“It’s true, all right.” There was no doubting Mrs. Morton’s conviction. “There’s facts there’s no getting ’round. Jim Bohm and old Happy Dick, that used to work for him, came up here over the trail from Texas with a band of horses that Bohm and another man owned. The other fellow was with them when they started, but Bohm said he died on the way, and that’s all anyone knows about it, except that old Bohm kept all the horses.”
“Then a few years later, a young fellow that was consumptive, came out to work for them. I know he had quite a bit of money, because he stopped here once to ask John what to do with it. He hadn’t been there very long before he dropped dead, according to Jim Bohm’s story. His folks back East tried to get the money, but Bohm said the fellow owed it to him, and they couldn’t do a thing about it.”
I sat as if petrified, unable to take my eyes from Mrs. Morton’s face, as she went on and on.
“He was in with all the rustlers in the country,” she continued, “and once when a posse was hunting a man who had stole a lot of horses, Bohm tried his best to keep them from searching the place, but the Sheriff told him they would arrest him if he made any more fuss about it, so he had to keep still. When they came to the haymow, they stuck a pitchfork right into a man hidden in the hay, and old Bohm swore he didn’t know a thing about his being there. The next us heard, old Bill Law had dropped dead in the corral. I tell you”—Mrs. Morton leaned forward and shook her finger in my face—“it’s mighty funny, the way men keeps dropping dead over there; they don’t do it anywhere else. Happy Dick was the last. About a year ago he told Morton he’d stole two men rich, and now he was going to steal himself rich. But two days after he was found dead in the willows, and Bohm said that when he came upon the body, Happy Dick had been dead for hours.”
Mrs. Morton showed signs of running down for a moment, so I hastened to ask why it was that, though suspicion always pointed toward him, old Bohm had never been arrested.
“Jim Bohm’s too smooth,” Mrs. Morton answered. “If you found him with a smoking gun in his hand and a man dead on the ground beside him, he’d lie out of it somehow; probably would swear that as he came up, he saw the man shoot himself. Oh! he’s a slick one. Us always said us pitied anyone who had business dealings with him, but,” she stopped as she saw Owen and Mr. Morton coming up the walk, “Mr. Brook looks like a man that can take care of himself. I’d watch out for Bohm, though. Watch out for him!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morton,” I said, as Owen came to the door. “I am glad you told me. Please come to see us,” and with conflicting emotions I prepared to leave Three Bar Ranch.
I scarcely knew what to think. I was worried, and yet——
When I told Owen I expected him to pooh-pooh the story and relieve my mind, but he did nothing of the sort. With a queer little wrinkle between his eyes, he listened attentively.
“Owen, you don’t think there is any truth in it, do you?” I asked, much troubled by his silence. He flicked a fly off Dan’s back before replying:
“I don’t know what to think. The old chap’s a rascal, there’s no doubt about that; but I didn’t suppose he was a cold-blooded murderer.”
Again I felt the ice go up and down my spine. “Great heavens, Owen, can’t you have someone go through the root cellar, to see if there is anything out of the way there? And, above all, get the stock gathered and ship Bohm—I despise him, anyhow!”
“Don’t let it worry you,” said Owen; “probably it’s all mere talk. Bohm won’t bother us; and in a few weeks the stock will all be turned over and he’ll have no excuse for staying.”
“A few weeks is a long time,” I said, gloomily, feeling as if my hold on life were gradually slipping. “According to Mrs. Morton, everybody on the place might drop dead in less time than that.”
Owen laughed, but the next moment a shadow crossed his face, and he said decisively:
“I’m going to look into that root-cellar business. I want to have the place thoroughly cleaned out, anyhow.”
The boys were going in to supper when we drove up. Charley came to take the horses, and Owen greeted him:
“Well, how’s everything?”
“Oh, all right,” answered Charley indifferently, as he started to loosen the tugs. “Nothin’s happened since you folks went away, only the old root cellar’s caved in.”
Speech was impossible. Owen and I stood as if petrified, looking at each other. We turned to go up to the house. I felt as though some wretched fate were making game of us. As we entered the door, Owen spoke:
“Esther”—he was very serious—“don’t say a word or betray any interest whatever in this matter. After supper is over, I’ll go up to investigate.”
Talk about the skeleton at a feast! There were sixteen horrid, grinning things around the table that night, besides a few that Mrs. Morton had overlooked.
Mrs. Bohm was whiter than usual and very quiet. Old Bohm was in high spirits. We were scarcely seated before he declared it “a damn shame” that the old root cellar had to cave in.
We showed a little surprise, but affected unconcern. Playing the role assigned to me, I remarked indifferently that we never used it, anyhow, and with this Bohm cheerfully agreed.
