Rawhide Rawlins stories

University of California • Berkeley
Gift of

Rawhide Rawlins

Stories

By Charles M. Russell

Rawhide Rawlins Stories

By

C. M. RUSSELL

With Illustrations by the Author

Printed by

Montana Newspaper Association

Great Falls, Montana, 1921.

(Fourth Printing)

Copyright by

C. M. RUSSELL

1921

CONTENTS

A Eide in a Moving Cemetery 1

There's More Than One David 5

Highwood Hank Quits . . 8

Tommy Simpson's Cow . . . . . . . . 11

How Pat Discovered the Geyser 13

How Louse Creek Was Named 16

Some Liars of the Old West 18

Mormon Zack, Fighter 22

Johnny Sees the Big Show 25

When Mix Went to School 29

When Pete Sets a Speed Mark 33

Bill's Shelby Hotel 34

A Reformed Cowpuncher at Miles City 37

The Story of the Cowpuncher 41

Bronc Twisters 46

Johnny Reforms Landusky 54

The Horse 57

FOREWORD

WHEN I came to Montana, which then was
a territory with no railroads, reading
matter of any kind was scarce. Where
there's nothing to read, men must talk, so when
they were gathered at ranches or stage stations,
they amused themselves with tales of their own or
others' adventures. Many became good story-
tellers. I have tried to write some of these yarns
as nearly as possible as they were told to me.

C. M. RUSSELL,
Great Falls, Montana.

A Ride in a Moving Cemetery

THK! conversation among the group at the end of the bar had turned
to the subject of sudden death, when Rawhide cuts in. Several
times in my life I've been close to the cash in, he says, but about the
nearest I ever come to crossin' the big range is a few years ago before
I move to Montana. This is down in California, an' there's a friend
with me at the time — I ain't givin' his name, but we'll call him Bill
Eoslin. His father's a Chicago millionaire.

Bill crosses over, and the reason I don't tell his right name is
because his folks never know what kind of an end Bill meets. It seems
he's out west for his parents' health, they remainin' in the east, an'
it appears they never get the facts in the case. They believe today that
their lovin' son quit this life in bed, with a preacher hangin' over him
an' a doctor takin' the pulse count. The truth is there wasn't no one
with him at the finish but me an' a team of hosses, an' the hosses take
the long trail with him, leavin' me in the only travelin' cemetery I've
ever seen.

The way this incident starts, we are leanin' over the mahogany in a
joint in Los Gatos, after a big night together. As we're both hoss
lovers, we're givin' this subject a lot of our conversation, and finally
Bill suggests that a buggy ride would be a good thing, as we're feelin'
the need of some fresh air. We leave this joy parlor arm in arm and
visit a friend of mine who owns a livery stable. I tell him what we're
after, and he gives us the best he's got — a span of bays bred in the
purple, and as good as any roadsters in California.

For fear of losin' any of this joyful feelin' we've accumulated,
we're heeled with a quart of corn juice, which we're partakin' of free
and reg'lar as we spin along one of them good California roads with
our hosses up and comin'. Bill keeps tellin' me how fancy he is with
the reins, not forgettin' to criticise my drivin', for he's reached the
stage where he's gettin' argumentative. From the line of talk he hands
out I've got my doubts as to how much he knows about hoss flesh, but
I'm not disputin' him any, for the whole world right now looks so
beautiful to me that there's no chance for an argument on any subject
from religion or Teddy Roosevelt to the best brand of red eye. I want
to sing, and do warble for awhile, but Bill ain't got no musical ear, and
he claims the noise I'm makin' is frettin' the team and drivin' all the
birds out of the country. From feelin' musical I begin to get sleepy,
and the last I remember I'm dozin' off. I recollect Bill reachin' for

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

the reins, and the next I know I've a vague notion I'm in an airship
and can see clear to the Mexican line. I'm wonderin' where I changed
cars when the light goes out.

Eyes Opened on a Tombstone.

When I wake up I'm layin' with my feet higher than my head, and
my eyes open slowly on a big marble tombstone with the letterin':

OUR LOVED ONE AT REST.

JOINED THE ANGELS

JUNE 30, 1911.

I think to myself, I may be their "loved one," but they're liars
when they say I'm at rest. There ain't a place on me that don't ache;
even my hair is sore to the touch.

I start figurin' from the date on the stone how long I've been dead,
but my brain won't work and I give it up. While I'm wonderin'
whether I'll have to make a squarin' talk with Peter, the gateman, I
hear the puff of a switch engine somewhere close by.

"Since when," thinks I, "did they get a railroad built through
here?" But the thirst I've got makes me think maybe I've took the
southern route, and perhaps they're haulin' coal.

"What the hell you doin' here?" breaks in a voice, and it ain't no
angel talkin, so I realize that I'm in the same old world. Lookin' over
the tombstone, sizin' me up, is the toughest lookin' brakie I ever see.

"Where am I?" I inquire without movin'.

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES S

r

He gives me the name of the burg, but it's a camp I never heard of.

"If you'll lead me to a thirst parlor," I says, "I'll buy somethin'
and you're in on it."

"You're on, Bo," says he.

RA i L ROAD

x CROSSINC

He Tried to Cat a Freight in Two.

Then, sittin' up and lookin' around, I discover I'm on a flat car
loaded to the rims with tombstones, and I'm layin' in front of the
biggest one in the lot. Although it nearly kills me to move, I scramble
to the ground, and the brakie pilots me to a little joint across the tracks.
There's nobody in there but the bartender and the flies, and this toddy
mixer is busy readin' a newspaper. Thro win' my silver on the bar,
I tell him to get in. It's pretty bad booze, but it helps bring me back
to life. The bartender's sociable, and after I buy a couple of rounds
for the three of us, pickin' up the paper again, he says, "quite a killin'
across the state."

"What killin'?" says I.

"Some feller runs a team into a freight that's slidin' down a grade
about three hundred miles south of here, ' ' says the barkeep. ' ' Smashes
himself and the team into chunks."

"I'll bet that's Bill Roslin," I says. "Seems to me I was buggy-

4 RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

ridin' with him some time this year. Judgin' from where I find myself
this mornin' I was with him at the cash in."

"What do you think of that!" the brakie asks the bartender, tap-
pin' his forehead.

"Turn over, you're layin' on your back," says the bartender.
"That smash-up happens a day's ride from here. Wait a minute,
though," he goes on. "It does say here that there's a feller with him
that they can't locate."

"Well, that's me," says I.

I find out later that Eoslin tries to cut a freight in two with this
team, killin' himself and both hosses. That's when I land among these
grave ornaments and take a ride in a movin' cemetery.

There's More Than One David

I NEVER knowed much about the Good Book, says Rawhide, but
there's one story I've always remembered since childhood that I
heer'd at Sunday school. That's the one where this sheepherder,
David, hurls a rock at Goliar an' wins the fight easy. But when I
growed up I kind o' doubted this yarn till it's proved to me by the real
thing that size nor weepons don't always win a battle.

One time, years ago, I'm winterin' in a little burg. I ain't men-
tionin' no names, as some of the parties still live, an' havin' families it
might cause the offspring to underestimate the old man.

In this camp there's a man that's got a history back of him that's
sure scary. He's wearin' several notches on his gun an' has this little
burg buffaloed. This gentleman's big all ways. He stands six feet
four an' he'll weigh two hundred an' fifty easy. As for looks, his
features is wolfish an' his brain cavity wouldn't make a drinkin' cup
for a canary bird. Knowin' he's got everybody bluffed, his feelin's is
mighty easy hurt, an' most of the folks keep him soothed by buyin'
drinks for him. One day a stranger forgets to buy him a drink, an'
the big man bends a gun over his head.

There's a reformed preacher in this town, runnin' a stud poker
game. This feller is Bible-wise and hangs the name "Goliar" on the
big man, but when he calls him that to his face the giant gets wolfy.
Misunderstandin' the name, he thinks the stud dealer's callin' him a
liar. The gambler, bein' a quick thinker, is mighty fast squarin' it up
an' tells him the Bible story, barrin' the finish, but whisperin' to me
on the side, says he wishes David would drop in.

Goliar has things his own way all winter, when Christmas comes
along. There's fellers from line camps an' all the cow and hoss ranches
in the country rides in to celebrate. Most of 'em knowin' Goliar 's back
record an' lookin' for pleasure, not trouble, are careful about startin'
arguments. They're all gamblin' an' buyin' drinks. Nobody's barred,
so its pretty soft for the big feller. The whisky they're sellin' ain't a
peaceful fluid at the best, an' with his hide full of fightin' booze, he's
touchy as a teased snake. He makes a tenderfoot or two dance, but
he can't get no excuse to make no killin's.

Among these range people there's a lonesome sheepherder an' his
dog. He's an undersized proposition, takes plenty of whisky but says
no thin'. He loves music an' does his entertainin' with a mouth harp,

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

but most of the time he's sleepin' off in a corner with the best friend
he's got layin' at his feet.

These people are all mighty enthusiastic celebratin' this saintly
day, an' of course there's several fights pulled, but none of 'em's fin-
ished with worse than a black eye or broken nose. One gentleman, a
gun packer, reaches for his weepon once, but Goliar's standin' close to
his meat. He gets his own barker first an' combs this puncher's hair.
Of course this finishes the fight with the spillin' of some blood, but
there's no powder burnt.

'Long about noon this little shepherd dozes off into a nap over in
a corner. All this drunken hollerin' an' talkin' don't disturb his
slumbers, but it seems to work on his dog's nerves, an' when the collie
can't stand it no longer, he slips out, lookin' for some of his own kind
that's sober. He's soon gettin' along fine with a bunch of his species,
an' is sure enjoyin' himself when Goliar, who's roamin' from one joint
to another, sets eyes on him. It's pickin's for this low-minded giant,
an' it ain't long before he's got this poor dog turned loose with a can
hangin' to him.

The Shepherd HurU » Boulder at "Gol!»r."

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 7

The first charge the collie makes is in among the hosses that's tied
to the rack, leavin' nothin' much on the pole but broken bridle reins
an' hackamore ropes, an' quite a few of the celebrators are afoot. Then
Mr. Dog starts for his friend an' partner, an' when he tears into this
saloon, the noise he's makin' wakens the little shepherd. The dog
winds up whinin' on his master's knee.

This shepherd's face, that has always been smilin' an' happy, looks
mighty war-like now, an' it wouldn't be healthy for the canner to be
close to him. Seems like he's sober in a minute. While he's untyin'
the can from his dog, the owner of this booze joint, who's a dog lover
himself, steps over an' slippin' a forty-five into the sheepherder's hand,
whispers: "That's Goliar 's work; go get him, Shep."

But the sheepherder, who's cryin' now, shakes his head, an' re-
fuses the weepon, sayin ' he don 't need no gun to clean up that big louse.
Then he leaves without even askin' for a drink, his dog slinkin' close
to his heels. He's quite a way up the street when Goliar spies him an'
hollers: "Go 'round 'em, Shep! Have you got all the black ones?"
Pullin' his gun, the giant starts liftin' the dirt around the shepherd's
feet.

But the herder ain't gun-shy an' don't even side-step till one of
the bullets graze the dog, who whines an' crowds his master's legs.
Whirlin' 'round, the gentle shepherd reaches down, picks up a good-
sized boulder an' hurls it at Goliar, catchin' him on the point of the
chin. Goliar straightens up an' falls his length, an' before he can
recover the herder has tore the gun loose from the giant's clutches and
is workin' him over with the barrel.

