With the World's Great Travellers, Volume 1

by Unknown

SUNRISE FROM THE SUMMIT OF PIKE’S PEAK

Before the day’s work is finished, there is a cry heard not far away, “Ropes! ropes!” Two men start up from the resting groups and form a sort of temporary corral by stretching ropes from a wagon, and into it is driven the great herd of saddle-horses, to be “hobbled” for the night. Then the supper is served,—hastily cooked and hastily eaten. There is little comfort about it. A kind of lengthened tail-board is let down at the end of each wagon and supported by props. All the men of an “outfit”—that is, those banded to work together and share the use of one wagon—gather about this rude table and devour the meal, as they stand, with the lion’s appetite which only a wholly out-door life can give.

Each “outfit” carries its tent, for use in bad weather; but with a dewless night and a dry soil no one cares to stake a tent after fourteen hours of hard riding. As soon as darkness has fairly settled over the earth, we are all rolled in our blankets side by side on the ground as peaceful as a row of mummies. Over us the heaven seems to glitter with a million stars not seen in lower countries, and sleep soon comes to the eyes turned upward towards its infinite calm. At intervals through the night the second, third, and “cocktail” reliefs will be called to go on duty: all hands must take their turns at night-herding.

With the first intimation of daylight the camp-fires are again dancing in line. By each a cook begins his breakfast preparations. Long before the appearance of the sun all the camp is astir; bedding is rolled and packed away ready for transportation. In the universal freshness of dawn the view westward from the hill is glorious. Through the meadows just below us winds the Platte, shaded by noble groves of cottonwood, the home of ten thousand meadow-larks, and already in the starry twilight they have begun a choral symphony of innumerable voices....

But the light of the sun has hardly crept down the hill to touch the tree-tops, still ringing with the morning song, before the hurried standing breakfast at the camp is over and each man has been appointed to his work by the captain of the “round-up.” Three or four are named to guard the herd already gathered; some will have special care of the horses; all others, except the men in charge of wagons, are appointed to go “out on circle.” Then follows a general saddling of horses, and, while the shadows still lie long across the plain, knots of horsemen, three or four abreast, strike out across the prairie on lines radiating in all directions from the camp. They will ride out on their courses for about five miles, except where the space is limited on the west by the river, and then, turning back, will drive in towards the centre, or, as they say, will “circle in,” or “round up,” all the cattle found in that district, a space with a diameter of ten miles. It is this operation carried on day after day over many thousand square miles of country which gives the name “round-up” to the annual gathering of the cattle on the Plains....

The long, hot morning wastes away, unvaried by any event but the changing phases of the mirage and the gathering of cloud-puffs over the mountains. But when the sun has climbed within an hour or two of the meridian, some one less drowsy than the rest shouts, “They’re coming!” Across the prairie where he points there is no living thing in sight, but beyond the most distant ridge a great dust-column seems to touch the sky and stand motionless. Then on the opposite horizon we catch sight of another cloud of dust, then another, and another appears, till the circle of approaching herds is complete. Presently the leaders of a procession mount the ridge. The long line of cattle comes steadily on. Half are lost to sight in the hollows of the prairie, half are seen on the crests of the swelling ground. Up and down the line gallop the horsemen, urging and guiding the cattle. When the first sound from the herd reaches the ear, it is like a long trumpet-blast. Among the multitudes that are approaching there is not one but utters some sound of protest at this sudden infringement of the liberties of his wild life. The bellowing of the bulls, the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the calves, all are blended into a musical murmur in which no single voice can be distinguished.

With the advance of the cattle the deep note grows louder by almost imperceptible degrees, but at last, when the lines begin to be driven together at the centre, it has increased to a deafening uproar. Conversation is impossible; orders are shouted as in a storm at sea. When the converging processions have come so near that the animals can be distinguished, it is interesting to look closely at the passing lines, in which every breed and size and color of cattle is represented, from the small tawny Texas cow, as wild as a deer, to the large high-bred Durham bull that paces heavily along nodding his head at every step with an aristocratic air of self-satisfaction. The leaders of a herd are always the strong, fat steers, walking with a quick step, carrying their heads erect, and glancing about with restless eyes,—powerful, swift animals, ready when anything startles them to break into a stampede that will try the mettle of the best horses in the effort to stop them.

To one who has only known cattle in the Eastern States from watching working-oxen crawling along a road a mile and a half in an hour, or mild old dairy-cows loafing home from pasture at night, these spirited wild cattle seem a different race of animals. A new-comer to the plains can hardly believe that cattle are capable of great speed; but let him help in driving a herd for a few days, and his opinion is changed. A small calf lagging in the rear of a herd is sometimes seized with an insane notion that his mother has been left behind if he loses sight of her for a moment. He starts backward on the trail, “like a streak of greased lightning,” his pursuer would say. An accomplished cow-boy is often baffled for some time in such a chase. His horse, of course, will outstrip a calf in a long run; but just when he has headed him off, the exasperating little brute will dodge like a hare, and, while the horse is carried on by his impetus, the calf is off again as fast as ever in search of his forsaken parent. I have known a “tender-foot” to disappear over the bluffs on such a chase in the middle of the afternoon and return at night crestfallen, to acknowledge himself vanquished by a most insignificant little calf.