rapidity, sheep-herding as an art is inevitably doomed. When I knew
north-west Texas a few years ago there was not a fence between the Rio
Grande and the north of the Panhandle, but now barbed or plain wire is
the rule, and in the pastures it is, of course, not so necessary to look
after the sheep by day and night. In Australia I have not seen those
under my charge for a week or more at a time. While there was water in
the paddock I never even troubled to hunt them up in the hundred square
miles of grey-green plain with its rare clumps of dwarf box. If dingoes
were reported to be about I kept my eyes open, of course, but they were
very rare in the Lachlan back blocks, and I was never able to earn the
five shillings reward for the tail of this yellow marauder. But in Texas
there are more wild animals--the coyote, the bear, the "panther" or
puma--and it is impossible to leave the sheep entirely to their own
devices, even in pastures which prevent them wandering. Nevertheless,
looking after them on fenced land is very different from being with them
daily and hourly, sleeping with them at night, following and directing
them by day, being all the time wary lest some should be divided from
the main flock by accident, or lest the whole body should spy another
sheep-owner's band and rush tumultuously into it.
But the new and unaccustomed shepherd on the prairie is apt to give
himself much unnecessary trouble. It takes some time to learn that a
flock of sheep is like a loosely-knit organism which will not separate
or divide if it can help it. It might be compared with a low kind of
jelly-fish, or even to a sea-anemone, for under favourable conditions of
sun and sky it spreads out to feed, leaving between each of its members
what is practically a constant distance. For when the weather changes
they come closer together, and any alarm puts them into a compact mass.
I have heard a gun fired unexpectedly, and then seen some 2000 sheep,
spreading loosely over an irregular circle, about half a mile in
diameter, rush for a common centre with an infallible instinct. And
then they gradually spread out again like that same sea-anemone putting
forth its filaments after being touched.
The new shepherd, however, is in constant dread lest they should
separate and divide so greatly that he will lose control of them. I have
walked many useless miles endeavouring to keep a flock within unnatural
limits before I discovered that they never went more than a certain
distance from the centre. And this distance varied strictly with the
numbers. At night time they begin to draw together, and if they are not
put in a corral or fold will at last lie down in a fairly compact mass,
remaining quiet, if undisturbed, until the approach of dawn. But if they
have had a bad day for feeding they sometimes get up when the moon rises
and begin to graze. Then the shepherd may wake up, and, finding he is
alone, have to hunt for them. As they usually feed with their heads up
wind it is not as a rule hard to discover them. If the moon is covered
by a cloudy sky they will often camp down again.
The hardest days for the shepherd are cold ones, when it blows strongly.
For then the sheep travel at a great pace, and will not go quietly
until the sun comes out of the grey sky of the chilly norther, which
perhaps moderates towards noon. But in such weather they do not care to
camp at noonday, and instead of spreading they will travel onward and
onward. They doubtless feel uncomfortable and restless. After such a day
they are uneasy at night, especially when there is a moon.
It is my opinion, after experience of both conditions, that unherded
sheep do much better than those which are closely looked after. In
Australia our percentage of lambs was sometimes 104, and any squatter
would think something wrong if his sheep on the plain yielded less than
90 per cent. increase. But in Texas, where the mothers are watched and
helped, the increase is seldom indeed 75 in the 100, much oftener it is
60. I used to wonder whether the losses by wild animals would have
equalled the loss of 25 per cent. increase which is, I believe, entirely
due to the care taken of them. For herding is essentially a worrying
process, even when practised by a man who understands sheep well. The
mothers are never left alone, and must be driven to a corral at night.
Consequently they often get separated from their lambs before they come
to know them, and one of the most pitiful things seen by a shepherd is
the poor distracted ewe refusing to recognise her own offspring even
when it is shown to her. We used in such cases to put them together in a
little pen during the night, hoping that she would "own" it by the
morning. But very often she would not, and then the lamb usually died.
