CHAPTER XXIX.

ARLYautumn's frosts had tinged the foliage of the birch, maple, oak, and elm trees, that intermingle in the great pine forests, with a thousand rich colors and shades of gold, brown, olive, pink, and crimson, while the pines, the hemlocks, the firs, and the cedars still wore their dark mantels of perennial green, and all Nature was clad in her sweetest smiles. A solitary woodpecker, perched on the topmost branch of a dead giant of the forest, reaching out far above the surrounding network of leafy branches, from which he might survey the surrounding country, sounded his morning reveille and awaited the coming of his mate. The dry leaves with which mother earth was carpeted, rustled now and again to the bound of the saucy red squirrel, the darting hither and thither of the shy wood-mouse, or the tread of the stupid, half-witted porcupine. The chill October wind soughed through the swaying tree-tops, laden with the rich ozone that gives life, health, and happiness to all animate beings that are permitted to inhale it.On such a morning, and amid such a scene of natural loveliness, I left the train at Junction City,on the Wisconsin Central Railway, started on a three-mile jaunt to a logging camp, for a day or two on a deer roundup. I reached my destination at nine o'clock. The men had long since gone to their work, but the "boss" had returned to camp to attend to some business in hand, and, welcoming me with the generous hospitality that is always shown by these sturdy sons of the forest to strangers, bade me make myself at home as long as I cared to stay. To my inquiry as to the presence of game in the vicinity, he said there was plenty of it, and that the men saw one or more deer nearly every day while going to or returning from their work, which was only a mile away.I lost no time in getting out and entering an old slashing to the east of the camp where the foreman said signs were plentiful. I had not gone more than half a mile, when, turning to the left, on an old logging road, I saw several fresh tracks of deer that had been feeding there that morning. It was now eleven o'clock in the forenoon and I had no hope of finding the game on foot at that late hour, but depended entirely upon jumping a deer from its bed and upon having to risk, in all probability, a running shot. I moved very cautiously, however, and was on thequi vivefor any straggler that might perchance be moving. Every foot of ground that came within the scope of my vision was carefully scanned and every sound or movement of leaf or shrub, no matter how slight, received the most careful attention, during long and frequent pauses, before proceeding on my way.I followed the road through various turns, alongthe bed of a slight ravine, and as I rounded one of its abrupt bends that gave me a view of a considerable expanse of hill-side, I stopped again to reconnoitre. The ground was covered with a dense growth of weeds, raspberry briers, and wild-cherry bushes that had sprung up since the timber had been cut off, all of which had been stricken by recent frosts, and dried by subsequent sun and wind. In these dry weeds I saw a slight movement, and on careful examination was able to distinguish a faint outline of a doe, standing partially behind a large stump, a hundred yards away. Her head and shoulders were entirely hidden by the stump, and I had to step back some distance before I could get sight of a vital part to shoot at. As her shoulder came in view I knelt on my right knee, rested my left elbow on my left knee, and, drawing a fine bead on her shoulder, fired. She dropped in her tracks. My aim was a little higher than I intended, and the bullet, passing through her shoulder blades high up, severed the spine between them on its way, killing her as suddenly as if it had entered the brain. At the report of the rifle a young buck bounded out of the brush near by and waved me a vaunting farewell as he disappeared over the ridge, not giving me even a fair running shot. I dressed the doe and went back to camp for dinner, the welcome notes of the huge old tin horn, floating in musical cadence through the forest, summoning me at that moment to that much needed repast.After dinner I went out on another old unused logging road, leading to the south, and, following it a few hundred yards, branched off to another whichled to the southwest. A number of fallen trees, lying across these, gave me frequent opportunities to mount their prostrate trunks and look over large tracts of surrounding country. In thus sauntering and looking I had spent an hour or more when, on passing an unusually dense clump of tall dry weeds that stood near the road, I was startled by a sudden crashing and rattling among them, and an instant later two large does broke cover at the farther side and started across a narrow open space. But before they reached the farther side of it the voice of my Winchester express was reverberating among the lofty pines, and a cloud of smoke hung between me and where I had last seen them. I sprang to one side to avoid this, but they had both disappeared in the thicket, and I could still hear one of them crashing away toward the green woods. I felt sure that I had hit the other, and, going to where I had last seen her, I found blood, hair, and several small bits of flesh on the ground and the neighboring weeds. Following the trail a distance of fifty feet, I found her lying dead with her throat cut, and, in fact, a considerable portion of it shot away. The express bullet, driven by a heavy charge of powder, has such a high velocity that when it strikes flesh it invariably makes a big hole in it. One hind leg was also broken squarely off at the knee and the bone protruded through the skin.I stood pondering and puzzling over this strange phenomenon. How in the name of wonder could one bullet break her hind leg and cut her throat? I stooped down and examined the wound. To my surprise, I found that it had not been made with abullet at all. The joint was dislocated and the skin torn away until the disjointed member hung only by a narrow segment. Then the mystery was deeper than ever. What could possibly have caused this violent and terrible wound? It had been made after I shot, for at that time the agile creature was bounding over logs and through clumps of brush with all the grace and airiness of her sylph-like nature. I turned, took up her back track, and, following it thirty or forty feet, came to a fallen tamarack sapling about six inches in diameter, that laid up about a foot from the ground. The track showed that the poor creature, in one of her frantic leaps, just after being hit, came down with her fore feet on one side of this pole and her hind feet on the other; that one hind foot had slipped on the soft earth and slid under the pole to her knee, and that the next bound had brought it up against the pole in the form of a lever—much as a logger would place his handspike under it in attempting to throw it out of his way—and the pole, being far too long and heavy to yield to her strength, the leg had been snapped short off.I describe this incident merely as one of the many strange and mysterious ones that come under the observation of woodsmen, and not with any desire to give pain to sensitive and sympathetic readers.The beautiful animal did not suffer long from this hurt, however, for she was dead when I reached her, within perhaps three or four minutes after I fired the fatal shot. I saved her head and had it mounted and it hangs beside that of the buck whose taking off has been described and whose throat was alsoneatly severed by the bullet. They were two remarkable shots.After dressing this deer I returned to the old burn in which I had killed the doe in the morning, and took a stand on a high, flat-top stump, which commanded a good view of a large tract of surrounding country. I felt certain that the young buck that was with her when I killed her would come back toward night to look up his companion, for he probably did not realize that she was dead. I stood within thirty yards of her carcass and for an hour kept a close watch in every direction, turning slowly from one position to another, so that any game that came in sight could not detect the movement and would, if seeing me at all, consider me one of the numerous old high stumps with which the landscape was marked. Toward sundown a large, handsome buck came out of the green woods half a mile away, walking deliberately toward me. I could see only a proud head and spreading antlers, and an occasional glimpse of his silvery-gray back as he marched with stately but cautious tread through the dry weeds. He stopped frequently to look and listen for danger, or the coy maidens of his kind, of whom he was in search. Oh, how I longed for a shot at him! With bated breath and throbbing heart I watched his slow progress across the open country. But, alas! the wind (what little there was) was wrong. When within about 200 yards of me he scented me and bounded squarely sidewise as though a rattlesnake had bitten him, uttering at the same time one of those peculiarly thrilling whistles that might have been heard in the stillness of theevening a mile or more. He struck a picturesque attitude and scanned the country in every direction, trying to locate the danger but could not. After a few seconds he made another high bound, stopped, and whistled again. I stood perfectly still, and he could make nothing animate out of the inanimate objects about him. He leaped hither and thither, snorted, whistled, and sniffed the air as we have seen a wild colt do when liberated in a pasture field after long confinement in his stall.Although still unable to satisfy himself as to the whereabouts of his foe, he finally seemed to decide that that was not a healthy neighborhood for him, and, taking his back trail, started to get out of it by a series of twenty-foot leaps. I was tempted to hazard a shot at him, but could see such a small portion of his body when standing that the chances were against making a hit. Besides, as already stated, I felt sure of a shot at shorter range by keeping still. I watched and listened closely in every direction. The sun had gone down. Night was silently wrapping her somber mantle over the vast wilderness, and the only sounds that broke the oppressive stillness were the occasional croakings of the raven as he winged his stately flight to his rookery, and the low, solemn sighing of the autumn breezes through the pine tops. I was benumbed with cold, and was tempted to desert my post and make a run for camp. I raised my rifle to my shoulder to see if I could yet see the sights, for stars were beginning to sparkle in the firmament. Yes; the little gold bead at the muzzle still gleamed in the twilight, with all the brilliancy of one of thelamps of heaven. I turned to take a last look in the direction of the carcass of my morning's kill, and—imagine my astonishment if you can—there stood the young buck, licking the body of his fallen mate! How he ever got there through all those brush and weeds without my hearing or seeing him will always remain a profound mystery to me. But a ball from my express entering his shoulder and passing out at his flank laid him dead by the side of his companion, and completed the best score I ever made on deer—three in one day—and I had fired but three shots in all.295CHAPTER XXIX.R.George T. Pease lives in a log shanty, in the heart of the great Wisconsin pine woods, five miles west of Wausaukee station, on the Milwaukee & Northern Railroad. A beautiful little lake stretches out in front of his door, in which numerous black bass make their home, and several brooks meander through the wilderness not far away, all of which abound in the sprightly, sparkling brook trout. Deer roam over the hills far and near, and when the first "tracking snow" comes, in the van of icy winter, their hoof-prints may be found within a hundred yards of the cabin any morning. Pease is a genial, kind-hearted old man, in whose humble quarters the true sportsman is always welcome. Reared in these woods, and bred in the pure atmosphere that abounds here, a hunter by trade and from necessity, he is a simple, honest child of nature. With the exception of four or five years spent in the service of his country, during the war of the Rebellion, he has lived and hunted in this region since the days of his boyhood, and his gray hairs bespeak for him the respect men always feel for the honest old woodsman.I spent several days hunting with him in November, 1885, and the intervening nights—or a largeportion of each—in talking with him. I learned in that short time to esteem and value him as one of the best guides and hunters I ever knew, and one of the truest friends I have. Although he has been hunting so many years and has always been a close observer of the habits of game; although thoroughly posted on woodcraft in all its details, he is not egotistical as are so many old woodsmen. He never intrudes his opinions on any subject unless asked for them; never dictates what anyone under his guidance shall do. He modestly suggests, and if you do not agree with him, defers cheerfully to your judgment.He is intelligent, well-informed generally, full of interesting reminiscences of his life in the wilderness, and relates many thrilling episodes in his experience in hunting deer, bear, wolves, etc. He told me that once, when hunting on the Menominee river, he saw a doe lying down, and raised his rifle to shoot her. But before firing he noticed that she had seen him and was struggling to get up. As she did not succeed in this, he concluded that she must have been wounded, and started toward her. She kept struggling, but was unable to rise, and on going to her he found that she had lain down near a large hemlock root, that had curved out of the ground, forming an arch or loop three or four inches high. One of her hind legs had slipped under this root to the knee, and when she had attempted to get up she had probably been thrown violently on her side, dislocating the hip joint and thus rendering it utterly impossible for her to draw the imprisoned leg from under the root. He said the poor creature had apparentlybeen in this pitiable plight several days; that she was starved and emaciated almost to a shadow, and had tramped and pawed a hole in the earth more than a foot deep, over the entire space reached by her fore feet. Had she not been discovered, the poor creature must soon have died from starvation. As it was, she was so weak that when he released her leg from this strange trap she was unable to stand, and he reluctantly killed her, as the speediest, most humane, and, in fact, the only means of ending her misery.I reached the old man's cabin at about noon. We hunted diligently all the afternoon, and though we saw plenty of fresh tracks everywhere in the newly-fallen snow, neither of us could get sight of a deer, and when we met at the shanty at dark and exchanged notes, Pease was sorely disappointed. The next forenoon was a repetition of this experience, and when we met again at the cabin for dinner, both empty-handed, his disappointment was intensified into despondency. We separated after the noon meal, and when we came in at night, I looked even more dejected and disgusted than ever, and asserted, with a good deal of emphasis, that I did not believe the "blasted" country was any good for game; that I thought he or someone had hunted the deer and shot at them until they were so wild that no man could get within 500 yards of one. He insisted that such was not the case; that he had been killing plenty of deer that fall, and that others had killed a few in the neighborhood, but not enough to spoil the hunting, as I claimed. He saidour want of success utterly astonished him; that he was truly sorry; that he could not account for it, and that we should surely make a killing on the morrow."Have you seen any fresh tracks to-day?" I asked."Oh, yes, plenty of them; haven't you?""Well, yes, two or three; but I think the deer that made them were ten miles away when I got there.""Why," said he, "when I started out this afternoon I skirted along that big swamp, where you hunted in the morning, and I saw where four deer had crossed your track since you went along. One of them was an awful big buck. I took up his trail and followed it in hopes of overtaking him and getting a shot. He roamed and circled around among the hills and through the swamps for, I reckon, more than five miles. I walked just as still as I possibly could, for I knew we were mighty nigh out of meat, and I am gettin' mighty tired of bacon anyhow. But somehow that buck heard me or smelt me, or something, and the first and last I saw of him was just one flip of his tail as he went over a ridge about three hundred yards away. I sat down on a log and waited and studied a long time what to do or where to go next; and finally I concluded I'd just come in and get supper ready by the time you got here. Set up, sir, and have a cup of coffee and some of these baked potatoes and some of this bacon. It ain't much of a supper, but maybe we'll feel a little better after we eat it, anyway."I surrounded one side of the rough pine table suddenly, and when I got my mouth so full I couldn'ttalk plain, I said, in a careless, uninterested sort of a way:"I saw where you sat down on that log.""Did you?""Yes; I sat down and rested there, too. I was just about as tired and as disgusted and as mad as I am now; but after sitting there ten or fifteen minutes, I trudged along through that maple thicket just below there, and when I got through it I saw a big buck smelling along on a doe's track, up on the side-hill, and I killed him and then started on after the doe, and——"Pease had dropped his knife and fork and was looking at me with his mouth half open and his eyes half shut."What did you say?" he inquired in a dazed, half-whispered tone."I say I killed the buck and then started——""You killed a buck?""Yes.""When?" he gasped, with his mouth and eyes a little wider open."This afternoon," said I, calmly and complacently."Where?""Why just below that thicket; just below where you sat down on the log."The old man sat and gazed at me for two or three minutes while I continued to eat as if nothing unusual had happened."Are you joking?" he said at last."No; I'm telling you the straight truth. The liver and heart are hanging out there on the corner of the cabin; go out and look at them.""Well, I'll be dad blasted!" shouted the old man, as he jumped up and grasped me by the hand. "Why on earth didn't you say so when you first came in? What did you want to deceive me for? Why did you want to do all that kicking about the hunting being so poor?""Oh, I just wanted to have a little fun with you."Throughout that evening Pease was one of the happiest men I ever saw. He seemed, and, in fact, said he was, twice as proud to have me, his guest, kill a deer as he would have been to have killed it himself.He chatted cheerfully until eleven o'clock before showing any signs of sleepiness. This was about all the game I cared to kill, so I asked Pease to go into the station and get a team to come out and take my meat in. In order to pass the forenoon pleasantly, I took my rifle and started into the woods again. I went at once to the buck I had killed, reaching the carcass shortly after sunrise. I cut down a jack pine, and, trimming off the boughs, made a bed. Then I laid down, took out a book and commenced to read, while waiting for the team and for any deer that might happen along.But I had not read half a dozen lines when I heard a slight rustling and cracking in the frozen snow, and, looking in the direction of the noise, I saw a young spike buck walking slowly and deliberately down the hill not a hundred yards away. I caught up my express and made a snap shot at him, but in my haste and surprise missed him clear. At the report he stopped, threw up his head andpresented a beautiful picture, as well as a fair, easy target."Now, my lad," I said to myself, "you are my meat sure."I was so confident of success this time that I scarcely took any aim at all. Again I scored an inglorious miss and the deer started away on a series of long, high bounds. I threw in another cartridge, held ahead of him, and as he struck the ground the second time I pulled for the third time. Then there was a circus of a kind that a hunter rarely sees. The buck fell to bucking, bleating, and kicking. His hind feet would go into the air like a couple of arrows and with such force that they would snap like a whip cracker. Then he would rear on his hind feet and paw the air; then jump sidewise and backward. He threw himself twice in his gyrations, and each time was on his feet again almost before I could realize that he had gone down. This gymnastic exhibition lasted perhaps two or three minutes, during which time I was so paralyzed with laughter that I could not have shot within six feet of him if I had tried. Besides, I wanted to see the performance out. Finally the bucker recovered his wits and skipped out. I followed and found that he was discharging blood at such a rate that he could not go far. He went into a large thicket. I jumped him three times before I could get a fair shot at him, and could hear him wheeze every time I came near him. Finally I saw him lying a few yards away, but his head was still up and I sent a bullet through his neck. On examination I found that my first shot had cut the point of his breastboneoff and had ruptured both his oesophagus and trachea. I dragged him out and laid him by the side of the big buck, and when Pease came in with the team an hour later he said:"Well, I'll be dad blasted if he hain't got another one."I shall always remember that hunt as one of the pleasantest of my life, considering the length of time it occupied.303CHAPTER XXX.COWBOY LIFE.HEworkings of the law of evolution are plainly discernible in the development of the "cowboy," a certain prominent and now well-defined character of the far West—one that was made necessary by, and has grown out of, the vast cattle interests which have, in the past two or three decades, spread over that mystic region. His counterpart is scarcely to be found anywhere else in the civilized world, for the very good reason that such a species of manhood is not required anywhere else. True, cattle-raising is carried on extensively in many States of our Union and in various other countries, but nowhere under the same conditions and on the same plan as in the West; hence, though herders, drovers, and the like are employed elsewhere, there is no locality in which a class of men endowed with such characteristics and requiring such peculiar tastes and faculties are to be found as are combined in the cowboy of our Western plains. The life he leads and the services he is required to perform call into the business young men possessing tastes and traits different from those of average human nature, and such as are not found in men following any othervocation, as