Calgary—A Cow-puncher—"Roping"—Life on a Ranch—A Calgary
Hail-storm—“Gun-plays” and "Bad-men"—Sarci Indians.
Leaving the Agricultural College at Guelph on the start of the summer
holidays of 1891, I took advantage of settlers’ cheap rates and went to
Calgary, at the foot of the Rockies, to try and get some practical
experience. After drifting round for a week, I found that green
Englishmen were at a discount, but finally managed to get work with a
Mr. Berney, who owned two ranches, one within three miles of town, and
the other on Pine Creek, about thirty-eight miles out. Mr. Berney asked
if I could ride, and on my saying yes, told one of the boys to bring out
Bill and saddle him. I noticed all the family (consisting of four grown
girls and two boys) and most of the men loitering round in front when I
proceeded to mount, but thought nothing of it at the time. I rode Bill
out a mile or so, circled him at a good speed, and rattled him up to the
house, trying to show off, as a young lad will, in front of the girls;
but I noticed they all looked very disappointed. After this trial I
moved my baggage, and was duly installed, and Bill was turned over to me
as a saddle-horse. I found out a month later the meaning of the trial
and the girls’ disappointment. I had come in from town, taken off my
saddle, and proceeded to ride Bill down to the creek to water; I had on
a pair of box spurs (which are taboo in the cattle country), and, coming
up the steep bank, I happened to touch Bill with one of the spurs, and
the next second I knew what bucking meant. Luckily the ground was soft.
George Berney told me then that the horse had originally belonged to a
livery stable in town much frequented by cow-punchers, where, originally
a bad bucker, he had been trained by means of cockleburrs put under his
saddle blanket to become an expert. Every young man who came to the
stable looking for a mount, and bragged of his riding, was given Bill.
But one day a young Englishman, who insisted on saddling and doing for
himself, rode Bill to a standstill, and in an English saddle! So Bill
was sold for a song to Mr. Berney, and the family had hoped to see some
fun when I mounted; only it happened to be Bill’s day off. I moved to
the out-ranch, and learned to do many kinds of work, and found out that
on a ranch one did many things besides ride, such as building log
corrals seven feet high and sixty feet across, with two wings to guide
the cattle right to the gate.
I built cattle stables, horse stables, and fences all out of logs of
spruce, and during the five months I was there I broke twelve or
fourteen horses to the saddle. None were very bad, and I was never
thrown again in Calgary, though I had a rather nasty experience with a
half-broken mare. She was seven years old, and had never had a rope on
her, but in a couple of weeks, during odd times, I broke her and thought
she was gentle. Her only fault had been rearing, and she never bucked or
kicked. One day I put on my best tight riding-breeches and top-boots,
and started off to show her to some friends of mine on Sheep Creek,
about sixteen miles away. About a mile from our shack I had to cross
Pine Creek, which has high steep banks, but luckily very little water.
Going up the opposite bank the mare suddenly took it into her head to
rear, and the next instant we were off the bank and into the creek. I
fell clear on my feet; but the mare, falling square on her back, had
buried the horn and pommel of the saddle in the bottom of the creek, and
could not turn over. I grabbed her head, and could just keep her muzzle
out of the water, though the rest of her was under. I shouted and
shouted, and emptied my pistol, and did all I knew to attract attention,
till finally, after about twenty minutes which seemed hours, the local
scout of the mounted police came to see what was up, and helped me to
get the mare out. My clothes were a sight, and I split the knees of my
riding-breeches as I fell.
I had learned to rope fairly well on foot, but never made much of a
success of it on horseback. By the way, the word “lasso” is never heard
in the cattle country; the phrase is “roping.” After I had learned to
rope stumps, and could catch Bill two throws out of three, I began to
think I was a star. I went to a local round-up on Pine Creek, and went
into the corral to get out a mare and yearling colt that belonged to us.
I was rather nervous after I once was in, but made my throw after the
approved fashion from the ground, and to my amazement captured the mare
and colt in the same loop. I had a gay ten minutes; but some of the
boys, after they got through laughing, came to my assistance, roped the
mare by the legs, threw her, and got my rope off. In a corral it is not
permissible to whirl a rope round your head, as it frightens the
animals, but the throw must be made from the ground, where the coil is
spread out. Only in Buffalo Bill shows, where it gives more flourish to
the proceedings, and sometimes when roping from a horse at the gallop,
is this done—_i.e._ whirling the rope—and I have seen good ropers, both
in Canada and Texas, even in the latter case trail a rope behind and
throw it with one forward swing. Another point about ropes is never to
tie one to the horn of your saddle while riding, if you have anything at
the other end. I had gone out one day to bring in a two-year-old heifer
from a neighbouring ranch. After getting my rope on her horns, I took
one turn round the horn of my saddle, and proceeded to pull her home,
she protesting. After we had gone a few miles she quieted down, and I
thought I would take a smoke. I tied my rope in two half-hitches to the
horn of my saddle, got out my tobacco and papers, and proceeded to make
a cigarette. Just then simultaneously my horse stopped dead and the
heifer circled me on the dead run, and I could not get the brute of a
horse to turn. I cut away the rope before it cut me in two, and gained
another experience at the cost of a fine waxed linen rope and a sore
waistband.
