For a moment the broncho stands dazed, then jumps, throws his head between his front legs almost to the ground, squeals, humps his back and pitches around and around the corral in a vain attempt to rid himself of the fearsome thing on his back. The circular corral, limited in space, gives little opportunity to succeed; the rider has the advantage. The horse stops pitching and runs frantically about the corral, at length tiring himself out. Dripping with sweat, trembling from fear and excitement, he comes to a slow trot. The gate is thrown open. Making a dash for freedom, he plunges through the outside corrals, the horseman or “circler” close beside him, trying to keep between the half-crazed broncho and any object he might run into. The horse bolts out into the open; his is the advantage now, and he makes the rider ride. He bucks this way and that, twisting, turning, jumping and running, the man on his back so racked and shaken it seems incredible that his body can hold together. They tear out over the prairie in a wild race, far off over the hills, out of sight now. After a time they come back on a walk. The broncho has been busted—the act has ended.

Should the horse rear and throw himself backward, there is the greatest danger that the man may be caught under him and killed, it happens so quickly, but these quiet, diffident chaps are absolutely fearless, past masters in the art of riding, facing death each time they ride a new horse, but facing it with the supreme courage of the commonplace, sitting calmly in the saddle, racked, shaken, jolted until at times the blood streams from their nose, yet after a short rest the rider “took up the next one” quite as though nothing at all had happened. All the horses had to be broken and then made ready for the inspection of the Government officials, and the boys were working with them early and late.

It was an unusual experience to live in daily association with these men, in whom were combined characteristics of the Knights of the Round Table and those peculiar to the followers of Jesse James.

In Douglas, Wyoming, there stands a monument erected by the friends of a local character who, curiously, bore the same surname as the famous explorer for whom Pike’s Peak was named. Chiseled out of the solid granite these opposing traits are epitomized in this unique epitaph:

Strange, contrasting personalities—in awe of nobody, quite as ready to converse familiarly with the President as with Owen, but probably preferring Owen because they knew he was a fine horseman.

Persons and things outside their own world held but slight interest for them. At first I had a hazy idea that I might be the medium through which a glimpse of the outside world would broaden the narrow limits of their lives. I planned to get books for them and to arrange a reading room, but my dream was soon shattered upon discovering that this broader view possessed no charm. Indeed, when I offered to teach Joe to read he refused my offer without a moment’s hesitation, firmly announcing “I ain’t goin’ to learn to read, ’cause then I’d have to!” “Why, Mrs. Brook,” he added, looking with scorn at the book I held in my hand, “I wouldn’t be bothered the way you are for nothin’, havin’ to read all them books in there,” nodding his head in the direction of our cherished library. This was certainly a fresh point of view regarding education. About the same time I found that the Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogue might be fittingly called the Bible of the plains. Night after night the boys pored over them absorbed in the illustrations, of hats, gloves, boots and saddles, the things most dear to their hearts, for on their riding equipment alone they spent a small fortune.

Improvident and generous, however great their vices might be, their lives were free from petty meanness; the prairies had seemed to

The religion of the cow-puncher? My impression was that he had none, for certainly he subscribed to no conventional creed or dogma. Yet what was it that gave him a code of honor which made cheating or a lie an unforgivable offense and a man guilty of either an outcast scorned by his associates, and what was it that would have made him go without bread or shelter that a woman or child might not suffer?

Rough and gentle, brutal and tender, good and bad, not angel at one time and devil at another, but rather saint and sinner at the same time. Little of religious influence came into his life, and as for Bibles—there were none.

I remember the story of a Bishop who was travelling through the West and was asked to hold service in one of the larger towns. When he arrived he found that he had left his own Bible on the train, so he sent the hotel clerk out to borrow one. After some time the man returned with a Bible, explaining to the Bishop that it was the only one in town. “I went everywhere and finally got this one. It’s the one they use at the Court House to swear on!”

The cow-puncher, however, could swear without any assistance, for usually “cussin’” formed a very necessary part of his conversation. But as I sat at my window sewing one summer morning I heard a violent argument at the corral between Fred and a new “hay-hand” from Kansas. Fred’s voice was decisive.

“That’s all right, but you cut out that cussin’ here—the Missus’ window’s open, and she’ll hear you.” And the heart of “the Missus” warmed to her Knight of the Corral.