Later, when Owen went up to examine the cellar, I noticed, from my point of observation at the window, that old Bohm was close by his side.
Soon after Owen came in looking very grave.
“Well, it caved in, all right, and it never can be cleaned out. But there’s one thing I am convinced of”—and he looked toward the hill with a frown—“it didn’t cave in of itself.”
John, the mail carrier, was our only connecting link with the great outside world. Three times a week he brought the mail. From the first sight of a tiny speck on the top of the distant hill, our hearts thrilled. I watched it grow larger and larger, until the two-wheeled cart stopped at the garden gate. With hands trembling with impatience, I unlocked the old, worn bag, which John threw on the floor.
I was the honorable Postmistress. My desk was covered with Postal Laws, which I almost learned by heart. I had the New England respect for the Federal prison, the place of correction for delinquent Postal employees.
One rule was absolute. The key of the mail bag had to be securely attached to the Post Office. My Post Office was a wooden cracker box, which held the mail for the few outside patrons.
The inspector of Post Offices arrived unannounced one day. He frowningly looked over my accounts, while I stood by in perturbation. Suddenly he caught sight of the key at the end of a long brass chain “securely attached to the Post Office.” He got up to investigate. The frown disappeared by magic, and a smile played around his stern mouth. He burst into laughter. I explained I was very careful to comply with all the regulations. He gave me a humorous glance—and stayed to dinner.
The papers on Monday evening brought us exciting news. A train on the U. P. had been held up at a lonely station, thirty miles from our ranch. All the Pullman passengers had been robbed and one man shot and killed. The hold-ups had escaped and were at large in the “country adjoining.”
“If they are in the country adjoining, they’ll come here eventually,” I remarked to Owen. “This ranch is a perfect magnet for all the questionable characters in the vicinity.”
Owen thanked me for the compliment and went out to the bunk house to interview Robert Reed, now in charge of the hay gang.
This Reed was an interesting fellow,—a natural leader of men, and so efficient that Owen had made him hay foreman.
When we had driven over to his claim to see him about working for us, Mrs. Reed came out to the buggy, wiping her hands on her apron.
“No, Bob ain’t home this morning,” she responded to Owen’s inquiry for her husband. “I reckon you’ll find him over ploughin’ for Maggie.” A statement made in the most matter-of-fact manner.
We drove over to another claim shack a mile or so from the Reeds’, where Bob was indeed ploughing for Maggie. To him, too, it was quite a matter of course.
The affinity problem in this country really appeared simple. Mrs. Reed evidently accepted Maggie as a natural factor in the situation, and her marital relations were not disturbed in the least, as long as Bob finished his own ploughing first. That woman was truly oriental in her cast of mind.
Maggie Lane’s mother and brother lived near at hand, also. One brother, Tom, was Reed’s constant companion. Altogether it was a perfectly harmonious arrangement.
The Lane family records were not quite clear. Acquaintance revealed that. They all seemed to have a penchant for leaving the straight and narrow path for the broad highway of individual choice. Obviously Maggie’s position did not affect her family, nor her social standing in the community.
Whenever I drove about the country without Owen, I took Charley with me on horseback. Gates were hard to open, and my team of horses was not thoroughly broken. Besides, there were always the possibilities of the unexpected on these lonely prairies. I called Charley my Knight of the Garter. When he knew in advance he was going with me, he went up to the bunkhouse “to slick up.” If it chanced to be summer, he emerged without a coat, his blue shirt sleeves held up by a pair of beribboned pink garters, a pair of heavy stamped leather cuffs on his wrists, and a heavy stamped leather collar holding his neck like a vise.
I suggested one morning that the collar might be uncomfortably warm. He met my objection with scorn.
“Hot, Mrs. Brook? Why, that ain’t hot. You see, the leather kinda ab-sorbs the sweat and makes it nice and cool.”
One day we were out to take the washing to Mrs. Reed. I had asked Bob to take it Saturday night, when he and Tom Lane had “gone over home” to finish that ploughing. I supposed he had done so, but when he came back on Monday, he said he had “plumb forgot it, but would take it next time.”
We had to pass through Maggie’s claim on the way. She was standing at her door, as we stopped to open the gate. There was no freshly ploughed ground in sight, and I idly asked if she had finished her ploughing.
“No,” she replied, “I kinda looked for Bob over Sunday to finish it, but I reckon he couldn’t get off. I wish you’d tell him to stop here the next time he goes home.”
We drove on, and I wondered what Maggie “reckoned” he couldn’t get away from,—the ranch or his wife.