My life on the ranch was far from being all hard work, and so it is on
most ranches, though probably I was more favourably situated than most,
owing to the owner having a large family who were fond of amusement and
could well afford it. We had picnics, surprise parties, and dances, in
all of which we hands had our share, being treated as members of the
family. The work, of course, was not neglected on these occasions, but
so arranged as not to interfere, and if some one had to stay behind we
took it in turns. The theory of a surprise party is as follows. A number
of young people arrange to have a party at a certain person’s house; all
the edibles are cooked beforehand and taken along by the guests, and the
hosts are taken by surprise. But so many accidents occurred, such as the
hosts going to bed early, or, worse, going out and locking up the house,
that in practice notice is generally given to the hosts of the proposed
surprise a couple of days beforehand. The people in the West are most
hospitable—in fact, this applies to a great extent to all Canada. A
stranger is always taken on trust till he proves himself unworthy.
Riding past any ranch-house near a meal-time, the owner will call you to
come in and eat, if he is at home. Should he be out, however, you will
generally come across a note like the following pinned to the door:
“Have gone ... will be back ... the key is under the stone to the right
of the steps. Go in and make yourself at home.” This I have often done,
hunting out his grub and cooking what I needed; and on one occasion,
getting caught out at night, I fed my horse, ate supper, and went to
bed. I woke up when the owner returned, smoked and talked with him (a
complete stranger) till he was undressed, and turned in again till
morning. In the morning you get up, help with the chores (odd jobs such
as feeding the stable animals), have breakfast, saddle up, and depart.
Calgary is a beautiful place on the slope of the foothills, at an
elevation of about 3400 feet, rather cold in winter, but delightful in
the summer and fall. On the out-ranch, however, where there was a lot of
timber, the winged pests—mosquitoes, gnats, horse- and deer-flies—made
work in the woods very trying, more especially the two latter, whose
bite will draw blood every time. The surrounding country, especially out
towards Fort McLeod, is full of immense sloughs, where the wild slough
grass will often grow to a height of five feet, and as much as 1000 tons
can be cut off a single slough. But haying is made hard work by the
gnats and mosquitoes.
It was while haying that I first saw a Calgary hailstorm. George Berney
was running the hay-rack (which consists of an immense crate on wheels,
so that it can be loaded and handled by one man) and I was raking, when,
looking up, I saw terrible blue-black clouds rolling up the valley
towards us, for all the world like Atlantic rollers. I shouted to
George, lifted the rake, and headed for the house, about a mile away. By
the time we had the horses safely in the stable and got over to the
shack, the storm reached us. I have never seen its equal before or
since. We could hear the roar of the hail long before it reached us, and
when it did reach the clapboard roof it was deafening. One stone we
measured was eight and a half inches in circumference, and seemed
composed of about a dozen smaller ones congealed together. We had about
twenty chickens killed; and some people lost heavily, losing even colts,
calves, and pigs. The oat-crop, which was being harvested at the time,
was so cut to bits and driven into the ground that not even straw was
saved.
My first experience in Calgary was with the mounted police, for as we
stopped at the station three policemen boarded our tourist sleeping-car,
and while one stood guard at each door, the third walked over to one of
the seats, lifted the spring cushion, and pulled out from the recess
underneath a 2½-gallon keg of whisky. He asked the porter if it was his,
and then asked every passenger, but all denied any knowledge of it. It
was then taken outside, the head knocked out, and the whisky emptied on
the ground. Of course the police had received previous notice from some
one, possibly the very man who had sold it and knew its destination.
This prohibition of whisky, combined with the mounted police, has kept
the North-West Territories from becoming, like Montana and Texas, a land
full of “gun-plays” and “bad-men.” Not but what there has been whisky
smuggled in in carloads of kerosene cans; there have also been
“gun-plays” and “bad-men,” but they are the exception and not the rule,
as further south. How easily a “bad-man” is made the following will
show. A young fellow, well known and well liked round Calgary, got on a
spree, and, after mounting his horse, proceeded yelling down the street.
