COWBOYS--REAL AND IDEAL.
A Much Maligned Class--The Cowboy as he Is, and as he is Supposed to
be--Prairie Fever and how it is Cured--Life on the Ranch Thirty Years
Ago and Now--Singular Fashions and Changes of Costume--Troubles
Encountered by would-be Bad Men.
Among the thoroughly American types of humanity, none is more striking
or unique than the cowboy. This master of horsemanship and subduer of
wild and even dangerous cattle, has been described in so many ways that
a great difference of opinion exists as to what he was, and what he is.
We give a picture of a cowboy of to-day, and will endeavor to show in
what important respects he differs from the cowboy of fiction, and even
of history.
Sensational writers have described the cowboy as a thoroughly bad man,
and, moreover, as one who delights in the word "bad," and regards it as
a sort of diploma or qualification. Travelers over the region in which
the cowboy used to be predominant give him a very different character,
and speak of him as a hard-working, honest citizen, generous to a fault,
courteous to women and aged or infirm men, but inclined to be humorous
at the expense of those who are strong and big enough to return a joke,
or resent it, if they so prefer.
We have spoken of the cowboy in two tenses: the present and the past.
Strictly speaking, we should, perhaps, have only used one, for many of
the best judges say that there is no such thing as a cowboy in this day
and generation. He flourished in all his glory in the days of immense
ranges, when there was an abundance of elbow room for both man and
beast, and when such modern interferences with the cattle business as
the barb-wire fence did not exist. The work of cattle herding and
feeding to-day certainly differs in a most remarkable manner from that
of thirty and even twenty years ago, and the man has naturally changed
with his work. Now, the cowboy is, to all intents and purposes, a farm
hand. He feeds the stock, drives it to water when necessary, and goes to
the nearest market town to dispose of surplus products, with all the
system and method of a thoroughly domesticated man. Formerly he had
charge of hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of branded cattle, which
ranged at will over boundless prairies, and the day's work was
frequently varied by a set-to with some unfriendly Indians or some
exceptionally daring cattle thieves.
The very nature of his work used to make the cowboy somewhat desperate
in his habits, and apt to be suspicious of newcomers. He was never such
a terrible individual as has been frequently stated in print. His work
confined him to a few frontier States and Territories, and hence he was
a very convenient person to ridicule and decry. The man who met the
average cowboy face to face, generally learned to respect him, and
speedily appreciated the fact that it paid to be at least civil. Writers
who never went within 500 miles of the nearest cattle ranch or cowboy's
home, treated him with less courtesy and described him in all sorts of
terms.
Dime literature, with its yellow covers and sensational pictures of
stage robberies and the like, has always libeled the American cowboy to
a most outrageous extent. As a result of the misapprehensions thus
created, what is known as cowboy or prairie fever is quite a common
disease among youths who are trying to raise a mustache for a first
time. The feats of recklessness, the absolute disregard of
conventionality and the general defiance attributed to the man who herds
cattle on the prairie, seem to create a longing on the part of
sensationally inclined youths, and many of these have cut their teeth
and learned their lesson in a very different manner from what was
expected.
Let us imagine for a moment the experiences of the young man from the
East, who has convinced himself, by careful reasoning and reading, that
nature intended him to shine in the West. It is probable that he came to
this most important conclusion many years before, and it is not unlikely
that his first cowboy enthusiasm was fed by attacks upon the cat, with
the nearest approach he could obtain to a rawhide whip. From this
primitive experience, sensational literature, and five and ten-cent
illustrated descriptions of the adventures of "Bill, the Plunger," and
"Jack, the Indian Slayer," completed the education, until the boy, or
young man, as the case may be, determines that the hour has arrived for
him to cast away childish things and become a genuine bad man of the
West.
Just how he gets half way across the continent is a matter of detail.
Sometimes the misguided youth is too proud to beg and too honest to
steal, in which case he probably saves up his pocket money and buys a
cheap ticket. The more romantic and strictly correct course to adopt is
to start out without a dollar, and to beat one's way across the
continent, so as to be thoroughly entitled to recognition on the
prairie. Many a young man who has commenced the pilgrimage towards
glorified badness, has had the fever knocked out of him before advancing
100 miles, but others have succeeded in getting through, and have
arrived in Texas, Wyoming or Montana, as the case may have been,
thoroughly convinced of their own ability to hold their own in all
company.