If, indeed, it was one of a more sturdy constitution than most, it would
refuse to die and became a kind of Ishmael in the flock. The milk which
was necessary it took, or tried to take, from the ewe, who, for just a
moment, might not know a stranger was trying to share the right of her
own lamb. Such an orphan rarely grows up, and most of them die quickly,
as they are knocked about and cruelly used by those who take no interest
in the disinherited outcast of that selfish ovine society. And yet its
real mother is in the flock, reconciled to her loss after a few days of
suffering.
In spite of my present very decided disinclination to have anything to
do with sheep, they are, like every other animal, very interesting when
closely studied. I spent some years in their society in New South Wales
and know a little about them. Shortly before I left Ennis Creek ranch in
North-west Texas a very curious incident occurred, which I could never
quite satisfactorily explain, for I believe the most serious fright I
have ever had in all my life was caused by these same inoffensive,
innocent quadrupeds. It was not inflicted on me by a ram, which is
occasionally bellicose, but by ewes with their lambs, and I distinctly
remember being as surprised as if the sky had fallen or something
utterly opposed to all causation had confronted me. I want to meet a
man, even of approved courage, who would not be shocked into fair fright
by having half-a-dozen ewes suddenly turn and charge him with the fury
of a bullock's mad onset. Would he not gasp, be stricken dumb, and look
wide-eyed at the customary nature about him, just as if they had broken
into awful speech? I imagine he would, for I know that it shook my
nerves for an hour afterwards, even though I had by that time recovered
sufficient courage to experiment on them in order to see if the same
result would again follow. I had about 500 ewes and lambs under my care.
The day was warm, though the wind was blowing strongly, and when noon
approached the flock travelled but slowly towards the place where I
wished them to make their mid-day camp. To urge them on I took a large
bandana handkerchief and flicked the nearest to me with it as I walked
behind. As I did so the wind blew it strongly, and it suddenly occurred
to me to make a sort of a flag of it in order to see if it would
frighten them. I took hold of two corners and held it over my head, so
that it might blow out to its full extent. Now, whether it was due to
the glaring colour, or the strange attitude, or to the snapping of the
outer edge of the handkerchief in the wind--and I think it was the
last--I cannot say, but the hindmost ewes suddenly stopped, turned
round, eyed me wildly, and then half-a-dozen made a desperate charge,
struck me on the legs, threw me over, and fled precipitately as I fell.
It was a reversal of experience too unexpected! I lay awhile and looked
at things, expecting to see the sun blue at the least, and then I
gathered myself together slowly. In all seriousness I was never so taken
aback in all my life, and I was almost prepared for a ewe's biting me. I
remembered the Australian story of the rich squatter catching a man
killing one of his sheep. "What are you doing that for?" he inquired as
a preliminary to requesting his company home until the police could be
sent for. The questioned one looked up and answered coolly, though not,
I imagine, without a twinkle in his eye, "Kill it! Why am I killing it?
Look here, my friend, I'll kill any man's sheep as bites _me_." For my
part, I don't think biting would have alarmed me more. After that I made
experiments on the ewes, and always found that the flying bandana simply
frightened them into utter desperation when nothing else would. It was a
long time before they got used to it. I should like to know if any other
sheep-herders ever had the same experience at home or abroad.
In another book I spoke of lambs when they were very young taking my
horse for their mother. This was in California; but in Texas I have
often seen them run after a bullock or steer. One day on the prairie a
lamb had been born during camping-time, and when it was about two hours
old a small band of cattle came down to drink at the spring. Among these
was a very big steer, with horns nearly a yard long, who came close to
the mother, just then engaged in cleaning her offspring. She ran off,
bleating for her lamb to follow. The little chap, however, came to the
conclusion that the steer was calling it, and went tottering up to the
huge animal, that towered above him like the side of a canyon, apparently
much to the latter's embarrassment. The steer eyed it carefully, and
lifted his legs out of the way as the lamb ran against them, even
backing a little, as if as surprised as I had been when the ewes
assaulted me. Then all of a sudden he shook his head as if laughing, put
one horn under the lamb, threw it about six feet over his back, and
calmly walked on. I took it for granted that the unwary lamb was dead,
but on going up I found it only stunned, and, being as yet all gristle,
it soon recovered sufficiently to acknowledge its real mother, who had
witnessed its sudden elevation, stamping with fear and anxiety.
