So I told the boss I would quit and went with them to the railroad—they had to go to Miles City for the Jew to get a train to Milwaukee. So I went with them, which was about 50 miles. We made a night drive in a buckboard.
There was a road ranch about half way and the old man kept telling the foreman when we got there he would be O.K. as the lady who owned the place served nice cold milk and that was what his stomach was craving. We got there about midnight and woke the people up to get some milk for the old man. The lady sent her boy down cellar for the milk. There was a skunk in the cellar. He killed the skunk and brought the milk up to the dining room. When that old man took one swallow of that milk he stopped and his eyes set in his head. I thought he had a stroke.
He said, “Lady, I believe the animal has been in the milk.”
We got to Miles City the next day and I never saw the old man again but hope he found some milk that was not tainted with the perfume of the skunk.
I remember my first experience as a bullwhacker—that was what they named a driver the days when they hauled freight with cattle and mule teams.
When I quit the “54” outfit and went to Miles City, I proceeded to counteract that bad water on Mizpah Creek with Miles City whiskey and the results were so pleasant I stayed until I was broke and sold my saddle, and when I could not get anymore of Miles City joy juice I got in a box car one night on a train going West and landed at Ouster Junction on the Yellowstone River in Montana—that was where freight was unloaded and hauled to Fort Custer and some parts in Wyoming.
The first outfit I found was loading for Wyoming and was owned by a man by the name of Bill Marsh. He had two teams (10-yoke of Texas steers to the team) and was loaded with whiskey—I have forgotten how many barrels but they usually hauled 9,000 pounds to the team. I asked Marsh if he wanted a man. He asked me if I was a bullwhacker. I told him yes, and he hired me.
Now I never had put a yoke on a steer in my life, or drove one, but I wanted a job, so he showed me the right-hand leader, which is the first steer to be yoked. Now the way to yoke a steer is to put the yoke on your shoulder and walk up to him. The cattle were used to that way, but I took the yoke in my arms, and walked up to the steer. He took one look at me, jumped up in the air, kicked me in the stomach, knocked me down with the yoke on top of me and run off. The boss was looking at the performance and said he better help me hitch up.
We rolled about 10 miles that day and my team just simply followed the boss’ team and done about as they pleased. They certainly knew I was a tenderfoot as a bullwhacker.
That night I was pretty badly discouraged when we camped and I told the boss the truth that I had never drove oxen before but I was broke and had to have work. He said I need not tell him anything as he knew when I tried to yoke that first steer that I was not a bullwhacker.