Some one wants to stop him, but the same feller that offers him the
gun tells the crowd to stand back an' let Shep finish. The stud dealer,
who's watched the play from the start, says: "Goliar got his — that's
sure enough David. The same as cards, history repeats — I'd Ve played
Goliar with a copper."

This Goliar is gathered up an' sent by the next stage to the hospital
where he's nursed back to life. His nose is broke; the same with his
right jaw, an' one of his ears has to be sewed on.

I ain't seen Goliar for years, but the last time I met him he's
wearin' scars that's a map of the battle he had with David.

Highwood Hank Quits

WHEN I first knowed Highwood Hank he's a cowpuncher and is
pretty handy among broncs, says Rawhide. In them days he's
ridin' for the P, and anybody that savvies that iron knows they
never owned a boss that wasn't a snake. A man had to be a rider to
work for 'em. If a hoss thief found a P boss in his bunch at daybreak,
it 's a cinch he 'd turn him loose. P bosses was notorious.

Kid Russell tells me he rode one summer for Ben Phillips, who
owned that brand. He claimed be didn't take on no flesh that year.
When he quit his fingernails was all wore off an' there wasn't a hoss
in bis string that had any mane from bis ears to his withers. There
was spur tracks all over his saddle. He couldn't ever eat supper think-
in' of the hoss he bad to fork the next mornin', and he never made
no try at breakfast. His hands is so shaky all that spring that he has
to get a friend to roll his cigarettes, an' if he'd worked a whole season
his fingers would be wore down to the knuckles. As it is it takes a solid
year to get the crooks out of his hands from bavin' 'em clamped 'round
the saddle horn.

As I said before, Hank's a rider, but like all others, old Daddy
Time has hung it on him. It seems these days like his backbone has
growed together in places an' it don't take to the swing of a pitchin'
bronc. Hank's married now, and he's a granddad. He still owns a ranch
and rides, but they ain't the long circles he used to make.

A couple of years ago Hank runs in a bunch of broncos. They're
rollin' fat an' pretty snuffy. He drops his rope on to one, an' the
the minute his loop tightens, Mr. Bronc swings 'round, comin ' at Hank
with his ears up, wbistlin' like a bull elk. In the old days this would
a-been music to Hank 's ears. It takes him back to the P string.

Mrs. Hank's lookin' through the corral fence an' begs Hubby not
to crawl this one. He tells her not to worry.

"All you got to do it sit back an' watch me scratch bis shoulders."
he says. "You won't have to pay no railroad fare to Miles City to see
bronc ridin," he tells her. "This is goin' to be home talent."

"He'll throw you," says she.

"Yes he will," says Hank, as he cinches his hull on.

This bronc 's got bis near ear dropped down an' about half of bis
eye shows white. He's humped till you could throw a dog under the

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

saddle skirts behind, Hank's whistlin' "Turkey in the Straw" to
keep his sand up, an' his wife notices there's a tremble in his hand as
he reaches for the horn.

The minute the bronc feels weight on the near stirrup he starts

for the clouds, an' the second time he comes down Hank ain't with him.
He's sittin' on the ground with two hands full of corral dust.

"I told you so," says Wifie.

"Yes you did," says Hank. "You're a fine partner, sittin' there
like you're deaf and dumb. Any time I ever rode a bronc before there's
always been somebody around to yell: 'Stay with him — hang an'

10 RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

rattle.' You didn't give me any encouragement. Just lookin' at you
scared me loose."

"All right," says Mrs. Hank, "I'll try to do better next time."

But the next one is a shorter ride than the first. His better half
yells: "Stay with him," but it's just as Hank hits the ground.

"I hollered that time," says she.

"Yes you did," says Hank. "Why didn't you wait till New
Years?"

Hank hates to do it, but he has to own up that his bronc ridin' days
is over.

Tommy Simpson's Cow

IN the old days the sight of a cow follered by more than one calf is
apt to cause comment among cowpeople, says Rawhide. But times
have changed an' it looks like new improvements has come in the
stock business along with dry farmin' an' prohibition. Not all these
modern ideas is hatched up on this side of the water, though. Tommy
Simpson's prize cow proves that.

Tommy Simpson's Cow.

The other day I'm ridin' on Box Elder creek, when I'm surprised
to see a cow that's got five calves follerin' her, all wearin' Tommy
Simpson's brand. Tommy's an old-timer in the cattle business, so I
figger he'll have some interestin' explanation to make of this miracle.
I'm still ponderin' over it when I ride into the town of Fife, which
Tommy has named after the village in Scotland that he's run out of
as a youth for poachin'. Enterin' the store there, who do I see but the
owner of the cow an' five calves. I presently remark that's sure some
cow of his.

Tommy, with both jowls loaded with Climax, as usual, is speechless,
until he opens the stove door an' nearly puts the fire out. Then, gettin'
his breath, he explains that the cow has been sent to him from the
Highlands of Scotland by his grandfather. The animal, he says, comes
to this country in charge of a cousin of Tommy.

12

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

It appears that Tommy's cousin, with thrift that's characteristic
of the family, drives a sharp bargain with the captain of the sailin'
ship in which he engages passage from Strachlachan, which is not far
from Ballochantry, somewhere north of the Firth of Gallway. Tommy's
cousin agrees to furnish milk and cream to the ship's crew an'
twenty-three passengers if they'll let him an' the cow travel on a pass.
This suits the captain. On the way over the cow is milked evenin' an'
mornin' by Tommy's cousin an' the members of the larboard watch.
How Tommy's cousin an' the cow beat their way from New York to
Montana, I never hear.

Accordin' to Tommy, cows of this breed ain't uncommon in the
Scotch Highlands. They're built somewhat along the lines of the lady
pig. Tommy says it's an interestin' sight, after the cow gets to his
ranch, for the neighbors to watch Tommy and several hired men milk
the Scotch cow. The milk from the off side supplies the Fife creamery
with butter fat, while that from the near side of the cow nourishes her
half-dozen calves.

Tommy tells me that in Scotland, where these cows eat the nutri-
tious heather, the center bag gives pure cream; the rear one, buttermilk,
an' the forward one skim milk, so they don't need no separator.

Time.

How Pat Discovered the Geyser

COLUMBUS discovers America. A feller called Ponce de Leon
claims lie discovered Florida. Jim Bridger finds the Great Salt
Lake, but it's Pat Geyser, as he's knowed by old timers, that
locates the geyser on Geyser creek, near the town that gets its name
from it. Pat Geyser ain't this gent's right name, but I ain't tippin'
nobody's hand, observes Rawhide.

Pat tells that one day in the early '80s he's out lookin' for cows,
an' the chances are good that any he takes an interest in belong to
somebody else. Pat's good hearted an' he hates to see calves wanderin'
around wearin' no brand. They look so homeless that he's always
willin' to stake 'em to a brand with his own iron.

Pat's hoss is dry when he rides on to this creek an' notices a muddy
pool, but as there ain't no geysers in Ireland, Pat don't savvy, he says.
His hoss ain't no more'n dropped his head to drink than this here geyser
busts loose, takin' Pat an' the hoss along with it. There's steam, sody
water an' a mixture of all the health resorts in this stew that's boiled
over, an' Pat claims the force of it lifts his hoss from his iron shoes.

Pat tells that he don 't know how far skyward he goes, but him an '
the hoss passes an eagle on the way back.

Now I'm goin' to say here that I've seen this geyser myself, many
a time, but me nor no one else, barrin' Pat, ever see it do anything more
vicious than a keg of sour dough would. It just kind of bubbles once
in a while.

Havin' heard of the Yallerstone Park, an' thinkin' he's found
another one, Pat starts a few days after buildin' a health resort, follerin'
the plans of the Mammoth hotel, but bein' built of cottonwood logs,
dry weather shrinks her a lot. I remember bein' there once, and after
a few drinks of Pat Geyser's favor-ite, the measurements swells till
this shack looks like the Brown Palace in Denver.

For the first few years Pat don't draw a strong trade, as humans
are scatterin' and the only sickness in the country is scab, the sheepmen
havin' dippin' tanks for that. But in time it grows into quite a resort
and rest cure for shepherds. These herders don't take much to the
geyser water, barrin' the little Pat throws in as a "chaser."

Tenderfeet stoppin' with Pat would often ask: "When does this
geyser turn loose?"

14

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

^-^_— •<

Pat 's always there with a
comeback: "How long will
you be here?"

"Leavin' tomorrer," the
tenderfoot might say.

"You'll just miss it by a
day." Pat had it fixed so
the visitor was always shy a
day or two of seein' it.

None of the regular pa-
trons of the resort ever see
anything that ain't brought
on by liquor, but by usin'
enough of the rest cure medicine the bartender passed out there, a man
could see northern lights at noon time, rainbows at night an' total
eclipses of the sun any time — to say nothin' of geysers of all sizes.

Pat was strong for the social end of life, an' he used to pull card
parties for freighters to break the monotony of their trips. At these

The Oeyaer Rosin I.noie

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

IS

no skinner was allowed to bet any more than he had. Some knockers
said Pat knew both sides of the cards, but if he ever dealt off the bottom
it's when nobody's lookin'.

One afternoon when Pat's asleep the railroad sneaks in an' moves
the town. The minute Pat opens his eyes he's onto their hole card, and
gettin' the wheel barrow, he moves his hotel over to the new location
an' has his dinin' room open for supper.

When automobiles get popular, Pat, who's always progressive an'
up-to-date, buys one. The day after it's delivered, Pat asks a friend
to ride over to Stanford with him. They started, an' after passin' what
looks like Stanford as far as he could tell at the 80-mile gait they're
goin', an' seein' they're nearin' Judith Gap, the friends asks: "What's
your hurry, Patf "

"I'm in no hurry," Pat yelled, "but I'm damned if I know how to
stop the thing. We'll have to let it run down."

The car bein' young, it has the ways of a bronc, an' Pat almost died
at the wheel with his hands numb an' locked in the spokes. The friend
gives him nourishment that keeps life in him, an' 18 hours later they
wind up on Greybull river in Wyoming.

Move.. HU Hotel.

How Louse Creek Was Named

AIN'T you ever heard how Louse Creek got its name? inquires Raw-
hide. Well, I ain 't no historian, but I happen to savvy this incid-
ent. The feller that christens it ain't like a lot of old timers that
consider it an honor to have streams an' towns named after 'em. His
first name's Pete, and he still lives in the Judith, but I ain't goin' no
further exceptin' to say he's a large, dark-complected feller, he's
mighty friendly with Pat O'Hara and his hangout is the town of
Geyser.

When I knowed him first he's a cowpuncher. From looks you'd
say he didn't have no thin' under his hat but hair, but what he knows
about cows is a gift. Bight now he's got a nice little bunch rangin' in
the foothills. There's a lot of talk about the way he gets his start —
you can believe it or not, suit yourself — but I think it's his winnin'
way among cows. He could come damn near talkin' a cow out of her
calf. Some say they've seen calves follerin' his saddle boss across the
prairie. One old cowman says he's seen that, alright, but lookin'
through glasses, there's a rope between the calf and Pete's saddle horn.

