He must be a perfect horseman, handle a rope, catch a calf, throw and tie a steer, stop a crazy cow on a stampede, lasso a mustang, and be a good shot, guide, scout, and Indian fighter as well.
Let me here refer to a few incidents of a trip over the plains of a herd of cattle to the markets of the North, through the wild and unsettled portions of the Territories, varying in distance from fifteen hundred to two thousand miles, time three to six months, extending through the Indian Territory and Kansas to Nebraska, Colorado, Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and sometimes as far as California. Immense herds, as high as thirty thousand or more, are moved by single owners, but are driven in bands of from one to three thousand, which, when under way, are designated “herds.” Each of these have from ten to fifteen men, with a wagon-driver and cook, and the “king-pin of the outfit,” the boss, with a supply of two or three ponies to a man, an ox-team, and blankets; also jerked-beef and corn-meal—the staple food. They are also furnished with mavericks, or “doubtless-owned” yearlings, for the fresh-meat supply. After getting fully under way, and the cattle broke in, from ten to fifteen miles a day is the average, and everything is plain sailing in fair weather. As night comes on the cattle are rounded up in a small compass, and held until they lie down, when two men are left on watch, riding round and round them in opposite directions, singing or whistling all the time, for two hours, that being the length of each watch. The singing is absolutely necessary, as it seems to soothe the fears of the cattle, scares away the wolves or other varmints that may be prowling around, and prevents them from hearing any other accidental sound, or dreaming of their old homes; and if stopped would in all probability be the signal for a general stampede. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” if a cowboy’s compulsory bawling out lines of his own composition:
Lie nicely now, cattle, don’t heed any rattle,
But quietly rest until morn;
For if you skedaddle, we’ll jump in the saddle,
And head you as sure as you’re born,
can be considered such.
Ordinarily so clumsy and stupid-looking, a thousand beef-steers can rise like a flock of quail on the roof of an exploding powder-mill, and will scud away like a tumble-weed before a high wind, with a noise like a receding earthquake. Then comes fun and frolic for the boys. Many a cowboy has lost his life in one of these wild stampedes of cattle, which would put an army of men to flight in a mad charge down upon them.
A CATTLE STAMPEDE.
The next great trouble is in crossing streams, which are invariably high in the driving season. When cattle strike swimming-water, they generally try to turn back, which eventuates in their “milling”—that is, swimming in a circle—and if allowed to continue would result in the drowning of many. Then the daring herder must leave his pony, doff his togs, scramble over their backs and horns, to scatter them, and with whoops and yells, splashing, dashing, and didos in the water, scare them to the opposite bank. This is not always done in a moment, for a steer is no fool of a swimmer. One has been seen to hold his own for six hours in the gulf, after having jumped overboard. As some of the streams are very rapid, and a quarter to a half mile wide, considerable drifting is done. Then the naked herder has plenty of amusement in the hot sun, fighting green-head flies and mosquitoes, and peeping around for Indians, until the rest of the lay-out is put over—not an easy job. A temporary boat has to be made of the wagon-box by tacking the canvas cover over the bottom, with which the ammunition and grub is ferried across, and the running-gear and ponies are swum over afterward. Indian fights and horse-thief troubles are part of the regular rations. Mixing with other herds and cutting them out, again avoiding too much water at times and hunting for a drop at others, belongs to the regular routine.
Such is the cowboy of the wild West, who, if not without faults, has virtues to compensate for the little eccentricities that cling to men of the frontier.
