AMONGST THE COW-BOYS.
I am writing from Calgary, a little but growing collection of huts and
wooden houses planted on a lovely plain with hills all around, a river at
my feet, on the banks of which some poplars flourish, and I can almost
fancy I am in Derbyshire itself. It is a gay place, this rising town, at
the foot, as it were, of the Rockies, and just now is unusually gay, as
the Queen’s birthday is being celebrated with athletic sports and a ball;
and, besides, a new clergyman has made his appearance, the Rev. Parks
Smith, from a Bermondsey parish, who is to preach in the new Assembly
Hall, which is to be set apart as a church on Sundays. I am going to
hear him, and already I feel somewhat of a Pharisee—I have on a clean
collar, which I religiously preserved for the occasion, and have had my
boots blackened. The sight is so novel that I have spent half an hour on
the prairie contemplating the effect of that operation. Already I feel
six inches higher.
I can’t say that I think quite so much of Calgary as do the people who
live in it. In splendour, in wealth, in dignity, and importance, they
evidently anticipate it will be a second Babylon. Well, a good deal has
to be done first. The situation is pleasant, I admit. You incline to
think well of Calgary after the dreary ride across the prairie, and you
have quite a choice of hotels, and of shops, all well stocked; but then
these shops are little better than huts, and the hotels certainly don’t
throw the shops into the shade.
For instance, I am in the leading hotel. It is too far from the railway,
but that is because the C.P.R. have moved their station a little further
on, where the new town of Calgary is springing up. We have an open room,
where I am writing—a dark dining-room on one side, and then, on the
other, a little row of closets, which they dignify by the name of
bedrooms. I am the proud possessor of one. It holds a bed, whereon, I
own, I slept soundly; a row of pegs, on which to hang one’s clothes; and
a little shelf, on which is placed a tiny wash-hand basin; while above
that is a glass, in which it is impossible to get a good view of
yourself—a matter of very small consequence, as the glass certainly
reflects very poorly the looker’s personal charms, whatever they may be.
I ought to have said there is a window; and as my bedroom is on the
ground floor (upper rooms are rare in these wooden houses in the
North-West), I am much exercised in my mind as to whether that window may
not be opened in the course of the night, and the roll of dollars I have
hidden under my pillow carried off. Then, just as I am getting into bed,
I discover somebody else’s boots. That is awkward—very. It is with a
sigh of relief I discover that they are not feminine. Suppose the owner
of those boots comes into my bedroom and claims to be the rightful owner?
Suppose he resorts to physical force? Suppose, in such a case, I got the
worst of it?
Fortunately, before I can answer these questions satisfactorily to
myself, I am asleep, and yet they are not so irrelevant as you fancy.
Last night, for instance, as I was sitting in the cool air, smoking one
of the peculiarly bad cigars in which the brave men of Canada greatly
rejoice, and for which they pay as heavily as if they were of the finest
brands, a half-drunken man came up, abusing me in every possible way,
threatening to smash every bone in my body, and altogether behaving
himself in a way the reverse of polite. Perhaps you say, Why did you not
knock him down? In novels heroes always do, and come clear off; but I am
not writing fiction, and in real life I have always found discretion to
be the better part of valour. The fact is, the fellow was a strapping
Hercules, and I could see in a moment, if the appeal were to force, what
the issue might be. Yet I had not done anything intentionally to offend
him. He had come galloping up to the hotel, as they all do here—the
horses are not trained to trot—and his horse had bucked him off. I
believe I did say something to a friend of a mildly critical nature, but
I question whether the rider heard it. The fact was, he was angry at
having been thrown, and seeing that I was a stranger, he evidently
thought he could pour the vials of his wrath on me. I must admit that in
a little while he came up and apologized, and there was an end of the
matter. But the worst part of it was that his friend remarked to me that
this drunken insulting ruffian was one of the best fellows in the place.
If so, Calgary has to be thankful for very small mercies indeed.
You ask, How could the fellow be drunk, seeing that there is a
prohibitory liquor-law in existence? I have every reason to believe that
Calgary is a very drunken place, nevertheless. I have already referred
to one case of drunkenness. I may add that, in the afternoon of the same
day, I had seen another in the shape of an old gentleman who was going to
head a revolt which would cut off the North-West from the Dominion, and
which would make her a Crown colony. He was very drunk as he stood on
the bar opposite me declaiming all this bunkum. I remarked his state to
the landlord, who seemed to feel how unfair it was that men could get
drunk on the sly, and that a decent landlord, like himself, should be
deprived of the privilege of selling them decent liquor. I own it is
very hard on the publicans. At Moose Jaw one of them told me he would
give five hundred pounds for a liquor license. ‘They call this a free
country,’ said an indignant English settler to me, ‘and yet I can’t get a
drop of good liquor. Pretty freedom, ain’t it?’ Unfortunately, the
Government, while it prohibits the sale of liquor, does not exterminate
the desire for it—perhaps only increases it—as we always cry for what we
can’t get. Unfortunately, also, it is true that, as long as this demand
exists, the supply will be found somehow.
