The little town was all astir. A pile of Mexican saddles lay on the platform, and a crowd of big, brawny men in wide felt hats, leathern cowboy leggings and clanking spurs, were shouldering these, their belongings, and moving up into the town.
The streets were full of people come in from the surrounding highlands, where, high up on the “mesas” or plateaus above the valleys, lie some of the finest cattle ranges in the State. Big, raw-boned, strong-chinned men they were, bronzed with the sun and marked with a vigor bespeaking life in the open air. The ladies, too, were out in force, well dressed, not much color in their cheeks, but, like the men, possessing clean-cut, clear-eyed faces. And up and down the wide streets were continually galloping brawny riders, evidently arriving from their distant ranches.
The crowd stuck to the sidewalk and seemed expectant. We did not know just what was going to happen, but stuck to the sidewalk, too, and well for us it was that we did so. There were rumors of a parade. A number of ranch maidens, riding restive bronchos, some sitting gracefully astride, drew their horses to one side. The crowd was silent. We were silent, too. Just then a cloud of dust and a clatter of hoofs came swirling and echoing down the street. A troop of horses! They were running like mad. They were bridleless, riderless; they were wild horses escaped. They ran like things possessed. No, not all were riderless, for behind them, urged by silent riders, each man with swinging lasso, came as many cowboys hot on the chase. Had the wild horses broken loose? Could they ever be headed off? We wondered. Was the fun for the day all vanished by the accident? Not so, we found. This was part of the game. Every broncho buster, if he would take part in the tests of ridership, must first catch a wild horse, that later an opponent should master. And the way those lassos swung and reached and dropped over the fleeing bronchos was in itself a sight worth stopping to see. Then, as each rider came out of the dust and distance leading the wild-eyed, terrified beast by his unerring lasso, great was the acclaim given him by the hitherto silent multitude. Every loose horse was caught before he had run half a mile, and thus haltered—the lariat around the neck—was led to the corral near the big meadow, where the man who should ride most perfectly would win the longed-for prize—a champion’s belt and a purse of gold.
NUCKOLDS, PUTTING ON THE HOODWINK.
NUCKOLDS, THE BRONCHO “BUSTED.”
Many famous men were met there to win the trophy—the most coveted honor a Coloradan or any ranchman may possess.