I gave Mrs. Reed the clothes and I told her Bob had forgotten to bring them over with him Saturday. She looked at me curiously.
“Didn’t Bob work Sunday?”
“No,” I replied, “none of the men worked Sunday. Tom and Bob both said they were going home.”
Mrs. Reed frowned.
“Oh, I suppose Maggie had somethin’ she wanted him to do.”
Charley started to answer, but my look stopped him.
“I’ll have your clothes ready Saturday.” Mrs. Reed slammed the gate and turned toward the house.
“Gee,” said Charley, riding up close beside the buggy, “them two women’ll be fightin’ over Bob yet, if he ain’t careful. Why, that’s funny”—he looked at me questioningly,—“Bob wasn’t to Maggie’s, either, was he?”
“No,” I answered, “I was just wondering about that myself. Perhaps he went to town, instead.” A coyote ran out of a gulch. Charley with a whoop started in pursuit, and the entire incident passed from my mind.
We were going in to supper, when three men drove up to the door. Whenever strangers appeared, I always had a moment of uncertainty as to whether they were to be sent to the bunkhouse with the men, or invited to our own table. Instantaneous social classification is rather difficult when there are no distinguishing external signs. And it had to be done at the moment. The men asked for Owen.
We had no idea who they were, so our conversation during supper was limited to impersonal topics, such as the present, past and future weather, the condition of the range and stock—nothing calculated to offend the delicate sensibilities of a Governor, a ranchman or an ex-convict, inasmuch as our guests might come under any of these heads. Entertaining on a ranch is democratic in the extreme.
They went out with Owen after supper. From the window I could see four dim figures sitting on their heels by the corral gate, talking earnestly.
It was late when they drove away. I was putting up the mail, as Owen entered. His announcement drove all idea of the Postal Laws and regulations out of my head.
“Well, they’ve gone, and have taken Bob and Tom Lane with them.”
“Mercy! what for? Who were they, anyhow?”
“The Sheriff and two Pinkerton men,” he answered, gravely. “They have arrested Bob and Tom for the hold-up.”
“Owen,” I gasped, standing up so suddenly that the U. S. mail flew in all directions. “You don’t believe they were the ones, do you?”
“Not for a minute,” Owen answered, with conviction. “And I told them so, but it seems the men have bad records and the description fits them. ‘A tall man, with a Southern accent, and a short, slight, smaller man.’ So they arrested them.” Owen sat down. “It’s absurd. In the first place, they couldn’t have gotten to the railroad in time to hold up the limited. They didn’t leave here until nine o’clock, and in the next place, they went home.”
“But they didn’t.” I felt suddenly weak in my knees. “I took the clothes over to Mrs. Reed, and both she and Maggie were wondering why they hadn’t come.”
Owen looked at me in blank amazement, and then asked why on earth I hadn’t told him.
“Good heavens, Owen, I haven’t seen you a moment alone. And, besides, I never supposed it made any difference where the men went. Hereafter if the angel Gabriel comes to work for us, I shall insist upon knowing where he spends his nights. Really,” I began to laugh, “you know, if we ever leave this ranch, the only place we shall feel at home is in the penitentiary. None but people with ‘records’ and ‘pasts’ will interest us.” I was half amused and wholly excited, for even to have a speaking acquaintance with the leading figures in a hold-up and murder was something my wildest flight of imagination could have scarcely pictured a few months before. Owen was really serious.
“Well, I must say,” he shook his head and looked down at the floor, “it begins to look as though Bob and Tom might have some trouble proving they weren’t the men. It’s serious for them, since they weren’t at home. The description certainly fits them.” Owen took up the paper. “‘One man about five feet eight inches high, slender and light mustache, wearing old clothes and a rusty black slouch hat. The other man five feet ten inches tall, slender, short, black mustache, about forty years old, spoke with a Southern accent, wore an old black suit and an old striped rubber coat.’”
“Go on,” I said, as Owen started to put the paper down; “I want to hear it.” He read on:
“‘The men were supposed to have boarded the train coming from Denver, at a small station this side of Star. The Pullmans were on the rear. When the train stopped at the station, the Pullman conductor went out on the back platform and saw two men crouching in the vestibule. He told them to get off, but at that moment the train started, and they rose up, covering him with their revolvers. One got behind him, holding his gun against him, the other in front. They handed him a gunny-sack and made him carry it. In this manner they entered the body of the car.
“‘In the first car they got very little plunder, and pushed on into the next. As they entered the second sleeper, they met the porter, who was forced to elevate his hands and precede them. While they were engaged in robbing the passengers in the second Pullman, the train conductor entered, and was compelled to elevate his hands, with the rest.
