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. 



"Goin' 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 



