I Saw Them Ride Away

By Harry Arthur Gant

Harry Arthur Gant lived at the intersection of the Old West and the New West. He was a cowboy in Colorado during the 1890s and a silent-film cameraman in Hollywood.

He tells his story with a distinctive mix of Old West plain speaking and New West sophistication, with the rough edges left on. This memoir spans two of the most fascinating parts of America's past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Castle Knob
• Release date: Mar 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452324999

Harry Arthur Gant

Harry Arthur Gant lived at the intersection of the Old West and the New West.He was a cowboy during the 1890s. He saw at first hand the hard work, the hard fun, and the occasional violence of that place and time. He knew cattle barons and horse thieves, con men and hustlers. As civilization spread through the Old West, he worked with the Wild West Shows that helped perpetuate the legends of that country. He was a guy who could get things done.When the first film makers came around, he soon became indispensable to them, and then followed them to the New West. With a new set of skills in the silent film era, he helped perpetuate the new form of legend that came out of Hollywood. He knew stars and extras, more con men and hustlers, movers and shakers.He tells his story with a distinctive mix of Old West plain speaking and New West sophistication, with the rough edges left on. This memoir spans two of the most fascinating parts of America's past.

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Publisher’s Note, Second Edition

I published Harry Gant’s memoir in 2009. The process of cross-checking the facts of his life was fascinating to me and revealed surprising aspects of his story that no one in his family had ever spoken of. I wrote a small book about that in 2010: The Making of ‘I Saw Them Ride Away’ .

In the past ten years I have found much more background material. Rather than make a separate book, I have included it as a third Part, added to Harry Gant’s two-Part memoir in this second edition.

There are two ways you might approach the additional material:

One way is to just read Parts 1 and 2, and then read Part 3 when you get to it. Depending on how well you remember what you read before, this might be somewhat confusing.

Another approach is to note that the headings of some chapters in Parts 1 and 2 are links to corresponding chapters in Part 3. Following such a link will take you to the background material for one or a few chapters. The Part 3 headings also link back to the Part 1 or 2 chapters. This should make it reasonably easy to jump back and forth between Gant’s original narrative and the corresponding background material.

In addition, I’ve inserted a few chapters with titles that start with Aside. These address aspects of Gant’s life that he didn’t include in his memoir, but that might help the reader to understand him:

133. Aside: Family Matters

135. Aside: Fit to Print?

137. Aside: Ranches and Brands

139. Aside: A Time for Romance

153. Aside: Shock Number 1

154. Aside: Shock Number 2

160. Aside: Shock Number 3

163. Aside: Getting to Know Harry Gant

As you might guess, the three great shocks I received while researching Harry Gant are the main reasons I spent so much time and effort on this edition.

Mike Blackstone, 2020

Publisher’s Note, First Edition

It has been fifty years since Harry Gant wrote down his memories, and it’s time they were read.

As we prepared his manuscript for publication, we were sometimes tempted to smooth out his sentences; but he had little use for store-bought grammar, so we left it pretty much as he wrote it. We added a little bit of punctuation, to help the reader through the rough patches. We hope you appreciate hearing an authentic voice from the Old West, slightly dusty but undimmed.

To help readers who are unfamiliar with the place and time he lived in, we’ve added some pictures from his collection, a glossary and an Afterword with comments from two of his descendants.

Mike Blackstone, 2009

F

oreword

This is written with the feeling that I can, in some way, straighten out the misconception that the present generation has of the life led by people in the cow country. The first 30 years of my life were spent mostly with a horse between my legs. I saw at first hand the closing out of the big cow outfits of Colorado and Wyoming and had a hand in their closing. Many of the men I worked with were ex-soldiers of the Civil War on both sides. I saw the gradual change of the Long Horn range cattle, to the Hereford.

I saw the struggle of the big open range cow men to hold the rustler in check, also the taking over later by the sheep men and the homesteader. This naturally did cause a few arguments that were settled by a shooting now and then. The ranges I worked on were just as tough as any part of the West, though the killings were a year or so apart and not an every day occurrence, as the movies would lead one to believe. When they did happen they gave us something to talk about, until the next one.

I ate about as many meals cooked with buffalo chips at a chuck wagon, as I did with wood in a cook stove.

I spent most of 40 years helping to make movies depicting scenes from the imagination of tenderfeet with typewriters, that in most part had very little basis in fact. I knew most of these portrayers of characters of the West, many of which got to believing their press agents’ stories and I learned early not to argue with the Brooklyn cow hands, as they put calluses on their typing fingers.

