Hereford Bess. The big red
bucking steer is being mounted — he's off and the rider,
too. "Did the cowboy ride the calf?" laconically re-
marks a wrangler, amid the uproar from grandstand
and bleachers.
A murmur of satisfaction now goes up— they are
saddling Henry Vogt, whose fame is second only to
Sharkey's.
"That's the original cow that jumped over the
moon," comes out of the audience, as Tex Daniels,
who had once managed to stick to Long Tom though
he double-reined, stays just one buck on Henry's
broad back, and also Harris Thompson shows how
easy it is for a man to lose his breath as well as his
bearings. The best time that has ever been made was
6 1-2 seconds; the average time is less than one
second.
The bulls are certainly invincible and one may well
ask why they are so much harder to ride than the
162
THE ROUND-UP
horses. I asked that question myself in the cowboy's
mess-tent one day at the midday meal.
"Say, Furlong!" and "Skeeter" Bill Robbins from
California craned his long neck forward from the
other end of the long pine board table. "The best
way ter find out th' difference between th' way a boss
bucks and a bull bucks is ter git on th' bull."
I caught the challenge in his glance.
"Well, name your bull, Skeeter." There was nothing
else to say. In consequence Mark Moorhouse, director
of arena events, assigned me to ride Henry Vogt the
next afternoon.
Well, I grabbed for the horn of the saddle and
picked up a handful of dirt. The kind-hearted judges
generously offered me another try on account of not
getting my stirrups, but the three and a half seconds
of this trip on Henry were so occupied with problems
of applied kinematics that it was not until some time
later that I was able to draw a few conclusions and
these are that the bull's back is so much broader than
that of a horse that no grip with the legs can be ob-
tained. He is saddled far back where he can concen-
trate his strongest buck, the saddle skids with his hide
over his backbone, he concentrates a tremendous
amount of energy in a buck, and his movements are
hard to anticipate. It is in this anticipating what a
bucking animal is going to do that makes a good buck
rider, for the man must out-think the animal and be
prepared to meet every movement.
Happy Jack Hawn of Fresno, California, who sold
Sharkey to the Round-Up, with that smile which drew
him his name proceeds to cinch up the bull trapping
on Sharkey. The prize is five dollars to anyone who
gets on him and $100 for any broncho buster who will
163
i
GRABBED FOR THE HORN OF THE SADDLE AND
PICKED UP A HANDFUL OF DIRT
Exactly the easiest way in the world to lose one hundred
bucks in ten seconds. Sharkey was invincible, he had thrown
thirty-six riders in three days at Salinas, California; none stayed
more than two or three seconds and continued that way all
down the line.
Beef was never higher than when Sharkey and his contingent
bucked at the Round-Up.
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When Beef Is Highest
W. S. Bowman
Landing at the Round-Up
WHEN BEEF IS HIGHEST
Is When It's
LANDING AT THE ROUND-UP
Just one d-
bull after another.
LET 'ER BUCK
stay on him ten seconds. There is no halter rope, but
you are welcome to take hold of anything you can get.
Cowboy Yeager lasted about one millionth of a sec-
ond. Hawn himself tried next and hit the dust so
hard with his head that it looked as if he landed about
three feet in it. Henry Vogt near by was fast making
a reputation like Sharkey's farther down in the arena.
The year following my "ride" off Henry, I had no
sooner stepped from the train at Pendleton than one of
the Round-Up committee asked one of the most un-
kind questions ever put to me.
"Say, Furlong! going to ride Sharkey this year?"
I looked around for a post to lean against, failing
which I stuttered, "Well. I haven't been asked to yet."
"Oh, we'll arrange that."
I was assigned for Saturday afternoon. I had seen
Earl Patterson dragged and trodden on by the brute
when his spur got hung up in the cinch, and carried
off with three ribs fractured and his whole left side
like raw meat, and decided to ride without spurs.
In thinking it over, I concluded that one reason a
rider lets go his hold on the bulls was because the tre-
mendous force made him think his joints were coming
apart at each buck and his teeth shaking out in be-
tween, but that they really weren't — he only felt that
way. H I could convince myself of this, I might keep
my attention concentrated on the ends of my fingers
and the grip on the saddle horn and strap behind the
cantle. The philosophy then of bull riding is simply — -
hang on — convince yourself you're not coming apart,
you only feel that way — just hang on.
Sharkey, both days, had deposited all comers with
clocklike regularity and demonstrated as one cowboy
confidentially confided "the quickest way in the world
166
THE ROUND-UP
to lose a hundred bucks." There was nothing from
volplaning to tail spin that Sharkey couldn't do — an
airship run loco had nothing on that jerked fresh beef.
The colossal proportions of the ton-and-a-half black
brute looked even larger to me as I watched Happy
Jack tighten up the double cinch with a smile. Well,
Jack could afford to smile — he wasn't going to ride
him.
Squarely seated in the saddle, the blind was jerked
off. Buck! the great mountain of concentrated ex-
tract of beef — buck ! — beneath me — buck ! did gyra-
tions that for rapidity and variety — buck ! — buck ! —
would make a whirling dervish — buck ! — giddy with
envy — buck — buck — buck! No! my joints weren't —
buck — coming apart — buck — they — buck — j ust — buck
— felt — buck — that way — buck. I was — buck — hold-
ing a ton, weight — BUCK — by the saddle horn — buck
— buck — with my left hand — buck ! It suddenly shifted
— buck — and I held a ton in my right — BUCK — by
the strap behind — buck — buck ! I felt like an ani-
mated— buck — walking beam — buck — of a ferry boat
with the engine gone crazy — buck — buck — BUCK!
but my fingers held — buck — buck — He's only jump-
ing now, — but nearly ran down a herder who sprang
aside — jab! went his goad — only the herder — jump —
knows why or how and perhaps he doesn't — jump —
but jab went the point into Sharkey's flank — He
wasn't expecting it — BUCK — neither was I — buck —
I was slightly off balance, which an animal detects
instinctively — I could feel the play and concentration
of his great muscles — BUCK — something hit me under
the saddle — BUCK — pulled out my spine then jammed
it together like an accordion — BUCK — something else
hit me under the chin — BUCK — something else on top
167
SEATED ON A TON OF LIVING DYNAMITE
"Sharkey the famous bucking bull, $100 to any man who rides
him 10 seconds," ran the Round-Up Announcement on poster and
program. Then they offered five dollars to any man who
would try him. Many tried for the world's bucking bull cham-
pionship, few lasted after the first buck or two on the mile wide
back of that redoubtable, bucking, black, Belgrade Bull — famous
in the annals of the Round-Up. The old veteran was in a
class by himself.
There were no rules — the rider was supposed to hang on to
the horn and the strings, hands and feet if he could and just
grab anything. The bull-rigged saddle was cinched far aft and
skidded all over his backbone with his slippery-elm-lined hide,
but the philosophy of bull riding as with the horses is to stay on.
The same applies to Henry Vogt the Jersey bucking bull — the
author tried him in 1913 and went the same way as the rest —
twice in one day. In 1914 on a bright sunny afternoon on the
last day of the Round-Up he found himself seated on the top
of that ton of living dynamite, Sharkey — then some one touched
it off. He made a twelve-and-a-half second ride on jerked
beef, then bit the dust — this is not in the way of pilfered litera-
ture either. He broke the record as well as his wrist.
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Hitting the Grandstand Between the Eyes
© Major Lee Moorhouse
All Wound Round with a Woolen String
HITTING THE GRANDSTAND BETWEEN THE EYES
Is One Thrill, Another Is When Four Cowboys Are
ALL WOUND ROUND WITH A WOOLEN STRING
That's what nearly happens when at the finish of the cow-
boys' and cowgirls' grand mounted march, this great horde of
horsemen sweep across the arena in one tremendous stampede.
Over the fence, they rush, kicking the dirt into the very lap of
the grandstand as they bring up short under the very noses of
the spectators in a wild, terrific climax of overwhelming numbers.
Then as suddenly wheeling back, they retreat, disappearmg
through the gates in the gap toward the Indian village, and an-
other thrill is marked in your diary.
This picture of the vanguard of this mounted phalanx was
taken when William McAdoo was a guest of honor of the
Round-Up. The ex-Secretary of the Treasury proved an able
horseman. In this picture, he may be distinguished m light som-
brero, white shirt and light gray trousers, on the next horse be-
yond the late Til Taylor, the Round-Up president who is the
nearest horseman in the picture.
"All wound round with a woolen string" as the old song goes,
has nothing on the captivating qualities of Lucille Mulhall's
hemp "lass rope." See this attractive, golden-haired daughter of
Oklahoma, handle the lariat and you will realize there are ways
of spinning yarns you never dreamed of. Lucille Mulhall, with
Bertha Blancett, ranks as one of the two greatest all-round ranch
women in the buckaroo game and in the game of the lass rope.
It matters little to her whether it is fancy roping, lassooing an
outlaw or roping and hogtieing a Texas steer. Many a fair Circe
finds it difficult to rope in a single man, but Lucille with perfect
grace and ease captures four horsemen in a single throw of her
magic noose.
LET 'ER BUCK
of my head and slammed my t-t-t-teeth t-t-t-together —
BUCK — my joints really were coming apart — BUCKl
—BUCK!!— BUCK!!! I looked down and saw-
way, way far down below me — my saddle — that's the
last I remember until I dug my way out of the dirt —
only a wrist broken,
"Who'd yer say that is?" said a newcomer.
"That's the original cow that jumped over the
moon," says a squint-eyed spectator in chapps — but
Sharkey never fans an ear to the laughter.
OFF IN A CLOUD OF DUST
You now see twenty horses, each led by an Indian,
brought out and banded up in bunches of four horses
each, take positions at regular intervals by the grand-
stand fence. These are the relay strings, all on edge;
they indeed need a man to a horse. There are the five
riders mounting. They're away — these full bloods
and on bareback horses, too. It's a thrilling event, this
mile race, with each rider changing at every quarter
with a drop and a bound, leaping their horses at full
speed. Poker Jim's sons are both ahead, the Farrows
are riding on their heels, but this is a three days' race
and we will see more of the relays in which both men
and women ride.
Over by the paddock a bunch of some thirty
mounted cowboys on restless whinnying mounts are
bunching forty to a line, completely filling up the
track for the maverick race.
In the early days of the Panhandle, Samuel Maver-
ick was so successful in claiming unbranded cattle that
any "slick-ear" — a steer not marked on the ears or
branded — found on the range, about which inquiry
170
THE ROUND-UP
was made, was said to have been assigned to his owner-
ship, and "slick-ears" eventually became known as
"mavericks." An unbranded calf becomes a maverick
anywhere from ten to ^fifteen months old when it
leaves the mother or when the cow has another calf.
Hence the first to rope an unidentified animal could
claim it, so the significance of term "maverick race" is
easily understood.
For a wild, devil-may-care, madcap, everybody-for-
himself rush and the most realistic incident of range
life, take a maverick race. A bunch of two dozen cow-
boys line the track across the arena. In the corral
ahead, the steer is already poking his nose through
the gate. But the cowboys must hold their horses
until it has a one-hundred- foot start; the first man
that gets a rope on the steer's horns and holds it, wins.
But this steer was not born yesterday. Dodging the
encircling ropes, he clears the high board fence then
smashes through the wire fence and is among the spec-
tators on the bleachers.
The first straight run, and Jim Roach throws and
holds an ugly gray maverick in the press. One maver-
ick, instead of fleeing, with a snort of mingled rage
and fear, charges through the centre of the awaiting
cowboy outfit. There is a melee — two horses go down,
but with a yell they are after it in the opposite direc-
tion; and Narcissus McKay, an Indian, is the winner.
THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST
After such a whirlwind of excitement, a moment's
pause gives the crowd a chance to catch its breath and
the dust to settle. It is a pause well-timed in the rapid
movement of the nerve-thrilling feats. Then, from
171
LET 'ER BUCK
in front of the cottonwoods, the mounted cowboy band
swings into the track, and to music of the famous
mounted cowboy band led by Bob Fletcher, the cow-
boys' and Indians' mounted grand march is ushered in.
Following the directors, many of them ranchmen,
two, three or four abreast, about three hundred cow-
boys, cowgirls, scouts and old timers pass in review
to the jingle of chain and spur and the retch of leather.
See how all sit that close saddle characteristic of riders
to the saddle born and bred. The girls are in colored
corduroy and khaki or fringed and embroidered buck-
skin, the men in the ever-picturesque chapps, those of
Angora hair often brilliantly dyed, those of leather
glistening in their studdings of silver; while loosely,
freely, and generally askew about their necks, brilliant-
ly colored kerchiefs flap or flutter in the breeze.
Striking in this ride of romance and kaleidoscope
of color is the Indian contingent on their gaily capari-
soned horses. Their long-tasselled trappings flap
about them as the copper-colored, painted faces of old
chief, young buck, pretty squaw, and little papoose,
stencilled in imperturbable profile, ride by the grand-
stand. Though there is never a turn of a head, one
who understands the Indian knows that little was
missed by those eagle eyes.
The guidons now dash to their posts, and to music
this wonderful cavalcade serpentines its way back and
forth across the arena; the guidons acting as corners
are just markers for the column to swing around.
Jinks Taylor carries the national emblem which adds
the glory of color and symbol to this unhyphenated
American spectacle. Dell Blancett is just ahead of me
as we swing around guidon Fay LeGrow.
"Are you a statue or a real human?" grins Dell as
172
I
THE ROUND-UP
he passes. On one of the days, from a specially con-
structed stand a great panoramic camera slowly swung
in revolution, recording the event ultimately in a
photograph thirty-two feet in length.
Attention! In the arena the great megaphone vol-
umes out its great arc of sound. All the riders come
to a standstill, the great audience arises en masse, even
the horses seem unusually still and motionless. Every
hat is doffed, as for a whole full minute the arena is as
silent as the prairie at sunset, while the entire Round-
Up pays silent tribute to Til Taylor whose spirit will
always ride abroad amongst the men who knew him.
The grand finale of this spectacle occurred when the
entire cavalcade which had swung into line on the
other side of the track, swept like a prairie fire in a
terrific charge, with wild yells, over the fence, checking
their furious dash at the very feet of the spectators.
The stampede almost hits the entire grandstand in the
face with its overwhelming numbers. There was truth
in the remark of one of the noted spectators, Maynard
Dixon, the artist, when he said of this spectacle, "My,
you do get an eye full."
Swinging out of the arena, the present occupants of
the country leave before you its former owners — the
Red Men. For a time the vast audience is held spell-
bound by the marvelous riot of color of the Indian
ceremonials — the crowning "glory" of the Round-Up
as one witnesses it within the great open-air stadium —
the magnificient pageant of the Red Man, pulsing with
the barbarous, rhythmic thrumping of Amerindian
drums.
Listen! Through the curtain of settling dust, you
still hear that fascinating, rhythmic beat, that peculiar
sensate rhythm whose primitive prosody leaves no
173
THE CEREMONIAL WAR DANCE OF THE RED MEN
Te-tum, turn, turn! Te-tum-tum-tum ! go the rhythmic bar-
baric beat of the Indian drums.
Haya I Haya I Haya-ya- ! ya-a ! cuts in the shrill, aspirant
voices of the dancers, as now they straighten up and throw back
their heads, now bend and crouching low, articulate their supple
bodies through weird postures to the short staccato step move-
ments of the Amerindian dances.
