He was squirming in the sea-sick saddle.

# THE OLD “YALLER” SHIRT

By Ray Humphreys
Illustrated by Nick Eggenhofer
“A real cowboy never quits.”

Thad Sowers, blue-eyed, bronzed-faced, professional broncho buster for the John O’Day Traveling Rodeo Circus, stood six feet seven in his high-heeled, pearl-etched riding boots and his big, two-gallon, mouse-gray Stetson. He was a goodly sight to look upon, decided John O’Day himself, except for one thing—Thad wore an old “yaller” silk shirt that had seen its best days.

“See here, Thaddy,” suggested the rodeo circus owner, softly, that day in Alamosa, where the John O’Day Traveling Rodeo aggregation had halted its Colorado trek to put on an afternoon “Wild West” performance, “what’s th’ idear o’ wearin’ that thar ol’ dandelion-colored silk shirt until it falls offen yuhr shoulders? Seems to me yuh’ve wored it ever since th’ circus season started.”

Thad’s boyish face lit up with a slow smile, but he held his tongue. Like almost every other real knight of the leather, Thad was no orator. He did his daily broncho busting stunt silently, generally, and drew down his princely salary of $50 a week. But he never had much to say. Now, challenged directly on a rather personal matter by John O’Day himself, Thad had nothing to say.

“Gosh knows, Thaddy boy,” went on John O’Day, crisply, “yuh got most men skinned four miles from Sunday when it comes to lookin’ like th’ big he-man what yuh are. But, fer th’ love o’ Mike, get shet o’ that ol’ yaller shirt. It’s faded. It’s wored around th’ cuffs scandalously, too, an’ it ain’t th’ right color at all fer a bronk peeler doin’ professional rodeo actin’ in Colorado. ‘Yaller’ ain’t no popular color in Colorado. It might do well enough in Kansas, Nebraska, and Iowa, whar we was performin’—-”

“It’s clean,” suggested the tall cowhand, gently.

“Sure, sure, but it ain’t showy enough no more,” said O’Day, getting angrier. “Yuh go buy yuhrself a new shirt, boy, mebbe a bright red one, or a dazzlin’ blue one. Yuh look jest like a ol’ withered cornstalk in a November field with that thing on.”

Thad flushed. He was slow to take offense, but O’Day was getting pretty roughshod, he thought. However, O’Day was the big boss, and O’Day was also the proud father of June O’Day, the prettiest little slip of a girl Thad had ever met. So Thad fidgeted with his hat and decided not to fling any “sass” back at O’Day.

“Sir,” said Thad, softly, “I—wal—I picked up this yaller shirt in—in Topeka, Kansas, th’ second week our show was on th’ road—an’ I—wal, I kinda got used to it, an’....”

O’Day grunted disdainfully.

“I’d be ashamed to admit that!” he snapped, authoritatively. “Now yuh git busy, right this minnit, an’ git yuhrself another shirt—a pink one, a green one, an orange one, but no yaller.”

“Sir, I’d rather not——” began Thad, solemnly.

“What?”

“I says I’d rather not—git no new shirt,” repeated Thad lamely.

“I says I’d rather not—git no new shirt,” repeated Thad, lamely. “I like this ol’ yaller one, sir. Kinda got set on it....”

The proprietor of the John O’Day Traveling Rodeo Circus snorted. He had learned that snorting trick, perhaps, from the string of mean bronks he carried along with his show. When O’Day snorted, it meant a storm ahead. The teamsters all knew that; the canvasmen knew it; the other performers knew it; and Thad knew it, too.

“Yuh git a new shirt for this afternoon’s performance,” roared O’Day, loudly, “or yuh ain’t got no job here no more worth mentionin’, yuh understand? Juan Quijano, that Mex rider, kin take yuhr place easy enough, I figger! Why—why—say—my daughter—my gal June—I should think fer her sake, an’ fer th’ sake o’ th’ other wimmen o’ th’ troupe, that yuh’d spruce up a bit now and then!” Thad’s eyes lit up with a curious light. He swung on O’Day abruptly and seized the circus owner by the arm.

“June’s been makin’ some wise cracks about my shirt?” Thad demanded, swiftly. “Is that what yuh’re drivin’ at?”

O’Day, who had a sneaking suspicion that June’s name might turn the trick for him, hesitated. But the light in the big bronc peeler’s eyes awed him. The circusman coughed for time.

