The sun beat down on the dry grass, and the punchers were squatting
about in groups in front of the straggling log and _adobe_ buildings
which constituted the outlying ranch of Los Ojos.
Mr. Johnnie Bell, the _capitan_ in charge, was walking about in his
heavy _chaparras_, a slouch hat, and a white “biled” shirt. He was
chewing his long yellow mustache, and gazing across the great plain of
Bavicora with set and squinting eyes. He passed us and repassed us,
still gazing out, and in his long Texas drawl said, “Thar’s them San
Miguel fellers.”
I looked, but I could not see any San Miguel fellows in the wide
expanse of land.
“Hyar, crawl some horses, and we’ll go out and meet ’em,” continued
Mr. Bell; and, suiting the action, we mounted our horses and followed
him. After a time I made out tiny specks in the atmospheric wave which
rises from the heated land, and in half an hour could plainly make out
a cavalcade of horsemen. Presently breaking into a gallop, which
movement was imitated by the other party, we bore down upon each
other, and only stopped when near enough to shake hands, the half-wild
ponies darting about and rearing under the excitement. Greetings were
exchanged in Spanish, and the peculiar shoulder tap, or abbreviated
embrace, was indulged in. Doubtless a part of our outfit was as
strange to Governor Terraza’s men--for he is the _patron_ of San
Miguel--as they were to us.
My imagination had never before pictured anything so wild as these
leather-clad _vaqueros_. As they removed their hats to greet Jack,
their unkempt locks blew over their faces, back off their foreheads,
in the greatest disorder. They were clad in terra-cotta buckskin,
elaborately trimmed with white leather, and around their lower legs
wore heavy cowhide as a sort of legging. They were fully armed, and
with their jingling spurs, their flapping ropes and buckskin strings,
and with their gay _serapes_ tied behind their saddles, they were as
impressive a cavalcade of desert-scamperers as it has been my fortune
to see. Slowly we rode back to the corrals, where they dismounted.
Shortly, and unobserved by us until at hand, we heard the clatter of
hoofs, and, leaving in their wake a cloud of dust, a dozen punchers
from another outfit bore down upon us as we stood under the _ramada_
of the ranch-house, and pulling up with a jerk, which threw the ponies
on their haunches, the men dismounted and approached, to be welcomed
by the master of the _rodeo_.
A few short orders were given, and three mounted men started down to
the springs, and, after charging about, we could see that they had
roped a steer, which they led, bawling and resisting, to the ranch,
where it was quickly thrown and slaughtered. Turning it on its back,
after the manner of the old buffalo-hunters, it was quickly disrobed
and cut up into hundreds of small pieces, which is the method
practised by the Mexican butchers, and distributed to the men.
In Mexico it is the custom for the man who gives the “round-up” to
supply fresh beef to the visiting cow-men; and on this occasion it
seemed that the pigs, chickens, and dogs were also embraced in the
bounty of the _patron_, for I noticed one piece which hung immediately
in front of my quarters had two chickens roosting on the top of it,
and a pig and a dog tugging vigorously at the bottom.
[Illustration: COMING TO THE RODEO]
The horse herds were moved in from the _llano_ and rounded up in the
corral, from which the punchers selected their mounts by roping, and
as the sun was westering they disappeared, in obedience to orders, to
all points of the compass. The men took positions back in the hills
and far out on the plain; there, building a little fire, they cook
their beef, and, enveloped in their _serapes_, spend the night. At
early dawn they converge on the ranch, driving before them such stock
as they may.
In the morning we could see from the ranch-house a great semicircle of
gray on the yellow plains. It was the thousands of cattle coming to
the _rodeo_. In an hour more we could plainly see the cattle, and
behind them the _vaqueros_ dashing about, waving their _serapes_.
