A doctor in the Western lands was as valuable as a good horse or an ample supply of water. When the town had only one doctor, he could be responsible for the care of patients within a range of fifty miles. Smaller towns, such as Medora, had no physician. In such cases, a barber might offer some aid for minor problems, including extracting teeth, or even a bullet. In Theodore’s situation, he was lucky. The first man he approached on the street in Dickinson happened to be Victor Stickney, the town’s doctor. Stickney noticed “the most bedraggled figure I’d ever seen” limping down the street. The man, the physician observed, wore glasses (which “in itself was immoral out in that country”), and his buckskin shirt and pants were covered with sticky gumbo mud.
He was all teeth and eyes . . . He was scratched, bruised, and hungry, but gritty and determined as a bulldog . . . As I approached him he stopped me with a gesture, asking me whether I could direct him to a doctor’s office. I was struck by the way he bit off his words and showed his teeth. I told him I was the only practicing physician, not only in Dickinson, but in the whole surrounding country.
“By George,” he said emphatically, “then you’re exactly the man I want to see. I’ve just come 40 miles on foot from the Killdeer Mountains, bringing down some horse thieves at the point of a Winchester, and my feet are blistered so badly that I can hardly walk. I want you to fix me up.”
I took him to my office, and while I was bathing and bandaging his feet, which were in pretty bad shape, he told me the story of his capture of the three thieves.16
Despite his patient’s lack of sleep for thirty-six hours straight, the doctor noted that Theodore “did not seem worn out or unduly tired,” and was “pleased as punch” about the adventures he had experienced. “He was just like a boy,” Stickney said. The doctor later told his wife over lunch that he had just met “the most peculiar, and at the same time, the most wonderful, man I had ever come to know.”17
Staying overnight in Dickinson, Theodore appeared the following morning in court for the preliminary hearing before a justice of the peace, Western Starr, who happened to have been a classmate of Theodore’s when they attended New York’s Columbia Law School. The justice set a trial date in early August in Mandan. As the afternoon sun began to set, Theodore caught the train for Medora. By the time his train pulled into the station, his capture of the boat thieves had become well-known around the Badlands. While everyone admired his pluck, many shook their heads in amazement that Theodore had wasted his time taking the men to jail, instead of hanging them on the spot.
They did not understand Theodore Roosevelt.
For Theodore, going after the culprits wasn’t about revenge; it was about justice. Theodore had no interest in meting out “Western justice” as others did. He had no desire to kill Finnegan, Burnsted, or Pfaffenbach, unless they attempted to escape. Theodore wanted what he believed in— justice. Although he had been willing to join the vigilantes (the Stranglers), given his strict moral code, there is serious doubt over whether he would have allowed anyone to kill a suspected rustler outright. Even if one were caught altering a ranch’s brand or stealing stock, Theodore would have insisted that the accused be arrested and have his day in court. He once stated, “The greatest benefit to the people, I am convinced, is the enforcement of the laws, without fear or favor.”18
Enforcing the law using the fear of vigilantes, as he might have done in this case, was against his beliefs. He could not—would not—allow it then, or in his later years. Going after these thieves was a demonstration, on a small scale, of the type of action he would later take when going after certain trusts, or enforcing laws. With the theft of his boat, Theodore showed he would not be bullied. Anyone who attempted to get away with such action soon learned a hard lesson. His actions also illustrated that people should not mistake him as a “dude from the East.” Theodore had proven he could ably handle himself in any circumstances, whether it was on a bucking horse, when capturing thieves, or subduing a drunken cowboy. His pluck in these kind of circumstances manifested itself during his presidency, and beyond.
Theodore traveled to Mandan on August 9, 1885, to testify in his boat theft case. He requested the judge drop the charges against Pfaffenbach, stating that the man “did not have enough sense to do anything good or bad.” The German, jumping to his feet, thanked Theodore. Amused by the German’s comments, Theodore stated it was the first time he had ever been thanked for calling a man a fool.19 Finnegan and Burnsted were found guilty, with each receiving a twenty-five-month sentence. Theodore later remarked to Sewall that he didn’t “think we [would] have anything more stolen from us.”20
There’s a unique epilogue to this story.
