THE OLD-TIME COWHAND

The Old-Time Cowhand By Ramon Adams

This article is a chapter from Ramon Adams' new book, The Old-time Cowboy, published by the Macmillan Company, New York. Mr. Adams, one of our favorite writers, has appeared herein often in the past. Among the books he has written (and written well and authentically) are: Cowboy Lingo; Western Words; Charles M. Russell, Cowboy Artist; Come An' Get it and Six-Guns and Saddle Leather. Mr. Adams, a resident of Dallas, knows the Old West about as good as anyone we know. We hope you like this brief description of the old-time cowhand.

Sketches for "Arizona Highways" By Ross Sautee

There's an old sayin' that "a cowboy's a man with guts and a hoss," and that's 'bout as good a definition as anyone could give. If he didn't have guts he wouldn't last long; if he didn't have a hoss he couldn't be a cowboy. When one old cowhand described his breed, he said, "Cowboys is noisy fellers with bowlegs and brass stomachs that rides hosses and hates any kind of work they can't do on one."

Some of us know 'im as a man who follows the cattle business as a profession. A generation ago the East knowed 'im as a bloodthirsty demon of disaster, reckless and rowdy, weighted down with 'nough artillery to make his hoss sway-backed, and ever ready to shoot. Today he's mostly knowed as the hero of Wild West stories, as the eternally hard-ridin' movie or TV actor; as the git-tar pickin' yodeler of the radio, or the loudly dressed rodeo follower. The West, who knowed 'im best, held 'im to be "jes' a plain, ever'day bowlegged human," carefree and courageous, fun-lovin' and loyal, uncomplainin' and doin' his best to live up to a tradition of which he was mighty proud. If he was from Texas, like all good Texans, he had the rep'tation of havin' been raised to vote the Democratic ticket, to love good whisky, and to hate Mexicans.

No class of men were ever so unfaithfully represented, and in consequence so misunderstood and unfairly judged by people generally, as the old-time cowboy has been. He suffered severely from the bad publicity of ill-informed writers who had no real conception of his life and work. They pictured the rough, crude, brutal aspects of the cattle country; the reckless, happy-go-lucky visits to town, the careless use of the six-shooter, the drinkin', practical jokes that were rough, the gamblin', and the profanity. All them things were subjects for the writer who painted, in the most lurid colors, slanderous accounts for eager Eastern readers.

So a variety of opinions regarding the cowhand were developed. To the Eastern youngster he was tops in bravery, ferocity, cunnin', and Western skill. To the ignorant he was a badman, and the embodiment of whisky, blood, and murder. But still, in spite of all that's been wrote 'bout 'im, them who knowed 'im best and lived with 'im found 'im to be good-natured and a rollickin' whole-souled feller, quick to do a kindness, and as quick to resent an insult.

So thorough was that misrepresentation that part of the public, even today, will have no other way of lookin' at 'im. They see the wide hat but not the honest face beneath it. They remember the wild stunts he'd pulled in a moment of relaxation, but forget his lifetime of hard work and endurin' faithfulness. Few people of this generation realize that they was as brave as it was possible for a man to be. Bullies were almost unknowed among 'em. They kept their places 'round a herd under all circumstances; and if they had to fight they were always ready. No timid men were among 'em-the life didn't fit such men. They were he-men with fur on their briskets. Most of 'em had been raised to the cow business, and had been in the country so long they knowed all the lizards by their first names.

Romancers saw color but not the form in them wild men of a wild country. They saw traits but didn't see the characters beneath 'em. Seekin' to tell of what they hadn't seen, they became inaccurate and unjust. Dallying with the pleasant sensations of excitin' themes, they distorted their handlin' of 'em.

It's utterly unfair to judge a whole class by what a few individuals do in the course of two or three days spent in town, instead of by the long months of weary, honest toil, common to all alike. One might as well judge all college boys by the one who turned out to be a drunkard or a thief. To properly appreciate his real qualities, the wild roughrider of the plains should've been seen in his own bailiwick. There he passed his days; there he did his lifework; there, when he met death, he faced it, as he'd faced all other perils, with quiet, uncomplainin' fortitude.

Fiction's made the cowboy the most romantic part of the West. He may have been a dashin' two-gun individual on paper, but he wasn't so on the range. No Westerner thought of 'im as bein' a type or character, or anything at all unusual. He certainly never thought of 'imself as bein' anything extraordinary or heroic. He'd likely been born to the cow business and had rode a runnin' iron for a hobbyhoss. He became a cowman from the bootheels up.

