9
It is Christmas Eve morning, 1911, and from the only door in my two-room sod house, through the blizzard that is raging, I can just barely see the sod stable, some five hundred yards away, where my three very special cow ponies are warm and snug. Around me, death is everywhere. Huddled close to each other and close to the house are hundreds of cattle. All are doomed. Hundreds have already died, or have been killed by me from a tap on the head with the blunt part of an axe. The ones I killed were mercy killings, as their feet and ankles were frozen and they were unable to stand. There is no food or shelter for them. There has been no food since the tenth of October when this storm started, and the temperature has been continually below freezing.
Stock that died in the freeze were thin. The white part of their bodies had turned yellow and they were covered with lice. Their eyes were pitiful and sunken and held the most helpless and sorrowful expression. Their death was a blessing.
Going from the house to the stable, I can walk most of the way on dead cattle. Some are covered with snow, others are visible where the wind has blown the snow away. Some I have pulled away from my door and the only two windows in the house, where they had huddled trying to live. The weak were trampled where they froze and stuck. So, with my cow ponies, I drag them away. This performance I shall repeat when the storm subsides enough for me to see to do my work without freezing. Every day I have to dispose of some dying in their tracks and beyond hope. This will go on until all have died or there is a sudden change in the weather, which is unlikely, and even if that should happen tomorrow, not very many would be saved. It is too far from food and shelter, and the snow is drifted too high between us and civilization. But my guess is that it will be April before any great change occurs.
Smart boys who know everything will say this is an act of God. This I can’t swallow. While I am only nineteen and not too well versed in God and his ways, I am sure no God would have anything to do with thousands of cattle suffering and starving to death as they are doing this winter.
Perhaps the cowmen have erred. It has always been their custom to depend on the range cattle to come through the winter on grass they can rustle. Even if a big storm comes, it doesn’t last too long. The wind usually leaves some spots of grass uncovered, and the sun obligingly melts other spots. So the cowmen don’t do too badly. There is always a certain percentage of loss, but with the coming of spring, there is new life. New grass is like a fresh tonic. The will to live revives. The winter has cost the cowman a few cattle. With practically no outlay of cash, with the new calfs in the spring, together with a year’s additional weight on the older cattle, the cowman is much more than ahead. But this is a winter to end all winters, the like of which has never happened in my lifetime. Early in October the rains started, then turned to sleet. Freezing weather followed to form ice over all the grass, freezing it solid. Then more snow, with no sun to ease the blow Just snow and wind. Even the bare spots where there was some grass were frozen over with ice. The cattle have had no food for three months. There is no hay — no nothing.
Early in the storm, some cattle drifted into the deep canyons for protection from the winds and were soon covered with snow. They died in their tracks. Others drifted up against some building or fence, where they hump up in a huddle and wait for the end.
I have been here at Battle Ground Springs for two months and twenty days. How do I know? I have circled the days on a large calendar which came with the cases of canned food and groceries that are my winter supply. If only I could share some of my comfort with the poor devils outside my walls! In my house, which has three-foot-thick sod walls, plaster on the inside, and only two windows, I have shelter from the storm.
The windows I have boarded on the outside, leaving only a four-inch space for light so some steer won’t fall through. My domicile is a two-room affair, the larger room acting as a storeroom and bedroom. Here are all my canned goods, such as Carnation cream, canned corn, tomatoes, peas, different kinds of fruit, also dried fruits. This room is always cold, as the door between is always closed except at night when I am in bed. The kitchen is small. It has an excellent coal stove that burns nut coal, keeping the room real comfortable as the fire is never permitted to go out.
At the back of the stove is sourdough working in a stone crock. Out of this crock comes the best hotcakes and biscuits known to man. In another pot is beans and sowbelly, with the usual pot of coffee close at hand. I have no problem of survival with all this food. As for my three cow ponies, they are living it up. Their quarters have thick walls like the house, and large spacious stalls with sliding windows in front of their mangers through which I poke alfalfa-baled hay that was hauled out before the storm along with the coal and food for my winter supplies and cracked corn and barley for their one meal a day. Their water comes from a spring from under a bluff, running down and back of the stable. But today they will have their morning drink out of a bucket, as last evening I carried up three buckets of water to the stable so their morning drink won’t chill their insides.
When the weather is half decent and one can see, I give each pony a workout, dragging dead cattle out of the springs where they have tumbled from a steep bank. On the very edge of this bluff is one end of my house, leaving only three sides for the poor devils to huddle against. The stable they can’t reach, as it is protected by a high board corral against which many cattle have perished.
