Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 76: what you’re looking at

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

74. Adventure “That leaves me a thousand dollars short yet. Now listen, Bill: Here’s where I’m going to make it up. A big sheep association is offering a thousand dollar prize to the shearer who shears the most sheep during the entire season based on regular shearing corral tallies. If I can make an average of two hun- dred and ten a day, honestly, Bill, do you think there’s a shearer can beat it? I’ve simply got to have that bonus. OWEN. Considerin’ the quiet, unassumin’ kind of a cuss Owen is, them underscored words meant a lot. If he could average two hun- dred an’ ten sheep every day he sheared I didn’t doubt he’d win the prize, but I’m givin’ it to you straight—I didn’t think he could do it. Sheep-shearin’ is a funny thing. They tell me that back East, or over in Europe, if a shearer gits fifty head a day he holds a celebration. Out here the shearer that can’t git a hundred is considered a bum. From a hundred to a hundred and fifty is a mighty good average, but there are a few long- strikers who can git two hundred a day or better. An’ once in a while one o’ these two hundred strikers will hump himself over a bunch o’ bare-bellies an’ go away above that figger. I’ve heard of men shearin’ above three hundred a day—but I never met ’em, though I don’t say it can’t be done with the right kind of weather an’ the right kind o’ sheep. Sheep-shearin’ is labor, an’ you can’t make nothin’ else out o’ it. There you are in a slippery pen with your back bent like a rainbow, holdin’ on to a squirmin’, loose- hided piece o’ animated mutton with one hand, makin’ him set up an’ look purty while you try to cut the wool off’n him with the other without takin’ too many mutton chops out o’ the live carcass. Just one day’s shearin’ an’ the wool grease that soaks into your clothes will make ’em stand alone. Nice job! Gel WHATEVER it was made Owen @° Davis need that five thousand dol- haa «@ lars was purty darn serious—I saw that the first time I laid eyes on him, There was a grim look in his eyes, an’ a slant to his jaw that had never been there before. We met at Dad Shipman’s corral as usual, an’ before we’d touched a fleece I see that things wasn’t goin’ to be easy for my side-kick. There were other longstrikers out for that thousand dollar bonus. The main obstacle at our corral was a big, husky Dane by the name of Chris Jensen, a big guy who would tip the beam at two-twenty. Before we’d been on the ground half an hour it was evident that Jensen had established himself as the camp bully. The feller was a “‘Sanpeter,’’ which among shearers expresses a lot. By way of explana- tion let me say that Sanpete is a place down in central Utah that was mostly settled by Danes an’ Swedes. People say that for years they used to use carrots as the medium of exchange. I got nothin’ against the Danes. Most of ’em are mighty good peo- ple, but when you do find a bully among “em he’s sure a bear. Anyway, the shearers that come from Sanpete are as clannish a bunch as you'll ever find, an’ when they find they can ride somebody they ride ’em to death. Jensen has a bunch with him; not all of whom are shearers. There’s a good sprinklin’ 0’ wranglers an’ wool-jammers. The head wrangler is Pete Jensen, a cousin to Chris. The only reason he ain’t the bully is because him an’ Chris have had it out between ’em, an’ found that Chris was the best man. Then there was another cousin to ’em, a guy named Larsen, who done the grindin’ for the corral. Our mix-up with the Sanpeters occurs at once. eee: Owen goes up to Dad Shipman an’ says— ‘“‘Any objection to us takin’ the two pens nearest the end o’ the chutes?” “None at all,’ Dad says. selves.”’ : We’d no more than climbed into the pens to git ready when Pete Jensen, the head wrangler, comes a-snortin’ up. “Hey, you guys,” he yells, ‘them pens is pre-empted by Chris Jensen an’ his side partner. Git outa there.” It was bluff pure an’ simple because Dad Shipman had just told us we could have ‘em. I looked to Owen to assert himself for I knew he come of a fightin’ breed, an’ he had a/hundred an’ ninety pounds o’ bone an’ muscle to back up his assertions. But he just stood there, half-hesitatin’ until big Chris comes to back up his claim in person. “Git outa there,” big Chris roars. Owen steps back an’ sizes him up. His fists clinch an’ a sort of a film seems to come over his eyes like I’ve seen before when he got good an’ mad. I look for him to land one on the Dane’s jaw. Jensen scowls an’ “Help your- COMICLOOOkKS. EGO