is of absolute stillness. These trees do not sway to the wind, their
trunks are constructed to stand solid. Their branches do not bend and
murmur, for they too are rigid in fiber. Their fine thread-like
needles may catch the breeze's whisper, may draw together and apart for
the exchange of confidences as do the leaves of other trees, but if so,
you and I are too far below to distinguish it. All about, the other
forest growths may be rustling and bowing and singing with the voices
of the air; the Sequoia stands in the hush of an absolute calm. It is
as though he dreamed, too wrapt in still great thoughts of his youth,
when the earth itself was young, to share the worldlier joys of his
neighbor, to be aware of them, even himself to breathe deeply. You feel
in the presence of these trees as you would feel in the presence of a
kindly and benignant sage, too occupied with larger things to enter
fully into your little affairs, but well disposed in the wisdom of
clear spiritual insight.
This combination of dignity, immobility, and a certain serene
detachment has on me very much the same effect as does a mountain
against the sky. It is quite unlike the impression made by any other
tree, however large, and is lovable.
We entered the Giant Forest by a trail that climbed. Always we entered
desirable places by trails that climbed or dropped. Our access to
paradise was never easy. About halfway up we met five pack-mules and
two men coming down. For some reason, unknown, I suspect, even to the
god of chance, our animals behaved themselves and walked straight ahead
in a beautiful dignity, while those weak-minded mules scattered and
bucked and scraped under trees and dragged back on their halters when
caught. The two men cast on us malevolent glances as often as they
were able, but spent most of their time swearing and running about. We
helped them once or twice by heading off, but were too thankfully
engaged in treading lightly over our own phenomenal peace to pay much
attention. Long after we had gone on, we caught bursts of rumpus
ascending from below. Shortly we came to a comparatively level
country, and a little meadow, and a rough sign which read
"Feed 20C a night."
Just beyond this extortion was the Giant Forest.
We entered it toward the close of the afternoon, and rode on after our
wonted time looking for feed at less than twenty cents a night. The
great trunks, fluted like marble columns, blackened against the western
sky. As they grew huger, we seemed to shrink, until we moved fearful
as prehistoric man must have moved among the forces over which he had
no control. We discovered our feed in a narrow "stringer" a few miles
on. That night, we, pigmies, slept in the setting before which should
have stridden the colossi of another age. Perhaps eventually, in spite
of its magnificence and wonder, we were a little glad to leave the
Giant Forest. It held us too rigidly to a spiritual standard of which
our normal lives were incapable; it insisted on a loftiness of soul, a
dignity, an aloofness from the ordinary affairs of life, the ordinary
occupations of thought hardly compatible with the powers of any
creature less noble, less aged, less wise in the passing of centuries
than itself.
XIX
ON COWBOYS
Your cowboy is a species variously subdivided. If you happen to be
traveled as to the wild countries, you will be able to recognize whence
your chance acquaintance hails by the kind of saddle he rides, and the
rigging of it; by the kind of rope he throws, and the method of the
throwing; by the shape of hat he wears; by his twist of speech; even by
the very manner of his riding. Your California "vaquero" from the
Coast Ranges is as unlike as possible to your Texas cowman, and both
differ from the Wyoming or South Dakota article. I should be puzzled
to define exactly the habitat of the "typical" cowboy. No matter where
you go, you will find your individual acquaintance varying from the
type in respect to some of the minor details.
Certain characteristics run through the whole tribe, however. Of these
some are so well known or have been so adequately done elsewhere that
it hardly seems wise to elaborate on them here. Let us assume that you
and I know what sort of human beings cowboys are,--with all their
taciturnity, their surface gravity, their keen sense of humor, their
courage, their kindness, their freedom, their lawlessness, their
foulness of mouth, and their supreme skill in the handling of horses
and cattle. I shall try to tell you nothing of all that.
If one thinks down doggedly to the last analysis, he will find that the
basic reason for the differences between a cowboy and other men rests
finally on an individual liberty, a freedom from restraint either of
society or convention, a lawlessness, an accepting of his own standard
alone. He is absolutely self-poised and sufficient; and that
self-poise and that sufficiency he takes pains to assure first of all.
After their assurance he is willing to enter into human relations. His
attitude toward everything in life is, not suspicious, but watchful.