Most people enjoy readin' a good Western novel, yet they should realize that the true cowboy spent long, lonely months on the range workin' cattle, and wasn't forever skally-hootin' into town all spraddled out in fancy trappin's worth a couple of year's wages, and performin' marvelous shootin' stunts with a six-gun. His life was anything but the excitin' round of pleasure and thrills pictured in most stories and movies. He might crave action on the range, but when he hit town his cravin' was mostly for ham and eggs and other truck he couldn't get at the chuck wagon.

The real cowhand's typical day was anything but romantic. There was no romance in gettin' up at four o'clock in the mornin', eatin' dust behind a trail herd, swimmin' muddy and turbulent rivers, nor in doctorin' screw worms, pullin' stupid cows from bog holes, sweatin' in the heat of summer and freezin' in the cold of winter.

Prairie fires, swollen rivers, stampedes, storms, freezin' blizzards, man-killing hosses, fightin' cattle, holes for hosses to step into and trees for 'em to run against, desperate men and savage Injuns to lie in wait of 'im, a rope that might betray 'im constantly in his hand-all them perils and more were a part of the cowboy's daily life. Small wonder he suffered the pains of rheumatism in his later years, brought on by much rough ridin' and too much sleepin' under the stars in all kinds of weather, often with nothin' but a saddle blanket for cover.

In this day of scientific balanced diets and caloric study, his eatin' habits would make a dietitian shudder, but in spite of his monotonous fare of meat, biscuit, and beans, he was a fairly healthy cuss. Maybe it was the hard work and open air. He seemed to be all rawhide and whalebone. One of his chronic conditions was bad blood. This was due to his diet and the drinkin' of alkali water.

It was common for 'im to have runnin' sores on his hands. These could be from many causes, maybe a rope burn, the kick from a calf whose hoofs were sharp as glass, the prick of a mesquite thorn, the shoein' of a bronc, or from many other causes. Them sores healed mighty slow and sometimes got "proud flesh" in 'em. There was usually a can of powdered alum at the wagon or at headquarters to burn out them sores, or sometimes they were smeared with axle grease.

Then, too, there was a supply of pills and powders kept on hand for a man's innards, but the cowhand avoided'em as long as he could, and it was only when he got down that he resorted to their advertised curative powers. Most of the time there were a few hands sufferin' from boils. These could be treated by a chaw of tobacco tied on with a strip of flour sack or his bandanna. But mighty often them boils were on that part of his anatomythat set on the saddle, makin' 'im want to do his ridin' on the bedrolls in the bed wagon. But rather than let the boss think he was throwin' off on the job, he'd keep tryin' to ride even if he did have to set his saddle off center. Sometimes he had carbuncles, and then he'd really have to take off to treat 'em with some sowbelly or dung poultice to try and draw 'em to a head. He'd be joshed aplenty for havin' 'em, but the thing that hurt 'im the worst was the thought that someone might wonder if he was jes' soakin' on the boss.

It made 'im wish, too, that he'd taken his sulphur and molasses before he left town. But out on the range, though he could get the molasses, there wasn't no sulphur for fifty miles, unless you counted that in the matches he packed with his makin's.

But on the whole he never needed a doctor except for broken bones. When the poison in his system had worked out through them boils and carbuncles, he was rarin' to go again.

If, when he got to town, after long months out in the brush, on the lone prairie, or on the long, long trail, the cowboy cut his wolf loose and had a little fun, he could hardly be blamed. He was a robust animal, full of vinegar and pride. He generally came from venturesome ancestors, the maker of frontier homes, and he was likely honest and truthful and against outlawry and viciousness. Cowboys were hard and diligent workers, and men who work hard in the open generally lead straight lives.

The movies picture the cowboy as always goin' at a sweepin' gallop over the plains, his hair flyin' wildly and his hoss close to the earth, its eyes bulgin' with the joy of speed. These movie cowboys can run a hoss uphill, over rough trails, at great speed for unheard-of hours. Most of 'em are mounted on a turpentined charger which, when restrained, rears and tries to paw the moon. They're usually chasin' some villain, and though the whole posse is shootin' up a peck of shells they never hit nothin'.

Sometimes the real cowhand did ride hard on the roundup or when at other work which made it necessary, but when he set across the range on his day's work at the ranch, he didn't spur and gallop his hoss. He wentin a steady, ceaseless, choppy little trot that would tire out a tenderfoot to follow all day. This short trot was a natural gait for the cow hoss, and he'd maintain it for a long time if not crowded too hard. The rider poked along completely relaxed to save both 'imself and his hoss.

