ON THE CATTLE RANGES; THE PRONG-HORN ANTELOPE
Early one June just after the close of the regular spring round-up, a
couple of wagons, with a score of riders between them, were sent to
work some hitherto untouched country, between the Little Missouri
and the Yellowstone. I was to go as the representative of our own
and of one or two neighboring brands; but as the round-up had halted
near my ranch I determined to spend a day there, and then to join the
wagons;--the appointed meeting-place being a cluster of red scoria
buttes, some forty miles distant, where there was a spring of good
water.
Most of my day at the ranch was spent in slumber; for I had been
several weeks on the round-up, where nobody ever gets quite enough
sleep. This is the only drawback to the work; otherwise it is pleasant
and exciting, with just that slight touch of danger necessary to give
it zest, and without the wearing fatigue of such labor as lumbering or
mining. But there is never enough sleep, at least on the spring and
midsummer round-ups. The men are in the saddle from dawn until dusk,
at the time when the days are longest on these great northern plains;
and in addition there is the regular night guarding and now and then
a furious storm or a stampede, when for twenty hours at a stretch the
riders only dismount to change horses or snatch a mouthful of food.
I started in the bright sunrise, riding one horse and driving loose
before me eight others, one carrying my bedding. They traveled strung
out in single file. I kept them trotting and loping, for loose horses
are easiest to handle when driven at some speed, and moreover the way
was long. My rifle was slung under my thigh; the lariat was looped on
the saddle-horn.
At first our trail led through winding coulies, and sharp grassy
defiles; the air was wonderfully clear, the flowers were in bloom, the
breath of the wind in my face was odorous and sweet. The patter and
beat of the unshod hoofs, rising in half-rhythmic measure, frightened
the scudding deer; but the yellow-breasted meadow larks, perched on the
budding tops of the bushes, sang their rich full songs without heeding
us as we went by.
When the sun was well on high and the heat of the day had begun we
came to a dreary and barren plain, broken by rows of low clay buttes.
The ground in places was whitened by alkali; elsewhere it was dull
gray. Here there grew nothing save sparse tufts of coarse grass, and
cactus, and sprawling sage brush. In the hot air all things seen afar
danced and wavered. As I rode and gazed at the shimmering haze the vast
desolation of the landscape bore on me, it seemed as if the unseen and
unknown powers of the wastes were moving by and marshaling their silent
forces. No man save the wilderness dweller knows the strong melancholy
fascination of these long rides through lonely lands.
At noon, that the horses might graze and drink, I halted where some
box-alders grew by a pool in the bed of a half-dry creek; and shifted
my saddle to a fresh beast. When we started again we came out on the
rolling prairie, where the green sea of wind-rippled grass stretched
limitless as far as the eye could reach. Little striped gophers
scuttled away, or stood perfectly straight at the mouths of their
burrows, looking like picket pins. Curlews clamored mournfully as
they circled overhead. Prairie fowl swept off, clucking and calling,
or strutted about with their sharp tails erect. Antelope were very
plentiful, running like race-horses across the level, or uttering their
queer, barking grunt as they stood at gaze, the white hairs on their
rumps all on end, their neck bands of broken brown and white vivid in
the sunlight. They were found singly or in small straggling parties;
the master bucks had not yet begun to drive out the younger and weaker
ones as later in the season, when each would gather into a herd as many
does as his jealous strength could guard from rivals. The nursing does
whose kids had come early were often found with the bands; the others
kept apart. The kids were very conspicuous figures on the prairies,
across which they scudded like jack-rabbits, showing nearly as much
speed and alertness as their parents; only the very young sought safety
by lying flat to escape notice.
The horses cantered and trotted steadily over the mat of buffalo
grass, steering for the group of low scoria mounds which was my goal.
In mid-afternoon I reached it. The two wagons were drawn up near
the spring; under them lay the night-wranglers, asleep; nearby the
teamster-cooks were busy about the evening meal. A little way off the
two day-wranglers were watching the horse-herd; into which I speedily
turned my own animals. The riders had already driven in the bunches of
cattle, and were engaged in branding the calves, and turning loose the
animals that were not needed, while the remainder were kept, forming
the nucleus of the herd which was to accompany the wagon.