Fete Had • Winning Way With Cattle

But goin' back to the namin' of Louse Creek, it's one spring round-
up, back in the early '80s. We're out on circle, an' me an' Pete's ridin'
together. Mine's a center-fire saddle, and I drop back to straighten
the blanket an' set it. I ain't but a few minutes behind him, but the

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

17

next I see of Pete is on the bank of this creek, which didn't have no
name then. He's off his hoss an' has stripped his shirt off. With
one boulder on the ground an' another about the same size in his hand,
he's poundin' the seams of the shirt. He's so busy he don't hear me
when I ride up, and he's cussin' and swearin' to himself. I hear him
mutter, "I'm damned if this don't get some of the big ones!"

Well, from this day on, this stream is known as Louse Creek.

-! I'll Get the Bit OHM Anyway!

Some Liars of the Old West

S PEA KIN' of liars, says Rawhide, the old west could put in its claim
for more of 'em than any other land under the sun. The moun-
tains and plains seemed to stimulate man's imagination. A man
in the states might have been a liar in a small way, but when he comes
west he soon takes lessons from the prairies, where ranges a hundred
miles away seem within touchin' distance, streams run uphill and
nature appears to lie some herself.

These men weren't vicious liars. It was love of romance, lack of
reading matter and the wish to be entertainin' that makes 'em stretch
facts and invent yarns. Jack McGowan, a well known old timer now
livin' in Great Falls, tells of a man known as Lyin' Jack, who was
famous from Mexico to the Arctic.

,McGowa[n says one of Jack's favorite tales is of an elk he once
killed that measured 15 feet spread between the antlers. He used to
tell that he kept these horns in the loft of his cabin.

"One time I hadn't seen Jack for years," said McGowan, "when
he shows up in Benton. The crowd's all glad to see Jack, an' after a
round or two of drinks, asks him to tell them a yarn.

" 'No, boys,' says Jack, 'I'm through. For years I've been tellin'
these lies — told 'em so often I got to believin' 'em myself. That story
of mine about the elk with the 15-foot horns is what cured me. I told
about that elk so often that I knowed the place I killed it. One
night I lit a candle and crawled up in the loft to view the horns—-
an' I'm damned if they was there.' "

Once up in Yogo, Bill Cameron pointed out Old Man Babcock an'
another old-timer, Patrick, sayin', "there's three of the biggest liars
in the world."

"Who's the third!" inquired a bystander.

"Patrick's one an' old Bab's the other two," says Cameron.

This Babcock one night is telling about getting jumped by 50
hostile Sioux, a war party, that's giving him a close run. The bullets
an' arrows are tearin' the dirt all around, when he hits the mouth of
a deep canyon. He thinks he's safe, but after ridin' up it a way, dis-
covers it's a box gulch, with walls straight up from 600 to 1,000 feet.

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 19

His only get-away's where he come in an' the Indians are already whip-
pin' their ponies into it.

Bight here old Bab rares back in his chair, closes his eyes an ' starts
fondlin' his whiskers. This seems to be the end of the story, when
one of the listeners asks:

"What happened then?"

Old Bab, with his eyes still closed, takin' a fresh chew, whispered:
"They killed me, be God!"

The upper Missouri river steamboats, they used to say, would run
on a light dew, an' certainly they used to get by where there was mighty
little water. X. Beidler an' his friend, Major Reed, are traveling by
boat to Fort Benton. One night they drink more than they should.
X. is awakened in the morning by the cries of Reed. On entering his
stateroom, X. finds Reed begging for water, as he's dying of thirst.

X. steps to the bedside, and takin' his friend's hand, says: "I'm
sorry, Major, I can't do anything for you. That damned pilot got
drunk, too, last night, and we're eight miles up a dry coulee!"

"Some say rattlers ain't pizen," said Buckskin Williams, an old
freighter, "but I know different. I'm pullin' out of Milk river one
day with 14, when I notice my line hoss swing out an' every hoss on
the near side crowds the chain. My near wheel hoss, that I'm ridin',
rares up an' straddles the tongue. It's then I see what the trouble
is — a big rattler has struck, misses my hoss an' hits the tongue. The
tongue starts to swell up. I have to chop it off to save the wagon, an'
I'm damn quick doin' it, too!"

*****

"Cap" Nelse, a well known old timer around Benton in the early
days, tells of coming south from Edmonton with a string of half-
breed carts. They were traveling through big herds of buffalo. It
was spring and there were many calves. They had no trouble with the
full-grown buffalo, Cap said, but were forced to stop often to take
the calves from between the spokes of the cart-wheels!

*****

A traveling man in White Sulphur Springs makes a bet of drinks
for the town with Coates, a saloon keeper, that Coates can 't find a man
that will hold up his hand and take his oath that he has seen 100,000
buffalo at one sight. When the bet's decided, it's agreed to ring the
triangle at the hotel, which will call the town to their drinks.

Many old-timers said they had seen that many buffalo, but refused

They Killed Me!

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 21

to swear to it, and it looked like Coates would lose his bet until Milt
Crowthers showed up. Then a smile of confidence spread over Coates'
face, as he introduces Crowthers to the drummer.

"Mr. Crowthers," said the traveling man, "how many antelope
have you seen at one time?"

Crowthers straightens up and looks wise, like he's turning back
over the pages of the past. "Two hundred thousand," says he.

"How many elk?" asks the traveling man.
"Somethin' over a million," replies Crowthers.

"Mr. Crowthers, how may buffalo will you hold up your hand
and swear you have seen at one sight?"

Crowthers holds up his hand. "As near as I can figure," says
he, ' ' about three million billion. ' '

This is where Coates starts for the triangle, but the traveling
man halts him, saying, "Where were you when you saw these buffalo,
Mr. Crowthers?" ,

"I was a boy travelin' with a wagon train," replies Crowthers.
' ' We was south of the Platte when we was forced to corral our wagons
to keep our stock from bein' stampeded by buffalo. For five days an'
nights 50 men kep' their guns hot killin' buffalo to keep 'em off the
wagons. The sixth day the herd spread, givin' us time to yoke up an'
cross the Platte, an' it's a damn good thing we did."

"Why?" asks the traveling man.

"Well," says Crowthers, "we no more than hit the high country
north of the Platte, than lookin' back, here comes the main herd!"

Mormon Zack, Fighter

I SEE Mormon Zack's in the hospital with a bad front foot. This
bein' crippled ain't nothin' strange for the Mormon, said Rawhide
Rawlins, as he pulled the "makin's" out of his coat pocket and
started rollin' one.

If I knowed the story of every scar he's got I could hand the
people a history that would make a lot of the scraps the kaiser
lost look like a prayer meetin'. My knowledge of history's a little
hazy, but knowin' Zack came from Norway and judgin' from his
actions, he's a come-back of some of them old fightin' Norsemen. You
might lick him, but you can't keep him licked and he fights as well
underneath as he does on top.

The first time I see Zack I'm a kid, helpin' throw up a log shack
on the Judith river. There's a feller rides up with an Injun boss under
him. He's sittin' in an old-fashioned low-horn saddle with "dog-
house" stirrups. In dress he's wearin' the garments of a breed — moc-
casins and beaded buckskin leggin's that come to the knees. In his
ca'tridge belt is a skinnin' knife an' across the front of him lays a
Winchester in a fringed an' beaded skin gun cover. One of the men
that's with me tells me that's Mormon Zack.

That'll soon be 40 years ago. At that time there's still a lot of
Injun trade in the country, an' that's the Mormon's business. The
first time I knowed of Zack gettin' warlike is a little while after this at
Reed's Fort, a tradin' post near where Lewistown stands today. It's
run by Reed and Bowles.

There's about 200 lodges of Piegans come to the post for trade.
Bowles don't happen to be there, as he's gone to Ben ton to get whisky.
While he's off gettin' this wet goods, Zack an' his partner comes along
and make a trade, an' when Bowles arrives there ain't as much as a
skunk skin left among them Piegans. They 're traded down to a breech-
clout.

This don't make Bowles pleasant to get along with an' he starts
fillin' up on this trade whisky. This is the booze that made the jack-
rabbit spit in a wolf's eye.

As I said before, Bowles fills up an' starts tellin' Zack how much
he thinks of him, an' the talk Zack comes back with ain't very genteel.
Zack's standin' pretty close, for all the time they're talkin' he's on to
Bowies' hole-card. He knows this hog-leg that's hangin' on Bowies'

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 23

hip ain't no watch-charm, so to avoid any misunderstanding, Zack
hands Bowles one on the chin, knockin' him from under his hat. He's
near bein' too late, for Bowles has already reached for his barker an'
just when Zack's reachin' his jaw she speaks out loud, the ball nearly
tearin' Zack's hind leg off at the hip.

Bowles don't come to till next day, an' then he wants to know
which hoss kicked him. Zack 's worse off as there ain 't no doctor nearer
than Ben ton. Of course, there's a medicine man in the Piegan camp,
but Zack ain't Injun enough to believe that this red doctor can beat
a tom-tom an' sing his leg together, so he forks a hoss an' pulls for the
steamboat town. This little incident don't seem to take none of the
fight out of Zack, an' he wins an' loses a few battles down there while
he's healin' up.

It's a few years later Zack comes near crossin' the range when
he mixes with a fighter in Benton. The battle's Zack's from the start
till the other fellow cheats by drawin' a knife, an' slippin' it into
Zack's flank he walks clean 'round him, leavin' Zack with no thin'
holdin him up but his backbone. His friends help him gather up the
loose ends, and gettin' a doctor with a sackin' needle, he's soon patched
up again.

Another time Zack fights a feller all day. Of course they stop for
drinks an' feed. There really ain't no hard feelins'; they're just tryin'
to find out which is the best man. They'd a-been fightin' yet but their
eyes swelled shut at last an' they couldn't find one another.

There was one town Zack was doubtful of, an' that was Bull Hook.
In them days this burg held the pennant for fighters.

Zack had been cookin' on the Teton roundup, an' when they break
up that fall he jumps a train headed east. He's got quite a bankroll
and a friend stakes him to a quart that ain't grape juice. He's figurin'
on winterin' in some of the towns along the road, so when the train
stops at this town of Bull Hook, or Havre as they call it now, he steps
off to get the air an' size up the citizens.

As I was sayin', this town in the old days was the home of most
of the fighters of the northwest. Zack picks out the biggest, hardest
one in sight, an' walkin' up friendly like, hands him one in the jaw with
every pound he's got. With this the ball opens, but it don't last long,
an ' Zack 's hit him everywhere when the big feller hollers ' ' enough. ' '

Then the stranger wants to know what it's all about and asks Zack
to introduce himself an' explain, just out of curiosity, what's his reason
for tearin' into him. Zack tells him there's no hard feelin's an' it ain't
no old grudge he's workin' off, but he kind of figured on winterin' in

24

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

Bull Hook, an' hearin' they're all fighters there, he thinks this is the
best way of introducin' himself.

"I picked the biggest one among you," says the Mormon. "If I'd
a' lose, I was goin' on to Chinook, but seein' I win, I'll winter with
you." An' he did.

Although Zack's a natural scrapper, like many of his kind he has
plenty of good traits, is good-hearted, an' I never knowed him to jump
on a weakling. It was always a man who claimed to be a fighter, too.
Zack belonged to his time an' it was his kind and not the reformers
that made Montana. These last came with the tumble weed.

