Let 'er buck, a story of the passing of the old West

Front matter

Charles Wellinjfton Furlong

Class I" 5^7

Book ■^-F'^B

Contents

PAGE

Putting on the Brand vii

The First Throw of the Rope and Why . xi

Chapter One

"From the East?" and the speaker, a husky lad, whose voice occasionally skipped its lower register, cast a furtive glance at my headdress — that inartistic abomination, the derby; then he scanned my trousers, still retaining a faint semblance of creases, despite the long journey from the City of Public Spirit and East Winds.

"Yes," I replied. "Ever been there?"

"I rounded up at Lincoln, Nebraska, once," and another geographical illusion was dispelled. We were jogging along on the tail-end platform of a train from Walla Walla through Eastern Oregon toward Pendleton.

"Coin' to the Round-Up?"

"Yes."

"That's some show. The boys have been riding in for a couple of days now."

"You're going, I suppose?"

"Not and hold my job. Yer see" — and he tapped his water-filled pail and fire-fighting apparatus with his foot — "the country's pretty dry. I've got to hang to

S

What! You don't know this country — never saw that marvelous view from pine-clad Cabbage Hill in spring, that wonderview on the new highway of the Old Oregon Trail?

Spread over the lap of the Umatilla Valley, nestling on the gently undulating bosom of its hills, lie the cultivated lands. Over the valley floor is a marvelous, magic color-carpet of Nature. Into this design, she has woven the yellow, pink, brown and old rose rectangles of stubble fields and summer fallow, alternated it with the emerald and distant turquoise of luxuriant, verdant fields of spring sowing, and dark-accented it with rich maroons and distant purples of the near-summer plowing. Into it she has dabbed some odd plays of shadow which dash it with lapis-lazuli, levantine, and violet and finally, has stitched through its center, the careless-rambhng, silver thread of the river. Nature through her mist-charged atmosphere holds before you crystal globes of amethyst, opal, tourmaline and bids you gaze into this Valley of Rainbows.

Week by week one may see this restful Eden of Colors metamorphose through summer to fall. Again Nature holds before your gaze a transparent crystal now of iridescent gold, waves her wand of time over the magic carpet and bids you behold the products of one of earth's richest granaries.

Journey now by aeroplane over this huge, earthen bowl called the county of Umatilla of nearly two million acres in extent, and drained by the numerous streams from the Blue Mountains. Over mountain slope and upland valley we skim the tree-tops of forests of standing timber, fly over irrigated lands of vegetables and fruits and the fourth crop of alfalfa purpling in the sun ; speed over grazing lands dotted with a million sheep and a half million head of other livestock; glide over the vast areas which are sown with softly, undulating seas of grain products, producing five million bushels of wheat alone.

Swing over Hermiston, Stanfield, Umatilla, Milton, Athena and Pendleton, the county seat, which here and there checkerboard tlie landscape, their modern mills, factories and industries taking care of the predominating agrarian pursuits. Hover now over the Round-Up City, Pendleton, the trade emporium of eastern Oregon. It lies like a clean-cut gem in a band of green, surrounded with a setting of gold. But for the whir of the motor you might hear the drone of its industry, for here the manufacturing of eastern Oregon centers. Main Street defines the center of this biggest little city of its size in the West; the great oval and the little cones of white to the left and almost beneath us define the Round-Up Park and the lodges of the Umatillas. Here we alight, for tomorrow the great carnival of the cowboy and Indian is on. This is indeed "Out Where the West Begins."

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THE PAGEANT OF THE PASSING OF THE OLD WEST

This greatest of all human shows is a magnificent three-day cowboy carnival, given over to the old sports and passing life of the frontier, characteristic, unique, thrilling, a classic in which the Old West stalks before one in the flesh. Here gather over a thousand cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, stage drivers and cowcountry people. They ride in from Tum-a-lum to Hidaway, they come from California and the Dakotas, and from beyond the Mexican border and the Canadian line. These actors are real range folk fresh from the ranges and reservations and include the most superb contingent of rough riders ever brought together.