He is "gathered together," his elbows at his side.
This evidences itself most strikingly in his terseness of speech. A
man dependent on himself naturally does not give himself away to the
first comer. He is more interested in finding out what the other fellow
is than in exploiting his own importance. A man who does much
promiscuous talking he is likely to despise, arguing that man
incautious, hence weak.
Yet when he does talk, he talks to the point and with a vivid and
direct picturesqueness of phrase which is as refreshing as it is
unexpected. The delightful remodeling of the English language in Mr.
Alfred Lewis's "Wolfville" is exaggerated only in quantity, not in
quality. No cowboy talks habitually in quite as original a manner as
Mr. Lewis's Old Cattleman; but I have no doubt that in time he would be
heard to say all the good things in that volume. I myself have
note-books full of just such gorgeous language, some of the best of
which I have used elsewhere, and so will not repeat here.[1]
This vividness manifests itself quite as often in the selection of the
apt word as in the construction of elaborate phrases with a
half-humorous intention. A cowboy once told me of the arrival of a
tramp by saying, "He SIFTED into camp." Could any verb be more
expressive? Does not it convey exactly the lazy, careless,
out-at-heels shuffling gait of the hobo? Another in the course of
description told of a saloon scene, "They all BELLIED UP TO the bar."
Again, a range cook, objecting to purposeless idling about his fire,
shouted: "If you fellows come MOPING around here any more, I'LL SURE
MAKE YOU HARD TO CATCH!" "Fish in that pond, son? Why, there's some
fish in there big enough to rope," another advised me. "I quit
shoveling," one explained the story of his life, "because I couldn't
see nothing ahead of shoveling but dirt." The same man described
ploughing as, "Looking at a mule's tail all day." And one of the most
succinct epitomes of the motifs of fiction was offered by an old fellow
who looked over my shoulder as I was reading a novel. "Well, son,"
said he, "what they doing now, KISSING OR KILLING?"
Nor are the complete phrases behind in aptness. I have space for only
a few examples, but they will illustrate what I mean. Speaking of a
companion who was "putting on too much dog," I was informed, "He walks
like a man with a new suit of WOODEN UNDERWEAR!" Or again, in answer
to my inquiry as to a mutual acquaintance, "Jim? Oh, poor old Jim!
For the last week or so he's been nothing but an insignificant atom of
humanity hitched to a boil."
But to observe the riot of imagination turned loose with the bridle
off, you must assist at a burst of anger on the part of one of these
men. It is mostly unprintable, but you will get an entirely new idea
of what profanity means. Also you will come to the conclusion that
you, with your trifling DAMNS, and the like, have been a very good boy
indeed. The remotest, most obscure, and unheard of conceptions are
dragged forth from earth, heaven, and hell, and linked together in a
sequence so original, so gaudy, and so utterly blasphemous, that you
gasp and are stricken with the most devoted admiration. It is genius.
Of course I can give you no idea here of what these truly magnificent
oaths are like. It is a pity, for it would liberalize your education.
Occasionally, like a trickle of clear water into an alkali torrent, a
straight English sentence will drop into the flood. It is refreshing
by contrast, but weak.
"If your brains were all made of dynamite, you couldn't blow the top of
your head off."
"I wouldn't speak to him if I met him in hell carrying a lump of ice in
his hand."
"That little horse'll throw you so high the blackbirds will build nests
in your hair before you come down."
These are ingenious and amusing, but need the blazing settings from
which I have ravished them to give them their due force.
In Arizona a number of us were sitting around the feeble camp-fire the
desert scarcity of fuel permits, smoking our pipes. We were all
contemplative and comfortably silent with the exception of one very
youthful person who had a lot to say. It was mainly about himself.
After he had bragged awhile without molestation, one of the older
cow-punchers grew very tired of it. He removed his pipe deliberately,
and spat in the fire.
"Say, son," he drawled, "if you want to say something big, why don't
you say 'elephant'?"
The young fellow subsided. We went on smoking our pipes.
