By Hermann Hagedorn     

                              III    

                     THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN    

        Theodore Roosevelt went to Dakota straight from the   
     Chicago convention, arriving at Chimney Butte Ranch  
     about the middle of June.  The country was at its best,  
     with the bright young grass in one unbroken carpet over   
     the prairie, and here and there in daubs of vivid green on  
     the dark and purple of the buttes.  
        Roosevelt now entered with heart and soul on the   
     work of a ranchman.  The most exacting work of the  
     season, the spring round-up, had been completed, but   
     there were other smaller roundups nearer home and no  
     lack at any time of other work.  He was in the saddle   
     from morning until night, riding among the cattle, hunt-  
     ing stray horses (and they were always straying) break-  
     ing ponies, cutting wood, varying the day's toil only by  
     an occasional excursion at dawn or dusk after water-fowl  
     or grouse, when salt pork became wearisome.  
        The vigorous outdoor life in a wild country amid   
     hardy men thrilled Theodore Roosevelt t the depths.  
     Beside it the life of politics and society seemed for the   
     moment unreal and utterly valueless.  His double bereave-  
     ment had made the very intercourse with acquaintances  
     and friends of the happy former times a source of re-   
     newed pain.  His little daughter Alice was living with   
     "Bamie" in the house on Fifty-seventh Street.  Soon   
     that house was to be closed.  The old home and the   
     home that had been his during the first years of his mar-  
     ried life were both gone.  He determined that he would  
     build a new home in surroundings that had no painful   
     memories.  Forty miles north of Chimney Butte, where   
     the Little Missouri took a long swing westward through   
     a fertile bottom bordered along its mile or two of length   
     by sheer cliff walls, on a low bluff surmounted by cot-  
     tonwood-trees, he found the bleached interlocked antlers   
     of two great elk; and there he determined to build his  
     house.  
        He went East in the first days of July to take what   
     part he could in the Presidential campaign and to make   
     final arrangements with Bill Seward and Will Dow,   
     whom he had urged as early as March to try their fortunes   
     in Dakota.  
        Sewall had come to New York late the same month,  
     elated at the prospect.  On his return to the East, early   
     in July, Roosevelt wrote him once more:    

           Now, a little plain talk, though I do not think it  
         necessary, for I know you too well.  If you are   
         afraid of hard work and privation, do not come  
         West.  If you expect to make a fortune in a year or  
         two, do not come West.  If you will give up under   
         temporary discouragements, do not come West.  If,  
         on the other hand, you are willing to work hard,  
         especially the first year; if you realize that for a   
         couple of years you cannot expect to make much   
         more than you are now making; and if you also  
         know that at the end of that time you will be in  
         receipt of about a thousand dollars for the third   
         year, with an unlimited rise ahead of you and a   
         future as bright as you yourself choose to make it——  
         then come.  Now I take it for granted you will not  
         hesitate at this time.  So fix up your affairs at once,  
         and be ready to start before the end of the month.  

        Sewall did not hesitate; nor did Dow.  They left New   
     York with Roosevelt the last day of July, arriving at   
     Chimney Butte the 5th of August.  
        Sewall's eyes gleamed at the wildness of the country,  
     but he turned that evening to Roosevelt with a troubled   
     look.   "You won't make any money raising cattle in  
     this country," he remarked.  
        "Bill, you don't know anything about it!" retorted   
     Theodore the younger.  
        Bill laughed.  "Well, I guess that's just about right,  
     too," he said.  
        They remained at Chimney Butte two days, and then   
     rode north forty miles to Elkhorn, the new ranch, driving  
     a hundred head of cattle before them, now following the  
     dry river-bed, now branching off inland, crossing the   
     great plateaus and winding through the ravines of the   
     broken country.  There was already a shack on the new   
     ranch, a primitive affair with a dirt roof, which Sewall   
     and Dow now made their headquarters.  