As I write this, I have had 8 years more than the allotted time given by the Bible, but at that period they knew nothing of penicillin or sulfa. Could have had an education, but in so doing would have had to miss the things I write of and would have been too smart to become entangled in the things I am able to tell of now. I still have 20-20 vision, a pair of ears like a radar antennae, a memory like an elephant, but an eighth grade education and grammar to match. Although some dirty words were actually used, you have to supply your own, I did not use them here.

I have believed in the Darwinian theory but at times the monkeys would not have appreciated my claim as a relative. My footprints in the sands of time will be obliterated at my demise, by the first rain. I have had a lot of pleasure in living and missed very few meals, but postponed a few. In so doing I am able to tell of the seamy and sordid side of life, perhaps better than the dude with a silver spoon.

I knew a lot of nice people as I traveled along life’s trail, some with a good claim to being celebrities, and the usual amount of stinkers, in varying degrees. I may be a little opinionated on some of these, and their opinions of me may be a little low.

If, in reading this melange of words poorly put together, you expect to read of blood and intestines scattered all over the West, the strum of guitars around the camp fires, beautiful women in skirts sawed off at their pelvis, and glamorous life in Hollywood, DON’T BOTHER TO READ IT.

Harry Gant, 1959

Part One

1. Horses, Horses and More Horses!

My father dealt in horses of all types, quarter horses, harness horses, draft stallions, but mostly bought green range geldings and had crews of men breaking them for shipment to various city horse car companies. The latter part of the 1880s he ran a livery and sale stable in Denver, Colorado, on Wazee Street, between 16th and 17th. Had corrals that looked like a stock yard that ran within a few feet of the Denver Union depot on 17th Street which was the main street of Denver at that time, where the plodding old horse cars ran out to the east then south on Broadway. But the sign was up that the end of the horse car was near. Denver had cable cars on Larimer Street and electric on Lawrence. My father had some contracts canceled and had to dispose of a few cars to the farmers in Southern Colorado loaded with cattle. Claimed he smelled the panic coming on.



1_JohnHarrietGant

Harry’s parents, John E. and Harriet Gant (née Dill)

In his liquidation my father had three draft stallions. The leading madam, Mattie Silks, on Market Street, which was known as the tenderloin district, had a big horse ranch in western Nebraska and wanted those studs. But always one to seek publicity, she made him parade them up Market Street, each one led by a man on horse back, for her inspection. The big tune of that era was Where Did You Get That Hat? It had many ribald parodies and these fat, sleek stallions on their usual behavior caused a riot and police calls. Father said there must have been 500 ladies in the street to admire these beautiful animals. There was no law against leading horses in the street, even if they did cause a riot, and Mattie bought them and showed those other women about horses.

2. Summer Vacation 1891, 10 Years Old

I was invited to my uncle’s ranch near Ft. Collins. I could hardly wait for school to let out. I was loaded on the train, welcomed by my kin folk, though I don’t think they knew just why. My duties were to take care of the chickens, bring up the milk cows, and ride the stacker horse for haying, which I did with a minimum of complaints.

The 4th of July came with a big celebration in town. We all piled into the spring wagon with lunch packed for a big day. The volunteer firemen had hose cart races and towns for miles around sent their crews.

These consisted of seven men. The cart weighed about 600 pounds and two men handled the tongue while four ran in doubles with a pointer out front, and two hose men at back, one to unreel the hose and screw to hydrant, the other to attach the nozzle after the hose was unreeled and he better have it on as the hydrant man spun on the water, or no time was taken and that outfit was out of the race. Most of the towns sent their hose cart crews along with their bands and a big contingent of citizens with bank rolls to wager. These races were run against time, the distance usually a city block. Started from scratch with a gun. Many arguments and a few fights.

There were matched quarter horse races and foot races and a big parade led by the local band, followed by the Grand Army of the Republic, of which there were many still living at this time. Then another band and its town hose cart team all decked out in their running trucks.

About the only thing cow punchers participated in were the horse races. There were no palomino mounted Sheriff’s posses. In fact, there were no palomino horses. The name palomino was not known then – they were known as yaller town horses by the cowpokes. There was no breed of them until many years later. They were usually foaled by a chestnut flaxen-tailed mare, and were accounted for as throw backs to her dun or buckskin ancestors.

On our way home Uncle told me of a killer stallion that had killed a man named Thompson, on the street the year before. An imported Percheron weighing 1900 pounds, while being led by his groom had broken his right hand check rein. The horse turned on him, grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him 20 feet and landed on his chest with his knees, crushing him, then picked him up and threw him again landing on his body with his knees, the second time. Then tearing him to shreds while people on the sidewalk looked on helplessly. Men rushed to a hardware store for guns but were stopped on account of the danger of hitting some people. The horse did not attempt to harm other people, just wanted to be sure he killed Thompson. One man aimed a big rock and stunned him for a second while others grabbed the body and dragged it into a store. The horse recovered from the shock and tried to follow them into the store but was beaten back. About then an old cow hand named Kingman roped him and got him away and chocked and maneuvered him back to his barn. It was found out later he had killed a man in France and was sold to an outfit in Wyoming where he killed another man. Those that were there said the scream of a killer stallion is the most eerie sound in the world and one you can never forget. This happened at noon, Friday May 23, 1890. Next morning Aunt Vinnie gave Uncle Ezra blazes for telling me the story, said I fought stallions all night.

