My Life on the Range

By John Clay

"John Clay, Jr., was one of the more colorful and influential figures of the great Wild West." -Livestock Industry Hall of Fame, Saddle & Sirloin Portrait Foundation, June 11, 2019

"They say of John Clay that he knows every steer in the United States by its first name. It is probably true that he knows

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookcrop
• Release date: Sep 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088290859

Book preview

My Life on

the Range

John Clay

Originally published

1924

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER I

The summer of 1872 had been cold, wet and inhospitable in Scotland. It was followed by a glorious autumn. One market day, about the middle of October, I was standing in the old square at Kelso, Scotland, when about noon our family doctor drove up to his house. He looked flustered and nervous, and a few minutes after his arrival, by some underground telepathy, word was passed along the line that a prominent farmer in the district had died very suddenly. It fell to my province to wind up his estate. He farmed a 1,400-acre farm six miles west of the above town. It is a fine specimen of a Border holding, with rich high lands by the side of the Tweed; and then there is a gentle rise to the homestead, the farm house being rich in memories of Christopher North, who spent many a happy hour there, fishing by day and devoting the evening to social enjoyment. The farmer's affairs were in bad shape, and the trustees who handled his estate found it necessary to give up the lease of the farm and in this way conserve a small sum for the benefit of a young and interesting family. The trustee, a valuator and the writer, went up to the place a few days after the funeral.

We left Kelso about 10 A. M., crossed the Tweed, and swinging right-handed, we passed the junction of that river and the Teviot, then crossing the latter stream we passed by Roxburgh Castle, and thence away through a glorious farming country, a land redolent of sheep and turnips and barley and lovely woodland on the river banks. Some three miles on our journey, in a little spinney, the Duke of Buccleuch's hounds had killed a fox. You could hear the sharp note of Shore the huntsman's horn before you came in sight. He was about fifty yards away from the roadside. Around him were many members of the hunt and a goodly sprinkling of young farmers of the neighborhood. Never before nor since that hour have I realized so vividly the fact of having been born a sport and yet having to work for a living. It was a charming day, a bright sun touching the sparkling river with gleams of silver; the gold of autumn hung pendant amid a wealth of woods, and before you was a moving picture of horses and hounds and the swelling hills echoing the exultant note of the huntsman's voice as the hounds tore their quarry to tatters. Ah me, it all comes back with a realism that bridges years and makes you feel young again.

And so this endless chain of a man's life began with me, a fight which ends in victory or defeat. The money gained by a strenuous winter and spring's work, an uphill job it was, led on to a trip to the United States and Canada, a pleasure trip, yet with an eye to the main chance; for, while a farmer's life in Scotland was a pleasant one, it was slow so far as material benefits were concerned, and your life naturally ran in a narrow groove. But there was a deeper, yet unexpressed thought in your mind. Away down in a man's heart is the love of freedom, of liberty of thought, of fresh fields in the realm of religion, a sort of mental ground swell that vibrates through your soul.

Inheriting from my parents many radical views, mainly political, and being naturally blessed with independence and self-reliance, it was a short step to explore the widening influence of the new world. There is another word in our Anglo-Saxon language called caste that covers a multitude of sins. It was just as prevalent in Scotland half a century ago as it was on the banks of the Ganges. It meant in our Borderland a social segregation of classes, a smothering of ambition, a fierce fight against political independence, the neglect of ability, the silent, sarcastic repression of any forward movement, the absence of a generous uplift, the extravagance of our landed proprietors and their utter inability to meet adverse times. All those thoughts not expressed went through your mind, touched your heart, and in a manner separated from your native land that glorious sentiment of loyalty which is the heritage of every true born man, and which comes back to me today after weathering many mental storms when I return to the land of my sires.