“No, not ’xactly,” explained O’Day. “But ef she thinks same way as I do—why, o’ course—I don’t know...”

Thad’s face grew suddenly dark.

“I don’t care who don’t like my yaller shirt...” he began, but John O’Day’s voice cut in on him. O’Day was as sore as Thad. The circusman shook a big fist under his star performer’s nose.

“Yuh git yuhrself a new shirt, that’s all!” roared O’Day, and he turned and strode off, muttering swear words that he didn’t dare fling into Thad’s teeth. Thad shrugged and sat down on a saddle. It was fairly cool in the big horse tent, but Thad felt like he was burning up with a fever.

He was. The nerve of O’Day to start a fight over a man’s yellow shirt. Thad looked at it earnestly. He stroked his left sleeve with a big hand. A nice shirt—a swell shirt—getting old, of course, but still serviceable. Then Thad thought of June O’Day and his brows puckered. Such a nice little girl....

“June couldn’t o’ said nuthin’,” moaned Thad, unhappily, and he shook his head. When Juan Quijano came in, whistling a tune from below the border, a few minutes later, there were tears in big Thad’s eyes. Juan wondered; but Thad said nothing. He sat there on the saddle and waited.

Minutes passed—an hour—two hours. Thad heard the dinner gong from the mess tent. He didn’t move. The gang returned from lunch and Thad still sat on the saddle. It was not until the GRAND OPENING PARADE for the afternoon performance was assembling that Thad stirred.

He got up and threw the saddle on the back of the big white-maned, cream-colored stallion he rode, and put on the fancy silver bridle. He mounted and rode out of the horse tent. Three minutes later he was heading the opening procession through the big exhibition tent, packed with anxious spectators.

John O’Day, mounted on a big bay horse, rode on Thad’s left, frowning. On Thad’s right rode a slim blonde girl of nineteen or so, June O’Day, the princess of the show. She was mounted on a pinto that danced to the band music. She smiled at Thad, and Thad smiled back. Then Thad heard a grunt from John O’Day.

“Still sportin’ that ol’ yaller shirt!” growled O’Day, from one corner of his mouth. “Wal, yuh know what I said—draw yuhr time!”

Thad tossed his head indifferently.

“Sure,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “but I ain’t dirty, boss. I’ll finish the afternoon program—give Juan a chance to be prepared. I’ll blow after th’ performance.”

“Good!”

“Agreed!”

With the parade over, Thad retired again to the horse tent. He was in low spirits. He hadn’t anticipated such a sudden dismissal even though he had been warned. But then.... He shrugged. It was all in a lifetime. Too bad to lose a show job over a yellow shirt, though!

Thad’s jaw set defiantly. The yellow shirt was his shirt. He’d wear it if he pleased—forever! He’d wear it in this last performance with the John O’Day outfit, too! Then he’d wear it away—away to a new job somewhere—he didn’t know just where.

His thoughts grew darker. He sat on the saddle and waited. Juan Quijano, the other bronk rider, swaggered in. He hailed Thad.

“Yuhr turn, Thad!” cried Juan. “Th’ big boss made me ride fust to-day, Thad. Yuh not bein’ on time fer th’ rides, I rode two o’ th’ string, too!” Juan’s voice swelled with pride. “Th’ big boss says as how yuh go away, Thad, an’ that I am to take yuhr place soon. That is news.”

Thad stood up and stretched lazily.

“Yuh’ll do well, Juan,” said Thad, softly. “Yuh got my best wishes, kid. But ef yuh’ve rode two o’ th’ show buckers already, what am I goin’ to ride? That ol’ sunfishin’, dead-like sorrel, I guess, or mebbe th’ trick mule. Or is thar some bird out thar with a hoss that kain’t be rid that wants to git——”

Juan grinned.

“That’s it, Thad,” said the Mexican lad. “Thar is a guy outside with a gray bronk. Says nobody ever rid it. Asked th’ boss to use it in th’ show—an’...”

“Why didn’t yuh try it, Juan?”

“Would have,” said the Mexican, readily, “but th’ guy no want me. He say he want big feller in yaller shirt to ride his hoss an’ wanted to bet $500 yuh couldn’t. Th’ boss wouldn’t take th’ bet, but he agreed to let yuh ride th’ hoss.”