Gradually they converged on the _rodeo_ ground, and, enveloped in a
great cloud of dust and with hollow bellowings, like the low pedals of
a great organ, they begin to mill, or turn about a common centre,
until gradually quieted by the enveloping cloud of horsemen. The
_patron_ and the captains of the neighboring ranches, after an
exchange of long-winded Spanish formalities, and accompanied by
ourselves, rode slowly from the ranch to the herd, and, entering it,
passed through and through and around in solemn procession. The cattle
part before the horsemen, and the dust rises so as to obscure to
unaccustomed eyes all but the silhouettes of the moving thousands.
This is an important function in a cow country, since it enables the
owners or their men to estimate what numbers of the stock belong to
them, to observe the brands, and to inquire as to the condition of the
animals and the numbers of calves and “mavericks” and to settle any
dispute which may arise therefrom.
All controversy, if there be any, having been adjusted, a part of the
punchers move slowly into the herd, while the rest patrol the outside,
and hold it. Then a movement soon begins. You see a figure dash at
about full speed through an apparently impenetrable mass of cattle;
the stock becomes uneasy and moves about, gradually beginning the
milling process, but the men select the cattle bearing their brand,
and course them through the herd; all becomes confusion, and the
cattle simply seek to escape from the ever-recurring horsemen. Here
one sees the matchless horsemanship of the punchers. Their little
ponies, trained to the business, respond to the slightest pressure.
The cattle make every attempt to escape, dodging in and out and
crowding among their kind; but right on their quarter, gradually
forcing them to the edge of the herd, keeps the puncher, until
finally, as a last effort, the cow and the calf rush through the
supporting line, when, after a terrific race, she is turned into
another herd, and is called “the cut.”
One who finds pleasure in action can here see the most surprising
manifestations of it. A huge bull, wild with fright, breaks from the
herd, with lowered head and whitened eye, and goes charging off
indifferent to what or whom he may encounter, with the little pony
pattering in his wake. The cattle run at times with nearly the
intensity of action of a deer, and whip and spur are applied
mercilessly to the little horse. The process of “tailing” is indulged
in, although it is a dangerous practice for the man, and reprehensible
from its brutality to the cattle. A man will pursue a bull at top
speed, will reach over and grasp the tail of the animal, bring it to
his saddle, throw his right leg over the tail, and swing his horse
suddenly to the left, which throws the bull rolling over and over.
That this method has its value I have seen in the case of pursuing
“mavericks,” where an unsuccessful throw was made with the rope, and
the animal was about to enter the thick timber; it would be impossible
to coil the rope again, and an escape would follow but for the
wonderful dexterity of these men in this accomplishment. The little
calves become separated from their mothers, and go bleating about;
their mothers respond by bellows, until pandemonium seems to reign.
The dust is blinding, and the puncher becomes grimy and soiled; the
horses lather; and in the excitement the desperate men do deeds which
convince you of their faith that “a man can’t die till his time
comes.” At times a bull is found so skilled in these contests that he
cannot be displaced from the herd; it is then necessary to rope him
and drag him to the point desired; and I noticed punchers ride behind
recalcitrant bulls and, reaching over, spur them. I also saw two men
throw simultaneously for an immense creature, when, to my great
astonishment, he turned tail over head and rolled on the ground. They
had both sat back on their ropes together.
[Illustration: WAVING SERAPE TO DRIVE CATTLE]
The whole scene was inspiring to a degree, and well merited Mr.
Yorick’s observation that “it is the sport of kings; the image of war,
with twenty-five per cent. of its danger.”
Fresh horses are saddled from time to time, but before high noon the
work is done, and the various “cut-offs” are herded in different
directions. By this time the dust had risen until lost in the sky
above, and as the various bands of cowboys rode slowly back to the
ranch, I observed their demoralized condition. The economy _per force_
of the Mexican people prompts them to put no more cotton into a shirt
than is absolutely necessary, with the consequence that, in these
cases, their shirts had pulled out from their belts and their
_serapes_, and were flapping in the wind; their mustaches and their
hair were perfectly solid with dust, and one could not tell a bay
horse from a black.
Now come the cigarettes and the broiling of beef. The bosses were
invited to sit at our table, and as the work of cutting and branding
had yet to be done, no time was taken for ablutions. Opposite me sat a
certain individual who, as he engulfed his food, presented a grimy
waste of visage only broken by the rolling of his eyes and the
snapping of his teeth.
