One of the last letters he wrote before leaving for the roundup was to Henry Cabot Lodge. “I have got the Benton about half through,” he noted. “If I could work at it without interruption for a fortnight I could send Morse the manuscript; but tomorrow I leave for the round up, and henceforth I will have to snatch a day or two whenever I can, until the end of June. I have really become interested in it; but I cannot tell whether what I have done is worth anything or not.”10
The roundup began on May 22, just south of Medora. Like the previous spring event, it was hard, dusty work, although it appears it was free of any stampedes. Being close to Medora provided Theodore the opportunity to ride into town and sleep in his room at Ferris’s general store. On one occasion, Theodore dined with the Marquis at his chateau, where he had cherries (“the only fruit I [have] had since I left New York”). When dinner was over, the Marquis gave him a French copy of War and Peace, which Theodore finished in two weeks.
As busy as he was with the roundup, the Benton book was not far from his mind. This was obvious in a letter he sent to Lodge, giving him a progress update and asking for assistance. Noting he had little information relating to Benton after he left the Senate in 1850, Theodore asked his friend if he could hire someone “to look up, in a biographical dictionary, or elsewhere, his life after he left the Senate in 1850? . . . the Bad Lands have much fewer books than Boston has.”11
The roundup worked down South Hart Creek on June 20, through to Rocky Ridge and Davis and Andrews Creeks, ending at Bullion Creek on June 26.12 (These creeks are all located south of Maltese Cross Ranch.) When the roundup was completed, Theodore returned to work on the Benton book, which by now seemed to have ignited some of his creative flow. Between June 29 and July 2, he awoke every morning just as the sun was breaking over the hills in the east at the Elkhorn. Theodore drank in the visual and aural beauty as the sun rose, a soft breeze stirring the cottonwood leaves as the birds sang their songs. Inspired by what he saw, Theodore would go to his sitting room and write until noon, when the cabin became too stuffy for any type of constructive writing. From there, he would go off hunting or do some physical ranch chores, including breaking horses. Sewall said some days Theodore would simply stay in his room and write all day long. Merrifield recalled, “He used to walk up and down this room, then sit down awhile, then jump up and grab a gun and go out hunting. Then he would come back in again and start to write . . . and would work sometimes until early in the morning.”13
After arriving in England, Theodore received letters from Edith. However, after his death, for reasons known only to her, she destroyed the majority of their correspondence. However, a letter dated June 8, 1886, survives. It allows an insight into their relationship at the time, when both tightly held it from anyone’s eyes. The letter illustrates a tender love that had manifested since their childhood.
Indeed, my dearest Mr. T. R., I think imagination is one of the greatest blessings of life, and while one can lose oneself in a book one can never be thoroughly unhappy. I don’t for a moment defend the morale of the Arabian Nights. Indeed I rarely open them now, and most of the heroes and heroines never seem more than glittering phantoms hung with gold and jewels; but it is the whole atmosphere of the book which is so fascinating and somehow Kubla Khan and Aldrich’s little lyric “When the sultan goes Ispahan,” give me the same feeling. I have always had a passion for fairy tales . . . I cannot explain very coherently on paper, but some very hot day, I will pull my tattered old copy of Arabian Nights from the bottom of the box where it now reposes and show you what I mean . . . London is perfectly lovely now, everything is so bright and gay. Last night we heard your cousin Mr. Scovell, poor Marcia Roosevelt’s husband, sing in Carmen. He is middle aged, ugly, and uninteresting with not enough voice to redeem his bad acting. His one idea of making love is to seize the prima donna’s arm and shake her, violently. I am so glad that is not your way . . . You may not believe it, but I never use[d] to think much about my looks . . . now I do care about being pretty for you . . .
You know I love you very much and would do anything in the world to please you. I wish I could be sure my letters sound as much like myself as yours do like you . . . You know all about me, darling. I never could have loved anyone else. I love you with all the passion of a girl who has never loved before, and please be patient with me when I cannot put my heart on paper . . . Please send me your photo in hunting costume. Not that there is any danger of my forgetting you, but I want to show it to Emily [Edith’s younger sister].
