Huntinglost broncos was one of the commonest and most irksome of Roosevelt’s ranch duties. On one occasion, when three horses under his charge had been running loose for a couple of months and had become as wild as deer through their stolen liberty, he had to follow at full speed for fifteen miles, until by exhausting them, he was able to get them under control and headed toward a corral.
At other times he and his men were not so lucky. Two horses had been missing from the ranch for nearly eighteen months. They were seen by his men and pursued but the horses of the pursuers became exhausted and broken before they caught up with the runaways.
On another occasion a horse that had been on the Roosevelt ranch nine months developed a case of homesickness, went off one night and traveled two hundred miles back to its former roaming grounds, swimming the Yellowstone to achieve its goal.
When Roosevelt was attending one of the recent national political conventions, up came George Meyer, one of his former ranchmen, withthis tale of Roosevelt’s roundup days on the Little Missouri:
“When the Colonel gets into a mix-up like he is in at this convention the picture comes to me of the time when he and I started to get two calves across the river. I singled out the meekest looking, grabbed it up in my arms, held it while I managed to get on my horse, and started to cross the river. Half way across I turned to see how ‘the boss’ was getting along.
“He had roped his calf and was dragging it toward the river. The calf, bleating and bouncing, swung round under the horse’s tail. This set the bronco on a rampage. The river bank was high, but over it he bucked. I saw ‘the boss’ clutching the reins with one hand and the calf rope with the other. The sudden tautness of the rope as the horse plunged into the water hurled the calf into the air, landing him beside ‘the boss.’ Through the water the horse plunged, and back of bronco and rider floundered the calf. It arrived on the other shore half strangled and half drowned, but it was still bleating and bouncing as ‘the boss’ hauled it to the pen.”
One of the most interesting tasks of the day was the breaking in of a new horse. The professional bronco-buster who did this was always an object of admiration to the strenuous Roosevelt. Roosevelt expressed his respect for these men in unreserved terms. He described their calling as a most dangerous trade, at which no man can hope to grow old. His work was infinitely harder than that of the horse-breaker in the East, because he had to break many horses in a limited time. Horses were cheap on the plains. Each outfit had a great many, and the pay for breaking the animals was only $5 or $10.
Giving a keener edge to the work of dealing with broncos is the peril that confronts the ranchmen from vicious horses. One of Roosevelt’s horses would at times rush at a man open-mouthed like a wolf, ready to bury his teeth in the ranchman’s flesh if he was not quick enough to fight him.
COPYRIGHT, UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOODJUST BEFORE ENTERING YELLOWSTONE PARK. JOHN BURROUGHS, THE VETERAN NATURALIST, IS AT THE PRESIDENT’S RIGHT. SECRETARY LOEB AT HIS LEFT
COPYRIGHT, UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD
JUST BEFORE ENTERING YELLOWSTONE PARK. JOHN BURROUGHS, THE VETERAN NATURALIST, IS AT THE PRESIDENT’S RIGHT. SECRETARY LOEB AT HIS LEFT
JUST BEFORE ENTERING YELLOWSTONE PARK. JOHN BURROUGHS, THE VETERAN NATURALIST, IS AT THE PRESIDENT’S RIGHT. SECRETARY LOEB AT HIS LEFT
Once in a while a wild stallion was caught. This sort of animal fears no beast except the grizzly; yet, Roosevelt stated, he has one master among animals. That creature is the jackass. A battle between jack and stallions came underRoosevelt’s observation. Among the animals of a certain ranch were two great stallions and a jackass. The latter was scarcely half the size of the stallions. The animals were kept in separate pens, but one day the horses came together, and a fight between them ensued. They rolled against the pen of the jackass, breaking it down. Instantly the jackass with ears laid back and mouth wide open, sprang at the two horses. The gray horse reared on his hind legs and struck at his antagonist with his fore feet, but in a second the jack had grasped the gray by the throat.
The stallion made frantic endeavors to drive him off, but the jack kept his hold. The black stallion now plunged into the scrimmage, attacking both the gray and the jack alternately, using hoofs and teeth in his efforts to kill one or the other. The jack responded to the new attack with increased ferocity, and would doubtless have killed at least one of the stallions had not the ranchmen, by desperate efforts, separated the maddened brutes.