Came time to extract honey and they were pretty busy and I was going to help, but mostly to eat honey – had never had all the sweets I wanted, but was told it would make me sick. I was complaining to the hired man that they would not let me eat all I wanted and that Uncle said I could not help him rob the hives on account of getting stung. So he told me that if you ate a lot of honey the bee stings did not hurt. I pondered that a while then told Aunt Vinnie, who was no doubt tired of my insistence for more honey. That’s good, she said, then you can help Uncle rob hives. Sure I can. With that she handed me a big bowl and a spoon. Help yourself, but if you get sick don’t blame me. A little later they found me out back of the barn. Said afterwards that I would, in turn, have greenish cast which turned to yellow and back to green. Have never been sicker, before or since. At meal time the big joke was to pass me the honey. Can’t stand it to this day. It seemed to me that those old country folks had little to kid about. The hired man and my aunt got into arguments over which color I was during my sickness. Others joined in and said I was green on one side and yellow on the other, and asked my uncle if I had tried to help so as to test the bees on whether stings hurt or not. Good time was had by all.

It seemed my father had bragged to the folks that I was a good hand helping to drive a band of horses. The horses were poor that spring on the range. A lot of young studs had not been altered and colts had not been branded. The first cutting of hay was up. So a big horse drive was to be made, corralling at the Tenney ranch to the north. I had not been too fond of their breakfast hour, 4:30 a.m. but was told the glad(?) tidings of a 3:00 a.m. breakfast next morning and I could go along. The ranchers for miles around who had horses on the open range had been told what part of the country they should drive. My two cousins, older than I by about 10 years, had the easiest run to make. They had taken up the stirrups on Uncle’s saddle for me but it was still too long by about four inches, leaving me to rattle around in a big saddle like peas in a pod on an old hard-riding, tough mouthed horse.

Never had seen so many horses before. There were two girls at Tenney’s who were about as good hands as the men on horseback. There were more horses than there was room for, so another kid and myself held a couple of hundred head in a lane while they worked over the others. Came lunch time, and no relief. Most of these men had put a lunch in their slickers. These cousins of mine scorned the idea, but the girls had fed them at noon. While the other kid and myself were one in each end of a mile long lane, no water, no lunch. Around two o’clock they came and got our charges. I loaded my stomach on alkali water and got to sit on the fence and watch the show. There were two crews, one in each corral, front footing two year old studs for castrating and young colts to brand.

By now those corrals had been churned to a dust storm. You could not tell one man from another, sweat and dust had made them all equal as far as dirt was concerned. Finally the last colt was branded as darkness settled down. That hard riding old horse and my belly full of alkali water was not conducive to my comfort. At each attempt to relieve my misery those cousins of mine rode on ahead. At each stop I made, the old horse was getting more anxious to get home and harder each time to mount. Finally it happened, he jumped out from under me and took off. I had been warned many times to never tie your bridle reins together. But, here I was afoot about two miles from the ranch. Had my reins been loose the old horse would have stepped on them and at least slowed him up and given me a chance to catch him. It seems my country cousins had gone home and had supper. When asked about me, He’ll be along in a minute or two. He just loaded up on that water out there for lunch. After supper they found my horse. The old folks started them out and they were told not to come back until they had found me. I had done pretty good with my legs and was not more than a quarter of a mile from home when I heard the rescue party coming. Heard them talking so was sure it was them. I stepped over by a fence post and let them go by. I soon was home, staggered into the yard and crawled into a hammock and passed out. They found me at daylight and I was about as popular as a skunk under a church, especially with the two who had had so much fun with my misery. A hard day’s work and all night hunting for a city punk. Aunt Vinnie gave me lots of milk toast, my favorite filler.

When I left home I had assured the folks I would be gone all summer. I was all fed up with the ranch life, but was bothered as to what to say when I got home, but the 4:30 breakfasts and the dirty looks from the boys, and the kidding about the honey made me decide to take the kidding at home. Besides, my mother always had lots of biscuits for breakfast. I told them of my terrible suffering. My mother got a letter from Auntie in a day or so stating that I had made a good hand and how sorry they were to lose me.