And so it came about, partly with those thoughts in my mind and in the spirit of adventure, that I traversed the Old Dominion of Virginia, tasted of its generous hospitality, looked over the great cities of the Central West, trod the rich lands of Illinois, and turning towards the setting sun, crossed the prairie lands of Iowa and eastern Nebraska, and woke up one morning at North Platte, in the latter state, to taste on the platform of the depot that champagne air, otherwise known as the lure of the West. No plummet can fathom the depth of that well, no language can spell the loyalty of a man's heart to his adopted land, for in those days a nativeborn Westerner was scarcely known. There was a freedom, a romance, a sort of mystic halo hanging over those green, grassy, swelling divides that was impregnated, grafted into your system. As nitrogen enters the soil, slowly but surely revives it and makes it active in production, so this touch of the prairie, this sight of the mountains, this life among singing brooks in distant valleys where, Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below, The dim Sierras far beyond uplifting Their minarets of snow, all, all fired my imagination. It was another world; the rough, ready, joyous prospect of a broader field on windswept plains blotted out for the time being softer scenes, where pleasant meadow lands and fields of golden grain with far-off heather hills lay five thousand miles away.

From North Platte, Neb., it was then a day's ride to Cheyenne, Wyo. South of the former place Guy Barton of Omaha, Neb., had a ranch. Down on the Republican Iliff was building up his fortune, while at Cheyenne Swan, Carey, etc., were actively operating. Cheyenne was then, as now, an enigma. It stands out on the prairie, desolate, wind swept, but lying on a gentle incline southwards. The little stream called Crow Creek half circles the town, and from it reservoirs are filled and a generous water supply is obtained. It was then what it is now, the Magic City of the plains. In 1874 it was about seven or eight years old, and by common consent it was headquarters for the west and northwestern range business. It was also the junction for Denver, Colo. While you could approach that city from the south via the Kansas Pacific, you had to change at Cheyenne if you came west on the Union Pacific. Consequently it was a busy burg. There the cowman, the railroad man, the politician met, and altogether it was an interesting place. I tarried in the old Depot Hotel, a wooden erection long since burned down, and the evenings were spent at a free and easy theatre. The name describes it exactly. The only person I remember as meeting at that time was David Miller, the jeweler. Dave still holds the fort. He was in those days a bit of a Bohemian, but like the writer, has reformed, and he is now a good type of citizen; a Scotchman by birth, with a longing towards his native land that he fears will not be gratified, for Dave is approaching the Biblical age when men are expected to go to heaven.

My objective was Denver. Two roads ran from Cheyenne there, the Union Pacific and the Colorado Central, but as they both made the trip in the evening, and at the rate of sixteen miles per hour, it was a tiresome journey. General Phil Sheridan was on the train, and I will never forget how his short little figure fitted the seat of an ordinary car exactly, and how rolling himself up in a blanket, he quietly slept from eight o'clock till midnight, when we reached our destination. At Denver it was my good fortune to have a note of introduction to the firm of Winne & Cooper. The latter, who eventually became Governor of Colorado and had in his time more or less live stock holdings, took a warm interest in me, and during that short visit loaded me up with the possibilities of the mountain regions. Even with all his optimism, little did he know of coming events. How in a few years those dry lands at the base of the Rockies would bloom with alfalfa and the serried rows of beets would feed the monstrous sugar factories that insult the surroundings with their chimney stalks and uninteresting architecture.

In those days it was gold and silver to which the folks of Denver pinned their faith. They did not realize that the irrigator's spade and the granger's plough were just beginning to uncover untold wealth. Where Iliff, Gale, Wyatt and others ran their cattle, had the freedom of Uncle Sam's undeveloped estate, where buffalo were plentiful and deer in profusion, there was lying dormant a vast heritage. Johnnie Gordon, the poetic sage of Wyoming, talks of a little water and the hand of industry. Apply this, draw from the everlasting banks of snow and ice amid those mountains a stream of turgid, bubbling water, and nature changes, develops, breaks into song as the cottonwoods spread their branches to the breeze, and the big sunflowers open their yellow petals to greet the day and nod good morning to the blue lupin that decorates the prairie. It was a fast moving picture that passed before my eyes: The Indian receding into distance; the trapper period also fading away; the forty-niners, a halo of romance hanging 'round their struggles and exploits; the discovery of gold in Colorado in 1859; the slow measured step of bridling streams, while the cowman and his fantastic help added endless stories, adventures by flood, field and mountain to an already overcharged human volcano. It opened up new visions, just as it did to Burns.