a class. It is an occupation that entails, generally speaking, a life of isolation from society, and in many cases from civilization. It is one in which home comforts must be dispensed with; it is one requiring its devotees to live on plain food, in log huts, and to sleep in blankets at best; it is one in which there is often intense hardship and suffering, and which exposes its disciples to dangers of various kinds.When all these facts and peculiarities of the calling are considered we must readily perceive that men of ordinary tastes and inclinations would not seek to engage in it. Cowboys are not "native and to the manor born." They do not follow in the footsteps of their fathers as do young men on Eastern farms. The business is yet too young in our Western Territories to have brought about this state of affairs, though it will come to exist in future. But at present cowboys are all exotics, transplanted from Eastern soil. Let us consider, then, what manner of boy or young man would adopt such a calling. Certainly not he who considers a well-spread table, a cozy, cheerful room, a good soft bed, and neat, tasty clothing essential to his health and happiness; nor he who is unwilling to sever his connection with the social circle or the family group; nor he who must have his daily paper, his comfortable office chair and desk; his telegraph and other commercial facilities and comforts; nor yet he who, when he travels, must needs ride in a comfortable carriage on the highway, or a Pullman coach on the railway. But the young man who is willing to engage in the occupation of "rustling cattle"on the plains, who is willing to assume the title of "cowboy," must be he who, although he may love all these luxuries, and may perhaps have been accustomed to enjoy them, has in his nature enough of romance, enough love for outdoor life, enough love of sport, excitement, and adventure, enough enthusiasm for the wild freedom of the frontier, to be willing to deny himself all these luxuries and to allow such pleasures as the ranch and range can afford, to compensate for them.The love of money can not enter largely into the consideration of the question, for while the work is often of the hardest kind a man can endure and the hours of labor only limited by the men's power of endurance, the wages usually paid are low. From $25 to $35 a month is the average rate of wages for all good men on the range except the foreman, who commands from $60 to $75 a month, according to his ability, the number of men he is to have charge of, and the responsibility of his position generally. Ambition to succeed to this dignity, or a desire to learn the cattle-growing business with a view of engaging in it on their own account, may induce some boys to engage as herders, but the young man who deliberately chooses this occupation is usually one with a superabundance of vim, energy, and enthusiasm; one who chafes under the restraints of society, who is bored and annoyed by the quiet humdrum life of the Eastern village, city, or farm house; one who longs to go where he can breathe fresh air, exercise his arms, legs, and lungs, if need be, without disturbing the peace; one who, in short, requires more room to live in than his birthplace affords.Many a cowboy of to-day was, in his childhood or youth, the street gamin, the newsboy, the "hard nut" at school; the dare-devil of the rural districts; the hero of daring exploits; the boy who did not fear to climb to the top of the highest tree to punch a squirrel out of his hole; who led the raid on an orchard or watermelon patch on a dark night; who at college was at the head of all wild, reckless frolics, and was also well up in his classes; who led the village marshal or the city policeman many a wild-goose chase and caused them many a sleepless night by his innocent though mischievous pranks. He is the boy who was always ready for a lark of any kind that could produce excitement, fun, or adventure without bringing serious harm to anyone. He was not the vicious, thieving, lying, sneaking boy, but the irrepressible, uncontrollable, wild, harum-scarum chap who led the gang; the champion of the weak; the boy who would fight "at the drop of the hat" in defense of a friend of his own sex or of even a stranger of the opposite sex. These are the boys of ten, twenty, or thirty years ago whom to-day you may find riding wild cayuses on the cattle ranges of the boundless plains.As a class, they have been shamefully maligned. That there are bad, vicious characters amongst them can not be denied, but that many of the murders, thefts, arsons, and other depredations which are committed in the frontier towns and charged to cowboys, are really committed by Indians, bummers, superannuated buffalo hunters, and other hangers on, who never do an honest day's work of any kind,but who eke out a miserable, half-starved existence by gambling, stealing, poisoning wolves, etc., is a fact well known to every close student of frontier life. And yet, crimes and misdemeanors are occasionally committed by men who are, for the time being at least, regularly employed in riding the range. Fugitives from justice, thieves, cut-throats, and hoodlums of all classes from the large cities have drifted West, and have sought employment on the ranges because nothing better or more congenial offered; but such are seldom employed, and if employed at all, are generally discharged as soon as their true character is learned and their places can be filled by worthier men.308THE "WOOLLY COWBOY.Neither do I wish to defend the "fresh" young man from the East who goes West to "paralyze" the natives, who gets a job on the ranch, makes a break for "loud togs," arms, and knives, large nickel-plated spurs, raises a crop of long hair and "catches on" to all the bad language of the country, fills up on bad whisky at every opportunity and then asserts that "he's a wolf, it's his night to howl."Nor do I wish to defend the swarthy, loud-oathed, heavily-armed "greaser" of Mexico and the Texan ranges, who accounts himself a "cowboy"par excellence, but who much prefers the filthy atmosphere of the gambling den, or the variety dive of frontier towns, to the pure air of the prairies. These are the exceptions, and fortunately are in a "distinguished minority," and it is but just that all such swaggering humbugs should be loaded with the obloquy they deserve, and should be appropriately branded, even as their master's beasts are branded, that all the world might know them, wherever found, for the infamous humbugs that they are. My purpose here is to champion the frank, honest, energetic, industrious young fellows who engage in this calling from pure motives, most of whom have fair educations, and some of whom are graduates of Eastern colleges—who are brimful of pure horse-sense, and who are ambitious to earn an honest living, and to make themselves useful to their employers in every possible way, aside from their ability to snare a bullock. Many of these are Nature's noblemen, and their good qualities shine through their rough garb, as the sunlight of heaven shines through arift in a dark cloud. Their hearts, though encased in blue flannel or water-proof canvas, are as light as the air they breathe; their minds as pure and clear as the mountain brooks from which they love to drink; their whole natures as generous and liberal as the boundless meadows upon which their herds graze, and their hospitality only limited by the supply of food and other comforts they have with which to entertain a visitor. Strangers are always welcome at their shacks, and no matter at what time of day or night you arrive, you and your horses are promptly taken care of, you are invited to stay and eat, to sleep if you will, and are promptly given to understand that the best the ranch affords is at your command. I have known many of these men intimately, and have never known one who would not cheerfully share his last ounce of food, his last dollar, or his only blanket with a needy stranger; or who would not walk and allow an unfortunately dismounted traveler to ride his horse half way to camp, or the ranch, even though that might be a hundred miles away. They invariably refuse all remuneration for services or accommodations of such nature, and if it be pressed upon them, the stranger is liable to be told in language more expressive than elegant they don't make their living by taking care of tenderfeet.As a class, they are brimful and running over with wit, merriment, and good humor. They are always ready for any bit of innocent fun, but are not perpetually spoiling for a fight, as has so often been said of them. They are at peace with all men, and would not be otherwise from choice. As a rule, if aman quarrel with one of them, he forces the war and is himself to blame. Their love of fun often leads to trouble, though generally because the victim of it does not know how, or is not willing, to either "chip in" or excuse himself. They are fond of "piping off" anything that is particularly conspicuous, orvice versa, no matter to whom it belongs, and they dislike to see snobbish airs assumed in their country, though such might pass current in any Eastern city.I once saw a dude step out of a hotel in Cheyenne, wearing a silk hat, cut-away coat, lavender pants, high pressure collar, scarlet velvet scarf, patent leather shoes, etc. Several cowboys were riding through the street and spied him."Say, Dick," said one of them, "what de ye s'pose it is?""Let's tackle it and see," said Dick; "it looks alive.""Pard, hadn't you better put them togs on ice?" queried another of the party. "They're liable to spile in this climate."The youth was highly offended, gave them a haughty, withering look, and without deigning a reply of any kind turned to walk back into the hotel."Let's brand it," said Dick, and as quick as a flash a lariat fell about the dude, closed round his slender waist, and he was a prisoner. The boys gathered round him, chaffed him good-naturedly, took his hat and rubbed the nap the wrong way, put some alkali mud on his shoes, and then released him, bidding him "go in and put on some clothes." A little good-natured repartee on his part, or an invitationto drink or smoke, or a pleasant reply of any kind, would have let him out without any unpleasant treatment; but he scorned them, and they considered it a duty to society to post him on how to act when away from home.A friend relates having seen an eccentric individual, with a long plaid ulster, walking along the principal street in Miles City, and as the sun came out from behind a cloud and commenced to beam down with a good deal of force, he raised a green umbrella. A "cow puncher" rode up and, pointing at the umbrella, asked:"What is she pard? Fetch her in and put a drink in 'er."The man was both scared and mad. He thought he had been insulted by one of those "notorious, ruffianly cowboys." He called "police." But the police was not at hand, and in the disturbance that followed his umbrella was spirited away, he knew not whither or by whom, and his plaid ulster was somewhat damaged by contact with mother earth. All he would have had to do to preserve the peace and his self-respect, would have been to answer the fellow good-naturedly in the first place, either declining or accepting his invitation, and he could have gone on his way unmolested; but he brought a small-sized riot on himself by assuming a dignity that was out of place in that country and under such circumstances.In common with all other human beings, the cowboy requires and must have amusement of some kind, and his isolated condition, depriving him of the privileges of theatres, parties, billiards, andother varieties of amusement that young men in the States usually indulge in; of the refining and restraining influences of the female sex, it is but natural that his exuberance of spirit should find sport of other kinds. His only sources of amusement on the ranch are his rifle, revolver, bronco, lariat, and cards, and in course of time he tires of these and seeks a change. He goes to town and meets there some of his comrades or acquaintances, and they indulge in some wild pranks, which to Eastern people, and especially those who happen to fall victims to their practical jokes, appear ruffianly. Their love of excitement and adventure sometimes gets the better of their judgment, and they carry their fun to excess. They corral the crew of a train which has stopped at the station, and amuse themselves and the passengers by making the conductor, brakeman, baggageman, engineer, and fireman dance a jig to the music of six-shooters. In one instance they boarded the train and made the Theo. Thomas orchestra (which happened to be aboard) give them an extemporaneous concert. They have even been known to carry their revels to a still worse stage than this, and to resort to acts of real abuse and injury against defenseless people. But such acts on the part of genuine cowboys are rare. They are usually perpetrated by the class, already mentioned, of "fresh" young chaps or objectional characters who drift into the business from other than pure motives, and frequently by pretended cowboys who are not such in any sense of the term. But by whomsoever perpetrated, such acts are highly offensive to and vigorously condemned by the respectable element in the business, bothemployers and employés. Much odium has attached to the fraternity by such conduct, and much more by reason of crimes committed by others and charged to this class, so that the cowboy is in much worse repute among Eastern people than he would be if better known by them. And notwithstanding all the hard things with which these men have been charged, I had much rather take my chances, as to safety of life and personal property, in a country inhabited only by them than in any Eastern town or city with all their police "protection." When sojourning in cattle countries, I have left my camp day after day and night after night, with valuable property of various kinds lying in and about it, without any attempt at concealment. I have left my horses and mules to graze, wholly unguarded, several days and nights together, and though on my return I may have seen that my camp had been visited, probably by several men, not a thing had been disturbed, except that perchance some of them had been hungry and had eaten a mealat my expense. It is the custom of the country to leave camps and cabins at any time, and for as long a time as necessary, without locking up or concealment of any kind, and instances of stealing under such circumstances are almost unheard of, while he who would leave personal property similarly exposed within the bounds of civilization would scarcely hope to find it on his return.314ON THE TRAIL.An incident may serve to illustrate how suddenly Eastern people change their opinions of cowboys on close acquaintance. I was going west a few years since on the Northern Pacific Railroad, and stepping off the train at Dickinson, Dak., met Howard Eaton, an old-time friend and fellow hunter, a typical cowboy, who has charge of a ranch and a large herd of cattle in the "Bad Lands" on the Little Missouri river. He was dressed in the regulation costume of the craft—canvas pants and jacket, leatherchaparejos, blue flannel shirt, and broad-brimmed white felt hat. His loins were girt about with a well-filled cartridge-belt, from which hung the six-shooter, which may almost be termed a badge of the order. Large Mexican spurs rattled at his heels as he walked. He had ridden thirty-five miles under the spur, arriving at the station just in time to catch the train, and having no time to change his apparel, even if he had wished to do so. He was going some distance on the same train, and I invited him into the sleeper. As he entered and walked down the aisle the passengers became suddenly alarmed at the apparition—imagining that the train had been corraled by a party of the terrible cowboys of whom they had heard such blood-curdling tales,and that this was a committee of one sent in to order them to throw up their hands. They looked anxiously and timidly from the windows for the rest of the gang and listened for the popping of revolvers, but when I conducted him to our section and introduced him to my wife they began to feel easier. He remarked casually that he was hungry. We had a well-filled lunch-basket with us, and, ordering a table placed in position, my wife hastily spread its contents before him. He ate as only a cowboy can eat, especially after having lately ridden thirty-five miles in three hours. Our fellow passengers became interested spectators, and after our friend had finished his repast we introduced him to several of them. They were agreeably surprised to discover in conversation his polished manners, his fluent and well-chosen language. His handsome though sunburned face, and his kind, genial nature revealed the fact that his rough garb encased the form of an educated and cultured gentleman; and before we had been an hour together they had learned to respect and admire the wild, picturesque character whom at first they had feared.The skill which some of these men attain in their profession challenges the admiration of everyone who is permitted to witness exhibitions of it. As riders they can not be excelled in the world, and I have seen some of them perform feats of horsemanship that were simply marvelous. A cowboy is required to ride anything that is given him and ask no questions. A wild young bronco that has never been touched by the hand of man is sometimes roped out of a herd and handed over to one of theboys with instructions to "ride him." With the aid of a companion or two he saddles and mounts him, and the scene that ensues baffles description. A bucking cayuse must be seen under the saddle, under a limber cowboy, and on his native heath, in order to be appreciated at his true worth. His movements are not always the same—in fact, are extremely varied, and are doubtless intended to be a series of surprises even to an old hand at the business. The bronco is ingenious—he is a strategist. Sometimes the first break a "fresh" one makes is to try to get out of the country as fast as possible. If so, the rider allows him to go as far and as fast as he likes, for nothing will tame him quicker than plenty of hard work. But he soon finds that he can not get out from under his load in this way, and generally reverses his tactics before going far. Sometimes he stops suddenly—so suddenly as to throw an inexperienced rider a long ways in front of him. But a good cowboy, or "bronco buster," as he would be termed while engaged in this branch of the business, is a good stayer and keeps his seat. The horse may then try to jump out from under his rider—first forward then backward, orvice versa. Then he may spring suddenly sidewise, either to right or left, or both. Then he may do some lofty tumbling acts, alighting most always stiff-legged; sometimes with his front end the highest and sometimes about level, but usually with his hinder parts much the highest and with his back arched like that of a mad cat. He keeps his nose as close to the ground as he can get it. Sometimes he will utter an unearthly squeal that makes one's bloodrun cold, and will actually eat a few mouthfuls of the earth when he gets mad enough. Sometimes he will throw himself in his struggles, and again as a last resort he will lie down and roll. This must free him for a moment, but the daring and agile rider is in the saddle again as soon as the beast is on his feet. Then the horse is likely to wheel suddenly from side to side and to spin round and round on his hind feet like a top; to snort and bound hither and thither like a rubber ball. During all this time the valiant rider sits in his saddle, loose-jointed and limp as a piece of buckskin, his body swaying to and fro with the motions of his struggling steed like a leaf that is fanned by the summer breeze. He holds a tight rein, keeping his horse's head as high as possible, and plunges the rowels into his flanks, first on one side and then on the other, until frequently the ground is copiously sprinkled with the blood of the fiery steed. The duration of this scene is limited simply by the powers of endurance of the horse, for in nearly every instance he will keep up his struggles until he sinks upon the ground exhausted, and, for the time being at least, is subdued. Then he is forced upon his feet again and may generally be ridden the remainder of that day without further trouble.He is awkward, of course, but rapidly learns the use of bit and spur, and soon becomes useful. Many of these ponies, however, are never permanently subdued, and will "buck" every time they are mounted. Others will, all through life, start off quietly when first mounted, but suddenly take a notion to buck any time in the day. This class isthe most dangerous, for the best rider is liable to be caught at a disadvantage when off his guard and thrown, and many a poor cowboy has been crippled for life, and many killed outright by these vicious brutes.I have seen "pilgrims" inveigled into riding "bucking cayuses," either for the sake of novelty, or because they wanted a mount and there was no other to be had; but in every instance the trial of skill between the man and the pony was of short duration. For an instant there would be a confused mass of horse, hat, coat-tails, boots, and man, flying through the air. The horse, on his second upward trip would meet the man coming down on his first; the man would see whole constellations—whole milkyways of stars; the horse would meander off over the prairie free and untrameled, and as we would gather up the deformed and disfigured remains of the pilgrim and dig the alkali dirt out of his mouth, ears, and eyes, he would tell us, as soon as he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak, that in future he "had rather walk than ride."But, fortunately for the poor cowboys, there are many of these ponies who are not vicious, and let us do full honor to the genuine, noble cow-horse who is so sure and fleet of foot that he will speedily put his rider within roping distance of the wildest, swiftest, longest-horned Texan on the range. Such a horse always knows when theriatafalls right for head or heels, and if it does not will never slacken his speed, but keep right on until his rider can recover and throw again. But when it does fall fair, he puts it taut, wheels to right or left as directed by a gentlepressure of his rider's knee, takes a turn on it or gives it slack as may be required to down the beef, and, when this is accomplished, stands stiff-legged, firm, and immovable as a rock, holding him down by the strain on the rope, and watching, with eyes bulged out and ears set forward like those of a jack rabbit, every struggle of the captive bullock, and stands pat even when his rider dismounts and leaves him to brand the steer. When this is done, and his rider remounts he is ready to repeat the operation on another animal.