The disappointment that awaits the adventurous one is almost too great
to be expressed in words. If the cowboys were one-half as bad as they
are painted, they would proceed to demonstrate their right to an evil
reputation by murdering the newcomer, and stealing his wearing apparel
and any money he might happen to have with him. Instead of doing this,
the cowboy generally looks with amusement on the individual who has come
so many miles to join him. The greeting is not of the exuberant
character expected, and frequently the heart of the newcomer is broken
by being told to go back to his mammy and spend a few years more in the
nursery. A runaway tenderfoot just fresh from school is not wanted on
the cattle ranch, and although Western farmers are too good-natured to
resent very severely the liberty taken, they never flatter the newcomer
by holding out any inducements or making any prophecies as to his
future.
The writer met a runaway enthusiast of this character a few years ago.
His destination was the extreme West. As he did not know himself the
State to which he was bound, he presumed that no one else did. When
found, he had got as far as Kansas City, and hunger and lack of a place
where he could sleep in comfort had cooled his ardor and inaugurated a
vigorous attack of home-sickness. As the ideal cowboy life does not
provide for feather beds or meals served in courses, it was suggested to
the lad that possibly he was having a good experience in advance, and
getting himself accustomed to the privations of the life he had decided
to adopt.
This logic did not commend itself at all to the runaway, whose sole
ambition now was to borrow enough money to telegraph a message of
penitence to his father. A small sum necessary for the purpose was given
him, and the dispatch sent. Within an hour an answer was received and
money transmitted by wire to supply the lad with a ticket for his home,
where it is exceedingly probable what little cowboy fever he had left in
him was speedily removed in old-fashioned and regulation manner.
The cowboy must not be confounded with the cattle baron. Ten or twelve
years ago, when a great deal of money was made out of raising cattle,
there was an invasion of the prairie States by men who knew nothing
whatever about cattle raising, but who had made up their minds to secure
a fortune by raising steers. They took with them as inconsistent ideas
as did the youth in search of adventure. Often they carried large sums
of money, which they invested very lavishly in business, and they also
took with them ridiculously fine clothes, patent leather boots,
velveteen jackets, and other evidences of luxury, which made them very
unpopular and very ridiculous in their new homes. Nine-tenths of these
called themselves "cattle barons," and about the same proportion
obtained a great deal of experience but very little money, while trying
to revolutionize the cattle business.
It is not necessary to own cattle at all to be a cowboy, although many
members of this interesting profession own a few beasts of their own and
are allowed to have them graze with the other stock on the ranch.
Generally speaking, the term used to be applied to all those who were
engaged in handling the cattle, and in getting them together on the
occasion of the annual round-ups. The old-time cowboy did not have a
very high reputation, nor was he always looked upon quite as leniently
as his surroundings demanded. About twenty years ago, a well-known
cattleman wrote the following description of the cowboy and the life he
led:
"If any one imagines that the life of a cowboy or ranchman is one of
ease and luxury, or his diet a feast of fat things, a brief trial will
dispel the illusion, as is mist by the sunshine. True, his life is one
of more or less excitement or adventures, and much of it is spent in the
saddle, yet it is a hard life, and his daily fare will never give the
gout. Corn bread, mast-fed bacon, and coffee, constitute nine-tenths of
their diet; occasionally they have fresh beef, and less often they have
vegetables of any description. They do their own cooking in the rudest
and fewest possible vessels, often not having a single plate or knife
and fork, other than their pocket knife, but gather around the
camp-kettle in true Indian style, and with a piece of bread in one hand,
proceed to fish up a piece of 'sow belly,' and dine sumptuously, not
forgetting to stow away one or more quarts of the strongest coffee
imaginable, without sugar or cream. Indeed, you would hesitate, if
judging it from appearance, whether to call it coffee or ink. Of all the
vegetables, onions and potatoes are the most desired and the oftenest
used, when anything more than the 'old regulation' is had. Instead of an
oven, fireplace or cooking stove, a rude hole is dug in the ground and a
fire made therein, and the coffee pot, the camp kettle and the skillet
are his only culinary articles used.