3. Making a Hand?

My father informed me he was going to move a band of horses from Deer Trail to the same range where I had just gone through my rough experiences and said for me to hurry up and grow that skin back on.

But the day before we were to start for the horse camp I had made the mistake of calling an old colored boy a nigger during an argument in a marble game. My nose protrudes quite a piece and Wimsey was either ricocheting off my nose or hitting me straight. Anyhow, I lost the fight and got the sorest nose and two dandy black eyes. Mother protested my going along until I could heal up a little. Father ruled that healing would do as well one place as another, and besides, that old boy might decide to put on some finishing touches. The thought of getting away kind of appealed to me after that.

Bright and early the next morning we left the stable in a buckboard with two saddles and a bed roll, heading east to the ranch where Father had two men gathering a brand of horses he had traded for, with the understanding they had to be gathered and moved out of that part of the country. You could ride up to most any outfit and eat but not always sleep. About noon we saw a cow roundup outfit and drove up and watched them finishing the morning work, branding calves. We drove up fairly close but not to interfere, and I watched my first cow outfit in operation. They roped out the last calf and the foreman rode over and asked us to eat with them.

They had an old colored boy as a cook. Hot biscuits, gravy, beef steak and beans, all cooked with buffalo chips. Got a little kidding about my pair of shiners. My father got a big kick out of trying to get me to tell how I got them. Some more kidding when I loaded my plate the second time, and they gathered around and offered to bet one another whether I could unload it or not. A good time was had by all. We watched them rope out their afternoon horses. I thanked the cook and told him that outside my mother’s biscuits, his were the best.

This was the Mill Iron wagon, one of the big open range outfits of the plains country. We arrived early at the horse ranch and the boys were out on the range, but Father went out in the holding pasture and looked over the stock. He made the discovery that there were only mares, colts, and up to two year olds. He had been told there were older geldings that would be saleable. A little disappointing and made him change his plan.

When the men came in that night they verified what Father had seen. It seemed somebody had traded him a block of lots near Nebraska City, Nebraska and the lots got a little wet when the Missouri River was up. He said that he guessed that the shortage of shipping geldings would even up for the dampness of the lots.

Next day he took me along with him while the boys went out on a circle to a part of the range not yet worked, and I got sight of my first trail herd. We sat our horses and watched them slowly drift by – about 3,000 yearling steers. All the colors that a Texas yearling ever had. We talked to one of the men on the drags. Said they had been on trail for six weeks then and were headed for Montana. Lots of antelope in that area. On our way back to the ranch I asked, Why don’t we get some cattle? Father told of his having put 500 nice short-horn heifers on the range near Chadron, Nebraska in 1886 and they perished to a heifer that same winter. He had turned them loose in the Sand Hill country with his brother-in-law, Bill Smith, to look after them. But about all Smith could do was look out the window at the storms.

That night they talked of horses, cows and many things. Remember Howard Higginbotham telling of having seen this same trail herd back to the south a day or so before, and remarking that they would be pretty fair two year olds in three or four years. And Ike Foltz saying that you could take them by the horns and drill post holes with them now. Another disparaging remark was that it would always take three of them to make one rump roast. In other words, Texas cattle were not much. And these little horses the men were riding, they had to tie knots in their tails to keep them from going through the saddle cinches. Those little dogies were not really driven, but grazed with their heads to the north.

It was decided that there were not many more horses to be gathered, so we started them out for the northern part of the state. We had about 125 head and the two men and I were to take them for one day, when they figured they would be trail broke, and Ike and I were to take them from there. Father and Howard were to go back to Denver. We were told to cross the Platte River at Evans. Had a bed roll on one horse and we were to eat where we could. He gave us expense money and told Ike to be sure and see that I got enough to eat. When we came to the settlement along the Platte, Ike would take the pack horse and go ahead. Soon had those old mares following good. After we got north of the Platte settlement, all open country, lots of water in the old buffalo wallows and other depressions in the plains country.

We got along fine. Had to pay one fellow five cents a head to put the horses in his pasture overnight and thirty-five cents per meal. Ike swore he lost money on the whole deal because of my appetite. I could not understand why people harried me, I just ate all I wanted. We took our time and grazed along, but the colts were getting leg weary. On our last night out we had supper with an outfit on the edge of the settlement and arranged to ride back for breakfast. Throwed the herd ahead, staked one horse and hobbled two, spread our bed in a nice grassy spot for a good night’s sleep. Warm and not a cloud in sight. About midnight came one of those gully washers that the plains country is noted for, and we really got wet. Not from the top, as the tarp was good but underneath the water was four or five inches deep. We finished the night under the tarp with our heads and shoulders on the saddles and our hips on the dry side of our saddle blankets. At daylight we wrung the water out of our bedding, packed the soggy things on the pack horse, and headed him toward the herd, then went back a couple of miles to breakfast. We threw the herd up above the Tenney ranch on the Boxelder, cut out our saddle horses and headed for Uncle Ezra’s where I had left so disgusted a short time before.

