WHAT IS A COWBOY?
Around the name of cowboy hangs a romance that will never die.
It is a romance interwoven with deeds of daring, nerve, and
big-heartedness that will survive long after civilization has stamped
out every need for the brave men who have been known by the name of
cowboy.
[Illustration: COWBOYS LASSOING WILD HORSES.]
Our country is one that has sprung surprises upon the world from its
very beginning, and it has produced men possible in no other land.
Without the services of the cowboy the vast grazing-lands of America
would have been worthless.
As the buffalo, like the Indian, perished before the march of
emigration westward, there came to take their place vast herds of
beef-cattle, feeding on the plains where the once wild monarchs of the
prairies had roamed.
With these immense herds it was necessary to have herders, and they
became known by the somewhat picturesque cognomen of cowboy.
They are known from the flower-bespangled prairies of the Lone Star
State to the land of the Frozen North, and their worth is recognized by
those who know them as they are, for to their care is given the vast
wealth of the cattlemen of the country, which is not alone in the beef
furnished for the markets but to be found also in the tan-yards and
factories of the East.
By many, who do not know him as he is, the cowboy is despised and
generally feared.
He is looked upon as a wild, reckless fellow, armed to the teeth,
keeping half-full of bad whisky, and always ready for a fight or some
deed of deviltry.
How little is he known, and thus abused, for no braver hearts, no more
generous motives, are to be found among men than are those that beat
beneath the hunting-shirt of the cowboy, whether he comes from the
country bordering on the Rio Grande, the great plains of the Southwest,
the level prairies of the West, or the grazing-lands of Wyoming.
During night and day, storm and sunshine, danger and death, they are at
their post of duty, always ready to be called upon, shrinking from no
hardship, driven off by no peril, suffering untold privations, but ever
ready to protect and care for the valuable herds that they control.
At times, when a temporary relief from duty comes to them, is it a
wonder that they break forth into reckless hilarity?
They mean no harm to any one, and if, as in all communities, one goes
beyond all bounds and the death of a comrade follows, the many must
suffer for the deeds of the few.
The cowboy is composed of that stern stuff of which heroes are made,
and the poet and the novelist have always found in this rover of the
plains the richest material for song and story.
In olden times it was that the boys of every land turned toward the sea
as the Mecca of their hopes and ambitions.
They saw upon its broad bosom a field of adventure, a life of romance;
and they sought to emulate great captains, good and bad.
But with the coming of steam-vessels the romance of the seas faded into
oblivion; foreign lands were brought near; the mystery of the blue
waters was solved in a most matter-of-fact way, and the growing youths
of the country turned to new fields of adventure.
Columbus had won the admiration of would-be young heroes, and the
heroic deeds of the grand old sailor were read with avidity, the boy
longing some day to emulate them.
Even Kyd, Lafitte, Morgan, and other pirate captains became heroes in
the minds of the average boy, who longed to run away to sea and make
his name known in the world.
But steam dispelled these ambitions, and the American boy was forced to
turn his hopes upon the land of the setting sun.
Daniel Boone was a hero to admire; David Crockett, Kit Carson, and
others became the beau ideal of border heroes, and the heart of the
youth thrilled in reading of these men in buckskin.
And these men of the wild West, of whom Buffalo Bill is the most
conspicuous figure, made it possible for other border heroes to appear.
They sprung from the ranks of the army, from the emigrant’s cabin, and
from among those rangers of the plains, the cowboys.
These brave fellows have produced many a hero in their ranks, and they
have been ever ready to battle for the weak against the strong.
The ranch and the cattle interests are being encroached upon by the
advance of civilization, the mask of mystery is being torn from the
wild borderland by the westward march of the iron horse, and in a few
more years, like the scout, the guide, the trapper, and the hunter,
the cowboy will be a thing of the past.
[Illustration: A BUCKING BRONCO.]
To be acknowledged as a true cowboy, and to the prairie born, one must
possess accomplishments for the perilous and arduous work they have to
undergo.
He must be a perfect horseman, handle a rope, catch a calf, throw and
tie a steer, stop a crazy cow on a stampede, lasso a mustang, and be a
good shot, guide, scout, and Indian fighter as well.
Let me here refer to a few incidents of a trip over the plains of
a herd of cattle to the markets of the North, through the wild and
unsettled portions of the Territories, varying in distance from fifteen
hundred to two thousand miles, time three to six months, extending
through the Indian Territory and Kansas to Nebraska, Colorado, Dakota,
Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and sometimes as far as California. Immense
herds, as high as thirty thousand or more, are moved by single owners,
but are driven in bands of from one to three thousand, which, when
under way, are designated “herds.” Each of these have from ten to
fifteen men, with a wagon-driver and cook, and the “king-pin of the
outfit,” the boss, with a supply of two or three ponies to a man, an
ox-team, and blankets; also jerked-beef and corn-meal--the staple food.
They are also furnished with mavericks, or “doubtless-owned” yearlings,
for the fresh-meat supply. After getting fully under way, and the
cattle broke in, from ten to fifteen miles a day is the average, and
everything is plain sailing in fair weather. As night comes on the
cattle are rounded up in a small compass, and held until they lie down,
when two men are left on watch, riding round and round them in opposite
directions, singing or whistling all the time, for two hours, that
being the length of each watch. The singing is absolutely necessary,
as it seems to soothe the fears of the cattle, scares away the wolves
or other varmints that may be prowling around, and prevents them from
hearing any other accidental sound, or dreaming of their old homes;
and if stopped would in all probability be the signal for a general
stampede. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” if a
cowboy’s compulsory bawling out lines of his own composition:
Lie nicely now, cattle, don’t heed any rattle,
But quietly rest until morn;
For if you skedaddle, we’ll jump in the saddle,
And head you as sure as you’re born,
can be considered such.
Ordinarily so clumsy and stupid-looking, a thousand beef-steers can
rise like a flock of quail on the roof of an exploding powder-mill, and
will scud away like a tumble-weed before a high wind, with a noise like
a receding earthquake. Then comes fun and frolic for the boys. Many
a cowboy has lost his life in one of these wild stampedes of cattle,
which would put an army of men to flight in a mad charge down upon them.
[Illustration: A CATTLE STAMPEDE.]
The next great trouble is in crossing streams, which are invariably
high in the driving season. When cattle strike swimming-water, they
generally try to turn back, which eventuates in their “milling”--that
is, swimming in a circle--and if allowed to continue would result in
the drowning of many. Then the daring herder must leave his pony, doff
his togs, scramble over their backs and horns, to scatter them, and
with whoops and yells, splashing, dashing, and didos in the water,
scare them to the opposite bank. This is not always done in a moment,
for a steer is no fool of a swimmer. One has been seen to hold his
own for six hours in the gulf, after having jumped overboard. As
some of the streams are very rapid, and a quarter to a half mile wide,
considerable drifting is done. Then the naked herder has plenty of
amusement in the hot sun, fighting green-head flies and mosquitoes,
and peeping around for Indians, until the rest of the lay-out is put
over--not an easy job. A temporary boat has to be made of the wagon-box
by tacking the canvas cover over the bottom, with which the ammunition
and grub is ferried across, and the running-gear and ponies are swum
over afterward. Indian fights and horse-thief troubles are part of the
regular rations. Mixing with other herds and cutting them out, again
avoiding too much water at times and hunting for a drop at others,
belongs to the regular routine.
Such is the cowboy of the wild West, who, if not without faults, has
virtues to compensate for the little eccentricities that cling to men
of the frontier.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF HOSTILES.]