As soon as the work was over the men rode to the wagons; sinewy
fellows, with tattered broad-brimmed hats and clanking spurs, some
wearing leather shaps or leggings, others having their trousers tucked
into their high-heeled top-boots, all with their flannel shirts and
loose neckerchiefs dusty and sweaty. A few were indulging in rough,
goodnatured horse play, to an accompaniment of yelling mirth; most were
grave and taciturn, greeting me with a silent nod or a “How! friend.” A
very talkative man, unless the acknowledged wit of the party, according
to the somewhat florid frontier notion of wit, is always looked on
with disfavor in a cow-camp. After supper, eaten in silent haste, we
gathered round the embers of the small fires, and the conversation
glanced fitfully over the threadbare subjects common to all such
camps; the antics of some particularly vicious bucking bronco, how
the different brands of cattle were showing up, the smallness of the
calf drop, the respective merits of rawhide lariats and grass ropes,
and bits of rather startling and violent news concerning the fates
of certain neighbors. Then one by one we began to turn in under our
blankets.
Our wagon was to furnish the night guards for the cattle; and each of
us had his gentlest horse tied ready to hand. The night guards went
on duty two at a time for two-hour watches. By good luck my watch
came last. My comrade was a happy-go-lucky young Texan who for some
inscrutable reason was known as “Latigo Strap”; he had just come from
the South with a big drove of trail cattle.
A few minutes before two, one of the guards who had gone on duty at
midnight rode into camp and wakened us up by shaking our shoulders.
Fumbling in the dark, I speedily saddled my horse; Latigo had left his
saddled, and he started ahead of me. One of the annoyances of night
guarding, at least in thick weather, is the occasional difficulty of
finding the herd after leaving camp, or in returning to camp after
the watch is over; there are few things more exasperating than to
be helplessly wandering about in the dark under such circumstances.
However, on this occasion there was no such trouble; for it was a
brilliant starlight night and the herd had been bedded down by a
sugar-loaf butte which made a good landmark. As we reached the spot we
could make out the loom of the cattle lying close together on the level
plain; and then the dim figure of a horseman rose vaguely from the
darkness and moved by in silence; it was the other of the two midnight
guards, on his way back to his broken slumber.
At once we began to ride slowly round the cattle in opposite
directions. We were silent, for the night was clear, and the herd
quiet; in wild weather, when the cattle are restless, the cowboys never
cease calling and singing as they circle them, for the sounds seem to
quiet the beasts.
For over an hour we steadily paced the endless round, saying nothing,
with our greatcoats buttoned, for the air was chill toward morning
on the northern plains, even in summer. Then faint streaks of gray
appeared in the east. Latigo Strap began to call merrily to the
cattle. A coyote came sneaking over the butte nearby, and halted to
yell and wail; afterward he crossed the coulie and from the hillside
opposite again shrieked in dismal crescendo. The dawn brightened
rapidly; the little skylarks of the plains began to sing, soaring far
overhead, while it was still much too dark to see them. Their song is
not powerful, but it is so clear and fresh and long-continued that it
always appeals to one very strongly; especially because it is most
often heard in the rose-tinted air of the glorious mornings, while the
listener sits in the saddle, looking across the endless sweep of the
prairies.
As it grew lighter the cattle became restless, rising and stretching
themselves, while we continued to ride round them.
“Then the bronc’ began to pitch
And I began to ride;
He bucked me off a
cut bank, Hell! I nearly died!”
sang Latigo from the other side of the herd. A yell from the wagons
told that the cook was summoning the sleeping cow-punchers to
breakfast; we were soon able to distinguish their figures as they
rolled out of their bedding, wrapped and corded it into bundles, and
huddled sullenly round the little fires. The horse-wranglers were
driving in the saddle bands. All the cattle got on their feet and
started feeding. In a few minutes the hasty breakfast at the wagons
had evidently been despatched, for we could see the men forming rope
corrals into which the ponies were driven; then each man saddled,
bridled, and mounted his horse, two or three of the half-broken beasts
bucking, rearing, and plunging frantically in the vain effort to unseat
their riders.