In Montana there are a lot of blackguards and daredevils who will run the
thing in somehow. Liquor is also brought in by the railway as coal-oil,
oatmeal, flour, varnish, and then it is doctored up and sold at £1 the
bottle to the thirsty souls. Now, what is the consequence? Why, that,
as a local journal remarks, liquor is sold; the dealers are pests and
outlaws; they sell their poison for ten times the price of what people
who don’t belong to the Blue Ribbon Army call good liquor, and then
vanish with their ill-gotten money out of the country, excepting such as
they may leave behind them in the shape of fines, when found out. I do
think the hotel-keeper has much reason to complain of prohibition. It
presses hardly on him, and does not put drunkenness down. I mentioned
these facts to a Baptist minister from England, whom I met in Toronto.
He would not believe them; I gave him cuttings from newspapers to support
my view. His reply was that they were hoaxes. I have now been in
Calgary a day, and already I find that these hoaxes, as my friend calls
them, are veritable facts.
I believe that many of my travelling companions were a little fresh last
night, from their soberness and dejection of manner this morning. They
were away down town, and had not returned when I retired to rest; and
this morning several of the householders complain of having had their
doors knocked at at most unseasonable hours.
At meals I meet queer company. We have a Chinese cook. I have a faint
idea that he has murderous designs on us all, his smile is so childlike
and bland; yet I prefer his placid pleasant round face to those of his
female helps, sour and ill-looking, who earn wages such as an English
servant-girl never dreams of. His messes seem to be appreciated, and
little is left after meal-time. It is enough for me to see the men eat.
Every particle of food is conveyed into the mouth by means of the knife,
which is also freely used if sugar or salt be required. Our dining-room
is simply a shed, and a very dark one, having a canvas on one side and
unpainted deal on the other. Few houses at Calgary are painted, though a
painted house looks so much prettier than a deal one that I wonder
painting is not more resorted to, especially when you remember how paint
preserves the wood. Many of the houses here are brought all the way from
Ontario, and, perhaps, this accounts for their smallness. They chiefly
consist of two rooms, one a shop, the other a sitting and night-room; and
the larger number have been erected within the last few months. What we
call in England a gentleman’s house, I should say does not exist in the
whole district. A gentleman would find existence intolerable here,
though the air is fine, and the extent of the prairie is unbounded.
There are two newspapers in the town, and the professions are all well
represented.
As to my companions, the less I say of them the better. They are young
and vigorous, and use language not generally tolerated in polite society.
Their talk is chiefly of horses and bets. They ride recklessly up and
down the dusty path which forms the main street, and would not break
their hearts if they knocked a fellow down; or they drive light waggons
on four wheels, creating the most overwhelming clouds of dust as they
rush by. As to their saddles, they are as unlike English ones as can
well be imagined, rising at each end, so as to give the rider a very safe
seat, while their stirrups are as long almost as the foot itself; but the
saddles have this advantage, that they never give the horses sore backs.
As to the horses, they are all branded, and turned loose on to the
prairie when not required. Most of the men are prospectors—people who go
round the country in search of mines; or cow-boys—that is, men employed
in the cattle ranches in the district. The cowboy is a fearful sight.
His hands and face are as brown as leather, he wears a straw hat—or one
of felt—with a very wide brim. His coat or jacket is, perhaps, decorated
with Indian work. Around his waist he wears a belt, which he makes
useful in many ways. Then he has brown leather leggings, ornamented down
the sides with leather fringes, and on his heels he puts a tremendous
pair of spurs. The men on the mountains have much the same style of
dress, and are fine specimens of muscular, rather than intellectual or
moral, development. On the whole, I am not unduly enamoured of these
pioneers of civilization; but, then, I was born in the old country, and
learned Dr. Watts’s hymns, and was taught to—
‘Thank the goodness and the grace
That on my birth has smiled,
And made me in these Christian days
A happy English child.’
I see a good deal more of Calgary than I wish to. I feel that I have
been made a fool of by the station-master. I am, as you may be aware, at
the foot of the Rocky Mountains. They are some 60 miles off, yet;
already I have seen their far-off peaks, glistening with snow, rising
into the summer sky. As I have got so far, I must see them. There are
trees up there, and the sight of a tree would be good for sore eyes;
there are cooling shades out there, and here, though it is but early
morning, it is too hot to stir. The scenery out there is the finest to
be seen in all the Canadian continent, and I would carry away with me, to
think of in after years, something of their beauty. I travelled all this
way for that purpose, and hoped to have been off before, and now find I
must wait, owing to a blunder on the part of the station-master. He
promised he would let me know if he sent a freight-train to the Rocky
Mountains. Well, he sent off a train at one o’clock this morning, and
never let me know anything about it, and the consequence is I must stay
two more days in this dreary spot, without conveniences such as I could
find in the meanest cottage in England, and at a cost which would enable
me to live in luxury and fare sumptuously at home. One lesson I have
learned, which I repeat for the benefit of my readers. Never depend upon
other people; hear all they say, and then act for yourself. Had I done
so, I should have been now in the Rocky Mountains. I trusted in others,
and I am, in consequence, the victim of misplaced confidence.
