The shearer, who was quite a young man, sat upon a box close to the drive, and when he received a sheep it was always the same way—between his knees—and he commenced and finished the shearing of each animal exactly the same way, every clip of the large shears counting to the best advantage. They told me that he gained much time by the unvarying precision that left no ragged strips to be trimmed off. The docility of those wild sheep was astonishing. Almost while the last clip was being made the sheep was seized by a second assistant standing at the shearer's left, who at once threw the poor thing down on its side, where he quickly painted the brand of that particular ranch, after which it was given its freedom. It was most laughable to see the change in the sheep—most of them looking lean and lanky, whereas in less than one short minute before, their sides had been broad and woolly. A third man to wait upon the shearer was kept busy at his right carefully gathering the wool and stuffing it in huge sacks. Every effort was made to keep it clean, and every tiny bit was saved.
About four o'clock we reached Rock Creek, where we remained overnight at a little inn. The house is built of logs, and the architecture is about as queer as its owner. Mrs. Gates, wife of the proprietor, can be, and usually is, very cross and disagreeable, and I rather dreaded stopping there alone. But she met me pleasantly—that is, she did not snap my head off—so I gathered courage to ask for a room that would be near some one, as I was timid at night. That settled my standing in her opinion, and with a "Humph!" she led the way across a hall and through a large room where there were several beds, and opening a door on the farther side that led to still another room, she told me I could have that, adding that I "needn't be scared to death, as the boys will sleep right there." I asked her how old the boys were, and she snapped, "How old! why they's men folks," and out of the room she went. Upon looking around I saw that my one door opened into the next room, and that as soon as the "boys" occupied it I would be virtually a prisoner. To be sure, the windows were not far from the ground, and I could easily jump out, but to jump in again would require longer arms and legs than I possessed. But just then I felt that I would much prefer to encounter robbers, mountain lions, any gentle creatures of that kind, to asking Mrs. Gates for another room.
When I went out to supper that night I was given a seat at one end of a long table where were already sitting nine men, including my own civilian driver, who, fortunately, was near the end farthest from me. No one paid the slightest attention to me, each man attending to his own hungry self and trying to outdo the others in talking. Finally they commenced telling marvelous tales about horses that they had ridden and subdued, and I said to myself that I had been told all about sheep that day, and there it was about horses, and I wondered how far I would have to go to hear all sorts of things about cattle! But anything about a horse is always of interest to me, and those men were particularly entertaining, as it was evident that most of them were professional trainers.
There was sitting at the farther end of the table a rather young-looking man, who had been less talkative than the others, but who after a while said something about a horse at the fort. The mentioning of the post was startling, and I listened to hear what further he had to say. And he continued, "Yes, you fellers can say what yer dern please about yer broncos, but that little horse can corral any dern piece of horseflesh yer can show up. A lady rides him, and I guess I'd put her up with the horse. The boys over there say that she broke the horse herself, and I say! you fellers orter see her make him go—and he likes it, too."
By the time the man stopped talking, my excitement was great, for I was positive that he had been speaking of Rollo, although no mention had been made of the horse's color or gait. So I asked what gait the horse had. He and two or three of the other men looked at me with pity in their eyes—actual pity—that plainly said, "Poor thing—what can you know about gaits"; but he answered civilly, "Well, lady, he is what we call a square pacer," and having done his duty he turned again to his friends, as though they only could understand him, and said, "No cow swing about that horse. He is a light sorrel and has the very handsomest mane yer ever did see—it waves, too, and I guess the lady curls it—but don't know for sure."
The situation was most unusual and in some ways most embarrassing, also. Those nine men were rough and unkempt, but they were splendid horsemen—that I knew intuitively—and to have one of their number select my very own horse above all others to speak of with unstinted praise, was something to be proud of, but to have my own self calmly and complacently disposed of with the horse—"put up," in fact—was quite another thing. But not the slightest disrespect had been intended, and to leave the table without making myself known was not to be thought of. I wanted the pleasure, too, of telling those men that I knew the gait of a pacer very well—that not in the least did I deserve their pity. My face was burning and my voice unnatural when I threw the bomb!
I said, "The horse you are speaking of I know very well. He is mine, and I ride him, and I thank you very much for the nice things you have just said about him!" Well, there was a sudden change of scene at that table—a dropping of knives and forks and various other things, and I became conscious of eyes—thousands of eyes—staring straight at me, as I watched my bronco friend at the end of the table. The man had opened his eyes wide, and almost gasped "Gee-rew-s'lum!"—then utterly collapsed. He sat back in his chair gazing at me in a helpless, bewildered way that was disconcerting, so I told him a number of things about Rollo—how Faye had taken him to Helena during race week and Lafferty, a professional jockey of Bozeman, had tested his speed, and had passed a 2:30 trotter with him one morning. The men knew Lafferty, of course. There was a queer coincidence connected with him and Rollo. The horse that he was driving at the races was a pacer named Rolla, while my horse, also a pacer, was named Rollo.
All talk about horses ceased at once, and the men said very little to each other during the remainder of the time we were at the table. It was almost pathetic, and an attention I very much appreciated, to see how bread, pickles, cold meat, and in fact everything else on that rough table, were quietly pushed to me, one after the other, without one word being said. That was their way of showing their approval of me. It was unpolished, but truly sincere.
I was not at all afraid that night, for I suspected that the horsemen at the supper-table were the "boys" referred to by Mrs. Gates. But it was impossible to sleep. The partition between the two rooms must have been very thin, for the noises that came through were awful. It seemed as though dozens of men were snoring at the same time, and that some of them were dangerously "croupy," for they choked and gulped, and every now and then one would have nightmare and groan and yell until some one would tell him to "shut up," or perhaps say something funny about him to the others. No matter how many times those men were wakened they were always cheerful and good-natured about it. A statement that I cannot truthfully make about myself on the same subject!
It was not necessary for me to leave my room through the window the next morning, although my breakfast was early. The house seemed deserted, and I had the long table all to myself. At six o'clock we started on our ride to Helena. I sat with the driver going through the long Prickly-Pear canon, and had a fine opportunity of seeing its magnificent grandeur, while the early shadows were still long. The sun was on many of the higher boulders, that made them sparkle and show brilliantly in their high lights and shadows. The trees and bushes looked unusually fresh and green. We hear that a railroad will soon be built through that canon—but we hope not. It would be positively wicked to ruin anything so grand.