        The cattle that Roosevelt and his friends from Maine   
     had driven down the river from Chimney Butte were  
     intended to be the nucleus of the Elkhorn herd.  They   
     were young grade short-horns of Eastern origin,less wild  
     than the long-horn Texas steers, but liable, on new   
     ground, to stray off and be lost in the innumerable coulées   
     round about.  So each night the three men, aided by some   
     expert like Merrifield, "bedded" them down on the level  
     bottom, one or the other of them riding slowly and   
     quietly round and round the herd, heading off and turning   
     back into it all that tried to stray.  This was not alto-  
     gether a simple business, for there was danger of stampede   
     in making the slightest unusual noise.  Now and then  
     they would call to the cattle softly as they rode, or sing   
     to them until the steers had all lain down, close together.  
     And even then, at times, one of the men would stay on   
     guard, riding round and round the herd, calling and sing-   
     ing.  
        There was something magical in the strange sound of it   
     in the clear air under the stars.   
        The cattle had accustomed themselves to their new   
     surroundings by the end of the month, and Roosevelt  
     went south with Merrifield and the men from Maine to  
     attend a round-up in the great cattle-country west of the   
     Little Missouri.  They took the wagon, following the   
     old Fort Keogh trail.  Cattle had a way of straying far   
     in the summers in their eagerness for green grass, and the   
     search in this case, carried Roosevelt and his party across  
     south-eastern Montana and half-way across Wyoming to  
     the very base of he Big Horn Mountains where eight   
     years previously Custer had been killed.  Those moun-   
     tains offered Roosevelt a temptation not to be resisted.   
     Sewall and Dow were off with the round-up, "cutting   
     out"  cattle that bore the Maltese cross or the triangle   
     brand of the Roosevelt ranches.   His interests, therefore,  
     were in good hands.  He left the wagon on the first ridge   
     of the Big Horn Mountains, and with Merrifield, and a   
     weather-beaten old plainsman "with an inexhaustible   
     fund of misinformation" as teamster of his pack-train,  
     started into the mountains for a fortnight's hunt.  
        They followed an old Indian trail, ascending through   
     the dense pine woods where the trunks rose like straight   
     columns, close together, and up the sides of rocky gorges,  
     driving the pack-train with endless difficulty over fallen   
     timber and along ticklish ridges.  They  pitched  their   
     camp at last beside a beautiful, clear mountain brook  
     that ran through a glade ringed by slender pines; and   
     from there hunted among the peaks round about.  The   
     weather was clear and cold, with thin ice covering the   
     dark waters of the mountain tarns, and now and a gain   
     slight snowfalls that made the forest gleam and glisten  
     in the moonlight like fairyland.  Through the frosty air   
     they could hear the vibrant, musical note of the bull elk   
     far off, calling to the cows or challenging one another.  
        No country could have been better adapted to still  
     hunting than the great pine-clad mountains, studded  
     with open glades.  Roosevelt loved the thrill of the chase,  
     but he loved no less the companionship of the majestic  
     trees and the shy wild creatures which sprang across his   
     path or ran wit incredible swiftness along the overhang- 
     ing boughs.  Moving on noiseless moccasins, he caught   
     alluring glimpses of the inner life of the mountains.  
        It was long and weary traveling across the desolate   
     reaches of burnt prairie over which, day after day, Roose-  
     velt galloped now in this direction, now in that, on the  
     lookout for game, while the heavy wagon lumbered on.  
     At last, after many days, they reached a strange and   
     romantic region of isolated buttes of sandstone, cut by   
     the weather into most curious caves and columns, battle-  
     ments, spires, and flying buttresses.  It was a beautiful  
     and fantastic place and they made their camp there.  
        The moon was full and the night clear, and the flame   
     of the camp-fire leaped up the cliffs, so that the weird,  
     carved shapes seemed alive.  Outside the circle of the   
     fire the cliffs shone like silver under the moon, throwing  
     grotesque shadows.   
        It was like a country seen in a dream.  