Glistening, vibrating in the sunlight, in a color and movement
like a hundred interlacing rainbows their costumes bedecked with
eagles* feathers, bead work and elk's teeth, and representing
nearly a million dollars in value, they weave and interweave
through their ceremonials.
It -is one of the most superb Indian spectacles produced today
anywhere on the American continent. A few more short years
and this sunset glow of the old day of the North American
Indian will have sunk forever below the horizon of time.
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Two Indians
Hop to it! Charlie Irwm wrangling for his Daughter in the Relay
TWO INDIANS
By Themselves But Plenty of Company in the
Cowgirls' Relay For Those Who
HOP TO IT I
In the picture of two Indians taken at Pendleton on the levee
of the Umatilla one will recognize that superb type of his race
Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, the 1914 rough riding cham-
pion. Beside him is the author.
They indeed "hop to it" in the cowgirls' relay, the aria of
this grand opera of the West. The rules are the same as m the
cowboys' relay except that the horses must be saddled when
brought to the track and riders must touch the ground with
feet when changing. In the Indian relay, the distance is one
mile each day, four assistants allowed, riding is bareback and
horses changed each quarter.
A thousand dollar purse is offered in this race besides cer-
tain appended prizes given by Pendleton business men. Five
hundred dollars cash goes to the world's relay race cowgirl
champion, three hundred cash to the second winner and beau-
tiful ivory manicure set— What? certainly they use them— and
two hundred to the third. ... , . ,
Bertha Blancett holds the record on wins in the relay with
three first, two seconds and two thirds. Ella Lazinka was also
a star rider but retired in her third year of riding through the
serious accident elsewhere referred to. She won the first relay
held here against Bertha Blancett, who paid her the tribute saying
that Ella Lazinka was the only rider, horses being equal, she
ever feared. , ^ , j ^ i vu
Mabel de Long Strickland holds second record not only with
three world's championships but with second time of 11 minutes
55 1-5 seconds. Lorena Trickey holds the championship record
of 11 minutes 40 4-5 seconds and the best one day time of
3 minutes 52 seconds. Katie Canutt rode in the 1918 cham-
pionship and third best time. Dona Card, a splendid and sports-
manlike rider rode into three seconds while Vera Maginms,
Fanny Steele and Josephine Sherry all have done top-notch
riding in this race. ^, . ,• x
In "hop to it" Charlie Irwin of Cheyenne is wrangling for
his relay rider who has just dismounted and now hops to it on
the second horse. The first is held by the assistant on the right,
the third and fourth horses by the assistant on the left.
In the audience are many well known faces and characters
among them the two famous old time stagecoach drivers, Dave
Horn and Chas. W. Barger, who may be seen just above the
cantle and horn respectively of the saddle of the horse on
the left.
LET 'ER BUCK
doubt that it belongs to the ceremonial or War Dance
of the Red Men, of the Umatillas. You are looking
out upon the descendants of the tribes that composed
the great dominating Shahaptian stock of Amerinds,
whose hunting grounds were the vast territory of the
Snake River and the middle Columbia, from the Bitter
Root Mountains to the Cascade range, and as danger-
ous a race as the whites ever encountered in their
march across the continent.
Rainbow blankets, eagle-feathered war bonnets, with
their long streamers down their backs, necklaces of
bear's claws, embroidered moccasins, blankets and
shirts bedecked with elks' teeth, fantastically painted
faces and near-naked bodies streaked in broad bands of
ochre and black : squaws dressed in beautiful, beaded
buckskin jackets and skirts, ornamented with their
wealth of elk's teeth, with leggins of red and green
flannel and plain buckskin moccasins, still seem to ex-
press that stoical kinship with sun and earth, water
and sky, that their ancestors felt before the coming
of the Paleface.
It all goes to form a multicolored, snake-like line as
it winds its course — a colossal, coiling serpent shim-
mering in iridescent scales of reds, greens, yellows,
blues, violets, blacks, orange and whites. Now subtly
twisting it resolves itself into a mammoth circle of ever-
changing harmony on its mat of yellow sawdust.
Here it metamorphoses into a great human kaleido-
scope, designs a new spectacle at every turn and out of
this living rainbow evolves the "War Dance" and the
"Love Dance" — the "Indian step and a half," as one
cow-puncher facetiously put in.
"Haya! haya! haya! Hay-ya! — ya-a!" intones the
weird accompanying chant as hundreds of Amerinds
176
THE ROUND-UP
articulate and mill in the great, pulsating ring, now
waxing into a wild swirl of throbbing rhythms that
seem to strike something deep at the very roots of your
nature. You realize that you are looking upon one of
the most wonderful ceremonial aggregations that can
be gathered together on this continent, and your eyes
drink deep of that riot of color to the last draught.
A flare of the drum — a single beat — and you have
that unexpected termination so characteristic of almost
all American-Indian dancing. Tinged in a saffron
blaze of glory, the dancers pass out to their tepees in
the cottonwoods.
SPINNING YARNS AND OTHER THINGS
For a few ecstatic minutes the remarkable group of
fancy ropers electrify you. You met them all at the
tryouts, you delight in their wonderful feats as their
spinning shapes up the graceful "butterfly," fascinat-
ing "ocean wave" and the marvelous "wedding ring"
and the many other forms of juggling and control at
will of that most elusive thing — the lass rope.
Trick riders like Otto Kline, Sid Scale and Crutch-
field, these you notice, think nothing of standing in
light straps on their saddles, horse on the dead run.
Sid sways, he's gone, no he recovers from out of bal-
ance. It is the inimitable drunken ride. Now he leans
dangerously far back, pours down a long draught of
"nose paint" from a bottle, the dangerously lurching
horse is on the dead run. Now look, he throws the
bottle high up in the air. Hootcha' la ! and with a wild
whoop drops into his saddle. Just to show you it
isn't the real stuff in the bottle, they show you their
riding is the real stuff by all manner of wonderful
12 177
LET 'ER BUCK
jumps and vaultings off and on and about their horses.
One not satisfied with the others crawHng around the
neck of their horses while on the run, proceeds to
crawl under the belly of his horse and come up the
other side without slackening its pace.
SWING TO IT!
But no less courageous and daring are the women
who ride. Whether it be cow-pony race, standing or
relay, when you get such an aggregation of riders in
the lists as Bertha Blancett, Mabel Strickland, Vera
Maginnis, Donna Card, Ella Lazinka, Katie Canutt
and Lorena Trickey and others, the last word has been
said in this style of racing. These women are skilled
in the lore of the race and the horse no less than the
men of the range. They not only put their horses to
the utmost, but ride with consummate knowledge dis-
played in every form of generalship in the race. Yet
some of these women in another week, perchance, will
be about their domestic duties in house or ranch. Re-
grettable incidents which happen occasionally go only
to show the kind of stuff of which these riders are
made.
The relay for both men and women has been most
popular from inception here. At Pendleton was the
first contest which required the girls to change their
own saddles, but they did compromise a little by allow-
ing a "drop" stirrup, a heavy leather strap below the
stirrup to enable them to mount more easily, for the
relay takes a great amount of endurance.
The first contest ever run here was between Bertha
Blancett and Ella Lazinka. Ella brought in her own
string from her father's ranch and won the first silver
178
THE ROUND-UP
cup, also the second year. She was one of the best
relay riders ever seen on the track here and an all-
round cowgirl. Unfortunately the third year she com-
peted, she was riding a strange string and lost the race
through her horse crashing against the fence. A large
splinter tore into her leg, but notwithstanding she
gamely finished the race.
There they go again and as you see the relay with
its zip and thrills and vacillating leads — is a race in
which the enthusiasm of the crowd bursts all bounds.
Now, three pairs of beautiful animals are led out on
the track — each pair mounted by a rider. At the
crack of the pistol they're off, like the Roman riders
of old. It is the cowboys standing race. But it is a
safe bet, that no ancient Bellerophon ever rode his
Pegasus with greater temerity than Ben Corbett, Hoot
Gibson, Otto Kline and their ilk.
Just watch them go! — How they do it is a marvel.
Hoot Gibson is now on his second turn around the
quarter mile track astride on his pair of horses on the
run — and letting out all the way. The arena of Rome's
ancient Coliseum in the days of Ben Hur never saw
faster travelling than this.
Hoot shoots over the line in 59 2-5 seconds — re-
markable time on a quarter mile course.
They're off again ; but this time it's the girls stand-
ing race with Bertha Blancett and Lorena Trickey in
the lead. How they fly ! Six consecutive years Bertha
has competed in this event with the marvelous record
of five world's championships, being defeated only
once and that for second place by Vera Maginnis.
Here they come ! It is a close race — Lorena is right
on Bertha's heels, but it takes the best woman rider
living to outclass Bertha Blancett and none have so far
179
LET 'ER BUCK
found it possible. This Round-Up will see her retire-
ment from arena contests and she means this race shall
be her best. Watch, how she makes that last danger-
ous turn not a degree of slackening her beautiful
black mounts — Bang! over the line — in 59 seconds
flat, being 7 1-5 seconds under the best record time
ever made in the cow-pony race. This establishes not
only a new record for the girls standing race but 1-5
of a second under the best record ever made — which
was Corbett's, and 2-5 of a second better than that of
Hoot Gibson. All hats are off to the greatest known
all-round woman rider of today!
All through these days of hilarity and excitement
tear the races — big, fast, free-for-all races with a
thrill at every turn. But none excel in sustained ex-
citement or better exhibit the art of mounting and
riding or are more gripping than the relay and the
pony express.
The relay is closely akin to the pony express, but is
a test of those prime requisites of the cowboys — to
on and off saddle, mount, and ride. No less than ten
strings are entered and half that number have been
selected to compete in the men's relay. They include
the famous strings of George Drumheller, "Sleepy"
Armstrong, J. A. Parton, Charlie Irwin, Fay LeGrow,
Roach Brothers, Spain Brothers and of Ed. McCarty.
Look over the string right in front of us, being held
now by two wranglers. One is to hold the three spare
horses and one to catch that of the relay rider as he
rides in to change his mount. Allen Drumheller is
here in front of us; further along is Nep Lynch, and
on this side is Armstrong by his string. The other
two riders will not have a look in with this trio, so
pick your man. You haven't much choice. Although
180
THE ROUND-UP
Drtimheller holds fourth record in this event, he holds
first in the pony express and is considered as all-
round pretty and clear-headed a relay and pony express
rider as has ever been seen on the Pendleton track.
Then Sleepy Armstrong — well, don't worry about
that boy's lids shutting down so he can't see when
there's a relay, or pony express on, not to mention the
cow-pony race in which he rode down the whole bunch
in the best time on record here of 51 3-5 seconds in
1919.
A signal! A rush, and four sets of stirrups and
latigos simultaneously fly through the air. You crane
your neck to watch the saddles adjusted. You're too
late — four riders shoot out and away, having saddled
within five seconds, and in a whirlwind of dust they
swing around the track.
The dilating nostrils and nervous, moving ears of
the waiting horses, fresh from the range, have caught
the spirit of the crowd and at the second change some-
thing happens when number three horse prefers kick-
ing to saddling, and then bucking, leaves his rider
hopelessly in the rear.
Here they come for the first change, Drumheller in
the lead. De Young, the first relay rider on the Round-
Up track, is his helper now and a better, cleverer
wrangler could not be found. Watch Allen — he's off
his horse, has off-saddled and on and is away again
with a bound in less time than has taken to tell this.
But "Sleepy" is right there, scratching his heels, and
Lynch is only half a length behind the others who
now string out a bit.
They're around again — Armstrong a little in the
lead, but look quick — see that marvelous dismount,
while his horse is on the run still by Lynch, whose
181
LET 'ER BUCK
horse is secured by the wrangler, Ben Corbett, with
one of his spectacular jumps for the horse, seizing
him by the neck as he comes in. Here Lynch gains
and is off almost at the same moment as Drumheller
but in the fore part of that moment which beats Drum-
heller out by a length. The crowd thunders its ap-
plause at such marvellous work. It's the last lap and
the last day. Lynch seemingly does not gain another
inch, neither does he lose an inch and rides over the
line just ahead of Drumheller by a fraction of a second.
The quality of the riding was the finest ever seen
at Pendleton. That every man was an expert was at-
tested by the totals of the three-days' heats, in which
was a difference of only 2 1-5 seconds between the win-
ner and Drumheller and 10 1-5 seconds between the
winner and Armstrong who finished third. The light-
ning changes of all three were marvelous, off-saddling
nine times, on-saddling twelve, one riding a six miles
on the quarter mile track in 12 minutes 24 2-5 seconds
making third best time ever made, the record being
12 minutes 7 seconds made by Scoop Martin. At the
end of the third day the three riders have off-saddled
twenty-seven times, on-saddled thirty-six times, ridden
eighteen miles on a quarter mile track in thirty-seven
minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
The relay has keyed the crowd to a pitch which has
but whetted its appetite for the pony express. The
old-time pony express with its thrills, spills and light-
ning changes is the ancestor of the mail and parcels
post of today. The primitive messenger of this mail
service was strong as he was light, cautious as he was
fearless, a quick thinker and hard rider, a man with a
determined soul and picked for his job.
There were men, old and grizzled, who looked out
182
THE ROUND-UP
from grandstand and bleacher, hardy riders of a day
gone by who rode many a grim race, often pitting wits
and strength against death in a hundred forms on
lonely, wild races with no plaudits sounding in their
ears. Many unknown graves mark where they fell by
arrow, bullet or stumbled horse, and history has yet
to pay due tribute to the pony express rider.
We now see the strings of two cow-ponies in
charge of two assistants led out in front of the grand-
stand, and we realize that the pony express has be-
come the pastime of the cowboy, and the race is run
to commemorate the skill of the old pony express
riders. Like all the events of The Round-Up, it has
its rules which are rigidly enforced. It is run on each
of the three days with cow-ponies, and no racer or
professional horse can enter. The first pony must run
first and third quarters, and the second pony go the
second and fourth quarters, while riders must mount
"pony express" which means the riders must hug the
saddle, suspend and hit the ground at least once with
the horse in full stride before vaulting into the saddle.
When you get such riders as Drumheller, Saunders,
Floyd Irwin, Tommy Grimes, Jason Stanley and
Braden Gerking, in the bewildering quick changes of
the "pony express" — you see a survival of the type of
the old dare-devil riders — the cowboy mail carriers
through the country of outlaws and hostile Indians.
The horses are pawin', hoofin' and rarin' to go.
They're off ! The grandstand rises en masse as the rid-
ers play for the pole. The crowd lets loose, the high-
pitched range yells echo from the cowboy contingent,
some Indians yip, others watch stoically, while the
helper awaits the arrival of his riding partner with a
cigarette airily hanging from a corner of his mouth.
183
RIDE 'IM COWBOY
For
EVEN HORSES RIDE AT THE ROUND-UP
Up goes Hotfoot, "skyscraping" and "cake-walking" and often
down goes the buckaroo, but not so with Wiley Blancett, who
is making a splendid ride. This is but one of the many ways
buckers have of unseating their riders. Blancett will be for-
tunate if Hotfoot is satisfied without throwing himself over
backwards.
"Even horses ride at the Round-Up." If you are skeptical, it is
proved by this picture of the big, fighting, dapple-gray, Sledge-
hammer. He is well named, for whether under a buckaroo or in
the saddle himself, he never does anything other than in a thor-
oughly pile-driving way.