I am more glad than I can say that you have been enjoying the western life and do hope the cattle will turn out well, but be good and patient and do not worry too much; please take your hunting trip, for I am quite sure it will pay for itself. You must take me out west, or I shall repent all my life, not having seen the place my dearest is so fond of . . . I perfectly love your description of life out west, for I almost feel as if I could see you and know just what you are doing, and I do not think you sentimental in the least to love nature; please love me too, and believe I think of you all the time and want so much to see you.14
During the roundup, Theodore received an invitation from Dr. Stickney to be the featured speaker at Dickinson’s July Fourth celebration. At first Theodore was hesitant, but after reconsidering the offer, he accepted. The Dickinson Press proudly announced the festivities on June 26:
GRAND 4TH OF JULY CELEBRATION!
Parade of Lady Equestrians
G. A. R. Veterans
Oration by
HON. THEO. ROOSEVELT!15
Theodore rode his horse, Manitou, from the Elkhorn to Medora on July 3, staying with Joe Ferris overnight. The following morning, he and other Medora residents caught the eastbound freight train to Dickinson. At ten o’clock in the morning, the Silver Cornet Band led the parade, followed by two floats. The first one offered an interpretation of Lady Liberty, while the second featured thirty-eight schoolgirls all dressed in white, representing the states in the Union. A phalanx of carriages and horses carrying the many townspeople followed, and viewers were so overtaken, they joined the procession, leaving only a few drunken cowboys to watch.16
It was a hot day in Dickinson, with the temperature well over 110 degrees. Yet it did nothing to stop the public’s desire to celebrate; many attended a noon luncheon at the town hall. After the meal, justice of the peace Western Starr read the Declaration of Independence, followed by the band playing anthems, while a local choir sang “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Dr. Stickney stood on a soapbox and introduced the featured speaker. Taking his place on the box, Theodore looked over the crowd and began his speech.17
We are now doing in the Northwest exactly as our forefathers did in the East when that famous Declaration of Independence was declared by those great men of America—building up free homes for ourselves and families, but under different circumstances. Here we have a grand country, a territory that will make one of the grandest states in the Union. The hardships of the pioneer life in Dakota are not what they were in 1776 . . .
The Declaration of Independence derived its peculiar importance not on account of what America was, but because of what she was to become. She shared with other nations the present, and she yielded to the past; but it was felt in return that to her, and to her especially, belonged the future. It is the same with us here. We—grangers and cowboys alike—have opened a new land; we are the pioneers, and as we shape the course of the stream near its head, our efforts have infinitely more effect in bending it in any given direction than they would have if they were made farther along. In other words, the first comers in a land can, by their individual efforts, do far more to channel out the course in which its history is to run than can those who come after them . . .
Like all Americans, I like big things; big prairies, big forests and mountains, big wheat fields, railroads—and herds of cattle too; big factories, steamboats and everything else. But we must keep steadily in mind that no people were ever yet benefitted by ric
hes if their property corrupted their virtue. It is of more importance that we should show ourselves honest, brave, truthful and intelligent than that we should own all the railways and grain elevators in the world . . .
All American citizens, whether born here or elsewhere, whether of one creed or another, stand on the same footing. We welcome every honest immigrant, no matter from what country he comes, provided only that he leaves behind him his former nationality and remain neither Celt nor Saxon, neither Frenchman or German, but become an American desirous of fulfilling in good faith the duties of American citizenship . . . We must never exercise our rights either wickedly or thoughtlessly . . . I am myself at heart as much a westerner as an easterner; I am proud indeed to be considered one of yourselves, and I address you in this rather solemn strain today only because of my pride in you, and because your welfare, moral as well as material, is so near my heart.18
As Theodore sat down, the audience applauded and vocally lauded him before rushing off to watch the horse races between the cowboys and the Indians. It was noted that his voice was “between a squeak and a shriek.”19
Theodore had delivered his first major speech, which was carried by several newspapers. His discourse highlighted many subjects that he would return to time and again during his political life: extolling the duties and responsibilities of being a good American citizen; cautioning that corruption would lead to the downfall of the country; and exhorting his fellow citizens to not be consumed with benefiting from riches while corrupting their goodwill and moral excellence.