We then proceeded to the corrals, which were made in stockaded form
from gnarled and many-shaped posts set on an end. The cows and calves
were bunched on one side in fearful expectancy. A fire was built just
outside of the bars, and the branding-irons set on. Into the corrals
went the punchers, with their ropes coiled in their hands. Selecting
their victims, they threw their ropes, and, after pulling and tugging,
a bull calf would come out of the bunch, whereat two men would set
upon him and “rastle” him to the ground. It is a strange mixture of
humor and pathos, this mutilation of calves--humorous when the calf
throws the man, and pathetic when the man throws the calf.
Occasionally an old cow takes an unusual interest in her offspring,
and charges boldly into their midst. Those men who cannot escape soon
enough throw dust in her eyes, or put their hats over her horns. And
in this case there were some big steers which had been “cut out” for
purposes of work at the plough and turned in with the young stock; one
old grizzled veteran manifested an interest in the proceedings, and
walked boldly from the bunch, with his head in the air and bellowing;
a wild scurry ensued, and hats and _serapes_ were thrown to confuse
him. But over all this the punchers only laugh, and go at it again. In
corral roping they try to catch the calf by the front feet, and in
this they become so expert that they rarely miss. As I sat on the
fence, one of the foremen, in play, threw and caught my legs as they
dangled.
[Illustration: TAILING A BULL]
When the work is done and the cattle are again turned into the herd,
the men repair to the _casa_ and indulge in games and pranks. We had
shooting-matches and hundred-yard dashes; but I think no records were
broken, since punchers on foot are odd fish. They walk as though they
expected every moment to sit down. Their knees work outward, and they
have a decided “hitch” in their gait; but once let them get a foot in
a stirrup and a grasp on the horn of the saddle, and a dynamite
cartridge alone could expel them from their seat. When loping over the
plain the puncher is the epitome of equine grace, and if he desires to
look behind him he simply shifts his whole body to one side and lets
the horse go as he pleases. In the pursuit of cattle at a _rodeo_ he
leans forward in his saddle, and with his arms elevated to his
shoulders he “plugs” in his spurs and makes his pony fairly sail.
While going at this tremendous speed he turns his pony almost in his
stride, and no matter how a bull may twist and swerve about, he is at
his tail as true as a magnet to the pole. The Mexican punchers all use
the “ring bit,” and it is a fearful contrivance. Their saddle-trees
are very short, and as straight and quite as shapeless as a “saw-buck
pack-saddle.” The horn is as big as a dinner plate, and taken
altogether it is inferior to the California tree. It is very hard on
horses’ backs, and not at all comfortable for a rider who is not
accustomed to it.
They all use hemp ropes which are imported from some of the southern
states of the republic, and carry a lariat of hair which they make
themselves. They work for from eight to twelve dollars a month in
Mexican coin, and live on the most simple diet imaginable. They are
mostly _peoned_, or in hopeless debt to their _patrons_, who go after
any man who deserts the range and bring him back by force. A puncher
buys nothing but his gorgeous buckskin clothes, and his big
silver-mounted straw hat, his spurs, his riata, and his _cincha_
rings. He makes his _teguas_ or buckskin boots, his heavy leggings,
his saddle, and the _patron_ furnishes his arms. On the round-up,
which lasts about half of the year, he is furnished beef, and also
kills game. The balance of the year he is kept in an outlying camp to
turn stock back on the range. These camps are often the most simple
things, consisting of a pack containing his “grub,” his saddle, and
_serape_, all lying under a tree, which does duty as a house. He
carries a flint and steel, and has a piece of sheet-iron for a stove,
and a piece of pottery for boiling things in. This part of their lives
is passed in a long siesta, and a man of the North who has a local
reputation as a lazy man should see a Mexican puncher loaf, in order
to comprehend that he could never achieve distinction in the land
where _poco tiempo_ means forever. Such is the life of the _vaquero_,
a brave fellow, a fatalist, with less wants than the pony he rides, a
rather thoughtless man, who lacks many virtues, but when he mounts his
horse or casts his riata all men must bow and call him master.