From the time the starter's first pistol shot rings out at one each afternoon until the wild horse race is finished there is not an idle moment in the spectacles spread out before one, not a break in the unbroken chain of head and heart thrillers, in the wonderful feats performed.

In this pageant of the old range sports and pastimes, men of agile body and iron nerve vie in fancy roping and trick riding; compete in cowpony and standing races, in the relay and pony express, in roping wild steers and bulldogging Texas longhorns; participate in the grand mounted parade; dance in Indian ceremonials ; race with the old stagecoaches ; contest on famous bucking bulls, steers, and buffaloes and on the backs of the world's worst outlaw horses. There is no set stage effect, all events are competitive, the climaxes impromptu. It is all "best," marvelous, new and — all American.

It is the child of Pendleton's sturdy citizens, who have, as though by magic, created a fascinating instructive object lesson in Nature and modernized humanity. It is owned by the municipality of Pendleton, pays neither dividends nor profits and is staged by a volunteer association of young men who serve without salaries. Its money goes into prizes for the contestants and the improvement of the city. The arena is enclosed by a quarter mile track which is almost entirely surrounded by grandstand and bleachers with a total seating capacity of 40,000, the largest west of the Mississippi River. It is a monument to the little city who birthed and matured it.

In all the world there is no more thrilling impressive spectacle, it nurtures the wonderful heritage our forefathers created for us, it puts a glow into the minds of youth, it strikes you squarely between the eyes, and reveals the great living, panting West before you.

the tail-end of this puffin' cayuse 'cause it snorts cinders and I've got to watch out for fires along the trail."

The country was indeed dry. Some of the grain still lay in the sheaf. Miles of golden-yellow stubblefields undulated away in the distance; willows and cottonwoods stenciled green along the watercourses or clustered about an occasional ranch-house or "nesters" cabin. A few scattered herds of live stock grazed here and there, where buffalo wallows still show green and the slopes are scarred with the parallel trails of the Great Herds which have passed, but whose remnant have now moved back from the lines of steel to the "interior country."

Wherever the railroads have thrust their antennas, the open range becomes dotted with the homesteaders' shacks and webbed with wire ; dry farming and irrigation turn a one-time half-desert into fertile fields and blossoming orchards. Thus agriculture crowds out the pastoral, and industry in turn both aids and crowds out agriculture; and the "chapped" (schapped) and "booted" cowboy and stockman retreat to their last stamping-ground, where the Indians, trappers, prospectors, and buckskin-garbed scouts have preceded them.

In Oregon, however, there remains even today some interior country where the free life of the open is still unhampered by a useless and deadening veneer of paternal regulations and effete conventionalities. There are still a few out-of-the-way corners yet unturned by the plow and unvexed by wire fences; and a day in the saddle back from many of the railroads brings one to a ranch country yet awaiting the settler where the cowboy still "ropes" and "busts" steer or bronco, "brands" and "hog-ties" calf and longhorn,and occasionally rides into town a-whooping; where the rustler still "rustles," and the sheriff and his posse pursue with the same cautious dash or reckless bravado that have given these unplumed knights of the range a permanent place in American history.

The frontiersman, often the unnamed explorer, was always the advance-guard of civilization, who, with the cavalry outposts, held and ever advanced the frontier. They were the pioneer winners of the West, the protectors and sponsors for a thinner-blooded civilization which followed in their wake.

Through the West of today one skirts fruit-laden hillsides and valleys larger than many Eastern counties, rolls past vast wheat-fields, as big as some nations, and pauses at the cities — big, white, and new — seemingly grown up in a night out of the prairies. There is a breezy frankness in the way of the well-paved, broad "Main" Street, wonderfully lit up with its cluster of lights, strikes out at right angles to the track from a well-designed station, inviting you through the town, to let you out as frankly on to the prairie. It all bespeaks, youth, growth and optimism.

Suddenly a small black wraith of smoke smooched the low-rolling hillsides. The lad yanked the signal cord, and before the train had stopped, was speeding pail in hand, toward the cinder-started blaze.