Roosevelt, on his first roundup, had enough experiences with wild broncos to satisfy the most hardened rough rider. It was impossible to bridle or saddle single-handed one of his horses. Another was one of the worst buckers on theranch. Once it bucked Roosevelt off, resulting in a fall that broke a rib. Another would balk and then throw himself over backward. Roosevelt was once caught under him, and suffered as a result a broken shoulder.
Roosevelt welcomed roundup work as a relief to the monotony of the daily tasks on the ranch. The spring roundup was the big event of the season. The bulk of calves were to be branded then. Out-of-the-way parts of the country where cattle were supposed to have wandered had to be searched, so that the roundup usually extended for six or seven weeks, with no rest for the herders.
First the captain of the roundup was chosen. His qualifications were an ability to command and control the wild rough riders who served under him. The rendezvous was set, and from each ranch a cowboy rode out to meet at this common starting place. A four-horse wagon carried the bedding and food. The teamster acted as cook and was first-rate at both jobs. A dozen cow-punchers accompanied the wagon. Then, to take charge of the horses, there were two horse-rangers.
When the meeting place was reached, several days elapsed in making arrangements for theroundup. The time was passed in racing, breaking rough horses or in skylarking. Horse-racing was a mania with the cow-punchers, both whites and Indians. The horses were ridden bareback. Intense excitement preceded the race, and where the horses participating were well enough known to have partisans there generally arose quarrels between the two sides.
The races were short-distance dashes. Down between two thick rows of spectators, some on foot and some on horseback, the riders passed. Some of the lookers-on yelled and shouted encouragement at the top of their lungs. Some fired off their revolvers. All waved their hats and cloaks in encouragement. Naturally, the excitement made both horses and riders frantically eager to win, and when the goal was reached they were exhausted with nervous excitement.
The most exciting and dangerous part of the roundup comes when the cattle are stampeded by a storm or through fright. Anything may start them—the plunge of a horse, the approach of a coyote, the arrival of new steers or cows. In an instant the herd rises to its feet and rushes off. Then the work of the cowboys is cut out for them. No matter how rough the ground or how black the night, the cow-punchers must ridewithout sparing themselves to head them off and finally stop them. Even when stopped there is danger of them breaking again. Sometimes a man gets caught in the rush of the beasts and is trampled to death. Roosevelt never experienced this danger, but he knew the very hardest part of the work. On one occasion he was for thirty-six hours in the saddle, dismounting only to change horses or to eat.
At another time he was helping to bring a thousand head of young cattle down to his lower range. At night he and a cowboy stood guard. The cattle had been without water that day, and in their thirst they tried to break away. In the darkness Roosevelt could dimly see the shadowy outlines of the frantic herd. With whip and spurs he circled around the herd, turning back the beasts at one point just in time to wheel and keep them in at another. After an hour of violent exertion, by which time he was dripping with sweat, he and his companion finally quieted the herd.
On still another occasion Roosevelt was out on the plains when a regular blizzard came. The cattle began to drift before the storm. They were frightened and maddened by the quick, sharp flashes of lightning and the stinging rain.The men darted to and fro before them and beside them, heedless of danger, checking them at each point where they threatened to break through. The thunder was terrific. Peal followed peal. Each flash of lightning showed a dense array of tossing horns and staring eyes. At last, however, when the storm was raging in fury, and when it seemed impossible to hold the herd together any longer, the corrals were reached, and by desperate efforts Roosevelt and his companions managed to turn the herds into the barns. It was such work as this that brought Roosevelt self-reliance and hardihood and made him in later life a firm advocate of horsemanship.
Though Roosevelt’s ranch life yielded him big assets in health and experience, financially it proved a failure. It is estimated that he lost $100,000 on the venture. “Bill” Sewall testifies that Roosevelt shared all gains with Dow and him, who were practically his partners, but that when the cattle died Roosevelt assumed all losses without a word of complaint to his comrades.
