CHRISTMAS ROAST BEEF.

BY A. W. LYMAN.

I HAD just sat down to my dinner, Christmas Day, when there was a distant shout down the street; then another still nearer. The policeman on the corner sounded his rattle for reinforcements; there was the sharp clatter of hoofs on the paving stones; two pistol shots in quick succession, and the confused murmur of many voices. I rushed to the window in time to see an excited crowd gathered about a prostrate and wounded steer, a fugitive from a passing drove of Texas cattle. There was little damage done by his mad flight; the old newsman on the corner was knocked down and sustained trifling injuries, and the excitement was soon over. The wounded animal was taken away in a wagon, and I resumed my dinner, with my mind on the Texas steer. “Poor fellow!” I mused, “you have a long, hard journey of it from Texas to roast beef!” and I began mentally to follow him in his successive steps.

From the peculiar figure which I saw on his flank as he lay in the street, I could trace him back through two thousand miles of wanderings, down to the ranche of Col. Mifflin Kennedy, where he was born.

There are three or four larger ranches in Texas, but Kennedy’s is a model in its way, and a brief description of it will give an idea of the manner in which stock-growing is carried on here. Kennedy’s ranche is a peninsula, comprising more than one hundred thousand acres of land, projecting into the gulf between the Neuces and Rio Grande rivers. On three sides of this tract are the waters of the gulf, so that all the owner had to do was to build a fence on the land side, and his farm was enclosed. But this was not so easy a task as one might think, for this fence of stout planks is thirty-one miles long. At intervals of three miles along the fence are little villages, groups of houses for the herders, stables for their horses, and pens for the stock. Within the enclosure roam about forty thousand cattle, ranging in size from young calves to three-year-olds, and perhaps as many more horses, sheep and goats.

I should guess that our steer began his first experience with life at Kennedy’s, on an early spring day. A spring day in March, the very thought of which makes you shiver, is in Texas a season of bud and blossom and singing birds. The new grass is thrusting its bright green blades up through the brown and faded tufts of last year’s dead verdure, the trees are unfolding their leaves and the broad prairies are white and blue and purple by turns, with the early wild flowers which grow in beds miles in extent.

“The branding process.”

The little calf has enjoyed a happy existence of a few days amid scenes like this, when his first sorrow comes—an experience much like that of the baby with vaccination. This is the branding process which he must undergo, a hot iron being placed against his flank, which burns off the hair, and imprints upon the tender hide a mark—a sort of monogram—which he never outgrows—and which serves to distinguish him forever from the cattle of other ranches. In Texas every stock-grower has his own peculiar brand, which is registered with the proper official, and no person is permitted to use that mark besides himself. By this means cattle that wander away or are stolen can be singled out wherever found, as you see I recognized our wanderer in New York.

After the branding the calf is turned loose to make his living on the plains, and for two or three years he leads a life of absolute freedom. He rapidly grows tall, gaunt, uncouth and belligerent, and by the time he is a full-fledged steer, what with his immensely long horns, shaggy hair, and wild-rolling eyes, he is a fierce-looking fellow. I have a pair of horns taken from a steer in Western Texas, which measure more than five feet across from tip to tip, and this is not a remarkably large measurement.

When our steer is not more than three years old, he enters upon another stage of his existence, which for him ends ingloriously, in a few months, in a Northern slaughter-house. Some spring day, such as I have described, the cattle-buyer appears, and the steer changes owners.

The collecting and assorting of the herds for the drive Northward, on the fenced ranches in the settled portions of the State, are easily accomplished; but in the grazing regions further west, where the cattle roam without limit, this work is both difficult and perilous. The cattle in these remote regions are mostly bought by a class of bold, daring men, of long experience on the frontier, known as “out-riders,” who buy and collect the cattle from the stock-raiser, and sell them to the speculators from the north.

The outrider fills his saddle-bags, and most likely a belt which he wears around his waist, with gold coin to the amount of tens of thousands of dollars, for in the section of country he visits there are no banks; and, taking a few trusty companions, all well mounted and armed, sets out on his long journey, beset by constant danger from lurking Indians and white outlaws who infest this wild country.

