LET 'ER BUCK 



its heavy hand tooling, its long tapideros jauntily 

 swinging and nipping 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 !" 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 