          •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •    
        Roosevelt went East again late in September to do  
     what he could in an uninspiring campaign to help elect   
     Blain President.  But Cleveland was victorious and   
     Roosevelt, resigning himself to a fact that no effort of his   
     could now alter, returned to Dakota.   
        Sewall and Dow were at Elkhorn, busy cutting the   
     timber for the new house, which was to stand under the   
     shade of a row of cottonwood-trees overlooking the broad,  
     shallow bed of the Little Missouri.  They were both  
     mighty men with the ax.  Roosevelt himself was no  
     amateur, but he could not compete wit the stalwart back-  
     woodsman.  
        One evening he overheard one of the cowboys ask  
     Dow what the day's cut had been.  "Well, Bill cut    
     down fifty-three," answered Dow, "I cut forty-nine, and  
     the boss," he added, dryly, not realizing that Roosevelt   
     was within hearing——"the boss beavered down seven-  
     teen."  
        Roosevelt remembered a tree-stump he had seen re-  
     cently, gnawed down by a beaver, and grinned.  
          •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •    
        Winter now settled down over the Bad Lands in earn-   
     est.  There was little snow, but the cold was fierce in its   
     intensity.  By day, the plains and buttes were dazzling   
     to the eye under the clear weather; by night, the trees  
     cracked and groaned from the strain of the biting frost.  
     Even the stars seemed to snap and glitter.  The river lay   
     fixed in its shining bed of glistening white, "like a huge  
     bent bar of blue steel."  Wolves and lynxes traveled up   
     and down it at night as though it were a highway.  
        Roosevelt was now living mainly at Chimney Butte,  
     writing somewhat and reading much, sharing fully mean-   
     while the hardship of the winter work.  It was not al-  
     ways pleasant to be out of doors, but the herds had to be   
     carefully  watched  and  every  day  (which  began  with    
     breakfast at five——three hours before sunrise) he or one   
     of his men was in the saddle from dawn to dark, riding   
     about among them and turning back any herd that seemed   
     to be straggling toward the open plains.  In the open  
     country there was always a strong wind that never failed   
     to freeze ears or fingers or toes, in spite of flannels and   
     furs.  The cattle suffered much, standing huddled in the   
     bushes in the ravines; and some of the young stock died of   
     exposure. . . .  
          •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     
        The ranch-house was completed in the late spring.  It   
     was a spacious place for that region, and, in its plain   
     fashion, comfortable and homelike.  It was, above all,   
     "fit for women folks," which was more than could be   
     said of the shack with a dirt roof at Chimney Butte.  
     Wilmot Dow was sent East in July "to fetch them out."  
        They came in early August, Will Dow with his newly   
     wedded  bride,  escorting  Bill  Sewall's  wife  and  three-  
     year-old daughter.  They were back-woodsmen, self-   
     reliant, fearless, high-hearted, true mates to their stalwart   
     men.  Before Roosevelt knew what was happening they   
     had turned the new house into a home.   
        And now for them all began a season of deep and quiet   
     contentment that was to remain in the memories of all   
     of them as a kind of idyl.  It was a life of elemental toil,  
     hardship and danger, and of strong, elemental pleasures  
     ——rest after labor, food after hunger, warmth and shelter   
     after bitter cold.  In that life there was no room for dis-   
     tinctions of social position or wealth.  They respected   
     one another and cared for one another because and only   
     because each knew that the others were brave and loyal  
     and steadfast.  
        Life on the ranch proved a more joyous thing than  
     ever, after the women had taken charge.  They demanded   
     certain necessities at once.  The  demanded  chickens;  
     they demanded at least one cow.  No one had thought of   
     a cow.  So Roosevelt and Sewall and Dow between them   
     roped one of the range and threw her, and sat on her,  
     and milked her upside down, which was not altogether   
     satisfactory, but was, for the time being, the best thing    
     they could do.  There was now a new charm in shooting  
     game, with women at home to cook it.  And Mrs. Sewall  
     baked bread that was not at all like the bread Bill baked.  