The two men who were first in the saddle relieved Latigo and myself,
and we immediately galloped to camp, shifted our saddles to fresh
animals, gulped down a cup or two of hot coffee, and some pork, beans
and bread, and rode to the spot where the others were gathered, lolling
loosely in their saddles, and waiting for the round-up boss to assign
them their tasks. We were the last, and as soon as we arrived the boss
divided all into two parties for the morning work, or “circle riding,”
whereby the cattle were to be gathered for the round-up proper. Then,
as the others started, he turned to me and remarked: “We’ve got enough
hands to drive this open country without you; but we’re out of meat,
and I don’t want to kill a beef for such a small outfit; can’t you
shoot some antelope this morning? We’ll pitch camp by the big blasted
cottonwood at the foot of the ash coulies, over yonder, below the
breaks of Dry Creek.”
Of course I gladly assented, and was speedily riding alone across the
grassy slopes. There was no lack of the game I was after, for from
every rise of ground I could see antelope scattered across the prairie,
singly, in couples, or in bands. But their very numbers, joined to
the lack of cover on such an open, flattish country, proved a bar to
success; while I was stalking one band another was sure to see me and
begin running, whereat the first would likewise start; I missed one or
two very long shots, and noon found me still without game.
However, I was then lucky enough to see a band of a dozen feeding to
windward of a small butte, and by galloping in a long circle I got
within a quarter of a mile of them before having to dismount. The stalk
itself was almost too easy; for I simply walked to the butte, climbed
carefully up a slope where the soil was firm and peered over the top
to see the herd, a little one, a hundred yards off. They saw me at
once and ran, but I held well ahead of a fine young prong-buck, and
rolled him over like a rabbit, with both shoulders broken. In a few
minutes I was riding onward once more with the buck lashed behind my
saddle.
The next one I got, a couple of hours later, offered a much more
puzzling stalk. He was a big fellow in company with four does or small
bucks. All five were lying in the middle of a slight basin, at the head
of a gentle valley. At first sight it seemed impossible to get near
them, for there was not so much cover as a sage brush, and the smooth,
shallow basin in which they lay was over a thousand yards across, while
they were looking directly down the valley. However, it is curious how
hard it is to tell, even from nearby, whether a stalk can or can not
be made; the difficulty being to estimate the exact amount of shelter
yielded by little inequalities of ground. In this instance a small,
shallow watercourse, entirely dry, ran along the valley, and after
much study I decided to try to crawl up it, although the big bulging
telescopic eyes of the prong-buck--which have much keener sight than
deer or any other game--would in such case be pointed directly my way.
Having made up my mind I backed cautiously down from the coign of
vantage whence I had first seen the game, and ran about a mile to the
mouth of a washout which formed the continuation of the watercourse
in question. Protected by the high clay banks of this washout I was
able to walk upright until within half a mile of the prong-bucks; then
my progress became very tedious and toilsome, as I had to work my way
up the watercourse flat on my stomach, dragging the rifle beside me.
At last I reached a spot beyond which not even a snake could crawl
unnoticed. In front was a low bank, a couple of feet high, crested with
tufts of coarse grass. Raising my head very cautiously I peered through
these and saw the prong-horn about a hundred and fifty yards distant.
At the same time I found that I had crawled to the edge of a village
of prairie dogs, which had already made me aware of their presence by
their shrill yelping. They saw me at once: and all those away from
their homes scuttled toward them, and dived down the burrows, or sat on
the mounds at the entrances, scolding convulsively and jerking their
fat little bodies and short tails. This commotion at once attracted the
attention of the antelope. They rose forthwith, and immediately caught
a glimpse of the black muzzle of the rifle which I was gently pushing
through the grass tufts. The fatal curiosity which so often in this
species offsets wariness and sharp sight, proved my friend; evidently
the antelope could not quite make me out and wished to know what I
was. They moved nervously to and fro, striking the earth with their
fore hoofs, and now and then uttering a sudden bleat. At last the big
buck stood still broadside to me, and I fired. He went off with the
others, but lagged behind as they passed over the hill crest, and when
I reached it I saw him standing, not very far off, with his head down.
Then he walked backward a few steps, fell over on his side, and died.
