# Boys' Life/Volume 1/Number 1/The Work of Today's Scouts

THE WORK OF TODAY'S SCOUTS
The Scouts of today—the men who go in front—have all the wild places of the world for their workshop. They are busy men, and do all sorts of things (the hunter, the explorer, the railway builder, the cowboy, the missionary, all belong to the same strong tribe of pioneers), and adventure and danger are part of their daily life as they tread their difficult trails in the far corners of the world. In this series Mr. Roger Pocock, who knows his subject from actual personal experience, will deal with different pioneer types, and will tell you haw they work and how they live.
NO. 1. THE LIFE OF A COWBOY
By Roger Pocock
(The article in the next issue will be on the Life of a Prospector.)
I MUST begin with a warning straight from the shoulder, that American boys who want to be cowboys have very little chance of getting wages. The splendid trade, which has bred the finest breed of manhood under the sun, is dying, and year after year hundreds of ranches are being cut up for farms or turned into pasturage for sheep. The railway companies charge so much for carrying cattle to market that they get the whole of the profits, so that the ranchers cannot earn a living and the cowboys are turned adrift.
But while an American youngster has scarcely any chance of becoming a cowboy in the old Rocky Mountain pasture or on the great plains of the West, I hear that in Australia the trade still prospers. However poor the wages, however hard the work, there are things to be had on the Australian stock range which are worth more than wealth or ease. A stock-rider gets a real education in manliness, self-reliance, generosity, honorable conduct, cleanness of heart, and I would not discourage any fellow from seeking these things in preference to money. Money is not everything.
But the business in hand is to describe the life of the Western American cowboy, and the man himself as I knew him on the range up to eight years ago. He is an American farmer's son, the scamp of the family, born with his blood on fire. In his tender youth he breaks away from home to earn his living in his own way.
Once loose in the world, the American runaway finds the earth is not large enough until he gets into the saddle. Out on the wild, free range he learns the difficult trade of handling cattle—although not one chap in ten who attempts it has the courage, ability and endurance which will earn him a cowboy's wages.
If he does not get killed or thrown out as useless, he lives a life of perfect health, trained until his nerves are like steel, his hands like iron, his eyes clear as heaven. So he grows to manhood, free from the fetters of civilization, in the most dangerous, the worst-paid trade on earth. With dainty vanity he wears the dress of this trade of cavaliers—long boots, with a high heel like that of a lady, and big spurs, so blunt that they cannot hurt, which clash at his heels as he walks.
From waist to heel he wears loose leather armor, guarding the legs from injury from thorns, rocks or falling, keeping out the heat of the sun, shedding the snow and rain, warm as blankets at night. Sometimes these "shaps" are fronted with the hairy skin of bear, goat, or wolf. The shirt is of rough blue or gray flannel—never red, as in pictures and plays, because that color enrages cattle and is too dangerous to wear. Over the shirt men often wear a waistcoat loose for the sake of its pockets, and always a loose handkerchief round the neck to save the spine from sunstroke. The hat is of beaver felt, with a wide flat brim shading the eyes from sun and storm, and a leather string ties it on round the back of the head. A loose belt with cartridges slings a heavy revolver on the right thigh within easy reach, and this is needed for swift shooting in moments of peril from a bolting horse or from some charging bull.
A deep-seated saddle distributes the man's weight over four square feet of horse, and the steel horn rising at the front gives a purchase in throwing, the rope. This rope—a lasso—has a running noose, and is so thrown as to catch a running animal by neck or heels. The shock is taken at the horn of the saddle, while the pony braces himself astraddle, almost sitting down.
Each rider has his own “string" of six or seven ponies, who run with the pony herd. He "ropes" one of his ponies for each spell of work—one each for morning, afternoon, and night herd. Because he always has a fresh mount the cowboy is able to ride an average of fifty miles a day for eight months of the year, so that he covers twice as much ground as the swiftest cavalry on their hardest marches.
The ponies are about the size of our cab-horses, but their tails are long, and sometimes their eyes are mean. They are raised wild out on the open range, and when they see a man they are horribly frightened. One cannot blame the horses, when even the wolves and the grizzly bears will run at the very sight or smell of a cowboy. He is certainly the most dangerous of all wild animals. The little horses fly away, and find that by mistake they have run into a trap—a circular patch of ground ringed in with a fence so high that they cannot jump over—while behind them clangs the gate, which makes them prisoners.
They gallop round the corral, but presently the leading pony hears something whizz through the air, and a sharp white rope, catching him by one foot, throws him head over heels. Before he can get up to fight a cloth comes over his eyes, making him blind, and when he is allowed to rise it is to find a heavy saddle lashed to his body. Then a fiend with sharp thorns on the heels jumps on top of him, the sight is restored to his eyes, and the fight begins.