“‘They paused at one berth and seemed very much incensed that the woman it contained was so slow in handing over her valuables. They swore and were very impatient. Suddenly, a man in the next berth thrust his head out between the curtains. He had a revolver in his hand and fired, but instantly another shot rang out from the robber in the rear, and the man sank back in his berth.
“‘After the shooting, the robbers appeared more nervous and hurried. When they had gone through the car, they took the gunny-sack and emptied the contents into their pockets. One of the robbers pulled the bell-rope, but evidently not hard enough, for the train continued on its way. Swearing, they compelled the porter and two conductors to stand out on the platform with them, covered by their revolvers, until the train slowed down at Paxton, when they swung off to the ground and disappeared into these vast prairie lands, which are so sparsely settled one can drive for a day without seeing a person.
“‘As soon as the train stopped, the passengers hurried to the berth of the man who had been shot, but he had been instantly killed.
“‘The Sheriff was notified, and a posse started in pursuit, but the robbers had vanished.’” Owen put down the paper, and we sat up far into the night talking it over.
Subsequently our ranch, our horses, and Owen’s opinions were freely quoted in the press. Bob and Tom were positively identified by the three trainmen as the hold-ups. They were retained a week in jail, and then suddenly released on “insufficient proof.”
Owen did not believe in point of time they could have held up the train, for he had talked to Bob that Saturday night until after nine o’clock, but everybody, including Owen, held them capable of it. The point was simply that they had not happened to be there.
Later Bob and Tom returned to the ranch, incensed at their arrest and detention, but no one ever learned where they were that memorable Saturday night.
Moreover, the men who held up the train were never found, and again one of those strange tragedies of the West ended in vagueness.
I was struck by the repetition of that phenomenon “A crime, a tragedy.” At first indignation and an earnest attempt to find the offenders and bring them to justice, then delay, and the whole affair shoved into the background by something newer.
Life here seemed to flow by like a stream at flood-tide. Who could stem that current long enough to catch those bits of human frailty floating on the surface, or follow them down stream to the sea?
From the first, I had been conscious of a fascination about the West impossible to describe. Its charm was too enigmatical and elusive for definition.
There was a suggestion of the sea in that vast circle and in the long undulations of the prairie, as though great waves had become solidified, then clothed in softest green. No sign of restless movement was apparent in those billows which stretched away from the mountains into the vague distance. All was still. The towering mountain itself was the symbol of infinite peace and rest. Yet there, in the midst of that unbroken serenity, stood a cluster of buildings, the center of the greatest activity, where life was vital and thrilling as though a few human beings had been flung through space and dropped onto those silent plains to work out the age-long fight for existence.
Peace and conflict, silence and sound, absence of life and life in its most complex form; contrasts—everywhere and in everything—it could be defined, it was in “contrasts” that the fascination of the West was expressed.
Ranch life might be difficult; it was never commonplace. The mere sight of a lone horseman on a distant hill suggested greater possibilities of excitement than a multitude of people in a city street.
Each day brought so many new experiences, some of comedy, some of tragedy, that I began to look for them.
After the Government had awarded a contract to furnish “150 horses of a dark bay color for cavalry use” our life became dramatic, with the riders cast in the leading roles.
The stage-setting consisted of a large circular corral, twelve feet high, built of heavy pitch-pine posts and three-inch planks with a massive snubbing post set in the center. Since there was “standing room only,” cracks were at a premium.
The dramatis personae were two tall, slender-waisted cow-punchers who walked with a slightly rolling gait, due to extremely high-heeled boots, much too small for them. In their right hands they carried a coiled rope swinging easily. Their costumes were composed of cloth or corduroy trousers, dark-colored shirts, nondescript vests of some sort, dark blue or red handkerchiefs knotted loosely about their necks, expensively-made boots, the tops of which were covered by the legs of their “pants”; spurs, of course; high-priced Stetson hats, the crowns creased to a peak, and frequently encircled by the skin of a rattle-snake, and exceedingly soft gauntlet-gloves. It was my observation that the old-time cow-puncher wore gloves at all times. He did remove them when eating, and, I presume, before going to bed, but they were always in evidence.
The “Star” is a frightened, snorting “broncho,” or unbroken horse which for the five or six years of its life had been running loose. Now it was to be “busted.” It is cut out from the bunch and run into the corral and the gate securely fastened.
