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 

 Cobb 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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