Just a Story

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS JUNE 1981 VOL. 57, NO. 6

Mark Sanders, Publisher Gary Avey, Editor Wesley Holden, Managing Editor Richard G. Stahl, Copy Editor Gary Bennett, Art Editor Lorna Holmes, Assistant Art Editor Shirley Mummaw, Circulation Manager Bruce Babbitt, Governor of Arizona Arizona Department of Transportation William A. Ordway, Director Thomas R. Lammers, State Engineer Board Members Ralph A. Watkins, Jr., Chairman, Wickenburg Armand P. Ortega, Member, Sanders John W. McLaughlin, Member, Morenci Robert R. Evans, Member, Mesa Lawrence M. Hecker, Member, Tucson. Rex L. Martin, Member, Kingman Arizona Highways Publication No. (ISSN 00041521) is published monthly by the Arizona Department of Transportation. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Arizona Highways, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85009. $12.00 per year in U.S. and possessions; $14.00 elsewhere; single copies $1.50 each. Second Class Postage paid at Phoenix, Arizona, under Act of March 3, 1879. Copyright 1981 by the Arizona. Department of Transportation. Arizona Highways is printed by W. A. Krueger Co., Phoenix, Arizona.

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In This Issue

The Legacy of the Legend The working cowboy is very much alive and well, and he works on the CO Bar in Northern Arizona.

12 Ross Santee - An Appreciation The stories, the sketches, the man who vividly brought the Old West to life for a generation and more of readers.

16 Cinch Rings and Running Irons A brief and colorful history of the development of brands and branding in Arizona.

28 The Rodeo Cowboy A close-up look at life on the professional circuit.

38 Cowgirl-Artist Cynthia Rigden A Western artist at home on the range.

A cowboy's story is never better told than around a campfire. An island of light on the range, surrounded with half a dozen comrades swappin' yarns and passing on our history. A coyote's yap or the flutter of an owl's wings in the dark sky suggests story after story far into the night.

Sometimes, for a cowboy's story, the distance across the campfire can be the full breadth of our continent. The photography, right, appeared in Arizona Highways' December, 1942, issue. It invoked the illustrated letter (also shown) from cowboy artist and writer Ross Santee, who was temporarily living on the East Coast. The recipient, Editor Raymond Carlson, penciled out a few of the more colorful words and ran it in the "letters" column.

Today, nearly four decades later, we invite you to lean back comfortably against your saddle and blanket there on the ground, feel the warmth of the fire against your face and legs, gaze into the dancing butterscotch embers, and listen to Ross' story.

The "Meadows Brown" - A Good Little Pony, an' Honest: The Christmas number came today, it's Sunday too six above zero and cold. I don't know when anything has got under my skin as much. I remember when Forman Hanna took that picture. I didn't know it at the time. He gave one to my sister. Later it was exhibited in New York and in London. The pony in the picture was the "Meadows Brown." He has been in Tom Waters' string at the old Cross S. It was rather interesting, too, how Tom Waters came to Arizona. He got on a hell of a drunk in Texas at the tag end of the buffalo days when they were gathering buffalo bones. One morning a stranger woke him up when he was sleeping along side the damndest pile of buffalo bones he had ever seen in his life. "Do ya wanta sell them bones?" said the stranger. "I don't know what bones is sellin' for," said Tom, "I ain't been to town in some time." "I'll give ya three hundred dollars for the pile," said the stranger. "Stranger," said Tom, "you've bought some bones."

Tom took the three hundred dollars and came to Arizona. He had a stroke while he was working for the old Cross S outfit in Arizona and he laid for quite a while at the county hospital there in Globe. Tom couldn't speak, but from the noises he made in his throat every cowboy who went to see him knew there was something Tom wanted to know that they couldn't answer. Finally, Shorty Caraway went in. "You wanta know about yore horses?" said Shorty. Tom made a strange noise in his throat, and Shorty bless his lyin' heart knew what the old boy wanted. "There's nobody rode your horses since you left the outfit," said Shorty. "They're all fat and sassy. An' my little stud' that's what Tom called the 'Meadows Brown' is as fat as a butter ball, just waitin' for you." Tom died a few days later, but the old boy was happy when he died. That's the pony in the picture, Johnny. "My little stud," the "Meadows Brown" - a good little pony, an' honest.

Ross Santee, Arden, Delaware The Christaus number came today, it's Sunday too - six above zero and cold. I don't know when anything has got under my skin va ruch. I remember when Forman Ha didn't know it at the time.

He gave and in Lo He had be rather in got on a days wher stranger damndest "Do ya wa what bone some time said the bones"

Working Cowboy from page 3

Outfit in Texas as well as the ORO in Arizona before coming to the CO Bar. Steve and Cisco spent the summer of 1980 "prowlin'," keeping an eye on the cows at the remote Cataract Ranch north of Williams, Arizona. On rare occasions, they drove into town for a little social imbibing. Like their 19thcentury counterparts, a night on the town is cause for celebration for a breed that seldom "sees the elephant." "Cisco and me got into a real brawl one night," Steve says. "Guess we was drinkin' too much."

"Who did you fight?"

"Anybody we didn't know," he replies with a puckish grin.

Dennis Hall, 39, is one of the oldest and most experienced hands on the CO Bar.