Theodore Roosevelt had entered the arena.
As fireworks illuminated the evening sky over Dickinson, the train made its way to Medora. Theodore sat with A. T. Packard of the Bad Lands Cow Boy, discussing the day’s events. Packard, impressed by his speech, listened as Theodore said he felt his future and best work was not in raising cattle, but to be involved “in a public and political way.”
“Then you will become president of the United States,” Packard replied.
Theodore showed no surprise in his friend’s assessment.
“If your prophecy comes true, I will do my part to make a good one,” he replied.20
Dark Clouds
Sooner or later there comes a winter which means ruin to the ranches that have too many cattle on them.
SUMMER TEMPERATURES IN THE BADLANDS GENERALLY RANGE BETWEEN the high 80s to low 90s. It is a dry heat, often mixed with seasonal rains that cool everything for a brief time. The hot weather turns the green grass to brown by mid-July, yet still provides adequate feed for the cattle.
The summer of 1886 was different.
During the first two weeks of July, the temperature reached 114 degrees in the open and 102 in the shade. The Little Missouri River, usually no more than two to three feet deep, was completely dry in sections. Creeks that fed into the river were barren, and the grass that the cattle relied on became parched and brittle. Summer rains were a distant memory.
Ranchers began to worry that if a hard winter were to follow this extreme heat, it could lead to serious trouble. Many began a frantic search for supplies of hay, only to be told there was little, if any, to obtain. Cattlemen as far away as Texas and Kansas saw their land dry up. Driving their herds north in hopes of finding green grass, they were greeted with only disappointment. Theodore and Gregor Lang had voiced concerns about the possible results of overgrazing, and unfortunately, they were now coming to fruition.
Historically, beaver in the area built dams in various creeks which provided a yearly supply of water for the roaming cattle. By the summer of 1886, however, the majority of the beaver in the Badlands had been hunted out, and with their destruction, the dams disappeared. With no dammed water to drink from, the cattle were forced to roam farther to find water. In doing so, herds moved in a long, stretched-out fashion, as they did in cattle drives, trampling the grass and creating their own trails, leaving a thin line of erosion on the ground. As Lincoln Lang noted, “The White Man had undertaken to reverse Nature’s plans and already she was coming back at him in no uncertain manner.”1
The few water holes that did exist quickly became trampled, turning them into mud holes before vanishing into the dry earth. Weeds, not indigenous, and poisonous, began to sprout across the landscape. The sun was diffused by a curtain of haze. As the summer wore on, ranchers began to panic, sending their beef to market early in hopes of making a profit. Instead, their actions flooded the market, and drove the price down.
Summer eventually made way for the fall. The change of seasons was filled with hope for better times.
Despite the extreme summer, Theodore felt that his cattle were doing reasonably well, and he remained upbeat about cattle ranching. Although he had planned to spend the summer at the Elkhorn, three days after returning from Dickinson, he hopped a train for New York City.
Part of his decision to head east had to do with his Benton book. With his manuscript almost completed, Theodore needed to do further research at the Astor Library before sending his final draft to the publisher. Another reason for traveling to New York was political. He was offered the position of president of the board of health by the city’s mayor. Writing to Corinne, he related that Henry Cabot Lodge was “strongly against” his accepting the job, feeling that it was beneath Theodore’s status. He confided that if he did accept the post, he’d have to give up his life in the West, noting it would “fairly break my heart.”2 Although this emotional comment could be attributed to his consideration of the job offer, it was more likely a reflection that, once he was married to Edith, his time in the Dakotas would either be sharply limited or come to an end. As for the job offer, it amounted to nothing, since the current president of the board of health, who had been indicted for corruption, refused to resign.
