Gardiner, the most notorious highwayman, on the whole, that ever ranged the Australian bush, only served a portion of his allotted term. At the end of that period, Sir Hercules Robinson, the then governor of New South Wales, exerted himself to obtain Gardiner’s release from further imprisonment, believing that the prisoner’s good conduct from the beginning of his incarceration deserved this. Many persons thought this course on the part of Sir Hercules somewhat hasty and injudicious; and it was not without considerable opposition and difficulty that the governor had his way, as he finally did. On his release, Gardiner betook himself to California, where it was generally understood that he became the proprietor of a drinking-bar—a somewhat inglorious finish to his career.
SOME REALITIES OF RANCHING.
FROM A MONTANA CORRESPONDENT.
Much has lately been written on the subject of Western Ranching—enough to make the matter perhaps wearisome to some readers; but I have not seen any writer touch on the worst side. Frequently I hear of young fellows, who, attracted by the tales they have read, are eager to go West and into ranching. For those who conduct it properly, there is money in this business; but let me tell these youngsters that there is little else in it. At first, everything is novel; but that soon wears off, and then for a thoroughly good monotonous life. I know nothing to compare with it. Life in a log cabin, with bacon and beans and canned vegetables for food, and a lot of uneducated cowboys as daily associates, is not the most fascinating thing in this world. Your men may be good, honest, trustworthy fellows; but they are rough and uncouth in speech and manners, and you soon get utterly tired of their company.
Your letters, papers, and magazines help, of course, to while away many a weary hour. Riding after cattle, branding, &c., is your chief excitement; but let me say that constant daily work at that gets monotonous in time. You have some big-game shooting, always more or less difficult of access; and you have trout-fishing—successful, when the fish choose to bite. I have generally found the best fishing when the weather was hottest and the mosquitoes thickest. Again, remember that a small band of cattle does not return ready cash in proportion to a large one. Your expenses are greater in proportion, and the results are liable to discourage you.
To a lover of scenery, the change from Britain’s green hills and mossy woods to the dull yellow browns of the ‘Rockies’ is dispiriting. For a few weeks in June, a greenish tint pervades the hillsides, and then, alas! how quickly do the yellows and browns triumph! I do not write this to discourage earnest fellows from going into ranching; but they must not expect—as many seem to do—that life out West is one of roses, and that with a small capital to begin with, they can hunt and fish and have a constantly jolly time, and in a very few years come home with a fortune. Life in summer is endurable; but how about winter? The best ranges are in the north-western country, and the winters are simply awful. It has always been a wonder to me how cattle survive at all, much less come out in good condition in spring. How about the nice gentlemanly fellow from home and home luxuries, enduring a winter with thermometer ranging from twenty to sixty degrees below zero! (Two years ago, the spirit glasses stood in Southern Montana at sixty degrees below zero for over twenty hours at one time. Needless to say the mercury glasses were all frozen solid.) He rides forth on the range to look at his cattle, and comes in, probably, with nose, cheekbones, hands, and feet nipped, more or less severely. Next day, he does the same, with similar results, and then vows he won’t go again. He remains indoors for a few days, roasting beside a big stove, gets impatient at the deadly weariness of his life, and goes fishing through the ice—catches a few fish; results same as when riding. He then thinks he will try deer-tracking, or possibly a little amateur trapping. In either case he tramps all day through deep snow, varied by falling into a hidden spring-hole now and again, getting wet, and instantly his legs are incased in a solid mail of ice, which he must break, in order to walk. He comes home at night tired out, perhaps with game, more likely without; and vowing he has had enough of that sort of thing, falls back on cards and whisky, and so gets through the winter.
Some fellows have a hazy sort of idea that by hiring out as cowboys, they eventually will be, by hook or crook, taken in as partners by the stock-owner. This is about the greatest error they can fall into. Nine stockmen out of ten would not give a new arrival his board for his services. He cannot ride—I mean, he cannot sit on one of our quarter-tamed bronchos much over three minutes; he knows nothing whatever about the semi-wild habits of Western cattle, or how to manage them. A good cowboy requires special knowledge and special points in his character; and constant daily practice for years is needed to acquire the one and develop the others.
Of course, you can do as some of the Cheyenne fellows do, live practically in town, and let the ranche run itself. They have an attractive club and good society there, and lots of the men make Cheyenne their headquarters. This may be business, when you own, or manage, large herds, and when you depend on your foreman to do the work, while you pose gracefully in front as a cattle-king; but it is anything but business where you have only a small band, on the success of which depends your future. Sternly and ruefully, you must turn your back on the delights of town, and manfully determine to stay up-country and see it through.