Today isn’t fit for man or beast. It is Christmas Eve. Even my ponies will have a treat. No storm for them. A drink of water, not too cold, plenty of hay and the usual brushing with a good stiff brush to keep their manes and tails beautiful and their coats slick and glossy. It is the first time in their lives anything like this has happened to them, and they like it! In the past they have been treated like ordinary cow ponies, and now, the first time we have been together, their status is royalty.
With me, it is something to do and gives me pleasure. They are my only friends, the only ones I have to talk with, and to say they don’t understand would be foolish. I like to brush their coats and make a fuss over them. They are badly spoiled, and the next cow-puncher that comes into their life will get a surprise, because the two younger ones, the buckskin and the gray, are very touchy and take some understanding, while the light bay is older, with more experience, and is the best cow pony I have ever seen. He works easy and sure, never takes two steps where one will do and is always poised to move, which he does without apparent effort. In other words, he’s one hell of a rope horse and can make even a poor cow-poke look good.
I was told when I picked the trio up at the river ranch to watch the two young horses or I might find myself in trouble such as had happened to others. To this advice I paid very little attention, for I have learned by much experience, young as I am, that horses are smarter than humans. They know the minute you come near if they can trust you. Also, if there is any fear, they know immediately and act accordingly.
During my short span of life, I have broken many horses to ride. Many of these were wild horses that had never seen a human until trapped, many were domestically raised and others known as bad actors who were classed as outlaws, but regardless of what they were or where they came from, I have never seen a horse I didn’t like. All are different, in many ways, but all are quick to recognize fear and equally quick to know their master. If tough treatment is necessary, the man who shows no fear and is kind but firm will soon gain their control and respect.
A bad horse is the result of a bad cowpuncher who wants a horse to buck so he may show off, or a bad-tempered, inexperienced person doing something for which they are not qualified. There are no bad horses — just bad people.
My three pets have never made a move to hurt me. Although the buckskin is my favorite, I try not to show my favoritism. He does like to buck around, stiff legged, when I take him out to work, but it is only play and to warm up. For when I fasten the rope over the horns of a dead steer to move it, he is all business. He stands still with the rope taut while I cut the frozen body loose. Then, when I climb aboard in all my heavy clothes, he could make it plenty tough if he did not like and understand me and that we were working, not playing. This buckskin has the most beautiful markings of any cow pony I have ever seen. There is a black stripe running down his back, with four legs black to the knees, a luscious mane and tail, and he is unusually wide between the eyes, as are the other two ponies. While all three are exceptional, this guy has a habit of whinnying to greet me mornings before I reach the door. The other two show their happiness by jumping around in their stalls, but the buckskin seems to be the only one capable of making some sort of vocal greeting. He seems to be saying, “Where the hell have you been all night? I’m hungry.”
It is no wonder that I love these three. I haven’t seen a human since moving in on October tenth and it is not likely I shall for the next two or three months. We are completely isolated, which is not the fault of anyone. It is something that no one expected, and were it not for the suffering and tragedy and the utter helpless condition in which I find myself by not being able to help the cattle, I wouldn’t mind. The fact that my brother hasn’t shown up is understandable. Between the ranch and the river where Bud is, the snow drifts are piled mountain high, particularly through the sand hills, which would be the shortest route. We are just too many miles from civilization or any passable road. Of one thing I am certain, could Bud get here, he would, just to see how his little brother is doing.
I know Father and Brother are worrying some, but both know I have coal, plenty of food. I could get sick and I can hear Bud say, “Don’t worry, the kid is tough as they come.” I don’t know, but I think I have had the mumps on one side, because one side of my face swelled up so I couldn’t open my mouth except to drink coffee and cream of wheat, thinned out, with lots of cream. On this, with a couple jiggers of bourbon, I have managed to keep going as there isn’t even a blooming bit of iodine, aspirin or any medical supplies. So, one does without.
The bourbon Brother sent out with the wagon of groceries is a Godsend, with the weather as it is. It is the best barrel whiskey, put up in two gallon jugs, and careful as I have been, one jug is empty, so I shall nurse the remaining jug, even if it is Christmas Eve. I know there are other days coming which may be worse.
The damn storm is worse, all I can do is hole up by the cook stove and play solitaire, which I have done until the cards are worn out. I reread some of the stories in the old magazines for the fourth and fifth time. I have three Saturday Evening Posts, several detective novels and one magazine, with a story about Tahiti. This one I have read the most. The picture of the gal in a grass skirt looks best to a lonely cowpuncher with no place to go.