As he was a big buck I slung him across the saddle, and started for
camp afoot, leading the horse. However, my hunt was not over, for while
still a mile from the wagons, going down a coulie of Dry Creek, a
yearling prong-buck walked over the divide to my right and stood still
until I sent a bullet into its chest; so that I made my appearance in
camp with three antelope.
I spoke above of the sweet singing of the Western meadow-lark and
plains skylark; neither of them kin to the true skylark, by the way,
one being a cousin of the grakles and hang-birds, and the other a kind
of pipit. To me both of these birds are among the most attractive
singers to which I have ever listened; but with all bird-music much
must be allowed for the surroundings and much for the mood, and the
keenness of sense, of the listener. The lilt of the little plains
skylark is neither very powerful nor very melodious; but it is sweet,
pure, long-sustained, with a ring of courage befitting a song uttered
in highest air.
The meadow-lark is a singer of a higher order, deserving to rank with
the best. Its song has length, variety, power, and rich melody; and
there is in it sometimes a cadence of wild sadness, inexpressibly
touching. Yet I can not say that either song would appeal to others
as it appeals to me; for to me it comes forever laden with a hundred
memories and associations; with the sight of dim hills reddening in
the dawn, with the breath of cool morning winds blowing across lonely
plains, with the scent of flowers on the sunlit prairie, with the
motion of fiery horses, with all the strong thrill of eager and buoyant
life. I doubt if any man can judge dispassionately the bird songs of
his own country; he can not disassociate them from the sights and
sounds of the land that is so dear to him.
This is not a feeling to regret, but it must be taken into account
in accepting any estimate of bird music--even in considering the
reputation of the European skylark and nightingale. To both of these
birds I have often listened in their own homes; always with pleasure
and admiration, but always with a growing belief that relatively to
some other birds they were ranked too high. They are pre-eminently
birds with literary associations; most people take their opinions of
them at second-hand, from the poets.
No one can help liking the lark; it is such a brave, honest, cheery
bird, and, moreover, its song is uttered in the air, and is very
long-sustained. But it is by no means a musician of the first rank.
The nightingale is a performer of a very different and far higher
order; yet though it is indeed a notable and admirable singer, it is
an exaggeration to call it unequaled. In melody, and above all in that
finer, higher melody where the chords vibrate with the touch of eternal
sorrow, it can not rank with such singers as the wood-thrush and
hermit-thrush. The serene, ethereal beauty of the hermit’s song, rising
and falling through the still evening, under the archways of hoary
mountain forests that have endured from time everlasting; the golden,
leisurely chiming of the wood-thrush, sounding on June afternoons,
stanza by stanza, through sun-flecked groves of tall hickories, oaks,
and chestnuts; with these there is nothing in the nightingale’s song
to compare. But in volume and continuity, in tuneful, voluble, rapid
outpouring and ardor, above all in skilful and intricate variation of
theme, its song far surpasses that of either of the thrushes. In all
these respects it is more just to compare it with the mocking-bird’s,
which, as a rule, likewise falls short precisely on those points where
the songs of the two thrushes excel.
The mocking-bird is a singer that has suffered much in reputation from
its powers of mimicry. On ordinary occasions, and especially in the
daytime, it insists on playing the harlequin. But when free in its own
favorite haunts at night in the love season it has a song, or rather
songs, which are not only purely original, but are also more beautiful
than any other bird music whatsoever. Once I listened to a mocking-bird
singing the livelong spring night, under the full moon, in a magnolia
tree; and I do not think I shall ever forget its song.
It was on the plantation of Major Campbell Brown, near Nashville,
in the beautiful, fertile mid-Tennessee country. The mocking-birds
were prime favorites on the place; and were given full scope for the
development, not only of their bold friendliness toward mankind, but
also of that marked individuality and originality of character in which
they so far surpass every other bird as to become the most interesting
of all feathered folk. One of the mockers, which lived in the hedge
bordering the garden, was constantly engaged in an amusing feud with
an honest old setter dog, the point of attack being the tip of the
dog’s tail. For some reason the bird seemed to regard any hoisting of
the setter’s tail as a challenge and insult. It would flutter near the
dog as he walked; the old setter would become interested in something
and raise his tail. The bird would promptly fly at it and peck the
tip; whereupon down went the tail until in a couple of minutes the old
fellow would forget himself, and the scene would be repeated. The dog
usually bore the assaults with comic resignation; and the mocker easily
avoided any momentary outburst of clumsy resentment.
