During such a breaking period, the rider is thrashed in all directions, with jarring jolts that jam his back and spine into the saddle. If he’s lucky, he will “stay with ’em” and not be thrown to the ground. Some cowboys have said that being thrown from a horse hurts more than the grating ride. Indeed, landing on dirt hurts and can be dangerous, depending on how one lands. Riders have broken their backs or been killed by breaking their necks. No matter what part of the body hits the earth, it will be painful. Cowboys say that any time you don’t break something (other than the wild horse!), it is a good landing.
Theodore did not abide by this rough method of breaking a horse. He felt that it damaged the animal and made it unsuitable for use. He favored a horse that already displayed something of a benign attitude. He would “gentle” a horse by daily contact, slowly working the animal to accept a saddle and rider. Most cowboys had a time limitation in breaking a herd of horses, which did not allow them to indulge in Theodore’s methods. “I have a perfect dread of bucking,” Theodore once stated, “and if I can help it I never get on a confirmed bucker.”8 Bill Sewall was still a greenhorn when it came to riding horses, and some of the more-experienced cowboys taunted Bill when he refused to ride any of the wild horses. “I suppose you fellows can ride broncos,” he warned them, “but you cannot ride me, and if you get on, your feet will drag.” In a case of true irony, Sewall, requiring a mount, thought he had picked out a gentle horse, but it turned out to be one of the more-disagreeable ones in the remuda. When Sewall himself sat the animal, the horse behaved like a gentleman. However, when Wilmot Dow, who had become a very good rider, mounted the same horse, it let loose its bad character. After that episode, no cowboys bothered Sewall again about riding a horse.9
Early each morning, the cowboys would have breakfast at five before going out to get the horses and start the breaking process. On the last day of handling the horses, one of the men commented that he had spotted two bears in a nearby washout. Quickly giving up gentling any horses, Theodore and Merrifield followed the cowboy in hopes of bagging the animals. Already planning a trip in hopes of shooting Bighorn sheep, Theodore had found an excuse to start right away. George Myers would follow them in a buckboard with the needed supplies and meet them later in the day.
Myers had become a regular hand at Maltese Cross Ranch, handling all sorts of chores, including cooking. When Theodore returned from his solitary four-day trip in June 1884, he requested that George make some of his tasty biscuits for dinner. To please the boss, George added an extra dash of baking powder so they would be light as a feather. He placed the biscuits into the oven, and when the time came to remove them, he discovered they were a vivid emerald green. It appears that Sylvane or Merrifield had mistakenly dumped a can of baking soda into the baking powder can. On this expedition, George would once again create a culinary disaster when he mistakenly cooked beans in a pan that had the remains of rosin in it. (Rosin is a derivative from pine trees or other plants, used primarily as bases for adhesives and soap.) Reportedly, after taking a spoonful of the unsavory beans, Theodore told George that he could “eat his green biscuits and most of your infernal concoctions, but I am hanged if I can eat your rosined beans.”10
The sun was still below the horizon when Theodore and Merrifield started out, wearing heavy fur coats and caps. After going up a long valley, they topped the highlands in time to greet the rising sun, but found no trace of any bears. They quickly spotted two dark objects ahead of them coming out of the washout onto the plains; unfortunately, they were not bears but dark-colored horses. Theodore said the cowboy’s “chap-fallen face” foretold the “merciless chaff ” he would endure for his mistake. He had the cowboy escort the two wayward horses back to the Maltese Cross, as he and Merrifield pressed on.
Theodore observed that hunting Bighorn sheep was “the hardest and most difficult” of any big game, as it was “equally trying to both wind and muscle.” As hard as it was, he also found it to be “the noblest form of sport with the rifle.”11 Reaching broken country, they tied up their horses and went on foot. Having shucked their chaps and fur coats, the hiking into the hills kept the two men warm as they sought out the wary animal. Male Bighorn sheep are recognized for their large, curved horns (female horns are smaller and less curved). The animal is extremely agile and can easily maneuver along some of the sheerest cliffs on a mountain, requiring the hunter to be equally agile in his tracking. In winter, it becomes doubly dangerous; Theodore and Merrifield, without their heavy coats, had to climb slippery, ice-covered rocks and buttes. The two made their way to the top of some rocks but found only hints of tracks. The cold began to chill them and numb their hands.