Thad grunted. Canny old O’Day, taking no chances! Perhaps, thought Thad, O’Day figured he might throw the ride—let himself get tossed—just so O’Day would lose the bet. Thad straightened up suddenly. What if he was discharged—unjustly, too! He’d still retain his honor. He’d ride any horse and ride him to a finish, discharge or no discharge!

It was part of the daily program of the John O’Day Traveling Rodeo Circus to have its star riders—either Thad or Juan—ride any strange horse that was brought in. Several such animals had been ridden each week the show had been on the road. In Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, the horses so entered had usually been easy customers for Thad or Juan to handle. They were merely unbroken animals.

But of late, as the show had toured Wyoming, Utah, and was now working through Colorado, the type of bad horses brought in to be ridden had changed considerably. These real Western bronks were genuine outlaws, many of them, and both Thad and Juan had had some stiff rides of late. But Thad didn’t mind.

Thad entered the big top. He heard John O’Day, who acted as ring master, bawling out his customary announcement: “This here tall gent in th’ gray hat, an’—an’ the ol’ yaller shirt, is nobody else but Thad Sowers, one-time champion broncho buster of the Monte Vista rodeo, an’, ladies an’ gents, with yuhr kind permission, he will now attempt to ride a gray hoss that has been brought in to us to-day from th’ open range by Mister—Mister....”

O’Day referred to a card in his hand.

“By Mister Bernard Harley o’ Little Owl Creek, Colorado,” went on O’Day in his loud, sing-song voice. “An’ Mister Harley, who is some bronk peeler hisself, is authority fer th’ statement that no livin’ man has ever yit sat straddle o’ this gray outlaw fer more’n a half minute. But, ladies an’ gents, as a added attraction to this afternoon’s performance, Mister Thad Sowers will attempt to ride th’ gray hoss. Keep yuhr eyes on Mister Thad Sowers an’ that gray outlaw, both o’ which will be tanglin’ up thar in th’ middle o’ the arena just as soon as th’ hoss wranglers kin git a saddle on that slippery gray devil!”

There was thunderous applause from the crowded seat sections. Mr. O’Day smiled and bowed. He walked stiffly across to where Thad waited for the gray to be saddled. O’Day stuck out a hand to Thad.

“Wal, Thad, good luck!” said O’Day, abruptly. “I would o’ let Juan ride this critter an’ saved yuh th’ trouble, but this Harley gent insisted th’ man in the ‘ol’ yaller shirt’ ride his gray, so I consented. But I placed no money on yuh. So—wal, if yuh feel like th’ gray is gittin’ too hot fer yuh, yuh kin slide off, an’—an’—wal....”

“What?” growled Thad, doubling his fists, at the insinuation.

“Nuthin’,” said O’Day, hastily, “’ceptin’ look out fer th’ gray. Harley says he’s a mean devil—damned smart.”

Thad turned away. His face was flaming. O’Day, too, had flushed. O’Day walked out of the arena. He met Harley just inside the heavy arena railing. Harley was smirking. He held a roll of bills.

“Too scared o’ yuhr stockyards cowboy to bet he won’t ride my gray?” asked Harley. “I give yuh a las’ chance to bet.”

O’Day pulled out a wallet. He had no doubt but that Thad would ride the gray to a dishrag finish, and besides, O’Day’s conscience hurt him. He had needlessly wounded Thad’s pride by insinuating Thad might throw the ride. O’Day peeled off greenbacks until Harley said enough and the bet was made. Harley made some remark about Thad’s yellow shirt that O’Day didn’t catch, for at that moment June O’Day had come up and the circus owner turned to her.

“Just bet $500 on Thad,” said O’Day, shortly. “An’ June, it’s his last ride fer th’ O’Day outfit.”

“Why, daddy!” exclaimed the blue-eyed girl, catching her father’s arm. “What do yuh mean Thad’s last ride fer us?”

“He’s—he’s quit!” stammered O’Day.

The gray horse was ready. O’Day, ignoring his daughter’s questions, climbed up on the arena railing and addressed the crowd.

“Th’ gray devil is saddled an’ ready,” sung out O’Day, “an’ now, ladies an’ gents, yuh watch that Thad Sowers ride! Thad Sowers, one-time champion broncho buster o’ th’ great Monte Vista rodeo, has never been throwed in th’ time he has been with this circus! He will ride that slippery gray as easy as most of us old folks kin ride a rockin’ chair. Keep yuhr eyes on Mr. Thad Sowers an’ that gray!”

