8
This winter, 1910, I am eighteen. But now it seems the weather has caught up with me. The thing that brought on the crisis, I got wet this fall and developed a hell of a cough, so Father is sure I must have consumption. Between Father and the doctor I am shuffled off to Phoenix before Christmas. Phoenix is wonderful, the prettiest place I have ever seen. The city is full of people who have what Father thinks I have, only I don’t. By the time I stepped off of the train, my cough had completely disappeared. A two-page letter to my honorable parent informs him that I want to come home.
There are all kinds of cowmen around the wagon yards, and I have already been offered a job breaking horses, but I decide to wait until I get word from Father. The cowmen only come to town twice a year, hauling out enough supplies to last six months each trip. If I hear from home before Mr. Wilbur goes back to the mountains, I am his boy, because the wages don’t scare him one bit.
Never having worked in the mountains, this will be a new experience, providing there are no objections from home, and the news from home is good. “Take a job for three months until the weather breaks at home,” Father writes. “If you must work, find something easy — not breaking horses.” Father will have me milking cows yet!
If Mr. Wilbur is still in town, I am going to work for him. It will be for six months, but no one will mind so long as I am not breaking horses, which is just what I am going to do. We are off to the Mazatzal Mountains, which Mr. Wilbur says is across the desert. After the desert comes the Verde River. His home camp is close to the river and at the edge of the Mazatzal Mountains. His upper camp is some twenty miles up in the mountains, where travel is impossible except on horseback, which makes it necessary to pack everything needed. For this purpose he has ten Spanish mules and a couple of horses for a pack train.
The big wagon, pulled by four mules, is loaded to the guards with every known kind of supplies. The first part of our trip from Phoenix is through the desert. It is hot and dry and we drive at night to avoid as much heat as possible. To my surprise, when I join the wagon Mr. Wilbur’s wife is with us, parked up in the seat where I was expecting to enjoy the eighty-five-mile trip, so I find a spot to ride among the supplies.
The trip we’re making is for men. A woman is in the way, but the lady hadn’t seen a town for six months and won’t be back for another six months. She must be nuts or something. It’s a cinch I wouldn’t have taken the job had I known there was a Mrs. Wilbur.
When we arrive about noon the next day, the number one camp proves to be a beauty. There is a small three-room house and a corral close to the Verde River, surrounded by the foothills at the edge of the Mazatzal Mountains where the grass is just beginning to turn green. Here I meet Chico, a Mexican cowboy who has worked for Mr. Wilbur for many years. He is considerably older than I, knows all the tricks of mountain cowpunching and teaches me the art of packing a pack train, something I knew nothing about.
It dawns early on me how smart Chico is. He won’t break horses, and that probably accounted for the old man’s not squealing at my top wages. The horses to be broken to ride are at the upper camp, some twenty miles away, mostly up. I reason that if it took a pack train to get there, it will be rough and dangerous to ride a bad horse. After Chico telling me just how tough it is, I realize that, as usual, I have moved too fast, and it’s eighty-five miles back to Phoenix. Damn it, Father is always right. How right, I learn later.
The land where I grew up and learned about horses and cattle was level except for a few sand hills and the odd prairie dog hole, which were a rider’s worst hazard. Any resemblance between the prairies of Colorado and the Mazatzal Mountains? There isn’t one. In these mountains you are always looking straight up or down. There just isn’t any level spot, and here is where I am supposed to break five colts to ride. Then Chico and I are to work the back country and gather cattle that have strayed high into the mountains. As long as I am going to be killed, we might just as well get it over with.
Chico and I crawl out bright and early to corral the five horses which are to be my saddle horses and, with Chico as my assistant, we waste no time. One by one I front-foot and lay them down where I tie up a hind foot so they can’t kick, then clean out their manes and tails. I break them to lead by using a war bridle until they follow me like a dog. When they are good, they get a petting. I get them familiar to the saddle, on and off, while I have a foot tied up, get on and off a few times with the foot tied until they get used to me and find I am not going to hurt them. Then, while standing, I untie the foot and, before the horse is on to me, step back in the saddle. He is then free to buck or run, or whatever he wishes.
