LET 'ER BUCK 



their backs. The gunny sack blindfolds are jerked 

 from the animals' eyes. 



"Let 'er buck!" Twenty horses are leaving undone 

 no twist, turn, or jump to shake their riders. It's 

 saddles to cinch-holes that a man, unless he is of the 

 champion breed, "hits the dust" about the time he 

 starts out. 



Not a rail of the fence in front of the grandstand 

 is left. Crash! Smash! it is ripped out in sections. 

 One horse, not content with this, takes wire fence, 

 post, and all, and lands in the near-by bleachers. 

 Others are fast smashing into kindling wood distant 

 portions of the arena fence, some bucking, others 

 running away. 



The hundred-thousand-eyed throng sees them from 

 every angle. For three whole days the vast audience 

 has breathed their thoughts and exclamations with one 

 accord. Now for a full twenty minutes this vast mass 

 of humanity has stood physically and mentally on tiptoe 

 before this stupendous climax, and is now swept by 

 the swift wind of a human passion, taut as steel, biting 

 as a knife. At last Nature breaks, and, lets loose 

 and the big arena literally vibrates with a cloudburst 

 of pent-up energy. It eventually subsides, the crowd 

 for a space stands spellbound where it had been stand- 

 ing for the last half hour. 



As the dust settles, some still linger to drink in the 

 peaceful scene as the last horseman leaves the empty 

 arena. September saffron silhouettes the rolling hills 

 of eastern Oregon, night is silver dimming the still- 

 ness of things, the great red lantern of the lowering 

 sun sheds its orange-red on the silent oval, the range 

 cries die away, and on your memory, a red-letter day 

 is painted. 



224 