In no phase of any event does there occur a greater variety or
more unusual happenings than in the wrangling, and this episode
was one of the most unique.
Sledgehammer has been "snubbed" by the wranglers, to the
saddle horn of the snubbing horse, where not content with fore-
striking at the mounted wrangler until he has forced him out of
the saddle, has literally jumped into the saddle himself with all
four feet, which eventually bore the little snubbing horse to the
ground. Such is the gentle art of wrangling.
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Has Nothing On
THE QUEEN OF REINLAND GRACING HER THRONE
Perhaps no phase of the Round-Up produces quite the same
psychological sensation as the women's bucking contest, for at
its easiest it is hard and dangerous. Consequently the Round-
Up permits only the most skillful and proven cowgirl riders
to enter. But a few of those entrants ride "slick," that is ap-
proved form and without "hobbled stirrups." In fact in the
entire history of the Round-Up the women who have ridden slick
can be numbered on the fingers of one hand — Bertha Blancett,
Nettie Hawn, Fanny Sperry Steele and Tillie Baldwin.
The rider is Prairie Rose Smith making a pretty ride on
Wiggles with hobbled stirrups, but hobbled stirrups or not it
takes courage and a splendid rider to stay these buckers. If you
doubt, try it.
Few queens have vouchsafed to occupy thrones less secure
than that supreme one offered by the parliament of the Round-
Up each year — the world championship saddle of the cowgirls'
bucking contest. No cowgirl queen reined as completely or as
often as Bertha Blancett, who has over a period of six con-
secutive years ridden into four cowgirls' world's bucking cham-
pionships and into two hotly contested second places.
Among the Round-Up horses she has ridden are Spike, Demp-
sey. Snake, at Cheyenne she rode the famous bucker Dynamite
and at the Calgary "Stampede" rode that equine devil Red
Wine which killed Joe Lemare.
Bertha Blancett always rides "slick" and is not only one of
the greatest all-round horsewomen of the world, but the best
all-round range woman America has produced. She had the
remarkable distinction in 1916 of having come within one point
of winning the all-round championship on both cowboys' and
cowgirls' points, and would have done so, had not one of her
horses in the relay race jumped the fence.
How did she learn? Why this daughter of a rancher from
childhood was bred on the range — got her schooling on the
barebacks of wild colts and took her domestic science lessons
by making butter of her father's dairy ahead of time by riding
her dad's milch cows nearly to death.
LET 'ER BUCK
One man is bucked clean off; another's mount leaps
the fence into the arena. They swing around the nar-
row curve, where the rider's game is to guide his horse
to his relay without slackening speed too soon.
Then occurs the special event of this race — chang-
ing horses. Each swings from his horse, still on the
run ; his helper springs to it and at the same time turns
the relay over to the rider, who, without a second's
pause, makes the "pony express" mount. This is a
flying leap, without the use of stirrup, into the saddle
after the horse starts and is off on the run. One man's
horse breaks clean away on the change but from habit
due to training them in the tryouts for this run, it
circles the track once and returns to his own mate.
There — a horse is down; it's Gerking, but he's up
again and has not lost his horse either, for all in one
motion he seems to be in his saddle again, eventually
pulling in for second place. With tear and rush off
they go again, and when Allen Drumheller, after three
days' races, pulls out his three miles with his twelve
flying mounts and nine changings of horses in 6 min-
utes 18 1-5 seconds and establishes the high record of
all championship riders in this event, you admit there
never was a play with faster action or more vivid
touches of reality.
LET 'ER BUCK
There is a stir in the crowd as it readjusts itself.
Heads bob and necks crane now to glimpse the few
little bunches in the arena, each with a snubbing horse,
bucker and the wranglers. Nearer us where the
saddles are parked on the ground about the big
pole surmounted by the announcer's crow's nest, the
186
THE ROUND-UP
contestants await the call. The women are now to
compete.
Sensational rides are always made by every one
of the cowgirl contestants, but all save Bertha Blan-
cett, Nettie Hawn, Fanny Sperry Steele and Tilly
Baldwin ride with hobble stirrups ; but hobble stirrups
or not, the hurricane deck of a bucking bronc is no
place for a clinging vine, and it was a close contest
between these champions.
When Bertha Blancett's father took all the docile
horses away to prevent his little seven-year-old from
riding them, she learned to "handle and ride," by cap-
turing wild colts and riding the milch cows nearly to
death. In 1904, she not only rode the famous bucker,
Dynamite, at Cheyenne, but at Calgary drew and rode
that wicked animal. Red Wing, which killed Joe Le-
mare. Out of five annual contests she entered at Pen-
dleton, she rode out of the arena with three world's
bucking championships and two second trophies — the
greatest record made by any woman rider here.
In the cowgirls' class none but those who have been
tried out and proved star riders are allowed to take
chances, whereas any old cowboy is welcome to
risk his neck; and in this contrast is an interesting
phase of the psychology of the crowd, who dearly love
to see a cowboy bucked off, but who take no delight in
seeing a cowgirl go the same way.
"Going up!" says someone behind us, and sure
enough, auburn-haired Minnie Thompson in her at-
tractive leather-fringed skirt is swinging into the
saddle over Sugar Foot and the bucking is on — and
Minnie stays her horse in a pretty ride. Katie Can-
nutt, Lorena Trickey and Mildred Douglas, all of
whom have won first honors in recent Round-Ups
187
LET 'ER BUCK
ride into rounds of applause. Nettie Hawn makes a
beautiful ride on the wicked Snake, the kind which in
1913 made her the cowgirl champion of the world.
There are rides and good ones, too, by Princess
Redbird, the Indian girl, Ollie Osborn, Prairie Rose
Henderson, Ruth Roach, Eloise Hastings, Peggy
Warren, well known here through several years of
game and classy riding, all of whom have won second
or third places in the contests. Then, too, there is
Blanche McGaughey. She's ready to mount. Wait a
minute; and she tucks a pretty embroidered handker-
chief in her belt remarking : —
"I don't want to lose my powder puff."
"Does yer nose need some nose paint?" remarked
the male brute who was handing her the halter
rope.
Scar Leg did his best, but Blanche rode like an
Amazon and another sensation is added to your
collection.
That chivalric attitude which permeates spectators
is also characteristic of the buckaroo, and was evi-
denced in the quiet remark of "Skeeter" Bill Robbins
when he turned to me after plucky Peggy Warren was
pulled from beneath the fallen bucker, and said, "I
sure hate to see a girl git hurt."
Bertha Blancett is climbing into the saddle of Ram-
bling Jimmie, who takes a small fraction of a second
to bear out his name and not only rambles in great
jumps across the arena smashing through the arena
fence, but, not satisfied, hits through to the outer fence
before he is taken up. Now again, you see Bertha
away in great swinging, snorting bounds on that buck-
jumper Dempsey. All through this marvelous rider
shows a headiness and control never before demon-
188
THE ROUND-UP
strated by any other rider of her sex. Look at the
superb saddle she sits, riding straight; but she rides
slick from start to finish in a way to satisfy the most
keen-eyed, hard-boiled judge — see, fans him, too, at
every jump, and on the last jumps into the world's
cowgirl bucking championship.
"Ride 'im! Ride 'im! Sit up on that burra,"
yelled Jess' Brunn to Eloise Hastings of Cheyenne as
he jerked the blind off of Bug's blinkers — and ride
him she does into third place. As she alights from the
bucker, you see her hand fumble indefinitely around
her waist to the pocket-flap of her skirt.
"Is she hurt?" you ask. — Listen!
"Gee, Jess! I kept my chewing gum just where
I stuck it."
What is the peculiar psychological phenomenon that
now seems to sweep around the great living oval of
humanity like the soft fanning of a warm chinook
wind. You feel it — everyone feels it a great, invisible
mental rustle which sets the whole arena on edge —
then you know, when from nearly forty thousand
throats the Round-Up slogan ascends in one vast roar
— "Let 'er buck!" It echoes and reechoes until it dies
away in the interest of the king of range sports which
it proclaims — the cowboy's bucking contest for the
championship of the world.
It is the rough-riding in which the greatest interest
and keenest judgment centers, for Pendleton brings
together the great exponents of the art, most of them
fresh from corral and sagebrush. The restive, furtive
outlaws are now led out. The buckaroos troop across
the arena and park their saddles in front of the judges'
stand. The crowd is on edge with expectancy for the
thrills of this most nerve-tightening event.
189
WHY THIS ONE WAS NOT IN THE FINALS
The main reason being that one must not get so far away from
the saddle even if the horse does play "peek-a-boo" with it. But
that able and game little rider, Bonnie McCarroll, knows that Sil-
ver let 'er buck. To analyze the cause, one has but to take note
of the broken hobble strap on the up-thrown stirrup.
Hobbling stirrups, consists in strapping them together under
the horse's belly which keeps them down and greatly aids the
rider in keeping a seat. How important this is, this picture amply
illustrates. It also demonstrates that hobbled stirrups have their
distinct disadvantages in that, when they break, the rider is taken
off guard and finds it impossible to so suddenly adapt herself to
the other form of riding.
Also, if a horse falls, the rider finds it much more difficult to
disengage herself or keep her form or position in relation to the
saddle, all of which greatly increases her danger. But the inherent
chivalry of not only the public, but the cowboy, makes them shrink
from witnessing injury to a woman. This was evidenced by
Skeeter Bill Robbins after Brown Eyes fell and rolled on Peggy
Warren's foot; crossing half the arena in about three leaps to
rescue her, he then rubbed his sleeve across his sweaty forehead
and remarked, "I sure do hate ter see a girl git hurt."
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With the Other It's
ALL OVER BUT THE SINGING
The incidental ups and downs of the buckaroos' and buck-
ers' lives during even the three days of the Round-Up, would fill
several books and each book would have a kick in every sentence.
Cowboys will come and cowboys will go but the spirit of the
Round-Up will go on forever.
Newcomers will ride in future Round-Ups and leave their
mark and a second edition of this book may carry on the record
but they'll have to aim high to beat the standard the past and
present contestants have set. But they'll ride fair, play the game
and do their part to keep it a pure sport. The cleanness of the
sport is no better evidenced than in the consideration and fair-
ness shown the animals, not to mention the credit and admira-
tion given them in the part they play in the game.
The Round-Up rules prescribe, that a rider may neither knot
his halter rope at the end nor wrap it around his hand ; he may not
touch any portion of his saddle. This act is known as "pulling
leather" or still worse grasp the horn of his saddle which is
"choking the biscuit." He may not show daylight under the sad-
dle, loose a foot out of the stirrup even for an instant or in any
way artificially support himself; a violation of any of these will
disqualify him in his ride, even the observance of them in a
sloppy manner or in a fearsome or too safe a way will deny him
even a look in to the finals.
There are many rules it is true, but the big idea is to stay on
top. There is no rule, however, against cinching in spurs but it
isn't desirable and sometimes is most dangerous if a horse falls
or the rider is thrown and hung up in the cinch. Of course such
accidents as a halter coming off is the least of a top-notch buck-
aroo's troubles, likely as not he can ride him without. A stirrup
breaking gives him a little more bother, but the saddle slipping
either over the bucker's head or under his belly is more serious,
for the rider has either to stay with it or leave it, which dashes
his hopes if not him. To be hung up in the stirrup and dragged
is a most dangerous proceeding although Buddie Sterling rode C.
Cross that way. But C. Cross had a powerful manner of bucking
and an indelicate way of trampling on his rider when down, at
which times it was "all over but the singing." This rider kissed
the dust after choking the horn of the saddle which is the S. O. S.
of the bucking code. This horse he gave a buck or two and —
nearly killed the buckaroo.
LET 'ER BUCK
You see at a glance that those big, raw-boned cow-
boys striding across the arena with their saddles are
real cowboys who have ridden long hours in all sorts
of weather. Most of them have mingled with des-
perate men. There is one among them who unfor-
tunately has "time" to serve — they say it was horse
rustling — but he rides too well to let a little thing like
that prevent him entering these contests, so for a few
days he is out on parole.
There is no more important adjunct in cowboy
routine than the cow-horse, worth $300 today in the
open market, a horse which knows the art of the
game — how to ford, swim, and avoid quicksands,
dodge the traps of the prairie dog and gopher, to move
furtively in a prairie herd so as not to stampede it,
how to "cut out," and then to follow the quarry advan-
tageously in every turn, to withstand the sudden shock
of the tautened lasso, and finally to hold it when the
thrown steer is to be tied. But before the cow-pony
goes through this schooling he must, when about three
or four years old, be brought wild from the range,
roped, and ridden. From this phase of ranch life —
broncho busting — has developed the sport of riding,
particularly bad bucking horses, and those ridden at
the Pendleton Round-Up are as bad as they make
them, whether they be "show bucker," "trained
bucker," "outlaw," or "wild horse."
A horse that bucks hard, straight away, with nose
between front feet, is not necessarily a bad kind of
bucker for the expert to ride. Still he looks well from
the grandstand, and in consequence is known as a
"show bucker," but he is never used as a semi-final.
A "wild horse" is one that has roamed the range
and has never before known the feel of headstall or
192
THE ROUND-UP
saddle. A "wild horse" in nine cases out of ten puts
up a live and game fight, but may or may not be
difficult for the broncho buster.
The trained bucker is in the middle class between
the "show bucker" and the "outlaw" and usually ap-
pears in the semi-finals. However, the term "trained"
is somewhat a misnomer, for the horse is not trained
in any sense but has simply been encouraged to excel
in his wicked ways.
It is the "outlaw," however, that is the bugbear of
the buckaroo, a persistent bucker, which, if he cannot
unload his man one way, tries another and still an-
other. Both trained bucker and outlaw, with all fours
off the ground, often make such gyrations known as
the "side wind," "cake walk," "the double O," "the
cork screw" or perhaps they "sunfish," "twist,"
"weave," "straight buck," "circle," "sky scrape,"
"high role," "high dive," or put on the most dangerous
of tricks the "side throw" and "fall back" in order 'to
shake the clinging thing from his back.
It is because of their proficiency with unusual
methods of bucking that they are set aside when the
spring herd is rounded up; and some of the worst of
these from ranches all over Oregon or even from the
Mexican border to Canada are eventually acquired for
the Round-Up contests at Pendleton.
Nowhere can such a large proportion of spectators
be found who know the game so well from start to
finish, who live it part of the time themselves, or whose
affiliations as ranchers, stockmen, or business men with
ranch interests qualify them so well as judges.
The remarks made from the grandstand and bleach-
ers are often as instructive as they are humorous.
But it is the Round-Up slogan, "Let 'er buck," that
13 193
LET 'ER BUCK
most often echoes across the arena. It is particularly
in point when you see an "outlaw" horse displaying
every ounce of strength, cleverness, and viciousness to
unseat his rider, and the rider displaying every art
known to horsemanship in his efforts to stay on — and
in most cases staying on. Yet even the fearless char-
acter and ability of the riders fail in many hotly
contested fights. There are horses and men new to
Pendleton. The latter evidently have aspirations, some
of which are of short duration.
It is astonishing though, how in the excitement of
the fight the human mind often loses all sense of time.
One visiting lady from the Sunny South related after
the show that the man rode for ten or fifteen minutes.