One of the men stands near the post, the other does the roping. Facing the men, the broncho stands still, his head high, his eyes wild and full of fear. An abrupt motion by one of the riders starts him on a frantic run around and around in a circle. A sudden throw of the rope and both front feet are in the loop. Quick as lightning the man settles back on it, both front legs are pulled out from under the horse and he falls on his side; the helper runs to his head, seizes the muzzle and twists it straight up, thrusts one knee against the neck and holds the top of the head to the ground. The roper puts two or three more loops above the front hoofs, passes the rope, now doubled forming a loop, between the legs, to one of the hind feet, then pulls on the end that he has all the time held. This action draws all three feet together. One or two more loops about them, a hitch and the horse is tied so that it is impossible for him to get up. While the broncho lies helpless, the saddle and bridle are put on, a large handkerchief passed under the straps of the bridle over the eyes and made fast. The rope is taken off. Feeling a measure of freedom, he staggers to his feet and stands. The cinches are drawn very tight, the rider mounts, gives a sharp order to “let him go,” the man on the ground pulls the handkerchief from the eyes of the horse, and jumps aside.
For a moment the broncho stands dazed, then jumps, throws his head between his front legs almost to the ground, squeals, humps his back and pitches around and around the corral in a vain attempt to rid himself of the fearsome thing on his back. The circular corral, limited in space, gives little opportunity to succeed; the rider has the advantage. The horse stops pitching and runs frantically about the corral, at length tiring himself out. Dripping with sweat, trembling from fear and excitement, he comes to a slow trot. The gate is thrown open. Making a dash for freedom, he plunges through the outside corrals, the horseman or “circler” close beside him, trying to keep between the half-crazed broncho and any object he might run into. The horse bolts out into the open; his is the advantage now, and he makes the rider ride. He bucks this way and that, twisting, turning, jumping and running, the man on his back so racked and shaken it seems incredible that his body can hold together. They tear out over the prairie in a wild race, far off over the hills, out of sight now. After a time they come back on a walk. The broncho has been busted—the act has ended.
Should the horse rear and throw himself backward, there is the greatest danger that the man may be caught under him and killed, it happens so quickly, but these quiet, diffident chaps are absolutely fearless, past masters in the art of riding, facing death each time they ride a new horse, but facing it with the supreme courage of the commonplace, sitting calmly in the saddle, racked, shaken, jolted until at times the blood streams from their nose, yet after a short rest the rider “took up the next one” quite as though nothing at all had happened. All the horses had to be broken and then made ready for the inspection of the Government officials, and the boys were working with them early and late.
It was an unusual experience to live in daily association with these men, in whom were combined characteristics of the Knights of the Round Table and those peculiar to the followers of Jesse James.
In Douglas, Wyoming, there stands a monument erected by the friends of a local character who, curiously, bore the same surname as the famous explorer for whom Pike’s Peak was named. Chiseled out of the solid granite these opposing traits are epitomized in this unique epitaph:
Strange, contrasting personalities—in awe of nobody, quite as ready to converse familiarly with the President as with Owen, but probably preferring Owen because they knew he was a fine horseman.
Persons and things outside their own world held but slight interest for them. At first I had a hazy idea that I might be the medium through which a glimpse of the outside world would broaden the narrow limits of their lives. I planned to get books for them and to arrange a reading room, but my dream was soon shattered upon discovering that this broader view possessed no charm. Indeed, when I offered to teach Joe to read he refused my offer without a moment’s hesitation, firmly announcing “I ain’t goin’ to learn to read, ’cause then I’d have to!” “Why, Mrs. Brook,” he added, looking with scorn at the book I held in my hand, “I wouldn’t be bothered the way you are for nothin’, havin’ to read all them books in there,” nodding his head in the direction of our cherished library. This was certainly a fresh point of view regarding education. About the same time I found that the Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogue might be fittingly called the Bible of the plains. Night after night the boys pored over them absorbed in the illustrations, of hats, gloves, boots and saddles, the things most dear to their hearts, for on their riding equipment alone they spent a small fortune.
Improvident and generous, however great their vices might be, their lives were free from petty meanness; the prairies had seemed to
The religion of the cow-puncher? My impression was that he had none, for certainly he subscribed to no conventional creed or dogma. Yet what was it that gave him a code of honor which made cheating or a lie an unforgivable offense and a man guilty of either an outcast scorned by his associates, and what was it that would have made him go without bread or shelter that a woman or child might not suffer?
Rough and gentle, brutal and tender, good and bad, not angel at one time and devil at another, but rather saint and sinner at the same time. Little of religious influence came into his life, and as for Bibles—there were none.
I remember the story of a Bishop who was travelling through the West and was asked to hold service in one of the larger towns. When he arrived he found that he had left his own Bible on the train, so he sent the hotel clerk out to borrow one. After some time the man returned with a Bible, explaining to the Bishop that it was the only one in town. “I went everywhere and finally got this one. It’s the one they use at the Court House to swear on!”
