Much has lately been written on the subject of Western Ranching—enough
to make the matter perhaps wearisome to some readers; but I have not
seen any writer touch on the worst side. Frequently I hear of young
fellows, who, attracted by the tales they have read, are eager to go
West and into ranching. For those who conduct it properly, there is
money in this business; but let me tell these youngsters that there is
little else in it. At first, everything is novel; but that soon wears
off, and then for a thoroughly good monotonous life. I know nothing
to compare with it. Life in a log cabin, with bacon and beans and
canned vegetables for food, and a lot of uneducated cowboys as daily
associates, is not the most fascinating thing in this world. Your
men may be good, honest, trustworthy fellows; but they are rough and
uncouth in speech and manners, and you soon get utterly tired of their
company.
Your letters, papers, and magazines help, of course, to while away
many a weary hour. Riding after cattle, branding, &c., is your chief
excitement; but let me say that constant daily work at that gets
monotonous in time. You have some big-game shooting, always more or
less difficult of access; and you have trout-fishing—successful, when
the fish choose to bite. I have generally found the best fishing when
the weather was hottest and the mosquitoes thickest. Again, remember
that a small band of cattle does not return ready cash in proportion to
a large one. Your expenses are greater in proportion, and the results
are liable to discourage you.
To a lover of scenery, the change from Britain’s green hills and mossy
woods to the dull yellow browns of the ‘Rockies’ is dispiriting. For a
few weeks in June, a greenish tint pervades the hillsides, and then,
alas! how quickly do the yellows and browns triumph! I do not write
this to discourage earnest fellows from going into ranching; but they
must not expect—as many seem to do—that life out West is one of roses,
and that with a small capital to begin with, they can hunt and fish
and have a constantly jolly time, and in a very few years come home
with a fortune. Life in summer is endurable; but how about winter?
The best ranges are in the north-western country, and the winters are
simply awful. It has always been a wonder to me how cattle survive
at all, much less come out in good condition in spring. How about
the nice gentlemanly fellow from home and home luxuries, enduring a
winter with thermometer ranging from twenty to sixty degrees _below_
zero! (Two years ago, the spirit glasses stood in Southern Montana at
sixty degrees below zero for over twenty hours at one time. Needless
to say the mercury glasses were all frozen _solid_.) He rides forth on
the range to look at his cattle, and comes in, probably, with nose,
cheekbones, hands, and feet nipped, more or less severely. Next day, he
does the same, with similar results, and then vows he won’t go again.
He remains indoors for a few days, roasting beside a big stove, gets
impatient at the deadly weariness of his life, and goes fishing through
the ice—catches a few fish; results same as when riding. He then thinks
he will try deer-tracking, or possibly a little amateur trapping. In
either case he tramps all day through deep snow, varied by falling into
a hidden spring-hole now and again, getting wet, and instantly his legs
are incased in a solid mail of ice, which he must break, in order to
walk. He comes home at night tired out, perhaps with game, more likely
without; and vowing he has had enough of that sort of thing, falls back
on cards and whisky, and so gets through the winter.
Some fellows have a hazy sort of idea that by hiring out as cowboys,
they eventually will be, by hook or crook, taken in as partners by
the stock-owner. This is about the greatest error they can fall into.
Nine stockmen out of ten would not give a new arrival his board for
his services. He cannot ride—I mean, he cannot _sit_ on one of our
quarter-tamed _bronchos_ much over three minutes; he knows nothing
whatever about the semi-wild habits of Western cattle, or how to manage
them. A _good_ cowboy requires special knowledge and special points
in his character; and constant daily practice for years is needed to
acquire the one and develop the others.
Of course, you can do as some of the Cheyenne fellows do, live
practically in town, and let the ranche run itself. They have an
attractive club and good society there, and lots of the men make
Cheyenne their headquarters. This _may_ be business, when you own, or
manage, large herds, and when you depend on your foreman to do the
work, while you pose gracefully in front as a cattle-king; but it is
anything but business where you have only a small band, on the success
of which depends your future. Sternly and ruefully, you must turn your
back on the delights of town, and manfully determine to stay up-country
and see it through.