Sheep-herding is supposed, by those who have never followed it, to be an
easy, idle, lazy way of procuring a livelihood; but no man who knows as
much of their ways as I do will think that. It is true that there are
times when there is little or nothing to be done--when a man can sit
under a tree quietly and think of all the world save his own particular
charge; but for the most part, if he have a conscience, he will feel a
burden of responsibility upon him which of itself, independently of the
work he may have to do, will earn him his little monthly wage of twenty
dollars and the rough ranch food of "hog and hominy." For there is no
ceasing of labour for the Texas herder of the plains; Sunday and
week-day alike the dawning sun should see him with his flock, and even
at night he is still with them as they are "bedded out" in the open.
Even if he can "corral" them in a rough sort of yard, some slinking
coyote may come by and scare them into breaking bounds; and when they
are not corralled the bright moon may entice them to feed quietly
against the wind, until at last the herder wakes to find his charge has
vanished and must be anxiously sought for. In Australia, as I have said,
the sheep are left to their own devices for the greater part of the
year, unless there should be unusual scarcity of water; but even there,
to have charge of so many thousand animals, and so many miles of
fencing, makes it no enviable task, while the labour, when it does come,
is hard and unremitting. In New South Wales I have often been eighteen
and twenty hours in the saddle, and have reached home at last so wearied
out that I could scarcely dismount. One day I used up three horses and
covered over ninety miles, more than fifty of it at a hard canter or
gallop--and if that be not work I should like to know what is. This,
too, goes on day after day during shearing, just when the days are
growing hot and hotter still, the spare herbage browning, and the water
becoming scanty and scantier. And for a recompense? There is none in
working with sheep. They are quiet, peaceable, stupid, illogical,
incapable of exciting affection, very capable of rousing wrath; far
different from the terrible excitement of a bellowing herd of
long-horned cattle as they break away in a stampede, among whom is
danger and sudden death and the glory of motion and conquest; or with
horses thundering over the plain in hundreds, like a riderless squadron
shaking the ground with waving manes, long flowing tails, and flashing
eyeballs, whom one can love and delight in, and shout to with a strange,
vivid joy that sends the blood tingling to the heart and brain. Were I
to go back to such a life I would choose the danger, and be discontented
to maunder on behind the slow and harmless wool-bearers, cursing a
little every now and again at their foolishness, and then plodding on
once more, bunched up in an inert mass on a slow-going horse, who
wearily stretches his neck almost to the ground as he dreams, perhaps,
of the long, exhilarating gallops after his own kind that we once had
together, being conscious, I daresay, of the contemptuous pity I feel
for the slow foredoomed muttons that crawl before us on the long and
weary plain.
It is highly probable that the introduction of fences will have its
effect in other ways than in increasing the number of lambs born and
reared. Sheep-herding will almost disappear when the wild beasts of
Texas are extinct, as they soon will be, for a fenced country is very
unfit for such animals. But then the natural glory of the wide open
prairie will be gone, and civilisation will gradually destroy all that
was so delightful, even when my sheep, by worrying me, taught me what I
have here set down.
RAILROAD WARS
Everybody nowadays has some notion of the way the railroad business of
America is carried on. They know that there are too many roads for the
traffic, and that, to prevent a general ruin, the managers combine, pay
the profits into the hands of a receiver, and receive again from him a
certain agreed proportion of the whole sum. But this method of "pooling"
the profits is sometimes unsatisfactory. One line will think it gets too
little if the fluctuations of trade send more freight over its rails
than it formerly had, and will demand a greater proportion of the gross
profits. This demand may be granted, but if not, the agreement may break
down, and the discontented railroad go to work on the old principle of
every man for himself. This very likely inaugurates a war of tariffs;
fares and freights go down slowly or quickly according as the quarrel
is open or secret, until one or other of the parties gives in to avoid
complete ruin.