The stock-grower who has lived remote from the settlements, perhaps seeing no human being except the owner of a neighboring ranche for a year, looks upon the “outrider’s” visit as an event in his existence.

He is a most hospitable host, and for several days after his guest’s arrival no business is thought of, and a season of feasting, riding and hunting is observed. When this is over they begin their negotiations.

The herds are scanned over to get some idea of their condition, but the cattle are not carefully counted and weighed as stock is in the North. The herds are simply sold “as they run.” That is, the owner looks through his book to see how many cattle he has branded, and the “outrider” pays him so much for his brand, which entitles the buyer to all the cattle that he can find in scouring the prairies, which bear the purchased mark.

There is considerable sport and a great deal of hard, rough riding in getting the wild herds together and assorting them. It is in this work that the splendid horsemanship and wonderful skill with the lasso or lariat, of which so much has been written, are displayed by the Texas herder.

In a few days everything is in readiness, and the herds are started on their long Northern march.

‘The Outrider.’

A route is selected which affords the best pasturage, and is most convenient to the streams, as it is essential that the cattle should reach the end of the drive in prime condition for the market.

There are few incidents to enliven the wearisome weeks that follow. The herds browze leisurely along from six to ten miles a day, following the winding courses of the creeks and rivers, the herders following lazily after to keep them in the general direction northward.

For days and days human habitations are lost sight of, and the droves and riders are alone in the midst of the great, grassy ocean. Not quite alone, either—I came near forgetting that bright and cheerful companion of the drove, the cow-bird, a brown little fellow about the size of the well-known chipping-sparrow, or “chippy,” as the boys call him. Flitting along on the outskirts of the drove, one moment tilting gleefully on a tall, swaying weed, the next perching saucily on the tip of a steer’s horns, perhaps at night roosting complacently on his back, the cow-bird goes through the long journey from the Texas plains to the stock-pens at the Kansas railroad station, whence the cattle are shipped to the east. Whether the little fellows return to Texas to accompany the next herd, or die of grief at separation from their long-horned friends, I cannot say; but I think they must go back, for their cheerful presence is never missed, and their number never grows less.

“The lasso.”

Although, as I have said, there are few incidents to interrupt the monotony of the drive, the cattle-men sometimes meet with thrilling experiences. In former years Indian attacks were not infrequent, and many a brave band of herders has been surrounded and killed by the savages whose hunting-grounds were encroached upon by the droves. There is always danger, too, of stampedes in the herds, caused either by the terrific thunder-storms and tornadoes which burst upon the great plains without warning, or by the “cattle thieves,”—bands of white, Indian, or half-breed outlaws, who live by stealing stray cattle from the herds, and sell them or kill them for their hides. Having in his early life encountered one or more of the devastating prairie fires which sweep over the great, dry pastures almost every fall, the slightest smell of smoke or sight of flame will plunge the steer into a panic of fright, and this well-known circumstance is turned to advantage by the cattle thieves in securing their plunder.

Getting some distance to windward of a herd on a dark night, the rogues set fire to a buffalo robe, and the pungent smoke of the burning hair is borne down upon the reposing cattle by the wind. The first whiff gives the alarm, ten thousand pairs of horns are reared aloft in air, and one united snort of terror is heard. Before the herders can mount their horses and check the panic the herd is past control, and the maddened and terrified animals, trampling one another and whatever comes in their way under foot, dash frantically off in the darkness with a noise like the roll of distant thunder. They scatter beyond hope of recovery. In the confusion following upon the heels of the stampede the thieves succeed in driving off scores and sometimes hundreds of the stragglers.

“The Cow-Bird.”

There are other incidents that I could narrate of amusing and exciting adventures during the drive. One episode I now recall of my first trip over the great cattle trail, was the encountering of a large herd of buffaloes which became intermingled with our cattle just after we crossed the Arkansas River in Southern Kansas. The buffaloes became so bewildered that they marched along with the cattle, and the young Texans enjoyed rare sport for two days in lassoing them. We had a welcome variety in our scanty bill of fare by the addition of tongue and other choice tid-bits to our larder.