All these preliminaries are done in the corral. What will happen when the gate is open and you are on the outside, one never knows, but with a good man like Chico on a gentle horse riding herd for you, if he don’t go crazy and jump over a cliff, everything is fine. Which isn’t likely, for most horses will buck with their eyes open and won’t do anything that will injure themselves.
By night, all five have been worked over and old man Wilbur is more than pleased, and so am I. The worst is over, at least as far as I know. Brother, I have a lot to learn about mountain work. On the level or in a corral, I can rope with the best, but here in the mountains, I have to learn a different method. This Chico will teach me.
One week after arriving at our mountain retreat, I have my five horses partially broken and ready for further training. So with three of these and seven real cow ponies, Chico and I go over a couple of steep ranges of mountains to Deadman’s Creek, where we join ten other ranchers from other outfits. We have ten saddle horses and three little mules for pack animals, carrying our food and bed rolls as we are to be out two months. Here begins one of the most interesting experiences of my young life.
Starting early and with Chico taking the lead with our pack mules, we wind our way back and forth over trails that are not visible to me but must look like boulevards to Chico. Deadman’s Creek, I find, is just a wide spot in a very wide canyon with a fast stream of water running by a large, high rail corral. Unpacking and hobbling our horses so they can’t travel far, we proceed to make camp. While ten other men will join us, each outfit works separately in teams of two. You have separate food, individual cooking. Everything is done in teams, except when there are a number of cattle to move.
As we are a day ahead of the others, we have plenty of time. While enjoying our evening meal, Chico brings me up to date on our mission. “High and back in the chaparral and manzanita are hundreds of big steers, seven and eight years old. They escaped back there when they were branded, quite young, and have never been out, can’t be driven out and are real wild cattle. Every spring representatives from different brands gather here for the purpose of catching as many of these steers as possible. This is the reason for the high rail corral, for steers can jump any ordinary corral. Here they are held with some gentle cattle until they are tame enough to move to pasture. The only way they can be brought out is to lead them, which is why we have those twelve eight-foot ropes you unloaded from the pack mule, and it is also why we work in pairs.
“Tomorrow we will go early on a trail coming in back of some big thickets and try to catch some grazing cattle in the open, where I will try and rope one. If I catch him, you hind-foot him and we both stretch him out while I tie one of the short ropes around his horns and saw off the sharp ends so he can’t gore our horses. Then we tie him to a tree, where he will stay all night, and the next day we lead him down the trail to our corral. We take turnabouts in catching, which is why I brought another sixty-foot ratio. You will find it better roping in the brush because you throw a small loop hard and fast. You have only one chance.”
This seemed almost unbelievable, that two cowpunchers would climb for hours to get a throw at one steer and, if they caught him, would have to lead the animal out. One of you ahead on a long rope, the other behind, so Mr. Steer could only go where you wanted him to go. If you missed your throw, the day was a total loss. This, Chico explained, had happened to him, but he thought we would make a good pair. While I had no experience with a light rawhide rope like he used, I would do all right heeling and stretching after he caught the steer and, with a little experience, the rest would come easy.
Chico said if we could average one steer each day, Mr. Wilbur would be very pleased. In my opinion, the old man was damned easy to please. I thought we could surely do better than that, which we did.
Early in the morning before it is light, we have our breakfast and are saddled and ready. I take a big blue roan that Chico says is a honey on the end of a rope. I hope to hell, in these mountains, I am half as good as my horse looks. Today will tell. We have climbed back and forth up the side of the mountain to get above where the big steers are hiding. For the last hour we have been walking and leading our horses across slag slides, around big boulders, so they won’t be so tired when we go into action. All of this to catch a damned steer!
I have never walked so far in my life, even where it’s level, especially leading a horse, and with a good pair of high-heeled boots. My chapps are hanging on the saddle horn. At least the horse is carrying them. He is certainly in better condition than me. Chico has the lead, for he knows where we are going, or at least thinks he does. He is like a mountain goat and just as sure footed, while I slide and puff. I am getting thoroughly unsold on this kind of cow business, when he finally stops for a breather.
