From the first, I had been conscious of a fascination about the West
impossible to describe. Its charm was too enigmatical and elusive for
definition.
There was a suggestion of the sea in that vast circle and in the long
undulations of the prairie, as though great waves had become
solidified, then clothed in softest green. No sign of restless
movement was apparent in those billows which stretched away from the
mountains into the vague distance. All was still. The towering
mountain itself was the symbol of infinite peace and rest. Yet there,
in the midst of that unbroken serenity, stood a cluster of buildings,
the center of the greatest activity, where life was vital and
thrilling as though a few human beings had been flung through space
and dropped onto those silent plains to work out the age-long fight
for existence.
Peace and conflict, silence and sound, absence of life and life in its
most complex form; contrasts—everywhere and in everything—it could
be defined, it was in “contrasts” that the fascination of the West was
expressed.
Ranch life might be difficult; it was never commonplace. The mere
sight of a lone horseman on a distant hill suggested greater
possibilities of excitement than a multitude of people in a city
street.
Each day brought so many new experiences, some of comedy, some of
tragedy, that I began to look for them.
After the Government had awarded a contract to furnish “150 horses of
a dark bay color for cavalry use” our life became dramatic, with the
riders cast in the leading roles.
The stage-setting consisted of a large circular corral, twelve feet
high, built of heavy pitch-pine posts and three-inch planks with a
massive snubbing post set in the center. Since there was “standing
room only,” cracks were at a premium.
_The dramatis personae_ were two tall, slender-waisted cow-punchers
who walked with a slightly rolling gait, due to extremely high-heeled
boots, much too small for them. In their right hands they carried a
coiled rope swinging easily. Their costumes were composed of cloth or
corduroy trousers, dark-colored shirts, nondescript vests of some
sort, dark blue or red handkerchiefs knotted loosely about their
necks, expensively-made boots, the tops of which were covered by the
legs of their “pants”; spurs, of course; high-priced Stetson hats, the
crowns creased to a peak, and frequently encircled by the skin of a
rattle-snake, and exceedingly soft gauntlet-gloves. It was my
observation that the old-time cow-puncher wore gloves at all times. He
did remove them when eating, and, I presume, before going to bed, but
they were always in evidence.
The “Star” is a frightened, snorting “broncho,” or unbroken horse
which for the five or six years of its life had been running loose.
Now it was to be “busted.” It is cut out from the bunch and run into
the corral and the gate securely fastened.
One of the men stands near the post, the other does the roping. Facing
the men, the broncho stands still, his head high, his eyes wild and
full of fear. An abrupt motion by one of the riders starts him on a
frantic run around and around in a circle. A sudden throw of the rope
and both front feet are in the loop. Quick as lightning the man
settles back on it, both front legs are pulled out from under the
horse and he falls on his side; the helper runs to his head, seizes
the muzzle and twists it straight up, thrusts one knee against the
neck and holds the top of the head to the ground. The roper puts two
or three more loops above the front hoofs, passes the rope, now
doubled forming a loop, between the legs, to one of the hind feet,
then pulls on the end that he has all the time held. This action draws
all three feet together. One or two more loops about them, a hitch and
the horse is tied so that it is impossible for him to get up. While
the broncho lies helpless, the saddle and bridle are put on, a large
handkerchief passed under the straps of the bridle over the eyes and
made fast. The rope is taken off. Feeling a measure of freedom, he
staggers to his feet and stands. The cinches are drawn very tight, the
rider mounts, gives a sharp order to “let him go,” the man on the
ground pulls the handkerchief from the eyes of the horse, and jumps
aside.
[Illustration: INSPECTING A BRAND]
For a moment the broncho stands dazed, then jumps, throws his head
between his front legs almost to the ground, squeals, humps his back
and pitches around and around the corral in a vain attempt to rid
himself of the fearsome thing on his back. The circular corral,
limited in space, gives little opportunity to succeed; the rider has
the advantage. The horse stops pitching and runs frantically about the
corral, at length tiring himself out. Dripping with sweat, trembling
from fear and excitement, he comes to a slow trot. The gate is thrown
open. Making a dash for freedom, he plunges through the outside
corrals, the horseman or “circler” close beside him, trying to keep
between the half-crazed broncho and any object he might run into. The
horse bolts out into the open; his is the advantage now, and he makes
the rider ride. He bucks this way and that, twisting, turning, jumping
and running, the man on his back so racked and shaken it seems
incredible that his body can hold together. They tear out over the
prairie in a wild race, far off over the hills, out of sight now.