A city policeman (distinct from the mounted police) tried to arrest him.
The puncher (cowboy) took down his rope, and galloping past the officer,
roped him, and dragged him down the street at the end of the rope;
finally he dropped the rope and rode off, leaving the officer seriously
hurt. So far, only a Western version of what the university students
used to do to the English police. But the sequel was different. The
young fellow, instead of coming in the next morning, giving himself up,
and taking his medicine, took to the hills, and it was up to the mounted
police to bring him in. The open-house system I have mentioned before
made it easy for him to live. But living in the hills and being hunted
is demoralising, and the next thing was a “hold-up” of the Edmonton
stage, for funds to leave the country, in which a man was killed. A
reward was then offered for him, and people were warned not to harbour
him. He was finally killed one night in town, shot from behind as he
stood against the lighted window of a saloon looking in. Whether he was
killed for the reward—which the killer was afterwards afraid to claim
because of the young man’s friends—or whether it was a private grudge,
no one ever knew, as the man who did it never came forward; or possibly
he was killed for the money he took off the stage.
There is something peculiar about the air of the West which makes a man
take readily to a gun and wish to be a law unto himself; but it is a
strange fact that the worst “gun-men” the West has produced were
easterners, and generally city-bred. Though in this case the mounted
police had no success, they are generally on the spot when needed, as I
saw on the Calgary racecourse one day. One of the onlookers called one
of the jockeys a thief, and accused him of pulling a horse in the race.
He had hardly finished speaking when the jockey, riding close up to the
fence, slipped his stirrup-strap, and cut him over the head with the
stirrup. They were both punchers, and their friends took it up, and two
or three guns were drawn. But before anything occurred three mounted
police rode up; one arrested the jockey, and the sight of the others
soon restored peace.
The doctor for the Sarci Indian reservation, near Calgary, was Mr.
Berney’s son-in-law. During the Riel rebellion the Sarci head chief
promised that none of his bucks should go out; but, unfortunately, he
fell sick, and the young bucks began to get restive, though as long as
he was alive they did not dare to disobey the old chief. Dr. George told
me he never had a case in his life where so much depended on his keeping
his patient alive. However, the old man pulled through, and only a few
stragglers joined the rebellion; had he died, Calgary would have been in
the greatest danger. These Indians are a lazy, dirty lot, but have
wonderful natural endurance. A mounted policeman told me of a chase an
Indian on foot led him and a mounted comrade. They ran him eight miles
before they captured him, and only twice did they get within roping
distance of him, when he dodged like a rabbit. After leading them over
the roughest ground he could find, he finally circled to where there was
a herd of Indian ponies grazing, as his last chance. But one of the
policemen headed off and stampeded the ponies, while the other, getting
within striking distance, knocked the Indian down. The Blackfeet,
though, are the only really troublesome Indians, as they are such
inveterate thieves. A homesteader on the head of Sheep Creek came home
one night to find his door-lock broken and all the food in the house
carried off. While investigating, he found in a “draw” close to the
house a camp of eight Blackfeet bucks enjoying his provisions. He kept
his temper, and picking up what he could carry, took it up to the house.
About his third trip he found out that the Indians were playing with
him, for as fast as he could carry the stuff up they were carrying it
back to the tepee. Then he lost his temper, and instead of going over to
the nearest police scout and reporting the matter, he thought he would
play a lone hand and scare the Indians. He pulled out his pistol, and
throwing back the flap of the tepee, fired in two or three shots,
without being very particular whether he hit any one or not.
Unfortunately he killed one of them, and the others ran, being unarmed
except for their knives. As soon as he realised what he had done, he
caught his horse, came into town, and gave himself up. The police
hustled him off to Regina, and that night his house was burned and his
stock killed.
Of course the Calgary I am speaking about was Calgary of 1891, a town of
about 5000 people; now it is a city of nearly 20,000, and the
surrounding country is fast becoming a farming instead of a ranching
section. Large irrigation works have been completed, and land is too
valuable for grazing. The Indians mentioned here are very different from
those to be seen in the States—for instance, at Pipestone, Minnesota.
There the Indians used to hold their “truce of God” and smoked the pipe
of peace, and they still frequent those rocks and hawk the pipes and
other curios of soap-stone. But how changed from the braves of Ruxton
and Cooper and Reid! The proud Pawnee now looks more like the degraded
“digger Indians” of Mayne Reid! In the Dominion, however, the Indians
have not been crushed as in the States; they were still formidable at
the time of the Riel revolt some twenty years ago, and they can hold
their own even now.