"The life of the cowboy is one of considerable daily danger and
excitement. It is hard and full of exposure, but is wild and free, and
the young man who has long been a cowboy has but little taste for any
other occupation. He lives hard, works hard, has but few comforts, and
fewer necessities. He has but little, if any, taste for reading. He
enjoys a coarse practical joke, or a smutty story; loves danger, but
abhors labor of the common kind; never tires of riding, never wants to
walk, no matter how short the distance he desires to go. He would rather
fight with pistols than pray; loves tobacco, liquor and woman better
than any other trinity. His life borders nearly upon that of an Indian.
If he reads anything, it is in most cases a blood and thunder story of
the sensational style. He enjoys his pipe, and relishes a practical joke
on his comrades, or a tale where abounds animal propensity.
"His clothes are few and substantial, scarce in number and often of a
gaudy pattern. The 'sombrero' and large spurs are inevitable
accompaniments. Every house has the appearance of lack of convenience
and comfort, but the most rude and primitive modes of life seem to be
satisfactory to the cowboy. His wages range from $15.00 to $20.00 a
month in specie. Mexicans can be employed for about $12.00 per month.
The cowboy has few wants and fewer necessities, the principal one being
a full supply of tobacco.
"We will here say for the benefit of our Northern readers, that the term
'ranch' is used in the Southwest instead of 'farm,' the ordinary laborer
is termed a 'cowboy,' the horse used a 'cow horse,' and the herd of
horses a 'cavvie yard.'
"The fame of Texas as a stock-growing country went abroad in the land,
and soon after her admission to the Union, unto her were turned the eyes
of many young men born and reared in the older Southern States, who were
poor in this world's goods, but were ambitious to make for themselves a
home and a fortune. Many of this class went to Texas, then a new and
comparatively thin and unsettled country, and began in humblest manner,
perhaps for nominal wages, to lay the foundation for future wealth and
success."
This is a very severe description, and relates to a class of men who
were found in the wildest parts of Texas shortly after the war. It
certainly does not adequately describe the cowboy of the last twenty
years. Another writer, who was himself for more than a quarter of a
century engaged in the work of herding cattle, gives a much fairer
description of the cowboy. He divides those entitled to this name into
three classes, and argues that there is something noble about the name.
He also claims that in view of the peculiar associations, privations,
surroundings and temptations of the cowboy, he is entitled to much
credit for the way in which he has retained the best characteristics of
human nature, in spite of his absence from the refining influences of
civilization.
According to this authority, the first class of cowboys include the
genuine, honest worker on the prairie, the man who has due respect for
the rights of all. He is scrupulously honest, but yet charitable enough
to look leniently on the falling away from grace of his less scrupulous
brothers, and he is loyal to a remarkable extent to every one who has a
right to claim his friendship. In the second class is placed the less
careful cowboy, who is not quite so strict in his moral views, although
no one would like to class him as a thief. The story is told of the
Irishman who found a blanket bearing upon it the Government mark "U. S."
Paddy examined the blanket carefully and on finding the mark shouted
out: "U. for Patrick and S. for McCarty. Och, but I'm glad I've found me
blanket. Me fayther told me that eddication was a good thing, and now I
know it; but for an eddication I never would have found the blanket."
Reasoning of this kind is quite common among this second class or
division of the cowboy. It is not suggested that he is exactly a thief,
because he would scorn the acts of the city light-fingered gentleman,
who asks you the time of day, and then, by a little sleight-of-hand,
succeeds in introducing your watch to a too obliging and careless
pawnbroker at the next corner. But he is a little reckless in his ideas
of what lawyers call the rights of individuals, and he is a little too
much inclined, at times, to think that trifles that are not his own
ought to be so.