The _baile_, the song, the man with the guitar--and under all this
_dolce far niente_ are their little hates and bickerings, as thin as
cigarette smoke and as enduring as time. They reverence their parents,
they honor their _patron_, and love their _compadre_. They are grave,
and grave even when gay; they eat little, they think less, they
meet death calmly, and it’s a terrible scoundrel who goes to hell from
Mexico.
[Illustration: JOHNNIE BELL OF LOS OJOS]
The Anglo-American foremen are another type entirely. They have all
the rude virtues. The intelligence which is never lacking and the
perfect courage which never fails are found in such men as Tom Bailey
and Johnnie Bell--two Texans who are the superiors of any cow-men I
have ever seen. I have seen them chase the “mavericks” at top speed
over a country so difficult that a man could hardly pass on foot out
of a walk. On one occasion Mr. Bailey, in hot pursuit of a bull,
leaped a tremendous fallen log at top speed, and in the next instant
“tailed” and threw the bull as it was about to enter the timber. Bell
can ride a pony at a gallop while standing up on his saddle, and while
Cossacks do this trick they are enabled to accomplish it easily from
the superior adaptability of their saddles to the purpose. In my
association with these men of the frontier I have come to greatly
respect their moral fibre and their character. Modern civilization, in
the process of educating men beyond their capacity, often succeeds in
vulgarizing them; but these natural men possess minds which, though
lacking all embellishment, are chaste and simple, and utterly devoid
of a certain flippancy which passes for smartness in situations where
life is not so real. The fact that a man bolts his food or uses his
table-knife as though it were a deadly weapon counts very little in
the game these men play in their lonely range life. They are not
complicated, these children of nature, and they never think one thing
and say another. Mr. Bell was wont to squat against a fireplace--_à
la_ Indian--and dissect the peculiarities of the audience in a most
ingenuous way. It never gave offence either, because so guileless. Mr.
Bailey, after listening carefully to a theological tilt, observed
that “he believed he’d be religious if he knowed how.”
The jokes and pleasantries of the American puncher are so close to
nature often, and so generously veneered with heart-rending profanity,
as to exclude their becoming classic. The cow-men are good friends and
virulent haters, and, if justified in their own minds, would shoot a
man instantly, and regret the necessity, but not the shooting,
afterwards.
Among the dry, saturnine faces of the cow punchers of the Sierra Madre
was one which beamed with human instincts, which seemed to say,
“Welcome, stranger!” He was the first impression my companion and
myself had of Mexico, and as broad as are its plains and as high its
mountains, yet looms up William on a higher pinnacle of remembrance.
We crawled out of a Pullman in the early morning at Chihuahua, and
fell into the hands of a little black man, with telescopic pantaloons,
a big sombrero with the edges rolled up, and a grin on his
good-humored face like a yawning _barranca_.
“Is you frens of Mista Jack’s?”
“We are.”
“Gimme your checks. Come dis way,” he said; and without knowing why we
should hand ourselves and our property over to this uncouth personage,
we did it, and from thence on over the deserts and in the mountains,
while shivering in the snow by night and by day, there was Jack’s man
to bandage our wounds, lend us tobacco when no one else had any, to
tuck in our blankets, to amuse us, to comfort us in distress, to
advise and admonish, until the last _adios_ were waved from the train
as it again bore us to the border-land.
On our departure from Chihuahua to meet Jack out in the mountains
the stage was overloaded, but a proposition to leave William behind
was beaten on the first ballot; it was well vindicated, for without
William the expedition would have been a “march from Moscow.” There
was only one man in the party with a sort of bass-relief notion that
he could handle the Spanish language, and the relief was a very slight
one--almost imperceptible--the politeness of the people only keeping
him from being mobbed. But William could speak German, English, and
Spanish, separately, or all at once.