Thad swung into the saddle....

Immediately things happened

Immediately things happened. The gray squealed in angry challenge and seemed to go sky-rocketing straight up in the air. The wranglers, alert and catlike as they were, fell on all sides. The speed of the broncho had taken them by surprise.

Straight up went the gray and then he landed on four stiff legs with a thud that seemed to shake the very earth. But the tall rider stayed with him. The gray whirled, switching ends with amazing rapidity. He put his quivering nose well down to earth, between his sturdy front legs, and lashed out with his sharp hind hoofs.

But the helpers had scrambled to safety. Then the gray reared, and Thad, a grin breaking across his tired face, “raked” the broncho with a grand sweep, rolling the biting rowels of his spurs from the gray’s shoulder almost to his rump.

“Fight, yuh devil!” roared Thad in challenge.

“Ride ’im, cowboy!” whooped the crowded stands.

And the gray seemed to understand all that. He blew fiercely through distended nostrils, squealed through wide jaws, again flashed high into the air, switching ends as he came down, and landing with a crushing impact that fairly bounced the tall puncher in the saddle.

Again a silver spur flashed and the gray seemed to swell up with fury. He nosed for earth, whirled, stumbled, spun dizzily, and then tore across the arena in a series of jack-rabbit jumps that seemed to jolt even the entranced spectators. He wheeled, skidded, seemed to slip to one side, recovered, switched ends again, and came thrashing back furiously towards the center of the arena to the mad applause of the crowds.

O’Day’s trembling hand closed over his daughter’s little hand.

“That gray,” breathed O’Day, “is terrible. He’s——”

“Ride ’im, Thad—ride him!” screamed June O’Day.

Thad was riding. No one knew that better than Thad himself. He realized that he was making the ride of his life. And the gray—up, down, up, down, like a bobbing toy balloon went the wild gray, first this way, now that. It had cleared the arena of all the helpers. The waiting pickup men had fled in disorder. The great grandstands were silent now in awe.

The gray seemed tireless. His wicked little eyes were blood red. He squealed again, defiantly; altered his mad career in mid air, and charged straight at that section of the arena railing where John O’Day stood with his frightened daughter.

Whoosh—whoosh! Creaking saddle, snorting outlaw, grunting rider, passed down the rail like a nightmare. O’Day shrank back involuntarily as the whirlwind blew past. The gray’s hoarse squeals filled the air. Thad’s face, O’Day saw, was tense and drawn. He was squirming in the sea-sick saddle and his eyes were half shut. Terrible punishment. The gray knew its stuff. In a moment Thud! The spectators came up to their feet to a man, and a great groan echoed through the big top. The mad gray had gone headlong into the railing and was down, on one side, its plucky rider pinned to earth.

But the gray was not through. It was up again in a flash. The crowd’s groan turned to a welling cheer as Thad came up with it, in the saddle. But Thad’s face was white.

Then the gray did something that few in that big audience had ever seen a broncho do. It swung its head quickly, with bared yellow tusks, and nipped at Thad’s left leg. Thad squirmed and rapped it on the nose with his hat. More bucking, more squealing, more hell-raising....

Harley came up and touched O’Day on the shoulder.

“That feller in th’ yaller shirt,” said Harley. “Great jumpin’ tadpoles, but he’s a rider! That yaller shirt—that——”

“Shut up!” growled O’Day, unhappily. “Ef that gray falls again, or rolls, I’ll—yes, I’ll kill yuh, Harley!”

The gray came thrashing across the arena again, still vigorous, still determined to do its worst or die fighting. Straight at the arena rail again soared the leaping gray and two lengths from it he seemed to tie himself up in a knot. He went up in a whirling pinwheel of twists, and came thudding down on limber front legs that appeared to give way under him.

He went to his knees. Then to his left shoulder. And then down completely, accompanied again by the groans of the spectators. But the gray was right up again, fire in his bloody eyes. He squealed, lowered his head, and charged the rail—1,200 pounds of mad horseflesh.

He went like a cannon-ball, the rider sagging in the saddle, and then came the crash. The arena rail was too strong to splinter. It cracked—that was all. The gray crumpled up, staggered, fell over, and smacked its rider down to the hard ground with it.

The arena wall was too strong to splinter. It cracked—that was all.

“Kilt!” screamed Harley, jumping the rail.

O’Day jumped the rail, too. Other showmen swarmed into the arena. They reached the gray outlaw, sprawled on its rider.

