Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 155: what you’re looking at

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

‘Riding Back didn’t particularly care for the stuff, but lacking alfalfa that morning, he ate of the strange feed. He had oats, too, afterward. He was sure stepping right when his number came on the program. Waltzing Jupiter had listened for two days to the countless varieties of sound that permeate fair-grounds, when the music is _playing, the crowd is on the move, and some countless automobiles are around with open cutouts. The horse was only too glad to go out into the open, to stretch and extend himself, and to see what was going on— with eyes that were swelling and standing out—and to do his share. So now, Waltzing Jupiter sidled forth into the field at the Garden Gate county fair rodeo, with Tierail up. The rider was older than he had been. Waltzing Jupiter was seven years old, full prime and feeling not only his own proud strength—but more, too. The riders who keep up year after year come at last to their biggest day. That is when they meet their match. ‘Tierail had never known a qualm of doubt when ex- hibiting his skill whether to crowds or to the crystalline sky of some far-back pasture, forty miles from the nearest human. He had shown his fancies to hosts of people, and then he had by dark night-gloom per- formed for his own edification. He was simply a wild rider, one of those magnificent riding fools who have been valorous for val- or’s own sake, regardless of rewards. Half the truth about him never would be known— perhaps would bring him the joy unspeak- able simply because if he was thoughtless and reckless, he was also unselfish as regards his pocket or his future. Never once had he looked beyond that hour when he should meet the inevitable. Waltzing Jupiter came out with a slither- ing cougar, twisting rush, switching his tail low, instead of sticking it in the air. He weaved for twenty catty jumps, and then bucked as unexpectedly as a bear’s side- Swipe, or a shot to a grazing deer. In that flash of sunshine, quick eyes on the side- lines, and the long-practised scrutiny of Jim Fallsy, especially, as he rode hard-by off to the right, riding a gentled older brother of Waltzing Jupiter, saw an expression of amazed bewilderment cross the counte- nance of Tierail. Jim stood in his stirrup to yell on the instant: “Thataboy, Jupiter! Yo’ got ’im!”’ 153 Tierail was not gone. He still had the fight in him. He made the struggle of his life—for life against that wicked, stone- climber from the high pastures. He fought Waltzing Jupiter up and down—but every wrench twisted the rider’s back, and every turn’ made his muscles stretch and crack, so that the sun in the sky lost its in- dividuality, becoming a widening, multi- tudinous glare, that grew to him darker and darker. The shade began to fall slowly on the scene. The uproar of the standing mob, yelling their heads off, grew fainter and fainter. Cheers and jeers alike sub- sided into low murmurings—and still Tie- rail rode. Still he sat that saddle, but no longer in that easy, graceful, swaying, cigaret-rolling poise. He was riding for the first time with all his might, summoning every muscle to his help—knowing that he was going. He wasn’t afraid. He was surprized. He would be double ———ed if he would squeal. He had a dozen chances to give up, to swing himself clear, but out of the glory of a hard man’s life, one who had never said he would give up, he refused his chance to quit. The crowd saw a curious exhibition of facing fate in the man-fashion. The keen observers, long experienced, realized that Tierail was defeated before they saw day- light between him and his saddle. Those who had seen him ride before recognized the hair-breadth differences between the sure winner and the loser going down, fight- ing, to his humbling. Tierail had many enemies there. He had a crowd who hated his fame and disliked his ability. Scores longed to see him brought to his supreme hour of his life when he couldn’t save himself—when only Fortune could retrieve him from disaster. He was done for as he sat in the saddle. The crowd recognized that Waltzing Jupiter had the count on him. They sure liked that rearing, hateful, plunging, treacherous old outlaw. But in admiration of a brave man, strug- gling, and going down in the struggle, they grew slowly quiet. The voices died down. The honking of the auto horns ended abruptly. The guards on horseback drew back, to give them all the room. Then the placking, the thumping, the scraping, the heavy pounding, and through it all, the hissing of breaths and the grunts, the groans, and more and more audible, the sharp, COmiclboolks G (©