CHAPTER II

After leaving the West in 1874, I returned via Toronto to New York and there had the good luck to meet the Hon. George Brown, principal owner of the Globe, a newspaper known far and wide over the Dominion of Canada. Brown, who was a Scotchman by birth, played a great part in his adopted country. He was a marvelous man, sanguine, patriotic, indomitable, farseeing politically, adored by his followers, hated by his opponents. When I met him he had long passed the meridian of life, but he still retained all the fire and energy of youth. He owned the beautiful Bow Park farm near Brantford, Ontario. He was an enthusiastic agriculturist. In this line he thought he had a great mission in life. He had fought and won the great battle of the confederation of the Canadian provinces, and as the crowning glory of his life he took up the improvement of the live stock of Ontario especially, and all of Canada generally. The Shorthorn was the keystone of the arch he proposed to build, and unfortunately he turned his attention to the Bates tribe, then declining through the false god of pedigree leading breeders astray. He invited me to spend a few days on the farm; pleasant hours they were. He had a lot of good cattle of mixed pedigrees that would sell today [1916] at fancy prices. But they went slowly over forty years ago.

Less than two years after my visit he came to Scotland, and through the influence of the Nelsons, Thomas and William, the great Edinburgh publishers who were his brothers-in-law, he floated a company, raising a considerable sum of money which was to be spent in buying the best that was to be had in Great Britain in the line of Shorthorn cattle, Clydesdale horses, various breeds of sheep and Berkshire hogs. The cautious Scots were carried away by Brown's enthusiasm. He had a magnetic influence, with a strong face and an overpowering presence. Gifted with a finely modulated voice, he was one of the men whose sayings you should sleep over and then think some more about them. Remembering my visit to his place, he came out to the Borderland incidentally to see the methods of farming there, but in reality to interest my father in his scheme. The result was we took a small interest in the proposed company, and I was engaged to purchase the Clydesdales and the sheep, and it was also my business to assist in the shipping. Everything went off smoothly, except that we were landed with a lot of exceedingly poor animals with fashionable pedigrees. The buying program which was to continue each year, came to a full stop. In 1877 and 1878 the Shorthorn business was in the doldrums on this side of the Atlantic, so there was an ominous silence. Towards the end of the latter year, the shareholders held a meeting. No accounts had reached them, but the high standing of the Nelsons stopped any adverse criticism. They, however, felt the situation keenly.

Mr. Thos. Nelson and Mr. W. J. Menzies, then and for many years afterwards, manager of the Scottish American Investment Co. and other companies, arranged with me to go out and see what was doing, so I landed in Toronto about the middle of January, 1879. To me it was a sort of adventure, but it turned out to be stern reality. The company was laboring in great financial difficulty. There was practically no income. Sales were few and far between, and there was a steady outgo for wages and farm expenses, and then unfortunately Mr. Brown had tried to bolster up a declining market. Speculators in pedigree like Groom in Kentucky and others in Canada, also had come to grief. In the fall of 1878, John Hope, whose memory along with that of Richard Gibson and Simon Beattie, will ever be revered by the fast passing generation of pure bred live stock importers, had been engaged as herd manager. I had met Hope before at a series of ram sales amid the Cotswold hills, and thus renewed an acquaintanceship which grew, intensified and became a lasting friendship. One of the worst blows I ever received was to get a cablegram in the little town of Kelso, Scotland, telling me of his death.