The gray was dying. A broken neck. The man it had crushed beneath it in its final fury was limp.

They dragged Thad out from under. His face was bloodless. A doctor came bounding up. Strong hands lifted the unconscious puncher and bore him away, with June O’Day clinging to one of Thad’s very cold hands. They took him into a side tent, where the doctor made his pronouncements.

“Broken laig, fer one thing. Yep, an’ three busted ribs, too. Crushed bad— very bad!” droned the doctor, running expert fingers over Thad’s body. “Sufferin’ from shock—mebbe internal injuries. Get me some water quick, young lady, an’ one o’ yuh fellers open my kit thar an’ put it here, on this table.”

There were tears in John O’Day’s eyes.

“See here, Mr. O’Day,” spoke up Bernard Harley, who had brought the gray outlaw into the show to be ridden, “here’s yuhr money, an’ mine. Yuhr man won it fair an’ square. Th’ gray hoss kilt hisself or he shurely would o’ kilt yuhr rider in th’ yaller shirt. I—wal, I’m sorry fer yuhr man. I—my conscience hurts me. That gray hoss was made bad by a bunch o’ Mexican riders who tortured him, an’—wal, that hoss always hated yaller. Th’ Mexes taught him that, it seems. He wasn’t bad except when he saw yaller, an’——”

O’Day seized Harley by the arm.

“Yuh rat!” cried O’Day, chokingly. “Yuh knowed all that, an’ yet yuh tried to git my top rider kilt! Him, th’ best man I ever had with th’ outfit, even ef he did insist on that ol’ yaller shirt! I tol’ him to ditch that yaller shirt! I ordered——”

Thad’s eyelids flickered. He opened his eyes.

“Good—shirt—my—yellow—shirt!” he gasped. “An’—wal, that gray hoss was a bad un, Mr. O’Day. Awful bad. Busted my laig fust time he flopped. But I stayed with him. I had to stay with him. I wouldn’t quit—like yuh thought I might. No, not as long as I....”

O’Day dropped the scared Harley and dropped to his knees beside Thad’s improvised cot.

“Honest, Thad, I never meant I thought yuh’d quit on me!” cried the circus owner, brokenly. “Honest I never did. Why, I bet $500 on yuh—an’ won it! But yuh’re bad hurt, Thaddy boy. Yuh never should o’ stuck after that fust fall. Ridin’ that gray with a busted laig—yuh should o’ hollered fer help. Yuh—yuh did more than yuh should o’ done, lad.”

Thad’s eyes roved around the anxious circle of friends that hemmed him in. They sought and found the eyes of June O’Day, and then Thad smiled wearily. He looked again at John O’Day.

“Am I—still—fired?” he asked, softly.

“Damn no!” exploded John O’Day, hotly. “Yuh’re part an’ parcel o’ John O’Day’s outfit as long as yuh wish to put up with us!”

“An’ th’ ol’ yaller shirt?” asked Thad, weakly. “Kin I still—wal—kin I still wear it, sir, even ef it is gittin’ old?”

“Yes, yuh kin wear it ferever ef yuh wanta!” roared O’Day, trying to hide his emotion under a pretense of great fury. “I’m sorry I ever spoke about it, Thad, even ef wearin’ it almost did git yuh kilt to-day. Keep on wearin’ it, ef yuh want. Wear it ferever!”

Thad’s white face took on a flush of color.

“Thanks, boss,” he said, simply, and his trembling hand reached out and closed tenderly about the small hand of June O’Day. “Yuh see, I got that shirt in Topeka, Kansas, like I once told yuh. Miss June, here, gave it to me, sayin’ it would bring me good luck, an’—wal—I reckon it has, fer I think it’s—it’s brought me June; hasn’t it, June, dear?”

“Yes!” said June, fervently.

And the crowd of circus hands, realizing that something had to be done, did the only thing they figured was appropriate. They cheered lustily, loudly, while John O’Day, unmindful and unashamed now of the tears that coursed his rugged cheeks, bent over and put his hands around the clasped hands of June O’Day and Thad Sowers. It was a parental blessing. The girl laughed happily, and even the bruised and crushed Thad chuckled.

The doctor, a roll of bandages in his hands, straightened up.

“He’ll live!” he grinned. “Fer look what he’s got to live fer!”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1927 issue of Cowboy Stories magazine.