Far away back, thousands of years ago, before the horse had anything to do with man, the lions and tigers used to hunt him. They ​never dared to attack except when the wild horses came in the evening to water and had to thread their way through the bush. Then Mr. Horse would find a great cat animal leaping upon his back, trying to reach round to bite his throat open. Mr. Horse had to get rid of that wild beast, so he made great cat leaps into the air, coming down stiff on all fours, to shake the enemy from its hold. If that failed he ran against the trees, rolled on his back, bit, kicked, struck, fought like a demon. And that's exactly the way he treats the wild cowboy of today. He fights with all his splendid spirit.
I have known horses to die of a broken heart because they were conquered, and many a cowboy gets his insides shaken to pieces, so that he has to leave the range and take to some gentler trade.
Once thoroughly mastered, these range ponies become quite gentle, and grow to love their masters. At the same time, this rough way of breaking is bad both for man and horse, and if the cattlemen could only afford it they would rear their colts by hand.
So much for the cowboy's riding powers. Then we come to another section of the work—the branding of cattle.
How shall a man know his own cattle? The land is public, there are no fences, the cattle are not herded, but all mixed up and living as the buffalo lived on the buffalo's grass. The owner must have a mark upon his cow, his own mark, burned with a red-hot iron upon the hide. He brands his cow W (flying W) or—(two-bar). Next spring the cow has a calf running beside her, so he brands the calf—, amid howls and screams, contortions, and smoke from the calf. In three years that—calf is a beef steer, to be sorted out from the herd, driven to a railway, shipped to Chicago, potted, exported to China, and eaten by an up-country mandarin, who thus finds out exactly how those foreign devils live.
Now consider the ways of the owner The—cattle have been bought by an English syndicate, represented by "Our Mr. Jones," the resident manager. Our Mr. Jones is a member of the Stock Association, which has placed the—brand on record, that all men may know his syndicate's cattle at sight. Any calf running with a—cow belongs to the two-bar outfit, and will in due course be roped and branded by the two-bar "round-up." If the round-up works too late in the season, and the calf be weaned and loose-footed, that calf is the property of any man who, finding it, burns his brand. It is a "maverick."
Our Mr. Jones hastens in the early spring to get among his cattle before the calves shall wean. He engages eight riders at, say, $35 a month, under a foreman; he provides a traveling wagon or a train of pack animals, a cook, and a wrangler to look after the pony herd. That is the outfit of the two-bar, working in conjunction with the "flying W" and "bar zee" outfits, and attended by a rep. (representative) on behalf of a stock association in the next State, whose cows may have strayed over the boundary. All these riders, under the captain of the round-up, scatter out each day over a given district and collect all the cattle into a bunch. Then the two-bar cuts out its—cattle, and brands their calves and turns them loose for the summer. The other outfits brand their calves, and the rep. takes charge of the strays from the neighbor State, to herd them back over the border. That is the spring round-up.
In the autumn after the haying there is another round-up, precisely like the first, which searches the whole district, collects the cattle, cuts out the saleable animals, turns the rest ​loose, and drives the beef out to the nearest railway for shipment and sale. That is the beef round-up.
All summer the cattle have been straying on the highest ground they could reach—the best grass; but late in the autumn our Mr. Jones sends out his riders to drive them down to the valleys away from the deeper drifts and fiercer winds, there to feed them, if necessary, from the haystacks.
Such is the honorable profession of punching cows.
It's very pleasant to look back on the old days, when, as a traveler, I came to some camp or ranch, and the cowboys would show me where to water my horses and turn them loose to graze. At supper-time they would bid me "walk up to the chuck and grab a bone."
There were fresh beef, hot bread, stewed fruit, cake, and fruit pies—a better meal than one ever got in the towns; but the cowboy never, never milks a range cow, unless he is tired of life and wants to go out of it quick. There was no milk or butter.
After supper the boys would smoke, and we talked horse or cow, or someone started a song.
The Cowboy songs arc always very dismal, and between verses one heard the wolves (coyotes) yowling to the moon. After a time we rolled down our beds under the stars, and then talked horse until we fell asleep. Proper sleep, too—there is no sleep like that in the open air.
Long before dawn came breakfast, and the stars were still shining when the horse wrangler brought in the ponies for each man to rope his morning mount. The first gray light would find all the riders in the saddle, the foreman scattering out his men to gather cattle, while the cook and the wrangler finished their breakfast together.
So I would saddle up, load my pack-horse, and hit the trail, hoping in the great lone land to find such another camp that night, perhaps fifty miles away.
It has been my good fortune to traverse the stock range from north to south, more than three thousand miles, and once or twice in a very amateurish way to earn my bread as a rider.
Looking back through the memories of many years I cannot recall any cowboy who was not at heart a most gallant gentleman. But now the sun is setting on the range, and this heroic trade is almost finished.
At a railway station a few weeks ago an old lady, apparently in a great burry, went up to a porter and said:
"Can I take this train to W———?"
"Well, I dunno, marm," replied the porter, as he proceeded to bang the doors. "You see, the engine generally takes it; but I should think the company wouldn't mind you having a try for once."
"It is well to leave something for those who come after us," quoted a boy as he turned over a barrel in the 'way of some boys who were chasing him.