THE OPEN RANGE
Arizona is in the arid belt and well adapted to the range cattle
industry. Its mild climate and limited water supply make it the ideal
range country. Indeed, to the single factor of its limited water
supply, perhaps, more than anything else is its value due as an open
range. If water was abundant there could be no open range as then the
land would all be farmed and fenced.
Arizona is sometimes spoken of as belonging to the plains, but it is
not a prairie country. Mountains are everywhere, but are separated in
many places by wide valleys. The mountains not only make fine scenery,
but are natural boundaries for the ranches and give shade and shelter
to the cattle.
There are no severe storms nor blizzard swept plains where cattle drift
and perish from cold. The weather is never extremely cold, the mercury
seldom falling to more than a few degrees below freezing, except upon
the high plateaus and mountains of northern Arizona. If it freezes
during the night the frost usually disappears the next day; and, if
snow flies, it lies only on the mountains, but melts as fast as it
falls in the valleys. There are but few cloudy or stormy days in the
year and bright, warm sunshine generally prevails. There has never
been any loss of cattle from cold, but many have died from drought as a
result of overstocking the range.
The pastures consist of valley, mesa and mountain lands which, in a
normal season, are covered by a variety of nutritious grasses. Of all
the native forage plants the gramma grass is the most abundant and
best. It grows only in the summer rainy season when, if the rains are
copious, the gray desert is converted into a vast green meadow.
The annual rainfall is comparatively light and insufficient to grow and
mature with certainty any of the cereal crops. When the summer rains
begin to fall the rancher is "jubilant" and the "old cow smiles." Rain
means even more to the ranchman than it does to the farmer. In an
agricultural country it is expected that rain or snow will fall during
every month of the year, but on the range rain is expected only in
certain months and, if it fails to fall then, it means failure, in a
measure, for the entire year.
Rain is very uncertain in Arizona. July and August are the rain months
during which time the gramma grass grows. Unless the rain falls daily
after it begins it does but little good, as frequent showers are
required to keep the grass growing after it once starts. A settled
rain of one or more days' duration is of rare occurrence. During the
rainy season and, in fact, at all times, the mornings are usually
clear. In the forenoon the clouds begin to gather and pile up in dark
billowy masses that end in showers during the afternoon and evening.
But not every rain cloud brings rain. Clouds of this character often
look very threatening, but all their display of thunder and lightning
is only bluff and bluster and ends in a fizzle with no rain. After
such a demonstration the clouds either bring wind and a disagreeable
dust storm, or, if a little rain starts to fall, the air is so dry that
it evaporates in mid air, and none of it ever reaches the earth. In
this fashion the clouds often threaten to do great things, only to
break their promise; and the anxious rancher stands and gazes at the
sky with longing eyes, only to be disappointed again and again.
As a rule water is scarce. A long procession of cloudless days merge
into weeks of dry weather; and the weeks glide into months during which
time the brazen sky refuses to yield one drop of moisture either of dew
or rain to the parched and thirsty earth. Even the rainy season is not
altogether reliable, but varies considerably one year with another in
the time of its appearance and continuance.
The soil is sandy and porous and readily absorbs water, except where
the earth is tramped and packed hard by the cattle. One peculiarity of
the country as found marked upon the maps, and that exists in fact, is
the diminution and often complete disappearance of a stream after it
leaves the mountains. If not wholly lost upon entering the valley the
water soon sinks out of sight in the sand and disappears and reappears
at irregular intervals, until it loses itself entirely in some
underground channel and is seen no more.
Many a pleasant valley in the range country is made desolate by being
destitute of any surface spring or running brook, or water that can be
found at any depth. Occasionally a hidden fountain is struck by
digging, but it is only by the merest chance. Wells have been dug to
great depths in perfectly dry ground in an eager search for water
without finding it, and such an experience is usually equivalent to a
failure and the making of a useless bill of expense.
A never-failing spring of good water in sufficient quantity to supply
the needs of a ranch in the range country is of rare occurrence,
considering the large territory to be supplied. Only here and there at
long intervals is such a spring found, and it is always a desirable and
valuable property. It makes an oasis in the desert that is an
agreeable change from the surrounding barrenness, and furnishes its
owner, if properly utilized, a comfortable subsistence for himself and
herds. His fields produce without fail and the increase of his flocks
and herds is sure.
The isolated rancher who is well located is independent. He is in no
danger of being crowded by his neighbors nor his range becoming over
stocked with stray cattle. His water right gives him undisputed
control of the adjacent range, even though he does not own all the
land, which is an unwritten law of the range and respected by all
cattlemen.
Because of the scarcity of water the range country is sparsely settled
and always will be until more water is provided by artificial means for
irrigation. Even then a large portion of the land will be worthless
for any other purpose than grazing, and stock-growing on the open range
in Arizona will continue to be a staple industry in the future as it
has been in the past.
The range is practically all occupied and, in many places, is already
over stocked. Where more cattle are run on a range than its grass and
water can support there is bound to be some loss. In stocking a range
an estimate should be made of its carrying capacity in a bad year
rather than in a good one, as no range can safely carry more cattle
than it can support in the poorest year; like a chain, it is no
stronger than its weakest link.