Theodore’s time in New York was brief—just three weeks. He spent days at the Astor Library, reviewing material for the Benton book, as well as spending time with Baby Lee. As he traveled back to Medora, Theodore focused on a hunting trip in the Rocky Mountains. Returning to the Elkhorn, he found a letter from Edith that confirmed their plan to marry in London in December. Meanwhile, the ranch had two new guests, courtesy of Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow, as both ladies had given birth to boys within a week of each other. “The population of my ranch is increasing in a rather alarming manner,” he noted to Bamie.3 Despite the distractions of Edith’s letter and the newborns, Theodore’s mind was on his upcoming hunting trip, until news broke of a potential war with Mexico.
US Army captain Emmet Crawford and a group of nearly one hundred Apache scouts, including the Apache Kid and Tom Horn, had entered Mexico in December 1885 in hopes of capturing Geronimo and his band. On January 11, 1886, Crawford’s group was attacked by the Mexican military and despite Crawford’s waving a white flag from a rock, the Mexican army continued its barrage. (Crawford was killed when a bullet struck him in the head.) After an hour of fighting, the Mexicans waved a white flag, and the shooting ceased. Many in Washington, DC, including the US Army, were livid over the young officer’s death, caused by the Mexican military’s deliberate attack. Tensions began to rise, with calls for a war against Mexico.
As the rumor of a potential war on the horizon grew, Theodore was eager to join in. He wrote to Lodge asking if he had heard anything more in Washington regarding military action. “Will you telegraph me at once if war becomes inevitable?” he pleaded. “Out here things are so much behind hand that I might not hear the news for a week.” He also wrote to Secretary of War William Endicott with the offer of raising a group of mounted riflemen from the West. “I think there is some good harumscarum rough riders out here,” he told Lodge. Hopeful as he was for an opportunity, Theodore soon realized that any chance of being involved in military action grew “continually smaller,” yet he would continue to “grasp at every opportunity that turns up.”4
Military action was one way of achieving something worthwhile. His desire to be part of something productive paints the picture of a young
man still uncertain about his future. As he neared his twenty-eighth birthday, Theodore was already a published author of two books and several magazine articles, as well as having served three terms in the New York legislature. Despite these accomplishments, he felt his future would not likely present any worthy challenges. Perhaps this was a moment of self-pity on his part, something he rarely, if ever, allowed. It could be that, with his upcoming marriage to Edith, and having no stable form of employment, he was feeling useless. A job that had been offered to him—no matter how seriously he may have thought of accepting it—quickly disappeared. Ranching was enjoyable for him, yet whatever challenges it had held seem to have been met. Nor had this venture established a healthy recurring profit for him. A life as an author was, like other professions in the arts, fraught with instability. Politics, although he strongly felt it to be a closed door, was still a possibility. Theodore Roosevelt was at another crossroads, with no conviction as to which direction he should take. Even if he wouldn’t readily admit it to himself, the uncertainty scared him.
One day in Medora, he visited a local taxidermist with the head of a mountain goat. Of all the animals he had hunted in the West, the mountain goat had eluded him. Theodore learned that Jack Willis, a hunter in Montana, had shot that goat. Writing to Willis, he asked, “I have heard it is the hardest animal in the Rockies to find and the most difficult to kill. I have also heard that you are a great hunter. If I come to Montana, will you act as my guide, and do you think I can kill a white goat?”5
Willis’s first impression was that it was a joke, and he intended to ignore it, but Theodore’s penmanship was so bad, it irritated him “to have to wrestle with his almost illegible note.” His reply was to the point. “If you can’t shoot any better than you can write, NO!” A very independent man, Willis had lived in Thompson Falls in the Montana Territory since 1882, where he hunted and sold animal skins in large quantities. He also made money by furnishing the railroad with venison and bear meat for their dining cars. Like many others in true Western towns, he regarded Medora as something of a “joke town.” “It was a lively community,” he commented, “while it lasted, but it didn’t last much longer than a tenderfoot at a roundup.”6 Typically, Theodore paid no attention to the reply from Willis and sent him a telegram two days before he and Merrifield arrived in Thompson Falls. Curious to see what this fellow looked like, Willis waited at the station.
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 19