The cow-puncher, however, could swear without any assistance, for usually “cussin’” formed a very necessary part of his conversation. But as I sat at my window sewing one summer morning I heard a violent argument at the corral between Fred and a new “hay-hand” from Kansas. Fred’s voice was decisive.
“That’s all right, but you cut out that cussin’ here—the Missus’ window’s open, and she’ll hear you.” And the heart of “the Missus” warmed to her Knight of the Corral.
There was another incident, the true significance of which I did not know until three years after it occurred, when the foreman of the L—— ranch met Owen in Denver and inquired for me, adding:
“Well, I’ll never forget Mrs. Brook. Do you remember the day we was shippin’ them white faces from the Junction about three years ago, when you and Mrs. Brook happened to come along and stopped to watch us? Well, one of the best men I had was brandin’ a calf when it kicked him and he swore at it proper; all of a sudden he looked up and saw Mrs. Brook and another lady standin’ on that high platform by the yards watchin’ us. He was so plumb beat, he threw down his brandin’ iron, took up his hat, walked across the street to a saloon and began drinkin’ and stayed drunk for three days, and there I was, short-handed, with a train-load of cows and calves to ship.”
Contrast again—chivalry carried to the extent of being drunk for three days because he had sworn before a woman!
The horses were all being ridden and trained for the inspection which was soon to take place. Each man had his own “string,” those he had broken, and every day they were put through their paces. When inspected, they had to be walked, trotted and run up and down before the officers, stopped instantly, and the veterinarian was supposed to put his ear to their chests to see if their breathing was regular and their hearts sound. Now, Western horses are not accustomed to having their hearts tested, and I noticed that while the riders did everything else that was required, they tacitly agreed “to let the vet do his own listnin’.”
The day that the Army officers were to arrive, as Owen was getting ready to drive over to the station to meet them, I remarked casually that I hoped nothing would happen to upset their peace of mind, as it was very important that the honorable representatives of the Government be kept in a good humor.
The house was still in an unsettled condition but for the time being it had been brought into sufficient order to insure their comfort. The larder was stocked with the best the markets afforded and the horses were being “gentled” daily.
When guests came on the train our dinner might be served at any hour up to ten o’clock at night for after their arrival at the station there was the sixteen mile drive to the ranch—and anything might happen. It was late that particular night when I heard them at the meadow gate. I couldn’t understand why they stopped so long. There were sounds of confusion and as they entered the house one of the officers held up a finger dripping with blood, the Colonel’s hat was awry, his clothes covered with mud, and they all appeared agitated and excited. I could not imagine what had happened. Then they all began to tell me at once.
Upon reaching the meadow gate the Lieutenant who acted as bookkeeper jumped out to open it but failed to return after they had driven through. Upon investigation they found he had caught his finger between the wire loop and the post and was held fast. They extricated him from his dilemma and drove on. It was very dark and upon reaching the house as the august Colonel descended from the wagon, he tripped over a pile of stones lying near the gate, fell down and just escaped breaking his neck. I tried to smile and yet be sympathetic—but I had a vision of Owen with “one hundred fifty horses of a dark bay color” on his hands if the good humor of the officers was not restored before morning.
They were shown to their rooms and I prayed nothing would happen to the Veterinarian, who had so far remained intact.
The Colonel and the Lieutenant had come down stairs. We were all in the library waiting for the Doctor before going in to dinner, when we heard a fearful crash. We rushed into the hall to see the poor man sitting on the steps holding both hands to his head. He was very tall and, coming down the narrow winding stairs, had struck his head on an overhanging projection which he had failed to observe. His injury was more uncomfortable than serious and had quite a cheering effect on his two companions, who began to chaff him about “taking off an inch or two” so by the time dinner was over they were all in high spirits.
The following morning at nine the inspection began. Each horse was brought out, looked over and measured to see that he came up to the stipulated number of “hands”. If he passed he was immediately ridden.
Each of the men rode the horses he had broken. First the horse was walked up and down between the blacksmith-shop and the corral, then trotted and then run, after which his lungs and breathing were tested and if satisfactory he was accepted.
Every time a man got on to ride, I was conscious of a feeling of great uncertainty. The horses looked quiet enough and were fairly gentle, but Owen and I knew that the slightest variation in the manner of mounting or “touching them up” might cause them to go through a few movements not required by the United States Government.
As it was, all those we had expected to buck behaved like lambs, while those which had been considered fairly well broken did everything from bucking to snorting and blowing foam all over the Veterinarian when he attempted to examine their teeth and test their lungs.
For three days the inspection went on, each day more interesting than the last, until all the horses had been examined and out of the number the necessary one hundred and fifty accepted and branded U. S.