Down near the Chiracahua Range in southeastern Arizona, there is a
butte, and halfway up that butte is a cave, and in front of that cave
is a ramshackle porch-roof or shed. This latter makes the cave into a
dwelling-house. It is inhabited by an old "alkali" and half a dozen
bear dogs. I sat with the old fellow one day for nearly an hour. It
was a sociable visit, but economical of the English language. He made
one remark, outside our initial greeting. It was enough, for in
terseness, accuracy, and compression, I have never heard a better or
more comprehensive description of the arid countries.
"Son," said he, "in this country thar is more cows and less butter,
more rivers and less water, and you kin see farther and see less than
in any other country in the world."
Now this peculiar directness of phrase means but one thing,--freedom
from the influence of convention. The cowboy respects neither the
dictionary nor usage. He employs his words in the manner that best
suits him, and arranges them in the sequence that best expresses his
idea, untrammeled by tradition. It is a phase of the same lawlessness,
the same reliance on self, that makes for his taciturnity and
watchfulness.
In essence, his dress is an adaptation to the necessities of his
calling; as a matter of fact, it is an elaboration on that. The broad
heavy felt hat he has found by experience to be more effective in
turning heat than a lighter straw; he further runs to variety in the
shape of the crown and in the nature of the band. He wears a silk
handkerchief about his neck to turn the sun and keep out the dust, but
indulges in astonishing gaudiness of color. His gauntlets save his
hands from the rope; he adds a fringe and a silver star. The heavy
wide "chaps" of leather about his legs are necessary to him when he is
riding fast through brush; he indulges in such frivolities as stamped
leather, angora hair, and the like. High heels to his boots prevent
his foot from slipping through his wide stirrup, and are useful to dig
into the ground when he is roping in the corral. Even his six-shooter
is more a tool of his trade than a weapon of defense. With it he
frightens cattle from the heavy brush; he slaughters old or diseased
steers; he "turns the herd" in a stampede or when rounding it in; and
especially is it handy and loose to his hip in case his horse should
fall and commence to drag him.
So the details of his appearance spring from the practical, but in the
wearing of them and the using of them he shows again that fine
disregard for the way other people do it or think it.
Now in civilization you and I entertain a double respect for firearms
and the law. Firearms are dangerous, and it is against the law to use
them promiscuously. If we shoot them off in unexpected places, we
first of all alarm unduly our families and neighbors, and in due course
attract the notice of the police. By the time we are grown up we look
on shooting a revolver as something to be accomplished after an
especial trip for the purpose.
But to the cowboy shooting a gun is merely what lighting a match would
be to us. We take reasonable care not to scratch that match on the
wall nor to throw it where it will do harm. Likewise the cowboy takes
reasonable care that his bullets do not land in some one's anatomy nor
in too expensive bric-a-brac. Otherwise any time or place will do.
The picture comes to me of a bunk-house on an Arizona range. The time
was evening. A half-dozen cowboys were sprawled out on the beds
smoking, and three more were playing poker with the Chinese cook. A
misguided rat darted out from under one of the beds and made for the
empty fireplace. He finished his journey in smoke. Then the four who
had shot slipped their guns back into their holsters and resumed their
cigarettes and drawling low-toned conversation.
On another occasion I stopped for noon at the Circle I ranch. While
waiting for dinner, I lay on my back in the bunk-room and counted three
hundred and sixty-two bullet-holes in the ceiling. They came to be
there because the festive cowboys used to while away the time while
lying as I was lying, waiting for supper, in shooting the flies that
crawled about the plaster.
This beautiful familiarity with the pistol as a parlor toy accounts in
great part for a cowboy's propensity to "shoot up the town" and his
indignation when arrested therefor.
The average cowboy is only a fair target-shot with the revolver. But
he is chain lightning at getting his gun off in a hurry. There are
exceptions to this, however, especially among the older men. Some can
handle the Colts 45 and its heavy recoil with almost uncanny accuracy.
I have seen individuals who could from their saddles nip lizards
darting across the road; and one who was able to perforate twice before
it hit the ground a tomato-can tossed into the air. The cowboy is
prejudiced against the double-action gun, for some reason or other. He
manipulates his single-action weapon fast enough, however.
His sense of humor takes the same unexpected slants, not because his
mental processes differ from those of other men, but because he is
unshackled by the subtle and unnoticed nothingnesses of precedent which
deflect our action toward the common uniformity of our neighbors. It
must be confessed that his sense of humor possesses also a certain
robustness.