Returning to their horses, they headed to a hut where Myers had a fire blazing. “Throughout the night the temperature sank lower and lower, and it was impossible to keep the crazy old hut anywhere near freezing-point,” Theodore wrote.12 The following day left them empty-handed, cold, and trying to make the best of it in the chilly hut at night. The third morning, Theodore and Merrifield saddled the horses and headed toward a group of buttes where they had spotted some tracks. In the distance was “a towering mass of grayish white clouds” that Theodore described as a “weather-breeder.” The area, surrounded by high, sharp peaks and ridges, “broke off abruptly into narrow gorges and deep ravines.” It was not the type of country one wanted to be caught in when the storm hit. They needed to find their Bighorn quickly.
Climbing up a peak, they inched out on “knife-like ridges” covered with ice. Descending into a narrow chasm, they inched their way along, with the sides rising up at “an acute angle.” Signs indicated their quarry had gone up to the top. Theodore scrambled up the side, “digging my hands and feet into the loose snow,” grasping any rock or projection he could. Reaching the height, the men saw a couple of Bighorns ninety yards away, the one with the larger pair of horns standing broadside to Theodore. Dropping to one knee, he fired. The Bighorn staggered before crossing over the ridge. Merrifield and Theodore did their best to catch up with their potential prize, sliding down the ravine, lungs burning from the cold air. “He had most obligingly run around to a part of the hill where we could bring up one of the horses without much difficulty,” Theodore later commented of the hunt.13
With the storm approaching, the two men returned to the hut with their prize, loaded up the buckboard, and made a hasty departure for the Maltese Cross. As they had in their previous hunt, Merrifield and Theodore nudged their spurs into their mounts’ flanks, leaving Myers and the buckboard behind. “Merrifield and I rode on ahead, not sparing the horses, but before we got home the storm had burst, and a furious blizzard blew in our teeth as we galloped along the last mile of the river-bottom, before coming to the home ranch-house,” he recalled.14
The first meeting of the Little Missouri River Stockmen’s Association was called to order at 11:30 a.m. on December 19. In attendance were representatives from eleven ranches, as well as the Marquis’s Northern Pacific Refrigerator Car Company. Theodore was elected chairman, and Henry Royce, vice-chairman. It was agreed that the positions of chairman and vice-chairman would be for one year, with elections to follow the fall roundup. The group also agreed to hold their next meeting by April 1, 1885, and the chairman was given the power to draft a set of bylaws that would reflect those of the Eastern Montana Stockmen’s Association.
With those issues taken care of, the members appointed the Marquis as a “committee of one” to work with the Eastern Montana Stockmen’s Association to obtain measures “favorable to the interests of the cattlemen” from the Dakota Territory legislature. They also agreed that if any cattle were hit by a train and the railroad refused to pay full value for the animal, the chairman was to be immediately notified so the association could bring it before the courts, at the association’s expense, as “a test case.” The association also agreed that no member would gather any cattle or brand calves between the first of December and the “date of the general spring round-up” witho
ut informing other ranches in the neighborhood with “reasonable time.” Another resolution was passed that each member would not have more than ten bulls to every head of stock on their range.15
Theodore left Medora the next day, arriving at his sister’s New York home in time to celebrate Christmas. It would obviously be a somber holiday, being the first without his mother or his wife. As the snow fell over Manhattan, Theodore made himself comfortable in front of a cozy fire in the living room fireplace and began to draft the bylaws for the cattlemen’s group.
Once he was done with that, he began work on a book. In this effort, Theodore began by providing a brief history of the horse and cattle in North America, describing how the cattle had come to the Northern Plains. His love of history and the thrill of the hunt, as well as his awakening appreciation of the land, were evident in his writing. The book wasn’t just something he chose to write; it was something he clearly had to write. He had great passion for the subject, explaining the habits of the animals he hunted, how they moved, ate, and ran. Although portions of his writing are a bit stiff and episodic, it was the first, major step in authoring what would become his trilogy of experiences out west.