"He'll pick us up around the bend at Athena," the brakeman said.

In less than an hour we rolled into Pendleton. I swung off the train in the tang of the September morning. Ill suppressed exuberance and expectancy seemed to emanate from the quiet stir of the attractive little city. Bunting, streamers, and flags bulged and flapped gracefully in the soft laft of air which draws up the river valley from the prairie. Two tented cities had sprung up near the city edge and hundreds of single tents white-dotted the yards of residents. The church, where one turns to go up the hill, hospitably announced both cots and meals within. Months previously every hotel room had been engaged and every private citizen who could do so offered accommodations. Now even box cars for quarters had been shunted in on the sidings.

If you lived within a thousand miles of eastern Oregon, you would know why, and if you were a tenderfoot, even from as far as the outer edge of Cape Cod at low tide, you ought to. In fact, some travelers journey across the seas, that for three whole days they may live the spirit of the Old West and feel themselves a part of that epic drama for which Pendleton stands — the Round-Up.

For some days before the Round-Up the vanguard of visitors comes in, in the comfortable Pullmans, on the smooth lines of steel laid along trails where once hardy pioneers, with bullock-spanned prairie schooners, had pushed back the frontier toward the western sea.

Even today, however, one feels the touch and senses the romance of the passing West, as along every trail and road which converges toward Pendleton, cowboys and cowgirls come riding in to the jingling of spur and the retch of leather. So, too, come the Amerinds from their reservations — bucks, squaws, and papooses — with tepee-poles and outfit, stored in every kind of wheeled rig, and drawn by every variety of cayuse, nigger pony to "calico." A few traveled as did their fathers — with belongings lashed to long, trailing, sagging travois (travoy). Over half a thousand strong, these redmen of mountain and plain soon had their lodge-poles pointing skyward, and, like mushrooms in a night, a white tepee village had sprung up in the picturesque cottonwoods near the Pendleton ford by the old Oregon Trail.

Even before the first day of the Round-Up, Main Street, which shoots over a rise into wheat fields, was in gala dress. Beneath the banners and flags strung overhead, lifting lazily in the soft stir of air, cowboys in gaudy shirts of red, blue, purple, yellow, and green, and kerchiefs of many hues, cowgirls in attractive dresses of fringed buckskin, and Indians with multicolored blankets and beaded moccasins, move like an everchanging chromoscope among the neutralclothed townsmen.

Yes, it was "goin' to the Round-Up," as the lad had said, which brought me like thousands of others to this "biggest little city of its size" in the West.

The term "Round-Up" is taken from the old range expression meaning the "rounding up" — encircling and herding together of the cattle previous to the spring "branding," "cutting out," or fall "drive." When the Round-Up is spoken of, the carnival held at Pendleton is meant. It is a grand carnival of the frontiersman in commemoration of that fine old life with its thrills and its dangers, many phases of which have already passed into history.

The dynamic forces of modern "civilization" — applied science and industry — have caused most of the old range country of the United States to be re-mapped into town and homestead with astonishing swiftness. In the old days — within the memories of men still in the prime of life — the west country was essentially a "cow country." Every ranch had its "cow hands" who could rope and ride. Every ranch had its horses, those indispensable factors of range work, to break and train. Often a man's standing or usefulness depended on his ability in this work, so it was but natural that each "outfit" tested out their men in bucking contests. This led to these champions meeting in competition, often at town or ranch on certain holidays or festival occasions, usually at a time of year when work was slackest in their locality.

But a few years ago, every camp and hamlet in the cow country had its bucking contests. As the range began to disappear before the wire fence, the cultivated fields and the railroads, so did the cattle and the cowboy and the bucking contests. But his is a tenacious clan and dies hard, as do all inherent potential elements of a nation or civilization. Many a remote ranch or hamlet still ''pulls off" its old time bucking contest, tho they are more centralized now in certain local points. The contestants come in from greater distances to compete, and give to many the character of great range shows or carnivals.

