THE ROUND-UP 



strated by any other rider of her sex. Look at the 

 superb saddle she sits, riding straight; but she rides 

 slick from start to finish in a way to satisfy the most 

 keen-eyed, hard-boiled judge — see, fans him, too, at 

 every jump, and on the last jumps into the world's 

 cowgirl bucking championship. 



"Ride 'im! Ride 'im! Sit up on that burra," 

 yelled Jess Erunn to Eloise Hastings of Cheyenne as 

 he jerked the blind off of Bug's blinkers — and ride 

 him she does into third place. As she alights from the 

 bucker, you see her hand fumble indefinitely around 

 her waist to the pocket-flap of her skirt. 



"Is she hurt?" you ask. — Listen! 



"Gee, Jess! I kept my chewing gum just where 

 I stuck it." 



What is the peculiar psychological phenomenon that 

 now seems to sweep around the great living oval of 

 humanity like the soft fanning of a warm chinook 

 wind. You feel it — everyone feels it, a great, invisible 

 mental rustle which sets the whole arena on edge — 

 then you know, when from nearly forty thousand 

 throats the Round-Up slogan ascends in one vast roar 

 — "Let 'er buck!" It echoes and reechoes until it dies 

 away in the interest of the king of range sports which 

 it proclaims — the cowboy's bucking contest for the 

 championship of the world. 



It is the rough-riding in which the greatest interest 

 and keenest judgment centers, for Pendleton brings 

 together the great exponents of the art, most of them 

 fresh from corral and sagebrush. The restive, furtive 

 outlaws are now led out. The buckaroos troop across 

 the arena and park their saddles in front of the judges' 

 stand. The crowd is on edge with expectancy for the 

 thrills of this most nerve-tightening event. 



189 