Zack Pick* Out the Biggest, Rardest-lookln' Citizen He C»n 8w> and SwIoEn on His Jaw With F.verT Pound He'» Oo».

Johnny Sees the Big Show

I SEE where an old-time roundup cook, a friend of mine — though I
don't want you to think his cookin' ever tied any friendship knot
between us — crosses the big pond to take a look at the trenches,
said Rawhide Rawlins.

Johnny's as far as I'll go with his name. This range chef always
was better talkin' than he was cookin' an' when I meet him the other
day he tells me that on his trip over he gets kidney sores wearin' a life
preserver, an' he's so sick he's afraid the Dutchmen won't sink the
boat. One day he's hangin' with his head over the rail. Most people
think it's a sailor's union suit hung out to dry, but a Red Cross nurse
recognizes it as human, and puttin' her arm 'round him in a motherly
way, says, "Are you sick?"

"Hell, no," says Johnny. "I'm doin' this for fun."

"Have all the fun you want," she conies back at him. "These big
waves is full of jokes." Johnny tries to smile, but his countenance
resembles a good job by the undertaker.

When the boat lands it takes four stewards to unload Johnny.
The customs bull looks him over, an' noticin' a swellin' around his
middle, thinks he's grabbed a smuggler, but strippin' him finds he's
still wearin' the life preserver.

Took Four Stewards to Unload Johnny

26 RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

He walks around Liverpool till the town quits rockin'; then takes
a train to London, he tells me, on one of them little English cars they
lock you in. Johnny feels like a steer goin' to Chicago; the bull bars
is up. They don't let him out to feed, but this don't bother him none
as his boat ride has taken all ideas of eatin' out of his thoughts.

In this box with him is a red-faced Englishman, wearin' a single
eyeglass an' looking about as intelligent as a Merino ram at the state
fair. He's lookin' in one place all the time, an' after about four hours
it gets on Johnny's nerves. Thinkin' he'll start a talk, Johnny remarks
on the beautiful scenery that might be there if the fog would lift. This
don't break the stare of the beef eater. Johnny tries him again:
"Does this train stop at a line camp like London, or does she go right
through to Chinook?" he inquires.

The Britisher don't pay no more attention to Johnny than if he
was part of the upholsterin '. Johnny, thinkin' maybe he's a dummy,
tries sign talk, but he loses again.

By the time he gets to London, he's wolf hungry. He drops into
a feed shop, an' seein' meat pie on the layout, tells the waiter he'll
play that. He takes one bite, an' findin' this pie cold as a well digger's
feet, he pushes back his chair. "I lose," says he to the waiter, "an'
though I ain't no welcher, I've been cold-decked."

This biscuit slave asks what's his trouble. When Johnny makes
him savvy he likes this dish hot, the waiter looks seasick at the idea
of a hot meat pie. Johnny afterwards learns that King Alfred the
Great burnt his cakes, but liked his meat pie cold, an' what was good
enough for Al a couple of thousand years ago is all right for an
Englishman.

The next day Johnny takes in Westminster Abbey, an' after lookin'
'round at tombstones that's piled so plentyful he's walkin' on 'em, he
gets kind of hostile because he don't see none of his people represented.
He tells the guide his name, says his ancestors was English and wants
to know why his folks is barred.

The guide, bein' history -wise, is there with an answer, an' tells
Johnny without stutterin' that in them days they didn't bury no high-
waymen, but left 'em hangin' in their chains, feed for the ravens.

Johnny wanders through the Tower of London next an' sees a lot
of them old clothes that the blacksmith built. He notices one old iron
hat that's bigger 'n all the rest an' wearin' more scars an' dents.

"Who wears that one!" he asks the guide.

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 27

' ' Sir James Burnham, a famous warrior of the tenth century, ' ' the
guide tells him.

Johnny takes off his hat an' bows like he's pullin' a silent prayer.
"What's the cause of this reverence?" the guide inquires.

"Hush," says Johnny. "That iron lid belonged to a forefather
of an old friend of mine of that name. He's knowed from Deadwood
to the Pacific as Piano Jim. Jim, like his ancestor, was warlike. That
dented hardware hat has a smooth surface compared to the war scars
on Piano Jim's head. If Jim had owned that lid he'd a win more
battles."

Then Johnny leaves the beef eaters' camp for the land of the frog
eaters. He's as shy about takin' water again as a cat, but there ain't
no ford. It's a groundhog case — he's got to take the boat.

This trip ain't so long, but it's just as shaky as the big creek, an'
when he lands the health officers nearly turn him back. Judgin' by
his looks he's a German spy with a load of yaller fever hangin' on him,
but he squares himself with a few words of French he learned on Big
Springs creek from Louis Baptiste. This Louis's one of nature's
noblemen. He's got all the refinements of a Sioux Indian on his
mother's side, an' his dad's a French whisky trader. The language
he uses is a mixture of the same stew. These Frenchmen know there's
some French in what Johnny's sayin', but from the way he speaks it
they think he's been gassed in the trenches.

When Johnny's near enough the fightin' line to smell smoke, it
seems home-like. It reminds him of Landusky on a quiet day. When
they tell him of the horrors of the trenches — the vermin an' rats — it
don't scare him none, although Johnny tells the French officer he never
had no rats.

Johnny tells me he sees two kings on this trip. The only kind of
kings he's ever had anything to do with before is when he's playin'
stud poker an' it's his deal. Then sometimes he's fast enough to get
one off the bottom.

One of these kings excuses himself for not shakin' hands, but he's
doin' his own washin' an' has both front legs in the suds to his
shoulders. It seems hes lost his' job wearin' a crown.

The other one he meets asks him in to feed. This king is plumb
tickled when Johnny tells him he's from Montana, an' says he ranged
over that same territory one summer while on a trip to educate him-
self. When Johnny tells his majesty that the lid's on there now, the
king chokes an' big tears come to his blinkers. It's quite a few minutes
before he can speak without bustin' into sobs. When he gets back
to himself again he inquires in a tremblin' voice, "How's Fifteen-two

28

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

and that refined gentleman, French Charlie!" There's another bust
of sorrow when Johnny tells him Fifteen's herdin' hogs for Sid Willis
on the Teton, an' French Charlie's cookin' for a Flathead chief on the
Pend d'Oreilles. Catchin' the king while his heart's soft, Johnny
touches him for a cigarette.

Johnny Lunches With the Kin*

Johnny's says he wonders what it is the king's feedin' him, but
seein' it's war times, he's too much of a gentleman to ask any questions.
He says it reminds him of a feed he had once with Little Bear in the
Cree camp. Of course then he knowed what the victuals was because
he missed one of the dogs.

Speakin' about old days in Montana, the king says the best named
man he met out there was Kickin' George. "I played one afternoon
with the Kicker at Pat O'Hara's place at Geyser," he says, "an' he
just naturally roared me out of my money. He had me buffaloed, bat
I've been told since that George ain't got the sand of a pee-wee."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," says the king, "but have they closed
Shorty Young's place at Havre! One of the pleasantest remem-
brances I've got during my career is an afternoon an' evenin' at
Shorty's place. The music was soft an' dreamy as the breezes whis-
pered through the willows on Bull Hook creek. My country is noted
for its cooks, but our mixers of beverages is dirty deuces compared
with Shorty Young — he's the ace," an' the king heaves a sigh.

Johnny never gets to tell me the rest of his trip, as when he gets
this far he's got to «atch a train for Browning, where he's going to
make a talk to his old friends, the Piegans.

When Mix Went to School

SCHOOL days, school days, dear old Golden Eule days — that's the
song I've heer'd 'em sing, says Rawhide Eawlins, an' it may be
all right now, but there was no thin' dear about school days when
I got my learnin'. As near as I can remember them he-school marms we
had was made of the same material as a bronco busteri Any way the
one I went to in Missouri had every kid whip-broke. He'd call a name
an' pick up a hickory, an' the owner of the name would come tremblin'
to the desk.

Charlie Mix — maybe some of you knowed him — that used to run
the stage station at Stanford, tells me about his school days, an' it
sure sounds natural. As near as I can remember, he's foaled back in the
hills in New York state. There's a bunch of long, ganglin' kids in this
neck of the woods that's mostly the offspring of old-time lumber jacks
that's drifted down in that country, an' nobody has to tell you that this
breed will fight a buzz-saw an' give it three turns the start.

These old grangers bring in all kinds of teachers for this school,
but none of 'em can stay the week out. The last one the kids trim is
pretty game an' is over average as a rough an' tumble fighter, but his
age is agin him. He's tall an' heavy in the shoulders like a work bull,
and' he wears long moss on his chin which he's sure proud of, but it
turns out it don't help him none to win a battle. Two or three of these
Reubens would be easy for him, but when they start doublin' up on
him about ten strong, one or two hangin' in his whiskers, another
couple ham-stringin' him and the rest swingin' on him with slates, it
makes him dizzy. Eye-gougin' an' bitin' ain't barred either, an' this
wisdom-bringer has got the same chance of winnin' as a grasshopper
that hops into an anthill. He comes to the school in a spring buggy
with a high-strung span of roadsters, but he leaves in a light spring
wagon, layin' on a goosehair bedtick, with several old ladies bathin'
his wounds. The team is a quiet pair of plow animals, an' the driver
is told to move along slow an' avoid all bumps.

It looks like a life vacation to the boys, but the old folks think
different. They don't 'low to have their lovin' offspring grow up into
no ignorant heathen. So one night these old maws an' paws pull a kind
of medicine smoke, an' two of the oldest braves is detailed to go to
the big camp, work the herd an' cut out a corral boss for these kids.
They go down to New York City, an' after perusin' aroun' they
locate a prize fighter that's out of work. They question him, an' find-

30

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

in' he can read an' write an' knows the multiplication table, they hire
him.

Next morning, Mix tells me, he shows up an' the boys are all there
itchin' to tear into him. But Mix says there's sometin' about this
teacher's looks that makes him superstitious. Of course he don't say
nothin' — not wantin' to show yaller — but somehow he's got a hunch
that somethin 's goin ' to happen.

\Vhidker. Didn't Help Him

This gent's head is smaller than's usual in humans. There don't
seem to be much space above his eyes, an' his smile, which is meant
to be pleasant, is scary. There's a low place where his nose ought to
be an' he could look through a keyhole with both eyes at once. His
neck's enough larger than his head so that he could back out of his
shirt without unbuttoning his collar. From here down he's built all
ways for scrappin', an' when he's standin' at rest his front feet hang
about even with his knees. All this Mix takes in at a glance.

When the school room quiets down the new teacher pulls a nice

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

31

little talk. "Boys," says he, "I ain't huntin' for trouble, but its been
whispered around that this bunch is fighty, an' I'm here to tell you as
a gentleman that if there's any battle pulled, you boys is goin' to take
second money."

The last word ain't left his mouth till one of the big kids blats at
him.

"Come here," says he, kind of pleasant, to the kid that did it. The
kid starts, but the whole bunch is with him.

The teacher don't move nor turn a hair, but he kind of shuffles
his feet like he's rubbin' the rosin. The first kid that reaches him he
side steps an' puts him to sleep with a left hook. The next one he shoots
up under a desk with an upper-cut, and the kid lays there snorin'. They
begin goin' down so fast Mix can't count 'em, but the last he remem-
bers he sees the big dipper an' the north star, an' a comet cuts a hole
through the moon. When he comes to, it looks like the battle of Bull
Run, an' teacher is bendin' over, pourin' water on him from a bucket.
He can hear what few girl scholars there is outside cryin'.