As the bunch of horses headed for Denver was being driven off the ranch, Fred looked after them reflectively—
“If them sodjers can ride, it’ll be all right,” he remarked, “but if they go to puttin’ tenderfeet on them bronchs, they’ll land in Kingdom-come before they ever hit the saddle.”
Life in any primitive, sparsely settled country is fraught with adventure. It is the element which gives zest to everyday affairs and which lifts existence above the commonplace, but since everything has its price, the price of untrammelled living must often be paid in discomfort and inconvenience.
To us, and to many others, abounding health and freedom were ample compensations for a few annoying circumstances but with our guests it was a more serious consideration. After a few experiences we began to discourage the visits of those unfitted by nature and temperament for “roughing it”.
We could not control the elements nor untoward events. Fate had such an invariable custom of upsetting and rearranging all of our most carefully laid plans that when friends, especially “tenderfeet”, arrived, we had a premonition that before they departed something would happen. It never failed.
In the house our guests were exempt from anxiety and discomfort, but no one cared to stay indoors when a dazzling world of blue, green and gold lay just outside, and the unexpected was no regarder of persons. A cloud-burst was just as apt to descend upon the unsuspecting head of a delicate, carefully nurtured old lady as was an indiscriminating rattlesnake to frighten some timid soul into hysterics.
Everyone who came to the ranch wanted to ride, those knowing least about horses being the most insistent, and not wishing to take any chances, at first we gave them Billy, gentle, trustworthy Billy, who, when running loose, could be caught by a man on foot and ridden into the corral with a handkerchief around his neck instead of a bridle. We would start out, the tenderfoot joyously “off for a horseback ride,” and the next thing we knew he would be off the horse doubled up under a fence or lying flat on the prairie, while Billy peacefully nibbled grass. No one could explain it unless the uninitiated had lost a stirrup and had unwittingly given the horse a dig in the ribs which was immediately resented—so even Billy was disqualified.
The truth was, none of our horses was sufficiently well broken for the inexperienced horseman to ride or drive. They behaved very decently until something occurred, which was out of the ordinary, and then the reaction was most sudden and disastrous.
With the stock on the ranch we had acquired about four hundred horses, most of which had never been handled and were running loose on the range. Before they were of any use or value they had to be broken and Owen felt that it was one of the most important things to be done. Consequently, many of the horses were broken to drive in the hay field, the broncho hitched up with a gentle horse, and put onto the rake or mowing machine—many were the runaways.
Charley was leisurely by nature. He never hurried either in speech or movement. Owen and I were in the office one morning when he strolled around the house and up to the door.
“Mis-ter Brook,” he drawled, “Ja-ne and Maud are running away with the mow-ing machine down in the timber—they throw-ed Windy off the seat,” but before he got the last word out, his listener was down the steps, over the fence and on his way toward the creek where Maud and Jane were tearing through the timber leaving parts of the mowing machine on stumps and fallen logs, while Charley looked after him in mild surprise. The horses were brought to an abrupt stop when one tried to go on one side of a tree and the other on the opposite side.
There was a beautiful black horse, “Toledo”, that refused to allow anyone to come near him but Owen or Bill, and there was also a new man on the ranch who so constantly boasted of his ability to handle bronchos the boys had dubbed him “Windy”.
Windy concluded one day that he would harness Toledo alone. There were violent sounds in the stable, snorts, shouts, thumps, and Windy sailed through the open door and landed on a conveniently placed pile of manure, frightened to death but unhurt.
Bill was furious.
“What’d you do to him, anyhow?” he stormed after roping Toledo who had broken his halter and was running loose in the corral.
“I didn’t do nothin’ to him,” protested Windy. “I just crope up and retched over and tetched him and he begun to snort and cave ’round.”
“Course you didn’t do nothin’, you couldn’t do nothin’ if you tried. You’d better go back to town where you belong, ’stead a stayin’ out here spoilin’ good horses.” Bill’s choler was rising. “You don’t know nothin’ neither, you’re jest a bone head, your spine’s jest growed up and haired over.” And, leading the subdued Toledo, Bill disappeared into the stable.
When the team that Owen reserved for his own use had passed the kicking and lunging stage and I had become sufficiently confident to look at the landscape instead of watching their ears, he usually concluded they were “pretty well broken” and that he must try out a new one. This trying out process went on indefinitely, for Owen’s New England conscience gave him no peace apparently while an unbroken horse remained in his possession. It was a form of duty.
When we had guests we used, what my husband was pleased to call, a gentle team, one that started off decorously with all their feet on the ground instead of in the air, but one day when we were expecting some friends from Wyoming he could not resist driving a new pair of beautiful bay horses when we went to meet them. I remained behind.
