Road-agents—“Roping” contests—Broncho-busting—Strathclair—A blizzard—Lumber camps.

Montana, just across the line from Fort McLeod, was for years an example of what the North-West Territories might have been if it had not been for the mounted police and prohibition. There, in its earlier days, gun-men and even road-agents flourished, and killings were of everyday occurrence. In fact, at one time in Virginia City the sheriff, Plummer, was at the head of a band of organised road-agents which terrorised the country. Finally, the people rose in desperation, and following the example of California, formed a society of Vigilantes, and hanged all the bad-men, including the sheriff. Most of these men when cornered died like curs, but there were individuals, like George Sears, who at least knew how to die. When he was taken to the place of execution, he asked for time to pray, which was allowed him. Afterwards he made a short speech, in which he said he deserved his fate, but his contempt of death showed when requested to climb up the ladder which was to serve as a drop. He said, “Gentlemen, please excuse my awkwardness, as I have not had any experience. Am I to jump off or just slide off?”

In Montana, Indian Territory, and Texas, great roping contests are organised every year, and cow-punchers flock from all over the United States and Canada to try for the very valuable prizes that are offered. In San Antonio, Texas, some years ago was held a great contest for the championship of the world, in which the first prize was $6000 (£1237); silver-mounted saddles, gold-mounted pistols, and other prizes were also offered. The steers used in these contests are the very wildest that can be got. They are held in a large corral, and turned out singly through a gate in a chute. One hundred and fifty feet back from this gate sits the cow-puncher on his horse, with his rope coiled and one end tied to his saddle-horn. The minute the steer is clear of the chute he can start. He must rope and throw the steer, and tie three of its legs together in such a way that it cannot rise. As much or more depends on the horse than on the man, and some of these cow-ponies are truly wonderful. Out comes the steer with a rush, and away goes the puncher after him with his rope whirling. He makes his throw, the rope settles over the steer’s horns, and as it does so the pony stops dead, sticking out his feet in front and bracing himself for the shock. The rope grows taut along the steer’s flank, his head is jerked round, and down he goes. Meanwhile the puncher, as his pony stops, drops off and reaches the steer almost as it hits the ground, with his tie-rope in his hands; and while the steer lies for an instant half-stunned, he deftly makes a hitch over three legs with what is known as a hog-knot, jumps to his feet, and throws up his hands as a sign that he is through. The pony, without rider, can be depended upon to keep the steer down by constantly side-stepping to keep the rope taut if the steer attempts to rise.

At El Paso, during the roping contests there, Clay McConagill did this feat in the wonderful time of 21½ seconds, counting from the time the steer left the chute till Clay’s hands were in the air. He is the champion Texas roper, and holds the world’s record for a single tie. But in a long-distance contest held in San Antonio he was beaten by Ellison Carrol of Oklahoma, who tied in this manner twenty-eight consecutive steers in 18 minutes and 58½ seconds, or an average of 40? seconds each, one of these ties being made in 22 seconds flat, or within ½ second of the record. One who has not seen these contests can hardly form an idea of the speed and skill both of horse and man necessary to accomplish such a feat as this, or of the excitement among the audience of cattlemen, all of whom, being good riders and ropers themselves, can appreciate every move made. There is considerable risk also attached to it. For instance, a friend of mine had the misfortune to get a coil of his rope round his arm as he threw, and as the rope drew taut it cut his hand off at the wrist; and yet he had been born and raised on a ranch! The S.P.C.A. are now trying, if they have not already succeeded, to put a stop to these contests on the ground of cruelty to the steers. But I can see no sense in this, for steers are roped and thrown every day in this manner on the ranch, during the season of the screw-worm fly, in order to kill the worms with carbolic and chloroform, and they do not seem to be very much hurt; and this is where the puncher gets his practice in the course of his work.

Great broncho-busting (horse-breaking) contests are also held in different parts of the West, where the worst horses from all over the country are brought for the men to try on. In these contests, if a man lay hand on any part of his saddle, or tries to lock his big spurs into the girth of the saddle, he is disqualified. At one of these contests, Sowder, one-time champion, for a bet drank a bottle of soda-water, without spilling a drop, while his horse was bucking. Some horses develop a devilish ingenuity in trying to get rid of their riders. They will buck straight ahead, and suddenly, while in the air, make a twist and turn almost end for end by the time they land. They will buck and twist first one way and then the other alternately, squealing all the time with impotent rage. There used to be a big negro in Calgary called Uncle Tom, who never seemed so happy as when on a bad horse. When his horse bucked, his face would suddenly open back to the ears in a grin, and he would holloa, "Dere’s de boy, good boy"; and when the horse tired, he would pull off his hat and whack it over the head and flank.

When I left Calgary, I took a flying trip home, and on my return decided to go up to Strathclair and look over our land there. I was met by W. Geekie, a neighbour, who took me over to his house to stay; but as my movements were uncertain, it was decided to leave my trunks at the station for a few days. Geekie, I found, was all prepared to start off on a trip, hauling provisions up to a lumber camp near Lake Winnipegosis, so I offered to accompany him and drive one of the teams. This was in mid-November, and the cold was bitter, but with a good fur coat over a pilot jacket I expected to be all right. We started out the next morning, five big freight-sledges and a jumper (small home-made sledge) for the provisions and bedding, six men all told, and five gallons of whisky for the eight-day trip. Strathclair with the surrounding country is a settlement of Highlanders, and they were as hardy a lot of men as I have ever come across, but very clannish. I had two or three “Black Angus” steer hides tanned with the hair on for lap-robes, but found that, in order to be comfortable, I had every few miles to drop off and flounder through the snow to start a good circulation. The others mostly used whisky for the same purpose.

We encountered one blizzard on the trip, and I found out that they are not so black as they are painted, for directly the snow commenced to fall, the temperature rose, though the wind was very disagreeable. The flying snow, however, made it impossible to proceed for fear of losing the way, so we pitched camp in a clump of tamaracs. We slept out some of the nights, and the experience is not so bad as might be expected, provided you can get plenty of spruce-boughs and a place sheltered from the wind. Steer-hides and spruce-boughs make a very comfortable and warm bed if you pull in your head like a turtle.

If I had a very great enemy, I would wish him a job in a lumber camp, if they are all like the one we went to. A long house of one room, about 20 feet by 30 feet, with bunks built up on the walls; one door as the only opening for ventilation; a large cook-stove in the centre, which was always full of wood, and served the double purpose of heating and cooking. In this room lived about twenty men—French Canadians, half-breed Indians, and other conglomerations. Here they cooked, ate, slept, washed, and dried their clothes steaming against the stove, and cursed if the door was opened for a minute. After seeing a decrepit Irish cook dropping ashes and nicotine from his pipe into the food he was preparing for supper, I fed outside, and stayed out during the night and part of a day we remained there. I doubt if these men washed their bodies during an entire winter. Such a state of affairs would not be tolerated even on a “Stag” cattle-ranch, and I have seen a dirty cowboy taken out by his fellows, stripped and scrubbed, and the operation never had to be repeated; nor could he resent it, as he could not fight the entire ranch.