I had given considerable thought when I left the outfit to the fact that watermelons were going to be ripe soon, and sure enough, they were cutting a big one when we got in that evening. They had been apprised of our coming by Father, but made a big to do about how they knew I would be back if for nothing else than for some more honey. Ike did not know these folks, but joined in the festivities, and added a few of his own to make my life miserable. Advised Aunt Vinnie to put on another chunk of beef and a sack of potatoes. Another burst of merriment came when some of the comedians remarked that if I could play a mouth organ like I did that wedge of watermelon I would be a brass band.

We had put our wet bedding out to dry but it was still wet at bedtime. Ike remarked to Cousin Vern that sleeping with me at any time was as bad as sleeping with a wet dog. And me and a wet bed would not be so good. Guessed he would sleep in the hay barn. Vern assured him of a better plan, We have a room upstairs for you. This old town boy here likes to sleep in a hammock.

Father’s letter had made a request to Vern to help Ike corral some of those old mares and rasp one foot on each of those most likely to get homesick for the Deer Trail country. So we started out with hoof cutters and rasps to catch those that were farthest back toward the old range, corralled at Tenney ranch and proceeded to cut whatever foot stuck out after tying three feet in a bundle, hoping they would be over their homesickness by the time their hooves grew out. We headed them toward the north and bid them goodbye.

Next day we sacked our saddles and rolled our bed, after putting our string of saddle horses in Bob Howe’s public pasture at fifty cents per head per month, and took the train for Denver. When asked what kind of help I had been Ike said, A little bit light for corral work, but otherwise as good as anybody.

4. All Through with the Great Outdoors?

At home that evening Mother said she had been worried about me sleeping out among the rattlesnakes, and running my horse among the prairie dog holes. Father’s rejoinder was that he had slept out many nights and had never had a snake crawl in with him.

After this trip, Father was more tolerant of my hanging around the livery stable. I think partly because he felt safe in having me deliver or go get rigs that we boarded for business firms up town. The livery stable office was a social gathering place for many who liked the smell and banter that went on. Among the habitues at various times was Smithy. I liked him because he slipped me a dime and on occasions a quarter. Afterwards, I learned that this nice man was the famous Soapy Smith, probably the greatest con man of his time.

17th Street was the main street and for two blocks on each side was lined with saloons, pawn shops and other deadfalls. People coming into Denver, either tenderfeet or workmen from the mines, if they did not ride a horse car, walked up town from the depot past these places. Soapy worked as a shill for the jewelry pawn shops where they auctioned off supposedly high class jewelry that was not redeemed. But his main source of income was the game where he acquired his name. He would gather a bunch of prospects around him at his little work table and tell them of a five to one bet he was running, wherein, before their eyes, they could see him wrap a $5 gold piece or pill, whichever he happened to be featuring that particular set-up. He apparently laid it down while he wrapped others. Then he would say, Which of you men would like to pick out, for one dollar, one of these little packages? Of course, Soapy had no five dollars wrapped. But to console the loser he would say, There is the best cake of soap you ever used, and is well worth a dollar to anybody. About then his shill would put up a dollar and get a package with five dollars in it. They had him in jail once in a while but he would get out by proving that he always told them to watch close and besides the soap was the very best. His philosophy was that if he did not clean them the soap or somebody else would.

I felt sure I had enough of the country now. Looked up my friends for a big marble game. Among these was a boy named Mart Simmons who sold evening papers at 17th Street and Lawrence, one of the best locations in town. In those days a newsboy held his corner by his ability to keep others away, no assigning by the papers. Mart had seen the fight with the colored boy a few weeks previous. He told me he needed a partner and coaxed me into a deal, telling me that I was the one he needed on account of my ability. But I lost to Wimsey, I said. Why don’t you get him? His answer sounded plausible, said he couldn’t have a colored boy. While thinking it over I heard Father and Mother discussing business affairs, the livery stable was not doing too well and the horse business was bad in general. Ah! Here was a chance for me to help. But I decided to keep it to myself, bring home the money then inform them of the deal. Things were working good for a couple of days. I’d go home late for supper but Mother was used to that. The other boys had been by, sizing Mart’s new partner up, then on the third day decided to see how strong the enemy was. One jumped me and before Mart could get across the street two others were helping number one give me a working over. Was glad when Mart arrived and the fight was over. A good crowd had gathered and among them some of Father’s friends. I only got one good shiner and was back as busy as the proverbial cat.