ARLYautumn's frosts had tinged the foliage of the birch, maple, oak, and elm trees, that intermingle in the great pine forests, with a thousand rich colors and shades of gold, brown, olive, pink, and crimson, while the pines, the hemlocks, the firs, and the cedars still wore their dark mantels of perennial green, and all Nature was clad in her sweetest smiles. A solitary woodpecker, perched on the topmost branch of a dead giant of the forest, reaching out far above the surrounding network of leafy branches, from which he might survey the surrounding country, sounded his morning reveille and awaited the coming of his mate. The dry leaves with which mother earth was carpeted, rustled now and again to the bound of the saucy red squirrel, the darting hither and thither of the shy wood-mouse, or the tread of the stupid, half-witted porcupine. The chill October wind soughed through the swaying tree-tops, laden with the rich ozone that gives life, health, and happiness to all animate beings that are permitted to inhale it.On such a morning, and amid such a scene of natural loveliness, I left the train at Junction City,on the Wisconsin Central Railway, started on a three-mile jaunt to a logging camp, for a day or two on a deer roundup. I reached my destination at nine o'clock. The men had long since gone to their work, but the "boss" had returned to camp to attend to some business in hand, and, welcoming me with the generous hospitality that is always shown by these sturdy sons of the forest to strangers, bade me make myself at home as long as I cared to stay. To my inquiry as to the presence of game in the vicinity, he said there was plenty of it, and that the men saw one or more deer nearly every day while going to or returning from their work, which was only a mile away.I lost no time in getting out and entering an old slashing to the east of the camp where the foreman said signs were plentiful. I had not gone more than half a mile, when, turning to the left, on an old logging road, I saw several fresh tracks of deer that had been feeding there that morning. It was now eleven o'clock in the forenoon and I had no hope of finding the game on foot at that late hour, but depended entirely upon jumping a deer from its bed and upon having to risk, in all probability, a running shot. I moved very cautiously, however, and was on thequi vivefor any straggler that might perchance be moving. Every foot of ground that came within the scope of my vision was carefully scanned and every sound or movement of leaf or shrub, no matter how slight, received the most careful attention, during long and frequent pauses, before proceeding on my way.