As the railroads are neared the drive becomes more and more tiresome, and the Texas herders, longing for the wider freedom of the plains, are not sorry to have it end. But the steer, if he could peep into the future, would be sorry to have the journey brought to a close, for with the railroad the romance of his career is over, and the last two weeks of his life are full of hunger, thirst and suffering. The great droves are divided into small herds, and distributed among the hundreds of stock pens. After a rest of a few days the last journey is begun. With eighteen or twenty of his companions the steer is taken from the pens and stowed away in the cattle-car—a sort of gigantic coop on wheels. There is neither room to turn around nor to lie down, so closely are the poor fellows wedged in. Now and then a steer contrives to get down on his knees at the risk of being trampled under the feet of his neighbors, but he gains little rest in this way.

The cattle trains run slowly, and from ten or twelve days are occupied in the journey from Central Kansas to New York. At intervals of three hundred miles the trains are stopped and the cattle are taken off, placed in pens and fed and watered. After a rest of twenty-four hours the journey is again resumed. During the continuous runs of three hundred miles—about thirty hours in time—the poor creatures are without food or drink, and their suffering, especially in warm weather, is intense. Is it a wonder that they lose on an average two hundred pounds in weight each between the Texas prairies and New York?

“A large herd of buffaloes became intermingled with our cattle.”

The cattle dealers are not, as might at first appear, regardless of the sufferings of their stock. To them the loss in weight is a loss in money, and for selfish reasons, if for no other, they would be interested in any plan for keeping the animals in good condition. Many devices and inventions have been tried to lessen suffering and save flesh, all of which have been found objectionable. One of these inventions was a “palace cattle car,” which was introduced a few years ago. It was a car divided into stalls, so as to allow each animal a separate apartment. There was room to lie down, and food and drink were supplied to every stall, so that there was no need to take the cattle from the cars during the entire journey. But for some reason the cars did not work well. The speculators and butchers objected on the ground that with so few cattle in a car the cost of getting them to market was too great; and those who had welcomed them because they promised to relieve suffering, acknowledged that the steer, placed singly in a stall, was bruised more by being thrown against the partition walls than when he was jammed in between two of his fellow prisoners in the old cars. So the “palace cars” were withdrawn, and the old system of slow torture—twenty-four to thirty-six hours of fasting and jolting followed by a day of feasting and rest—went on. But thoughtful and humane men have for years been studying the question of live stock transportation, and some day not long distant means will be found to lessen the sufferings of the steer in his railroad trip to New York. Even no less a personage than a United States Senator has devoted many years to this subject, and I am not sure but more real fame will attach to the name of the Hon. John B. McPherson of New Jersey for a recent invention to relieve suffering cattle than he will earn in the Senate Chamber; at any rate he is entitled to everlasting gratitude from all the sons and daughters of Bos.

The invention to which I refer is a simple arrangement for feeding and watering stock on the cars, and consists of a trough for water which revolves on a pivot so as to be readily cleaned and inverted when not in use; and a folding rack for hay, which can be shut up out of the way when empty. Experiments with Mr. McPherson’s invention have proved its usefulness, and the Pennsylvania Railroad Company will soon have two hundred cars built with his improvement. With a well-filled rack before him, and fresh water always within reach, the steer will be able to get through the journey with a tolerable degree of comfort, even though he is without a bed to lie upon.

The cattle-yards in our large cities, acres of small, square pens, ranged in long rows, with narrow lanes between, are familiar and not particularly inviting places, and, luckily for the steer, his life there is short. Landed from the cars he is driven into one of the small pens with about thirty others, where he stays for a day or two without experiencing any new incident in his life, except that he is poked and yelled at by any number of beef-buyers who want to learn his condition. Poor fellow! It makes little difference what condition he may be in, for there are a million mouths to feed in the city over there, and three thousand miles across the blue ocean yonder, those pursy Englishmen are calling for “American beef!”

About the second morning after his railroad journey is finished, and our steer is in the Jersey stock pens, a dirty-looking old ferry-boat runs up alongside the wharf. The gates are opened and the cattle go rushing pell-mell on deck, where they find themselves in pens similar to those they have just left. Twenty minutes steaming up and across the Hudson River, and the steamer ties up at the Thirty-fourth Street dock in New York.