There was another incident, the true significance of which I did not know until three years after it occurred, when the foreman of the L—— ranch met Owen in Denver and inquired for me, adding:

“Well, I’ll never forget Mrs. Brook. Do you remember the day we was shippin’ them white faces from the Junction about three years ago, when you and Mrs. Brook happened to come along and stopped to watch us? Well, one of the best men I had was brandin’ a calf when it kicked him and he swore at it proper; all of a sudden he looked up and saw Mrs. Brook and another lady standin’ on that high platform by the yards watchin’ us. He was so plumb beat, he threw down his brandin’ iron, took up his hat, walked across the street to a saloon and began drinkin’ and stayed drunk for three days, and there I was, short-handed, with a train-load of cows and calves to ship.”

Contrast again—chivalry carried to the extent of being drunk for three days because he had sworn before a woman!

The horses were all being ridden and trained for the inspection which was soon to take place. Each man had his own “string,” those he had broken, and every day they were put through their paces. When inspected, they had to be walked, trotted and run up and down before the officers, stopped instantly, and the veterinarian was supposed to put his ear to their chests to see if their breathing was regular and their hearts sound. Now, Western horses are not accustomed to having their hearts tested, and I noticed that while the riders did everything else that was required, they tacitly agreed “to let the vet do his own listnin’.”

The day that the Army officers were to arrive, as Owen was getting ready to drive over to the station to meet them, I remarked casually that I hoped nothing would happen to upset their peace of mind, as it was very important that the honorable representatives of the Government be kept in a good humor.

The house was still in an unsettled condition but for the time being it had been brought into sufficient order to insure their comfort. The larder was stocked with the best the markets afforded and the horses were being “gentled” daily.

When guests came on the train our dinner might be served at any hour up to ten o’clock at night for after their arrival at the station there was the sixteen mile drive to the ranch—and anything might happen. It was late that particular night when I heard them at the meadow gate. I couldn’t understand why they stopped so long. There were sounds of confusion and as they entered the house one of the officers held up a finger dripping with blood, the Colonel’s hat was awry, his clothes covered with mud, and they all appeared agitated and excited. I could not imagine what had happened. Then they all began to tell me at once.

Upon reaching the meadow gate the Lieutenant who acted as bookkeeper jumped out to open it but failed to return after they had driven through. Upon investigation they found he had caught his finger between the wire loop and the post and was held fast. They extricated him from his dilemma and drove on. It was very dark and upon reaching the house as the august Colonel descended from the wagon, he tripped over a pile of stones lying near the gate, fell down and just escaped breaking his neck. I tried to smile and yet be sympathetic—but I had a vision of Owen with “one hundred fifty horses of a dark bay color” on his hands if the good humor of the officers was not restored before morning.

They were shown to their rooms and I prayed nothing would happen to the Veterinarian, who had so far remained intact.

The Colonel and the Lieutenant had come down stairs. We were all in the library waiting for the Doctor before going in to dinner, when we heard a fearful crash. We rushed into the hall to see the poor man sitting on the steps holding both hands to his head. He was very tall and, coming down the narrow winding stairs, had struck his head on an overhanging projection which he had failed to observe. His injury was more uncomfortable than serious and had quite a cheering effect on his two companions, who began to chaff him about “taking off an inch or two” so by the time dinner was over they were all in high spirits.

The following morning at nine the inspection began. Each horse was brought out, looked over and measured to see that he came up to the stipulated number of “hands”. If he passed he was immediately ridden.

Each of the men rode the horses he had broken. First the horse was walked up and down between the blacksmith-shop and the corral, then trotted and then run, after which his lungs and breathing were tested and if satisfactory he was accepted.

Every time a man got on to ride, I was conscious of a feeling of great uncertainty. The horses looked quiet enough and were fairly gentle, but Owen and I knew that the slightest variation in the manner of mounting or “touching them up” might cause them to go through a few movements not required by the United States Government.

As it was, all those we had expected to buck behaved like lambs, while those which had been considered fairly well broken did everything from bucking to snorting and blowing foam all over the Veterinarian when he attempted to examine their teeth and test their lungs.

For three days the inspection went on, each day more interesting than the last, until all the horses had been examined and out of the number the necessary one hundred and fifty accepted and branded U. S.

As the bunch of horses headed for Denver was being driven off the ranch, Fred looked after them reflectively—

“If them sodjers can ride, it’ll be all right,” he remarked, “but if they go to puttin’ tenderfeet on them bronchs, they’ll land in Kingdom-come before they ever hit the saddle.”