The writer, to whom we are referring, includes in class three the
typical cowboy, and the man used by the fiction writer as a basis for
his exaggerations and romances. Into this class drifts the cowboy who is
absolutely indifferent as to the future, and who is perfectly happy if
he has enough money to enable him to buy a fancy bridle or a magnificent
saddle. These are about the beginning and the end of his ideas of
luxury; although he enjoys a good time, he looks upon it rather as
incidental and essential to pleasure. A steady position at a small
salary, a reasonable amount to do, and fairly good quarters, constitute
all he looks for or expects. He is perfectly honest with all his
indifference. He is often whole-souled and big-hearted, constantly
allows himself to be imposed upon, but has an inconvenient habit of
occasionally standing up for his rights and resenting too much
oppression. He is exceedingly good-natured, and will often drive some
stray cattle several miles for the convenience of a perfect stranger,
and a man to whom he owes no obligation whatever.
It is said that such a thing as distress among the relatives or
descendants of cowboys was impossible, because of the delightful
tenderheartedness of men with rough exterior and whose daily life makes
them appear hardened. The working cowboy is seldom rich, even in the
most generous acceptation of the term. The small wages he earns are
expended almost entirely on decorations for his horse or himself. Even
when he succeeds in saving a few dollars, the money seems to burn a hole
in his pocket, and he generally lends it to some one in greater need
than himself. But every man working on a ranch has something to spare
for the widow or children of a deceased brother, especially if he was
killed in the course of his duties. An instance of this generous-hearted
disposition might well be given, but it is sufficient to say that the
rule is invariable, and that a promise made to a dying man in this
respect is never forgotten.
Leaving for a moment the personal characteristics of the much-maligned
cowboy, who has been described as everything from a stage-robber to a
cutthroat, we may with profit devote a little space to a consideration
of his attire as it was, and as it is. In the picture of a cowboy in
this work the modern dress is shown very accurately. It will be seen
that the man is dressed conveniently for his work, and that he has none
of the extraordinary handicaps to progress, in the way of grotesque
decorations, which he had been thought to believe were, at least, part
and parcel of the cowboy's wardrobe and get up. Certainly at the present
time men engaged in feeding and raising cattle are almost indifferent as
to their attire, wearing anything suitable for their purpose, and making
their selections rather with a view to the durability, than the
handsomeness, of the clothing.
But in years gone by, there was almost as much fashion changing among
the men on the prairie as among the woman in the drawing-room. At the
close of the war the first of the arbitrary dictates of fashion went
out. A special form of stirrup was introduced. It was very narrow and
exceedingly inconvenient, but it was considered the right thing, and so
everybody used it. Rawhide was used in place of lines, and homespun
garments were uniform. Calfskin leggings, made on the prairie, with the
hair on the outside, were first worn, and large umbrella-like straw hats
came into use. A little later it was decided the straw hat was not
durable enough for the purpose. When excited a cowboy frequently starts
his horse with his hat, and when he is wearing a straw, four or five
sharp blows knock out of the hat any semblance it may ever have had to
respectability and symmetry. The wide brim woolen hat was declared to be
the correct thing, and every one was glad of the change. The narrow
stirrup gave place to a wider one, and the stirrup leather was shortened
so as to compel the rider to keep his knees bent the whole time. The
most important change in fashion twenty years ago, was the introduction
of tanned leather leggings and of handsome bridles. Many a man now pays
two or three months' wages for his bridle, and since the fashion came
in, it is probable that many thousand dollars have been invested in
ornamental headgear for prairie horses and ponies. A new saddle, as well
as bow and tassel decorations, also came in at this period, and it is to
be admitted that for a time exaggeration in clothing became general. It
is an old joke on the prairie that the average man's hat costs him more
than his clothes.
Many a cowboy earning $30.00 a month has spent three times that sum on
his saddle alone. More than one man earning $25.00 a month has invested
every cent of his salary in silver buckles for his strange looking hat.
Equally extravagant is the average man as to his saddle, bridle, and
even spurs and bit. Those who talk so much about the bad habits of these
people, will hardly credit the fact that many a cowboy abstains from
liquor and tobacco for an entire year at a stretch, simply because he
wants to purchase some article of attire, which he thinks will make him
the envy of the entire ranch.
The cow pony is worthy of as much attention and thought as the cowboy.
