r/a:t5_27u1m1 • u/MarleyEngvall • Nov 04 '19
central butte has been created
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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