Soon thereafter I felt a big thumb and finger holding my ear, and along with it an order to get rid of those papers and get home. Never did know if it was his pride in not wanting people to think his son had to sell papers or if he was tired of having to buy beef-steak for my shiners.

5. A New Job

It would soon be time for school, which was not looked on with too much favor, but could figure no way out of that. And my dime and quarter hand-outs were getting further between. So the world was not too bright to my way of thinking.

When Mother, who was a very devout Christian, but not narrow minded about her church being the only one, got the news that St. Luke’s Episcopal Church needed a choir boy she proceeded to hire me out. I got two dollars a week for two appearances on Sunday and one on Wednesday night. When Father came home I thought he would veto this, and for a time it looked good, but Mother said, Don’t say this is not good enough for him. You know you were a song leader in Camp Meeting when I met you. So, the die was cast. But Father was a far back back-slider from his former church affiliations.

I got along all right with the choir and had some good marble games. Those kids lacked a whole lot from being the angelic cherubs they seemed to be. It was here that I learned to smoke. You could get a pack of ten cigarettes, Sweet Caporal for a nickel. If I did not try to get too high in my chanting, my voice did not squeak much more than the rest.

I was just getting to like my new environment when Father came home from Ft. Collins and informed us that he had traded the livery stable, horses, buggies and all for the ranch where Ike and I had left our saddle horses a short time before. Mother was all excited and looked forward to lots of milk and butter. She was an Iowa farm girl and knew all the angles. It was only one mile from town and she could have her own horse and surrey to take the kids to church and Sunday school.

However, Father had kept out some of his standard bred mares from the deal, also a stallion and a jackass. My samples of life on a ranch had not been too happy and my thoughts of this new life to be were not very enthusiastic. And, I was right. From the start I had to cut kindling, carry coal, milk the cows and other things there was to do. Walk to school a mile and a half, except when it stormed, then I could take a horse to be put in the livery stable for the day.

We had gotten a little bunch of cattle and a few hogs and it was not long before Mother was making sausage and curing hams. She had always made hot biscuits for breakfast, except Monday mornings when she would have fried mush, left over from Sunday night supper of corn meal mush and milk.

School was from 8:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., which made you hustle to get chores done before and after school. But the cream, butter and lots of things we did not have when we went to the store for everything, kind of squared up for the long hours.

But come spring a new angle I had not experienced before came up. We had three stallions and a jack at stud. One Percheron, one standard bred and a Cleveland Bay imported that Father had won in an election bet from Jesse Harris, along with his progeny. He always had a lot of horses bet on elections. One old friend said he would bet his clothes and hide behind the privy until the votes were counted, however, he never played poker.

On Saturday I had to drive all over the country posting bills telling of the many qualities of our studs, fees for each, etc. Had to drive the mares up out of the pasture before I went to school. Had been warned not to crowd a mare with a colt when driving them in but, kid like, had to learn the hard way. One morning I was kicked by an old flat sharp-hoofed mare and had my knee cap nearly kicked off with a gash just under the cap and nearly severing the cord that swings the leg forward. Father held me still while Mother took eight or ten stitches and they devised a splint to keep my leg rigid. They poured a lot of turpentine on it. I was not much help for a few weeks, but got a lot of babying from Mother and took full advantage of my infirmities.

6. 1893, 12 Years Old

Most of the ranches were mortgaged, or had what they call a plaster on them, and ours was no exception. Times were getting tougher all the while, the mortgage came due and we had to give up the place. Most of the paper on ranches was held by individuals and foreclosures were being made right and left, where before these old shylocks had been content to get the interest and would make renewals.

There was quite often a string of wagons, with people leaving the land of ten cent corn, heading for the Northwest. Though the Indian raids on these outfits had not happened in twenty years they still traveled in caravans, taking the advice of Horace Greeley to go west, mostly to the land of big apples and all the salmon they could eat, Oregon.

We had to move and Father got out and traded for another equity in a place six miles to the west at La Porte, Colorado. We had accumulated quite a few cattle by now, and this place was an old established ranch and close to the open range with lots of corrals and sheds, a couple of acres of apple orchard and considerable hay ground.

Father had to get to town every day or so to get the Denver daily papers, as his nephew, Charles Smith, was one of the contestants in the Chadron to Chicago horse race. This ended up by everybody accusing everybody else of having shipped his horse by rail. Rules: two horses to each man. It ended by a fellow name Berry riding in first with one horse and my cousin and Gillespie riding stirrup to stirrup to finish. Berry was disqualified for having only one horse. They split the purse of $1,000.00 – took 14 days and four hours, traveled 1,040 miles, ending at Buffalo Bill’s show grounds.