The dinner hour passed and no Owen; additional hours went by and late at night he came in dusty, dirty and scratched.
In response to a perfect volley of questions he explained that he was all right, but the Lawtons had telegraphed they had been detained, and then he added, as quite an unimportant detail, that “the horses had run away.” He had the expression of a fond and indulgent parent, and as he did not rise to the defense of his pet team when I called them “miserable brutes” I knew his pride, at least, had suffered.
“You see,” he resumed, “your new sewing machine and some other freight was at the station, so when I found the Lawtons were not coming I thought I’d bring it over. I had the crystal clock, too.” Owen looked so sheepish I had to laugh, although the clock had been a wedding present which we had sent up to the jeweler to be regulated.
“Is it smashed?”
“Oh, no,” he reassured me, “but I don’t know how well it will run. I got out to close the gate beyond the railroad when a confounded freight engine whistled and the horses started. I was holding the reins in my hand, of course, and tried to climb in the back of the wagon, but couldn’t make it on account of the load. I ran along the side until the horses went so fast I fell down and when they began to drag me I let go of the reins. They ran all over that inclosure, the wagon upset and canned tomatoes, sewing machine and crystal clock were strewn everywhere. I caught the horses finally, but the wagon was smashed so I had to walk back to Becker’s, get his wagon and pick up all the freight—that’s what delayed me. I’m dreadfully sorry about the sewing machine and the clock, but I don’t believe they are much hurt.”
He was very contrite, was my husband, but it didn’t last long, that sense of duty was too insistent. A very short time after, he was alone, driving another team, with a horse he had just bought, tied to the tug. The new horse, frightened at a dead animal in the lane, jumped, broke the tug, plunged forward, pulled the neck yoke off, the buggy tongue stuck into the ground as the horses ran, the buggy heaved up in the air and pitched Owen out. It landed so close to a fence post his head was scratched, but he might have been killed. As long as he had escaped, this runaway had its amusing side, too. He was bringing home a quantity of china nest-eggs which followed when he was thrown out, and he said for a minute it fairly snowed nest-eggs; the ground was white with them.
Owen and his horses! I never could decide whether it was more nerve-racking to go with him or stay behind, so I usually took the chance and went. The experiences we had! I wonder we ever survived that horse-breaking period, but only once did we face a fate from which there seemed only one chance in a thousand of escaping with our lives.
We were driving a buckskin horse Owen had just bought and a newly broken mare, a handsome, high spirited creature called Beauty. She danced and she pranced and forged ahead of the new horse which became nervous and excited in trying to keep up with her.
We were going up a long hill. Beauty was pulling and tugging on the bit when suddenly she gave a toss to her head and to our horror we saw the bridle fall back around her neck. The bit had broken. Like a flash she was off, the other horse running with her. Owen spoke to them. He wound the reins about his arms and pulled on them with all his strength.
At the top of the hill there was a fairly level space where Owen tried to circle them, hoping to tire them out, but he had no control over Beauty and she wheeled about starting back over the road we had come, the buggy bouncing and swaying behind. There was a fence corner with an old post standing about ten feet from it. The horses headed straight for it. I closed my eyes, expecting that we would be wrecked, but they turned and raced across a gulch, the buggy lurched, tipped, struck one side and then the other, but by a miracle did not upset.
I saw that Owen was trying to head them into a fence and braced myself for the shock, realizing that he hoped to entangle them in the barbed wire and so throw them, but just as we reached it Beauty veered to one side almost overturning the buggy. We were so close the skirt of Owen’s fur coat caught on the barbs and was instantly torn to ribbons and we heard the vibrating “ping” of the wire along its entire length as the wheels struck the fence.
On and on the maddened horses raced, up hills, down long slopes, through gulches in which it seemed we must be wrecked, until at length we reached the crest of a hill at the bottom of which, angling with the fence, ran a deep gulch with high cut banks. We knew that if the frantic horses reached the edge of that bank at the rate we were going there was no escape for us and we should plunge over the embankment with the horses. To jump was impossible. I was in despair, realizing that Owen, pulling on the horses with all his might, was nearly exhausted.
“Owen, isn’t there something I can do?” It was the first time a word had been spoken.
“Pull on the Buckskin,” he answered quickly.
I leaned forward and seized the rein with both hands as far down as I could reach and threw myself back with all my weight. The Buckskin was pulled back on his haunches, Beauty stopped. Owen handed me the reins, another moment he was at their heads calling to me to jump. In that instant before jumping I lived an eternity, for if the horses had started again I should have gone to certain death alone.