The true cowboy's life, with its hardships, isolation, and dangers, developed all the sterner qualities to a high degree. To a lithe and sinewy body he joined courage, indifference to sufferin' and dogged industry when work had to be done. For them qualities it would be hard to find his equal. He was his own overseer. He needed no instruction or advice. No higher-type employee ever existed or one more dependable. Perhaps rude in some ways, he was the very soul of honor in all all ways of his callin'. The old-time cowhand lived in the saddle. He was strictly a ridin' man, and detested walkin', even for short distances. A self-respectin' cowhand would never be caught goin' far on foot. Even if he only had to go two or three hundred yards, he preferred to ketch and saddle a bronc rather than furnish that motive power 'imself. From the bunkhouse to the corral was quite a passear for 'im. Most of 'em forked a hoss so long they straddled chairs instead of settin' like a human.

This was why he was mighty particular 'bout a straight ridin' job. When he was out of work and rode to a new range to get on some ranch's payroll, he was careful to inquire 'bout the outfit before hittin' 'em for a job. He didn't want to sign up with some little three-up outfit that didn't own 'nough beef to hold a barbecue. On such an outfit there'd be chores to do that was beneath his dignity, such as feedin', diggin' postholes, and cuttin' stove wood, and the only place a cowhand could cut wood and not hurt his pride was at a line camp where it was chop wood or no eat. Worst of all he was afraid of havin' to milk cows. He had no use for them hornless critters that wore bells and were punched with a stool. His profession might be considered that of a laborer by some folks, but he thought 'imself above most wage earners. He had that pride held by all men on hossback, and considered 'imself a specialist in his line-a cavalier, not a laborer. When he hit a fenced ranch for a job, he hoped all the fencin' and cross fencin' had been done and there were no more postholes to dig. He didn't want to be caught on the blister end of no damned shovel. High-heeled boots weren't made for footwork, and he wouldn't be caught in a low-heeled shoe. But he didn't shirk any duty as long as it could be done from hossback. He worked without complaint long hours through flood and drought, heat and cold, dust and blizzard, never once thinkin' of his own discomfort if the cattle or the welfare of his boss demanded his attention.

Fighting' prairie fires, the dangers of stampedes, the loneliness of range ridin', the discomforts of standin' guard in the rain or sleet, none of them things seemed unusual if he could do it from the back of a hoss. On the other hand, he didn't even want to open a gate unless he could lean over and do it from the saddie. His profession was born of necessity, and with it was born a tradition that he followed jealously until he became the most colorful and picturesque hired man ever knowed. 'Bout the only footwork he considered honorable was ropin' in the corral, or doin' the brandin'. He hated sheep and all things pertaining to woolies, except the man who herded 'em. It seemed a sheepherder always had a grouch and a Waterbury watch, and when he wasn't a-nursin' the one he was a-windin' the other. Some cow ranges was so against sheep that it wasn't safe to ride through it with a wool shirt on.Neither did a cowhand propose to get 'imself "galded" followin' a mule's tail from behind a plow. Had the boss insisted, he'd have politely asked for his time, packed his bedroll on his pack hoss, and started toward the settin' sun. There were still Arizona, New Mexico, and the steer outfits of the Northwest, where a man could be respectable. The cowhands were always goin' to quit and go to a new country, but the first little town they hit after bein' paid off was usually the end of the journey they talked 'bout, and they was back for the spring roundup to sweat out the likker till they smelled like humans again.

In them days a cowhand could always go back to the ranch after he was broke and eat till the spring roundup began. Since there was nothin' to do on the ranch except look after the saddle hosses (and there'd be paid men to do that), he had no cares or worries. He'd jes' play cardsThey were sincere in their efforts to maintain the dignity and prestige of a callin' they'd perfected in their lifetime and for which, without mass thought or organized effort, they'd set certain standards.

Their profession in the United States was born in the years followin' the Civil War, reached its peak in the middle eighties, and waned before the nineties were finished. They had no formula for their work other than to get the job done; no workin' hours other than from sun to sun, and such hours permitted little or no time for menial chores or trainin' in any line other than that of handlin' cattle from hossback.Certainly he'd never sink to herdin' sheep. This was a shore-'nough foot job, fit only for greasers, who didn't mind livin' alone with a couple of dogs, and didn't care how many funny stories were told about 'em. If there was anything the old-time cowman hated, it was sheep. He couldn't see how any man could favor mutton instead of beef. In his opinion there was nothin' dumber'n them and ride broncs by a hot stove-which was the easy way to do it.