The J. H. outfit had been engaged for ten days in busting broncos.
This the Chinese cook, Sang, a newcomer in the territory, found vastly
amusing. He liked to throw the ropes off the prostrate broncos, when
all was ready; to slap them on the flanks; to yell shrill Chinese
yells; and to dance in celestial delight when the terrified animal
arose and scattered out of there. But one day the range men drove up a
little bunch of full-grown cattle that had been bought from a smaller
owner. It was necessary to change the brands. Therefore a little fire
was built, the stamp-brand put in to heat, and two of the men on
horseback caught a cow by the horns and one hind leg, and promptly
upset her. The old brand was obliterated, the new one burnt in. This
irritated the cow. Promptly the branding-men, who were of course
afoot, climbed to the top of the corral to be out of the way. At this
moment, before the horsemen could flip loose their ropes, Sang appeared.
"Hol' on!" he babbled. "I take him off;" and he scrambled over the
fence and approached the cow.
Now cattle of any sort rush at the first object they see after getting
to their feet. But whereas a steer makes a blind run and so can be
avoided, a cow keeps her eyes open. Sang approached that wild-eyed
cow, a bland smile on his countenance.
A dead silence fell. Looking about at my companions' faces I could not
discern even in the depths of their eyes a single faint flicker of
human interest.
Sang loosened the rope from the hind leg, he threw it from the horns,
he slapped the cow with his hat, and uttered the shrill Chinese yell.
So far all was according to programme.
The cow staggered to her feet, her eyes blazing fire. She took one good
look, and then started for Sang.
What followed occurred with all the briskness of a tune from a circus
band. Sang darted for the corral fence. Now, three sides of the
corral were railed, and so climbable, but the fourth was a solid adobe
wall. Of course Sang went for the wall. There, finding his nails
would not stick, he fled down the length of it, his queue streaming,
his eyes popping, his talons curved toward an ideal of safety,
gibbering strange monkey talk, pursued a scant arm's length behind by
that infuriated cow. Did any one help him? Not any. Every man of
that crew was hanging weak from laughter to the horn of his saddle or
the top of the fence. The preternatural solemnity had broken to little
bits. Men came running from the bunk-house, only to go into spasms
outside, to roll over and over on the ground, clutching handfuls of
herbage in the agony of their delight.
At the end of the corral was a narrow chute. Into this Sang escaped as
into a burrow. The cow came too. Sang, in desperation, seized a pole,
but the cow dashed such a feeble weapon aside. Sang caught sight of a
little opening, too small for cows, back into the main corral. He
squeezed through. The cow crashed through after him, smashing the
boards. At the crucial moment Sang tripped and fell on his face. The
cow missed him by so close a margin that for a moment we thought she
had hit. But she had not, and before she could turn, Sang had topped
the fence and was halfway to the kitchen. Tom Waters always maintained
that he spread his Chinese sleeves and flew. Shortly after a
tremendous smoke arose from the kitchen chimney. Sang had gone back to
cooking.
Now that Mongolian was really in great danger, but no one of the outfit
thought for a moment of any but the humorous aspect of the affair.
Analogously, in a certain small cow-town I happened to be transient
when the postmaster shot a Mexican. Nothing was done about it. The man
went right on being postmaster, but he had to set up the drinks because
he had hit the Mexican in the stomach. That was considered a poor place
to hit a man.
The entire town of Willcox knocked off work for nearly a day to while
away the tedium of an enforced wait there on my part. They wanted me
to go fishing. One man offered a team, the other a saddle-horse. All
expended much eloquence in directing me accurately, so that I should be
sure to find exactly the spot where I could hang my feet over a bank
beneath which there were "a plumb plenty of fish." Somehow or other
they raked out miscellaneous tackle. But they were a little too eager.
I excused myself and hunted up a map. Sure enough the lake was there,
but it had been dry since a previous geological period. The fish were
undoubtedly there too, but they were fossil fish. I borrowed a pickaxe
and shovel and announced myself as ready to start.
Outside the principal saloon in one town hung a gong. When a stranger
was observed to enter the saloon, that gong was sounded. Then it
behooved him to treat those who came in answer to the summons.