Such carnivals are held in certain centers of the West; to each is given its name. Cheyenne has its "Frontier Days"; Fort Worth, Texas, the "Cattle Men's Carnival" ; Denver has its "Festival of Mountain and Plain"; Winnipeg, has its "Stampede"; Grangeville, Idaho, its "Border Days"; Kearney, Nebraska, its "Frontier Round-Up"; Idaho Falls, its "War Bonnet Round-Up"; Salinas, California, its "Rodeo"; Ukiah, Oregon, its "Cowboys' Convention"; and Walla Walla, Washington, has its "Frontier Days"; a civic show in which there is more real competition than in any other outside of Pendleton. Then there are minor and more sporadic contests held in Belle Fouche, South Dakota; Billings and

Bozeman, Montana; Bovina, Texas; Sioux City, Iowa; Battle Ground, Tacoma, and Seattle in Washington, with others in Arizona and New Mexico, as well as a thousand less known little ones.

To Cheyenne must be given the credit of presenting what was probably the first big contest, Frontier Days, staged as a show. This was indelibly put on the pages of history by that ardent lover of the West and its spirit, — the great American, the late Theodore Roosevelt. Different ranch outfits put on the Frontier Days exhibitions — McCarty and Guilford one year for instance, Charlie Irwin another. The tremendous success of these shows will always stand to the credit of those efficient and enthusiastic managers.

Each show has a slogan, as indispensable as that of clan or college, expressed in terms of the cow-camp. A few of the words of that terse and expressive phraseology are arbitrary and carry no special significance of their origin or of themselves, but those in common usage are wonderfully to the point to one who knows chaparral and sage-brush and loves the smell of leather. At Walla Walla the slogan is "Let 'er kick"; at Grangeville, "Hook'em cow," a term of encouragement to a roped or "bulldogged" steer. At Pendleton it is "Let 'er buck," a phrase which, briefly interpreted, means "get busy", but is primarily applied to a cowboy about to mount the hurricane deck of a "bucking" broncho; and when you hear that cowboy yell, whether in the arena at Pendleton or on the range, it is a safe bet that something startling is about to begin.

Human actions are but thoughts expressed, and when a group of Pendletonians desire to start something distinctively original, yet adapted to the Pendleton country, it is a safe bet that it will be put over.

In the pioneer days when the long, tempestuous journey around the tip end of South America, where it was said men hung their consciences on the Horn, was the only way of bringing freight to Oregon. In those days before "Bill" Cody rounded up buffalo meat for the Union Pacific and the railroads were built, Umatilla, sixty miles down the river from Pendleton, was the head of navigation and the focal point of departure for pack-trains to the placer mines of Idaho, which were the great things in those days, as agriculture had not then developed. Anybody who lived anywhere at that time lived in Umatilla which had almost as large a floating population as its permanent one, for it was the center both for supplies and a "fling" to the far-flung population of the greater portion of three states.

The rest of Eastern Oregon contained only scattering settlements; for instance, Pendleton itself at that time consisted of the stage-stop hotel, the Pendleton, a general store and the few typical false fronts of a Western pioneer town. There were only two residences, the house of Judge Bailey and one other. Thus Umatilla became the county seat of Umatilla County, which at that time, 1863, included practically all of Oregon east of the John Day River, as it was the metropolis and great trade emporium of Eastern Oregon, which included most of Washington, Oregon and Idaho.

As the ends of those great ever-projecting probosces of civilization, the railroads, thrust their feelers further west, the Horn route fell into disuse and the overland routes from the East increased the development and population of Eastern Oregon. When in 1868 the Central Pacific pushed into Nevada, the bulk of the Idaho trade followed it. This killed Umatilla — which was

"some town" in its day — and decreased its population ; while that of Eastern Oregon especially between '66 ?.nd '68 increased, and Pendleton became a more natural and easily reached center for the inhabitants.