We now enter upon the most adventurous part of Roosevelt’s Western experiences. Of dash, adventure and excitement he had plenty inhis life as a ranchman, and yet through it all a still greater adventure called him. About him lay the wilderness. In that wilderness lurked big game. Roosevelt became a hunter. Something of the perils and hardships of the wild life he was about to enter upon can best be illustrated by the story he tells in his book “Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail” of the experiences of two starving trappers.
These two men had entered a valley in the heart of the mountains where game was so abundant that they decided to pass the winter there. As winter came on they worked hard at putting up a log cabin, killing just enough meat for immediate use. Winter set in with tremendous snowstorms. Game left the valley, abandoning it for their winter haunts. Starvation stared the trappers in the face. One man had his dog with him. The other insisted that the dog should be killed for food. The dog’s owner, who was deeply attached to the animal, refused. One night the other trapper tried to kill the dog with his knife, but failed. The scanty supply of flour the partners possessed was now almost exhausted. Hunger was beginning to intensify their bad feelings. Neither dared to sleep for fear that the other would kill him.
Finally the man who owned the dog proposed that, to give each a chance for life, they should separate. He himself agreed to take one-half of the handful of flour that was left and to start off in an attempt to get home. The other was to stay. If one tried to interfere with the other after the separation it meant a fight to the death. For two days the man and his dog plunged through snowdrifts. On the second evening, looking back over a high ridge, he saw his companion following him. He followed his own trail back, lay in ambush and shot down the man following him as if he had been a wild beast. The next evening he baked his last cake and divided it with the dog. Only a short stretch of time stood between them and death. Just then, however, the dog crossed the tracks of a wolf and followed its trail. The man staggered after and came at last to where the wolf stood over the body of a deer it had killed. The meat of the deer replenished the strength of the trapper and dog, and they continued their journey. A week later they reached a miner’s cabin.
While Roosevelt in his hunting experiences never had an adventure so harrowing as this, he nevertheless managed to crowd into his life as many big moments as most professional huntersand trappers find in a lifetime. At fifteen, an age when most boys are only dreaming of becoming huntsmen, Roosevelt killed his first deer.
His brother, his cousin and himself were camping out for the first time in their lives. Their camp was located on Lake St. Regis. The other two boys went fishing. Roosevelt was not overly fond of this sport, so he went off on a deer hunt. With him went the two guides, Hank Martin and Mose Sawyer. The first day of the hunt he not only did not kill a deer—he failed to see one that stood within range; and, on the way home, shot in mistake for one a large owl that was perched on a log.
The next day, goaded by the teasing of his camp mates, he started out again. This time he had better luck. As his canoe swung out from between forest-lined banks into a little bay, he saw, knee-deep among the water lilies that fringed the shore, a yearling buck. His first shot killed him.
The youthful adventure helped to stimulate Roosevelt’s ardor for hunting. One of the reasons why he went West was that he hoped to find big game, and when he found himself upon the track of the grizzly he was in his element indeed.
We find Roosevelt one day setting out from his ranch on a hunt for grizzly on the Big Horn Range. His eagerness to come in close contact with the grizzly was in no way dampened by the fact that a neighbor of his, while prospecting with two other men near the headwaters of the Little Missouri in the Black Hills country, had had a terrible experience with one.
The neighbor and two other men were walking along the river. Two of them followed the edge of the stream. The third followed a game trail some distance away from them. Suddenly the second heard an agonized shout from the third man, intermingled with the growling of the bear. They rushed to the scene just in time to see their companion in close contact with a grizzly. The bear was so close to the man that he had no time to fire his rifle, but merely held it up as a guard to his head. The immensely muscular forearm of the grizzly, with nails as strong as steel hooks, descended upon the man, striking aside the rifle and crushing the man’s skull like an eggshell.
Still another of the Colonel’s friends, while hunting in the Big Horn Mountains, had pursued a large bear and wounded him. The animal turned and rushed at the man, who fired at himand missed. The bear closed with him and passed on, striking only a single blow, yet that blow tore the man’s collarbone and snapped three or four ribs. The shock was so great that he died that night.
With his interest stimulated by such accounts of grizzly hunting, Roosevelt set out. It was early in September. The weather was cool and frosty and the flurries of snow made it easy to track the bears. There were plenty of blacktail deer in the woods, as well as bands of cow and calf elk, or of young bull. There were no signs of grizzly however.
