Life — January 18, 1923 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Winning the Westerners How I Put It Across at Pendleton By Walter E. Traprock. ITHIN the recent past, returning from a somewhat trying trip to the North Pole, I received an invitation to revisit our great West. I accepted at once. What a_ change since 1890 when, a mere lad, I used to stand at the bar of the Broken Knuckle $ saloon in Cheyenne and toss off the prairie schooners’ with all comers. Now, in place of plains teeming with buffalo are cities teem- ing with Elks. Across the vast grain country through which I once fought my way, traveling directly against the grain, stretches a cob- web of railroads. But in a remote corner, at Pendleton, Oregon, I found preserved a chapter of the old frontier life. Here I was guest of honor at the cowboy carnival or Round-up. “Walter,” said my host, Hank Col- lins, “would you aim to enter an event ?” “Yes,” I replied. “Meaning which?” he asked. “An Collins is the only man living who speaks pure bret-harte. Immediately things began to hap- pen. The first event was Bronk riding, which I had mastered years ago in the heart of the Bronx itself. A cowboy must be able to break his own mount unless his mount breaks him first. My horse, T-N-T, a cus- tard roan, was led up heavily man- acled and blind-foldéd, which I re- gretted as I was un- able to use the power of my eye on him. He was then gently sad- dled by the assistant or “wrangler,” a term coming from the old “Senior wranglers” of Oxford. Bronk riding must be done with one rein and without touching the saddle with the hands. The feet also -must be kept moving LIFE .- in a kicking motion. I more than fulfilled the specifications. As the moorings were cast off T-N-T and I arose in full flight. Disdaining the single rein, I rode with none. Not only did my hands not touch the saddle,—nothing did. With my feet kicking I remained in the air for 50 seconds, the competition period, de- scending to meet T-N-T coming up. I then dismounted. The arena was in an uproar. Contest number two was Roping. I am adept in the art of throwing a steer or bull, but Fate made my _perfor- mance more spec- tacular than I had anticipated. I roped my steer, a gi- gantic fellow, inrec- ord time. As I cir- cled him ‘prepara- tory to the throw he threw his two thousand pounds against the rope, when to my sur- prise my _ girths parted and I de- scribed a parabola in the air with the saddle still between my knees. Haul- ing in the slack as I flew I “played” the steer as one would a tarpon and, negotiating the distance between us, I succeeded in landing squarely on the beast’s ridge-pole. It was now my task to throw the steer while actually riding him. Quickly drop- ping my rope about the flying hoofs I hauled up the noose and he fell “TI arose in “I ‘played’ the steer as one would a tarpon.” with a crash, and on the instant I had him tied with the regulation three half-stitches, to which I added a true-lovers’-knot fot good measure. Time, 4-% seconds, a record. The crowd went wild. Steer wrestling, or “Bull dogging,” the next number, is a pastime of which I am so fond that I felt actual- ly sorry for the dumb brute which I knew I should face. As we shot from the chute into the arena I measured the distance be- tween my _ horse and the steer. A second later we crossed the “dead line” beyond which the steer was offi- cially mine. - In- stantly I leapt, seizing his horns and throwing my feet in front of me in spread-eagle formation. And . then a curious thing happened. I had neglected to remove my spurs and instead of slid- ing along the arena with a gradual, braking effect my heels dug in and the steer’s body whirled over my head in a sharp semicircle, during which I twisted his neck and landed him for a perfect fall in seven sec- onds. Pandemonium reigned. Ray Bell and Pinky Gist, two ex-cham- pions, left the arena in disgust. The last event, Fancy Rope-throw- ing, made a pleasant close to a rest- ful day. I defeated Soapy McGee in the finals by writing my name _ “Traprock” with the flying loops of my lariat. This was rather a mean trick as I later learned what I had suspected, namely, that Soapy could not write. But it all goes to show the practical value of a college education. full flight.” comicbooks.com