The winter's day I got to Bow Park marked an era of strenuous times. Mr. Brown took me down from Toronto to the farm, and it seems like yesterday sitting in the little parlor discussing the affairs of the herd which was composed of about 250 head of Shorthorns, a dozen Clydesdales, quite a flock of sheep and some Berkshire hogs. The owner was enthusiastic, although everything was at odds and ends. Hope was cautious and I was in a maze of doubt which intensified as the days went on. The report, which covered an accounting of the past two and a half years, with an inventory, in such times of live stock depression and the falling edifice of Shorthorn values was a difficult one to make. Added to this was a worse outlook. While Mr. Brown was an able editor and a fearless patriot, he was not a practical farmer. He had a great idea and he stuck to it heroically, that the soiling system was the most economical for a country like Ontario where you have long winters. He had constructed immense barns in which his cattle were housed, and there young and old were fed for three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. There were a lot of beautiful pastures, but so far as the cattle were concerned, they were scarcely touched. In winter the cattle had corn fodder, roots, hay and large amounts of grain; in summer, green rye, clover, green corn fodder, etc. The farm buildings had no drainage. The manure was thrown into great heaps betwixt the buildings and was allowed to stay there for months. Then it was carted direct to the fields. As immense quantities of straw and hay were bought from farmers, principally renters, there was imported to the farms annually tons and tons of fox-tail, which reproduced itself in a generous way.

In those days the Bates Shorthorns from in-breeding were beginning to show signs of tuberculosis. The British breeders had been careful to weed out any cattle that by ancestry or other signs showed symptoms of the disease. The soiling system, the want of proper drainage, helped this disease along, and the graveyard at Bow Park was full of valuable cattle who could not withstand such treatment. On a fine old English meadow for nine months of the year and a daily run on it for the balance, they would likely have survived. What added to the difficulties materially was the presence of ergot in the rye and corn fodder, and there were a great many abortions. Nature revolted against the conditions. There were, however, a great many fine cattle on the farm with strong constitutions, and exceedingly well bred, especially some of the Oxford and Wild Eyes tribes and lesser lights that had fine Bates tops in their pedigrees. At the head of the herd the 4th Duke of Clarence was much in evidence. It was my business to take this rather painful story back to the Scotch shareholders, and after a good many rather acrimonious conferences, I was employed as manager of the company and returned to Canada the first days of August. I left the easy going, pleasant life of a Scotch farmer to be thrown into this maelstrom of work and anxiety.

Looking back it is like a nightmare, but youth surmounts obstacles, soon forgets the disagreeable worries of life and comforts himself with the thought that achievement leads on to advancement. Brown was more or less hostile. He was worried financially. During the latter part of the year we had two fires which swept away most of our buildings, and then, as if this was not agony enough, he was shot by a worthless employee the following March. It was only a slight wound, but blood poisoning set in, and this great, whole-souled man, who had filled many public offices from Premier downwards, passed away. While a failure as a farmer, it would be hard to estimate what George Brown did for Canada. As the years pass away and his work and personality grow gradually into history, he will ever in my judgment hold a high place in the annals of the Dominion. He saw ahead of his time, peered into the misty future, dreamt of the days that were coming, when the vote of the lower provinces should be swallowed up by the wondrous growth of the West. He was an empire builder in his way, but financially he did not reap where he sowed, as Strathcona, Mount Stephen and the peerless Hill have done. And though Bow Park was a failure, it was an effort in the right direction; it helped to blaze the way and was an uplift for Canadian breeders of pure-bred stock, and indirectly helped his adopted country.