In the fall of 1887, Finnegan wrote to Theodore from his prison cell in Bismarck. He apologized for taking the boat, explaining that his intention was not to steal it, but with the lynching threats, it had been “die dog or eat the hatchet.” Finnegan explained that if he’d sought Theodore’s help in trying to leave the area, he expected to “look down the mouth of a Winchester . . . When people talk lynch law and threaten a person’s life, I think it is about time to leave.” Finnegan “supposed” he deserved the punishment, but not the sentence he received. Saying he had been punished enough (he had served seventeen of his twenty-five months), he asked Theodore to speak to the territorial governor about having his remaining sentence commuted. Ending his letter, Finnegan said, “I have read a good many of your sketches on ranch life in the papers since I have been in here, and they interested me deeply.” After signing the letter, he added a postscript: “Should you stop over at Bismarck this fall on your western tour, make a call to the prison. I should be glad to meet you.”21
There is no evidence Theodore replied to Finnegan’s letter, visited him, or attempted to get his time commuted. Such an act by Theodore, based on his moral principles and his devotion to enforcing the law, was highly unlikely. He was a strong believer that those who committed the crime should take their medicine. Understanding that Pfaffenbach was incapable of discerning right from wrong due to his mental state, Theodore demonstrated he was capable of rendering mercy when it was truly required.
Despite Finnegan’s avowal that he had learned his lesson and would never forget it, he had a short memory. Mike “Redhead” Finnegan’s life ultimately ended with a rope around his neck for stealing.22
Entering the Arena
No people were ever yet benefitted by riches if their property corrupted their virtue.
THE NIGHT HE RETURNED TO MEDORA, AFTER TURNING OVER HIS PRISoners to the sheriff in Dickinson, Theodore stayed in town, taking his room above the Ferris general store. Writing a letter to his younger sister, Corinne, he briefly mentions the capture of the boat thieves, noting he was “done out” from the lack of sleep and strain, but assured her he was “brown and tough as a pine knot and feel equal to anything.” He went on to discuss Anna Karenina, which he read “with very great interest . . . I hardly know whether to call it a very bad book or not. . . . Tolstoi [sic] is a great writer. Do you notice how he never comments on the actions of his personages? He relates what they thought or did without any remark whatever as to whether it was good or bad, as Thucydides wrote history.”1
Concluding his letter, he asked Corinne when Edith would depart for Europe, and for how long. (Theodore already knew, but it was part of the charade the couple played to keep their upcoming marriage a secret.) He requested that his sister send Edith some flowers from him on her departure. Three days later he dashed off another letter to Corinne with a sealed card to send with the flowers to Edith. He also requested “three or four cakes of that nice transparent soap . . . I have nothing but castile soap here.”2
The April 13 meeting of the Little Missouri Stockmen’s Association appointed John Goodall, the Marquis’s foreman, as captain of the spring roundup. Beginning on May 21, the various outfits would start in Medora and work their way north. In other business matters, Theodore was chosen to serve as the association’s delegate at
the Montana beef owners meeting that would be held in Miles City. The rough-and-ready town had been born out of a necessity—to sell liquor to soldiers at Fort Keogh. Tiring of his soldiers being drunk, Gen. Nelson Miles barred the fort sutler from selling any alcohol in the spring of 1877. Not one to lose a demanding business, the inventive dispenser of bug juice moved his business two miles east, naming the location Miles City (after the general), while locals called it Milestown. With the influx of cattle ranches and the building of a stop for the Northern Pacific Railroad, the city quickly expanded within the Montana Territory.