Another way the cowhand could live in the winter when he run out of a job was to ride the grub line. Any worthy cowboy might be forced to ride chuck line durin' this season, but the professional chuck liner was jes' a plain range bum, despised by all cowboys. He was the kind that took advantage of the country's hospitality and stayed as long as he dared wherever there wasn't any work for 'im to do and the meals were free and reg'lar. Some cowhands took this way to spend the winter for the sake of variety, and if such riders weren't too plentiful they were welcome. People who'd been shut in all winter was glad to see new faces, and them riders brought news from the outside.

A heap of sunshine put the squint in the old-timer's eyes, and a lot of prairie wind tanned his face. That tengallon hat and them fancy boots wasn't what made 'im look like a cowman. It was the elements, the corral dust, the hoss smell, and the cow-camp chuck that branded 'im. He could go away from the cow country and dress in fancy society togs, and another cowman would still know 'im to be a cowman.

A cowman had to get pretty old before he hung his saddle up, but when he did get long in tooth and couldn't travel like a colt no more, he liked to set 'round with oldtimers and talk 'bout cows that wore horns. They liked to go back in history, too, and prove to the younger set that the life they was now livin' was soft as bear grease. He maybe set there a-shakin' his head like a hoss with a bee in his ear, tryin' to put the saddle on the younger punchers by tellin' yarns as long as a rustler's dream, and doin' his best to convince 'em that he'd once been so wild they had to tie his foot up to give 'im a haircut.

After the fences came, most of them old-timers were always bellyachin with a yearnin' to go somewhere where they could spread a loop without gettin' it caught on a fence post. Most of the real old-time cowmen have now saddled a cloud and rode into the Great Beyond, and their like'll never be seen again.

The old-timer was an inveterate cigarette smoker. If there ever was a badge of a callin' it should be that little Bull Durham tag a-hangin' by its yeller string from the vest or shirt pocket.

When he hunkered down to take comfort in a frog squat, the first thing he did was jerk a leaf out of his prayer book and commence bundlin' up a new life of Bull Durham. When somethin' was eatin' on 'im and he was worried, he rolled a pill; when he was embarrassed, he rolled a pill; in fact, you'd find 'im buildin' a smoke whenever he found his hands free to do the job.

He didn't have much taste for a pipe. He left that tobacco furnace to the sheepherder, the nester, and the prospector. He couldn't see much fun in jes' a-settin' puffin' on an old pipe to fill the air with more smoke than a wet wood fire, especially when that pipe was strong 'nough to derail a freight train.

Most of the old-timers tried to be all-'round cowboys, and in order to do so he had to have some ability at reading sign. Ever' track told 'im a story plainer'n if it'd been printed in a book. By his ability at reading' sign a good cowhand could save his ranch time, money, hossflesh, and sometimes save his own life. If out huntin' hosses, he could tell by the tracks if them hosses were grazin', goin' somewhere in a walk, or bein' drove in a hurry.

A cowboy ridin' down the trail might seem to be half asleep to an outsider, but his eyes didn't miss a thing. If he saw cattle spread out and grazin', he knowed ever'thing was hunkydory, but a bawlin' cow showin' nervousness was a sign her calf was dead or in trouble. If he came across an animal with thin flanks, a swollen jaw, and droopin' head, it was a sign she'd stopped a rattlesnake's fangs.

Readin' sign generally referred to trackin', but other things came under that headin' too. A cowman could see a rider from a great distance and tell whether that rider was a white man or an Injun. The white man'd be ridin' straight up and straight-legged, the Injun'd be swingin' a quirt and diggin' his heels into the hoss's belly at ever' jump. When the wagon boss, on roundup, caught his best circle hoss, the cowhand didn't need words to tell 'im that a big circle was goin' to be made. When the boss took the top hoss from a cowhand's string, he knowed that the boss was tellin' 'im, thronger'n words, that he wanted 'im to quit before he had to fire 'im.

On a clear day he didn't need a watch to tell 'im the time of day, and at night he could tell by the stars. He could tell a change in the weather by watchin' the action of the cattle. Somehow they always seemed to know. He could even tell what state a man came from by his riggin' and the clothes he wore. Words ain't needed to tell a range man a heap of things.

There was a true feelin' of friendship among old cowboys, even if they'd unsaddled for the last time. If a couple of 'em met and never saw each other before, they got to talkin' cow. Even if one of 'em had rustled a few mavericks they'd still have a warm feelin' for each other. When so many of the ranches got to be small pasture outfits with their fencin' and footwork, a heap of the old-time cowhands quit and got a job in town as a bartender or a livery-stable chambermaid. Here he could still be with cowhands and hosses. He still claims that bob-wire and bib-overalls was what ruined the cow country. By the time modern ranchin', with its flivvers and helicopters, had caught up with 'im, he'd passed over the Great Divide, or was too old to care.