While I was living in San Francisco, early in 1886, there was an open
war between all the lines west of Chicago and Kansas City, including the
Union Pacific, the Northern Pacific, the Denver and Rio Grande, the
Southern Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fé. Fares to New
York and the Atlantic seaboard came tumbling down by $10 at a fall. The
usual rate from New York to San Francisco is $72. It fell to 60, to 50,
40, 30, to 25, to 22. All the railroad offices had great placards
outside inviting everyone to go East at once, for they would never get
such a chance again. Some of the notices were very odd. One began with
"Blood, blood, blood!" and another had a hand holding a bowie knife,
with the legend "Here we cut deep!" And, as I have said, they did cut
deep, for at the end one might go to New York for about $18. Now this
$18 went in a lump to the railroad east of Chicago. Consequently the
passengers were carried over 2000 miles for nothing. Frequently during
two days men were booked to Chicago or Kansas City from San Francisco
or Los Angeles for $1. Two thousand miles for 4s. 2d!
Such a state of things could not last, but while it did it gave rise to
much speculation. Many men bought up tickets, good for some time,
believing the bottom prices had been reached when the fall had by no
means ended. It was odd to stand outside an office and listen to the
crowd. Some would hold on and say, "I'll chance it till to-morrow." Then
I have seen an agent come outside and say, "Gentlemen, now's your time
to go east and visit your families. Don't delay. Of course fares may
fall further, but I think not. Don't be too greedy. You are not likely
to get the chance again of going home for twenty-five dollars." They did
fall further, but recovered again on the rumour of negotiations
beginning between the competing lines. When that was contradicted they
fell again. Suddenly, without any warning, they jumped up to normal
rates, and left many of the outside public--the bears, so to
speak--lamenting that they had not taken the opportunity so eloquently
pointed out by the oratorical agents on the sidewalk by the offices. For
the placards and pictures came down at once, and to an inquirer who
asked, "What can you do New York at?" the answer was, "Why, sir, the
usual rate--$72."
To an Englishman who has not travelled in the States and become familiar
with the methods employed there by business men, it seems odd that
anyone should chaffer with the clerk at a ticket-office. What would an
English booking-clerk say if he were asked about the fare to some place,
and, on replying £1, received the rejoinder, "I'll give you 15s?" He
would think the man a joker of a very feeble description. Yet this may
often be done in Western America. Even when there is no "war" the agents
have a certain margin to veer and haul on in their commission, and will
often knock off a little sooner than allow a rival line to get the
passenger. Besides, it frequently happens that there may be a secret
cutting of rates without an open war. My own experience, when I came
down from Sonoma County in the autumn of 1886, meaning to return to
England, will give a very good notion of this, and of the way to get a
cheap ticket when there is the trouble among the companies which may end
in a war, or be patched up by arbitration.
It had been said in the papers for some time that rate-cutting was
going on in San Francisco, and this made me hurry down not to lose the
opportunity. The morning after my arrival I walked into an office in
Kearney Street and said briefly, "What are you doing to New York?" The
clerk said in a business way, "Seventy-two dollars." I laughed a little
and looked at him straight without speaking. "Hum," said he; "well, you
can go for sixty-five." "Thanks," I said, "it isn't enough." I walked
out, and though he called me back I would not return. Then I went to Mr
P., a well-known agent for railroads and steamships. To use a vulgarism,
he did not open his mouth so wide as the other, but at once offered me a
through ticket to Liverpool for $72. I thanked him and said I would call
again. Deducting the $12 for a steerage passage, his railroad fare was
$60. So far I had knocked off 12. And now it began to rain very hard. It
did not cease all day. And my day's work was only begun, for it was only
ten o'clock then. I went from one office to another, quoting one's rates
here and another's there, and slowly I dropped the fare to fifty. I had
to explain to some of these men that I was not a fool, and that I knew
what I was doing; that if they took me for a "tenderfoot," or a
"sucker," they were mistaken. My explanations always had an effect, and
down the fare tumbled. At last, about three o'clock, I had got things to
a very fine point, and was working two rival offices which stood side by
side near the Palace Hotel. One man--Mr A., whom I knew by name, who
indeed knew a friend of mine--offered me $45. I shook my head, and going
next door, Mr V. made it a dollar less. It took me half-an-hour to
reduce that again to forty-three; but at last Mr A., who was as much
interested in this little game as if I were a big stake at poker, went
suddenly down to $41. I offered to toss him whether it should be $40 or
$42. He accepted, and I won the toss. As he made out the ticket, he
remarked, almost sadly, "We don't make anything out of this." But he
cheered up, and added, "Well, the others don't either." So I got my
ticket; and it was over one of the best lines. By that day's work,
though I got wet through, covered with mud, and very tired, I saved $32.