My readers will naturally ask what this story has to do with the range. The answer is that it laid the foundation for entering upon that business. In the summer of 1879 Conrad Kohrs, then of Deer Lodge, Mont. (of whom more hereafter), spent a few days at Bow Park and bought some stock. Hope was immensely struck with his strong personality, and often referred to it. There was a glamour about his talk as he opened up the vein of his vast experience. In the autumn of 1879, after a very successful showing season at the fairs in the States and Canada, we held a sale at Dexter Park, Chicago, and as it went off very well, we held another about the middle of April, 1880. Around the ring were several rangemen, and they helped Col. Judy, who wielded the hammer. The party who stands out distinctly in my recollection was Mr. Lee of the old firm of Lee & Reynolds, post traders, ranchmen, etc., at Fort Supply, Indian Territory. Before and after the sale I had several talks with him, and he made a distinct influence on my mind by his intelligent description of his work in the West. I do not recollect ever meeting him except on that occasion, although I ran across Mr. Reynolds frequently, who was latterly a resident of Denver, Colo., and stood high till his death in that community. So as a brooklet finds its way to a mother stream and eventually rolls along with the increasing volume of water, I gradually drifted into this range business, treading many a tortuous path from then till now. At the old Exposition building on the Lake Front in Chicago in 1882, '83 and '84, we were showing Clarence Kirklevington, Lady Aberdeen, and various other fat cattle, and in those years and at previous shows, I met many rangemen and absorbed much of their glamour and optimism.

This afternoon shortly after I had penned those words, I was sitting down in my garden, which lies under the shelter of Gloucester Breakwater. It was a clear, brilliant day in June. A strong southeast breeze was blowing outside, and big waves with white caps were rolling up from Cape Cod way. Wreaths of silver spray broke on the granite rocks of the wild New England shore, as the big combers spent their energy. Across the little bay that lay quiescent, just enough motion to make it shimmer in the sunshine, a lighthouse, its tower and buildings painted white, was silhouetted against the blue of sea and sky, some two hundred yards away. Seaward there was the sound of breaking billows. Inside the bay little wavelets made music that charmed your ear. At their moorings boats swung slowly to and fro. As I sat there and took in the scene, unconsciously I had sat down on a chair given to me many years ago by E. W. Whitcomb. One summer's day some twenty years ago I had called upon him at his home in Cheyenne. The trim lawn, the cottonwood trees, whose shade was welcome, caught many a man's eye. It was so peaceful, the rich greenery so grateful after the arid sunbaked plains. On the lawn were two chairs made out of elk horns, one in the rough, the other varnished. The generous old man whom I had obliged in some ways, said he would give me the above, and in due course they came along and one of them has landed on this surf-beaten shore. And so my memory traveled back to this scene on the range. Scarce a day, whether it be in the hurlyburly of business, or in the quiet scenes such as the above, but what you think of old days. It was pleasant to look back at the old man Whitcomb, a stocky frame with a noble head and a pleasant presence, for amid the rougher side of life which you meet on the frontier, he had ever remained the innate gentleman. He had a wife with some Indian blood in her veins, a clever woman she was, a splendid helpmate and a fond mother. He faced his troubles with courage, he was generous to the full extent of his means, and he was loyal to his friends. Before I knew him he lived upon the Chug. Selling out there he moved to Cheyenne, where he stayed many years. Latterly he had a ranch near to Moorcroft, Wyo., where one summer's afternoon a thunderbolt struck him and he was found dead near to his home, and with him went out a shining light, a man without guile, yet with a magnetic personality.

CHAPTER III

The Scotch, who are supposed to be one of the most thrifty races on the globe, are on the other hand the most speculative. Not the speculation you see at Monte Carlo, French Lick or Palm Beach, their young men reach out from inclination and necessity. They are progressive and aggressive, and they will venture anywhere in the pursuit of commerce. "Never venture, never win, is printed on their flag. This love of money making, enterprise you might call it, was not confined to the wanderers on foreign shores. The business men at home, the staid steady-going yet successful merchant, farmer, lawyer, doctor, down to the candlestick maker, were always willing to invest their bit of money and take a chance.

Twenty-five years ago the principal butcher in the little town of Kelso on the Scottish Border, divulged to me the history of a syndicate formed in the town to operate on the Chicago Board of Trade. Result: disaster and much trouble before the losses were settled. The Civil War and the immense amount of financing it developed, led on to British investors taking advantage of the necessities of the States, and in this way many a Scotch bank account overflowed. A field of fresh adventure in the world of finance was reopened. A number of rich men in Edinburgh led the way in the northern kingdom, and a large amount of money found its way from Scotch coffers across the Atlantic.