These were the reasons advanced for the transfer of the county seat to Pendleton, and this question was agitated. All the settlers of Eastern Oregon now demanded by a signed petition that the county seat be moved nearer their center of population. Pendleton considered itself the logical site and when the petition was granted by the legislature, tho no definite place was decided upon, Judge Bailey in January, 1868, ordered the county officers to remove the records to Pendleton. This was done, but in lieu of a courthouse, Judge Bailey's cellar was the official repository. Judge Wilson of Umatilla declared this removal premature and the records had to be carted back over the old Oregon Trail again to the Umatilla courthouse.

While the question burned, Pendleton worked The change and location of a seat for the county, was not going to be delayed through any fault of theirs, besides, it was obvious that it should be at Pendleton, and now that they had made up their minds, they built a courthouse in short order before the question was settled. But the matter held fire too long for the "go get 'em" spirit of the little town. Anyway, what's the use of having a courthouse and nothing to put in it ?

On a certain week-end, a score of men, heavily armed, rode down "The Meadow," lying to the west of Pendleton along the river, across the desert, and under the cover of darkness that Saturday night entered Umatilla. Early the next morning at the hour when men and dogs sleep heaviest, in the very heart of Umatilla, they piled not only all of the records of the county and the county seal, but the county officers themselves, in a commandeered wagon and under heavy mounted escort departed quickly, and deposited their official booty in the "courthouse" in Pendleton.

"Why didn't they recapture it?" Well, they say because it was Sunday.

In brief, they stole the county seat and have been sitting on it ever since.

This happened in 1869. So when in 1910 a half dozen young men of Pendleton sat down over an impromptu luncheon in Portland during the Rose Festival and originating the plan for the Round-Up, agreed to "Go get 'em", it was also a safe bet that they would put it over.

The year before at the Pendleton Fourth of July ball game a saddle had been put up for the bucking event, and Lee Caldwell won it. The enthusiasm over this phase of the celebration left no doubt as to the eternal human interest in riding and horsemanship, and in the fight for supremacy between horse and rider. Roy Raley laid before the others a plan to stage a big frontier exhibition in which rough-riding for the championship of the Northwest should form the main feature, and the idea was then and there roped and hog-tied.

Besides Roy Raley, Mark Moorhouse, Lawrence Frazier, Tilman Taylor, James Gwinn, Harry D. Gray, Lee Drake, Sperry and some others were the prime movers and organizers, but to the two former men should be credited the building of the framework of the show. Of those outside of Pendleton perhaps no single individual achieved more for the Round-Up than Samuel Jackson of the Oregon Journal, a former Pendleton boy,

Under the name of the Northwestern Frontier Exhibition Association, "The Round-Up" was born, this name having bobbed up several times in repHes to the advertisements of the Association for a suitable appellation for the show.

Six officers and a board of nine directors picked solely for their individual qualifications led the organization, which comprised about two hundred and fifty of Pendleton business and financial men, Roy Raley, the first president and prime mover and organizer, wrote the initial program, which, it is interesting to know, has never been practically changed, starting fast and snappy with the cowboy pony race and following through a well-planned gamut of range sports of various sorts; races, steer bulldogging and roping, grand parade, and last but not least, that king of sports, bucking. Eventually the contests led to the world championships competitions in these sports.

Shares of ten dollars each were sold and but one share to a man. Supported by the citizens of Pendleton, the idea was backed up with a capitalization of $5,000, and $3,200 worth of stock was sold. Then a first directorate of fifteen prominent men of Umatilla County were elected to take charge of the Round-Up. Besides the president there were six officers, including the secretary and those in charge of grounds, live stock, arena events, Indians, transportation, parade and publicity, and last those who acted as guardian angels over the Round-Up's interests to prevent profiteering.

The problems were by no means simple ones, but as one of the original directorate remarked to me, that first Round-Up compared with the later great show, was like a couple of kids playing ball in the sand lot as compared with a major league. The principal problems were publicity, transportation of the attendance, and accommodation of the great crowds by the little city, then a trifle over five thousand. But the great problem was the show itself, as well as the arena, track, and methods of entrance and exit, not only for the crowds but for the contestants and animals. The entrances and exits were uniquely and carefully planned, so as not to interfere with each other; a quarter of a mile track was determined upon as against the customary half mile oval in order to bring the events within the easy vision of all the spectators.

