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. If 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 



