With the coming of the sheep everything was changed. It was like
living in a different age, almost as though we had slipped back
hundreds of years into Biblical times and had come into intimate
association with Jacob and Joseph. With the advent of the wool or lamb
buyers there was a sudden transition to the more commercial atmosphere
of the twentieth century, but it was so fleeting our pastoral
existence was scarcely interrupted.
A few of our old men had gone, Tex among them. He left with regret,
but as he said—
“Lord knows I hate to go, Mr. Brook, but cattle’s all I know and an
old cow man ain’t got no business around sheep; they just naturally
despise each other.” And he went up into Montana where the cattle
business still flourished.
Most of the other men stayed on, however, to ride the fence lines,
look after the horses and do the various things about the ranch, but
the days of branding, dehorning and round-ups were past and the
cow-puncher was replaced by “camp tenders”.
The sheep were trailed all the way from New Mexico. Steve, who spoke
Spanish, was foreman, and with three of the other men on horseback had
come up the trail with the sheep and the soft-voiced Mexican herders.
Their entire camp equipment was skillfully packed on diminutive
burros. It was somewhat startling to see what appeared to be animated
wood-piles, water-casks, rolls of bedding or dish-pans bobbing about
over the woolly backs of the sheep, until a parting in the band
revealed the legs and lowered head of a sleepy-eyed burro.
The herders spoke no English and it was so charming to receive a
gleaming smile and low bow while being addressed as “Padron” and
“Señora” that we plunged into the study of their musical language
forthwith.
Each herder was in charge of a band of from fifteen hundred to
twenty-five hundred sheep. Two herders occupied a camp, but the sheep
were placed in separate corrals and, in order to give the various
bands ample pasturage, the camps were placed miles apart.
Early in the morning the sheep were driven out, the herders taking
their bands in opposite directions. All day long the flock quietly
grazed over the prairie, the Mexican with his dog at his feet standing
like a sentinel on a hill from which he could overlook his entire band
and ward off any prowling coyote whose approach was heralded by a
sudden scurry among the sheep.
Eternal vigilance, faithfulness and good judgment were the essential
qualities in a herder, judgment in the handling of the sheep, in the
selection of the best grass and water, the time for taking them out
and bringing them back to the camp. The herders were not supposed to
meet and talk together for while they were engrossed in conversation
or out of sight of the sheep the two bands might become mixed, a very
serious thing when the ewes were accompanied by their lambs, for when
the bands were separated again the lamb might be in one band and its
mother in the other.
It was a lonely life, but one for which Mexicans are especially
suited. They lack the initiative of the Anglo-Saxons, they are
naturally tranquil, slow of speech and action and content to do
nothing—gentle children from the land of Mañana.
Scattered over the prairie, the sheep from a distance looked like mere
dots so closely resembling the clumps of weeds, it was necessary to
locate the herder before they could be identified. He looked like a
solitary fence post placed on the top of a hill.
The Mexicans were most gracious and responsive, so delighted to
receive a visit from the Padron that it was a joy to talk with them.
We were never certain just what we had said, to be sure, but the
effect of our halting, broken sentences of Spanish appeared so
pleasing, we were convinced that if we could only converse fluently
our words would become immortal. Urbanity was most contagious. Owen
and I made deep bows to the herders, we almost bowed to the sheep in
an over-mastering desire to equal the politeness of Ramon, Fidel,
Francisco or Tranquilino. What names! The atmosphere of the ranch
became so poetic and romantic I should not have been surprised to see
Owen adopt long hair and a flowing tie. After a day spent in visiting
the sheep camps I returned in an ecstatic mood. I almost fancied
myself the reincarnated spirit of Bo-Peep or Ramona but alas, my true
identity was always disclosed as soon as I reached the house—I was
only “the Missus”.
Nevertheless the sheep business was fascinating, and best of all
successful. The question of the range was settled. We had the use of
our own land and our rights were respected. The customary feud between
the sheepman and the cattle owners was avoided, since our sheep were
always kept within the limits of the land which we owned. From being
the object of hatred and vilification, Owen became a personage; his
opinion quoted, his method of handling sheep emulated.
[Illustration: TRAILED ALL THE WAY FROM NEW MEXICO]
[Illustration: LIKE A SOLITARY FENCE POST]
There were a few sheep men in the country who had made an indifferent
success. They had scoffed at Owen’s practice of selling off all the
lambs in the autumn and maintaining the number of his sheep by
additional purchases but, when they found how small his losses were,
they promptly adopted his plan and even some of the old-time cattle
men put in sheep.
