PAYSON RODEO

THE PAYSON RODEO By Ross Santee - Gila County's Favorite Old Time Cowboy!

A SORREL bronc was led into the middle of the street; a puncher chewed his ear while the saddle was eased on; the rider swung up and caught his stirrups. "Turn him loose!" he yelled. "Ain't much of a show this year," said a slit-eyed puncher standing beside me. A woman in an automobile shrieked. The sorrel bronc, his eyes bulging, was headed straight toward the car. Two punchers spurred their horses alongside and turned him down the street again. "This country was about blowed up before the rain came," said the puncher. Still pitching and bawling, the sorrel bronc turned back again, while the rider raked him in the shoulders with the spurs and waved his hat at the crowd. "Who's the twister?" I asked. "Wayne Honeycutt; works for the Bar T Bar's. Ya ought to have been here last year; they had some shore enough pitchin' horses. Ace Gardner's the next man up in the ropin'." At the head of the street a corral had been built. As a calf was cut out of the corral, the two punchers charged him across the line. The starter dropped his flag. On came the roper on the dead run, his "piggin" string between his teeth, his rope swinging. The fourth puncher tied his calf in twentytwo seconds. "Looks like the money," I said. "George Cline ain't roped," said the puncher. Two more calves were cut out of the corral, but the time was slow. "George Cline's up next," said my neighbor. The calf came out of the corral on the run. As he crossed the line, the flag dropped. Down the middle of the street they came. Cline made his throw in front of the old saloon. He was off his horse before the rope tightened. As he raised his hands through the cloud of dust the crowd yelled. "Twenty-one," bawled a man through a megaphone. The puncher beside me grinned. A horse-race was starting at the head of the street when a man in a white apron came out of the eating-house. An iron bar, shaped like a triangle, hung on the porch. On this he pounded. "Chuck," said the puncher, and we headed upstreet with the crowd. On one side of the street was parked a long line of automobiles; on the opposite side, in front of the old saloon, stood some cow-ponies. Some Apache squaws were eating hamburger and ice-cream cones at a stand close by. The buck was drinking near. "Belly-wash," the puncher called it. The ice had been hauled from Globe, for Payson is a hundred miles from the railroad."

"We wasn't goin' to have any rodeo this year on account of the drought; then the dance-hall burned down. But after the rains came and the country started greenin' up, we decided to have her, anyway. Of course the purses ain't much this year, but every one put up what they could. And 'most every man in town worked on the dance-hall, so it would be ready in time. There's a pretty good crowd, though." As we walked up the street I counted the buildings: two general stores, two eating-houses, one garage, two dance-halls, the office of the justice of the peace, and the old saloon, which now does duty as a soft-drink place and pool-hall. At other times cows walk unmolested through the streets, but today the place was alive with people. The rodeo is an annual event, with three days of broncobusting, bull-riding, calf-tying and horse-races down the middle of the street, and every night a dance that lasts until morning. The eating-house was newly built and unpainted. Across the front in huge black letters was a sign, "Meals, fifty cents." On a bench at the end of the porch stood a wash-basin and a pail of water; on a nail above hung a towel. "She's shore been popular," remarked the puncher as he wiped his face on a blue bandana; but later, while we sat comfortably on the porch and waited for the second table, others came who were not nearly so particular. Flies were plentiful in the dining-room, but the meal was very good: fresh beef and cabbage, potatoes, string-beans, and hot biscuits and syrup, or "lick," as the punchers called it. A tourist asked the puncher and me if we had ever been to Cheyenne or Pendleton, Oregon. Neither of us had. He liked Payson, he said, as everything was real. He was driving through to the Grand Canyon, and had meant to stop only long enough to find out what the excitement was. He had never heard of the place before, but now he was going to stay until the rodeo was over. In the afternoon there were more horse-races down the street and more calf-tying. One event was for men over fifty. As Cline's father came down the street with his horse on the dead run, the puncher standing beside me said: "Them Cline boys take to their ropin' honestly."

The bull-riding came next. Down in the corral, by much prodding and pulling, a bull was dragged into the shute. The surcingle was buckled on. The rider eased down off the corral fence and mounted. The shute opened, and out they came, the rider spurring his mount high in the neck, while the bull bellowed and bucked and tried to kick himself in the chin. As they headed straight into the line of cars, a puncher whirled his rope. His horse sat up, and the bull was caught. A rider on a buckskin horse roped him by the hind feet. As the rope tightened, the bull fell to the ground. The surcingle was unbuckled, and, still bellowing and hooking at the horses, he was led back to the corral.

One of the bulls was ridden with a saddle. The rider was thrown the third jump. Still pitching and bawling, the empty stirrups popping above his back, the frantic animal was finally caught. The rider limped back to the corral, holding his side. Two of his ribs were broken.

The event for boys under eighteen was won by a gangling youth of about sixteen. He wore high-heeled boots, long-shanked spurs, and on his head a small, black derby hat. "Derby Jim," the puncher called him. While he waited for his turn to ride, he sat on the corral fence and munched an icecream cone. That evening I saw him walking with a girl. In front of an ice-cream stand they stopped. As the stage came in from Globe I saw him again. His long-shanked spurs trailed in the dust, and as he walked he munched another cone. After supper a crowd gathered at the general store and waited for the mail.

"See you at the dance," said the slit-eyed puncher as he went to feed his horse. In front of the old saloon Ace Gardner ner and Jimmy Cline were roping three calves apiece for a side bet. It was sprinkling and nearly dark when the last calf was tied; the street was almost deserted.

The dance-hall was a huge, unpainted affair and, like the eating-house, was newly built. On a platform in the middle sat the orchestra. Built against the wall on each side was a long wooden bench. On the floor in one corner eight babies slept, wrapped in their various-colored quilts, while their fond parents danced. The tourist was there, and Derby Jim, and the bull-rider with the broken ribs. The slit-eyed puncher made me acquainted with his girl. Every one danced. Between dances the women sat on the narrow bench around the hall. A woman beside me held a baby in her arms. When the music started, she danced, while the baby slept peacefully on the narrow bench. At intervals the men walked outside on the porch and smoked. A few of the more fortunate walked deeper into the shadows, where some "white mule" was cached. At midnight the count of babies on the floor had reached fifteen. A tall puncher, after eyeing them gravely, finally selected a small bundle that was wrapped in a sky-blue quilt.

"Guess this one's mine," he said, with a grin.

He carefully stowed the bundle under the bench.

Some of 'em's liable to get stepped on the way the crowd's a-millin' here.

Every other dance was a tag. A man well over sixty, with snow-white hair, danced by, his bootheels popping on the floor. He never missed a dance. At 2 A.M. I found the tourist and the slit-eyed puncher sitting on the porch. The tourist had been ready to go for an hour, he said, but couldn't get his wife to leave. The slit-eyed puncher bewailed a blister on his heel and cursed the new boots he wore; but as the music started, he hobbled inside.

"I ain't missin' nothin'," he said, "even if my feet is afire."

At 4 A.M. the crowd still milled. Five babies still slept peacefully in their corner on the floor. On the porch the tourist dozed. The slit-eyed puncher had slowed up somewhat, but the rest of the dancers were going strong.