It is often said that the latter is hard and cruel, and that he uses his
pony roughly. This is far from being correct. Between the cowboy and his
pet pony there is generally a bond of sympathy and a thorough
understanding, without which the marvelous feats of horsemanship which
are performed daily would be impossible. Perhaps in the preliminary
breaking in of the pony there is more roughness than is quite necessary.
At the same time, it should be remembered that to subdue an animal which
was born on the prairie and has run wild to its heart's content, is not
a very simple matter. The habit of bucking, which a Texas pony seems to
inherit from its ancestors, is a very inconvenient one, and an expert
rider from the East is perfectly helpless upon the back of a bucking
pony. The way in which he mounts assures the animal at once that he is a
stranger in those parts. A natural desire to unseat the daring stranger
becomes paramount, and the pony proceeds to carry out the idea.
At first it moves quietly and the rider congratulates himself on having
convinced the animal that resistance will be ill vain. But just as he
begins to do this the animal gets down its head, arches up its back,
something after the manner of an angry cat, leaps into the air and comes
down on the ground with its four legs drawn together under it, perfectly
stiff and straight. The rider seldom knows how it happened. He only
knows that it felt as though a cannon ball had struck him, and that he
fell off most ungracefully.
A pony never bucks viciously when a cowboy is riding it. It has learned
by long experience that the process is distinctly unprofitable. Breaking
in a pony and convincing it that the way of the transgressor is hard, is
one of the difficulties of prairie life. When, however, it is once
accomplished, an almost invaluable assistant has been secured. The
staying powers of the cow pony are almost without limit. He will carry
his master 100 miles in a day, apparently with very little fatigue. In
point of speed he may not be able to compete with his better bred
Eastern cousin, but in point of distance covered he entirely outclasses
him. Assuming an easy gait within its powers of endurance, a pony of the
prairie will keep it up almost indefinitely. At the end of a very long
ride, the man is generally more fatigued than his steed. The latter,
after being relieved of its saddle and bridle, rolls vigorously to get
rid of the stiffness, and, after an hour or two, is apparently in as
good condition as ever.
The charm connected with cowboy life is found in the disregard of strict
rules of etiquette and ceremony, and in the amount of fun which is
considered to be in place around the prairie fire. We have already seen
that the wages paid to cowboys are, and always have been, very small.
The hours that have to be worked, and the hardships that have to be
encountered, seem to combine together to deter men from leading the life
at all. We know that it does neither, and that it is seldom there is
really any dearth of help on the prairie or among the cattle herds. The
greatest delight is derived from jokes played at the expense of smart
tenderfeet, who approach the camp with too much confidence in
themselves. The commonest way of convincing the newcomer that he has
made a mistake is to persuade him to ride an exceptionally fractious
pony. The task is generally approached with much confidence, and almost
invariably ends in grief. If the stranger can retain his seat and thus
upset the rehearsed programme, the delight of the onlookers is even
greater than their disappointment, and the newcomer is admitted at once
into the good fellowship of the crowd.
Nothing aggravates a cowboy so much, or makes him more desperate in his
selection of tricks, as the affectation of badness on the part of a
newcomer. A year or two ago a young man, who had been saving up his
money for years in order to emulate the deeds of some of the heroes
described in the cheap books he had been reading, arrived in the
Southwest, and proceeded to introduce himself to a number of employes of
a cattle ranch who, a few years ago, would have been known as regulation
cowboys. The unlimited impudence and the astounding mendacity of the
youth amused the cowboys very much, and they allowed him to narrate a
whole list of terrible acts he had committed in the East. Before he had
been in his new company an hour, he had talked of thefts and even
killings with the nonchalance of a man who had served a dozen years in
jail. His listeners enjoyed the absurdity of the situation, and allowed
him to talk at random without interruption.
The story telling was brought to an end in a very sensational manner
indeed. One of the listeners knew that a deputy sheriff was in the
neighborhood looking out for a dangerous character. Skipping out from
the party, he hunted up the deputy, and told him that one of the hunted
man's confederates was in the camp. The deputy, who was new to the
business and anxious to make a reputation for himself, rushed to the
camp and arrested the storyteller in spite of his protests. The young
man, who had been so brave a few minutes before, wept bitterly, and
begged that some one would telegraph his mother so as to have his
character established and his liberty assured. The joke was kept up so
long that the young man was actually placed in safe keeping all night.