The loss of the law suit had certainly proved to be the turning point
in the history of the Brook family. Our popularity increased so
rapidly it was amusing. Bill expressed what I felt as I met him riding
through the meadow.
“Have you been riding the fence lines, Bill?”
“Yes’m, but it’s just takin’ exercise for my health. There ain’t
nothin’ wrong any more. Since you folks got the world by the tail and
a down-hill pull, everybody’s huntin’ around seein’ what they can do
to make it pleasant for you. I notice the Three Circle outfit don’t go
round no more leavin’ all the gates open and when we get a fence line
staked out, the stakes ain’t all pulled up by mornin’.”
“It is peaceful, isn’t it?”
“Peaceful,” echoed Bill, with feeling, “I’m so chuck full of peace I
can’t hardly hold any more. I’ll bet if a feller was to hit me, I’d
only ‘baa-a’.”
There was a vast amount of “Baa-ing” going on at the ranch, where Mary
and I were raising a few score orphan lambs on the bottle. There was a
voracious chorus whenever we appeared. They jumped all over us and as
soon as they got hold of the nipple of the bottle they flopped down on
their knees and did not release it until they had gulped down the last
drop of milk, after which they stood up, their little sides sticking
out as though they had been stuffed. As much care had to be exercised
with the bottles, the temperature and quantity of the milk as though
we had been feeding so many babies.
There was no milk at the outside camps and no one to care for the poor
abandoned lambs whose frivolous young mothers refused to own them,
leaving them to starve. Occasionally an old ewe of truly maternal
instinct could be fooled into adopting one of these little “dogies” or
“bums”. The skin of her dead lamb was taken off and slipped over the
orphan, which was joyfully accepted because of its smell!
When the lambs made their appearance in May, the bands were separated,
we had additional herders and they had to be more watchful for “Spring
lamb” is also very tempting to coyotes. It was easy for a herder to
lose ten or twenty lambs, for the little things congregate behind
rocks or clumps of weeds and go to sleep, are overlooked when the
sheep are driven back to the camp in the evening, and become the
victims of those prairie wolves which continually lurk about.
Sometimes when we were driving, a tiny white speck would come racing
after the wagon, a lamb, which had been left behind. Lambs are such
senseless little things, when they are frightened they will adopt any
moving object in lieu of a mother.
We pulled them out of prairie-dog holes into which they had thrust
their heads and become fastened by having the loose earth fall in
about their necks—they were troublesome but so appealing and amusing,
they were a never-ending source of entertainment from the first moment
they appeared, a tiny body supported on long, wabbly legs.
As they grew stronger “playful as a lamb” acquired a new meaning. They
capered and they bucked, they raced around the corral in the evening
when the ewes were contentedly lying down, they frisked about on the
backs of their patient mothers, they jumped stiff-legged, and in a
wild excess of joy bounded into the air giving a cork-screw twist to
their hindquarters, which produced a most ludicrous effect.
Old quotations from the Bible came to have added significance; as the
shearer held a poor frightened sheep between his knees and rapidly
clipped off the fleece with his gleaming shears, there was not a sound
if a clumsy movement cut a deep gash in the tender flesh; the “sheep
before her shearer was dumb” indeed.
I spent days in the shearing sheds watching the proceedings from a
pile of wool sacks or passing out small metal disks in exchange for
the fleeces the shearers turned in. At the end of the day the disks
were counted and each shearer credited with the number of sheep he had
shorn.
The fleeces were rolled and tied separately, then thrown up to a man
on a platform, who packed them in a long sack which was suspended from
the top of a high frame. As it was filled, it was taken down, sewed up
and rolled into the end of the shed to remain until later in the
season when the wool was sold and hauled to the railroad.
Life was certainly peaceful compared to what it had been, but there
was little danger of our becoming “on weed”, as a certain retired
cattle-man expressed it after a short sojourn in Europe.
Lambing, shearing and dipping followed in rapid succession. The
herders cooked for themselves and once a week the wagons were piled
with supplies and provisions which were left at each camp. In a huge
store-room were kept quantities of salt-pork, sugar, dried fruits,
coffee, flour and other groceries. Flour was bought by the ton and
everything else in proportion. Making out the orders, having all the
freight hauled the sixteen miles from the railroad, checking it out
and keeping the camps supplied, were only details but it was the
multitude of detail which filled the days and kept us from becoming
“on weed”. We issued the supplies to the camp-tenders ourselves, after
one of them had filled all of the Mexicans’ cans with gasoline instead
of coal-oil, because “it kind’a had the same smell.”