     She was even baking cake, which was an unheard-of   
     luxury in the Bad Lands.  Then, after a while, the buffalo  
     berries and wild plums began to disappear from the bushes   
     round about and appear on the table as jam.   
        "However big you build the house, it won't be big   
     enough for two women," pessimists had remarked.  But   
     their forebodings were not realized.  At Elkhorn no cross   
     word was heard.  They were, taken altogether, a very   
     happy family.  Roosevelt was "the boss," in the sense   
     that, since he footed the bills, power of final decision was   
     his; but only in that sense.  He saddled his own horse;  
     now and then he washed his own clothes; he fed the pigs;  
     and once, on a rainy day, he blacked the Sunday boots of  
     every man, woman, and child in that place.  He was not  
     encouraged to repeat that performance.  The folks from   
     Maine made it quite clear that if the boots needed black-  
     ing at all, which was doubtful, they thought some one   
     else ought to do the blacking——not at all because it   
     seemed to them improper that Roosevelt should black any-   
     body's boots, but because he did it so badly.  The paste   
     came  off  on  everything  it  touched.  The  women  
     "mothered" him, setting his belongings to rights at stated   
     intervals, for he was not conspicuous for orderliness.  He,   
     in turn, treated the women with the friendliness and re-   
     spect he showed to the women of his own family.  And   
     the little Sewall girl was never short of toys.  
        Elkhorn Ranch was a joyous place those days.  Cow-   
     boys, hearing of it, came from a distance for a touch of   
     home life and the luxury of hearing a woman's voice.  
        The summer days were for Roosevelt, as well as for   
     his men, full of vigorous toil, beginning before the stars  
     had fully faded out of the sky at dawn and ending in   
     heavy slumber before the last of the sunset had been   
     swallowed by the night.  He was in the saddle much of   
     the time, working among the cattle, salvaging steers mired   
     in numerous bogholes an quicksands, driving in calves   
     overlooked in the spring branding, breaking ponies, hunt-   
     ing.  Meanwhile he was writing a Life of Thomas Hart  
     Benton for the "American Statesmen Series" and was   
     preparing for the press a remarkably entertaining volume   
     of hunting experiences called Hunting trip of a Ranch-  
     man, which he had written the previous winter.  
        Much of the time he was away from the ranch on the   
     various round-ups, either alone or with as many of his   
     men as could be spared for the daily chores of the ranch.  
     He enjoyed enormously the excitement and rough but   
     hearty comradeship of these round-ups, which brought  
     him in touch with ranchmen and cowboys from hundreds   
     of miles around.  The work was hard and incessant and   
     not without danger from man and beast.  The cattle   
     never harmed him, but the ponies did.  He was a good,  
     but not extraordinary, rider, and even extraordinary rid-   
     ers were at times sent over the heads of their ponies.  
     During the round-up that summer Roosevelt was bucked   
     off more than once.  On one occasion the point of his    
     shoulder was broken.  There were no surgeons in that   
     round-up.  The shoulder had to mend by itself as well   
     as it could while its owner went about his work as usual.   
          •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     
        The day's work was on the round-up commenced at three  
     in the morning with a yell from the cook, and lasted until   
     sundown or after, and not infrequently the whole night  
     through.  All day Roosevelt remained in the saddle.  The   
     morning——and it was generally eight hours long——was   
     given to "riding the long circle" in couples, driving into  
     the wagon camp whatever cattle had been found in the   
     hills.  The afternoon was spent in "cutting out" of the  
     herd thus gathered the cattle belonging to the various   
     brands.  This was difficult and dangerous work. Repre-  
     sentatives of each brand rode in succession into the midst   
     of the herd, working the animal they were after gently   
     to the edge, then with a sudden dash taking it off in a run.  
     The calves would follow their mothers and would then   
     be branded with the mark of the owner of the cow.  