[Illustration: WILLIAM IN ACTION]
William was so black that he would make a dark hole in the night, and
the top of his head was not over four and a half feet above the soles
of his shoes. His legs were all out of drawing, but forty-five winters
had not passed over him without leaving a mind which, in its sphere of
life, was agile, resourceful, and eminently capable of grappling with
any complication which might arise. He had personal relations of
various kinds with every man, woman, and child whom we met in Mexico.
He had been thirty years a cook in a cow camp, and could evolve
banquets from the meat on a bull’s tail, and was wont to say, “I don’
know so much ’bout dese yar stoves, but gie me a camp-fire an’ I can
make de bes’ thing yo’ ever threw your lip ober.”
When in camp, with his little cast-off English tourist cap on one side
of his head, a short black pipe tipped at the other angle to balance
the effect, and two or three stripes of white corn-meal across his
visage, he would move round the camp-fire like a cub bear around a
huckleberry bush, and in a low, authoritative voice have the Mexicans
all in action, one hurrying after water, another after wood, some
making _tortillas_, or cutting up venison, grinding coffee between two
stones, dusting bedding, or anything else. The British Field-Marshal
air was lost in a second when he addressed “Mister Willie” or “Mister
Jack,” and no fawning courtier of the Grand Monarch could purr so low.
On our coach ride to Bavicora, William would seem to go up to any
ranch-house on the road, when the sun was getting low, and after ten
minutes’ conversation with the grave Don who owned it, he would turn
to us with a wink, and say: “Come right in, gemmen. Dis ranch is
yours.” Sure enough, it was. Whether he played us for major-generals
or governors of states I shall never know, but certainly we were
treated as such.
On one occasion William had gotten out to get a hat blown off by the
wind, and when he came up to view the wreck of the turn-over of the
great Concord coach, and saw the mules going off down the hill with
the front wheels, the ground littered with boxes and débris, and the
men all lying about, groaning or fainting in agony, William scratched
his wool, and with just a suspicion of humor on his face he ventured,
“If I’d been hyar, I would be in two places ’fore now, shuah,” which
was some consolation to William, if not to us.
In Chihuahua we found William was in need of a clean shirt, and we had
got one for him in a shop. He had selected one with a power of color
enough to make the sun stand still, and with great glass diamonds in
it. We admonished him that when he got to the ranch the punchers would
take it away from him.
“No, sah; I’ll take it off ’fore I get thar.”
William had his commercial instincts developed in a reasonable degree,
for he was always trying to trade a silver watch, of the Captain
Cuttle kind, with the Mexicans. When asked what time it was, William
would look at the sun and then deftly cant the watch around, the
hands of which swung like compasses, and he would show you the time
within fifteen minutes of right, which little discrepancy could never
affect the value of a watch in the land of _mañana_.
[Illustration: MOUNTING A WILD ONE]
That he possessed tact I have shown, for he was the only man at
Bavicora whose relations with the _patron_ and the smallest, dirtiest
Indian “kid,” were easy and natural. Jack said of his popularity, “He
stands ’way in with the Chinese cook; gets the warm corner behind the
stove.” He also had courage, for didn’t he serve out the ammunition in
Texas when his “outfit” was in a life-and-death tussle with the
Comanches? did he not hold a starving crowd of Mexican teamsters off
the grub-wagon until the boys came back?
There was only one feature of Western life with which William could
not assimilate, and that was the horse. He had trusted a bronco too
far on some remote occasion, which accounted partially for the kinks
in his legs; but after he had recovered fully his health he had pinned
his faith to _burros_, and forgotten the glories of the true cavalier.
“No, sah, Mister Jack, I don’ care for to ride dat horse. He’s a good
horse, but I jes hit de flat for a few miles ’fore I rides him,” he
was wont to say when the cowboys gave themselves over to an
irresponsible desire to see a horse kill a man. He would then go about
his duties, uttering gulps of suppressed laughter, after the negro
manner, safe in the knowledge that the _burro_ he affected could “pack
his freight.”
One morning I was taking a bath out of our wash-basin, and William,
who was watching me and the coffee-pot at the same time, observed that
“if one of dese people down hyar was to do dat dere, dere’d be a
funeral ’fo’ twelve o’clock.”