A good range is sometimes destroyed by the prairie dog. Wherever he
establishes a colony the grass soon disappears. He burrows in the
ground and a group of such holes is called a dog town. Like the
jack-rabbit he can live without water and is thus able to keep his hold
on the desert. The only way to get rid of him is to kill him, which is
usually done by the wholesale with poison. His flesh is fine eating,
which the Navajo knows if the white man does not. The Navajo considers
him a dainty morsel which is particularly relished by the sick. If a
patient can afford the price, he can usually procure a prairie dog in
exchange for two sheep.
The Navajo is an adept at capturing this little animal. The hunter
places a small looking-glass near the hole and, in concealment near by,
he patiently awaits developments. When the prairie dog comes out of
his hole to take an airing he immediately sees his reflection in the
glass and takes it for an intruder. In an instant he is ready for a
fight and pounces upon his supposed enemy to kill or drive him away.
While the prairie dog is thus engaged wrestling with his shadow or
reflection the hunter shoots him at close range with his bow and
arrow--never with a gun, for if wounded by a bullet he is sure to drop
into his hole and is lost, but the arrow transfixes his body and
prevents him from getting away. He has been hunted so much in the
Navajo country that he has become very scarce.[1]
Much of the ranch country in southern Arizona is destitute of trees,
and shade, therefore, is scarce. Upon the high mountains and plateaus
of northern Arizona there are great forests of pine and plenty of
shade. But few cattle range there in comparison to the large numbers
that graze on the lower levels further south. What little tree growth
there is on the desert is stunted and supplies but scant shade. In the
canons some large cottonwood, sycamore and walnut trees can be found;
upon the foot hills the live oak and still higher up the mountain the
pine. Cattle always seek the shade and if there are no trees they will
lie down in the shade of a bush or anything that casts a shadow. The
cattle are so eager for shade that if they can find nothing better they
will crowd into the narrow ribbon of shade that is cast by a columnar
cactus or telegraph pole and seem to be satisfied with ever so little
if only shade is touched.
Twenty years ago before there were many cattle on the southwestern
range, the gramma grass stood knee high everywhere all over that
country and seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of feed for an
unlimited number of cattle during an indefinite term of years. It was
not many years, however, after the large herds were turned loose on the
range until the grass was all gone and the ground, except in a few
favored spots, left nearly as bare of grass as the traveled road. At
the present time whatever grass there is must grow each year which,
even in a favorable year, is never heavy. If the summer rains fail, no
grass whatever can grow and the cattle are without feed. The grass
about the springs and water holes is first to disappear and then the
cattle must go farther and farther from water to find any grass. When
cattle are compelled to travel over long distances in going from grass
to water, they naturally grow thin from insufficient food and are worn
out by the repeated long journeys. A cow that is thin and weak will
postpone making the trip as long as possible--two, three and even four
days in the hottest weather she will wait before attempting the trip.
At last, when the poor creature reaches water, she is so famished from
thirst that she drinks too much. In her feeble condition she is unable
to carry the enormous load of water which she drinks and lies down by
the side of the friendly water trough to die from exhaustion.
If cattle are turned loose upon a new range they act strange and are
inclined to scatter. Until they become accustomed to the change they
should be close herded, but after they are once located they are not
liable to stray very far.
As they are only worked by men on horseback they are not frightened at
the sight of a horse and rider; but let a stranger approach them on
foot, in a moment after he is sighted every head is raised in surprise
and alarm and the pedestrian is, indeed, fortunate if the herd turns
tail and scampers off instead of running him down and tramping him
under foot in a wild stampede.
Nowhere else can be found a finer sight than is witnessed in the range
country. In every direction broad meadows stretch away to the horizon
where numberless cattle roam and are the embodiment of bovine happiness
and contentment. Scattered about in irregular groups they are seen at
ease lying down or feeding, and frisking about in an overflow of
exuberant life. Cow paths or trails converge from every point of the
compass, that lead to springs and water holes, on which the cattle
travel.
It is an interesting sight to watch the cattle maneuver as they form in
line, single file, ready for the march. They move forward in an easy,
deliberate walk one behind the other and may be seen coming and going
in every direction. They make their trips with great regularity back
and forth from grass to water, and vice versa, going to water in the
morning and back to the feeding grounds at night.
Cows have a curious fashion, sometimes, of hiding out their calves.
When a cow with a young calf starts for water she invariably hides her
calf in a bunch of grass or clump of bushes in some secluded spot,
where it lies down and remains perfectly quiet until the mother
returns. I have many times while riding the range found calves thus
secreted that could scarcely be aroused or frightened away, which
behavior was so different from their usual habit of being shy and
running off at the slightest provocation. The calf under such
circumstances seems to understand that it is "not at home," and cannot
be seen.
At another time a lot of calves are left in charge of a young cow or
heifer that seems to understand her responsibility and guards her
charge carefully. The young calves are too weak to make the long trip
to water and thus, through the maternal instinct of the mother cow, she
provides for the care of her offspring almost as if she were human.
After viewing such a large pasture as the open range presents, which is
limitless in extent, the small fenced field or pasture lot of a few
acres on the old home farm back east, that looked so large to boyish
eyes in years gone by, dwindles by comparison into insignificance and
can never again be restored to its former greatness.
[1] This statement is made on the authority of Mr. F. W. Volz, who
lives at Canon Diablo, and is familiar with the customs of the Navajos.