ARLYautumn's frosts had tinged the foliage of the birch, maple, oak, and elm trees, that intermingle in the great pine forests, with a thousand rich colors and shades of gold, brown, olive, pink, and crimson, while the pines, the hemlocks, the firs, and the cedars still wore their dark mantels of perennial green, and all Nature was clad in her sweetest smiles. A solitary woodpecker, perched on the topmost branch of a dead giant of the forest, reaching out far above the surrounding network of leafy branches, from which he might survey the surrounding country, sounded his morning reveille and awaited the coming of his mate. The dry leaves with which mother earth was carpeted, rustled now and again to the bound of the saucy red squirrel, the darting hither and thither of the shy wood-mouse, or the tread of the stupid, half-witted porcupine. The chill October wind soughed through the swaying tree-tops, laden with the rich ozone that gives life, health, and happiness to all animate beings that are permitted to inhale it.

On such a morning, and amid such a scene of natural loveliness, I left the train at Junction City,on the Wisconsin Central Railway, started on a three-mile jaunt to a logging camp, for a day or two on a deer roundup. I reached my destination at nine o'clock. The men had long since gone to their work, but the "boss" had returned to camp to attend to some business in hand, and, welcoming me with the generous hospitality that is always shown by these sturdy sons of the forest to strangers, bade me make myself at home as long as I cared to stay. To my inquiry as to the presence of game in the vicinity, he said there was plenty of it, and that the men saw one or more deer nearly every day while going to or returning from their work, which was only a mile away.