I gather a few items of interest to intending emigrants. Crops raised in
the vicinity of Calgary during 1883 gave the following yields per
acre:—Wheat, 33 bushels; barley, 40 bushels; oats, 60 bushels. The
Government farm a few miles off, which I have visited, does well. The
country round offers especial advantages to sheep and dairy farmers,
cheese manufacturers, and hog raisers. My own impression is, and I have
mentioned it to several persons who all think it excellent, that any man
would easily make his fortune who set up a poultry farm. Eggs and fowls
are almost entirely unknown, and if the producer did not find a market
here, he could easily send his produce by the railway to where it was
wanted. Eggs and fowls help one as well as anything to keep body and
soul together.
I am glad I went to church yesterday. My presence there gave quite a
tone to the place (said the head man to me this morning), and so far I
may presume I did good service. The congregation consisted chiefly of
men, and the collection amounted to nearly 16 dollars—pretty good,
considering (said the above mentioned gentleman) there are two or three
schism shops in the place. In the evening I went to the Wesleyan
Methodist schism shop, as he called it, and heard a sermon, which touched
me more than any sermon I have heard a long time. As I came out the
effect was startling. The sun was sinking in crimson glory just behind
the green hills by which Calgary is surrounded. Far off a dim splendour
of pink testified to the existence of a prairie fire, while before me
stood a gigantic Indian, with his big black head rising out of a pyramid
of gorgeous robes, really dazzling to behold. There is an Indian Mission
near here, but the Indians are not the only heathens out here.
I have just had a ride in a buck-cart, which is the kind of vehicle the
colonists use. It is of boards on four wheels, on which is placed a seat
for a couple of persons, while the luggage is piled up behind. Some of
them have springs, as fortunately was the case with the one on which I
rode, or I should have had a very uncomfortable ride indeed. Perhaps I
ought not to be so angry with the station-master as I was when I
interviewed him this morning. I have just seen a man who got on to the
freight train, but he tells me it was so uncomfortable that he preferred
to wait, and got off after he had taken his passage.
Money seems scarce. I have just been to the post-office to send a letter
to England. The postmaster could give me no change, and I had to take
post-cards instead. I suppose all the money goes to the smugglers. In
this small town 500 dollars are sent weekly to Winnipeg for liquor; so
much for prohibition in Calgary.
As there is no bank here, people find it hard to get money. A young man
waiting here to make up a mining party for the Rockies, tells me he had
to telegraph to Toronto for 500 dollars, which were sent in the shape of
a post-office order. The postmaster charged him five dollars for cashing
the order. I have just heard of a loan of 300 dollars effected; the
borrower has agreed to pay, in the shape of interest, the moderate sum of
four dollars a month.
Calgary, according to some, can have no enduring prosperity; if so, the
land-grabbers who have scattered themselves all over it will be deeply
disappointed.
Edmonton, where they get gold out of the river sand, and where they have
already a kind of dredging machine employed for that purpose, it is said,
will shortly have a railway to itself, and the men from the mountains,
who are the mainstay of Calgary, will go that way.
I fancy I hear some one exclaim: On those wide plains over which sweeps
the ice-laden air of the Rockies, what pleasant walks you must have! My
dear sir, you are quite mistaken. Perhaps, as you set out, there comes a
herd of wild horses—and then I remember how poor George Moore was knocked
down by one, and avoid the boundless prairie accordingly.
Then there are the dogs, ‘their name is Legion,’ and they are big, and as
wild as they are big, and I am not partial to hydrophobia. No; it is
better to sit at the door of my tent and watch the flight of the horses,
the fights of the dogs, and the stream of dust a mile long which denotes
that some Jehu is at hand, who will pull up at the door, deeply drink
water, smoke a cigar, use a little strong language, and then mount again
and ride off into boundless space.
Here and there a pedestrian may be seen making his way to his solitary
hut or shop, where at no time do you see any sign of life; and how the
people here make a living (with the exception of the hotel-keepers, who
are always busy) puzzles me. I meet good fellows, I own. They are
friendly in their way. As humour is a thing unknown in Canada and the
North-West, they generally grin when I make a remark, which I do at very
protracted intervals, fearing to be worn out before the long day is done.
Nevertheless, I begin to doubt whether I am not relapsing into the wild
life of those around me. Fortunately, I have not yet acquired the habit
of speaking through my nose, nor do I make that fearful sound—a hawking
in the throat—which is a signal that your neighbour is preparing to
expectorate, and which renders travelling, even in a first-class car,
almost insupportable; but my hands are tanned. I sit with my waistcoat
open, and occasionally in my shirt-sleeves. I care little to make any
effort to be polite; I am clean forgetting all my manners, and feel that
in a little while I shall be as rough as a cow-boy, or as the wild wolf
of the prairie. It is clear I must not tarry at Calgary too long.