So help me God, this will be my last job as a cowpuncher. In the future, I shall be near people, and it may just as well be Tahiti where it is warm. I have seen all the snow and enough dead cattle to last me a lifetime. Surely, there must be some place in a warm climate where they have horses to break, even for less money. Nuts to the cattle. They are strictly dumb. Horses are the smartest animals living — including humans. By now I should know. What is to be will be. Come hell and high water, otherwise I wouldn’t be here by myself on Christmas Eve. Last winter was a pip, the first I didn’t go to school. I lived in town for free with Father and Brother, had plenty of hay and grain for my cow pony and made more dough working when I wished than I could by breaking horses, and the weather was good. So, this first winter in a camp, I catch the worst in history. I should never have gotten into that stud game. Now I know.
Coming in off the fall roundup, I was looking forward to another winter like the one I spent with my honorable parent and brother the year before. I had been with the roundup wagon, where some thirty cowboys representing different brands had been going through the usual routine of gathering the big steers for shipment and returning the strays to their own range. We were continually on the move, and moving ahead was the cook and bed wagon. From this cook wagon comes the kind of food that cowboys like. Cooked in dutch ovens on a long bed of coals would be steaks, corn, beans, tomatoes, and in one would be a fruit cobbler, peach or pear, whichever Cookie had available. This, with canned cream, was a dish not to be found in the best hotels. There was the usual pot of coffee, except when Cookie was moving. We were never all together at the same time, but when one did arrive, you simply grabbed a tin plate, a tin coffee cup and dug in.
Cookie, always in a hurry, had two helpers to rustle fuel for the dutch ovens and to harness the horses. His moves came just as breakfast was over, usually as it was getting light, and were executed at a high gallop across the prairies regardless of roads. It was nothing to have breakfast at daylight, the midday meal twenty miles farther on and supper at a spot thirty miles distant.
We were continually changing horses owing to the number of miles we traveled. The horses had to subsist on the range alone and we had nine to twelve horses each, depending upon how long we expected to be out with the wagon. On this trip I had twelve which I used for everyday work. One I kept for my night horse because he was wonderfully trained and gentle and would stand saddled at the foot of my bed roll, so that when I was called by my puncher going off duty I could grab a quick cup of coffee and lose no time getting to the herd. Guard duty was usually two hours but could be longer, depending upon how many men were working and how large was the herd we were holding. After guard duty, you either returned to your bed or, if the last shift, you stayed up and caught a fresh mount out of the remuda, grabbed breakfast and were ready for the day’s work.
Turning my twelve horses loose in what is to be their winter headquarters, I catch my pet cow pony for the winter, parking him in the family barn. I give myself the usual yearly cleanup, haircut, shave and bath, and decked out in a new suit feel no pain. Tomorrow I will collect several months salary, which since my seventeenth birthday has been top wages of sixty a month found. The found means food and a place to sleep. Place to sleep was usually on the ground, unless at the home ranch where there was a real bed. Not just your bed roll.
To earn this kind of money, you had to be a top roper, not a trick roper but able to front-foot when necessary An all-around cowhand must, above all, be able to break a string of horses for cow ponies in the right way That was the real mark of a cowboy. In all the cattle outfits I know, there are only three older men who were paid as much as I receive monthly So, considering my age, my brother who trained me hasn’t done a bad job. He is known as one of the finest cowboys in the business and the most perfect hand with wild horses in any man’s country. Of this I am very proud. Without his help, I would be just one of many.
Collecting my wages the next day, I am of a mind to go to Denver for a few days to let off steam, a fact I don’t mention to Father. Brother Bud thinks it will put me in condition for my winter rest. I think he was kidding, but I am not quite sure, so while waiting for tomorrow’s train I visit an old friend in a pool hall, where I am cordially invited to sit in on a stud poker game. With nothing to do except kill time until train time, and holding plenty of moolah, why not? By seven I am convinced that I won’t go to Denver tomorrow because said bank roll has shrunk to less than five bucks. This fact causes me no great agony as I have a swell place to eat and sleep. Jobs are easy to come by. All I need is a little spending money for entertainment if I am not going to Denver, and this I know how to remedy fast.
There is always one guy who understands and comes through, without a lot of questions and advice. Brother Bud! Knowing that at this time of the evening he will be upstairs at a club for men, I head for this spot, where I tell the clerk I would like to see my brother on business for a few minutes. One word from him suffices. I see Bud playing pool with a gang at one of the corner tables, and when he spots me he hands his cue to one of the boys, motions to a chair and asks, “What can I do for you, Pard?”
