He came through his initiation into ranch life the idol of his men,
though they never got to the stage where they would neglect a chance
to poke sly fun at him. He relates how once, when on a wood-chopping
expedition, he overheard someone ask Dow, a ranchman bred in the Maine
woods, what the total cut had been. Dow, unconscious that he was within
hearing, said:
“Well, Bill cut down fifty-three, I cut forty-nine and the boss he
beavered seventeen.”
The force of the jest, Roosevelt explains, lies not in the small number
of trees his ax felled, but in the comparison of his chopping with the
gnawing of the beaver.
At another time Roosevelt, struggling desperately to mount an unwilling
horse, heard behind him a cowboy remark to the effect that he would
find it hard to qualify for the job of “bronco buster.”
Roosevelt enjoyed these jokes as much as those who made them. The West
was a bad place for a coward or a shirker, and the man who permitted
himself to be bullied and made a butt was in for an uncomfortable
existence. On the other hand, the man who did his work and gave and
took jests in the spirit in which they were intended quickly made
lasting friends.
One of the stories “Bill” Sewall tells of Roosevelt’s ranch life is
this:
“Once on the cattle ranch in North Dakota during a roundup, his
horse reared, threw him and then fell on top of him. The spill broke
Theodore’s shoulder-blade. But he was afraid the cow-punchers might
think he was a quitter. So he stayed out on the roundup for three days,
suffering the intensest pain all the while, but never saying a word
about it to anyone.”
The men usually carried revolvers, and now and then an ill temper or
an excess of drinking led to a shooting affray. Roosevelt was witness
to or had first-hand knowledge of several of these. In his book “Ranch
Life and the Hunting Trail” he tells how a desperado, a man from
Arkansas, had a quarrel with two Irish desperadoes who were partners.
For several days the three lurked about the streets of the town, each
trying to get the drop on the other. Finally one of the Irishmen crept
up behind the Arkansan as he was walking into a gambling hall and
shot him in the back. Mortally wounded, the man fell; yet, with the
dauntless spirit found in so many of this class, he twisted around as
he dropped and shot his slayer dead. Knowing that he had but a few
minutes more to live and expecting that his other foe would run up
on hearing the shooting, he dragged himself on his arms out into the
street and waited. The second partner came up at once, to be slain
instantly by a bullet from the revolver of the wounded man. The victor
of this gruesome combat lived just twenty minutes after his victory.
On another occasion, Welshy, a saloon-keeper, and a man named Hay had
been at odds for some time. One day Hay entered Welshy’s saloon out of
temper and became very abusive. Suddenly Welshy took out his revolver
and fired at Hay. The saloon-keeper almost fainted with surprise when
Hay, after staggering slightly, shook himself, stretched out his hand
and gave back to his would-be slayer the ball. It had glanced along
his breast-bone, gone into the body and come out at the point of the
shoulder, then dropped down the sleeve into his hand. Roosevelt thought
the story worthy of the pen of a Wister or a Bret Harte, but the editor
of “The Bad Lands Cowboy” mentioned the event merely as an “unfortunate
occurrence between two of our most esteemed fellow citizens.”
On still another occasion a Scotchman and a Minnesota man, both with
“shooting” records, had a furious quarrel, and later the Scotchman
mounted his horse, with rifle in hand, and rode to the door of the
American’s mud ranch, breathing threats of slaughter. The latter,
however, was not caught napping. From behind a corner of his building
he instantly shot down his foolish assailant.
Soon afterward there was a cowboy ball held in the place. Whether
or not this was in celebration of the victory is not stated, but a
historic fact in connection with the ball is that Roosevelt was
selected to open the dancing with the wife of the victor of the
shooting affair. The husband himself danced opposite, instructing
Roosevelt in the steps of the lanciers.
Sometimes Roosevelt found himself involved in situations that required
both a cool head and a sense of humor. When he entered a strange place
it always took him a day or two to live down the fact that he wore
spectacles, and he found it a justifiable policy to ignore remarks
about “four-eyes” until it became apparent to him that his keeping
still was being mistaken for cowardice, on which occasion he went at
the aggressor hammer and tongs.
An amusing happening in which he was a central figure occurred when he
was out on a search for a lost horse. He stopped for the night at a
little cow town, but was informed by the owner of the only hotel that
the only accommodation left was a room containing two double beds, and
that three men were already occupying these beds. Roosevelt accepted
the offer of the vacant half bed and turned in.
Two hours later a lantern flashed in his face and he awoke to find
himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. Two men bent over him.
“It ain’t him!” said one, and the next moment his bedfellow was
covered by their guns, and one of them said, persuasively: “Now, Bill,
don’t make a fuss, but come along quiet.”
“I’m not thinking of making a fuss,” said Bill.
“That’s right,” was the answer, “we don’t want to hurt you; we just
want you to come along. You know why.”
Bill dressed himself and went with them. “I wonder why they took Bill?”
Roosevelt asked naively.
“Well,” drawled one of his neighbors, “I guess they wanted him.”
Roosevelt heard later that Bill had held up a Northern Pacific train
and by shooting at the conductor’s feet, made him dance. Bill was
more a joker than a train robber, but the holding up of the train had
delayed the mails, and the United States Marshal had sent for him.