I lost no time in getting out and entering an old slashing to the east of the camp where the foreman said signs were plentiful. I had not gone more than half a mile, when, turning to the left, on an old logging road, I saw several fresh tracks of deer that had been feeding there that morning. It was now eleven o'clock in the forenoon and I had no hope of finding the game on foot at that late hour, but depended entirely upon jumping a deer from its bed and upon having to risk, in all probability, a running shot. I moved very cautiously, however, and was on thequi vivefor any straggler that might perchance be moving. Every foot of ground that came within the scope of my vision was carefully scanned and every sound or movement of leaf or shrub, no matter how slight, received the most careful attention, during long and frequent pauses, before proceeding on my way.

I followed the road through various turns, alongthe bed of a slight ravine, and as I rounded one of its abrupt bends that gave me a view of a considerable expanse of hill-side, I stopped again to reconnoitre. The ground was covered with a dense growth of weeds, raspberry briers, and wild-cherry bushes that had sprung up since the timber had been cut off, all of which had been stricken by recent frosts, and dried by subsequent sun and wind. In these dry weeds I saw a slight movement, and on careful examination was able to distinguish a faint outline of a doe, standing partially behind a large stump, a hundred yards away. Her head and shoulders were entirely hidden by the stump, and I had to step back some distance before I could get sight of a vital part to shoot at. As her shoulder came in view I knelt on my right knee, rested my left elbow on my left knee, and, drawing a fine bead on her shoulder, fired. She dropped in her tracks. My aim was a little higher than I intended, and the bullet, passing through her shoulder blades high up, severed the spine between them on its way, killing her as suddenly as if it had entered the brain. At the report of the rifle a young buck bounded out of the brush near by and waved me a vaunting farewell as he disappeared over the ridge, not giving me even a fair running shot. I dressed the doe and went back to camp for dinner, the welcome notes of the huge old tin horn, floating in musical cadence through the forest, summoning me at that moment to that much needed repast.

After dinner I went out on another old unused logging road, leading to the south, and, following it a few hundred yards, branched off to another whichled to the southwest. A number of fallen trees, lying across these, gave me frequent opportunities to mount their prostrate trunks and look over large tracts of surrounding country. In thus sauntering and looking I had spent an hour or more when, on passing an unusually dense clump of tall dry weeds that stood near the road, I was startled by a sudden crashing and rattling among them, and an instant later two large does broke cover at the farther side and started across a narrow open space. But before they reached the farther side of it the voice of my Winchester express was reverberating among the lofty pines, and a cloud of smoke hung between me and where I had last seen them. I sprang to one side to avoid this, but they had both disappeared in the thicket, and I could still hear one of them crashing away toward the green woods. I felt sure that I had hit the other, and, going to where I had last seen her, I found blood, hair, and several small bits of flesh on the ground and the neighboring weeds. Following the trail a distance of fifty feet, I found her lying dead with her throat cut, and, in fact, a considerable portion of it shot away. The express bullet, driven by a heavy charge of powder, has such a high velocity that when it strikes flesh it invariably makes a big hole in it. One hind leg was also broken squarely off at the knee and the bone protruded through the skin.

I stood pondering and puzzling over this strange phenomenon. How in the name of wonder could one bullet break her hind leg and cut her throat? I stooped down and examined the wound. To my surprise, I found that it had not been made with abullet at all. The joint was dislocated and the skin torn away until the disjointed member hung only by a narrow segment. Then the mystery was deeper than ever. What could possibly have caused this violent and terrible wound? It had been made after I shot, for at that time the agile creature was bounding over logs and through clumps of brush with all the grace and airiness of her sylph-like nature. I turned, took up her back track, and, following it thirty or forty feet, came to a fallen tamarack sapling about six inches in diameter, that laid up about a foot from the ground. The track showed that the poor creature, in one of her frantic leaps, just after being hit, came down with her fore feet on one side of this pole and her hind feet on the other; that one hind foot had slipped on the soft earth and slid under the pole to her knee, and that the next bound had brought it up against the pole in the form of a lever—much as a logger would place his handspike under it in attempting to throw it out of his way—and the pole, being far too long and heavy to yield to her strength, the leg had been snapped short off.

I describe this incident merely as one of the many strange and mysterious ones that come under the observation of woodsmen, and not with any desire to give pain to sensitive and sympathetic readers.

The beautiful animal did not suffer long from this hurt, however, for she was dead when I reached her, within perhaps three or four minutes after I fired the fatal shot. I saved her head and had it mounted and it hangs beside that of the buck whose taking off has been described and whose throat was alsoneatly severed by the bullet. They were two remarkable shots.

After dressing this deer I returned to the old burn in which I had killed the doe in the morning, and took a stand on a high, flat-top stump, which commanded a good view of a large tract of surrounding country. I felt certain that the young buck that was with her when I killed her would come back toward night to look up his companion, for he probably did not realize that she was dead. I stood within thirty yards of her carcass and for an hour kept a close watch in every direction, turning slowly from one position to another, so that any game that came in sight could not detect the movement and would, if seeing me at all, consider me one of the numerous old high stumps with which the landscape was marked. Toward sundown a large, handsome buck came out of the green woods half a mile away, walking deliberately toward me. I could see only a proud head and spreading antlers, and an occasional glimpse of his silvery-gray back as he marched with stately but cautious tread through the dry weeds. He stopped frequently to look and listen for danger, or the coy maidens of his kind, of whom he was in search. Oh, how I longed for a shot at him! With bated breath and throbbing heart I watched his slow progress across the open country. But, alas! the wind (what little there was) was wrong. When within about 200 yards of me he scented me and bounded squarely sidewise as though a rattlesnake had bitten him, uttering at the same time one of those peculiarly thrilling whistles that might have been heard in the stillness of theevening a mile or more. He struck a picturesque attitude and scanned the country in every direction, trying to locate the danger but could not. After a few seconds he made another high bound, stopped, and whistled again. I stood perfectly still, and he could make nothing animate out of the inanimate objects about him. He leaped hither and thither, snorted, whistled, and sniffed the air as we have seen a wild colt do when liberated in a pasture field after long confinement in his stall.

Although still unable to satisfy himself as to the whereabouts of his foe, he finally seemed to decide that that was not a healthy neighborhood for him, and, taking his back trail, started to get out of it by a series of twenty-foot leaps. I was tempted to hazard a shot at him, but could see such a small portion of his body when standing that the chances were against making a hit. Besides, as already stated, I felt sure of a shot at shorter range by keeping still. I watched and listened closely in every direction. The sun had gone down. Night was silently wrapping her somber mantle over the vast wilderness, and the only sounds that broke the oppressive stillness were the occasional croakings of the raven as he winged his stately flight to his rookery, and the low, solemn sighing of the autumn breezes through the pine tops. I was benumbed with cold, and was tempted to desert my post and make a run for camp. I raised my rifle to my shoulder to see if I could yet see the sights, for stars were beginning to sparkle in the firmament. Yes; the little gold bead at the muzzle still gleamed in the twilight, with all the brilliancy of one of thelamps of heaven. I turned to take a last look in the direction of the carcass of my morning's kill, and—imagine my astonishment if you can—there stood the young buck, licking the body of his fallen mate! How he ever got there through all those brush and weeds without my hearing or seeing him will always remain a profound mystery to me. But a ball from my express entering his shoulder and passing out at his flank laid him dead by the side of his companion, and completed the best score I ever made on deer—three in one day—and I had fired but three shots in all.

295

R.George T. Pease lives in a log shanty, in the heart of the great Wisconsin pine woods, five miles west of Wausaukee station, on the Milwaukee & Northern Railroad. A beautiful little lake stretches out in front of his door, in which numerous black bass make their home, and several brooks meander through the wilderness not far away, all of which abound in the sprightly, sparkling brook trout. Deer roam over the hills far and near, and when the first "tracking snow" comes, in the van of icy winter, their hoof-prints may be found within a hundred yards of the cabin any morning. Pease is a genial, kind-hearted old man, in whose humble quarters the true sportsman is always welcome. Reared in these woods, and bred in the pure atmosphere that abounds here, a hunter by trade and from necessity, he is a simple, honest child of nature. With the exception of four or five years spent in the service of his country, during the war of the Rebellion, he has lived and hunted in this region since the days of his boyhood, and his gray hairs bespeak for him the respect men always feel for the honest old woodsman.I spent several days hunting with him in November, 1885, and the intervening nights—or a largeportion of each—in talking with him. I learned in that short time to esteem and value him as one of the best guides and hunters I ever knew, and one of the truest friends I have. Although he has been hunting so many years and has always been a close observer of the habits of game; although thoroughly posted on woodcraft in all its details, he is not egotistical as are so many old woodsmen. He never intrudes his opinions on any subject unless asked for them; never dictates what anyone under his guidance shall do. He modestly suggests, and if you do not agree with him, defers cheerfully to your judgment.He is intelligent, well-informed generally, full of interesting reminiscences of his life in the wilderness, and relates many thrilling episodes in his experience in hunting deer, bear, wolves, etc. He told me that once, when hunting on the Menominee river, he saw a doe lying down, and raised his rifle to shoot her. But before firing he noticed that she had seen him and was struggling to get up. As she did not succeed in this, he concluded that she must have been wounded, and started toward her. She kept struggling, but was unable to rise, and on going to her he found that she had lain down near a large hemlock root, that had curved out of the ground, forming an arch or loop three or four inches high. One of her hind legs had slipped under this root to the knee, and when she had attempted to get up she had probably been thrown violently on her side, dislocating the hip joint and thus rendering it utterly impossible for her to draw the imprisoned leg from under the root. He said the poor creature had apparentlybeen in this pitiable plight several days; that she was starved and emaciated almost to a shadow, and had tramped and pawed a hole in the earth more than a foot deep, over the entire space reached by her fore feet. Had she not been discovered, the poor creature must soon have died from starvation. As it was, she was so weak that when he released her leg from this strange trap she was unable to stand, and he reluctantly killed her, as the speediest, most humane, and, in fact, the only means of ending her misery.