One day Roosevelt and Merrifield separated, but at last Roosevelt heard the familiar long-drawn shout of a cattleman and dashed toward him on his small, wiry cow pony. Merrifield announced that he had seen signs of bears about ten miles distant. They shifted camp at once and rode to the spot where the bear tracks were so plentiful.
As Roosevelt came home toward nightfall from a vain hunt, walking through a reach of burned forest, he came across the huge half-human footprints of a great grizzly which had evidently passed a short time before. He followed the tracks in the fading twilight until it becametoo dark to see them, and had to give up the pursuit as darkness closed in about him. The next day, toward nightfall, as the two men were again returning home without having caught sight of the grizzly, they heard the sound of the breaking of a dead stick. It was the grizzly whose tracks they had seen around the remains of a black deer that Merrifield had shot. Again they had to postpone pursuit of him on account of darkness, but they made up their minds that they would get him the next morning.
Merrifield was a skilful tracker, and the next day he took up the trail at once where it had been left off. After a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten path made by the elk. The beast’s footprints were plain in the dust. The trail turned off into the tangled thicket, within which it was almost certain that the quarry could be found.
Still they followed the tracks, advancing with noiseless caution, climbing over dead tree trunks and upturned stumps and taking care that no branches rustled or caught on their clothes. Suddenly Merrifield sank on one knee, his face ablaze with excitement. Roosevelt strode past him with his rifle at the ready. There, not ten steps off, the great bear rose slowly from his bedamong young spruces. He had heard his hunters, but did not know their exact location, for he reared up on his haunches and was sidewise to them. Then suddenly he caught sight of them and dropped on his fores, the hair on his neck and shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward them.
Roosevelt raised his rifle. The bear’s head was bent slightly down, and when Roosevelt looked squarely into the small, glittering, evil eyes he pulled his trigger. The bear half rose, then toppled over in the death throes. The bullet had gone into his brain. He was the first grizzly Roosevelt had ever seen, and a huge one at that. Naturally, he felt proud that within twenty seconds from the time he had caught sight of the game he had killed it.
Merrifield’s chief feeling was one of disappointment, not that he had not killed the game, but that Roosevelt had shot and killed him before the bear had had a chance to fight. Merrifield was reckless. He did not fear a grizzly any more than he did a jackrabbit. He wanted to see the bear come toward them in a typical grizzly charge and to bring him down in the rush. However, Roosevelt, not so much a veteran at bear-hunting, was quite contented in looking atthe monstrous fellow to have brought him down before his charge commenced.
Lieutenant-Governor William Francis Sheehan once told a story illustrative of the Colonel’s whole-hearted spirit of adventure. Repeating a conversation he had with Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Sheehan described the former President as standing before the mounted skin of a monster grizzly bear which he had shot at close range—so close that the odds at one instant seemed greatly in favor of the grizzly. After a description of the dramatic fight the Colonel suddenly turned to Sheehan and said:
“But, Governor, I shall never be satisfied until I have killed a grizzly bear with a knife!”
When one reads of Roosevelt in such surroundings one does not wonder that the Roosevelt home at Sagamore Hill at times resembled a veritable menagerie. At one time there were a lion, a hyena, a zebra, five bears, a wildcat, a coyote, two macaws, an eagle, a barn owl and several snakes and lizards. Kangaroo rats and flying squirrels slept in the pockets and blouses of the Roosevelt children, went to school with them and often were guests at dinner. While campaigning in Kansas in 1903 a little girl brought a baby badger, carried by her brother,to Roosevelt’s train, whence it was later transferred to the Sagamore Hill menagerie. There was a guinea-pig named Father O’Grady by the children, but this proved to be of the softer sex. One day two of the children rushed breathlessly into a room where the Roosevelts were entertaining mixed company. “Oh! oh!” they cried. “Father O’Grady has had some children!”
As a result of their closeness to nature Roosevelt’s sons became sportsmen and naturalists worthy of their father.
Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., killed his first buck just before he was fourteen, and his first moose, a big bull with horns that spread fifty-six inches, just before he was seventeen. Both of these animals were killed in the wilderness, on hunting trips which tested to the utmost the boy’s endurance and skill.