Arriving by train on April 18, Theodore, accompanied by Sylvane Ferris, observed that Miles City was a “raw, thriving frontier town.” Making their way to the MacQueen House, they were greeted by many cowboys riding “hell bent for leather” down the streets. It was apparent that the saloons, gamblers, and sporting ladies were doing a brisk business. The following morning, promptly at nine-thirty, Fort Keogh’s Fifth Infantry band kicked off a parade starting at the MacQueen House. (The band’s resounding renditions of military marches were not greatly appreciated by hungover cowboys.) The parade included carriages carrying various officers from the cattlemen’s association, followed by a “cavalcade of wild cowboys” and 150 cowmen marching four abreast. Things got interesting when the horses pulling the carriage of the association’s president, vice president, and secretary became spooked and ran into the band. “The procession then broke up with a wild charge of cowboys, accompanied with such yells as would strike terror to the heart of the tenderfooted,” a Minnesota newspaper commented.3 Fortunately, the actual meeting was much calmer, where the members focused on two major matters—Texas fever and overgrazing.4
Texas fever was a dreaded cattle disease that brought high fevers, enlarged spleens, an engorged liver, and, ultimately, death to many herds. The fever had gained national attention in the 1850s when the first Texas cattle headed north to the Missouri railheads. Although the disease initially sickened only Texas cattle, it soon killed other cattle in the northern ranges. State legislatures quickly passed quarantine laws forbidding the driving or selling of any Texas cattle within their state boundaries. Doctors Theobald Smith and F. L. Kelborne, both of the US Department of Agriculture, discovered that the disease was caused by a cattle tick. The fever could be controlled by immersing the cattle in an arsenical bath, known as “cattle dipping.”5
Overgrazing was becoming a serious problem on the northern ranges. The cause was an influx of cattle owners and investors who populated open ranges with more cattle than the land could properly sustain. The Badlands area, as well as eastern Montana, had yet to suffer a severe winter, and many newspapers, including the Bad Lands Cow Boy, inaccurately claimed that winters, no matter how harsh, did not adversely affect the herds. Although Theodore and Gregor Lang, among others, asserted that overgrazing was a serious problem, their concerns were ignored by the majority. Lincoln Lang noted that many of the cattlemen, boosted by the previous mild winter, planned to “stock heavily that season.”6
During the meeting, a heated debate erupted between two cattlemen. As tempers cooled, most attendees thought that the matter was settled, but later in the evening, the disagreement once again flared, and the cowboys for the two outfits showed up, armed and ready. Theodore, fearing a gunfight, quickly jumped into the fray, ordering the two warring men to settle their differences with their fists while he served as referee. The two cattlemen squared off, but the name of the winner of the bout is lost to history.7
No sooner had he returned from Miles City than Theodore and Merrifield left for a week’s hunting trip. The spring roundup was a month away, and would consume almost two months of his time. Theodore had only completed one chapter of the Thomas Hart Benton book before going after the boat thieves, yet he showed no sense of urgency to complete it. Unlike his Naval War of 1812, Hunting Trips of a Ranchman, or other volumes he authored on subjects that ignited his passion, it appeared the Benton book was becoming more of a chore than a desire. After his hunting foray, Theodore returned to Elkhorn Ranch and devoted the next three weeks to working on the Benton book, as well as tending to ranch duties. This was the longest amount of time Theodore lived at the ranch, and the three weeks filled him with a joy he never forgot. Spring was in full bloom with wildflowers everywhere, and cottonwood trees provided shade while the wind rustled through their leaves. There was the babbling of the Little Missouri River, and the songs of many birds. All of this provided Theodore with a sense of peace; yet it is very likely he knew deep inside this would soon change for him. Within a year, he and Edith would marry, and she was not the type of woman who would take to frontier living. A visit to the area for a week or two would be enough for Edith, but living in such a place for the rest of her life was impossible. Theodore was at a crossroads. He loved the life of the open range, riding alone, living among those hardy souls that made up the American West. He understood and liked them. He was, at least in some small part, one of them.