When on board the east-bound train next day I got talking with some
dozen men who were going east with me, and, naturally enough, we asked
each other what fares we had paid, I found they varied greatly, but the
average was about $60. One little Jew, a tobacconist, was very proud
that his only cost $48. He almost wept when I told him that I beat him
by eight whole dollars. Moreover, I reached New York twenty hours before
him, for when we parted at Chicago we made arrangements to meet in New
York, and then I found that he had been obliged to round into Canada,
and lie over all one night, while I had come direct on the Chicago and
Alton with only two hours' wait at Lima; so on the whole I did not think
I did very badly.
AMERICAN SHIPMASTERS
It may seem strange to people who are entirely unacquainted with the
methods of shipmasters and officers generally in the American mercantile
marine that a sailor should have such a deadly objection to sail in one
of their vessels; but those who know the hideous brutalities which
continually occur on such ships will quite understand the feelings of a
man who finds himself on a vessel which would probably have been manned
willingly if it had not a bad character among seamen. I have known an
American vessel lie six weeks and more off Sandridge, Melbourne, waiting
for a crew, which she could not get, although men were very plentiful
and the boarding-houses full. There are some vessels running from New
York, etc., round the Horn to San Francisco, which have a villainous
reputation. The captain of one of these was sentenced to eighteen
months in the Penitentiary when I was in the great Pacific Port for
incredible atrocities practised on his crew. For one thing, he shot
repeatedly at men who were up aloft, and hit one of them who was on the
main-yard, though not so seriously as to make him quit his hold of the
jack-stay. One of the ship's boys was treated with barbarity during the
whole passage; thrashed, beaten, starved, and ill-used in the vilest
manner; and at last the captain knocked him down and jumped on his face
so as to blind him for life. This man went a little too far, and the
courts, which are always biassed, and very much biassed considering
their origin, on the side of rich authority, were compelled to do their
duty by the uproar that this last incident caused. Yet even after that
the people connected with the shipping interests got up petitions, and
intrigued and wire-pulled for months to get the Governor of California
to pardon him. Failing in this, they approached the President; but I am
heartily glad their efforts were vain.
One of my own shipmates in the _Coloma_, of Portland, Oregon, was once
with a commander of this class, and so bad was his reputation that no
one among the crew knew until they were under way who the captain was.
My mate said, "I was at the wheel when I saw him come up the companion,
and, as I had sailed with him before, my blood ran cold when I
recognised him. He came straight up to the wheel, stared at me, and
asked me, 'Haven't you sailed with me before?' 'Yes, sir,' I answered.
Then he grinned, 'Ha, then you know me. When you go forward you tell the
crowd what kind of a man I am, and tell them that if they behave
themselves I'll be a father to 'em.' I knew what his being a father to
us meant. However, I didn't see any good in scaring the fellows, so when
my trick was over I told them the skipper was a real beauty. Just then
there was a roar from the poop, 'Relieve the wheel'; and the man who had
relieved me came staggering forrard with his face smothered in blood. He
had let her run off a quarter of a point or so, and the skipper, without
saying a word, struck him right between the eyes with the end of his
brass telescope, cutting his nose and forehead in great gashes. That was
his way of being a father to us, and he kept it up all the passage. The
first chance I got I skinned out!"