After a time they come back on a walk. The broncho has been
busted—the act has ended.
Should the horse rear and throw himself backward, there is the
greatest danger that the man may be caught under him and killed, it
happens so quickly, but these quiet, diffident chaps are absolutely
fearless, past masters in the art of riding, facing death each time
they ride a new horse, but facing it with the supreme courage of the
commonplace, sitting calmly in the saddle, racked, shaken, jolted
until at times the blood streams from their nose, yet after a short
rest the rider “took up the next one” quite as though nothing at all
had happened. All the horses had to be broken and then made ready for
the inspection of the Government officials, and the boys were working
with them early and late.
It was an unusual experience to live in daily association with these
men, in whom were combined characteristics of the Knights of the Round
Table and those peculiar to the followers of Jesse James.
In Douglas, Wyoming, there stands a monument erected by the friends of
a local character who, curiously, bore the same surname as the famous
explorer for whom Pike’s Peak was named. Chiseled out of the solid
granite these opposing traits are epitomized in this unique epitaph:
“Underneath this stone in eternal rest
Sleeps the wildest one of the wayward west;
He was gambler and sport and cowboy, too,
And he led the pace in an outlaw crew;
He was sure on the trigger and staid to the end,
But he was never known to quit on a friend;
In the relations of death all mankind is alike,
But in life there was only one George W. Pike.”
Strange, contrasting personalities—in awe of nobody, quite as ready
to converse familiarly with the President as with Owen, but probably
preferring Owen because they knew he was a fine horseman.
Persons and things outside their own world held but slight interest
for them. At first I had a hazy idea that I might be the medium
through which a glimpse of the outside world would broaden the narrow
limits of their lives. I planned to get books for them and to arrange
a reading room, but my dream was soon shattered upon discovering that
this broader view possessed no charm. Indeed, when I offered to teach
Joe to read he refused my offer without a moment’s hesitation, firmly
announcing “I ain’t goin’ to learn to read, ’cause then I’d have to!”
“Why, Mrs. Brook,” he added, looking with scorn at the book I held in
my hand, “I wouldn’t be bothered the way you are for nothin’, havin’
to read all them books in there,” nodding his head in the direction of
our cherished library. This was certainly a fresh point of view
regarding education. About the same time I found that the Sears and
Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogue might be fittingly called the
Bible of the plains. Night after night the boys pored over them
absorbed in the illustrations, of hats, gloves, boots and saddles, the
things most dear to their hearts, for on their riding equipment alone
they spent a small fortune.
Improvident and generous, however great their vices might be, their
lives were free from petty meanness; the prairies had seemed to
“Give them their own deep breadth of view
The largeness of the cloudless blue.”
The religion of the cow-puncher? My impression was that he had none,
for certainly he subscribed to no conventional creed or dogma. Yet
what was it that gave him a code of honor which made cheating or a lie
an unforgivable offense and a man guilty of either an outcast scorned
by his associates, and what was it that would have made him go without
bread or shelter that a woman or child might not suffer?
Rough and gentle, brutal and tender, good and bad, not angel at one
time and devil at another, but rather saint and sinner at the same
time. Little of religious influence came into his life, and as for
Bibles—there were none.
I remember the story of a Bishop who was travelling through the West
and was asked to hold service in one of the larger towns. When he
arrived he found that he had left his own Bible on the train, so he
sent the hotel clerk out to borrow one. After some time the man
returned with a Bible, explaining to the Bishop that it was the only
one in town. “I went everywhere and finally got this one. It’s the one
they use at the Court House to swear on!”
The cow-puncher, however, could swear without any assistance, for
usually “cussin’” formed a very necessary part of his conversation.
But as I sat at my window sewing one summer morning I heard a violent
argument at the corral between Fred and a new “hay-hand” from Kansas.
Fred’s voice was decisive.
“That’s all right, but you cut out that cussin’ here—the Missus’
window’s open, and she’ll hear you.” And the heart of “the Missus”
warmed to her Knight of the Corral.
