Cowboys and sheepherders are still seen daily on the streets of Pocatello. Many of the latter are Mexicans and they are looked down upon by the cowboys as being less hardy and daring.
The two classes have never lived peaceably together because the sheep clip the grass so close to the ground that cattle can find no nourishment, after the sheep have gone. For this reason fights were so common between the sheep and cattle men that the government finally alloted to each grazing grounds of their own.
The sheep men go out with their charges in the early spring and are on the range for several months at a stretch. So many of them went insane from monotony and loneliness that a law has been passed, requiring owners to send two men with every outfit.
Like most men living an open and free life, these men are for the most part generous and careless of money, taking little thought for the future and oftimes going to excess for the present.
Some years ago, says a resident of Pocatello, an Italian, with infinite patience and trouble, succeeded in catching a mountain lion in the hills and brought him safely to town in a large cage. A band of cowboys, bent on merry-making, surrounded the cage and danced about it, letting out their blood-curdling yells and shooting their guns. The lion, unaccustomed to such antics, at first snarled savagely. Later he became quiet. The cowboys began to thrust at him through the cage, and then to dare one another to enter it. At length one of the men took up the dare. Armed with a knife and a gun, he cautiously entered the cage. The lion crouching in a corner, watched the intruder but made no movement. The cowboy grew bolder and began to probe and kick the beast. His companions encouraged him with more hoots and yells, but still the lion lay quiet. Finally the adventurer withdrew in despair of stirring up a fight. The savage animal had been so completely cowed and terrified by the noise that it was literally paralyzed and unable to move.
Mr. Herman Goldsmith, now in the employ of the Oregon Short Line, but formerly a cattle man, tells of a town that boasted but one bathtub, owned by the barber. To this shop repaired the soiled and weary of the community for ablution and refreshment. One fine night a band of cowboys shot up the town and the next day the bath-tub was gone. Search was made high and low, but no tub could be found. The loss was serious, as there was no railway in those days and another tub could not be purchased in a radius of many miles. The town had little godliness, and now even its cleanliness was gone! One fine day the disconsolate barber was given a tip that his bath-tub was secreted in a cowboy’s shack some miles distant. A warrant was sworn out, the tub recovered, and the culprit hied into court. Came also the barber.
“How many baths do you sell a week?” asked the judge.
“About seventy,” said the barber.
“At how much per bath?” continued the judge.