However, his interest in ranching appeared to be waning. His period of melancholy was coming to an end. Meeting Edith showed him, despite any guilt pangs he may have suffered, that he could love again. The depression and loneliness he had endured after Alice’s death had abated, at least sufficiently for him to realize that his life held more promise for him than just ranching. One must wonder if he was ever completely able to shake off his loss of Alice. He certainly did everything he could to bury, or erase, any thought of her. But inwardly, one has to wonder if it ever truly left him. Theodore was strong enough to suppress anything that bothered him, such as his father’s lack of military service. He could force himself to banish these thoughts into oblivion, but certainly there must have been moments when a sliver of memory, of places visited, dinners shared, and, of course, his daughter, reminded him, albeit briefly, of his deceased wife.
Like the weather that would soon change things in the Badlands, Theodore was ready for a change. A great, unseen movement of events would take hold and push him into another direction. Theodore Roosevelt likely did not realize, sitting in his rocking chair on the porch of his cabin that spring, that his destiny, and that of the country, were on the brink of a new direction.
“If I was not afraid of being put down as cold blooded I should say that, though I honestly miss greatly and all the time think longingly of all you dear ones, yet I really enjoy this life,” Theodore wrote Corinne on May 12. He went on to say that he spent three or four days “reading and working at various pieces I have now on hand. They may come to nothing whatever; but on the other hand they may succeed; at any rate I am doing some honest work, whatever the result is.” Theodore was amused when he occasionally heard that he harbored a “secret and biting regret” relating to his political career. He admitted to Corinne that when he was alone, he hardly gave it “two thoughts,” as he was much more “wrapped up in hunting, ranching, and bookmaking as I ever was in politics.”8
In some of his letters during this period, it is hard to tell whether Theodore’s remarks relating to his ranch life were meant to reassure his siblings, or himself. Even though his ranches kept him busy, the pull of politics was never far from his mind. It was always brought up in conversations when he visited Gregor Lang or A. T. Packard’s newspaper office. Although he may have been trying to reassure his sisters, and even his friend, Henry Cabot Lodge, of his disinclination to become involved again, it is doubtful that any of them really believed he was finished with the political arena. Politics was too tempting for a man of Theodore’s ego and desire. He was a warrior at heart, and politics, unlike a war, was a fight that never ended. The constant battle to see wrongs righted appealed to his sense of justice and fair play. Being a rancher or a natural scientist, as much as those roles interested him, did not provide sufficient action or excitement. The thrill of the fight, much like the thrill of the chase in hunting, fed his soul. He disliked bullies; this sentiment dated back to the two boys who had made his life miserable at Moosehead Lake in Mai
ne. His dislike of anyone who took advantage of others was never far from the surface, and as with his encounter with the drunken cowboy in Mingusville, Theodore demonstrated that he could handle bullies. In confrontations with them in the political field, he was less apt to use his fists, but his mind and wit were just as effective.
Whether or not Theodore cared to admit it, politics was in his blood. It was, for him, the bugler blowing “Charge!” in the field. Politics allowed him to be a hero, to do what he honestly felt was right for the good of the country. Whatever office he occupied, Theodore wasn’t worried by the demands of the “party machine.” To him, they were the source of the problem. However, being a good politician, he knew there were certain times one had to play along with the party machine in order to obtain backing for a bill, or, at the very least, get into office. After that, all bets were off when it came to Theodore’s supporting the party machine desires.
A few days prior to the spring roundup, Theodore was busy writing letters, even chipping away at the Benton biography. In a letter to Bamie, he asked if she could help the Sewall’s daughter, Kitty. “The poor little mite of a Sewall girl, just Baby Lee’s age, has neither playmates nor play toys. I don’t appreciate it as a table companion, especially when fed on, or rather feeding itself on, a mixture of syrup and strawberry jam (giving it the look of a dirty little yellow-haired gnome in war paint); but I wish the poor forlorn little morsel had some play toys . . . send me a box with the following toys, all stout and cheap: a big colored ball, some picture blocks, some letter blocks, a little horse and wagon and a rag doll,” he requested. Revealing a bit of his blue-blooded upbringing, Theodore notes that if she came to visit next summer, he dreaded “seeing you at table, for we have no social distinctions, and the cowboys sit down in their shirt sleeves.”9
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 18
