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-like 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 



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