R.George T. Pease lives in a log shanty, in the heart of the great Wisconsin pine woods, five miles west of Wausaukee station, on the Milwaukee & Northern Railroad. A beautiful little lake stretches out in front of his door, in which numerous black bass make their home, and several brooks meander through the wilderness not far away, all of which abound in the sprightly, sparkling brook trout. Deer roam over the hills far and near, and when the first "tracking snow" comes, in the van of icy winter, their hoof-prints may be found within a hundred yards of the cabin any morning. Pease is a genial, kind-hearted old man, in whose humble quarters the true sportsman is always welcome. Reared in these woods, and bred in the pure atmosphere that abounds here, a hunter by trade and from necessity, he is a simple, honest child of nature. With the exception of four or five years spent in the service of his country, during the war of the Rebellion, he has lived and hunted in this region since the days of his boyhood, and his gray hairs bespeak for him the respect men always feel for the honest old woodsman.

I spent several days hunting with him in November, 1885, and the intervening nights—or a largeportion of each—in talking with him. I learned in that short time to esteem and value him as one of the best guides and hunters I ever knew, and one of the truest friends I have. Although he has been hunting so many years and has always been a close observer of the habits of game; although thoroughly posted on woodcraft in all its details, he is not egotistical as are so many old woodsmen. He never intrudes his opinions on any subject unless asked for them; never dictates what anyone under his guidance shall do. He modestly suggests, and if you do not agree with him, defers cheerfully to your judgment.

He is intelligent, well-informed generally, full of interesting reminiscences of his life in the wilderness, and relates many thrilling episodes in his experience in hunting deer, bear, wolves, etc. He told me that once, when hunting on the Menominee river, he saw a doe lying down, and raised his rifle to shoot her. But before firing he noticed that she had seen him and was struggling to get up. As she did not succeed in this, he concluded that she must have been wounded, and started toward her. She kept struggling, but was unable to rise, and on going to her he found that she had lain down near a large hemlock root, that had curved out of the ground, forming an arch or loop three or four inches high. One of her hind legs had slipped under this root to the knee, and when she had attempted to get up she had probably been thrown violently on her side, dislocating the hip joint and thus rendering it utterly impossible for her to draw the imprisoned leg from under the root. He said the poor creature had apparentlybeen in this pitiable plight several days; that she was starved and emaciated almost to a shadow, and had tramped and pawed a hole in the earth more than a foot deep, over the entire space reached by her fore feet. Had she not been discovered, the poor creature must soon have died from starvation. As it was, she was so weak that when he released her leg from this strange trap she was unable to stand, and he reluctantly killed her, as the speediest, most humane, and, in fact, the only means of ending her misery.

I reached the old man's cabin at about noon. We hunted diligently all the afternoon, and though we saw plenty of fresh tracks everywhere in the newly-fallen snow, neither of us could get sight of a deer, and when we met at the shanty at dark and exchanged notes, Pease was sorely disappointed. The next forenoon was a repetition of this experience, and when we met again at the cabin for dinner, both empty-handed, his disappointment was intensified into despondency. We separated after the noon meal, and when we came in at night, I looked even more dejected and disgusted than ever, and asserted, with a good deal of emphasis, that I did not believe the "blasted" country was any good for game; that I thought he or someone had hunted the deer and shot at them until they were so wild that no man could get within 500 yards of one. He insisted that such was not the case; that he had been killing plenty of deer that fall, and that others had killed a few in the neighborhood, but not enough to spoil the hunting, as I claimed. He saidour want of success utterly astonished him; that he was truly sorry; that he could not account for it, and that we should surely make a killing on the morrow.

"Have you seen any fresh tracks to-day?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, plenty of them; haven't you?"

"Well, yes, two or three; but I think the deer that made them were ten miles away when I got there."

"Why," said he, "when I started out this afternoon I skirted along that big swamp, where you hunted in the morning, and I saw where four deer had crossed your track since you went along. One of them was an awful big buck. I took up his trail and followed it in hopes of overtaking him and getting a shot. He roamed and circled around among the hills and through the swamps for, I reckon, more than five miles. I walked just as still as I possibly could, for I knew we were mighty nigh out of meat, and I am gettin' mighty tired of bacon anyhow. But somehow that buck heard me or smelt me, or something, and the first and last I saw of him was just one flip of his tail as he went over a ridge about three hundred yards away. I sat down on a log and waited and studied a long time what to do or where to go next; and finally I concluded I'd just come in and get supper ready by the time you got here. Set up, sir, and have a cup of coffee and some of these baked potatoes and some of this bacon. It ain't much of a supper, but maybe we'll feel a little better after we eat it, anyway."

I surrounded one side of the rough pine table suddenly, and when I got my mouth so full I couldn'ttalk plain, I said, in a careless, uninterested sort of a way:

"I saw where you sat down on that log."

"Did you?"

"Yes; I sat down and rested there, too. I was just about as tired and as disgusted and as mad as I am now; but after sitting there ten or fifteen minutes, I trudged along through that maple thicket just below there, and when I got through it I saw a big buck smelling along on a doe's track, up on the side-hill, and I killed him and then started on after the doe, and——"

Pease had dropped his knife and fork and was looking at me with his mouth half open and his eyes half shut.

"What did you say?" he inquired in a dazed, half-whispered tone.

"I say I killed the buck and then started——"

"You killed a buck?"

"Yes."

"When?" he gasped, with his mouth and eyes a little wider open.

"This afternoon," said I, calmly and complacently.

"Where?"

"Why just below that thicket; just below where you sat down on the log."

The old man sat and gazed at me for two or three minutes while I continued to eat as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Are you joking?" he said at last.

"No; I'm telling you the straight truth. The liver and heart are hanging out there on the corner of the cabin; go out and look at them."

"Well, I'll be dad blasted!" shouted the old man, as he jumped up and grasped me by the hand. "Why on earth didn't you say so when you first came in? What did you want to deceive me for? Why did you want to do all that kicking about the hunting being so poor?"

"Oh, I just wanted to have a little fun with you."

Throughout that evening Pease was one of the happiest men I ever saw. He seemed, and, in fact, said he was, twice as proud to have me, his guest, kill a deer as he would have been to have killed it himself.

He chatted cheerfully until eleven o'clock before showing any signs of sleepiness. This was about all the game I cared to kill, so I asked Pease to go into the station and get a team to come out and take my meat in. In order to pass the forenoon pleasantly, I took my rifle and started into the woods again. I went at once to the buck I had killed, reaching the carcass shortly after sunrise. I cut down a jack pine, and, trimming off the boughs, made a bed. Then I laid down, took out a book and commenced to read, while waiting for the team and for any deer that might happen along.

But I had not read half a dozen lines when I heard a slight rustling and cracking in the frozen snow, and, looking in the direction of the noise, I saw a young spike buck walking slowly and deliberately down the hill not a hundred yards away. I caught up my express and made a snap shot at him, but in my haste and surprise missed him clear. At the report he stopped, threw up his head andpresented a beautiful picture, as well as a fair, easy target.

"Now, my lad," I said to myself, "you are my meat sure."

I was so confident of success this time that I scarcely took any aim at all. Again I scored an inglorious miss and the deer started away on a series of long, high bounds. I threw in another cartridge, held ahead of him, and as he struck the ground the second time I pulled for the third time. Then there was a circus of a kind that a hunter rarely sees. The buck fell to bucking, bleating, and kicking. His hind feet would go into the air like a couple of arrows and with such force that they would snap like a whip cracker. Then he would rear on his hind feet and paw the air; then jump sidewise and backward. He threw himself twice in his gyrations, and each time was on his feet again almost before I could realize that he had gone down. This gymnastic exhibition lasted perhaps two or three minutes, during which time I was so paralyzed with laughter that I could not have shot within six feet of him if I had tried. Besides, I wanted to see the performance out. Finally the bucker recovered his wits and skipped out. I followed and found that he was discharging blood at such a rate that he could not go far. He went into a large thicket. I jumped him three times before I could get a fair shot at him, and could hear him wheeze every time I came near him. Finally I saw him lying a few yards away, but his head was still up and I sent a bullet through his neck. On examination I found that my first shot had cut the point of his breastboneoff and had ruptured both his oesophagus and trachea. I dragged him out and laid him by the side of the big buck, and when Pease came in with the team an hour later he said:

"Well, I'll be dad blasted if he hain't got another one."

I shall always remember that hunt as one of the pleasantest of my life, considering the length of time it occupied.

303

COWBOY LIFE.

HEworkings of the law of evolution are plainly discernible in the development of the "cowboy," a certain prominent and now well-defined character of the far West—one that was made necessary by, and has grown out of, the vast cattle interests which have, in the past two or three decades, spread over that mystic region. His counterpart is scarcely to be found anywhere else in the civilized world, for the very good reason that such a species of manhood is not required anywhere else. True, cattle-raising is carried on extensively in many States of our Union and in various other countries, but nowhere under the same conditions and on the same plan as in the West; hence, though herders, drovers, and the like are employed elsewhere, there is no locality in which a class of men endowed with such characteristics and requiring such peculiar tastes and faculties are to be found as are combined in the cowboy of our Western plains. The life he leads and the services he is required to perform call into the business young men possessing tastes and traits different from those of average human nature, and such as are not found in men following any othervocation, as a class. It is an occupation that entails, generally speaking, a life of isolation from society, and in many cases from civilization. It is one in which home comforts must be dispensed with; it is one requiring its devotees to live on plain food, in log huts, and to sleep in blankets at best; it is one in which there is often intense hardship and suffering, and which exposes its disciples to dangers of various kinds.When all these facts and peculiarities of the calling are considered we must readily perceive that men of ordinary tastes and inclinations would not seek to engage in it. Cowboys are not "native and to the manor born." They do not follow in the footsteps of their fathers as do young men on Eastern farms. The business is yet too young in our Western Territories to have brought about this state of affairs, though it will come to exist in future. But at present cowboys are all exotics, transplanted from Eastern soil. Let us consider, then, what manner of boy or young man would adopt such a calling. Certainly not he who considers a well-spread table, a cozy, cheerful room, a good soft bed, and neat, tasty clothing essential to his health and happiness; nor he who is unwilling to sever his connection with the social circle or the family group; nor he who must have his daily paper, his comfortable office chair and desk; his telegraph and other commercial facilities and comforts; nor yet he who, when he travels, must needs ride in a comfortable carriage on the highway, or a Pullman coach on the railway. But the young man who is willing to engage in the occupation of "rustling cattle"on the plains, who is willing to assume the title of "cowboy," must be he who, although he may love all these luxuries, and may perhaps have been accustomed to enjoy them, has in his nature enough of romance, enough love for outdoor life, enough love of sport, excitement, and adventure, enough enthusiasm for the wild freedom of the frontier, to be willing to deny himself all these luxuries and to allow such pleasures as the ranch and range can afford, to compensate for them.