The book was titled Hunting Trips of a Ranchman.
Roundup
Nobody ever gets enough sleep on a round-up.
THROUGHOUT JANUARY 1885, THEODORE WORKED ON HIS BOOK, recounting his experiences hunting grouse, deer, mountain sheep, buffalo, elk, and a grizzly. The manuscript was handed over to his publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, in early March. At the same time, he arranged a session at a Manhattan photography gallery where he posed, minus his spectacles, against a painted backdrop simulating a wooded area. In the series of photographs, Theodore wears a buckskin suit, his Tiffany Bowie knife tucked behind a canvas ammo belt, over-the-ankle moccasins, fur hat, and bandana around his neck. In one image, Theodore firmly clutches his Winchester rifle, ready to fire at an unknown target, while in another he stands with the rifle held across his chest in a “port arms” stance. In both, his facial features are taut, as if expecting trouble. In another portrait, he sits with the rifle across his lap while looking at the camera lens. The fourth pose, a profile shot, has him standing like an old hunter, the butt of the rifle resting on the ground, and his hands wrapped around the barrel.
It is hard to take the photographs seriously, as both his posing and the painted backdrop are very theatrical. By comparison, three photographs taken in the Badlands, in 1884, are far more realistic. Although he appears to be squinting (probably due to the sun), Theodore looks more authentic, even with his buckskin clothing. His pistol is worn on his hip in the cross-draw fashion, and he sports fringed gauntlets and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. In all three photographs, he wears his glasses and looks directly at the camera. There is no dramatic pose, no staged look of a hunter or cowboy. You see a young man living his dream, with an absolute resolve to do whatever job needs to be done. In two of the images, he stands next to his saddled horse, Manitou (one can see Theodore’s initials etched into the cantle of the saddle),1 while in the third photo, he sits astride his mount. Although his clothing is more elaborate than that of other cowboys of the time, in these photographs, Theodore truly appears to be a man of the West.
Winter’s iron grip on the Badlands left much of Medora and the surrounding area in a state of suspended action. The Marquis’s abattoir shut down, and the butchers went back east. A Badlands winter forces everyone—even the horses and cattle—to hunker down, doing their best to stay as warm as possible. Arctic winds blow down through northern Canada and onto the Dakota plains with a ferocious, numbing chill. Most ranches became ghost towns during this season because there was little work for cowboys in this type of weather. Outfits who could afford to do so kept their men on salary, usually having cowboys “riding the line.” As line riders, two men would go out to a certain area from the main ranch and settle into a one-room cabin for the winter. Their job was to ride out in the early morning and keep the cattle on their own range (and another’s outfit on theirs). They also kept an eye open for any cattle that got caught in a bog or strayed too far out, potentially leaving them to be caught in a blizzard or attacked by wolves. It was a hard, thankless job in conditions that could only be described as miserable. Food, which had to last up to four months, was packed in. The cabin was equipped with two rough beds and either a fireplace or wood-burning stove for heat and cooking. More often than not, the cabin had gaps between the logs or planks, letting the cold wind come in to torture the inhabitants. Unless an ample stockpile had been assembled before the snows, one of the cowboys had to go out daily to chop wood. Bathing was nonexistent, and almost every cowboy grew a beard to help keep his face warm.
For line riders, spring could not come soon enough.
Cowboys who stayed at the main ranch might be allowed the luxury of riding into town, if they were hardy enough to endure the cold ride. Those who did often bunked at a hotel and indulged in drinking, gambling, and being entertained by a sporting lady before returning to the ranch a few days later. Most ranches maintained a small contingent of cowboys during the winter, letting the rest go for the season. Some of the men would drift to other parts of the country, while the heartier souls became “grub line riders.” They were panhandlers, riding from ranch to ranch, seeking meals and shelter. Eventually, they would wear out their welcome and head over to another outfit. Some men actually managed to survive the winter doing this—but not many.