Undoubtedly some felt that way afterwards. But even
in the grandstand among the experts, old-timers and
judges, claims and bets were made on time as high as
two and three minutes. As a result of this discussion
Judge Charles Marsh, the Round-Up secretary had
the timers record kept showing the time each rider
rode from when the gun was fired until the horse
was taken up, including the buck and run, dur-
ing the Nineteen Seventeen Round-Up. They found
that the maximum time of any ride was only thirty
seconds. The result of this record is interesting —
here it is at the back of this volume; it is called "The
Bucking-Time Table," there is also "The Rode and
Thrown Table" and "The Buckers' Own Table," but
glance over them later, for the buckers are being
placed in position by the wranglers.
Most riders give exhibitions which last less than
thirty seconds, and some of the best buckers will un-
load their riders ir twenty seconds or not at all. The
judges often smile tolerantly at a show bucker, and
194
THE ROUND-UP
let the horse wear himself out more before the pistol
barks for the "pick up" men or "herders" to take him
up," that is, ride down and seize him. But the trained
bucker and the outlaw are watched carefully, and thirty
seconds is plenty of time to judge the buckaroo's rid-
ing ability. Then, that his bucking may not unneces-
sarily wear out the horse or break him, he is taken
up.
There are famous outlaw horses whose indomitable
spirit has never been broken and whose names stand
high on the lists of these championship contests
throughout the West. When such horses as Long
Tom, Angel, No Name, Whistling Annie and Casey
Jones, get into action at Pendleton you see real bucking.
The buckaroo was not born yesterday. He knows
only too well that to have even a "look in" at the cham-
pionship he must observe the rules of the game, ride
with only a halter and halter rope instead of a bridle
and reins and on a saddle, as prescribed by the
Round-Up.
This is minus the great bucking rolls which some
riders affect and of course without locked spurs, hob-
bled stirrups or unusual contrivances of any kind. He
must ride not only with style, but "slick" — that is,
straight up, with a close seat, and no daylight showing
through — and must not shift the halter-rope from one
hand to the other. He must "rake" with blunted spur
by swinging his legs from shoulder to rump, and, to
cap the climax, "fan" the horse at every jump by
swinging his hat with a full-arm sweep to and fro,
and, above all things, he must avoid "pulling leather"
that is, touching the horn or any other part of the
saddle with either hand or supporting himself in any
way,
195
LET 'ER BUCK
When one sees a rider combine these facts and as
has been done add a puff now and then from a cigarette
into the bargain, while a dynamo of vicious energy
beneath him is trying to kick himself in the chin with
his hind legs and using every resource which horse
flesh knows how to use, one must admit that nowhere
in the world can such riding be equalled.
"Them buckers they're wrangling sure be rarin' ter
go," chews a ranch hand behind us. They sure
"be."
Look down in the arena where every eye is cen-
tered, on a group of four wranglers and two horses.
Watch Bill Ridings, Jess Brunn, Missouri Slim and
little old Winnamucca Jack, the Lidian, a good wran-
gler and hand. You soon learn from his forestriking,
catlike twists, turns, biting and kicks that the
four-legged brute has never known man as master,
and that "wrangling" is no dance hall manager's
vocation.
"Slim" Ridings now gets the horse tethered up and
blindfolded ready for the saddle but the cowboy or
his helper will saddle. Then as on the range, the
wranglers will leave the rest to the rider — taking out
the rough from his own horse. The wrangler's job is
in itself a very dangerous phase of the game. The
first move with the horse in hand is to work an old
gunny-sack as a blindfold over the bucker's eyes
between his halter leathers. This can be done with
many.
It's that small grey "Snake" ! Watch the beggar as
on any attempt to tuck the gunny-sack blind between
his halter leathers or approach him, he strikes out
viciously with his fore feet; he's no beauty doctor, his
massage is bad for the complexion. There 1 a wrangler
196
THE ROUND-UP
is down, and gets off with but a slight cut on the head.
But the eyes of the crowd are centered on Sledge-
hammer, the big dapple-grey farther along. His
head is now snubbed by the snubbing rope which is
"half hitched" around the saddle horn of the mounted
wrangler, who, seated in the saddle, holds the power-
ful, vicious brute close nose up to the horn.
Sledgehammer does all that is expected of him and
a little more. Not satisfied with charging the wrangler
out of saddle, he strikes at him with fore legs, clears
him out of the saddle and then jumps after him him-
self, landing sqarely in the saddle of the snubbing
horse, all four feet gathered under him, reaching a
sensational climax when he rides the other smaller
animal to the ground.
"Swing to 'im Red." It's "Red" Parker mount-
ing that harmless-looking little beast, "Culdesac."
The bleachers tell you that both horse and rider are
well known. He bucks ! Watch the lightning-like
plunges of the vicious equine devil, twisting and turn-
ing like an electrified grapevine.
"Ride 'im, cowboy," and ride him he does until
taken up.
"Saddle 'im or bust," yells a pock-marked, freckle-
faced ranch hand from up Gibbon way, as Winna-
mucca Jack and the outfit of wranglers fight it out
with a bad actor. It's this new horse, that spotted
Indian Cayuse, McKay, to which the interest now
gravitates, as well as to the youngest rider who ever
rode at the Round-Up — Darrell Cannon a fourteen
year old buckaroo.
Old Winnamucca after the Indian's habit of affec-
tion for children seems to have a genuine paternal in-
terest in the young kid. The blindfold is on, then the
197
LET 'ER BUCK
saddle — carefully now the old Winnamucca cinches up
and looks everything over. The lad cautiously adjusts
himself in the seat, the redman gives him a fatherly
pat on the leg.
"My boy! he Tide um!" and jumps away as the
blindfold is jerked off. A sudden spring, then like a
cyclone the cayuse starts sunfishing by throwing his
hind legs alternately to the right and left while jump-
ing with all four feet off the ground.
"Stay with 'im cowboy!" yell the bleachers, as the
little animal twists, squirms, jumps, and pivots as only
an Indian pony can. The boy is game, and even
though the halter slips off, rides straight.
"That man has only one hand," comments a
stranger,
"That's John Spain!" responds a rancher. "He
said he'd ride, and drew Skyrocket, and he won't back
out, neither."
We soon see one of the gamest exhibitions of The
Round-Up given by the former champion of 1911
when, through all the cyclonic convolutions of that
outlaw, Spain shows that he can ride not only without
one hand but without both if necessary.
"Scratch 'im, Pete !" And Spain proceeds through
the upheaval, not only to keep a close seat but to make
his legs travel free, back and forth, along the sides of
the beast beneath him.
"Lo'k'out cowboy when he comes down," warningly
yells an old pal. Now Spain's riding Wardalopa.
Something is wrong with the saddle, the intrepid John
is suddenly unloaded with a foot hung up in the stirrup
right square in front of the grandstand. Everyone is
on his feet ; laymen gasp with wide mouths, women —
some — emit little screams of terror and old timers
198
THE ROUND-UP
show a stoical grim anxiety — it's awful to see a man
dragged while you stand by helpless.
Buck — kick — jerk — buck, he flings his flying hoofs
to right and left at the prostrate, dragging man. Sud-
denly the inert form is seen to twist itself with a
mighty effort out of the stirrup just in time to avoid —
bang ! — a crash through the fence into the arena. The
terrible blow splinters the boards, the rider thrown
violently against a post is now clear of the horse but
lies quite still.
The horse goes on his bucking way toward the pad-
dock. How the rider was freed from his jeopardy is a
trick which the old hands know, but few can achieve.
Long boots, one of which you can still see dangling
from the stirrup, is evidence — the rider had cork-
screwed out — of his footgear.
But to the amazement of the crowd, as the first
aids run to him, he suddenly jumps to his feet, one of
which is now four inches longer than the other. The
dazed man makes a couple of half-reeling, staggering
turns his eyes riveted on the track then mutters :
"Where in hell's my boot?" The grandstand sits
down relieved.
A wild yell of approval goes up for Long Tom when
that great docile-looking plough horse up to his old
tricks, rids itself of its rider in just three terrific
jumps. Sometimes Long Tom was a bit lazy — for
him — but when Tom "broke in two" he threw sood
men as well as others; whenever too he gave that
famous twist to his shoulders, it was just "peek-a-
boo" with the saddle. Whistling Annie does the same
trick with "Whiskey Joe" of Arizona, who just
loosens up his knees a bit and the boss isn't there.
Crooked River proves just as crooked as his name and
199
LET 'ER BUCK
soon has his rider "choking the horn" which is the
same thing as "choking the biscuit" or piiUing leather,
that is, gripping the horn of the saddle or touching or
bracing on any part of the saddle. This disqualifies a
rider and is considered more of a disgrace than being
thrown. But this rider was thrown, — good and plenty,
with as neat a high dive feet soles up as a horse could
wish to see.
"Sunnin' yer moccasins?" yelled an unfeeling spec-
tator whose slouch hat rim had been chewed into by
wood rats.
A superb figure strides majestically, yet modestly
into the arena from the direction of the Indian tepees.
Every eye focuses on his tall, lithe, well-proportioned
body moving with all the mien and beauty of a Hia-
watha. As he approached the judges to draw from
the hat for the finals, this Nez Perce, nephew of the
great Chief Joseph, who had fought the paleface,
might well portray, Chief Massasoit, and the som-
breroed president and judges, Roger Williams and
his broad-hatted Puritan pioneers with whom Mass-
asoit made the first peace at Plymouth. But it was
Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, drawing for the
finals. Let me picture his ride of another year, for it
is one of the classics of the Round-Up.
Four annual Round-Ups had seen Jackson Sundown
ride into the semi-finals, and in 1915 he had ridden
into the grand finals and pulled third money. Then the
Nez Perce went back to his ranch in Cul-de-sac, Idaho,
done with rough-riding and the Round-Up, for his
had been an eventful life and he had wintered fifty
snows.
But the call of the gathering clans, as the next cycle
200
THE ROUND-UP
of the great frontier show swung round, and the per-
suasions of A. Phimister Proctor, the sculptor, who
was then modeHng him and Hving nearby, induced him
to travel again with his family and pitch his tepee by
the Umatilla.
Many remember that Saturday afternoon in 1916.
Sundown was one of the fourteen riders who had rid-
den into the semi-finals. He had qualified by riding a
hard bucking little buckskin, Casey Jones. In the
semi-finals on Saturday he rode sunfishing, twisting
Wiggles in a most sensational style, and by doing so
also rode into great popularity with the crowd. It was
this ride that finally put him with Rufus Rollen of
Claremont, Oklahoma, and Broncho Bob Hall of Po-
catello, Idaho, to compete in the grand finals that year
for the championship of the world.
Three wicked outlaws, were saved for the finals,
Long Tom, Angel and Speed Ball. Rollen drew the
redoubtable old Long Tom, and Hall the lean black
plunger. Speed Ball, that has been in many a final con-
test. To Sundown's lot fell Angel, the big bay on
which Lou Minor rode into the championship in 1912.
Despite Speed Ball's skyscraping, long, bounding buck,
Hall was master of him from the start and never for
a moment was off balance, although he hesitated to
attempt to scratch him.
When Rollen, acknowledged as one of the best
riders in the country and fresh from wins in Kansas
City and elsewhere, mounted to the back of old Long
Tom, there was a hush over the stadium. While the
crowd's sympathies were with Sundown, they knew
that if Rollen scratched Long Tom and rode him to
a finish the championship would undoubtedly be his.
The big sorrel brute pounded across the arena with ter-
201
ART IN THE ROUGH
Good riders on bad horses give the greatest exhibitions ever
witnessed. Among them none handled themselves in better form
than Art Accord, now of movie fame, even in the clinch of danger
beneath a struggling horse, which has deliberately, in fiercest rage,
thrown himself, in order to crush his rider. If a horse breaks
away from the wranglers with the blind still on and falls in con-
sequence, the rider is given another show — if he wants it. But
a horse with blind off which falls or throws himself and rider
to earth, is counted fair to both horse and man, for it is part of
the horse's game. If in spite of this the man still stays and comes
up in the saddle when the horse regains his feet, meantime having
observed all the rules as to not pulling leather and keeping his
feet in the stirrups, it counts for the man.
In this unusual picture. Art is indeed in the rough but still
true to his name and calling. Note the remarkable control of the
rider's hand, still firmly on the rope and away from the saddle
horn, foot still in the stirrup, but ready to disengage should the
horse decide to roll over on him. His other leg is undoubtedly
snuggled under the withers, free from the saddle, yet Art is
alert, poised, watching every movement of his dangerous adver-
sary like a panther. He means to stay with him if there's a ghost
of a chance — and he did.
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LOOKING FOR A SOFT SPOT
But Not For
THE GREATEST RIDER OF THE RED RACE
This is a fine example of showing daylight or playing "peek-a-
boo" with the saddle. You are now witnessing the "peek," the
"boo" follows instantaneously. The rider isn't going — he's gone
already. Even if this rider stayed on, such unfriendly coldness
toward the saddle would disqualify him.
No horse of the Round-Up string of buckers ever rode into
greater fame as "an honest to God" bucker than the redoubtable
but departed old Long Tom. He was first known hereabouts
when acquired through a debt by Alfred Smith of Pendleton of
the J. E. Smith Livestock Co. about fourteen years ago, having
previously passed around through many hands, which had not
helped his disposition. For two years the old outlaw was used
part time as one of seven in a plough team in which, although he
worked fairly well, he was always flighty.
One day, someone to save time, tried to ride him, but he lost
a second or two and then decided his time wasn't worth saving
but his neck was. No one on the ranch could "stick." This con-
vinced his owner that he was bad enough to be good enough for
the Round-Up so they brought him in from his bunchgrass
range near Pilot Rock, Til Taylor and Sam Thompson looked
him over and he was bought by the Round-Up.
Champion caliber riders have essayed to ride Long Tom but
of the nine who mounted his back, four were thrown and only
one of the five who stayed dared scratch him.
Of all riders of the Amerindian race, none have ever ridden
into such popularity at the Round-Up as Jackson Sundown the
Nez Perce, of Culdesac, Idaho, nephew of Chief Joseph. He is
the only Indian who ever wrested the most coveted cowboy and
Indian trophy — the Round-Up prize bucking contest saddle and
money for the championship of the world.
This Sundown did in 1916, making a most sensational ride
on Angel, shown in this picture. Although wings would never
even have sprouted on Angel, it was certainly not because of his
cherubic disposition, he really never needed them to reach heaven,
as can be seen in this one of his famous sky-scraping bucks.
It is interesting to mention in connection with two bucking
champions of the Red and Paleface Races, Caldwell and Sun-
down, that, the great outstanding features were their clear-
headedness in out-thinking and out-enduring their horses. The
secret lay primarily in the unusual care each took of his health.
Caldwell weighed in at 155 pounds. He had always adhered to
early, regular hours, avoided over-indulgence of any kind and
intelligently considered his diet and long runs had been a part of
his training program. Sundown weighed in at about the same,
was married and happy, had never touched either liquor or to-
bacco and made his championship ride at fifty years of age.
LET 'ER BUCK
rific force, and the figure of his rider survived the terri-
ble punishment, but failed to scratch the canny, hard-
fighting, old outlaw.
Angel was saddled.
"Swing to 'im, Injun," called the bleachers.
"Think yer can stay with 'im?"
