Adventure Magazine Cover, October 10, 1921 — page 174: what you’re looking at

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

164 eyes and lively interest, whole-hearted and loud in their open approval or disapproval of the participants. There had been steer riding and bull-dogging, filled with thrills and luckily free from accidents. The wild horse race, in which five un- broken ponies were saddled and led to the scratch, and then turned loose in the hope that at least two would take their riders in the right direction and make it a race, had been a fiasco—but an hilarious one for the appreciative onlookers. Then had come the buckaroo riding— men mounted on renegades and outlaws that bucked, fought, struck, and threw . themselves in savage attempts to shake off the clinging roweling riders. Shorty McCavvy from the Peloncillo took first honors in the event, having ridden the Deacon, worst outlaw on the range, to a heaving, frothing, broken standstill. Christy Ball, one of MacQueen’s men, took the steer roping contest with a time lapse of 32 and 2/5 seconds from the steer’s charge through the open corral gate till Christy raised his right hand over the downed steer, as he lay with great rolling eyes, bawling threats, three feet lashed securely together with the tie-rope. Then in the midst of the fancy roping and snap-shooting exhibition the announcer, arrayed in a great blue polka-dot necker- chief and flaring red fleece chaps, astride a calico pony, announced in a_ voice that roHed and pealed out over the crowd, even unto the least attentive ears: “Next will be THE EVENT of the DAY—the two-mile SWEEPSTAKES— seven ENTRIES! The hosses will line up for the start as now named. From the LEFT—Silver Tip, Dolly D, El Diablo, Sanderson II, Pedro, Calico Cayuse, and Solomon!”’ The crowd milled like cattle in an at- tempt to gain the best point of vantage for the coming race. They thronged about the judge’s stand and jammed both sides of the track for a distance of several hundred yards. ba : The riders stood before the stand re- ceiving final instructions. The race was to start at the scratch, at the shot of a pistol, extend over a mile of open plain to the point where a group of mounted men were wait- ing, and finish before the judge’s stand. There was no weight limit but most of the riders were spare, small, and light. Worth- Adventure ington loomed head and shoulders above the others as he turned and made his way to where Sdlomon, with champing bits, rest- lessly stamping, awaited him. The man spoke softly to the great sorrel as he adjusted the light pad—he was not using the heavy stock saddle. The others were wheeling, backing, and spurring their mounts to the scratch when Worthington swung astride Solomon and, stroking the arched neck, all the while speaking in low soothing tones, urged the wild stallion forward. The Horse Shoe entry had drawn number seven, so the sorrel would run on the flank. Worthington reined in on the starting line two lengths beyond the Calico Cayuse. Two of the riders near the center were having trouble with their mounts. Twice the judges called for the start but the man with the pistol withheld firing to give the handicapped riders an opportunity to bring their horses up to the line and hold them there. ss Suddenly there sounded the scream of a horse, and a great black form reared itself, gleaming head and neck extended, ears laid close, striking in fiery rage at the horse on the right. It was El Diablo—not without reason had he been called The Devil. The little rider up on the dapple stallion, San- derson II, protested volubly against riding beside the black. Pandemonium broke loose while Pasqual, the Don’s boy, at- tempted to force the black into his position and hold him there. It was impossible. With the red light of battle in his eyes El Diablo slashed with wicked teeth and struck. savagely, right and left. At the repeated command of the starter the black was finally reined from the scratch and Jed around to a position on the flank, beyond Solomon. “Ready?” sounded, and the little mare, Dolly D, leaped away before the crack of the pistol. The unruly black on the flank lunged forward, then wheeled as he felt the cut of the curb, crashing into the big sorrel ashe turned. Worthington’s lash descended upon the sleek black haunches, as Pas- qual spurred the stallion to the right, and the face of the Don went dark with quick anger. , He shook his quirt in fury—his lips moved to frame a fiery oath, but the crack of a pistol and the roar of the crowd drowned the words. The five riders on the left were COmiclbooks Cc C@