Without any shame or hesitancy, I ask Bud to loan me twenty bucks.
Bud’s hand reaches for his bank roll. “Sure I will and glad you came up. I want to talk to you and a decision has to be made by tomorrow morning. What did you do with your dough, put it in a bank?”
When I break the news that I lost the works in a stud poker game in one hand, he looks me over, saying, “How much did you lose?”
“Well, Bud,” I reply, “you paid me. You should know.”
“My God, you mean you lost all summer’s wages on one hand? Pard, you really went first class. Tell me, who did you play with? . . . There is nothing I can do about your loss because the fellows who got your money don’t cheat. They are good poker players, best in town. You were simply outplayed, which is natural because you can’t sit still and wait. Your curiosity is too much, you take a chance. Hell, son, the only time you are not in a hurry is when you are roping or breaking horses. As a poker player you are the world’s best bronc buster and now you are broke.”
Here was a fact I couldn’t deny. Bud wanted to know if I wanted a winter job with top wages, even five a month more than I had been paid. If I did, he said I’d be working for Mr. Williams and himself, and that it was Williams’ suggestion I be hired. “You will have to batch and live alone at Williams’ summer quarters at Battle Ground Springs and will have three of his cow ponies for your winter horses. They are up the river at his ranch, where they have done nothing all summer and will be full of pep. You will need grain and hay, coal and food to last six months, and supplies must be hauled out before the weather changes, as we will have four thousand three-year-old steers and five hundred two-year-olds here soon. They are coming up from the South and should be in top condition, and in that big pasture which hasn’t been grazed all summer they should go through the winter fine. As it is late in the year, we won’t even dip, but move them on before winter hits.”
I mulled the thought over as Bud continued. “It should be an easy winter for you, just keeping up the fences. With three good winter horses, you can even visit some of the homesteaders that live back on the flats. They are all hungry and will be glad to see a cow-puncher, especially the mothers with daughters.”
“Nuts to them,” I replied. “Why don’t we use our own horses for the winter, rather than Mr. Williams’?”
“Well, Pard,” said Bud, “I offered to, but two of his three are badly in need of work and the old man knows your ability in this department. They are wonderful cow ponies, only the two younger horses are very touchy and will buck at the drop of a hat. Besides, the kind of men Williams is hiring are afraid and the horses know it.”
I thanked Bud and took the job. I asked him not to mention the poker game to Father, as he might think I was careless with my dough. Bud cracked right back, “Son, you lost Father a long time ago. I think it was the Sunday you roped the antelope. He has never been the same since and anything you might do will come as no surprise to our parent. He has done given up long ago. I won’t tell him because I don’t want him to know how rotten a poker player he raised. Tell him about your new job. This Father would like.” Bud’s parting words were: “Have your outfit ready to move tomorrow. The sooner those steers are in pasture and you are on the job, the better I will feel.”
So, here I am on Christmas Eve, going through a nightmare on a job that appeared at first to be manna from the Gods. Bellyaching will do no good. I am just stuck until spring. I don’t even have the old Edison with the big horn. Why I didn’t bring it over from the home ranch, I don’t know, unless it was the rush act to get settled here.
Boy, oh boy, the licking Bud is taking in his pocket book! I can’t help but worry, he’s such a swell guy. If he isn’t broke in the spring, he must have more dough than I figured. At least I don’t have to stick him for any wages. It isn’t his fault the damn weather blew up in our faces. But his partner is different. I will need some of the old man’s money because I am through being a cowpuncher for anyone, and I will need some traveling money to get the hell out of this country.
So, Mr. Williams, if helping cattle die has any value, you will owe me some wages. Everything comes to an end, either good or bad. Spring is here, even the sun. A little over three hundred cattle of forty-five hundred survived, and now they have hay and will probably live to die again. They are the thinnest, most sickly few cattle to survive a winter. How they lasted is beyond me.
The hills and flats are dotted with dead cattle. Their bodies are mangy and they are not worth the skinning. True to my promise, I am through with the cow business. Where I shall end up, I don’t know.
I have told Bud and Father I’m going south. Of course, they think I am just fed up and will return soon, but I know better. I have had my belly full of anything that looks like a cow or is remotely connected with ranch life. I shall be twenty in July, and surely to God there is something other than cows and horses in this world. I am giving my saddle and ropes to Bud. He insists on paying me my wages, but I don’t feel right, because I know that to keep going he will have to borrow an awful lot of money. But as he says, my small amount of wages won’t help him much, which it won’t. So with over four hundred dollars in my pocket, Denver will be my first stop.