Unless we chanced to have guests, for weeks at a time the only women I
saw were those in our employ, but I resented having any of my friends
think of my life as “dull” or “lonely”. On the contrary it was
fascinating, full of incident, rich in experience which money could
not buy. Living so close to the great heart of nature during those
years on the plains, the vision of life partook of their breadth and a
new sense of values replaced old, artificial standards. To be alone on
the vast prairie was to gain a new conception of infinity
and—eternity.
* * * * *
The Mexicans stayed on the ranch about nine months, then returned to
their homes for a short visit. They were the most invariable creatures
I ever knew. When they departed for Taos or Trinidad or Antonito,
perhaps in July, they would announce on what date and by what train
they would return in October. That was the end of it, and upon the
appointed day in October someone would meet the designated train from
which the smiling herder alighted. They never failed and they never
left until another herder was there to take care of the sheep.
One summer during this vacation period, eight new herders came to
replace eight that were going home. They were a fierce looking lot
from a different section of the country. They had been on the ranch
only a short time when Steve began to have trouble with them. They
were late getting their sheep out in the morning, they drove them too
rapidly and brought them in too early in the evening. In a few weeks
the sheep began to lose flesh and show the effects of bad handling.
The newcomers disobeyed all orders, unless Steve happened to be on the
spot. He had to watch them constantly. He came up to a camp
unexpectedly one noon and found two of these Mexicans ready to sit
down to a dinner they had just cooked. It was an invariable rule that
the herders should take a lunch with them, for their mid-day meal, and
not return to the camp. They had left their sheep alone, so Steve made
them leave their dinner and go back to their bands, while he stayed to
make sure they did not return.
It was impossible to discharge them until new herders could be brought
from New Mexico and he and Owen talked over the situation at length
that night.
Early in the morning Steve went out on another trip of inspection.
About two o’clock he rode into the yard, his face covered with blood
from a deep gash in his head. He fell from his horse into Owen’s arms.
We brought him in, washed off the blood, gave him a stimulant and
waited until he was able to tell us what had happened.
It developed that as he came in sight of the camp he saw four of the
Mexicans outside of the cabin. They stood motionless as he approached,
then began to hurl rocks at him. One hit his horse and he was nearly
thrown but managed to keep his seat. He was struck several times on
the body. Although realizing that the Mexicans intended to kill him,
he jumped off his horse and went toward them. A rock struck his head,
but with undaunted courage he picked up some of the rocks and threw
them back at the herders. They had not expected that turn to the
affair and ran into the cabin. Steve was unarmed and too badly hurt,
single handed, to deal with the Mexicans, so he got on his horse, with
difficulty, and came back to the ranch.
The next thing I knew, Owen, Bill and Fred, each carrying a gun, got
into the wagon and drove off.
When anything happened it came with such suddenness there was never
opportunity for questions, besides, my association with men had taught
me the value of silence—in an emergency.
In a few hours Owen and Fred came back. They had met the eight new
herders walking into the ranch to “quit”. They walked back to their
respective camps instead, their pace accelerated by a loaded gun
pointing at their backs. The cabins were searched, several villainous
looking knives confiscated and eight subdued cut-throats returned to
the peaceful occupation of herding sheep, under Bill’s watchful eye
and loaded gun.
Owen said that it wasn’t at all necessary for the Mexicans to
understand English since Bill’s few remarks were sufficiently lurid to
attract their attention.
Until other herders could be brought to the ranch, one white man,
always armed, stayed at each camp, constantly on guard lest the
vindictive herders set fire to the camps or kill the sheep. These were
no gentle children from the land of Mañana; we discovered they were
desperate characters from Old Mexico, to whom murder was second
nature.
Bill’s opinion of the sheep business after his brief experience in the
camps could only be published in an expurgated edition. He hated the
Mexicans, he hated the sheep, he hated everything connected with them.
After seeing his charges safely on board a southbound train, he
returned to the ranch with all the joy of an exile.
“I’ve been up against tough men, Mrs. Brook, but that bunch is the
worst I ever seen. They’re just like a pack of coyotes, grinnin’ and
sneakin’ up behind you, waitin’ ’til they git a chance to finish you.
Between listnin’ to the grass grow and pickin’ off sheep ticks, I got
plumb locoed settin’ there watchin’ ’em. I jest had to feel my skin
every once in a while to be sure I wasn’t growin’ wool.”