Then in true Indian style, the Nez Perce swung
gracefully into his saddle from the right side. He
watched with the slight suspicion of his race every
movement of the white wranglers for fear they might
be "gypping" him. His figure, straight as an arrow,
leaned forward a moment and old Jackson peeked
over his saddle horn when they went to hook in his
halter rope, to make sure that it was snapped in the
lower and proper ring of the halter, then looked at Lee
Caldwell, who, stepping nearer, sized it up and nodded.
Old Jackson was satisfied.
"Scratch 'im from the start. Make a ride in the first
three jumps," Lee had advised, "and then clamp down
on him and get set for the rest of your ride."
"Ugh! me ride him for everything." By which he
meant he wanted first or nothing.
When the blindfold was pulled off the big bay piv-
otted twice and then seemed nearly to reach heaven in
a series of high, long jumps of the kind which have
spelled defeat for many a rider.
Sundown dug his spurs into Angel's shoulders,
stuck them into his flanks, and then clamped down on
the third jump as Caldwell had advised. Once set, he
then goaded him to his worst. It was a supurb figure,
beautifully proportioned, narrow-waisted and riding
like a centaur ; his hat, bound with its shimmering, silk-
en-colored kerchief, swung out and down at every leap;
poised for an infinitesimal fraction of a second seem-
204
THE ROUND-UP
ingly in midheaven. It was, indeed, a sight fit for the
gods. Long braids of crow-black hair tied in front
looped and wafted against the cinnamon brown cheeks
of the rider; his colored shirt and kerchief flattening
and billowing against his muscle-articulating torso in
the movements of the wind; his long-haired black-
spotted, orange chapps flapped and fluttered, as the
horse rose and fell, while the wild-fighting beast, fol-
lowing the inner side of the fence, bucked, twisted,
high-dived and did his best to break in two.
On he went ! It seemed no man could stand the pun-
ishment, but never for a moment did those long-haired
chapps pause in their rowelling from withers to rump
during the entire fight of the ride, nor did the big som-
brero cease for a moment to fan the air. Sundown was
indeed riding to win everything or lose everything, on
his last throw of the dice.
"Stay with him, Sundown!"
"Ride 'im, Injun!"
But Jackson did not hear. The shot rang out.
"Take him up!"
Herb Thompson rode alongside and helped Sun-
down dismount from one of the two most thrilling
rides ever recorded. The crowd was cheering itself
into a frenzy. One name was borne out from ten
thousands of throats. "Sundown! Sundown!" came
from the grandstand: "Sundown!" echoed the bleach-
ers; "Sundown!" re-echoed the mounted contingent
and the Indians.
"Ugh!"
It was the epic ride for his race which this son of
Chief Joseph made in his fiftieth year. It was indeed
the grand championship in the grand final not only of
the Round-Up, but probably of the history of his race.
205
LET 'ER BUCK
Jackson Sundown, the Nez Perce, was a fitting repre-
sentative as the first and only red man to wrest this
title from the Paleface.
"What inscription do you want on the silver plate,
Sundown?" was asked him at the saddlery store as they
viewed the beautiful, coveted prize-saddle.
"You put wife's name," was the quiet reply.
The entire throng lets loose when the three outlaws,
Light- foot. No Name and big-boned Long Tom are
led into the arena. There is no question about deci-
sion as to the champion calibre of the horses. C. C.
Couch, Bob Cavin and A. E. McCormack are picked.
Couch draws first and secures the sorrel, No Name.
Watch that little dynamo! His satanic majesty re-
fuses to be saddled and strikes, kicks, and bites at the
wranglers with all the ferocity of a wild beast. If the
wranglers never had their hands full before, they have
now. His vicious fore-striking is so intelligent it has
them buffaloed and they reach very gingerly toward
his head to slip in the blind, but his foot reach is longer
than their lanky arms.
"Or man 'im!" advises the bleachers, and "old man
him" they do, which consists in throwing a looped rope
over neck or back, moving him over and passing the
free end of the rope through the loop and thus roping
him anywhere one sees fit, for greater control or se-
curity. Still their efforts to saddle him are futile.
"Can't yer teach a tame boss?" comes from the
bleachers.
A wrangler makes a sudden spring and throws both
arms around his neck well under the jaw, and with the
assistance of the others, No Name is thrown, the
wrangler still maintaining his hold.
206
THE ROUND-UP
"Mercy! Why, what on earth is that man doing?"
"Chawing his ear, mum," raphes a big sombreroed
man to the lady visiting from Chicago.
Couch mounts cautiously, feeling his way into the
saddle. No Name concaves his back and crouches close
to the ground like a cat, then shoots from the wran-
glers like a bombshell, kicks, rears, and plunges in the
vain effort to loose those clinging legs from his sides,
finally displaying his temper in vain attempts to reach
them with his teeth.
"That's sailin' high!"
"Another live 'un!" bellows the crowd.
Couch plays his game well and makes a wonderful
ride; likewise does Cavin, who is up second and has
drawn Lightfoot. See that wicked, little sunfisher
hunch, dive and twist his best, but the Idaho boy does
not even show daylight! There is little to choose be-
tween the two rides. They have been executed in the
same spirit of game sportsmanship as Corporal Roy
Hunter's bout with a Texas longhorn, that thrilled the
entire throng and made him perhaps the chief hero of
that Round-Up.
"My I shouldn't think they'd let that lame man in
the arena," remarks our same friend from the Windy
City, as a bandaged-up cowboy hobbles his crutchety
way across the open.
"Why, that's my pal. Bob Hall, mum ! — Broncho Bob
Hall," interpolates her broad-brimmed bureau of in-
formation.
"Well, but why do they let him? He may get
hurt."
"Hurt ! He's already hurt, but he's goin' ter see if
he can't git hurt s'more — See, he's going up. If it
was any other feller he'd be lookin' for a soft spot, but
207
LET 'ER BUCK
rm a figurin' Bob's as like as not ter ride 'im." And
sure enough, he does.
Look! They are going to draw for horses for the
grand finals as this occurs on the grounds in the pres-
ence of everyone. It's Lee Caldwell, Yakima Canutt
and Jackson Sundown. These three have ridden
through with the other twelve or thirteen selected for
the semi-finals and now have fought their way through
these into the grand finals. See ! the cowboy drawing
now is Canutt, that tall and lanky buckaroo with a
ranginess characteristic of the clan; there goes Sun-
down, the agile, erect figure you know so well, the third
is Caldwell, the shortest and youngest of the three.
What a superbly proportioned body, splendid
shoulders, lithe and beautifully muscled and the very
embodiment of health, on whom attention is now main-
ly focused. The women say he's good-looking and
even the men admit it.
Last year he rode in second for the world's cham-
pionship here, so close to Red Parker, the champion,
that there was a division of opinion; but the judges
decided it. Furthermore some member of the Round-
Up committee expressed the Pendleton spirit and the
clean sport of the show when he remarked "Lee, if you
ever ride into the world's championship at the Round-
Up you will have to win hands down, because you're
a Pendleton boy."
Lee had just come down from Moosejaw, where his
winning of the All Canada championship had been
heralded before him; but he had come to the greatest
of all shows where more men ride and are eliminated
in the elimination contest than even enter the other
great shows.
208
THE ROUND-UP
Each in turn, one at a time, thrusts his hand into the
sombrero held by one of the judges and draws forth
a tightly-wadded, round, paper pellet. Each opens
them and now reads his fate.
Sundown draws Cul-de-Sac and makes a splendid
ride. Canutt draws Speed Ball and rides equally well.
Although a little cautious in the way he scratches this
sunfishing devil-incarnate, he seems sure of second
money. Two Step from Cheyenne is the horse Cald-
well draws.
In the wildhorse race yesterday you recall Caldwell s
right forearm was broken. When they set it in the
plaster cast last night the doctor left a little aperture
in the bandage to facilitate a shot with a hypodermic
to dull the pain— for he was to ride in the semi-finals.
The doctor is on hand all right to shoot it to him now,
while they are wrangling Two Step ; Allen Drumheller
there, Lee's pal and saddler— has taken hypodermics
on such occasions himself, you can see he is advising
against it.
Although a buckaroo often saddles his own horse in
a contest, it is an unwritten law that a rider may ask
any man he desires, to saddle for him— pick him out
of the grandstand if he wants to. Sometimes a good
saddler is asked by half a dozen riders to saddle for
them.
He's up and away ! a perfect ride although Two Step
the tricky devil with his apparently easy straight-away,
really puts in to it everything that he thinks of and you
don't. The expression of the rider's face shows that
the pain in the bandaged arm is terrific, but watch!
Instead of fainting it makes him so "dad-burned mad,"
that he makes a hair-raising ride, the only qualified one
on the bucker that season. Lee dismounts, walks toward
14 209
LET 'ER BUCK I
Did Bill Mahaffey
ride Iz? He sure
did, scratching him,
fanning him, and rid-
ing "slick" with a
close seat and splen-
did form. It is
Let 'er Buck! with
both horse and man.
Enough said.
Let 'Er Buck
W. S. Bowman
Stay a Long Time, Cowboy!
r
© W. S. Bowman
One of the Greatest Rides Ever Made
W///, ^ ^^ -'->#-»
STAY A LONG TIME COWBOY
You're Against
ONE OF THE GREATEST RIDES EVER MADE
Long Tom has always been used as a grand final horse. In this
picture of Ira de MiUe making a splendid ride Old Tom^s seen
up to his old trick of his long head reach to jerk the h^Uer rope
slack through the rider's hand or throw him against the sadd e
horn. Of those grand final champions who have ridden this
splendid outlaw he could buck hard enough for any except Cald-
well. No one but that rider felt the necessity of scratching him
One buckaroo admitted he contemplated it, remarking,^ i just
loosened up my knees a bit and Long Tom wasn t there.
What is generally conceded as the greatest ride ever made at
the Round-Up was in 1915, when Lee Caldwell rode in as king
of buckaroo Viders and vanquished Long Tom, king of outlaw
buckers He rode him to a finish and as the boys say sure did
kick out hair." This picture shows the rider with his broken
firearm fanning and was taken about the end of the first clean
away buck, just before the rider's breast bone was broken against
the saddle horn through too short a hold on rope. This was the
result of the accident with the snubbing rope._ . k , tu,
Caldwell's marvelous record can be appreciated in part by the
fact that in one season's riding he entered nine of the biggest
contests in the United States and rode into seven fir,^.t/hampion-
ships one second, and lost out in the third, because his fi^rst horse
did not buck, winding up his season with seven prize saddles and
$6 000 prize money, clear of all his expenses.
it was Caldwell's grit, brains, saddlebornness, horse knowledge
and Hs remarkable ability to coordinate these.to the out-thinking
of the wildest outlaw horse, that as far as is recorded enabled
him to ride into more world's championships in premier con-
S n a given time than any man living. Add to these qualities
a Dleasing personality, and we have the reasons of his popularity
with bo"h Sectors and buckaroos. But it is that last tribuna
of udgment "the boys" themselves which has placed Caldwell as
?he top-notcher of their clan in the bucking game and that means
the greatest living rider the world knows today.
LET 'ER BUCK
the line of saddles. His left hand steals to nurse his
right which is hurting so bad Lee a second time re-
fuses hypodermic, remarking, "I'm too mad to take it
— I want to be a little mad — a man always rides better."
"L-e-e C-a-l-d-w-e-1-1 r-i-d-e-s L-o-n-g T-o-m,"
clearly enunciated Fred McMonies through the great
megaphone announcer from his crow's nest on the pole
top.
A great roar of satisfaction goes up from the bleach-
er and grandstand. They are the five magic words
which the crowd wants more than anything else to
hear. They have always wanted him to draw Long
Tom in the grand final to see if he dares scratch him.
It is barely five minutes since Two Step was taken
up, and now Caldwell is ordered to tackle Long Tom.
He walks to where big Bill Ridings and the other
wranglers are cautiously tucking the blind under the
halter leathers of the big brute holding him snubbed.
The snubbing rope, see, is run through the fork of the
snubbing horse's saddle; then it passes through the
halter of the outlaw beneath his jaw, and now the end is
brought back and made fast with a couple of half
hitches around the saddle horn of the snubbing horse.
Caldwell pauses, and, as is his custom, sizes up his
worthy antagonist. He has that remarkable ability of
sizing up a horse just by looking at him, and knowing
within two or three inches how much he will have to
let out or take in his cinch before he saddles on. But
for the first time he is absolutely deceived. Allen
Drumheller has the saddle on, but Caldwell finds the
end of the cinch comes only to the middle of his belly,
and they have to "off saddle" again. Caldwell com-
ments to Drumheller that old Tom has the greatest
lung capacity of any horse he has ever ridden.
212
THE ROUND-UP
Caldwell knows he is up against it and watches every
movement like a cat. Ife impatiently motions, says
something, and the wranglers turn Long Tom's head
a bit more to the southwest toward the grandstand.
It is "direction," Caldwell is thinking, that which will
head him just between the judges. He believes he can
"scratch hell" out of Long Tom. He wants no doubt
in the judges' mind, as to what he is doing. There is a
bit of a struggle, then Lee snaps out a curt order. He
does not want the horse frightened. There is a differ-
ence between frightening a horse and getting him mad ;
frightening him has a tendency to make him blunder
in his own movements, because, as Lee said once "A
horse like Long Tom does a lot of thinking."
Everyone knows Caldwell is tremendously high
strung, trained so to the minute that a mere nothing
can set him off the handle; but Allen Drumheller
knows his man, knows Lee's every idea, so he makes
every movement count. Everything is timed to a
nicety when he tightens the cinch and fastens the latigo,
for Allen knows how to handle a man as well as a
horse. He passes the halter rope to Caldwell, who
turns his stirrup out gently with his left hand, then,
inserting his foot, seizes the horn with the same hand
and swings lightly into his saddle. Even though one-
handed, he avoids any pull on the saddle when leaving
the ground, for, in mounting bucking horses it is this
jerk that often causes them to lunge or start
"He's going up !" says a man.
"Ain't he sweet?" chimes in a woman.
The great audience rose as one man. Lee settles
himself in his saddle as nonchalantly as though he might
be testing his stirrup's length instead of being turned
loose to vie for the world's championship on the tough-
213
LET 'ER BUCK
est brute Oregon can secure. Lee knows he is mount-
ing one of the best horses in the world when
Drumheller hands him the haker rope. See how
carefully he takes a last look over everything and then
deliberately at the judges. The judges nod. The
rider wants at least two of the judges to see everything
he does, readjusts himself in the saddle and his rein in
his left hand, snuggles his feet right up to his heels
in the stirrup — for a single foot out disqualifies the
rider.
"Turn him round," he snaps to the wranglers
The rider knows that though the old outlaw is stand-
ing apparently square, he is really "tense up" to "throw
back." Turning him changes this position or "un-
tracks" him. The blind is off. He is loose.
The wranglers spring to one side, one of them jerks
off the blind and frees the end of the snubbing rope.
The great brute springs into the air and the rider's
legs shoot forward to scratch towards his neck.
"Let 'er buck !" comes from all sides, at this first
jump. But the initiated know something is wrong.
There is an unnatural throw to Long Tom's head
towards the wranglers on his left — the free end of the
snubbing rope has traveled too fast through Tom's
halter and has whipped into a knot around its own
bight and caught, causing this violent, unnatural jerk
leftward. Caldwell's halter rope is on the right of the
horse's neck. The sudden jerk of his head to the left
will force him to either give way, be pulled forward,
or let the line slip through his hand. This will cause
a change of rein, and when the horse recovers will
make so much slack he will have nothing to steady him-
self with, and his ride will be hopeless on a horse like
Long Tom.