Then came the program itself. The events were divided into three classes, the competitive, non-competitive and Indians. Pep and snap must always be the prime characteristic of the show so there must be constant contact between the contestants and audience. No waits could even be chanced. There were always three events ready or on; always three paddocks and three openings, so in case any horse or contestant was not ready, they always had one and to spare to shoot in.

It was at first suggested that a sham battle between soldiers from Vancouver Barracks and the Indians would splendidly depict the passing of the last frontier and furnish a thrilling climax. Here the first snag was encountered when they could not get soldiers ; and the second was the refusal of the Indians to come in and be shot at, even with blank shells. However, some of the old bucks agreed to come in if they were allowed to do the shooting, regardless of the nature of the shells. Then it was that the roping and bulldogging and horse-bucking ideas went over big.

Old circus bleachers were placed around a track fenced in only by a three-board fence, and a grandstand capable of seating three hundred, if crowded, was the crowning feature of the structure. Some of the directorate were so confident in the success of the venture that they figured a maximum of about three thousand on the biggest day and bet hats and champagne (sic) on the size of the crowd.

Four thousand five hundred, a population almost as big as the little city itself, poured in on the banner day, giving receipts of about eight thousand dollars, and leaving a net profit of three thousand dollars for the stockholders. The price of single shares went from ten dollars to fifty and a telegram from a New York theatrical syndicate offered to buy the controlling interest at fifty dollars a share.

Pendleton sat up and took notice, and right here the Pendleton spirit manifested itself. A stockholders' meeting was called. The stockholders were asked to give up their stock, practically to throw away not only the ten dollars they had paid for each share, but also the opportunity to sell that share for five times what they had paid for it, to give their show to the City of Pendleton, and then dig further into their pockets for an additional ten thousand to buy and build the present Round-Up grounds. What did they say? Let 'er buck!, that's all. And let 'er buck they did to the tune of an additional ten thousand dollars with which to buy and build the present Round-Up grounds.

This property, the Round-Up Park, was deeded to the City of Pendleton, to which the Northwestern Frontier Exhibition Association pays one dollar a year for its use. The Association is a corporation in name only, and the stock is of the nominal value of ten dollars a share; but its only real value is the fact that it has voting power. The stockholders still elect three directors and for that purpose alone the stock is worth thirty dollars a share.

The compensation to the directors consists solely in being a director of the Round-Up. That's all. In fact it costs each one of them considerable money in addition to actual time and labor. They have to buy seats for themselves and folks, and sometimes being a director costs them another $52 for a box or whatever it is, for friends. However, they did vote themselves one favor. On the night before the ticket sale numbers from one to eleven are put on pieces of paper and shaken in a hat. Each draws a number representing his place in the choice of seats, providing he pays for them out of his own pocket. The first president even was the seventh in his drawing; yet no men in any private business work more indefatigably and with greater sacrifice than do the directors to insure the success of the Round-Up, and the entire community stands back of them to a man. This is why the Pendleton Round-Up has developed from a little community affair to a national one.

The first show was held in 1910 on what was then the ball park and on a little dinkey track, egg-shaped on account of the form of the grounds, hardly onethird as large as the present one. The home stretch in front of the grandstand probably did not exceed one hundred yards in length. The two or three Indian tepees skirting the other side were on the very edge of the river. The present copse of cottonwoods which forms the background of the great Indian village was then on an island, which the next year's improvement included in the Round-Up grounds.

The second year saw the track extended to its present dimensions, its sudden enlargement being due to an incident which happened the first year in the Indian race at the opening of the show. The rules provided that all Indians should be clothed only in breech clout and paint and should ride their own ponies. One Indian was painted from scalplock to toe in a vivid blue, standing out strikingly in contrast with the others.