When he gets through bringin' his scholars back to life, he tells
the boys to get their song books an' line up.

"Now," says he, "turn to page 40 an' we will sing that beautiful
little song:

" 'Every Monday mornin' we are glad to go to school,
For we love our lovin' teacher an' obey his kindly rule.' "

"He makes us sing that every mornin'," says Mix, "an' we was
sure broke gentle."

We tove Our I.ovln' Teacher.

When Pete Sets a Speed Mark

SIZIN' Pete Van up from looks, says Rawhide, you'd never pick him
for speed, an' I, myself, never see Pete make a quick move without
a hoss under him. If Pete 's entered in a foot race most folks would
play him with a copper, but Bill Skelton claims Pete's the swiftest
animal he ever see, barrin' nothin'. At that Bill says he never saw Pete
show speed but once, an' that's back in about '78.

They're in the Musselshell country, an' one mornin' they're out
after meat. They ain't traveled far till they sight dust. In them days
this means Injuns or buffalo. This makes 'em cautious, 'cause they
ain't anxious to bump into no red brothers with a bunch of stolen hosses.
When Injuns are traveling with this kind of goods it ain't safe to detain
'em, an' Pete an' Bill both are too genteel to horn in where they ain't
welcome, specially if it's a big party. Of course, if it's a small bunch
they'd be pleased to relieve them by the help of their rifles.

They start cayotin' around the hills till they sight long strings of
brown grass-eaters. This herd ain't disturbed none — just travelin'.
This means meat an' plenty of it, so gettin' the wind right, they
approach.

The country's rough, an' by holdin' the coulees they're within a
hundred yards before they're noticed. It's an old bull that tips their
hand; this old boy kinks his tail and jumps stiff -legged. This starts
the whole bunch runnin', but it ain't a minute till Pete and Bill's
among 'em.

Pete singles out a cow an' Bill does the same. Pete's so busy
emptyin' his Henry into this cow that he forgets all about his saddle.
He's ridin' an old-fashioned center-fire. His hoss is young an' shad-
bellied, an' with a loose cinch the saddle's workin' back. The first
thing Pete knows he's ridin' the cayuse's rump. This hoss ain't broke
to ride double an' objects to anybody sittin' on the hind seat, so he
sinks his head and unloads Pete right in front of a cow.

Bill, who's downed his meat, looks up just in -time to see Pete land,
and he 'lights runnin'. Bill says the cow only once scratches the grease
on Pete's pants. From then on it's Pete's race. It look 's like the cow
was standin' still.

Anybody that knows anything about buffaloes knows that cows
can run. Pete don't only beat the cow, but runs by his own hoss, which
by this time is leavin' the country.

"Pete's so scared," says Bill, "that I damn near run my own hoss
down tryin' to turn him back."

Bill's Shelby Hotel

THEY tell me, says Eawhide, that Bill's goin' to build a fine hotel
for tourists up on Flathead Lake, not far from where his ranch
is. I stayed with him a time or two when he's runnin' that big
hotel in Great Falls, an' he sure savvies makin' folks comfortable.

You wouldn't ever figger that Bill would be runnin' one of these
fine modern hotels if you'd knowed him when I first run onto him
twenty-five years ago. It's hard to recognize Bill in them good clothes,
with a white collar an' a diamond as big as a Mexican bean in his tie
if you wasn't told it was the same man.

Bill was born near Des Moines, Iowa, and as a boy was knowed as
the champion lightweight corn shucker of Hog Bristle county. But
when he gets to manhood he takes a dislike to work, an' after hoardin'
his wages of three dollars a month for eight years, he just naturally
steps underneath a freight train one mornin' with his bankroll an' takes
a seat on the rods. He gives one lingerin' look at the old homestead
and tells the brakeman he can turn her loose.

Bill finds a pleasant travelin' companion in a noted tourist, Brake-
beam Ben, who kindly divides his conversation an' whatever little
things he has on him. Some of these last makes lively company for Bill,
who finds travelin' pleasant an' makes lots of stops at points of interest
along the line. He gets acquainted with several men who wear stars
an' brass buttons. They all take a kindly interest in Bill, an' after in-
sistin' on his spendin' a few days with them, show him the railroad
tracks out of town and wish him a pleasant journey.

A year or so later Bill arrives in McCartyville, a town that in them
days was about as quiet an' peaceful as Russia is today. McCartyville
consists of a graveyard an' one or two ghost cabins now, but then it's a
construction camp for the Great Northern, an' there ain't a tougher one
on earth, even in them times. The most prosperous business men in
McCartyville was the undertakers. They kept two shifts at work all
the time, an' every mornin' they'd call at the hotel an' saloons to carry
out the victims of the night before. No one asked no questions.

When Bill steps off the train there he has an Iowa thirst, an' he's
just as welcome as his remainin' two dollars an' a half, which is good
for just ten drinks. To this prohibition-raised boy this is a real novelty,
for where he comes from, no one drinks without hidin' in the cellar.
Bill tells me that the lives of a lot of his friends there is just one long

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

35

game of hide-and-seek. In them days an lowan could drink more in
one swaller than the average westerner can in three hours, so Bill's
called on frequent by the barkeep to slow up, as they can only make
just so much liquor every twenty-four hours.

It's here Bill gets his trainin' in hotel-
runnin' from washin' dishes to dealin' bis-
cuits through the smoke that hangs heavy
around the dinin' room. At the end of
three days he's told by the marshal to
climb the hill an' back -track as far as he
likes. Bill said that they didn't like no
peaceful disposed citizens there, but I
never hear no one else accuse him of this
weakness he claims.

A '7 da?s later he lands

where the citizens are surprised and de-
lighted to see him separate himself from
the rods. He's covered with dust an' re-
sembles part of the runnin' gear. In this
way he was able to hide out from the
brakies. "When he asks for a room with a
bath, it's too much for the clerk, who has
a nervous temperament an' has spent the
previous evenin' drinkin' Shelby coca-cola,
an' he shoots Bill's hat off. This drink I
mention was popular among the Shelbyites
of that day. It 's a mixture of alkali water,
alcohol, tobacco juice an' a dash of strych-
nine— the last to keep the heart goin'.

This outburst of the clerk don't scare
Bill none, as he's been permanently cured
of gunshyness at McCartyville. As the
clerk lowers his gun, Bill warps a couplin'
pin just under where the gent's hat rests.
The hat's ruined, but the clerk comes to
three days later to find Bill's got his job.
This is where Bill breaks into the hotel
business. A week later in a game of stud
poker he wins the hotel. I never believe the story whispered around
by some of the citizens that it's a cold deck that did it.

Bill's chef's one of the most rapid cooks known in the west. He
hangs up a bet of a hundred dollars that with the use of a can-opener,
he can feed more cowpunchers an' sheepherders than any other cook
west of the Mississippi. There's never no complaint about the meat,

Bill's Chef.

36

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

either, for this cook's as good with a gun as he is with a can-opener. In
fact, no one ever claims he ain't a good cook after takin' one look at him.

Shelby's changed a lot since them days. In the old times the
residents there include a lot of humorists who have a habit of stoppin'
trains an' entertainin' the passengers. Most of these last is from the
east, an' they seemed to be serious-minded, with little fun in their make-
up. The Shelby folks get so jokey with one theatrical troupe that stops
there that many of these actors will turn pale today at the mention of the
place. At last Jim Hill gets on the fight an' threatens to build around
by way of Gold Butte an' cut out Shelby, preferrin' to climb the Sweet-
grass hills to runnin' his trains through this jolly bunch.

This hotel of Bill's was one of the few places I've seen that's got
flies both winter an' summer. During the cold months they come from
all over the northwest to winter with Bill, an' hive in the kitchen an'
dinin' room. Bill claims they're intelligent insects, as they'll spend
several hours a day in warm weather frolickin' around the hog pens,
but when he rings the triangle for meals they start in a cloud for the
dinin' room. For a home-like, congenial place for a fly to live, you
couldn't beat Bill's hotel.

Bill's run several hotels since this, an' as he's kept on goin' up in
the business, this new one he's goin' to tackle on the lake will probably
top 'em all, but it's doubtful if he'll be able to furnish as much excite-
ment for his guests as the old place at Shelby used to provide for the
boarders.

r^

<+~S*?*Vf\

*~p3" ' -^

Shelby Humorists Entertain Passengers

A Reformed Cowpuncher at Miles City

I DIDN'T go to the stockmen's meet at Miles, myself, says Rawhide,
but Teddy Blue tells me about it, an' as the strongest thing he used
as a joy bringer is a maple nut Sunday mixed by a lady bartender,
I guess his sight is pretty clear.

Teddy has attended a lot of these gatherings in years gone by, but
always before those rock bass eyes of his was dimmed by cow-swallows
of Miles City home-made liquid fire, so he's mostly numb an' uncon-
scious of what's goin' on after the first few hours.

This time Teddy's a little nervous an' keeps his hat brim pretty
well down over his eyes for the first few hours he's there, as he's not
sure whether he'll be recognized by the man who was sheriff at Miles
some years back an' wanted Teddy to take room an' board with him
for a few months for shootin' up a canary bird in a place where Teddy
an' a few of his friends are pullin' a concert. Ted claims this canary
insulted him several times before he gets ringy by breakin' in with his
ditty while Ted's singin' The Texas Banger.

"When Teddy leaves town that time his hoss wonders at the hurry
they're in, an' when they reach the high ground Ted looks back and sees
there's still a string of dust in Milestown that ain't had time to settle
since his boss's feet tore it loose. He plays in luck, for the sheriff,
knowin' Ted's from Texas, goes south, while Ted's headin' for the
north pole. He's just toppin' the hill out of Miles when he runs down
a jackrabbit that gets in his way. Teddy says he never thought a
canary bird would have so many friends.

So he feels easier at this meeting when he finds the sheriff an' all
the canary's friends have either cashed in or left the country.

Although Montana's gone dry, this special train from the north
loaded with cowmen and flockminders, don't seem to feel the drouth
none, and Miles City itself acts cheerful under the affliction. Teddy,
though he ain't drinkin' nothin' these days, admits to me on the quiet
that just the little he inhales from his heavy-breathin' friends has him
singin' The Dyin' Cowboy. He figures the ginger ale and root beer
they're throwin' into 'em must have got to workin' in the bottles a
little, judgin' from the cheerful effect it has.

There's another train from Helena, the headquarters for the law-
makers, that's filled with a bunch that acts as care-free as if they'd
forgot there's such a thing as an attorney-general in their camp. They
overlooked bringin' any root beer with them, so they had to fall back

38

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

on stuff they was used to. Teddy looked into one of the Helena cars,
he says, and what he sees through the smoke reminds him of Butte in
the days of licensed gamblin'. He's told they're only playin' a few
harmless games like Old Maid, so he figures they just have the chips
lyin' around to make them feel at home. He says he can see one banker
has plumb forgot how to play cards, for he notices him slip an ace off
the bottom. Ted says the friendly and trustful feelin' among this
Helena crowd is fine to see. One time during daylight they pass
through a tunnel, an' strikin' a match, Teddy sees every man at the
table he's watchin' leanin' forward all spread out over his chips. They
was undoubtedly afraid they might jolt into another train and spill the
chips around, an' of course it would be a job pickin' 'em up off the
floor.

