From the Improvement Era, September 1943 –

Riding for a Star

By Pauline Hammer

Surprised? I nearly fell off the railing of chute 4, when I saw Dot Draper — a small timid girl and scared stiff of horses; that was Dot, just the opposite of her sister Betty Lou. Sure, it was the biggest day of the Cheyenne rodeo, but that didn’t make sense with the fact Dot was wearing a pair of Betty Lou’s black riding pants.

As Dot came up to me, I could see she was pale. I waved my brown Stetson, but she didn’t wave hers.

“Hi, Dot!” I said, fingering my lariat.

She didn’t say anything.

I gave her a glance out of the corner of my eye. “I arrived here an hour ago,” I told her. “Anything happen last night?”

Her eyes were watery. “Nothing much.”

“Why the riding outfit? And where’s Betty Lou?” I wanted to know.

“Betty Lou can’t ride- — I’m taking her place.”

“You ride? It would be suicide!”

I grabbed her arm, but she wrenched loose and ran toward a groom leading two horses. I didn’t have time to follow her, for the grand entry was starting. But I did watch Dot as she led, carrying a flag. She rode her horse stiffly, as if she was afraid she’d fall off. Even the smile and wave she gave in front of the grandstand were wooden, forced.

Later watching her ride in quadrille, I thought, “I hope the kid isn’t planning on riding a bronc. If she is, it will be just too bad! Why, she acts like she’s scared stiff of her horse.”

As luck had it, I didn’t get a chance to say more before they started the bronc-busting. We swung ijp on a railing and watched, while some of the cowboys tried their hand at the outlaws.

Steve Williams, a lanky cowboy from Montana, took a nice four-point landing before the pick-up horse could reach him.

“Oh!” cried Dot, drawing in her breath sharply and clutching the sleeve of my green, silk shirt.

Steve wasn’t hurt, but Dot was certainly frightened. For when I glanced down, I saw the knuckles showing up on her sunburned hand like the whites in a darkie’s eye. The kid was scared stiff!

I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from my face, for it was a beastly hot afternoon. There were more four-point landings and Dot stared, saucer-eyed, at the outlaws as if she’d never seen a rodeo a couple hundred times.

Her slender, satin-clad shoulders stiffened beside me as the loud- speaker blared: “Ladies and gentlemen, to the cowgirl who can ride the toughest outlaw in the west for thirty seconds goes one thousand dollars. Is there any cowgirl who’d like to ride Dillinger and win that prize money?”

Dot’s face was colorless. She sat motionless while a redheaded cowgirl talked to the announcer and then went over to Dillinger’s chute.

I’ll never forget that ride. Dillinger shot out of chute 4 with the redhead on his back. As soon as he was clear of the gate he bucked his rider off. She lay twisted and motionless. They carried her small, limp form off the arena on a stretcher.

Dot shuddered and her lips trembled.

Then the announcer said: “Is there any other cowgirl who would like to try for that one thousand dollars?”

Silence. Then Dot jumped down from the railing.

“Dot!” I cried. “You can’t ride Dillinger. Dot!”

Her mouth was firm. “I’ve got to.”

“It’s suicide! That redhead was almost killed!” I shouted. But she wouldn’t listen and before I could stop her she was talking to the announcer.

All eyes turned toward chute 4 and Dot, sitting erect on the railing didn’t move — just stared at the sleek, black form of the bronco in front of her — fascinated, she watched Dillinger twist and reel.

“Dot, you’re crazy! You can’t ride — let alone an outlaw like Dillinger!” I tried to climb up on chute 3.

If I could only reach her in time!

She looked up and saw me and realized I would try to stop her. But she climbed part way down the side of the chute, about even with the saddle on the bronco, then watched her chance.

It wasn’t long in coming, because before I knew it Dillinger — who is a tough critter, if I ever saw one — was charging out the gate with Dot on his back, one hand held high.

Dillinger put up a fierce fight, twisting, kicking. Once the dust cleared, and I could see the black stallion buck, giving Dot’s head a terrific jerk. Her face went deathly white, making the little rouge she wore stand out in round smudges; yet her lips were firm, determined.

The crowd went wild when she shot clear of the saddle — but she came down into it again with a jerk, a jerk I thought would split her in two. Suddenly, rearing on his hind legs, Dillinger tried to loosen his rider.

Then the pick-up horse swung in close. Why didn’t she slide off? Had something gone haywire? Didn’t the kid know she might be killed, if she stayed on too long and gave Dillinger a chance to use his old trick of rubbing off his rider? Didn’t she know she was handling dynamite? I watched, helpless to do anything. Something was wrong! Terribly wrong!

The crowd was hysterical.

“Dot must be crazy!”

I didn’t answer; I was too worried. The same routine: the pick-up swung in close, edged up to the bronco and watched for a chance. Then Slim must have said something to Dot, because she looked at him, seeming to realize the predicament she was in.

“For Pete’s sake, Dot, take your chance this time — it’s your last!” I muttered under my breath.

When I saw Dot slide off — rather awkardly, but safely onto the pickup my heart seemed to slip back into its normal position again. . . .

“Great ride, kid!” I hailed Dot after the show.

She smiled.

“I wish Betty Lou could have seen you win that prize money,” I said.

Her eyes got watery again. “I did it for Betty Lou. She rode Dillinger last night, was thrown and injured her spine. She can’t move any muscles from her waist down. The doctors said it would cost a thousand dollars to fix Betty Lou up.”

There was a catch in Dot’s voice, as she added: “You see, I just had to have the money — and riding Dillinger was the only way I could get it!”