About the year 1872, Mr. W. J. Menzies, afterward knighted, organized the Scottish American Investment Co. It was organized on the lines of a $50.00 share, of which $10.00 was paid up. The subscribers, who were generally strong men financially, were therefore liable for a call of $40.00 per share if necessary. Against this they borrowed money from insurance companies, other investment corporations, and the public generally at a low rate. They got their money at 4 to 4 1⁄2 per cent and loaned it in the States and Canada at an average of 6 to 8 per cent. For years the business was most profitable, and other companies, not only in Edinburgh, but in Glasgow, Dundee and Aberdeen soon followed suit. It would be impossible to name them and this explanation only leads on to my main story. A great many financial lights met at the office of the above investment company. Sir George Warrender was the chairman of the company, a shrewd, keen man of business, inclined to be purse proud, but just in his ways and methods. At a board meeting he was expeditious and clear headed; when in the chair at a shareholders' meeting he always read his speech, this having been prepared beforehand, every word fitting in its proper place. If a shareholder proved unruly, or was unduly prosy, Sir George could snuff him out in a very polite yet decided way. Thomas Nelson, of the great and successful publishing firm of Messrs. Thomas Nelson & Sons, was the richest and most influential of the coterie who gathered round the board. Small in stature, physically rather weak, he was mentally a giant with a great bump of kindness in his nature. Added to this was a simplicity that made him loved of children, and he could pen beautiful stories which charmed old and young. He was keen after money, but it was not his god. He loved to get away to a Highland glen and spend two or three months amid its babbling brooks and purple hillsides. He had an eye for the beautiful, for art; he found sermons in stones as well as in the pulpit, and in his life he was a shining example of the successful business man and good citizen.

Edward Blythe was another prominent man. He was a big, handsome man who had made a fortune as a civil engineer, and he was almost as well known in Edinburgh as Sir Walter Scott's monument. He was big in every way-mentally, socially, a good sportsman, loving a Highland moor with a loch by its side, and at a Board meeting he was invaluable, for he had a great bump of common sense. To use a western expression, he was never stampeded. There were others, men of fine parts, but the above with Menzies were the leaders. Menzies himself was a character. His forefathers had been leaders in the kirk of Scotland, and when W. J. took to the law, the church business fell into his hands. He was splendidly versed in the history and ways of the church of Scotland, but his leanings were towards finance. For some reason or other, he had to visit the States on a business trip during his early life. The result was the organization of the Scottish American Investment Co. Its success led on to a great many other schemes, being successfully floated from this office. This does not mean they were all successful in the long run. Menzies was an optimist. He took a broad view of things, but he failed in detail. Through his kindheartedness, his judgment was often swayed, the pendulum turning the wrong way to help some friend. I lay this garland on his grave-that he had a heart of gold. His loyalty bridged many a chasm. His hospitality was never fathomed. He had a humorous twinkle in his eye and a slow, liquid voice that was catching, and ofttimes magnetic. In addition he had a great repertoire of Scotch stories, and as he could clothe them with a fine local color, they were always amusing, although many of them were oft-told and in other hands would have had a flavor of the chestnut. So in stepping through life I met George Brown; that led on to Thomas Nelson, and another step to William John Menzies, and to the last two mentioned I owe much of that success which has come my way. Both are gone, so I can write of them freely as above, and the story I am telling will develop round them more or less.

Mr. Duncan Smith, an Edinburgh lawyer, also was the managing director of the Scottish American Mortgage Co., a very successful company then and since. Like others he had his ear to the ground and he had a connection in Muscatine, Iowa, with Messrs. Underwood & Clark, who loaned money on farms in the West. Mr. Underwood had gone to Kansas City, Mo., and was president of a bank there. In this way he had got to know many of the western ranchmen.