There's one sport in the Fergus county bunch that was raised on
the range, that for size and weight would take the prize at the state fair

Kuns Down a Jackrabblt

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 39

in the bull show, but he ain't wearin' any ribbons when Teddy looks
at him.

Another gent from the upper Sun Eiver country, also born on the
range an' raised in the saddle, ain't no baby in build. He's had a hoss
under him so long that his legs is kind of warped, an' when he sits in
one of the chairs they have these days in front of the root beer bars, he
straddles it instead of sittin' like a human. This feller, like Teddy,
ain't usin' no thin' stronger than the law allows now, but in old days
he was no stranger to corn juice or any of the other beverages that
brought cheer and pleasure to the life of a cowpuncher. At the stock
meetin's he used to attend, all the speakin' he listened to was done in
front of a bar.

One of the oldest cow owners in the bunch, whose front name's Bill
and who in years past was known all over Montana, does most of his
ridin' in an automobile these days. Bill's in the bankin' business now
an' you might think he's cold-blooded, but I know different. To sick
folks he's almost motherly. One time in the Lake Basin country Bill's
trailin' the F beef south, an' he's on ahead lookin' for water when he
runs onto a sheepherder that's lyin' on the prairie, havin' spasms. The
shepherd tells this good Samaritan that he's swallered strychnine.

Now, most cowmen them days would have let a wooly herder slip
across the divide with the wolf bait in him, but Bill's heart softens, an'
the way he quirts his hoss down the hind leg for camp is scary. When
he returns at the same gait he's packin' a ten-pound lard can, an'
buildin' a chip fire, he warms this hog fat till it runs easy. Then with
the help of an iron spoon an' three or four good calf-rastlers to hold
him, Bill empties the whole ten pounds into the shepherd. About the
time Bill runs out of lard, a stranger rides up an' breaks the news to
him that he's treatin' a case of snakes from Billings booze instead of
strychnine. The herder recovers, but for six months he sweats straight
leaf lard, an' his hide's so slick he can hardly keep his garments on.

There's one gentleman from Great Falls in the party who don't
deal in livestock, and whose name spells strong of Irish. This gent is
drinkin' coca cola, but judgin' by the expression in his eye, Teddy Blue
thinks some jobber has slipped something else into his beverage. He
gets so lit up one night in the sleeper that he dreams he's a dry goods
store and yells fire, which causes a panic and many of the peaceful
sleepers leaped from the upper berths. One heavy man — the gent from
the Sun Eiver valley — was lucky enough to fall on his head, so he wasn't
injured none.

Joe Scanlan, the Lord Northcliffe of Milestown, seems to be actin'
as head of the entertainment committee, an' he must have used up a
month's supply of gasoline in two days haulin' friends and strangers to

40

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

points of interest, like the Powder River special on the Milwaukee
tracks.

One of the attractions that the visitors enjoyed at Miles was Huff-
man's collection of range pictures at the fine art studio he has built to
keep 'em in. Huffman was post photographer at Fort Keogh in the
old Indian fightin' days of the '70s and is one of the real old timers in
this business in Montana, which his pictures show.

Teddy Blue meets an old friend of his, Jack Hawkins, who he hasn 't
seen for years. Hawkins is an old Texas ranger, an' he drifts into
Montana as a buffalo hunter in the late '70s. He's later sheriff of
Ouster county. Hawkins has seen some real fightin' when Indians an'
outlaws was bad in the early days in Texas. If you want to hear a good
story some time, ask Jack about scalpin' a Comanche.

Although Miles has always been a cow town, it's earned the right
to be called a city, an' they handled the visitors in the old welcome way
of the west.

Htrnddles It In*t«ad of Slttln' Like a Human

The Story of the Cowpuncher

SPEAKIN' of cowpunchers, says Rawhide, I'm glad to see in the
last few years that them that know the business have been writin'
about 'em. It begin to look like they'd be wiped out without a
history. Up to a few years ago there 's mighty little known about cows
and cow people. It was sure amusin' to read some of them old stories
about cowpunchin'. You'd think a puncher growed horns 'n was
haired over.

It put me in mind of the eastern girl that asks her mother: "Ma,"
says she, "do cowboys eat grass?" "No, dear," says the old lady,
"they're part human," 'n I don't know but the old gal had 'em sized
up right. If they are human, they're a separate species. I'm talkin'
about the old-time ones, before the country's strung with wire 'n
nesters had grabbed all the water, 'n a cowpuncher's home was big.
It wasn't where he took his hat off, but where he spread his blankets.
He ranged from Mexico to the Big Bow river of the north, 'n from
where the trees get scarce in the east to the old Pacific. He don't need
no iron hoss, but covers his country on one that eats grass 'n wears hair.
All the tools he needed was saddle, bridle, quirt, hackamore 'n rawhide
riatta or seagrass rope; that covered his hoss.

The puncher himself was rigged, startin' at the top, with a good
hat — not one of the floppy kind you see in pictures, with the rim turned
up in front. The top-cover he wears holds its shape 'n was made to
protect his face from the weather; maybe to hold it on, he wore a buck-
skin string under the chin or back of the head. Bound his neck a big
silk handkerchief, tied loose 'n in the drag of a trail herd it was drawn
over the face to the eyes, hold-up fashion, to protect the nose 'n throat
from dust. In old times, a leather blab or mask was used the same.
Coat, vest 'n shirt suits his own taste. Maybe he'd wear California
pants, light buckskin in color, with large, brown plaid, sometimes foxed,
or what you'd call reinforced with buck or antelope skin. Over these
came his chaparejos or leggin 's. His feet were covered with good high-
heeled boots, finished off with steel spurs of Spanish pattern. His
weapon's usually a forty -five Colt's six-gun, which is packed in a belt,
swingin' a little below his right hip. Sometimes a Winchester in a
scabbard, slung to his saddle under his stirrup-leather, either right or
left side, but generally left; stock forward, lock down, as his rope
hangs at his saddle-fork on the right.

By all I can find out from old, gray headed punchers, the cow
business started in California, 'n the Spaniards were the first to burn

A Center-Fire Fashion Leader

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 43

marks on their cattle 'n bosses, 'n use the rope. Then men from the
States drifted west to Texas, pickin' up the brandin' iron 'n lass-rope,
'n the business spread north, east 'n west, till the spotted long-horns
walked in every trail marked out by their brown cousins — the buffalo.

Texas 'n California, bein' the startin' places, made two species of
cowpunchers; those west of the Rockies rangin' north, usin' centerfire
or single-cinch saddles, with high fork 'n cantle; packed a sixty or
sixty-five foot rawhide rope, 'n swung a big loop. These cow people
were generally strong on pretty, usin' plenty of hoss jewelry, silver-
mounted spurs, bits 'n conchas; instead of a quirt, used a romal, or
quirt braided to the end of the reins. Their saddles were full stamped,
with from twenty -four to twenty-eight-inch eagle-bill tapaderos. Their
chaparejos were made of fur or hair, either bear, angora goat or hair
sealskin. These fellows were sure fancy, 'n called themselves bucca-
roos, coming from the Spanish word, "Vacquero."

The cowpuncher east of the Rockies originated in Texas and ranged
north to the Big Bow. He wasn't so much for pretty; his saddle was
low horn, rimfire or double-cinch; sometimes "macheer." Their rope
was seldom over forty feet, for being a good deal in a brush country,
they were forced to swing a small loop. These men generally tied,
instead of taking their dallie-welts, or wrapping their rope around the
saddle horn. Their chaparejos were made of heavy bullhide, to protect
the leg from brush 'n thorns, with hog-snout tapaderos.

Cowpunchers were mighty particular about their rig, 'n in all the
camps you'd find a fashion leader. From a cowpuncher 's idea, these
fellers was sure good to look at, 'n I tell you right now, there ain't no
prettier sight for my eyes than one of those good-lookin', long-backed
cowpunchers, sittin' up on a high-forked, full-stamped California saddle
with a live hoss between his legs.

Of course a good many of these fancy men were more ornamental
than useful, but one of the best cow-hands I ever knew belonged to
this class. Down on the Gray Bull, he went under the name of Mason,
but most punchers called him Pretty Shadow. This sounds like an
Injun name, but it ain't. It comes from a habit some punchers has of
ridin' along, lookin' at their shadows. Lookin' glasses are scarce in
cow outfits, so the only chance for these pretty boys to admire them-
selves is on bright, sunshiny days. Mason's one of these kind that
doesn't get much pleasure out of life in cloudy weather. His hat was
the best; his boots was made to order, with extra long heels. He rode
a centerfire, full-stamped saddle, with twenty-eight-inch tapaderos;
bearskin ancaroes, or saddle pockets; his chaparejos were of the same
skin. He packed a sixty-five-foot rawhide. His spurs 'n bit were
silver inlaid, the last bein' a Spanish spade. But the gaudiest part of

44 RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

his regalia was his gun. It's a forty-five Colt's, silverplated 'n chased
with gold. Her handle is pearl, with a bull's head carved on.

When the sun hits Mason with all this silver on, he blazes up like
some big piece of jewelry. You could see him for miles when he's ridin'
high country. Barrin' Mexicans, he's the fanciest cow dog I ever see,
'n don't ever think he don't savvy the cow. He knows what she says
to her calf. Of course there wasn't many of his stripe. All punchers
liked good rigs, but plainer; 'n as most punchers 're fond of gamblin'
'n spend their spare time at stud poker or monte, so they can't tell what
kind of a rig they'll be ridin' the next day. I've seen many a good
rig lost over a blanket. It depends how lucky the cards fall what kind
of a rig a man's ridin'.

I'm talkin' about old times, when cowmen were in their glory.
They lived different, talked different 'n had different ways. No
matter where you met him, or how he 's rigged, if you 'd watch him close
he'd do something that would tip his hand. I had a little experience
back in '83 that'll show what I'm gettin' at.

I was winterin' in Cheyenne. One night a stranger stakes me to

Rim-

RAWHIDE RAWLJNS STORIES *6

buck the bank. I got off lucky 'n cash in fifteen hundred dollars. Of
course I cut the money in two with my friend, but it leaves me with
the biggest roll I ever packed. All this wealth makes Cheyenne look
small, 'n I begin longin' for bigger camps, so I drift for Chicago. The
minute I hit the burg, I shed my cow garments 'n get into white man's
harness. A hard hat, boiled shirt, laced shoes — all the gearin' known
to civilized man. When I put on all this rig, I sure look human; that
is, I think so. But them shorthorns know me, 'n by the way they trim
that roll, it looks like somebody's pinned a card on my back with the
words "EASY" in big letters. I ain't been there a week till my roll
don't need no string around it, 'n I start thinkin' about home. One
evenin' I throw in with the friendliest feller I ever met. It was at the
bar of the hotel where I'm camped. I don't just remember how we got
acquainted, but after about fifteen drinks we start holdin' hands 'n
seein' who could buy the most and fastest. I remember him tellin' the
barslave not to take my money, cause I'm his friend. Afterwards, I
find out the reason for this goodheartedness ; he wants it all 'n hates
to see me waste it. Finally, he starts to show me the town 'n says it
won't cost me a cent. Maybe he did, but I was unconscious, 'n wasn't
in shape to remember. Next day, when I come to, my hair's sore 'n I
didn't know the days of the week, month or what year it was.