HEworkings of the law of evolution are plainly discernible in the development of the "cowboy," a certain prominent and now well-defined character of the far West—one that was made necessary by, and has grown out of, the vast cattle interests which have, in the past two or three decades, spread over that mystic region. His counterpart is scarcely to be found anywhere else in the civilized world, for the very good reason that such a species of manhood is not required anywhere else. True, cattle-raising is carried on extensively in many States of our Union and in various other countries, but nowhere under the same conditions and on the same plan as in the West; hence, though herders, drovers, and the like are employed elsewhere, there is no locality in which a class of men endowed with such characteristics and requiring such peculiar tastes and faculties are to be found as are combined in the cowboy of our Western plains. The life he leads and the services he is required to perform call into the business young men possessing tastes and traits different from those of average human nature, and such as are not found in men following any othervocation, as a class. It is an occupation that entails, generally speaking, a life of isolation from society, and in many cases from civilization. It is one in which home comforts must be dispensed with; it is one requiring its devotees to live on plain food, in log huts, and to sleep in blankets at best; it is one in which there is often intense hardship and suffering, and which exposes its disciples to dangers of various kinds.

When all these facts and peculiarities of the calling are considered we must readily perceive that men of ordinary tastes and inclinations would not seek to engage in it. Cowboys are not "native and to the manor born." They do not follow in the footsteps of their fathers as do young men on Eastern farms. The business is yet too young in our Western Territories to have brought about this state of affairs, though it will come to exist in future. But at present cowboys are all exotics, transplanted from Eastern soil. Let us consider, then, what manner of boy or young man would adopt such a calling. Certainly not he who considers a well-spread table, a cozy, cheerful room, a good soft bed, and neat, tasty clothing essential to his health and happiness; nor he who is unwilling to sever his connection with the social circle or the family group; nor he who must have his daily paper, his comfortable office chair and desk; his telegraph and other commercial facilities and comforts; nor yet he who, when he travels, must needs ride in a comfortable carriage on the highway, or a Pullman coach on the railway. But the young man who is willing to engage in the occupation of "rustling cattle"on the plains, who is willing to assume the title of "cowboy," must be he who, although he may love all these luxuries, and may perhaps have been accustomed to enjoy them, has in his nature enough of romance, enough love for outdoor life, enough love of sport, excitement, and adventure, enough enthusiasm for the wild freedom of the frontier, to be willing to deny himself all these luxuries and to allow such pleasures as the ranch and range can afford, to compensate for them.

The love of money can not enter largely into the consideration of the question, for while the work is often of the hardest kind a man can endure and the hours of labor only limited by the men's power of endurance, the wages usually paid are low. From $25 to $35 a month is the average rate of wages for all good men on the range except the foreman, who commands from $60 to $75 a month, according to his ability, the number of men he is to have charge of, and the responsibility of his position generally. Ambition to succeed to this dignity, or a desire to learn the cattle-growing business with a view of engaging in it on their own account, may induce some boys to engage as herders, but the young man who deliberately chooses this occupation is usually one with a superabundance of vim, energy, and enthusiasm; one who chafes under the restraints of society, who is bored and annoyed by the quiet humdrum life of the Eastern village, city, or farm house; one who longs to go where he can breathe fresh air, exercise his arms, legs, and lungs, if need be, without disturbing the peace; one who, in short, requires more room to live in than his birthplace affords.

Many a cowboy of to-day was, in his childhood or youth, the street gamin, the newsboy, the "hard nut" at school; the dare-devil of the rural districts; the hero of daring exploits; the boy who did not fear to climb to the top of the highest tree to punch a squirrel out of his hole; who led the raid on an orchard or watermelon patch on a dark night; who at college was at the head of all wild, reckless frolics, and was also well up in his classes; who led the village marshal or the city policeman many a wild-goose chase and caused them many a sleepless night by his innocent though mischievous pranks. He is the boy who was always ready for a lark of any kind that could produce excitement, fun, or adventure without bringing serious harm to anyone. He was not the vicious, thieving, lying, sneaking boy, but the irrepressible, uncontrollable, wild, harum-scarum chap who led the gang; the champion of the weak; the boy who would fight "at the drop of the hat" in defense of a friend of his own sex or of even a stranger of the opposite sex. These are the boys of ten, twenty, or thirty years ago whom to-day you may find riding wild cayuses on the cattle ranges of the boundless plains.

As a class, they have been shamefully maligned. That there are bad, vicious characters amongst them can not be denied, but that many of the murders, thefts, arsons, and other depredations which are committed in the frontier towns and charged to cowboys, are really committed by Indians, bummers, superannuated buffalo hunters, and other hangers on, who never do an honest day's work of any kind,but who eke out a miserable, half-starved existence by gambling, stealing, poisoning wolves, etc., is a fact well known to every close student of frontier life. And yet, crimes and misdemeanors are occasionally committed by men who are, for the time being at least, regularly employed in riding the range. Fugitives from justice, thieves, cut-throats, and hoodlums of all classes from the large cities have drifted West, and have sought employment on the ranges because nothing better or more congenial offered; but such are seldom employed, and if employed at all, are generally discharged as soon as their true character is learned and their places can be filled by worthier men.

308

THE "WOOLLY COWBOY.

Neither do I wish to defend the "fresh" young man from the East who goes West to "paralyze" the natives, who gets a job on the ranch, makes a break for "loud togs," arms, and knives, large nickel-plated spurs, raises a crop of long hair and "catches on" to all the bad language of the country, fills up on bad whisky at every opportunity and then asserts that "he's a wolf, it's his night to howl."

Nor do I wish to defend the swarthy, loud-oathed, heavily-armed "greaser" of Mexico and the Texan ranges, who accounts himself a "cowboy"par excellence, but who much prefers the filthy atmosphere of the gambling den, or the variety dive of frontier towns, to the pure air of the prairies. These are the exceptions, and fortunately are in a "distinguished minority," and it is but just that all such swaggering humbugs should be loaded with the obloquy they deserve, and should be appropriately branded, even as their master's beasts are branded, that all the world might know them, wherever found, for the infamous humbugs that they are. My purpose here is to champion the frank, honest, energetic, industrious young fellows who engage in this calling from pure motives, most of whom have fair educations, and some of whom are graduates of Eastern colleges—who are brimful of pure horse-sense, and who are ambitious to earn an honest living, and to make themselves useful to their employers in every possible way, aside from their ability to snare a bullock. Many of these are Nature's noblemen, and their good qualities shine through their rough garb, as the sunlight of heaven shines through arift in a dark cloud. Their hearts, though encased in blue flannel or water-proof canvas, are as light as the air they breathe; their minds as pure and clear as the mountain brooks from which they love to drink; their whole natures as generous and liberal as the boundless meadows upon which their herds graze, and their hospitality only limited by the supply of food and other comforts they have with which to entertain a visitor. Strangers are always welcome at their shacks, and no matter at what time of day or night you arrive, you and your horses are promptly taken care of, you are invited to stay and eat, to sleep if you will, and are promptly given to understand that the best the ranch affords is at your command. I have known many of these men intimately, and have never known one who would not cheerfully share his last ounce of food, his last dollar, or his only blanket with a needy stranger; or who would not walk and allow an unfortunately dismounted traveler to ride his horse half way to camp, or the ranch, even though that might be a hundred miles away. They invariably refuse all remuneration for services or accommodations of such nature, and if it be pressed upon them, the stranger is liable to be told in language more expressive than elegant they don't make their living by taking care of tenderfeet.

As a class, they are brimful and running over with wit, merriment, and good humor. They are always ready for any bit of innocent fun, but are not perpetually spoiling for a fight, as has so often been said of them. They are at peace with all men, and would not be otherwise from choice. As a rule, if aman quarrel with one of them, he forces the war and is himself to blame. Their love of fun often leads to trouble, though generally because the victim of it does not know how, or is not willing, to either "chip in" or excuse himself. They are fond of "piping off" anything that is particularly conspicuous, orvice versa, no matter to whom it belongs, and they dislike to see snobbish airs assumed in their country, though such might pass current in any Eastern city.

I once saw a dude step out of a hotel in Cheyenne, wearing a silk hat, cut-away coat, lavender pants, high pressure collar, scarlet velvet scarf, patent leather shoes, etc. Several cowboys were riding through the street and spied him.

"Say, Dick," said one of them, "what de ye s'pose it is?"

"Let's tackle it and see," said Dick; "it looks alive."

"Pard, hadn't you better put them togs on ice?" queried another of the party. "They're liable to spile in this climate."

The youth was highly offended, gave them a haughty, withering look, and without deigning a reply of any kind turned to walk back into the hotel.

"Let's brand it," said Dick, and as quick as a flash a lariat fell about the dude, closed round his slender waist, and he was a prisoner. The boys gathered round him, chaffed him good-naturedly, took his hat and rubbed the nap the wrong way, put some alkali mud on his shoes, and then released him, bidding him "go in and put on some clothes." A little good-natured repartee on his part, or an invitationto drink or smoke, or a pleasant reply of any kind, would have let him out without any unpleasant treatment; but he scorned them, and they considered it a duty to society to post him on how to act when away from home.