Underwood was a bit of an adventurer, and a very smooth promoter. Anyway, the Prairie Cattle Co. grew out of that connection. It paid enormous dividends and it set the Scotch investors afire. The said dividends were paid mostly out of capital, but the Scotch folks did not inquire too closely. Soon they were all anxious to grasp the bloom before it was shed.

In the summer of 1879 the British government had appointed an agricultural commission. This inquiry took a wide range. Its members were drawn principally from the Houses of Lords and Commons, the Duke of Richmond and Gordon being the chairman. Several practical agriculturists were placed on the commission. From Scotland, Mr. Robert Patterson of Birthwood and my father were selected, whilst among several sub-commissioners the East Coast of Scotland was ably represented by Mr. James Hope, East Barns. Two members of Parliament, Mr. Clare Sewell Read and Mr. Albert Pell, were sent over to the States and Canada to report upon our agriculture and size up the future production and price of wheat. The British farmer was feeling keenly the competition of cheap wheat coming from the Dakotas and other States. I was appointed as a subcommissioner and while they as members of the House of Commons could not draw anything but expenses, I was put on the payroll of the Government and kept the work up for three years. Read and Pell were delightful men. The former farmed in the county of Norfolk and the latter after trying several localities in England, finally settled at Hazelbeech, near the town of Northampton. During the three months of their stay in this country, I made many trips in their company, imbibing from them much of their experience of British farming and politics.

The following year I was instructed to go to California and make a report on the agriculture of that state. This trip took me through the western range country and in California I saw a good deal of the live stock business as carried on there. The firm of Falkner, Bell & Co., in San Francisco had a connection with the Scottish American Investment Co., so I carried with me a letter from Mr. W. J. Menzies to them, and in this way I met Mr. James D. Walker, the leading resident partner of the firm. This concern was an old established one of high standing and credit. They had, however, as events proved, been hard hit by a wheat speculator several years before, and they were in reality on pretty thin ice financially. Through the above party they had come into a third ownership in the Chowchilla ranch near the town of Merced, the Bank of Nevada, then controlled by the Flood and the O'Brien interest, owning the other two-thirds. Walker sent me down to this place and I spent two very pleasant days on it. One of the foremen called Scott, a very sharp, active fellow, was my guide, and it did not take me long to size up the value of the property and its possibilities. About fifteen months later, or to be exact, in November, 1881, Mr. Menzies had been in California on his way round the world, and as both the Bank of Nevada and the London partners of Falkner, Bell & Co. wished to dispose of their holdings in the San Joaquin Valley, Walker proposed to turn this ranch into a Scotch Company, and acting for the above parties he gave Menzies an option on the property, expiring April 20th, 1882. Speaking from memory, there were about 115,000 acres of land and some 15,000 cattle, the cattle as usual being overestimated. Menzies, who was hurrying homewards, could not stop over at Bow Park, but he wired me to meet him at Montreal to talk over this matter, and incidentally to advise him as to a purchase of land from the Canadian Pacific Railroad Co. He purchased, or at least carried home, an agreement by which he got 100,000 acres of land to be selected west of Brandon. We met Sir George Stephen, now Lord Mount Stephen, and put through the transaction with him personally. It was the first big block of land the Company had been able to sell, and we had a sort of love feast for a few minutes after the transaction was arranged. As a consequence of this meeting, I crossed the Atlantic with Menzies. We got home Christmas morning.

We missed our connection and had to remain over Christmas Day in the old Border town of Carlisle. After the holidays it did not take long to organize syndicates to provide means to purchase both properties. There was a rush to subscribe. Through the influence of Messrs. Menzies and Nelson, I was employed to make a thorough examination of the ranch and report by cable to the folks in Scotland.

Starting from Scotland in lots of time to make the trip the steamer we traveled on was delayed by adverse weather nearly a week. Other business intervened, and it was the 4th of April before I reached the ranch. Thirty-four years have passed since that time, and yet looking back it seems no later than yesterday. We drove across the great plains of the San Joaquin Valley,