The first thing I do when I open my eyes is to look at the winders.
There's no bars on 'em, 'n I feel easier. I'm in a small room with two
bunks. The one opposite me holds a feller that's smokin' a cigarette
'n sizin' me up between whiffs while I'm dressin'. I go through myself
but I'm too late. Somebody beat me to it. I'm lacin' my shoes 'n
thinkin' hard, when the stranger speaks:

"Neighbor, you're a long way from your range."
"You call the turn," says I, "but how did you read my iron!"
"I didn't see a burn on you," says he, " 'n from looks, you'll go
as a slick-ear. It's your ways, while I'm layin' here, watchin' you get
into your garments. Now, humans dress up 'n punchers dress down.
When you raised, the first thing you put on is your hat. Another thing
that shows you up is you don't shed your shirt when you bed down.
So next comes your vest 'n coat, keepin' your hindquarters covered till
you slide into your pants, 'n now you're lacin' your shoes. I notice you
done all of it without quittin' the blankets like the ground's cold. I
don't know what state or territory you hail from, but you've smelt
sagebrush 'n drank alkali. I heap savvy you. You've slept a whole
lot with nothin' but sky over your head, 'n there's times when that old
roof leaks, but judgin' from appearances, you wouldn't mind a little
open air right now."

This feller's my kind, 'n he stakes me with enough to get back to
the cow country.

Bronc Twisters

TALKIN' about bronc twisters, says Rawhide, there's some differ-
ence between hoss fighters today' an' them I knowed years ago.
I ain't sayin' these up-to-date riders ain't good as they ever was,
an' I'd bet there's more of 'em than in the old days. The bronc rider
always was and always will be a game glory hunter, gritty as a fish-egg
rolled in sand, but the lives they live today an' the rigs they ride are
different.

The modern bronc fighter saddles an' steps across the bronc in a
narrer chute, or he's got a bunch of hoss handlers earin' the animal
down till he saddles an' mounts. Of course he's got rules to ride under,
,3^ such as keepin' one hand up, keep-

in' his spurs loose an' scratchin'.
He ain't allowed to change hands,
reach for or touch nothin'. The
snake he's ridin' is an old outlaw
from six to fifteen years old, an'
he's grain-fed. It's a cinch a hoss
with a paunch full of oats is
stronger than one with a grass belly.

These modern twisters ride a
swell-fork saddle with high horn.
The cantle is also high an' steep.
Their spurs are long and straight-
shanked. This is the contest rider
I'm talkin' about, an' he's a sure-

A Contest Rider

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

47

enough glory rider. When he breaks away from the chute in the
middle of a twistin' snake, there's thousands of folks yellin' their heads
off, but more'n half of 'em's howlin' for the hoss. There's generally
three judges on bosses follerin' him, seein' he don't pull no thin'
crooked.

The big half of the folks that take in ridin' contests never rode
nothin' but cushions, so if Mister Buster gets unloaded, they say he
couldn't ride; if he stays an' scratches his bronc they say the hoss
didn't buck. But there's always a few old bowlegs that have went
straight up to the end of the bridle reins who heap savvy an' are ready
to shake hands with this bronc rider whether he stays or hits the
ground. These twisters of today are made of the same leather as the
old-time ones. It ain't their fault that the country's fenced an' most
of the cows are wearin' bells.

Old Macheer Saddle With Texa« Tree

Now the old bronc fighter I knowed lived when there wasn't a wire
from the Arctic sea to the Gulf of Mexico, an' that whole stretch was
mighty near all his home. This gent lived on either cow or hoss ranges.
His saddle was a straight-fork with a cantle that sloped back, an' com-
pared to saddles now, the horn was low. I've seen bronc riders use an
old macheer saddle with a Texas tree. It had two cinches an' was called
a rim-fire. The horn was low an' flat — so big you couldn't more'n
span it with your hand. The macheer, as it was called, was one piece

48

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

of leather that fitted over the cantle an' horn, makin' a coverin' for
the whole rig. This leather was smooth an' so slick it wasn't easy to
stay in.

These old-timers' spurs had crooked shanks that turned down.
They all rode an' broke broncs with a hackamore. It wasn't a rope
one like they're usin' today, but one made of braided leather an' raw-
hide. Looped to this was about fifteen or twenty foot of hair rope
called a McCarthy. This was wrapped around the lower end of the
noseband under the jaws of the hoss, makin' reins an' a tie-rope.

Range hosses them days was wild as buffalo, an ' corraling a bunch
wasn't always easy. But Mister Bronc Fighter's work really begun
after the gate was closed or the bars up, for the first thing was to rope
the one he figgered on ridin '. Generally he fore-footed him. This made
him fairly safe in front, but a bronc's dangerous at both ends, an' the
bronc fighter knows this. He ain't takin' chances, an' after he's got
the bronc's front feet snared, he man-handles him till he gets the hacka-
more on. Then, sometimes usin' a blind, he saddles him an' steps
across.

- /I I

L/W „, "--

A» Old-Time Bronc

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 49

Mebbe this bronc's a snake, an' mebbe he's easy, but either way
there ain't nobody watchin' but the other broncs. If he rides him out-
side the corral h.e might buck through a bunch of range cows, but
neither cows nor broncs seem to appreciate good ridin', so there's
nobody boostin' for this twister. The old bronc riders didn't only ride
a bronc, but they worked him. They'd take a string of rough ones to
a roundup an' ride circle, cut cattle or rope off of him.

All these things happended in the good old days long ago, when
men like Con Price, Charlie Brewster, Windy Bill Davis, Kid Price,
Little Jack Davis, Happy Jack Anderson, Jim Dency, Ed Rhodes, Joe
Doles, Charlie Parks, Johnny Van, Bill Shaules and Colonel Johnson
were needed on all the cow ranges. These men were all well known
when Montana was a cow country. They were all riders that rode
smooth fork.

Some of these old riders is friends of mine. Charlie Brewster 's one
of the best that ever stepped across a hoss, an' many a bad one he's
tamed. One time Charlie's ridin' on a roundup. Of course his string's
all broncs, an' one mornin' he'll never forget he's got a snakey roan

under him an' starts out on circle with six other punchers in the Deep
creek country. This stream in places is walled in with rimrock cliffs
that run up twenty to sixty feet above the bottom.

They're ridin' along mebbe twenty yards from the edge of one of
these rims when Charlie drops his hackamore reins an' builds a cigar-
ette. Most men ridin' a hoss like this roan would be careful, but it's dif-
ferent with Charlie. He don't fear no hoss on earth, an' he ain't askin'
no bronc whether he objects to smokin'. While he's rollin' his smoke the
roan drops his ear down an' shows the white of his eyes, so it's easy
to guess his feelin's is hurt. Charlie strikes a match, but he never lights
his cigarette. While he's cuppin' his hands over the match, lettin' the
sulphur burn off, somethin' — mebbe the brimfire sniff he gets — wakes
the hell in the roan. He kicks the lid off, hides his head an' starts for
the rimrock.

Charlie has plenty of time to quit, but does he step off? Don't ever
think it. He sinks the steel into the roan's right shoulder and throws
his weight on the left rein, but he don't turn him. The roan's goin'
high an' scary when he hits the edge of the cliff an' goes over.

There's a feller called Oregon John with Brewster when he takes
that long jump. Oregon tells me that when he sees Charlie sink into the
landscape he's afraid to look over, but he'd have bet what he's got an'
all he could beg, borrow or steal that at the bottom he'll find a scramble
of man an' hoss meat.

None of the bunch says no thin', but ridin' up easy, like they're

Th« Krone i Lodccd in th. Top ft • C*tt*BW»*4

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 81

goin' to a funeral, they peek over, an' what do you think they see?
There, mebbe ten feet below the rimrock, sits Charlie in the middle of
the roan. The bronc's lookin' healthy, but uncomfortable. He's lodged
in the top of a big cottonwood. Charlie's still holdin' his cigarette, an'
when the boys show up he hollers: "Anybody got a match? The one
I struck blowed out."

Oregon says that bronc's sure helpless, for he's wedged in the old
tree so he can't more than move an ear. One of the boys goes to camp
an' brings an axe, an' they have to fall the tree to get the roan out.

This story may sound fishy to some folks, but it's true. Charlie
Brewster's still in Montana, an' I'll bet wherever he is, he's still with
hosses. He was a real bronc rider, an' all old-time cow men knew him.

I remember another old-time bronc fighter that could ride any hoss
livin' an' work with him. His name's Con Price, an' right now he's with
a cow outfit in California. There's a story about him that a lot of
old cow men will remember an' laugh about.

Con's out one time with Ed Eosser, huntin' hosses. They're riding
the high country, when Eosser pulls up his hoss an' points to a nester's
cabin in a little valley below. "There's women in that shack," says he.

"What makes you think so," asks Con.

"I see washin' on the line there a few days ago," says Eosser, "an'
all the he-folks we know, when they do any washin', use the creek an'
hang their clothes on the willers. But to make my belief a cinch bet,
there's garments on that line that ain't worn by no he-people."

"Well, I guess you're right," Con says. "I remember a few weeks
ago that nester told me he had a wife an' daughter comin' out from
the states."

"Wonder what the gal looks like," says Eosser.

"She's a good looker, judgin' from the photograph the old man
shows me," Con answers.

In the days when this happens, women 're scarce, an' the few
cowpunchers an' old mountain men that lived in this womanless land
sure liked to see a white woman an' hear her voice. So Con an' Eosser
start figgerin' on some kind of an excuse to visit this ranch. They
can't ask for a drink of water, 'cause the hills are full of springs an'
they have to cross the creek to get to the cabin.

They're both studyin' when Con gets a plumb new one. The hoss
he's ridin's a snuffy old boy. If you thumb him or hang the steel in
his shoulder he'll go high. Con's idea is to start him an' then fall off.

They're mebbe fifty yards from the house when Con throws one

52

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

of his hooks in the shoulder of the old hoss, hopin' somebody's lookin'
from behind a curtain to see the fall he gets. Once is enough. This
animal, like many of his kind, considers this an insult, an' sinkin' his
head, he starts for the clouds.

About the third jump Con loosens. The hoss, Con tells me later,
makes the play realistic. "When he feels me goin','' he says, "he
weaves off to one side an' I hit the ground a lot harder than I expected."

Con lays like he's hurt bad. Eosser quits his hoss an' runs to his
friend, an' he's got all he can do to get him on his feet.

"You're a sure enough actor," Rosser whispers to Con. "You're
as heavy as a dead bear," he says, as he part leads an' part packs
him up the hill to the house. "If it was another twenty feet I'd have to
cut hand-holds in you."

About the Third Jump Con [.lumen*

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

53

It's a cinch that anybody not on to the play would bet Con's got all
his legs broke. A sweat's broke out all over Rosser when he gently lays
Con on the step an' knocks at the door.

Con lays there, listenin' for footsteps of the ladies, but they don't
come. There's no sign of life, an' the only livin' thing in sight is
two hosses — Con 's and Rosser 's. They 're drif tin ' mighty rapidly home-
ward. The one Con rode, with the reins still over his neck, is headed
like he knows where he's goin'. Rosser's is follerin' close with his head
to one side, so he don't step on the reins. Lookin' at these hosses, an'
nobody comin, to the door makes Con recover mighty fast, an' his
groans turns to cussin'.