214
THE ROUND-UP
Caldwell is jerked violently forward, and to prevent
being unbalanced, is allowing the rope to slide through
his hand. See it go — a full foot and a half. Wrench !
Good, the snubbing rope is free. He is readjusting his
hold by taking up the slack with the weakened grip of
two fingers of his broken arm. The sudden release
from the snubbing rope makes old Tom throw his nose
skyward more than usual — an old trick of this bucker
— and gives Lee more slack than he wants, which when
now taken up gives him too short a hold.
All this occurs while the horse's forequarters are in
the air, and during this first jump Caldwell has not
only adjusted the rope, but has pulled off his hat with
which he now fans him, gripping it with the two fing-
ers of his broken right forearm.
"Look out cowboy when he comes down," yells an
old buckaroo beside you.
With hindquarters snapped up, old Tom now puts
his head earthward, at the same time giving one of
his peculiarly violent kicks, his eyes show white, down
he comes ker-plunk. Caldwell already pulled and held
forward to the front part of the saddle, is now thrown
violently against the saddle horn. Crack! goes the
boy's breast bone, and breaks three inches above the
point, knocking the wind clear out of him.
"Will he stay with 'im?" His breath is gone — his
head swims — stars shoot — everything cants in a swirl
of blue For a fraction of a moment he seems
to be gone. If you know Caldwell you know if he is
going to fall, he'll reason he cannot strike any harder
by scratching old Tom, besides he knows he will be
making a real ride when he hits the dirt. See! he's
letting 'er buck now for all there is in it !
"Stay with 'im, Lee!" came the old cry, as Long
215
LET 'ER BUCK
Tom broke like a boomerang into that terrific pound-
ing, bounding buck, which, if it does not unseat most
riders in the first three jumps, shakes their dayhghts
so that they welcome hitting the ground, it is so much
softer.
Whang! in the back with the cantle of the saddle.
In Long Tom's bucking nearly a dozen men have left
old Tom's saddle unconscious on this account and
never knew why they left it. The big, hill-climbing
demon snorts, even groans with rage in the effort to
shake the clinging man thing from his back.
Caldwell lets another foot of rope slide through his
hand on the next jump.
"Ride 'im cowboy!" yell the buckaroos.
The rider heels withers and toes rump with his
spurs.
"That's raking him !"
His spurs are dull, but a year from now I reckon
there'll be scars eight inches long on old Tom's hide.
See, at every jump the old outlaw deliberately jerks
his head and takes more rope, a few inches at a time.
If the rider's arm was straight out and the rope tight,
there would be no use of any man's trying to hold it.
Three! — four! — five! — fifteen tremendous, vicious,
man-killing jumps you count, spiced with every art of
the old bucker's repertoire. Look, he's circling toward
the corrals, still inside the fence.
Caldwell's breath is coming back a little, things have
ceased swimming. You know he is badly handicapped
through the blow on his chest and a rope too slack
to balance himself with. But his determination to
make the greatest ride of his life is as evident as is
the determination of the brute beneath him that he
shall not
216
THE ROUND-UP
It is the slack now that bothers. He reaHzes after
the horse was freed and after the first buck, that if he
took it up with the other hand he would be disquali-
fied. But he is a heady rider.
Quick as thought on the uprise of a buck, he takes
the "fuzz" of rope (the frayed end) in his teeth—
which many have seen him do in exhibition rides when
he held both hands up to make a hit. There is no rule
against this. He now slides his hand down and is set
for a new fight as he approaches the fence. He knows
by the animal's actions whether he will go over it or
crash through.
"Wow! Wow! Wow! Stay a long time, cowboy !"
yells the mounted contingent, lined behind the outer
fencing in the gap between the bleachers. Springing
skyward, Long Tom clears the fence with a pretty
jump. Caldwell is sitting "straight up" in a way no
man has ever sat Long Tom before. He knows he has
him now. It gives him a chance for a flowery show,
see he's throwing a lot of bouquets.
"Scratch 'im, Pete," yells a mounted buckaroo with
a grin, as the big sorrel weaves and bounds his rocky
way by the horsemen.
Caldwell now makes the fur fly in a way that is un-
believable. Every previous rider has stopped at raking
the famous outlaw with spurs. It has been generally
admitted that the man did not live who could do that
and still sit on his back.
Caldwell now confines his rowels to the great hump-
ing shoulders to make him flinch — circle — before the
ki-hooting hellian, who now seems to have gone plumb
cultus, smashes and tears him to pieces against the
posts and wire of the high outer fence of the track.
He does it barely in time; down the track by the
217
LET 'ER BUCK
yelling, yipping mounted cowboys ; along by the whoop-
ing Indian bucks, shrill ki-yi-ing women and scream-
ing papooses; on around the track flies the outlaw,
semi-circling the entire eastern end, bounds and bucks
his way, pounding the earth in a manner that must
rattle loose the teeth and bones of the lithe, boyish
figure of Caldwell, who still miraculously riding true
to form, through
"Flip, flop, dive or hunch,
Just sticks him like a burr."
See there! — Half way round to the grandstand
something has happened which never happened before.
The hitherto undaunted king of buckers is breaking
into a run — surrenders — he's been ridden out. But
even running Long Tom is hard to ride, and every step
by this time is a buck to Caldwell weak as he is.
"You've got 'im, Lee," came from bleacher and
grandstand.
Bang! went the judge's pistol. "Take him up!"
Herb Thompson rides alongside, Lee hands him his
rope as is his custom and a great help to the herder.
Pandemonium breaks loose as Thompson, himself a
superb rider, snubs up the first-time-defeated outlaw
monarch and swerves him around. Caldwell musters his
remaining strength and springs ofi to one side, landing
twelve or fifteen feet away, as is his unique habit in
dismounting from bad horses. He figures he has won
and would rather take a chance with a sprained ankle
than a kick. In the midst of the terrific uproar of
cowboy yells, shouts of his name and cheers mingle,
he walks a bit unsteadily until he reaches the fence
then leans against it.
218
THE ROUND-UP
But the end is not yet. Canutt and Caldwell have
been scheduled to ride Spitfire and P. J. Nut. No one
believed any man could scratch Long Tom and stay
on — besides the program must be carried through.
Spitfire, a vicious little mare, is already over there in
the arena. The wranglers brought her in before the
saddle was scarce pulled from the vanquished Long
Tom. Lee is still resting against the fence, but he is
already ordered to ride again.
Short as the respite is, it is here in the final test
that his marvelous reserve strength, the conservation
of his splendid health due to his intelligent training,
tells. His recuperative reaction is immediate, and
although Spitfire puts in an unusually, fast, tricky
ride, in comparison to Long Tom, she undoubtedly
felt like a feather bed. Just the same, Lee feels about
ready to go home when he dismounts.
Again the unexpected happens. Canutt knows he
has second money won. The ride on Long Tom can-
not be excelled. Preferring to keep what he has got,
which is his privilege, he withdraws his ride.
"Then it's up to you, Lee. Ride him !" you hear the
judges say.
This is too much for Drumheller, who has been
watching over his pal, like a cat with one kitten, and
his objections are energetic if not poetic. Lee pauses
a moment, a bit white. Then his dark eyes snap.
"Yes, ril ride 'im; and then you can bring out your
whole damn bunch and I'll ride 'em all."
And ride 'im he does — that chunky, powerful, con-
centrated extract of horse meat, P. J. Nut, which if
you scratched a match in his ear he'd set the prairie on
fire. He fans him — he scrapes him — and another
astonishing ride is credited to the greatest living rider
219
HELL BENT !
This picture of hell bent and back again hardly describes this
picture or the sensations its rider must have felt when this hell-
diving demon "broke in two." The rider is Lee Caldwell of Pen-
dleton, the bucker is Flying Devil. The ride was made at Miles
City, Montana, which brought this peer of bucking riders the
Montana State Bucking Championship. The picture was taken by
Marcell and is a remarkable bucking picture, for it is seldom one
catches real action on a real tough horse.
"Lee," I said one night when he dropped in to see me, from
his ranch hidden away back up the Canyon. "How about Flying
Devil, was he as bad as he looks?"
"Well, I'll tell you — I consider him the hardest horse I ever
rode. You see, it isn't the horse that sunfishes or twists that
makes it hardest for one to ride, it's the punishment he gives the
rider. Flying Devil was an outlaw and came from a mountain
range either in Montana or Idaho and I consider mountain-bred
horses the strongest. Until Flying Devil was broken down in his
knees there was practically no direction. You know, a bucking
horse's muscles will indicate his action — if he's going to sunfish
to the right for instance, his muscles contract accordingly and
give you the cue, but he didn't, he was all pure strength and
speed — every move he made was just so sudden, there was no
spring, no cue. You see," and a retrospective smile passed over
his face as he pointed to the extreme southwest corner of the
picture, "this is where he was when he started this buck, but fac-
ing the other way — you see where he is and how he's facing now.
He's the only horse I ever rode that could apparently jump
straight backward as far as he could forwards."
Marceli
Hell Bent!
'Hf D
ASTOR. r ^„,,,,
THE ROUND-UP
of today. But half through the ride Lee's tactics
change. The grandstand doesn't notice it much, the
old buckaroos do. Only Lee knows why he changed
his tactics. "I realized," he tells Drumheller after dis-
mounting, "that having to ride another horse with the
hurt in my arm getting me so loco mad I was likely
to be uncautious — so I clamped down a bit." But he
rides into as pretty a finish as has ever been made.
The deafening uproar is only exceeded by a greater
one. Wave after wave undulates around the great
oval as though to shake the very structure from its
foundations. The whole colossal saucer goes wild and
even the grandstand jumps up on the seats and throws
things at one another.
Caldwell has won the rough-riding championship
of the world hands down, as the committee has re-
quired. He has ridden everything in sight, including
four of the worst outlaws that could be gathered to-
gether— one immediately after another — within the
space of forty-five minutes — and has scratched them
all. But more inconceivable yet, he has done what no
man has ever done before — he has scratched that
king of buckaroos. Long Tom, from start to finish,
from wither to rump and — "ridden him" — with broken
bones in arm and chest thrown in.
"How do you feel, Lee?"
But Lee was looking toward the outlaw corral :
"Gad!' he ejaculates, "how he did come to pieces!'*
THE CRASHING CLIMAX
The end of those wonderful three days of thrills
and spills comes with the great finale — the wild-horse
race.
221
LET 'ER BUCK
Over against the dull glow of the West from where
the half dust storm is now sweeping across Central
Oregon, filling the air with that peculiar mellow haze,
a denser cloud suddenly sweeps from the corrals as
twenty wild horses, never before saddled, sweep -like
a tornado around the track.
From in front of the grandstand, twenty bronzed
cowboys leave as many helpers each at his assigned
place, and sweep like a second tornado around to meet
this stampeding herd of unbroken "bunch grassers."
There is a clash. Some collide, a few go down. In
this fighting, plunging, rearing, kicking chaos some
rope their horses and eventually work them over to
their stations in front of the grandstand. Others dash
about the arena in mad pursuit. Off to the left is a
roped horse on one side of the fence, the roper on
the other; directly below you a dozen fight to wrangle
and saddle the horses already caught — and all are
caught eventually.
There in that outfit, the saddling is all but accom-
plished. A rope breaks and regardless of surrounding
wranglers, riders and helpers, the escaping one dashes
madly through, knocking over a helper, thereby setting
free another horse. Here, a tenacious little brute
swings helper and rider into the heels of one of his
companions. There rider and helper fall in a grim
tussle with their horse, and for a moment it is hard to
distinguish which is which, in the pyrotechnics of
kicking, struggling legs, but one of the wranglers
catches the regulation chunk of ear in his mouth and
the animal is conquered.
There a roped animal madly describes a circle, trip-
ping and catching men and saddles with the rope, but
no phase is too serious for the crowd to lose its humor.
222
THE ROUND-UP
As one cowpuncher takes a spill and reveals a bald
head, a voice yells out above the hullabaloo :
"Look out you don't burn the top of your face
there, Bill."
The crowd roars a short laugh of approval. So
they plunge, rear, bite, squeal, kick and strike, roll
and crowd, but it is a marvel how in the midst of this
mass of untamed horses and agile, strong men of
iron nerve, any escape this melee of teeth and
hoofs. Somehow they do, save for a few minor
injuries.
But no ! something's happened — a mounted wrangler
has been yanked over sidewise — horse and all — a ter-
rific crushing fall, by the powerful wild thing he's
roped. See — a half dozen cowboys spring to his aid;
they know horses and men too well not to know some-
thing serious has happened. The limp figure, in its
black-spotted Angora chapps, is gently placed on a
stretcher — and they carry him to the first aid tent.
But it is too late ; a big fellow draws his sleeve across
his eyes. — It's little old Winnamucca Jack — he's ridden
into the Happy Hunting Grounds.
The last horse is saddled, the signal is given to
mount. With only a halter rope for a rein they at-
tempt to ride and guide their horses around the track.
Each man mounts his steed — or tries to — and in this
hell-let-loose cyclone of centaurs, each endeavors first
to ride and then to guide his wild-crazy, bucking
animal around the track to the corrals.
Such a scene may indeed warrant the expression of
one visiting onlooker who qualified it as a "god-
snapped movey."
Blindfolded, with pent-up ferocity, the untamed
outlaws feel for the first time, the man-things astride
22i
LET 'ER BUCK
their backs. The gunny sack bhndfolds are jerked
from the animals' eyes.
"Let 'er buck!" Twenty horses are leaving undone
no twist, turn, or jump to shake their riders. It's
saddles to cinch-holes that a man, unless he is of the
champion breed, "hits the dust" about the time he
starts out.
Not a rail of the fence in front of the grandstand
is left. Crash! Smash! it is ripped out in sections.
One horse, not content with this, takes wire fence,
post, and all, and lands in the near-by bleachers.
Others are fast smashing into kindling wood distant
portions of the arena fence, some bucking, others
running away.
The hundred-thousand-eyed throng sees them from
every angle. For three whole days the vast audience
has breathed their thoughts and exclamations with one
accord. Now for a full twenty minutes this vast mass
of humanity has stood physically and mentally on tiptoe
before this stupendous climax, and is now swept by
the swift wind of a human passion, taut as steel, biting
as a knife. At last Nature breaks, and, lets loose
and the big arena literally vibrates with a cloudburst
of pent-up energy. It eventually subsides, the crowd
for a space stands spellbound where it had been stand-
ing for the last half hour.
As the dust settles, some still linger to drink in the
peaceful scene as the last horseman leaves the empty
arena. September saffron silhouettes the rolling hills
of eastern Oregon, night is silver dimming the still-
ness of things, the great red lantern of the lowering
sun sheds its orange-red on the silent oval, the range
cries die away, and on your memory, a red-letter day
is painted.
224
THE ROUND-UP
The Round-Up means more than a great, hazardous,
thrilHng spectacle. Old men — yes, and old women —
looked out through a mist of years and read between
the lines of this page, torn from a chapter of the Old
West, the struggles of a life which formed an im-
portant part in the making of our Nation. By the
stranger and the young too, the story is read, more
vividly than any brush can paint or pen describe. For
three days they had "let 'er buck." For three days
Pendleton had lived in the full spirit of the open, brave
humor - loving, dauntless, empire - winning, nation-
holding, riding, fighting generation of the clean men
and women of the Great West.