Chico assures me the long climb is over, so we mount our horses and head for the deep thickets where we have a chance to catch some of the big babies out in the open. His plan is to go ahead of me and do the catching by the head, then I can catch the heels and will stretch our steer out so Chico can work on his horns with safety. This action is something I am anxious to see, for in my country when we cut the horns, we cut them close to the head. Chico says they just saw off enough horn so they can’t gore your horse if they should get that close. The little saw he carries in a small leather case attached to his saddle doesn’t look like much to me. It seems so tiny.
From where we are, I have time to see the view. On every side of us there are mountains covered with timber. In places there are open spots with no trees, and in some of these open spots are horses and a few cattle. The mountains appear to run in every direction, but their bottoms are in Deadman’s Creek. This is my first time to see a country like this. It is so vast and magnificent, no wonder cattle escaped into these mountains for safety.
Starting toward a thicket slightly off to our left and below us, we have our ropes unbuckled and laying over the horns of our saddle, so with a quick slight swing you have a small loop that you can throw hard and fast. I have my own rope, as Chico’s long rawhide just didn’t seem right for me. Not wanting to be a complete loss for the first day, I stuck to what I was used to. Going through our first thicket, we hear a hell of a commotion, and out headed for the opening is one of the big steers with the largest pair of horns I have ever seen. He’s traveling like a race horse. I am completely taken by surprise, but not Chico. He is after him, and with the fastest and best throw and under the least favorable conditions, he catches Mr. Steer just as he hits the chaparral. As for me, I’m struck dumb, but not for long. Coming down the trail and past me is an even bigger steer. Without any effort, my loop is opened and thrown. It settles just over the baby’s horns. With the speed he was going and downhill, I simply turn the big roan uphill, lean forward to help take the shock. The big steer hits the end of my rope and hits the ground with a thump. Before he can start to recover, leaving the big roan to keep him stretched out, I am on him, and with the tie rope all cowboys carry attached to a loop in their chapps I have him tied where he won’t be going anyplace until I’m ready.
The big roan giving me slack in my rope, I remove it and go looking for my friend Chico, who is wondering what has happened to me, because I wasn’t supposed to do any roping. For if we both caught a steer and they both got into the thicket, we would have no way of helping one another. The only thing that saved me was having a short rope and a close catch on my steer. He was turned upside down about ten feet from the chaparral. Chico’s steer was back in a clump of trees tangled around, so Chico couldn’t get a chance to bust him. Without someone to stretch said steer out, neither one of them were going anyplace. That is why two men are needed.
It wasn’t long until the sharp part of his horns were sawed off and he was tied to a tree with one of the head ropes Chico carried on the back of his saddle. Here he could fight the tree until tomorrow, when we would lead him down the trail.
The fact that my partner was pleased to find me with a steer tied up down-trail made me feel good all over. He was so sincere that to work with this Mexican boy was something to be proud of, because he was the fastest and best roper in the mountains. Without him, on the flat or in a corral I had a chance, but when we hit the mountains and thickets I was lost, unless a lucky stab like my first steer coming out of the thicket into the open.
I never worked so hard in my life. We were always through breakfast and on our way before daylight and wouldn’t return to camp until long past dark. Then we would cook up something to eat. I was always hungry and feeling better than ever and wished Father and Brother Bud could see me. They would quit worrying about my health.
We have wound up our chore this spring and are to return to camp where Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur are and look forward to having some home-cooked food for a change. The ten men who joined us are a congenial bunch. Two of them have not seen a town for five years. They had a run-in with John Law, who knew they were hiding out in the mountains but never made a search for them, probably figuring it was a lost cause.
All of the men are experts with their ropes, but Chico and I have caught the most steers, averaging two a day by plugging away relentlessly. Everyone in the crowd carries a gat, with the exception of me. I feel undressed. A sheriff would surely get fat coming in here to get his man. It’s a good place to hide out after robbing a bank, only there is no place to spend your money. Not even for a soda pop.