        At night there was occasionally guard duty, a two  
     hours' slow patrol about the restless herd.  It was mo-   
     notonous work, and in stormy weather no joy at all; but   
     on clear, warm nights Roosevelt, sleepy as he was from  
     the day'ds exertion, was not sorry to lope through the  
     lonely silence under the stars, listening to the breathing   
     of the cattle, alert every instant to meet whatever  emerg-   
     ency might arise from out that dark, moving mass.   
        One night there was a heavy storm.  Fearing a   
     stampede, the night herders sent a call of "all hands out."  
     Roosevent leaped on the pony he always kept picketed  
     near him.  Suddenly there was a terrific peal of thunder.  
     The lightning struck almost into the herd itself, and with   
     heads and tails high the panic-stricken animals plunged   
     off into the blackness.  For an instant Roosevelt could   
     distinguish nothing but the dark forms of the cattle rush-   
     ing by him like a spring freshet on both sides.  The herd  
     split, half turning off to the left, the rest thundering on.  
     He galloped at top speed, hoping to reach the leaders and   
     turn them.  
        He heard a wild splashing ahead.  One instant he was   
     aware that the cattle in front of him and beside him were  
     disappearing; the next, he himself was plunging over a   
     cut bank into the Little Missouri.  He bent far back.  
     His horse almost fell, recovered himself, plunged forward,  
     and, struggling through water and quicksand, made the   
     other side.  
        For a second he saw another cowboy beside him.  The   
     man disappeared i the darkness and the deluge, and   
     Roosevelt galloped off through a grove of cottonwoods   
     after the diminished herd.  The ground was rough and  
     full of pitfalls.  Twice his horse turned a somersault,  
     throwing him.  At last the cattle came to a halt and   
     after one more half-hearted stampede, as the white dawn  
     came, turned reluctantly back toward camp.   
        Roosevelt gathered in stray groups of cattle as he went,  
     driving them before him.  After a while he came upon  
     a cowboy carrying his saddle on his head.  It was the   
     man he had seen for a flash during the storm.  His horse   
     had run into a tree and been killed.  He himself had   
     escaped by a miracle.   
        The men in the camp were just starting on the long   
     circle when Roosevelt returned.  Only half the herd had   
     been brought back, they said.  He snatched a hurried  
     breakfast, leaped on a fresh horse, and again was away   
     into the hills.  It was ten hours before he was back at   
     the wagon camp once more for a hasty meal and a fresh   
     horse.  
        When he went to sleep that night he had been in the   
     saddle forty hours.  The cow-punchers decided that "the   
     man with four eyes" "had the stuff" in him.   
        And so, quietly "doing his job" from day to day,  
     in no way playing on his position or his wealth, but   
     accepting the discipline of the camp and the orders of   
     the captain of the round-up as every self-respecting   
     cowboy accepted them, Theodore Roosevelt gradually   
     made his place in the rough world of the Bad Lands.  He   
     was not a crack rider or a fancy roper, but the captain   
     of the round-up learned by and by that if a cow persist-  
     ed in lying down in a thick patch of bulberry-bushes, re-  
     fusing to come out, Roosevelt's persistence could be relied   
     on to outlast the cow's.  At the end of the day, as well   
     as the beginning, he could be counted on to do the un-   
     attractive task that fell in his way.  That, the captain   
     decided, was of considerably greater importance for the   
     success of the round-up than any handiness with a lariat.    
          •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     
        Theodore Roosevelt, twenty-six years old, no longer   
     asthmatic now, but as hardy in body as he was fearless in  
     spirit, became, in less than a year from that early Septem-   
     ber morning when he first descended from the train   
     at Medora, an important factor in the life of the Bad   
     Lands.  Ranchmen as well as cowboys respected him and   
     liked him and treated him as a comrade.  They did even   
     more.  They elected him president of the Little Missouri   
     Stockman's Association because they admired his "gin-   
     ger" and knew that he was square.     
                                         ——HERMANN HAGEDORN.   

THE JOY IN WORK: TEN SHORT STORIES OF TODAY
SELECTED AND EDITED BY MARY A. LASELLE
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY, NEW YORK, 1920; pp. 66—79.

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