There was another incident, the true significance of which I did not
know until three years after it occurred, when the foreman of the
L—— ranch met Owen in Denver and inquired for me, adding:
“Well, I’ll never forget Mrs. Brook. Do you remember the day we was
shippin’ them white faces from the Junction about three years ago,
when you and Mrs. Brook happened to come along and stopped to watch
us? Well, one of the best men I had was brandin’ a calf when it kicked
him and he swore at it proper; all of a sudden he looked up and saw
Mrs. Brook and another lady standin’ on that high platform by the
yards watchin’ us. He was so plumb beat, he threw down his brandin’
iron, took up his hat, walked across the street to a saloon and began
drinkin’ and stayed drunk for three days, and there I was,
short-handed, with a train-load of cows and calves to ship.”
Contrast again—chivalry carried to the extent of being drunk for
three days because he had sworn before a woman!
The horses were all being ridden and trained for the inspection which
was soon to take place. Each man had his own “string,” those he had
broken, and every day they were put through their paces. When
inspected, they had to be walked, trotted and run up and down before
the officers, stopped instantly, and the veterinarian was supposed to
put his ear to their chests to see if their breathing was regular and
their hearts sound. Now, Western horses are not accustomed to having
their hearts tested, and I noticed that while the riders did
everything else that was required, they tacitly agreed “to let the vet
do his own listnin’.”
The day that the Army officers were to arrive, as Owen was getting
ready to drive over to the station to meet them, I remarked casually
that I hoped nothing would happen to upset their peace of mind, as it
was very important that the honorable representatives of the
Government be kept in a good humor.
The house was still in an unsettled condition but for the time being
it had been brought into sufficient order to insure their comfort. The
larder was stocked with the best the markets afforded and the horses
were being “gentled” daily.
When guests came on the train our dinner might be served at any hour
up to ten o’clock at night for after their arrival at the station
there was the sixteen mile drive to the ranch—and anything might
happen. It was late that particular night when I heard them at the
meadow gate. I couldn’t understand why they stopped so long. There
were sounds of confusion and as they entered the house one of the
officers held up a finger dripping with blood, the Colonel’s hat was
awry, his clothes covered with mud, and they all appeared agitated and
excited. I could not imagine what had happened. Then they all began to
tell me at once.
Upon reaching the meadow gate the Lieutenant who acted as bookkeeper
jumped out to open it but failed to return after they had driven
through. Upon investigation they found he had caught his finger
between the wire loop and the post and was held fast. They extricated
him from his dilemma and drove on. It was very dark and upon reaching
the house as the august Colonel descended from the wagon, he tripped
over a pile of stones lying near the gate, fell down and just escaped
breaking his neck. I tried to smile and yet be sympathetic—but I had
a vision of Owen with “one hundred fifty horses of a dark bay color”
on his hands if the good humor of the officers was not restored before
morning.
They were shown to their rooms and I prayed nothing would happen to
the Veterinarian, who had so far remained intact.
The Colonel and the Lieutenant had come down stairs. We were all in
the library waiting for the Doctor before going in to dinner, when we
heard a fearful crash. We rushed into the hall to see the poor man
sitting on the steps holding both hands to his head. He was very tall
and, coming down the narrow winding stairs, had struck his head on an
overhanging projection which he had failed to observe. His injury was
more uncomfortable than serious and had quite a cheering effect on his
two companions, who began to chaff him about “taking off an inch or
two” so by the time dinner was over they were all in high spirits.
The following morning at nine the inspection began. Each horse was
brought out, looked over and measured to see that he came up to the
stipulated number of “hands”. If he passed he was immediately ridden.
Each of the men rode the horses he had broken. First the horse was
walked up and down between the blacksmith-shop and the corral, then
trotted and then run, after which his lungs and breathing were tested
and if satisfactory he was accepted.
Every time a man got on to ride, I was conscious of a feeling of great
uncertainty. The horses looked quiet enough and were fairly gentle,
but Owen and I knew that the slightest variation in the manner of
mounting or “touching them up” might cause them to go through a few
movements not required by the United States Government.
As it was, all those we had expected to buck behaved like lambs, while
those which had been considered fairly well broken did everything from
bucking to snorting and blowing foam all over the Veterinarian when he
attempted to examine their teeth and test their lungs.
For three days the inspection went on, each day more interesting than
the last, until all the horses had been examined and out of the number
the necessary one hundred and fifty accepted and branded U. S.
As the bunch of horses headed for Denver was being driven off the
ranch, Fred looked after them reflectively—
“If them sodjers can ride, it’ll be all right,” he remarked, “but if
they go to puttin’ tenderfeet on them bronchs, they’ll land in
Kingdom-come before they ever hit the saddle.”