William never admitted any social affinity with Mexicans, and as to
his own people he was wont to say: “Never have went with people of my
own color. Why, you go to Brazos to-day, and dey tell you dere was
Bill, he go home come night, an’ de balance of ’em be looking troo de
grates in de morning.” So William lives happily in the “small social
puddle,” and always reckons to “treat any friends of Mister Jack’s
right.” So if you would know William, you must do it through Jack.
It was on rare occasions that William, as master of ceremonies,
committed any indiscretion, but one occurred in the town of Guerrero.
We had gotten in rather late, and William was sent about the town to
have some one serve supper for us. We were all very busy when William
“blew in” with a great sputtering, and said, “Is yous ready for
dinner, gemmen?” “Yes, William,” we answered, whereat William ran off.
After waiting a long time, and being very hungry, we concluded to go
and “rustle” for ourselves, since William did not come back and had
not told us where he had gone. After we had found and eaten a dinner,
William turned up, gloomy and dispirited. We inquired as to his mood.
“I do declar’, gemmen, I done forget dat you didn’t know where I had
ordered dat dinner; but dere’s de dinner an’ nobody to eat it, an’ I’s
got to leave dis town ’fore sunup, pay for it, or die.” Unless some
one had advanced the money, William’s two other alternatives would
have been painful.
The romance in William’s life even could not be made mournful, but it
was the “mos’ trouble” he ever had, and it runs like this: Some years
since William had saved up four hundred dollars, and he had a girl
back in Brazos to whom he had pinned his faith. He had concluded to
assume responsibilities, and to create a business in a little mud
town down the big road. He had it arranged to start a travellers’
eating-house; he had contracted for a stove and some furniture; and at
about that time his dishonest employer had left Mexico for parts
unknown, with all his money. The stove and furniture were yet to be
paid for, so William entered into hopeless bankruptcy, lost his girl,
and then, attaching himself to Jack, he bravely set to again in life’s
battle. But I was glad to know that he had again conquered, for before
I left I overheard a serious conversation between William and the
_patron_. William was cleaning a frying-pan by the camp-fire light,
and the _patron_ was sitting enveloped in his _serape_ on the other
side.
[Illustration: A MODERN SANCHO PANZA]
“Mist’ Jack, I’s got a girl. She’s a Mexican.”
“Why, William, how about that girl up in the Brazos?” inquired the
_patron_, in surprise.
“Don’t care about her now. Got a new girl.”
“Well, I suppose you can have her, if you can win her,” replied the
_patron_.
“Can I, sah? Well, den, I’s win her already, sah--dar!” chuckled
William.
“Oh! very well, then, William, I will give you a wagon, with two
yellow ponies, to go down and get her; but I don’t want you to come
back to Bavicora with an empty wagon.”
“No, sah; I won’t, sah,” pleasedly responded the lover.
“Does that suit you, then?” asked the _patron_.
“Yes, sah; but, sah, wonder, sah, might I have the two old whites?”
“All right! You can have the two old white ponies;” and, after a
pause, “I will give you that old _adobe_ up in La Pinta, and two
speckled steers; and I don’t want you to come down to the ranch except
on _baile_ nights, and I want you to slide in then just as quiet as
any other outsider,” said the _patron_, who was testing William’s
loyalty to the girl.
“All right! I’ll do that.”
“William, do you know that no true Mexican girl will marry a man who
don’t know how to ride a charger?” continued the _patron_, after a
while.
“Yes; I’s been thinking of dat; but dar’s dat Timborello, he’s a good
horse what a man can ’pend on,” replied William, as he scoured at the
pan in a very wearing way.
“He’s yours, William; and now all you have got to do is to win the
girl.”
After that William was as gay as a robin in the spring; and as I write
this I suppose William is riding over the pass in the mountains,
sitting on a board across his wagon, with his Mexican bride by his
side, singing out between the puffs of his black pipe, “Go on, dar,
you muchacos; specks we ever get to Bavicora dis yar gait?”