LET 'ER BUCK 



in front of the cottonwoods, the mounted cowboy band 

 swings into the track, and to music of the famous 

 mounted cowboy band led by Bob Fletcher, the cow- 

 boys' and Indians' mounted grand march is ushered in. 



Following the directors, many of them ranchmen, 

 two, three or four abreast, about three hundred cow- 

 boys, cowgirls, scouts and old timers pass in review 

 to the jingle of chain and spur and the retch of leather. 

 See how all sit that close saddle characteristic of riders 

 to the saddle born and bred. The girls are in colored 

 corduroy and khaki or fringed and embroidered buck- 

 skin, the men in the ever-picturesque chapps, those of 

 Angora hair often brilliantly dyed, those of leather 

 glistening in their studdings of silver; while loosely, 

 freely, and generally askew about their necks, brilliant- 

 ly colored kerchiefs flap or flutter in the breeze. 



Striking in this ride of romance and kaleidoscope 

 of color is the Indian contingent on their gaily capari- 

 soned horses. Their long-tasselled trappings flap 

 about them as the copper-colored, painted faces of old 

 chief, young buck, pretty squaw, and little papoose, 

 stencilled in imperturbable profile, ride by the grand- 

 stand. Though there is never a turn of a head, one 

 who understands the Indian knows that little was 

 missed by those eagle eyes. 



The guidons now dash to their posts, and to music 

 this wonderful cavalcade serpentines its way back and 

 forth across the arena; the guidons acting as corners 

 are just markers for the column to swing around. 

 Jinks Taylor carries the national emblem which adds 

 the glory of color and symbol to this unhyphenated 

 American spectacle. Dell Blancett is just ahead of me 

 as we swing around guidon Fay LeGrow. 



"Are you a statue or a real human?" grins Dell as 



172 