In them days, when the country was wide open an' lawless, the
houses had no keys, so after knockin' a few more times, they both
walk in. Rosser's right; it's a woman's camp. There's curtains on
the winders and flowers growin' in a tomato can that's settin' on a
table where the sun hits them. From the sign, they read there's two
ladies camped here an' they ain't to home. They might have got
sympathy from these ladies, but they don't get none from one another.
This play of their turns into a hoss joke, an' of course nobody laughs
but the hosses.

It's a ten-mile ride to the ranch, an' it means twice that a-foot to
these spur-heeled gents, so after prospectin', they locate some bacon,
real light bread an' a dried apple pie. Finishin' their feed they
wash the dishes an' start on their sorrowful journey.

Con laughs about it now, but Rosser says he never even smiled the
day he walked. Rosser says Con had no license to kick. He'd fought
hosses all his life and win most of the fights. That day he throws the
fight to the hoss. The hoss, bein' crooked as Con, double-crossed him.

Johnny Reforms Landusky

OVER in Lewistown there's a gent livin' that's one of the leadin'
citizens. I ain't tippin' his hand by mentionin' no names, but if
I'd ever told what I know about him he'd be makin' hair bridles
today, said Rawhide. We'll call him Johnny an' let it go at that.

A hoss-wrangler by perf ession, he has a natural gift for cookin ' an '
a keen affection for a Dutch oven, but in them crude days his qualities
as a chef ain't appreciated by his rough, uncouth comrades in Yogo
gulch, where when I first knowed him he's leadin' a happy care-free life,
watchin' the miners strugglin' to wrest gold from the unyieldin' rocks.
I remember one finicky proposition in the camp that objects to Johnny's
pet rats livin' in the flour sack.

Johnny 's got such a good opinion of his own cookin ' he hangs up a
standin' bet that he can outcook any man in Montana, barrin' Dirty
Mike, a chef of the Sour Dough school, who's got a sensitive disposition
and is impulsive with a gun. One record Johnny points to is a vinegar
pie he bakes at Yogo. It seems that while the pie's in the oven, a pros-
pector, Bedrock Jim, with whom he's bachin', puts some giant powder
in with the pie to thaw it out. The powder, likely becomin' jealous of
the pie, cuts loose and scatters the cabin for miles up and down the
gulch. They find one stove lid on Lost Fork, and the pan the pie's in
is missin', but there where the cabin once stood is Vinegar, himself,
without even a scar.

Bein' discouraged in his light cookin', an' never workin' as long as
he can get anything else to do, Johnny begins figgerin' out a soft way of
makin' a livin'. His pious disposition inclines him toward missionary
work, finally, and he picks out the Little Rockies as the most promisin'
district to begin reformiu'. He starts a revival there that's a cross
between Mormonism an' a Sioux ghost dance, but this brand's too tough
for even the citizens of this section.

In them days Landusky is the principal town in the Little Rockies,
an' it's a sociable camp, life there bein' far from monotonous. The
leadin' industries is saloons an' gamblin' houses, with a fair sprinklin'
of dance halls. For noise an' smoke there wasn't nothin' ever seen like
it before the big fight in Europe starts. Little lead's wasted, as the
shootin's remarkably accurate an' almost anybody serves as a target.

The mayor, Jew Jake, has lost one hind leg in a argument with a
sheriff, and he uses a Winchester for a crutch. Funerals in Landusky
is held at night under a white flag, so that business ain't interrupted in
the daytime.

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 65

It's toward this peaceful village that Johnny rides one day on a
boss that he's borrowed from a rancher who isn't in when he calls.
Johnny don't know he's near a town till he hears it a few miles away.
Spurrin ' his hoss along he suddenly busts into sight of the place, which
reminds him of a chromo of Gettysburg he once seen. But Johnny's
game, an' mutterin' somethin' that might have been a short prayer, he
passes through the firin' line, bein' shy only his hat and a cigarette he
was smokin' when he arrives.

Either the excitement or somethin' he takes for it puts him into a
kind of trance for a few days, an' when he comes to he's laid out on a
poker table with his head hangin off. He takes readily to the life of
the place, an picks as his partner Dum Dum Bill, who's got the reputa-
tion of bein' a quiet, scholarly man with a lovable character, always

Komindt Him «f > Chromo «f O*tt7«b«r(

56

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

shootin' to kill to save unnecessary pain an' sufferin'. Dum Bum's
made a hobby of changin' brands on bosses, an' he's done much to dis-
courage gamblin' by makin' it hard, if not impossible, for other players

in a game he's sittin' in to win. His end's
a sad one. Bein' caught by a war party
of Missourians who's had bad luck with
their hoss herds, he's strung up to a corral
crossbar. As he hasn't got enough weight
below his head to break his neck, his end's
hastened by tuckin' an anvil into the seat
of his pants.

Johnny, after thro win' in with Dum
Dum Bill, does a lot of good as a reformer.
It's due to him that the custom of shootin'
at unarmed strangers is barred, an' a
bounty — a little less than they paid for a
wolf — is placed on a number of citizens.
As he's in with the reformers, Johnny's
name ain't on this list. The bounty
claimer has to show both ears of his victims
but scalpin ' is frowned on as uncivilized.

Johnny's in much demand for preach-
in' funeral sermons, but sometimes he ain't
got much tact. At one buryin' where the
deceased's been killed in a gun battle,
Johnny takes as his text, "When Fools Go
Forth to Fight." The relatives of the
corpse get hostile and Johnny has to spend
the next three weeks in a stockade he's
built around his house for an emergency
like this. After a while he's elected mayor,
but as he ain't over-good with a forty-five,
he don't take the job.

Some forms of killin' was barred in
Landusky, an' when Johnny makes a pud-
din' for a Thank sgivin' dinner that kills
three guests and disables several more, he
has to make a quick get-away. He beats a posse to the railroad by a
dozen jumps and swings under the rods of a freight train that's passin'.

I never took no stock in the rumors that was scattered about Johnny
afterward joinin' the Curry gang. The Kid once tells me he'd give
five hundred dollars for the name of the man that starts this libel
against his hold-up outfit.

Dum Dam Bill

The Horse

IEEAD in the papers a while back where there's seventy thousand
wild hosses on the ranges of Montana, says Rawhide. They say
these animals are a menace to stockmen. Mebbe this is right, but
I think it would bother this old state to round up that many tame ones.

A few years ago a hoss was considered kind of handy to have
around. He was needed everywhere and used all ways, tip hill or
down, mud or dust, he worked. They made no good roads for him.
There's not a city in mighty near the whole world he didn't help build.
There's a few ice-bound countries where the hoss don't live, and in these
same lands it ain't easy for humans to live.

This last war was a machine-made hell, but I doubt if it could have
been win without hosses, an' the same kind that some folks say is a
menace to men now. There was thousands of branded hosses died with
our fighters on the other side. The range hoss was God-made, an' like
all of his makin', the best. These hosses cost the man that branded
an' claimed 'em nothing. They lived on the grass an' water the
Almighty gave 'em.

Many thousand years ago, when folks was all a-foot, lizards, horned
toads an' bullfrogs measured from thirty to a hundred feet in length an'
stood from forty to sixty hands. Besides these there was tigers and
laffin' hyenas that would eat an elephant for breakfast. From what
I've read, in the days I'm talkin' about, man wasn't much, an' he sure
lived simple. A good, stout cave was his home. He fed mostly on bugs
an' snails, an' a grasshopper that happened to 'light anywhere near him
or his family was out of luck. Sometimes some real game gent would
slip out with his stone tomahawk an' bring back a skunk or two. Then's
when they pulled a regular feed, but there wasn't no set date for these
feasts, an' they mostly came far apart. With a hyena that weighed
seven ton a-laffin' around the door, man loved his home an' Maw never
worried about where Paw was.

But one day one of these old home-lovers was sunnin' himself an'
layin' for a grasshopper, when he looks down from his ledge to the val-
ley below where all these animals is busy eatin' one another, an' notices
one species that don't take no part in this feast, but can out-run an'
out-dodge all others. This cave man is progressive an' has learned to
think. He sees this animal is small compared to the rest, an' ain't got
no horns, tusks or claws, eatin' nothin' but grass. There's other grass-
eaters, but they all wear horns that don't look good to Mister Cave Man.

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES 69

He remembers when his Maw used to pack him on her back. Bein '
a lazy gent he's lookin' for somethin' easy, an' he figgers that if he
could get this hornless animal under him, he could ride once more like
he did in his childhood. Eight then is Avhen man starts thinkin' of
somethin' besides eatin'.

Not far from the cave there's a trail where herds of hosses come
to water, so one day Mister Man climbs into a tree that hangs over the
trail, an' with a grapevine loop he snares one of these animals. But he
finds out that though this beast ain't got horns or claws, he's mighty
handy with all four feet, and when Paw sneaks home that evenin' he's
got hoof marks all over him an' he ain't had a ride yet. Sore as he is,
he goes back next day an' tries again. About the sixth day this poor
hoss is so starved that Mister Man gets up to him, an' tyin' a strip of
bark to his under jaw an' another around his belly, he steps across the
hoss. The bronc sinks his head an' goes in the air. Mister Man stays,
but he breaks all the rules in a ridin' contest of today. He don't pull
leather, but tears all the mane out from ears to withers, an' that bark
hand -hold of his is all that keeps the hoss from unloadin' him. A few
days later his bronc is plumb gentle. Paw mounts, goes out an' with
a stone-headed spear kills a wild cow, an' he comes back to the cave
with the hide an ' more meat than the folks ever seen before. The family
is so pleased with this useful pet that they bring him in the cave nights,
an' all get busy pullin' grass for him.

Mister Man finds that with four legs under him instead of two, he
can ride rings around them big lizards, an ' there ain 't any of them claw-
wearin', tusk-bearin' critters can overtake him. The old gent snares
more hosses, an' it ain't long till the whole family's hoss-back. When
this bunch starts out, armed an' mounted, they sure bring home the
bacon. Meat — I'd tell a man. This cave looks an' smells like a pa ckin'
plant before the pure food law. It's now mankind sheds the leaf gar-
ments of old Grandad Adam an' starts wearin' new clothes.

Paw's wearin' a head-an'-tail cowskin; the boys has a yearlin' robe
apiece. Maw an ' the girls wouldn 't be in style at all these days. Mebbe
it's modesty — it might be the chill in the weather — but they're sure
covered from ears to heels in deer an' elk skins, an' from that day to
just lately man never knowed whether his sweetheart was knock-kneed
or bow-legged.

Since that old bug-eater snared that first cayuse, his descendents
have been climbin', an' the hoss has been with 'em. It was this animal
that took 'em from a cave. For thousands of years the hoss an' his
long-eared cousins furnished all transportation on land for man an'
broke all the ground for their fannin'. He has helped build every
railroad in the world. Even now he builds the roads for the automo-

60

RAWHIDE RAWLINS STORIES

bile that has made him nearly useless, an' I'm here to tell these machine-
lovers that it will take a million years for the gas wagon to catch up
with the hoss in what he's done for man. Today some of these auto
drivers want to kill him off to make fertilizer out of his body. Mebbe
I'm sentimental, but I think it's a damned hard finish for one that has
been as good a friend to man as the hoss.

Mighty Ilnn.ly With All Four Feet

Adios

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