I stood beside a silent figure on a silent horse : "Old
Hank" Caplinger looked wistfully toward the night-
dimmed skyline. Perhaps a phantom of the days gone
by blurred the scene for the old scout, and he saw the
old range just before the night herder sings to his
herd, and perhaps he saw
Ten thousand cattle straying,
As the rangers sang of old,
The warm chinook's delaying,
The aspen shakes with cold.
Ten thousand herds are passing,
So pass the golden years.
Behind us clouds are massing.
Like the last of the old frontiers.
A little distance away, under the hush of blue night
which pervades everything, the camp-fires of the Uma-
tillas glow red among their lodges, within which dimly
silhouette the shadow forms of the red-skinned inhabi-
tants. They, too, have lived again in the open the
marvelous, color-reeking carnival of their race. Their
15 225
LET 'ER BUCK
tepee smokes of sage-brush and greasewood burn an
incense to the god of the range and freedom; then
their fires dim, the Cottonwood's soft, feathery masses
stencil darkly against the silver-oxide of night. Crawl-
ing slowly above them, the crescent of the new moon
shadows its pale calm on the stillness of things.
It is all a chapter taken out of the history of the
old West — a chapter which every American with red
blood in his veins should read in the real before it
passes by and, like the old West, forever disappears
on the horizon of time.
But to understand, one must look with one's own
eyes on these things. Then you will feel the stir and
the thrill of life of these golden lands of hopes and
achievements, where man extends a generous and
hospitable welcome to those who cross his trails ; it is
a spectacle which makes you go away with a bigger,
finer feeling toward life, and a genuine respect and
appreciation for the quiet, modest manhood and
womanhood who have "taken chances," have risked
limb and even life at times in their sports of daring
and skill, that you may see how their fathers once
struggled in earnest against unequal odds in order to
attain the Winning of the West.
226
THE BUCKERS' OWN TABLE
GIVING A COMPARATIVE RECORD OF THE SUCCESS OR FAILURE OF SOME OF
THE LEADING ROUND-UP BUCKERS OVER A PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS
Whistling Annie <
Hot Foot
Smithy
Long Tom
Lightfoot
Year
Rider
Result
Rides
1913
Jack Joyce
Thrown
Jay Miller
Thrown
Sam Brownell
Rode
1914
Dan Thompson
Disqu.
Henry Webb
Rode
1915
W. H. Chandler
Disqu.
' 3
Dave White
Thrown
John Muir
Pulled
1916
Ed. McCarty
Rode
G. Ghangrow
Thrown
Ben Dobbins
Thrown
' 1913
Fred Heide
Thrown
Pete Wilson
Thrown
W. W. Matthews
Thrown
C. C. Couch
Rode
1914
'.^. Mosbey
Thrown
3
H. Wilcox
Disqu.
. H. Strickland
Rode
.1915
R. S. Hall
Rode
1913
Andrew Jack
Rode
1914
Silver Harr
Thrown
Tex White
Thrown
1915
A. Skeels
Rode
Yakima Cannutt
Rode
1916
Jas. Shuster
Thrown
1913
Tex Daniels
Pulled
Ed. McGilvray
Thrown
A. E. McCormack
Rode
1914
Red Parker
Rode
1915
Ira de Mille
Rode
5
Earl Simpson
Thrown
Lee Caldwell
Rode
1916
Bob Beebe
Thrown
.
Rufus RoUen
Rode
1913
Ed. McCarty
Rode
Harry Brennan
Pulled
Bob Cavin
Rode
1914
Paul Hansen
Thrown
N. McKay
Pulled
6
John Judd
Rode
1915
Johnson Barnhart
Rode
Jack Sundown
Rode
1916
Everett Wilson
Pulled
Earl Manderville
Rode
Throws
228
Year
Rider
Result
Rides
1913
W. S. MacHaffey
Rode
1914
C. Plant
B. GotUef
Thrown
Thrown
Casey Jones
1915
C. McKinley
Ed. McCarty
Dell Blancett
Thrown
Rode
Rode
5
1916
Jack Sundown
Rode
Clay Porter
Rode ,
1913
W. E. Powell
Earl Smith
H. S. McCrea
Disqu.
Pulled
Rode
Butter Creek
1914
Art Acord
Rode
4
1915
Cliff Gerard
Jim Massey
Thrown
Rode
1916
Roy Jones
Rode
1915
Henry Warren
Pulled 1
Old Colonial
1916
Ed. McCarty
Yakima Cannutt
Rode
Rode
2
•
John Maggert
Thrown.
1913
Harv McCrea
Henry Webb
Lee Caldwell
Disqu. "
Rode
Rode
Wiggles
X915
Bill Cover
J. B. Woodall
Disqu.
Rode
5
1916
Simon Jack
M. Thompson
Rode
Thrown
•
Jack Sundown
Rode -
1915
Fred Heide
R. S. Hall
Rode
Rode
Angel
1916
Rufus RoUen
D. Henderson
Rode
Thrown
4
■
Jack Sundown
Rode
[ 1913
G. E. Attebury
Rode ]
M'Kay
Bill Gerking
Rode } 2
I 1916
Joe Hayes
Thrown]
1913
Claud Franklin
Pulled
Crooked River •
Henry Webb
Rode r
.1914
E. A. CalHson
Disqu.
1913
'. Ben Corbett
Rode
' ioot Gibson
Thrown
. ack Hawn
Rode
6
Mrs. Wiggs
1914
ack Fretz
Rode
Dell Blancett
Rode
Allen Holt
Rode
. 1916
Frank Smith
Rode
Throw
229
THE RODE AND THROWN TABLE
BEING A NUMERICAL RECORD OF THE ENTRIES, WITHDRAWALS (PULL-OUTS),
RIDES, THROWS, AND DISQUALIFICATIONS OF THE ROUND-UP BUCKAEOO
CONTESTANTS OVER A PERIOD OF EIGHT YEARS.
September il September 12, Friday
September 13, Saturday
Thursday p.m. Morning Afternoon Afternoon Afternoon
Elimination Elimination Elimination Semi-Finals Grand Finals
Contests Contests
1913
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Horse Pell
Rode
Not available
40 19
14 3
5 8
I C. H. I P.
I 0
24 7
1914
L
September 24
September 25
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Rode
18
I
8
I P. L.
8
39 21
16 2
3 S. S. 4
4 P. L. I P.
10 14
191S
L
September 23
September 24
Fntries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Rode
IS
3
4
8
18
Not available i
u.
II
I9I6
L
September 21
September 22
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Rode
16
I
3
0
13
30 16
7 3
8 3
0 2 P.
IS 8
1917
L.
September 20
September ai
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Rode
17
4
4
0
9
SO 19
13 I
5 3
0 0
32 IS
1918
September 19
September 20
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Rode
23
3
S
0
16
36
3
Not available 7
0
17
10
10
14
I
3
O
II
September 26
September 25
IS
o
3
I P. L.
II
September 23
14
I
a
September 22
17
o
I
o
16
16
3
3
o
12
Septembei 21,
230
I9I9
September i8
Sept
ember 19
September 20
Thursday, P.M. Morning
Elimination Elimination
Contests Contests
Afternoon
Elimination
Afternoon
Semi-Finals
Afternoon
Grand Finals
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Horse Fell
Rode
21
3
7
3P. L.
8
38
IS
6
2
I
14
23
IS
4
0
8
1920
IS
4
3
0
5
3
September 23
Sept
ember 24
September 25
Entries
Pulled Out
Thrown
Disqualified
Horse Fell
Rode
II
2
2
I
6
12
4
2
2
I
3
13
I
4
0
8
13
0
3
0
10
4
Pulled out means withdrew.
C. H. indicates changed hand.
P. L. indicates pulled leather.
S. S. saddle slipped.
On the afternoons of the first and second days (Thursday and
Friday) of the Round-Up the riders contest for places in the semi-
finals. A certain number of buckers are ridden and a certain num-
ber of buckaroos are eliminated. Because of the great number of
contestants, sometimes numbering over two hundred, it is necessary
to hold an elimination contest on Friday morning as well. A fair
number of the entrants pull out which indicates the number of star
buckers put on at the Round-Up. Only sixteen riders having the
highest rating come through these elimination contests. They are
selected for the semi-finals which are the first bucking contests
held on the afternoon of the last day (Saturday) of the Round-Up.
From the sixteen contestants in the semi-finals four star riders
are chosen. Three only are selected to compete in the grand finals
which follow the semi-finals. The fourth man is held in reserve to be
put in to compete for third place in case any one of the first three
chosen are thrown.
As yet, — and this is a remarkable tribute to the jugdment of the
judges — the fourth man has never been used, as a grand final rider
has never been thrown in the entire history of the Round-Up, though
many failed to scratch their mounts.
These three riders then draw from a hat the names of the horses
they are to ride, contesting respectively for the first, second and third
bucking horse championships of the world.
231
THE BUCKING-TIME TABLE
showing the length of time the buckaroo riders stayed in the
saddle during the elimination contests, the semi-finals and
finals in the bucking horse contests at the i917 round-up
Elimination Contest
Friday a.m., September 21, 1917
Entry
Time in
No.
Rider
Horse
Result
Seconds
75
S. D. Sloan
Bear Cat
Refused ride
62
Isaac Williams
Mexicana
Rode
15
154
Jake Luke
Jack Sundown
54
Bob Hall
Aragon
Rode
2lf
146
Fred Harding
Crooked River
Rode
i8|
15
Silver Han-
Okanogan
Thrown
I5f
45
Lee Mathis
Oregon Steamboat
153
Isaac Anthony
Poncho Villa
Rode
18
133
Dan Thompson
Weiser
160
Bert Gathff
Windmill
136
L. R. Kuydendall
Snake
Rode
19
35
Pete Wilson
Shelall
Rode
30
38
Fred Nicholas
Buckskin B.
Rode
I3f
143
Paul Venable
Kaiser
Thrown
15
138
Francis Narciss
Brown Jugg
Rode
III
82
Dave White
Tango
155
Mack Guant
Izee
74
Scoop Martin
Hot Lake
Rode
I6|
76
H. C. Nieter
Powder River
Rode
15
28
Harold Ahalt
Hesitation
Rode
18
113
W. Whitmore
Spanish Molly
Rode
25
34
John Muir
Gipsy
Rode
I6t
10
Rich Shockley
Buggs
Rode
21
51
Tom Baize
Introduction
102
Wm. Brown
Butter Creek
Rode
II
2
Bill Baker
King Spain
Rode
151
40
Andre Jack
John Ice water
Rode
»9
97
B. H. Murray
Bill Buck
96
Jim Lewis
Hot Foot
232
Rider
80 C. Manderville
^59 Lee Monah
i\26 Ora de Mille
Ijj5 Geo. French
7 Jim Lynch
139 P. Scoggins
115 P. Pierce
JLOi D. Heyler
/122 G. Fletcher
157 P. Bymer
53 Ed. McGilvray
46 E. Bouchard
20 B. Ewing
104 J. Judd
26 S. Luton
120 M. Thompson
; 86 P. Shippentower
41 W. Cain
13 E. Newquist
32 T. Grimes
18 B. Anderson
158 Dave Myers
145 Narcise McKay
79 A. Spadden
27 Wilkins WiUiams
73 Clarence Plant
81 Kenneth Barrett
127 Dock Osbom
161 Earl McCullough
99 Ed. McCarty
156 Dan Condon
17 Bill Ridings
137 John Maggert
8 Yakima Cannutt
151 John Spain
105 Tom Douglas
64 Dave White
60 Jay Talbot
114 Bob Bunke
70 Ben Oakes
Time in
Horse
Result
Seconds
Spit Fire
North Powder
Rode
14
Sad Sam
Rode
22
Squaw Creek
High Tower
Fell
22
Dick Rawlins
Rode
I9i
Scar Legs
Black Diamond
Rode
7§
Nutcracker
Rode
I5f
Hellfirejack
Rode
I2f
D. Robbin
Rode
i8f
Lookout
Thrown
9
Sundance
Rode— Pulled
I7f
P. J. Nutt
Rode
I5f
Bango
Rode
22
Wardalopa
Thrown
7
Dimple
Rode
15I
G. Minthom
Rode
i6i
Sunnybrook
Rode
155
Carrie Nation
Calgary
Rode
15
Monkey Wrench
Thrown
5
Lightfoot
Rode
I3f
Bill McMurray
Rode
14I
Corbett
Rode
28
Wiggles
Rode
14
Cyclone
Rode
I8f
Smithy
Rode
19
Culdesac
Rode
17
Grave Digger
Rode
15
Headlight
Thrown
9
Long Creek
Rode
i5f
McKay
Rode
8
Whistling Annie
Rode
I7i
Mrs. Wiggs
Rode
i6i
Tom Stevens
Rode
m
Fire Alarm
Rode
Hi
Angel
Rode
26I
Old Colonial
Rode
23i
233
SEMI-FINALS
September 22, 1917
Entry
Time in
No.
Rider
Horse
Result
Seconds
104
John Judd
Wiggles
Rode
I8|
53
Ed. McGilvray
Okanogan
Thrown
4
2
Bill Baker
Jackson Sundown
Rode
12
99
Ed. McCarty
Sundance
Rode
15
85
Paul Hastings
Bear Cat
Rode
13
133
Dan Thompson
Smithy
Rode
i4i
114
Robert Burke
Lightfoot
Rode
10
64
Dave White
Oregon Steamboat
Rode
i7i
8
Yakima Cannutt
Corbett
Rode
16
no
Leonard Stroud
Whistling Annie
Rode
I5f
54
Bob Hall
Monkey Wrench
Rode
23
35
Pete Wilson
Speedball
Rode
13
146
Fred Harding
Casey Jones
Rode
12
12
Tex Smith
Bango
Rode
I5f
39
: 'aul Scoggins
Aragon
Rode
15
34
^ ohn Muir
Wardalopa
Rode
I5i
34
John Muir
Tom Stevens
FINALS
Rode
8
Yakima Cannutt
Culdesac
Rode
I4i
64
Dave White
P. J. Nutt
Rode
14
54
Bob Hall
Angel
Rode
i7i
234
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
For terms relating to "harness" see under "bit and
bridle" and "saddle" ; to riding under "bucking-horse
riding" ; to kinds of buckers under "bucking" ; to any
kind of horse under "horse"; to any kind of range
cattle under "steer" ; to saddling and "taking-up"
horses under "wrangling."
BAD LANDS — alkali, clayey or desert land, poor or imcultivable.
BAD MAN— outlaw.
BAND — a very small herd of horses, cattle, sheep or men on the
range.
BEEF CRITTER— a cattle old and heavy enough to be sold for beef.
BIT AND BRIDLE
Bit — comprises mouthpiece, bit cheeks and chains.
Bridle — comprises bridle cheeks or side leathers; brow band over
eyes; throat latch, going around neck under ears and curb strap
under jaw, all of which comprise the headstall which, with
reins included, is considered a bridle.
Halter — a simplified headstall but usually of heavier leather with-
out a brow band, used for tethering or leading, for which
purpose a halter rope is attached.