Manhattan Market, where the cattle are going, is that large brick building nearly two blocks away from the river. The river-front and the broad avenue between the landing and the market are crowded with piles of freight, and heavily-loaded trucks, and we instinctively wonder how the timid and frightened cattle can ever be driven through such jam and confusion. At many of the landings this work has been attended with the greatest difficulty; accidents have been of frequent occurrence, and many cattle have escaped and rushed madly through the crowded streets, like the hero of our story.

Cattle-yard.

But the cattle dealers have overcome this obstacle just as the railroads conquer the mountains and rocks—by tunneling. As the cattle come from the boat they pass under an archway, and find themselves in an underground passage, a long tunnel dug many feet underneath buildings and streets. The further end of the tunnel opens in the abattoir, or slaughter-house, and the cattle come out face to face with fate in the shape of a hundred butchers, who stand with gleaming knives awaiting their victims. The cattle are driven forward. Overhead, fastened to strong cross-beams, is a windlass, around which a rope is coiled. A stout iron hook hanging from the end of the rope is seized by one of the butchers, who deftly catches it around the hind leg of a steer. The windlass is turned, and in a trice the poor fellow is swinging in mid-air, head downward. A huge tin pan is slipped under his head, and a long knife, keen-edged as a razor, is drawn across his throat. The life-blood gushes out in a dark stream, and in less time than it takes to tell it our steer ceases to exist, and becomes beef.

We shall not have time to watch the process of cutting up and the disposition of all the parts in detail. From the time the steer passes into the hands of the man with the hook until he is hung up two halves of beef occupies eleven minutes, and on a trial of skill between the butchers the work has been done in eight minutes. But this is a small part of the work. The pan of blood has to be taken to the tanks in the adjoining room, where it is dried and made into a fertilizer to enrich the earth; the horns are saved for the comb manufacturer; the large bones in the head are sent to the button factory; the hide to a tannery; the hoofs to the glue and gelatine makers. The tripe man comes around for the stomach; one man buys all the tongues, and another has a contract for all the tails; and so on, until every scrap is disposed of.

If we visit the abattoir on a cold day we shall see perhaps three thousand beeves hanging up in the cool and airy room, but in warm weather we shall have to take a peep into one of those gigantic refrigerators yonder, each of which holds three hundred cattle. The meat is suspended from hooks over a vast bed of ice which keeps the air at a temperature of thirty-eight degrees. Similar refrigerators have been built recently in the holds of vessels, and with forty tons of ice three hundred beeves have been safely transported to Liverpool and sold in the British markets.

Around the door, as we pass out, is a group of pale, hollow-faced men, delicate women, and sickly children, with hacking coughs. These are the blood-drinkers—people in all stages of consumption, who come hither to catch the warm blood of the cattle, which they drink with the eagerness of hope. Some of them have been coming for many months, and have been benefited by the medicine, but in the case of others it is plainly to be seen that they are making a hopeless struggle against death.

“All is over.”

As soon as the meat has cooled sufficiently it is delivered to the retail butchers of the city and its suburbs, who haul it to their shops or to the markets. All night long, while the great city is asleep, the market wagons creak and rumble through the almost deserted streets, and by four o’clock in the morning the beefsteaks for a million breakfasts, and the roasts and other choice cuts for a million dinners, are temptingly displayed on the white wooden blocks or marble slabs, behind which stand the fat, ruddy-faced, good-natured butchers in white aprons ready to serve all comers. The days before Thanksgiving and Christmas are the occasions when the butchers make their greatest displays, and the markets are then well worth a visit. Beef in halves and quarters, fancifully decked with wreaths and streamers, fat haunches, juicy sirloins with just the right proportion of fat to lean, “porterhouse” steaks garnished with sprigs of parsley, and other tender bits, are set off with as much art and made as attractive as a Broadway shop window in the holiday season.

But we have finished our slice of Christmas roast beef and thus ends our story. We may wonder whether there will always be meat enough to supply all the world; but a moment’s reflection will satisfy us that we need not worry about that. There are in Texas alone nearly five millions of cattle and there are nearly half a million driven to market every year. Only think of it! supposing this number all in one drove marching in single file at the rate of ten miles a day, it would be nearly two months from the time the first steer entered New York until the last one came in sight. They would make a line reaching from Columbus, Ohio, to New York—550 miles long.

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