On the evening in question the moon was full. My host kindly assigned
me a room of which the windows opened on a great magnolia tree, where,
I was told, a mocking-bird sang every night and all night long. I
went to my room about ten. The moonlight was shining in through the
open window, and the mocking-bird was already in the magnolia. The
great tree was bathed in a flood of shining silver; I could see each
twig, and mark every action of the singer, who was pouring forth such
a rapture of ringing melody as I have never listened to before or
since. Sometimes he would perch motionless for many minutes, his body
quivering and thrilling with the outpour of music. Then he would drop
softly from twig to twig, until the lowest limb was reached, when he
would rise, fluttering and leaping through the branches, his song never
ceasing for an instant, until he reached the summit of the tree and
launched into the warm, scent-laden air, floating in spirals, with
outspread wings, until, as if spent, he sank gently back into the tree
and down through the branches, while his song rose into an ecstasy of
ardor and passion. His voice rang like a clarinet, in rich, full tones,
and his execution covered the widest possible compass; theme followed
theme, a torrent of music, a swelling tide of harmony, in which
scarcely any two bars were alike. I stayed till midnight listening to
him; he was singing when I went to sleep; he was still singing when I
woke a couple of hours later; he sang through the livelong night.
There are many singers beside the meadow-lark and little skylark in
the plains country; that brown and desolate land, once the home of the
thronging buffalo, still haunted by the bands of the prong-buck, and
roamed over in ever-increasing numbers by the branded herds of the
ranchman. In the brush of the river bottoms there are the thrasher and
song sparrow; on the grassy uplands the lark finch, vesper sparrow, and
lark bunting; and in the rough canyons the rock wren, with its ringing
melody.
Yet in certain moods a man cares less for even the loveliest bird
songs than for the wilder, harsher, stronger sounds of the wilderness;
the guttural booming and clucking of the prairie fowl and the great
sage fowl in spring; the honking of gangs of wild geese, as they
fly in rapid wedges; the bark of an eagle, wheeling in the shadow
of storm-scarred cliffs; or the far-off clanging of many sandhill
cranes, soaring high overhead in circles which cross and recross at
an incredible altitude. Wilder yet, and stranger, are the cries of
the great four-footed beasts; the rhythmic pealing of a bull-elk’s
challenge; and that most sinister and mournful sound, ever fraught with
foreboding of murder and rapine, the long-drawn baying of the gray
wolf.
Indeed, save to the trained ear, most mere bird songs are not very
noticeable. The ordinary wilderness dweller, whether hunter or cowboy,
scarcely heeds them; and in fact knows but little of the smaller
birds. If a bird has some conspicuous peculiarity of look or habit he
will notice its existence; but not otherwise. He knows a good deal
about magpies, whiskey jacks, or water ousels; but nothing whatever
concerning the thrushes, finches, and warblers.
It is the same with mammals. The prairie-dogs he can not help
noticing. With the big pack-rats also he is well acquainted; for they
are handsome, with soft gray fur, large eyes, and bushy tails; and,
moreover, no one can avoid remarking their extraordinary habit of
carrying to their burrows everything bright, useless, and portable,
from an empty cartridge case to a skinning knife. But he knows nothing
of mice, shrews, pocket gophers, or weasels; and but little even of
some larger mammals with very marked characteristics. Thus I have
met but one or two plainsmen who knew anything of the curious plains
ferret, that rather rare weasel-like animal, which plays the same part
on the plains that the mink does by the edges of all our streams and
brooks, and the tree-loving sable in the cold northern forests. The
ferret makes its home in burrows, and by preference goes abroad at
dawn and dusk, but sometimes even at midday. It is as bloodthirsty as
the mink itself, and its life is one long ramble for prey, gophers,
prairie-dogs, sage rabbits, jack-rabbits, snakes, and every kind of
ground bird furnishing its food. I have known one to fairly depopulate
a prairie-dog town, it being the arch foe of these little rodents,
because of its insatiable blood lust and its capacity to follow them
into their burrows. Once I found the bloody body and broken eggs of
a poor prairie-hen which a ferret had evidently surprised on her
nest. Another time one of my men was eye-witness to a more remarkable
instance of the little animal’s bloodthirsty ferocity. He was riding
the range, and being attracted by a slight commotion in a clump of
grass, he turned his horse thither to look, and to his astonishment
found an antelope fawn at the last gasp, but still feebly struggling,
in the grasp of a ferret, which had throttled it and was sucking its
blood with hideous greediness. He avenged the murdered innocent by a
dexterous blow with the knotted end of his lariat.