The old man is pleased as a kid with a new red wagon when Chico gives him a report on our work. Evidently, the steers we caught will bring him some extra dough. He wants me to break five more colts and has agreed that Chico and I can return to his home camp on the Verde River, where the ground is not so rough, and we won’t have to hurry like we did on the first five. With the Verde to fish in, a house to live in and only five colts to break, we are in clover.
The first morning we started to work, everything went perfect. I rode two, then we stopped work for a midday meal and decided to only ride one in the afternoon, then catch some fish. The afternoon horse was a little buckskin and tough. I worked him over as usual, and when we came out the gate into the open territory, he started to buck toward a dead mesquite with a lone branch sticking out. Before Chico could get between us and the tree, this bronco had hit the tree and somehow the dead limb was pushed through between my right leg and my stirrup. One jump and I felt my leg go and fell off on the other side with a badly broken leg.
Cutting the boot off, Chico straightened the leg, which we wrapped with cotton batting out of one of the bed quilts. With part of a shingle on each side, Chico wrapped it tight with strips from a towel. It is a good thing we were not at the upper camp, or I could have twenty miles on back of a horse with my leg hanging down. As it is, we turn all the horses loose in the pasture and at sundown start for Phoenix, eighty-five miles away, me in the back of the buck-board on the bed roll and Chico driving the mule team. The trip will take all night with only one bright spot. About halfway to Phoenix, we hit the desert and meet an outfit coming out with a bunch of bulls, traveling at night to avoid the heat. This was the Cavaness boys, one of whom had worked with us on Deadman’s Creek. Upon hearing what happened to me, he gives me a quart of good bourbon. By the time we reach Phoenix at daylight, I feel no pain and have no bourbon.
We are a sight when we reach St. Joseph’s Hospital, as neither of us has shaved for a week. I have one boot off and hobble to the hospital door and without any delay or commotion I am in a bed. A doctor shows up and removes the homemade splint and packs my leg in ice bags to reduce the swelling. Chico says he is going to feed the mules, take a little rest, then head back to the Verde River where he will catch a horse for the upper camp, see the Wilburs, collect my three months salary and return, pronto.
What a hell of a disturbance I have caused. Before my new doctor leaves the hospital, I ask him if he would write Father, making it easy so he wouldn’t feel too badly Boy, the doctor is a peach. He not only tells me to relax, that he will handle Father, but he’ll have a barber work me over, as he put it. But he wouldn’t be pinned down as to how long I would be laid up. “Just take it easy and enjoy the rest” was his sound advice.
One week to the day since I landed in the hospital, the doctor came in with a letter from Father. It contained a check for two hundred dollars, which Doc says he will cash. Father tells Doc to send the bill to him and to get me home soon as possible. And the doctor tells me that Father isn’t stuck for the bill, since Henry Wilbur, who is a good friend of his, is going to pay my expenses, as I was hurt while working for him. Chico is back with a check for three months wages and a nice letter from the Wilburs, which raises my spirits because I felt bad causing everyone so much trouble.
The best news of all, however, was that Chico had done such a fine job setting my leg straight that it would be placed in a cast and I would be up and about on crutches. My letter from Father was a peach. No bellyache about my getting hurt. “Just cheer up, Son. We are all glad your cough is gone. Your brother suggests you get a job in the ‘Bed Pan’ department.” He must be crazy or something.
I don’t only have the best father in the world, but the best looking one. He is built just like the guy who used to be on all the police gazettes, Bob Fitzsimmons,* only Father is better looking!
I have now been home four months. The old leg is as good as new, although I favor it a bit. Have been out to the ranch with Bud helping him break a few colts and am going on the fall roundup for two months. I have been drawing top wages, even if I haven’t been doing too much. I am surely lucky in the brother and father department.
Footnote
*The storied English boxer, who won the world heavyweight title from Gentleman Jim Corbett in Nevada in 1897.