Argosy, Vol. 85, No. 3 — page 152: what you’re looking at

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

494 range and still traveling eastward, we surrounded his bronc. Well, sir, it was the first time any of us had ever had the opportunity of studying Steamboat at close range. So we roped him from four different angles and then Idoked him over. And he returned our scrutiny with such utter unconcern that we all found it mighty hard to believe that this was really Steamboat, the fastest, long- windest, meanest piece of horseflesh in seven States. And would you believe it, Sheriff Hazen wished that critter on the Bar D. Maybe it was because we happened to be the nearest outfit to Waverly; maybe because the foreman, yours truly, was an easy mark. Anyhow, Steamboat was given a durable little corral all to himself and became our star boarder. For three days we didn’t do a thing on the place but greet visitors who thought they could ride the critter. For three nights we did nothing but sit up with the victims. The day Sam Bransford, the world’s champion bronco buster, took his turn the Bar D would have made the Denver Round Up look like a game of huck- chuck. Folks came from miles around. And when we led Steamboat out of his corral they yelled like a pack of Comanches. The pinto was on his metal. Somehow he seemed to know that it was to be a decisive battle, and it was all we could do” to get both girths cinched up. Then we let Bransford ride. That is, the biggest part of the audience was will- ing and anxious enough that he should ride, but the darned horse just stood up on his hind legs and started rocking like a steamboat. We’d heard of that trick of his. That’s how he’d got his name. But we’d never seen it before. Back-jumping, rainbowing and sunfish- ing had proved effective enough to unseat all previous candidates. Now, however, Steamboat was doing his darnedest. After he’d rocked Bransford’s left lung over to THE ARGOSY. the far side of his right, he just naturally brought down his forelegs stiff, ducked his head and the matinée was over. That settled it. Steamboat had made good, and we all went back to the even tenor of punching cows for old man Elihu Martin. Elihu had a daughter, Miss Kate, and along about this time she came home from the East where she had been ex- changing some of the old man’s beef dividends for a roll of sheepskin. Dave Harkness, the new man, drove her in from the depot at Waverly and they ar- rived. just as our Jarge and appreciative audience was hitting the trail for home. Of course, Harkness had to tell her all about it, and Harkness was some teller. Having been with the Bar D but two days, he wasn’t quite up on all the de- tails, but he told Miss Kate enough about Dave Crasson, the outlaw, and his won- derful horse to fill a dime novel. He even took Crasson’s picture from the bunkhouse and showed her the living likeness of the black-bearded road-agent. Then he led her to the durable little corral and introduced her to Steamboat. I happened along at that moment. ‘““Tsn’t he a beauty?” she says to me, and I choked when I nodded. I’d grown to despise that calico-covered dynamo, and it was hard to acknowledge his good looks. | “But he’s a maverick,” I told her, hating to see her lose her innocent young heart to such a critter. ‘‘ Dave Crasson’s the only man who ever rode him.” ‘“Surely you don’t believe that,’ she Says, pushing a handful of grass over the pickets. “Well,” butts in Harkness, ‘“‘ he didn’t until he’d tried the critter himself.” Then we both gasped. Qelieve it or not, that long, lanky bronco with the wicked rep whinnied like a hungry colt and trotted right up to her. ‘“Why,” says Miss Kate, as he took the grass out of her hand, “I think you boys have been libeling him.” And as she spoke she reached over and comicloool C©