That mighty bird of rapine, the war eagle, which on the great plains
and among the Rockies supplants the bald-headed eagle of better-watered
regions, is another dangerous foe of the young antelope. It is even
said that under exceptional circumstances eagles will assail a
full-grown prong-horn; and a neighboring ranchman informs me that he
was once an eye-witness to such an attack. It was a bleak day in the
late winter, and he was riding home across a wide dreary plateau,
when he saw two eagles worrying and pouncing on a prong-buck--seemingly
a yearling. It made a gallant fight. The eagles hovered over it with
spread wings, now and then swooping down, their talons out-thrust, to
strike at the head, or to try to settle on the loins. The antelope
reared and struck with hoofs and horns like a goat; but its strength
was failing rapidly, and doubtless it would have succumbed in the end
had not the approach of the ranchman driven off the marauders.
I have likewise heard stories of eagles attacking badgers, foxes,
bob-cats, and coyotes; but I am inclined to think all such cases
exceptional. I have never myself seen an eagle assail anything bigger
than a fawn, lamb, kid, or jack-rabbit. It also swoops at geese,
sage fowl, and prairie fowl. On one occasion while riding over the
range I witnessed an attack on a jack-rabbit. The eagle was soaring
overhead, and espied the jack while the latter was crouched motionless.
Instantly the great bird rushed down through the humming air, with
closed wings; checked itself when some forty yards above the jack,
hovered for a moment, and again fell like a bolt. Away went long-ears,
running as only a frightened jack can; and after him the eagle, not
with the arrowy rush of its descent from high air, but with eager,
hurried flapping. In a short time it had nearly overtaken the fugitive,
when the latter dodged sharply to one side, and the eagle overshot
it precisely as a greyhound would have done, stopping itself by a
powerful, setting motion of the great pinions. Twice this manœuvre
was repeated; then the eagle made a quick rush, caught and overthrew
the quarry before it could turn, and in another moment was sitting
triumphant on the quivering body, the crooked talons driven deep into
the soft, furry sides.
Once while hunting mountain sheep in the Bad Lands I killed an eagle on
the wing with the rifle. I was walking beneath a cliff of gray clay,
when the eagle sailed into view over the crest. As soon as he saw me
he threw his wings aback, and for a moment before wheeling poised
motionless, offering a nearly stationary target; so that my bullet
grazed his shoulder, and down he came through the air, tumbling over
and over. As he struck the ground he threw himself on his back, and
fought against his death with the undaunted courage proper to his brave
and cruel nature.
Indians greatly prize the feathers of this eagle. With them they make
their striking and beautiful war bonnets, and bedeck the manes and
tails of their spirited war ponies. Every year the Grosventres and
Mandans from the Big Missouri come to the neighborhood of my ranch to
hunt. Though not good marksmen they kill many whitetail deer, driving
the bottoms for them in bands, on horseback; and they catch many
eagles. Sometimes they take these alive by exposing a bait near which
a hole is dug, where one of them lies hidden for days, with Indian
patience, until an eagle lights on the bait and is noosed.
Even eagles are far less dangerous enemies to antelope than are wolves
and coyotes. These beasts are always prowling round the bands to snap
up the sick or unwary; and in spring they revel in carnage of the kids
and fawns. They are not swift enough to overtake the grown animals by
sheer speed; but they are superior in endurance, and, especially in
winter, often run them down in fair chase. A prong-buck is a plucky
little beast, and when cornered it often makes a gallant, though not a
very effectual, fight.