A friend relates having seen an eccentric individual, with a long plaid ulster, walking along the principal street in Miles City, and as the sun came out from behind a cloud and commenced to beam down with a good deal of force, he raised a green umbrella. A "cow puncher" rode up and, pointing at the umbrella, asked:

"What is she pard? Fetch her in and put a drink in 'er."

The man was both scared and mad. He thought he had been insulted by one of those "notorious, ruffianly cowboys." He called "police." But the police was not at hand, and in the disturbance that followed his umbrella was spirited away, he knew not whither or by whom, and his plaid ulster was somewhat damaged by contact with mother earth. All he would have had to do to preserve the peace and his self-respect, would have been to answer the fellow good-naturedly in the first place, either declining or accepting his invitation, and he could have gone on his way unmolested; but he brought a small-sized riot on himself by assuming a dignity that was out of place in that country and under such circumstances.

In common with all other human beings, the cowboy requires and must have amusement of some kind, and his isolated condition, depriving him of the privileges of theatres, parties, billiards, andother varieties of amusement that young men in the States usually indulge in; of the refining and restraining influences of the female sex, it is but natural that his exuberance of spirit should find sport of other kinds. His only sources of amusement on the ranch are his rifle, revolver, bronco, lariat, and cards, and in course of time he tires of these and seeks a change. He goes to town and meets there some of his comrades or acquaintances, and they indulge in some wild pranks, which to Eastern people, and especially those who happen to fall victims to their practical jokes, appear ruffianly. Their love of excitement and adventure sometimes gets the better of their judgment, and they carry their fun to excess. They corral the crew of a train which has stopped at the station, and amuse themselves and the passengers by making the conductor, brakeman, baggageman, engineer, and fireman dance a jig to the music of six-shooters. In one instance they boarded the train and made the Theo. Thomas orchestra (which happened to be aboard) give them an extemporaneous concert. They have even been known to carry their revels to a still worse stage than this, and to resort to acts of real abuse and injury against defenseless people. But such acts on the part of genuine cowboys are rare. They are usually perpetrated by the class, already mentioned, of "fresh" young chaps or objectional characters who drift into the business from other than pure motives, and frequently by pretended cowboys who are not such in any sense of the term. But by whomsoever perpetrated, such acts are highly offensive to and vigorously condemned by the respectable element in the business, bothemployers and employés. Much odium has attached to the fraternity by such conduct, and much more by reason of crimes committed by others and charged to this class, so that the cowboy is in much worse repute among Eastern people than he would be if better known by them. And notwithstanding all the hard things with which these men have been charged, I had much rather take my chances, as to safety of life and personal property, in a country inhabited only by them than in any Eastern town or city with all their police "protection." When sojourning in cattle countries, I have left my camp day after day and night after night, with valuable property of various kinds lying in and about it, without any attempt at concealment. I have left my horses and mules to graze, wholly unguarded, several days and nights together, and though on my return I may have seen that my camp had been visited, probably by several men, not a thing had been disturbed, except that perchance some of them had been hungry and had eaten a mealat my expense. It is the custom of the country to leave camps and cabins at any time, and for as long a time as necessary, without locking up or concealment of any kind, and instances of stealing under such circumstances are almost unheard of, while he who would leave personal property similarly exposed within the bounds of civilization would scarcely hope to find it on his return.

314

ON THE TRAIL.

An incident may serve to illustrate how suddenly Eastern people change their opinions of cowboys on close acquaintance. I was going west a few years since on the Northern Pacific Railroad, and stepping off the train at Dickinson, Dak., met Howard Eaton, an old-time friend and fellow hunter, a typical cowboy, who has charge of a ranch and a large herd of cattle in the "Bad Lands" on the Little Missouri river. He was dressed in the regulation costume of the craft—canvas pants and jacket, leatherchaparejos, blue flannel shirt, and broad-brimmed white felt hat. His loins were girt about with a well-filled cartridge-belt, from which hung the six-shooter, which may almost be termed a badge of the order. Large Mexican spurs rattled at his heels as he walked. He had ridden thirty-five miles under the spur, arriving at the station just in time to catch the train, and having no time to change his apparel, even if he had wished to do so. He was going some distance on the same train, and I invited him into the sleeper. As he entered and walked down the aisle the passengers became suddenly alarmed at the apparition—imagining that the train had been corraled by a party of the terrible cowboys of whom they had heard such blood-curdling tales,and that this was a committee of one sent in to order them to throw up their hands. They looked anxiously and timidly from the windows for the rest of the gang and listened for the popping of revolvers, but when I conducted him to our section and introduced him to my wife they began to feel easier. He remarked casually that he was hungry. We had a well-filled lunch-basket with us, and, ordering a table placed in position, my wife hastily spread its contents before him. He ate as only a cowboy can eat, especially after having lately ridden thirty-five miles in three hours. Our fellow passengers became interested spectators, and after our friend had finished his repast we introduced him to several of them. They were agreeably surprised to discover in conversation his polished manners, his fluent and well-chosen language. His handsome though sunburned face, and his kind, genial nature revealed the fact that his rough garb encased the form of an educated and cultured gentleman; and before we had been an hour together they had learned to respect and admire the wild, picturesque character whom at first they had feared.

The skill which some of these men attain in their profession challenges the admiration of everyone who is permitted to witness exhibitions of it. As riders they can not be excelled in the world, and I have seen some of them perform feats of horsemanship that were simply marvelous. A cowboy is required to ride anything that is given him and ask no questions. A wild young bronco that has never been touched by the hand of man is sometimes roped out of a herd and handed over to one of theboys with instructions to "ride him." With the aid of a companion or two he saddles and mounts him, and the scene that ensues baffles description. A bucking cayuse must be seen under the saddle, under a limber cowboy, and on his native heath, in order to be appreciated at his true worth. His movements are not always the same—in fact, are extremely varied, and are doubtless intended to be a series of surprises even to an old hand at the business. The bronco is ingenious—he is a strategist. Sometimes the first break a "fresh" one makes is to try to get out of the country as fast as possible. If so, the rider allows him to go as far and as fast as he likes, for nothing will tame him quicker than plenty of hard work. But he soon finds that he can not get out from under his load in this way, and generally reverses his tactics before going far. Sometimes he stops suddenly—so suddenly as to throw an inexperienced rider a long ways in front of him. But a good cowboy, or "bronco buster," as he would be termed while engaged in this branch of the business, is a good stayer and keeps his seat. The horse may then try to jump out from under his rider—first forward then backward, orvice versa. Then he may spring suddenly sidewise, either to right or left, or both. Then he may do some lofty tumbling acts, alighting most always stiff-legged; sometimes with his front end the highest and sometimes about level, but usually with his hinder parts much the highest and with his back arched like that of a mad cat. He keeps his nose as close to the ground as he can get it. Sometimes he will utter an unearthly squeal that makes one's bloodrun cold, and will actually eat a few mouthfuls of the earth when he gets mad enough. Sometimes he will throw himself in his struggles, and again as a last resort he will lie down and roll. This must free him for a moment, but the daring and agile rider is in the saddle again as soon as the beast is on his feet. Then the horse is likely to wheel suddenly from side to side and to spin round and round on his hind feet like a top; to snort and bound hither and thither like a rubber ball. During all this time the valiant rider sits in his saddle, loose-jointed and limp as a piece of buckskin, his body swaying to and fro with the motions of his struggling steed like a leaf that is fanned by the summer breeze. He holds a tight rein, keeping his horse's head as high as possible, and plunges the rowels into his flanks, first on one side and then on the other, until frequently the ground is copiously sprinkled with the blood of the fiery steed. The duration of this scene is limited simply by the powers of endurance of the horse, for in nearly every instance he will keep up his struggles until he sinks upon the ground exhausted, and, for the time being at least, is subdued. Then he is forced upon his feet again and may generally be ridden the remainder of that day without further trouble.

He is awkward, of course, but rapidly learns the use of bit and spur, and soon becomes useful. Many of these ponies, however, are never permanently subdued, and will "buck" every time they are mounted. Others will, all through life, start off quietly when first mounted, but suddenly take a notion to buck any time in the day. This class isthe most dangerous, for the best rider is liable to be caught at a disadvantage when off his guard and thrown, and many a poor cowboy has been crippled for life, and many killed outright by these vicious brutes.

I have seen "pilgrims" inveigled into riding "bucking cayuses," either for the sake of novelty, or because they wanted a mount and there was no other to be had; but in every instance the trial of skill between the man and the pony was of short duration. For an instant there would be a confused mass of horse, hat, coat-tails, boots, and man, flying through the air. The horse, on his second upward trip would meet the man coming down on his first; the man would see whole constellations—whole milkyways of stars; the horse would meander off over the prairie free and untrameled, and as we would gather up the deformed and disfigured remains of the pilgrim and dig the alkali dirt out of his mouth, ears, and eyes, he would tell us, as soon as he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak, that in future he "had rather walk than ride."

But, fortunately for the poor cowboys, there are many of these ponies who are not vicious, and let us do full honor to the genuine, noble cow-horse who is so sure and fleet of foot that he will speedily put his rider within roping distance of the wildest, swiftest, longest-horned Texan on the range. Such a horse always knows when theriatafalls right for head or heels, and if it does not will never slacken his speed, but keep right on until his rider can recover and throw again. But when it does fall fair, he puts it taut, wheels to right or left as directed by a gentlepressure of his rider's knee, takes a turn on it or gives it slack as may be required to down the beef, and, when this is accomplished, stands stiff-legged, firm, and immovable as a rock, holding him down by the strain on the rope, and watching, with eyes bulged out and ears set forward like those of a jack rabbit, every struggle of the captive bullock, and stands pat even when his rider dismounts and leaves him to brand the steer. When this is done, and his rider remounts he is ready to repeat the operation on another animal.

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