The following morning he was released, as there was nothing whatever
against him except artistic lying. The speed that he managed to attain
while hurrying to the nearest railroad station showed that with proper
training he might have made a good athlete.
He waited around the station until the next train went East, and no
passenger was more delighted when the conductor said "All aboard," than
was the youth who was going back home very much discouraged, but very
considerably enlightened.
On another occasion a typical cowboy was traveling on the cars, and as
is quite common with members of his profession, had been approached by a
sickly looking youth, who asked him dozens of questions and evinced a
great anxiety to embark upon prairie life. There was very little to
interest the cattle-worker, and after awhile he determined to get rid of
his not overwelcome, self-introduced friend. He accordingly pointed, out
a rough-looking man at the far end of the car, and told the questioner
that he was the leader of a dangerous band of train robbers. The
individual was probably some hard-working man of perfectly honest
habits, but the would-be brave young man, who a few moments before had
been a candidate for a life of danger and hardship, was so horrified at
the bare idea, that he decided in a moment to emulate the Irishman who
said he had left his future behind him, and jumped from the moving
train, preferring a succession of knocks and bruises to actual contact
with a man of the character he had schooled himself into admiring.
Every man who creates a disturbance, defies the law, and discharges
fire-arms at random is spoken of as a cowboy, although in a majority of
instances he has never done a day's work to justify the name. The tough
man from the East who goes West to play the bad cowboy, is liable to
find that he has been borrowing trouble. He finds out that an
altercation is likely to bring him up facing the muzzle of a pistol in
the hands of a man much more ready to pull the trigger off-hand than to
waste time in preliminary talk. He soon learns the lesson of
circumspection and, if he survives the process, his behavior is usually
modified to fit his new surroundings. A tragic illustration of the
results that may come from a tenderfoot's attempt to masquerade as a bad
man west of the Mississippi River, took place in the winter of 1881-82
in New Mexico, on a southward-bound Atchison train. One of the strangers
was terrorizing the others. He was a tough-looking fellow from some
Eastern city; he had been drinking, and he paraded the cars talking
loudly and profanely, trying to pick quarrels with passengers and
frequently flourishing a revolver. The train hands did not seem inclined
to interfere with him, and among the people aboard whom he directly
insulted, he did not happen to hit upon any one who had the sand or the
disposition to call him down.
Toward the members of a theatrical company, traveling in one of the
coaches, he particularly directed his violence and insults. His conduct
with them at last became unbearable, and when, after threatening two
actors with his revolver and frightening the women to the verge of
hysterics, he passed onward into another car, a hurried council of war
was held in the coach be had just vacated, and every man who had a
pistol got it in readiness, with the understanding that if he returned,
he was to be shot down at the first aggressive movement. But that phase
of trouble was averted, for, as it happened, he remained in the car
ahead until, at dusk, the train rolled into Albuquerque.
Here the proprietor of the Armijo House was at the station with his
hackman awaiting the train's arrival. He called out the name of his
house at the door of one car, and then turning to the hackman said: "You
take care of the passengers in this car, and I will go to the next."
These inoffensive words caught the ear of the tough man from the East,
who was pushing his way to the car platform. He drew his pistol and
started for the nearest man on the station platform, shouting:
"You'll take care of us, will you? I'll show you smart fellows out here
that you are not able to take care of me."
He flourished his revolver as he spoke and, just as his feet struck the
second step of the car, he fired, the ball passing over the head of the
man on the station platform. The sound of his pistol was quickly
followed by two loud reports, and the tough man fell forward upon the
platform dead. The man at whom he had apparently fired had drawn his
revolver and shot him twice through the heart.
A crowd gathered as the train rolled on, leaving the tough man where he
had fallen. Of course the man who killed him, a gambler of the town, was
fully exonerated at the inquest, and was never even indicted for the
killing.