I had to do the irrigating of the hay meadows and was out one evening changing the water for the night run. Along at dusk the mosquitoes would raise in swarms of millions and I was supposed to wear a mosquito netting sack over my head fastened around my neck. But no – too much bother. Had ridden a horse out to work. In shoveling the dirt fast in order to get away from the swarm I breathed a part of a lung full of the darn things. Had heard that if you got anything in your lungs besides air you were a goner. So I ran the horse to the house and rushed in to tell of my bad fix, but I had evidently gotten rid of my load of bugs, and was not dead, so was told to go on back. But if I was you, Mother said, I believe I would wear the sack. You might get more than you can cough up.

Most every evening Father had me out working out the quarter horse for the 4th of July was coming up. Preparations on the third were for me to lead alongside another horse this world beater to Ft. Collins, leaving at daylight. The rest of the folks would go in the buckboard. The panic that Father had said he smelled coming on a year or so ago was on, and was going good by now, and Mother was all against betting any of our short bank roll on a horse race, but Father insisted he would only bet horses against cattle.

Next morning we went to the barn to get me started so I could take plenty of time, only to find that the horse had a swollen heel and was awful lame. I have wondered if Mother had something to do with the lameness. We all went to the 4th anyway, myself on horseback, the rest by team. The hose cart races were my favorite sport and had no quarter horse to ride. That evening we had company and made a big batch of ice cream. We had a big ice house with tons of ice packed in sawdust, and we ended up a nice 4th of July.

The fifth was not so good, somebody had poured the salty water from the ice cream into the pig slop and we found three nice hogs dead, our winter pork chops and sausage. To top off this run of hard luck, they had me drag those carcasses off down to the lower part of the place. The coyotes had been getting Mother’s chickens so she insisted that we get some strychnine and poison the carcasses, which we did – only it poisoned the best dogs we ever had. Don’t think we thinned out the coyotes any.

We put up lots of hay and had a big crop of apples. The neighbors helped to pick and took their pay in apples. We had a big cellar loaded. They were not worth much, for we got a $1.50 a barrel and paid 50 cents for the barrels. But we made several barrels of cider that sold good. Our county had local option on liquor and had closed the saloons. They did not have Alcoholics Anonymous in those days but a lot of old boys were alcoholics unanimous, and thereby able to put a barrel of cider in their cellar and let nature take its course.

Father got out and traded for some more hogs. We went into the winter without much money, but lots of pork, beef and apples. We slaughtered some fat cows and steers and sold or traded them for things we could use. We were milking three or four old bronco cows. A couple of them we had to hobble their hind legs to be sure of getting to the house with any milk.

My two sisters, younger than I, either walked or skated to school at La Porte about a mile. There was an irrigation ditch ran by our house and close to school which was frozen over part of the time.

The days are short in the winter time and school did not turn out until four o’clock. Lots of chores to do besides milking those bronco cows. So I had to hustle home as we never knew when Father would be home. Neither could we tell by the rig he was driving, as he might leave with a black team and come home with a gray one. He had the reputation of being a horse doctor though I don’t think he ever charged for his services. Had a pair of old saddle bags with his tools and medicines. I remember the medicines consisted of nitre, laudanum, turpentine and a big bottle of castor oil. Have known people to come for him in the night and never knew him to refuse to go. There were no veterinarians then, only horse doctors. No diplomas, only experience.

Mother was what you could call super-frugal, and the different ways she could fix up an apple were amazing – fried, baked, fritters or apple pie. She figured the more apples we ate the less of something else.

7. Sam J. Heindle

One of the greatest characters I ever knew was Sam Heindle who had a horse camp over in Weld County. He kept up two horses, had a 160 acre pasture, and a dug-out in the side of the hill fixed up very warm and comfortable. He and Father had been friends for years. He would come and stay with us for weeks at a time. When he wanted to roundup high range stock he drove them in, in a cart with one horse. Never rode horseback, took his bed and grub in the cart. When he got a bunch in, he would get a neighbor to help him brand his colts. Had old geldings ten or twelve years old, don’t think he ever sold one. Always seemed to have money. Was a Civil War veteran and spent his summers on the range with his horses. Branded SH, the SH connected. Never married. Was just a fine specimen of humanity. When he visited us or I stopped at his camp, if he did not hand me $5.00 I would find it in my pocket.

8. A New Deal

Came spring and more mares to take care of along with ranch work and irrigating the hay meadow. By now we had accumulated a more or less nondescript herd of cattle which were put out on the open range. I did most of the work that summer, irrigated, mowed and raked the hay, hired men to haul it in at $1.00 a day and lunch. This was the general wage for most everything, probably because it was easy to figure. After the haying was over Father had heard of a deal in Wyoming and took off, after giving me a lot of instructions. Said he’d possibly be gone a week.

