Road-agents—“Roping” contests—Broncho-busting—Strathclair—A
blizzard—Lumber camps.
Montana, just across the line from Fort McLeod, was for years an example
of what the North-West Territories might have been if it had not been
for the mounted police and prohibition. There, in its earlier days,
gun-men and even road-agents flourished, and killings were of everyday
occurrence. In fact, at one time in Virginia City the sheriff, Plummer,
was at the head of a band of organised road-agents which terrorised the
country. Finally, the people rose in desperation, and following the
example of California, formed a society of Vigilantes, and hanged all
the bad-men, including the sheriff. Most of these men when cornered died
like curs, but there were individuals, like George Sears, who at least
knew how to die. When he was taken to the place of execution, he asked
for time to pray, which was allowed him. Afterwards he made a short
speech, in which he said he deserved his fate, but his contempt of death
showed when requested to climb up the ladder which was to serve as a
drop. He said, “Gentlemen, please excuse my awkwardness, as I have not
had any experience. Am I to jump off or just slide off?”
In Montana, Indian Territory, and Texas, great roping contests are
organised every year, and cow-punchers flock from all over the United
States and Canada to try for the very valuable prizes that are offered.
In San Antonio, Texas, some years ago was held a great contest for the
championship of the world, in which the first prize was $6000 (£1237);
silver-mounted saddles, gold-mounted pistols, and other prizes were also
offered. The steers used in these contests are the very wildest that can
be got. They are held in a large corral, and turned out singly through a
gate in a chute. One hundred and fifty feet back from this gate sits the
cow-puncher on his horse, with his rope coiled and one end tied to his
saddle-horn. The minute the steer is clear of the chute he can start. He
must rope and throw the steer, and tie three of its legs together in
such a way that it cannot rise. As much or more depends on the horse
than on the man, and some of these cow-ponies are truly wonderful. Out
comes the steer with a rush, and away goes the puncher after him with
his rope whirling. He makes his throw, the rope settles over the steer’s
horns, and as it does so the pony stops dead, sticking out his feet in
front and bracing himself for the shock. The rope grows taut along the
steer’s flank, his head is jerked round, and down he goes. Meanwhile the
puncher, as his pony stops, drops off and reaches the steer almost as it
hits the ground, with his tie-rope in his hands; and while the steer
lies for an instant half-stunned, he deftly makes a hitch over three
legs with what is known as a hog-knot, jumps to his feet, and throws up
his hands as a sign that he is through. The pony, without rider, can be
depended upon to keep the steer down by constantly side-stepping to keep
the rope taut if the steer attempts to rise.
At El Paso, during the roping contests there, Clay McConagill did this
feat in the wonderful time of 21½ seconds, counting from the time the
steer left the chute till Clay’s hands were in the air. He is the
champion Texas roper, and holds the world’s record for a single tie. But
in a long-distance contest held in San Antonio he was beaten by Ellison
Carrol of Oklahoma, who tied in this manner twenty-eight consecutive
steers in 18 minutes and 58½ seconds, or an average of 40⅗ seconds each,
one of these ties being made in 22 seconds flat, or within ½ second of
the record. One who has not seen these contests can hardly form an idea
of the speed and skill both of horse and man necessary to accomplish
such a feat as this, or of the excitement among the audience of
cattlemen, all of whom, being good riders and ropers themselves, can
appreciate every move made. There is considerable risk also attached to
it. For instance, a friend of mine had the misfortune to get a coil of
his rope round his arm as he threw, and as the rope drew taut it cut his
hand off at the wrist; and yet he had been born and raised on a ranch!
The S.P.C.A. are now trying, if they have not already succeeded, to put
a stop to these contests on the ground of cruelty to the steers. But I
can see no sense in this, for steers are roped and thrown every day in
this manner on the ranch, during the season of the screw-worm fly, in
order to kill the worms with carbolic and chloroform, and they do not
seem to be very much hurt; and this is where the puncher gets his
practice in the course of his work.
Great broncho-busting (horse-breaking) contests are also held in
different parts of the West, where the worst horses from all over the
country are brought for the men to try on. In these contests, if a man
lay hand on any part of his saddle, or tries to lock his big spurs into
the girth of the saddle, he is disqualified. At one of these contests,
Sowder, one-time champion, for a bet drank a bottle of soda-water,
without spilling a drop, while his horse was bucking. Some horses
develop a devilish ingenuity in trying to get rid of their riders. They
will buck straight ahead, and suddenly, while in the air, make a twist
and turn almost end for end by the time they land. They will buck and
twist first one way and then the other alternately, squealing all the
time with impotent rage. There used to be a big negro in Calgary called
Uncle Tom, who never seemed so happy as when on a bad horse. When his
horse bucked, his face would suddenly open back to the ears in a grin,
and he would holloa, "Dere’s de boy, good boy"; and when the horse
tired, he would pull off his hat and whack it over the head and flank.
When I left Calgary, I took a flying trip home, and on my return decided
to go up to Strathclair and look over our land there. I was met by W.
Geekie, a neighbour, who took me over to his house to stay; but as my
movements were uncertain, it was decided to leave my trunks at the
station for a few days. Geekie, I found, was all prepared to start off
on a trip, hauling provisions up to a lumber camp near Lake
Winnipegosis, so I offered to accompany him and drive one of the teams.
This was in mid-November, and the cold was bitter, but with a good fur
coat over a pilot jacket I expected to be all right. We started out the
next morning, five big freight-sledges and a jumper (small home-made
sledge) for the provisions and bedding, six men all told, and five
gallons of whisky for the eight-day trip. Strathclair with the
surrounding country is a settlement of Highlanders, and they were as
hardy a lot of men as I have ever come across, but very clannish. I had
two or three “Black Angus” steer hides tanned with the hair on for
lap-robes, but found that, in order to be comfortable, I had every few
miles to drop off and flounder through the snow to start a good
circulation. The others mostly used whisky for the same purpose.
We encountered one blizzard on the trip, and I found out that they are
not so black as they are painted, for directly the snow commenced to
fall, the temperature rose, though the wind was very disagreeable. The
flying snow, however, made it impossible to proceed for fear of losing
the way, so we pitched camp in a clump of tamaracs. We slept out some of
the nights, and the experience is not so bad as might be expected,
provided you can get plenty of spruce-boughs and a place sheltered from
the wind. Steer-hides and spruce-boughs make a very comfortable and warm
bed if you pull in your head like a turtle.
If I had a very great enemy, I would wish him a job in a lumber camp, if
they are all like the one we went to. A long house of one room, about 20
feet by 30 feet, with bunks built up on the walls; one door as the only
opening for ventilation; a large cook-stove in the centre, which was
always full of wood, and served the double purpose of heating and
cooking. In this room lived about twenty men—French Canadians,
half-breed Indians, and other conglomerations. Here they cooked, ate,
slept, washed, and dried their clothes steaming against the stove, and
cursed if the door was opened for a minute. After seeing a decrepit
Irish cook dropping ashes and nicotine from his pipe into the food he
was preparing for supper, I fed outside, and stayed out during the night
and part of a day we remained there. I doubt if these men washed their
bodies during an entire winter. Such a state of affairs would not be
tolerated even on a “Stag” cattle-ranch, and I have seen a dirty cowboy
taken out by his fellows, stripped and scrubbed, and the operation never
had to be repeated; nor could he resent it, as he could not fight the
entire ranch.