But when it comes to a case of real hospitality or helpfulness, your
cowboy is there every time. You are welcome to food and shelter without
price, whether he is at home or not. Only it is etiquette to leave
your name and thanks pinned somewhere about the place. Otherwise your
intrusion may be considered in the light of a theft, and you may be
pursued accordingly.
Contrary to general opinion, the cowboy is not a dangerous man to those
not looking for trouble. There are occasional exceptions, of course,
but they belong to the universal genus of bully, and can be found among
any class. Attend to your own business, be cool and good-natured, and
your skin is safe. Then when it is really "up to you," be a man; you
will never lack for friends.
The Sierras, especially towards the south where the meadows are wide
and numerous, are full of cattle in small bands. They come up from the
desert about the first of June, and are driven back again to the arid
countries as soon as the autumn storms begin. In the very high land
they are few, and to be left to their own devices; but now we entered a
new sort of country.
Below Farewell Gap and the volcanic regions one's surroundings change
entirely. The meadows become high flat valleys, often miles in extent;
the mountains--while registering big on the aneroid--are so little
elevated above the plateaus that a few thousand feet is all of their
apparent height; the passes are low, the slopes easy, the trails good,
the rock outcrops few, the hills grown with forests to their very tops.
Altogether it is a country easy to ride through, rich in grazing, cool
and green, with its eight thousand feet of elevation. Consequently
during the hot months thousands of desert cattle are pastured here; and
with them come many of the desert men.
Our first intimation of these things was in the volcanic region where
swim the golden trout. From the advantage of a hill we looked far down
to a hair-grass meadow through which twisted tortuously a brook, and by
the side of the brook, belittled by distance, was a miniature man. We
could see distinctly his every movement, as he approached cautiously
the stream's edge, dropped his short line at the end of a stick over
the bank, and then yanked bodily the fish from beneath. Behind him
stood his pony. We could make out in the clear air the coil of his
raw-hide "rope," the glitter of his silver bit, the metal points on his
saddle skirts, the polish of his six-shooter, the gleam of his fish,
all the details of his costume. Yet he was fully a mile distant.
After a time he picked up his string of fish, mounted, and jogged
loosely away at the cow-pony's little Spanish trot toward the south.
Over a week later, having caught golden trout and climbed Mount
Whitney, we followed him and so came to the great central camp at
Monache Meadows.
Imagine an island-dotted lake of grass four or five miles long by two
or three wide to which slope regular shores of stony soil planted with
trees. Imagine on the very edge of that lake an especially fine grove
perhaps a quarter of a mile in length, beneath whose trees a dozen
different outfits of cowboys are camped for the summer. You must place
a herd of ponies in the foreground, a pine mountain at the back, an
unbroken ridge across ahead, cattle dotted here and there, thousands of
ravens wheeling and croaking and flapping everywhere, a marvelous clear
sun and blue sky. The camps were mostly open, though a few possessed
tents. They differed from the ordinary in that they had racks for
saddles and equipments. Especially well laid out were the cooking
arrangements. A dozen accommodating springs supplied fresh water with
the conveniently regular spacing of faucets.
Towards evening the men jingled in. This summer camp was almost in the
nature of a vacation to them after the hard work of the desert. All
they had to do was to ride about the pleasant hills examining that the
cattle did not stray nor get into trouble. It was fun for them, and
they were in high spirits.
Our immediate neighbors were an old man of seventy-two and his grandson
of twenty-five. At least the old man said he was seventy-two. I
should have guessed fifty. He was as straight as an arrow, wiry, lean,
clear-eyed, and had, without food, ridden twelve hours after some
strayed cattle. On arriving he threw off his saddle, turned his horse
loose, and set about the construction of supper. This consisted of
boiled meat, strong tea, and an incredible number of flapjacks built of
water, baking-powder, salt, and flour, warmed through--not cooked--in a
frying-pan. He deluged these with molasses and devoured three
platefuls. It would have killed an ostrich, but apparently did this
decrepit veteran of seventy-two much good.
After supper he talked to us most interestingly in the dry cowboy
manner, looking at us keenly from under the floppy brim of his hat. He
confided to us that he had had to quit smoking, and it ground him--he'd
smoked since he was five years old.
"Tobacco doesn't agree with you any more?" I hazarded.
"Oh, 'taint that," he replied; "only I'd ruther chew."