Shortly after handing in his manuscript, Theodore suffered another serious intestinal attack, which forced him to delay his return to Medora for nearly four weeks. Arriving in the cow town on April 19, he stepped off the train wearing city clothes, including a derby. No cowboys attempted to shoot his hat off his head.
Winter had given way to the spring thaw, which meant the Little Missouri River quickly swelled. If one wanted to cross the river in Medora, the logical—and safest—way was to go across the train trestle. There was another route, but it was riskier. One could attempt to cross on the top of a dam that had been built by the Marquis. However, with the river overflowing, it was capricious at best for a man to cross the top of the dam, let alone a horse and rider. Theodore was warned not to take the precarious route, but he waved off concerns. “If Manitou gets his feet on that dam, he’ll keep them there and we can make it finely,” he stated with confidence.
True to his nature, Manitou got on the dam and was slowly making his way when he slipped. Both Manitou and Theodore were thrown into the swiftly moving river, and workers near the dam lost sight of the two as they went under, only to quickly pop up. Both horse and rider pawed at the water, with Theodore pushing ice floes away from them. Manitou gained his footing on the river bottom and struggled up the bank, as did Theodore, who did not even lose his glasses. Once on dry land, Theodore rode over to the general store owned by Joe Ferris, where he purchased a pair of socks. Ferris, watching his friend change into the dry socks, admonished him for his behavior. “I suppose it might be considered reckless, but it was a lot of fun,” Theodore admitted.2 To prove to himself that he could do it, several days later, Theodore crossed the dam with Manitou when no one was around, making it safely.
“My home ranch-house stands on the river brink. From the low, long veranda, shaded by leafy cotton-woods, one looks across sand bars and shallows to a strip of meadowland, behind which rises a line of sheer cliffs and grassy plateaus,” he wrote in Hunting Trips of a Ranchman. “This veranda is a pleasant place in the summer evenings when a cool breeze stirs along the river and blows in the faces of the tired men, who loll back in their rocking-chairs (what true American does not enjoy a rocking-chair?), book in hand—though they do not often read the books, but rock gently to and fro, gazing sleepily out at the weird-looking buttes opposite, until their sharp outlines grow indistinct and purple in the after-glow of the sunset.”3
Theodore was writing about the Elkhorn, which he considered his “home ranch.” (The Maltese Cross now served as
his business ranch.) At the end of April, he settled into his new home. It was ideally suited for him at the time. His nearest neighbors were ten to twelve miles away. The cottonwood trees and the river offered him solace, and the silence of the area allowed him to write or read without any disruption.
The cabin, made from cottonwood trees, measured thirty feet wide by sixty feet long and sat on six stone slabs. A central hallway divided the rooms, four on each side. Theodore had two adjoining rooms in the southeast corner. The end room was his bedroom, complete with his rubber bathtub, and a door opened into a combination library and office. The kitchen and dining area were on the northwest side of the building, while a large sitting room next to the fireplace occupied the northeast portion. A large porch faced the cottonwoods and the river, while a smaller piazza was on the southern end of the cabin, next to his bedroom. A root cellar under the cabin served as a darkroom for Theodore’s new portable camera. The ranch also boasted a well, a blacksmith shed, a barn with two stables (both were sixteen by twenty feet) connected by a twelve-foot roof, a cattle shed, a chicken house, and a horse corral with a snubbing post. Theodore kept two or three dairy cows at the ranch, unlike many other outfits in the area, which provided him with milk and butter.
In the spring and summer evenings, he sat on the porch and read until the sun disappeared, or simply listened to the birds sing in the cottonwoods. When the weather got colder, evenings were spent by the fireplace, where he sat in his favorite rocking chair and read to others from one of his many books, or gave a lecture on some aspect of history. Depending on the subject, Theodore was known to become so animated in his storytelling that he and his rocking chair would literally move across the floor. While the fireplace provided warmth, each room had abundant buffalo and bear hides to keep the occupants warm at night.
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 13