Hackamore — comprises a bosal or rawhide loop noose over horse's
nose with a light strap attached to each side and going over the
head. A small light 5-16" rope to give strength is attached to
the knot, under-chin end of the bosal by special knots called
"theodore" knots. From this junction this rope extends be-
yond the theodore knots and is used as a leading rope.
Hackamore Rope — is a rope by skillful looping of which a hacka-
more form of headplate is improvised.
BREAK RANGE— running off the range.
235
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
BREAKING— conquering and taming and training a horse by force
and fight.
BOYS — cowboys or hands on a ranch.
BRONCHO BUSTER — a cowboy who rides and breaks wild or
unbroken horses.
BUCKAROO — or a broncho-buster — a cowboy who can ride and
then some. Applied generally to the riders who take part in
the Round-Up.
BUCKER— see "horses."
BUCKING — gyrations of a horse to unseat a rider.
Bucking Straight Away— bucking that consists of long jumps
straight ahead without twisting, whirling or rearing. Usually
not difficult for a buckaroo to ride.
Sunfishing — a movement which some bucking horses have, con-
sisting particularly of a posterior twist, alternately left and right,
as the animal bucks, so that the horse's body, when it rises in
the air is in the form of an arc. A sunfisher is generally a very
difficult animal to ride.
High Roller or High Poler— a horse that leaps high into the air
when bucking.
BUCKING-HORSE RIDING OR ROUGH-RIDING— riding un-
tamed horses that buck.
^ Riding Slick — consists in riding with the usual cowboy equip-
ment, i.e., saddle, chaps, and spurs and without aid of hobbled
stirrups, locked spurs or bucking rolls.
" Slick Heels — riding without spurs.
Locked Spurs — spurs in which rowels have been fastened so they
will not move. When these spurs are held firmly in the cinch
it is impossible for a horse to unseat its rider. They are also
barred.
Throwing the Steel — synonymous with raking and scratching.
Using the spurs.
Scratching — the act of a buckaroo while riding a bucking horse in
using his spurs to make the animal buck its hardest. In
scratching, the buckaroo must necessarily allow the legs to be
free and thus take more chances. If a broncho-buster scratches
a bad horse, he is generally making a good ride.
Raking— synonymous with scratching. Generally applies when
rider gives his legs a free sweep, rolling the rowels of his spurs
along the horse's side from shoulder to rump. Sometimes
called scratching fore and aft. One of the highest accompHsh-
ments coveted by the broncho-buster.
236
I
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
Riding Straight Up — the rider of a bucking horse sitting erect in
his saddle, one hand holding the halter rope and the other high
in the air "fanning" with hat.
Close Seat — a seat in the saddle which is steady and firm. An
important consideration in the eyes of the judges.
Riding Safe — sitting tight in the saddle, the legs tightly gripping
the horse's sides and the spurs generally set firmly in the cinch.
Riding Sloppy — sitting loosely in the saddle, allowing body to
wave and flop about in response to the gyrations of the animal.
It is sometimes called "grandstand " riding but is not considered
good form in a contest.
Seeing Daylight — a term applied when daylight can be seen
between the rider and the seat of his saddle.
^ Pulling Leather — holding on to any part of the saddle, usually the
horn to steady oneself. A rider who pulls leather is in dis
grace and is disqualified as surely as is one who is thrown. Most
cowboys will allow themselves to be thrown before they will
pull leather.
-- Choking the Biscuit — nearly synonymous with " pulling leather."
Sometimes called "choking the horn." Consists in catching
hold of the horn of the saddle in order to keep from being thrown.
Biting the Dust — cowboy term for being thrown from a bucking
horse and usually follows after "choking the biscuit." It also
often happens to many hungry for adventure on the hurricane
deck of a bucking bronc.
BUNCH — applied to a small herd of horses or cattle or group of men.
BUNCHGRASSERS — range horses living on bunchgrass.
CATTLE — a general term sometimes used for both bovines and
equines; in lieu of the singular case the same word can be used.
CATTLE RUSTLER— cattle thief.
CATTALOE — a hybrid offspring of a buffalo and a cattle.
CAVY — a band of saddle horses used on a round-up.
CHUCK WAGON — cook wagon which accompanies an outfit of
cowboys or others working on the range.
COWBOY or VAQUERO (Sp.)— cowhand; ranch-hand, one of that
adventurous class of herders and drovers of the plains and ranges
of the western United States who does his work on horseback.
He is famed for his hardiness, recklessness and daring.
CRITTER — any man or beast,
CUT OUT — to work out and separate animals from the herd.
FORTY FIVE — a .45 caliber revolver, usually a Colts or Smith and
Wesson.
211
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
GENTLING — any gentle method of taming an unbroken or
untrained horse.
GRISETTE— ask the A. E. F.
GYPPING — fooling or deceiving.
HIGHWAY ROUND— the natural way of living and dying.
HITCHED — a pack, a horse or anything tied up with a rope.
HI-YU-SKOOKUM — Indian jargon used by Cayuse and Nez Perce
tribes meaning "very good."
HOBBLES — a short rope or any arrangement used for tying the fore
fetlocks of a horse near together to prevent straying.
HONDA — the mettle piece inside the " eye ' ' splice of a lariat through
which the noose of the rope travels.
HORSE RUSTLER— horse thief.
HORSES— often pronounced "hoss" or "hawse."
Broncho or Bronch (K or without h) — a Spanish word applied to
the small native Mexican horse meaning rough and wild, now
applied to any untamed range horse.
Cayuse — an Indian pony; also the name of one of the tribes of
Indians now located on the Umatilla reservation, members of
which participate in the Round-Up.
Cuitan — Indian name for pony. Also called by cowboys bob-tail,
fuzz-tail and mustang.
Outlaw — sometimes called a "bad one" is a horse whose spirit is
unconquerable and which can never be broken to ride. He
always fights and always bucks. The animals ridden in the
Round-up bucking contests are outlaws of the worst type to be
found in the world.
Slick-Ear — sometimes used synonymously with maverick but is
usually applied to unbranded horses. Comes from the practice
among early day horsemen of slitting the ears of their horses
to distinguish them, so a horse with smooth or unslit ears was as
good as unbranded. A slick-ear can no more be claimed than a
maverick.
Wild Horse — a native of the range that has never been ridden or
broken. He may be a bucker or may not. The animals ridden
in the wild horse race each day have never had more than a
rope on them since the day of their birth. Many of them have
seen but a few men in all their lives.
HOBBLED STIRRUPS— see under saddle.
JERK WATER — applied to a little, insignificant place where trains
stop only to take or jerk on water for the engine.
LASHER — man who handles the lash or whip on a stagecoach.
238
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
LARIAT or LASSO— often called "rope" or "lass rope" made of
plaited rawhide or hemp with a small loop or an eye splice
shrunk over a brass honda at one end through which free end is
run, thus forming the noose.
MOUNTING PONY EXPRESS— mounting to the saddle without
the aid of the stirrups. Consists in the rider grabbing the horn
of the saddle, starting his horse on a gallop, bounding two or
three times by his side and leaping over the cantle into the
seat. So called after the fashion of pony express riders in
mounting to save time.
MUCK-A-MUCK — Cayuse Indian jargon for food.
MUSTANG — see under horses.
NESTLER — homesteader or squatter.
OUTFIT — a. term applying to the equipment of man, horse, group
of men, ranch or a large concern, or to the men, horses them-
selves and to the complement of a ranch or concern or any
group or part thereof.
'ONERY — possibly an abbreviation for honorary, meaning mean,
untractable or worthless.
PASSENGER — in stagecoach race the cowboys who ride to balance
coach to keep it from capsizing at the turns.
PARD — pardner, partner.
PERALTA — the band or herd of cattle rounded up for cutting out.
PLUM CULTUS — expression meaning as bad as they make them,
cussed est; cultus comes from the Indians.
POSSE — band of men organized to run down a man or a small band
of men usually outlaws or thieves.
QUIRT — see under saddle.
RAN A BUTCHER SHOP AND GOT HIS CATTLE MIXED— stole
or rustled cattle and was found out.
RED EYE or NOSE PAINT— whiskey.
ROPE— see "lasso."
ROPIN'— lassooing.
ROUGH-RIDING— riding a bucking horse.
SADDLE — western saddle, cowboy saddle. This saddle is a distinct
type comprising the following parts:
Tree — a frame of wood covered with rawhide.
Horn — formerly of wood, now of steel, covered with rawhide.
Fork — the front part of the tree and supports horn.
Gullet — curved portion of under side of the fork.
Cantle — raised back to the saddle seat.
Side Jockeys — leather side extensions of seat.
239
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
Back Jockeys — top skirts the uppermost broad leathers joining
behind cantle.
Skirts or Suderderos — (old Spanish) broad under leathers which
go next to the horse.
Stirrup Leathers — broad leathers hung from the bar of the tree
and from which stirrups hang.
Strings — underlying purpose to hold saddle leathers together but
ends are tied and left hanging, which adds to appearance as well
as usefulness in tying on things carried.
Fenders or Rosideros — broad leather sweat protectors swinging
from stirrup leathers. " '
Rigging — middle leathers attached to tree connecting with and
supporting cinch by latigos through rigging ring.
Cinch or Cincha (Sp.) — a girth of horsehair, leather, cotton or
mohair strapped under horse's belly to cinch or hold the saddle
on.
Rubber Cinch — an elastic cinch used in relay races to save time in
changing saddles. i
Cinch or Cincha Rings — on each end of the cincha.
Latigos — leather straps hanging from either side from the rigging
ring, other ends run through cinch rings used to tighten up
cincha.
Nigger Catcher — small slotted leather flap on one or both sides of
saddle, usually at base of cantle or fork or both. Purpose is to
hold long free end of latigo through slit when cinched up.
Stirrup — foot support usually of wood bound with iron or brass or
raw hide. Sometimes all iron or brass.
Hobbled Stirrups — stirrups tied to each other by a leather thong
running under the horse's belly. With stirrups hobbled, it is
almost the same as if the rider were tied in the saddle and there
is no play to the stirrups. Hobbled stirrups are not allowed in
bucking contests except that some women riders are allowed to
use them if they choose.
Tapideros or Taps — leather stirrup covers which serve as protec-
tion against cold and rain, especially through wet brush or
grass, from i8" to 20" in length. They are mostly for effect,
though some claim the stirrups ride better. In summer they
are discarded.
Quirt — a short heavy plaited pliable leather riding whip, used by
cowboys.
Seat — the easiest thing to find on a saddle but the hardest to keep.
SCRUB-TAIL — see under horses.
240
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
SEEING DAYLIGHT— see under rough- riding.
SHORT CUT — hanging or shooting a man summarily.
SLICK-EAR— see under "horses" and "steers."
STEER — young male of the ox kind, usually with wide-spreading
horns especially raised for beef. In the western United States
one of any age. Range steers are dangerous to men on foot.
Maverick — an unbranded bullock or heifer. Said to be derived
from the name of a Texas cattleman who neglected to brand his
cattle.
Slick-Ear — sometimes applied to steers. See under "horses."
STEER BULLDOGGING — a practice among cowboys consisting of
wrestling with a steer barehanded. Usually the cowboy rides
along-side the racing steer, leans over, seizes the horns of the
animal and swings to the ground. Then, using the horns as
levers, he twists the head of the steer until its muzzle points
upward, falls backward, thus throwing the steer off its balance.
In exhibitions the cowboy fastens his teeth in the upper lip of
the steer, releases the horns and holds the animal prostrate with
his teeth.
Hoolihatxing — another form of buUdogging consists in forcing the
horns of the running animal suddenly into the ground and thus
turning the animal a complete somersault. However, this form
is more dangerous to man and beast and is most cruel, inasmuch
as the animal's horns are frequently broken.
STEER BUSTING — popular name for roping ar * throwing a steer
with a lariat single handed.
STEER ROPING — the art of capturing, busting and hogtieing a
range steer single-handed.
Hogtieing — tieing together of the forefeet and one hind foot after
a steer has been lassoed and thrown. The process must be quick
in order to prevent the steer rising after he has been thrown.
STICK-UP-MAN — highwayman, stage robber.
STRAYS — cattle or horses which have mixed in with a herd but do
not belong to it.
STUFF — applied to a lot of cattle, horses, etc.
WANTED — said of a man desired by the law.
"WILD BUNCH — any untamed herd of men, women or horses.
WRANGLING — rounding up, catching and saddling range horses.
Wrangler — a buckaroo who handles the buckers in the arena and
assists the rider in saddling his horse. This wrangling is often
the most difficult and dangerous part of the task in subduing a
wild horse.
241
TIPS TO THE TENDERFOOT
Snubbing — the act of tying the horse's head to some fixed object,
usually through the fork and the horn of a saddle on another
horse.
Pick Him Up! or Take Him Up I or Cage Him Up! — cries given by
the judges to mounted helpers or "pick up men" after a horse
has bucked itself out and meaning to overtake and catch the
animal so that the rider can dismount and the saddle be removed.
WIND-UP, THE — of the year's range work is the round-up. This is
the annual gathering of cattle from the ranges for branding of
young stock and selection of beef for market. In the old days
large outfits of cowboys with their cook or "chuck" wagons
covered hundreds of miles of territory. Some of these round-
ups lasted several weeks, usually winding up with a jollification
in which all the cowboys participated in their most popular
pastimes and contests. The Epic Drama of the West in its
cowboy and Indian carnival, epitomizes the whole gamut of
range life and sounds the spirit of its clarion call in T^he Round-
Up Slogan— LET 'ER BUCK!
I
242
Jl Selection from the
Catalogue of
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Complete Catalogues sent
on application
Handbook of
Yosemite National
Park
Compiled and Edited by
Ansel F. Hall
U. S. National Park Service
Much lias been written of " The Valley Incom-
parable," and the 1 100 square miles of Scenic
High Sierra which have been set aside as a play-
ground for the people.
But there still remains the task of satisfying
the thousands who seek definite information con-
cerning its history, ethnology, botany, geology,
camp- and trail-craft, natural history, and related
subjects. No one man can be master of all these
branches of knowledge, so the editor presents
this collection of articles each by an eminent
authority.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
Prairie Flowers
By
James B. Hendryx
Author of " The Texan "
When Tex Benton said he'd do a thing, he
did it, as readers of " The Texan " will affirm.
So when, after a year of drought, he an-
nounced his purpose of going to town to get
thoroughly "lickered up," unsuspecting Tim-
ber City was elected as the stage for a most
thorough and sensational orgy.
But neither Tex nor Timber City could
foresee the turbulent chain of events which
were to result from his high, if indecorous,
resolve, here set down — the wild tale of an
untamed West.
A well-known writer, who has served his
apprenticeship in the cow country, said the
other day, " I like Hendryx's stories — they're
real. His boys are the boys I used to work
with and know. His West is the West I
learned to love."
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
\
The
Night Horseman
A Tale of Wild'-riding Herdsmen and
Outlaws, and their Deeds of
Daring and Deviltry
By
Max Brand
A well-known English critic said of The
Untamed — "There are in it passages of ex-
traordinary power — the whole conception is
very bold." And no less bold nor less
powerful is its sequel The Night Horseman,
Once again we ride in company with "Whist-
lin* Dan," the fearless, silent, mysterious
chap who shares the instincts of wild things,
and once again we engage with him in his
desperate adventures, hair-breadth escapes,
and whirlwind triumphs. A novel thrilling
in its reality, which will not be put down
by lovers of exciting fiction.
6. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
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