Upon his return he informed us that he had traded this place for a ranch in Wyoming along with a hundred head of cattle and about fifty horses. The mortgage on that ranch was due in the fall but the stock was clear. Mother’s comment, More horses! And what are we going to do? Ah, you are going to move into town where you can have your church. As yet, she had never missed any meals under his management and the church deal sounded good. We rented a small place on the edge of town, Ft. Collins, where he could handle stock and it was about the same distance from school. Rigged Mother up with a surrey with the fringe on top, much to her delight. Got a man to look after the stock and Father and I took off for Wyoming, to bring that stock home. We had a team and wagon and two good saddle horses, camp equipment and grub for the trip.

Arriving at Martin’s place we laid over a day, and it was the first time I had ever seen Father out on a limb. There was a nice big square bull, but too big and heavy to travel. The people running the ranch were the Sherards. They could use the bull but were too canny to trade Father’s way. He had to trade him for two cows with calves. The boys, Nelson and Bert, helped us to get to the big stock lane at La Grange. We belled four of the older mares who were most apt to get homesick and sneak by our camp in the night. There was a wide lane, one quarter mile wide, covered by lots of grass so we had good going to Cheyenne. The last day in the lane, Bresnahan, the local butcher came by and offered $8.00 per head to pick 20 calves out of the herd. Next morning we drove the horses around town and started them down another wide lane, while we went back for the wagons and cattle. He took the wagon to where we left the horses while I eased the cattle around to the north to get to the slaughter house. Father must have needed that money pretty bad. Did you ever try to drive a cow away from her calf? If not, you just don’t know what trouble is. These were really choice veal, about 200 pounds of it.

It seemed to me that Pater, as the English say, was in better spirits with that $160.00 in his pocket, while we had a rough night keeping those cows from going back to the slaughter house. Things looked brighter to me for he had stopped in Cheyenne and got a big steak for supper, and sausage and eggs for breakfast. We were running low on the groceries. I really got better acquainted with him than ever before. While sitting around camp at night we talked of many things, including the birds and the bees and things kindred. He showed me how to cook, taking lots of trouble to see that the fundamentals were really soaking in.

At the end of the wide stock lane to the south of Cheyenne lived a man named Dionysius Mante, who Father had stopped with overnight going and coming to make the Bear Creek ranch trade. He made the remark that he felt sorry for Mante as the Warren Live Stock Co. kept the range sheeped off and had him looking at his hole card pretty close. He had a big family and Father had invited him to come and stay at our place in the fall, while he laid in his winter supplies. Things were lots cheaper down there. And he asked Mante to keep a lookout to see if any of his stock got homesick, to hold them and let us know. They would have to go by his place to get back to Bear Creek.

This stock lane and public road we had used since leaving Cheyenne ran through the big fenced-in domain of U. S. Senator Francis Warren. An area as big as some counties back east and was, according to law, entirely illegal. There would every year or so be a big to-do and the government would send men to take down the fence, but nothing ever came down – not even one post. Politics.

We drifted the stock all day and the cows that had lost their calves were pretty well over their grief and we penned the horses at the old Tenney ranch and camped for the night. Father had the Fallon place leased for horse pasture. We took off the bells from the old mares and turned them in.

Found that Father had been talking to Tenney before we went north, and a deal for the leasing of the ranch was pending. A good five-room house and lots of barn and corral room. Opened onto the open range from there to the Kansas-Nebraska corner and to the west several miles up into the Rocky Mountains in what was known as the Boxelder Horse Shoe country. A few days later I found out we had secured the lease on the Tenney ranch and that I was to stay there that winter and go to school. Also, that the teacher who had been at La Porte was going to bach out there with me along with a man named Green, who was to break horses. Frank Brazil, a young Texan, was the teacher. (Note! He is still living and one of my best friends. Now in his nineties, 1957.) These plans were apparently in my father’s head when we were trailing the stock from Wyoming, for he had taken much pains to teach me a rough idea of cooking. A good supply of groceries was laid in along with plenty of coal, in addition to a quarter of beef hanging in the store room. We had all the wild duck and geese we wanted until away late in the fall. We had a single-barrel shot gun and brass shells and equipment to load them with. It was not very sporting, but to save ammunition one of us would ride an old saddle horse and with a long pair of reins get off and drive him ahead of us and get right up to a flock of geese or ducks before firing, thereby saving powder and being sure of a good shot. We never shot just to see them fall.

We had bought the hay crop and had the pasture thrown in on a few little granger outfits to the south where stock water was procured from various lakes and ponds. Hay was measured in the stack to arrive at tonnage, and was bringing