The Vietnam War interrupted his college education. Following a tour in Southeast Asia, he came home, got married, and went to work as a cowboy. He's worked on ranches in Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, and Wyoming. "I've done a few things besides punch cows," he says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet against a table. "Some outfits lay you off around Thanksgiving, and you have to find other work. But the CO Bar keeps its regular hands on the payroll on a yearround basis."

The two youngest cowboys, Charlie Gross, 21, and Reuben Gonzales, 19, are sitting cross-legged on the floor listening quietly while experience talks. Both are too young to have stories comparable to the older men. But the fact that they hold a regular job with the CO Bar testifies to their ability as cowboys. Reuben grew up in Gila Bend, Arizona, and came to the ranch a year ago. Charlie, born on a farm in Arkansas, came West to learn the cow business.

Mike Lenton is the link between the old and the new at the CO Bar. The venerable cowboy with the saddle-warped frame, leathery face eroded by years of wind, sun, and blowing dust, first came to work for the outfit in 1937. He is sitting on his bunk bed lighting a cigarette. Mike has the only bed with springs in the bunkhouse, befitting his position atop the longevity list. "When I first came here," he says with a mock-serious grin, "the San Francisco Peaks was just a prairie dog town." Mike be-lieves his horseback days are done. "Nobody retires in the cow business," he says. "They just go on to easier jobs." Mike's job is to maintain the intricate system of pipelines that carries precious water from a well atop Cedar Mesa to tanks scattered throughout the ranch.

Mike takes a deep drag on his cigarette and says slowly, "I left home at an early age. My dad was a farmer, so I had to drive a team of plow horses. One day I decided that instead of walkin' behind and lookin' at their rear ends, I'd rather sit on top and look at the back of their heads. I've been a cowboy ever since."

Mike believes today's cowboys embrace the traditions of his era; however, he adds, "We didn't have mobility like these boys today. None of us had cars. All we had were horses. Nowadays, the boys can load up their pickups and go into town at night. On roundup we'd take everything in the wagon and camp out. When we finished one place we'd pack up and go on to the next. We called the wives "chuckwagon widows." Every so often some cowboy'd say, "I guess I'd better ride over and see how my widow's doin'."

The semiarid rangeland that lies north of the towering San Francisco Peaks is a startling contrast to the lush green, aspen-dappled meadows nestled close to the mountain range that is Arizona's highest.

The scythe-like winds cut unhindered across the implacable landscape with its rolling carpet of gramma grass and clusters of chamiso shrub. Here, among the craggy remnants of ancient volcanos, where the shaggy, lopsided juniper and pinyon soak up most of what little moisture falls, the CO Bar has been running cattle for almost a hundred years. That is not likely to change in the foreseeable future. Because of the limited amount of water, the land will never be good for anything but ranching.

This is cow country . . . a harsh and unyielding land. "But if it wasn't," says Bill Howell, manager of the ranch, "we couldn't stay in business. You can't do anything on it but raise cattle. It takes 50 acres to support one cow," the cowman says as he finishes saddling his horse.

The sun is just coming up beyond the melancholy empty space of the Colorado Plateau. It is the middle of June, and everyone is wearing jackets, neckerchiefs, and gloves. Hats are pulled down so far ears are sticking straight out to avoid the cold wind whipping down from the San Francisco Peaks.

"There are still plenty of good cow-boys left in this country," reckons Al Yeager, as he rides out to pick up the herd. Yeager, 27, has spent the last four years working for the CO Bar. His wiry, athletic frame belies the fact that Chilled by the icy winter wind that blows down all season long from the heights of the San Francisco Peaks, CO Bar cowboy Charlie Gross (right) flanks a herd on the move to summer range.

He weighs only 175 and stands just 6feet 1-inch. He gives the illusion of being much larger. His huge drooping mustache is a close match with Lauderdale's. "The reason a lot of people, especially writers, call us a vanishing breed is they've been looking in the wrong places." Yeager says that when ranchers are willing to pay a decent wage, feed good, and provide respectable living quarters, they'll find good cowpunchers who are willing to work. He rates the CO Bar high on all three counts.

Al's wife Sue is roundup cook. Quiet, and attractive, she is a welcome touch of femininity. Sue was born in Prescott, Arizona, and grew up in Wickenburg. She met Al 11 years ago at a Buck Owens concert in Phoenix. "You have to love this life or you couldn't stay out here," she says. "There aren't a lot of conveniences like shopping centers and television; but I love the life and wouldn't want it any other way."

At the CO Bar there are no airplanes or helicopters. The cowboys are adamantly opposed to their use in gathering and driving cattle. "Scaring cows over rough country that way, makes them sore footed and orphans some calves and injures others," Mike McFarland says, while driving a herd to the branding corral. "Besides, it's too costly and leaves too many punchers waitin' around the corral with nothing to do. New owners always come in and want to bring in helicopters, airplanes, and change things around immediately. They need to hang around for awhile to get to know the ranch before changing it. The land and sky never change, and working cows doesn't either."

Mike was wagon boss at the famous ORO Ranch north of Prescott before moving over to the CO Bar several years ago. Reflective and thoughtful, he wants someday to write about the life of a working cowboy. He submitted a manuscript once, but an editor wanted to popularize the material for his readers. Mike wants to write it his way and will someday.

Spring roundup on the CO Bar. (Above) Driving calves and their mothers to the corral at Cedar Mesa. (Top, left) Mike McFarland ropes and drags calves to the branding and doctoring team. (Middle, left) Logan Seeburger, 10, and John McFarland, 9, whose fathers are CO Bar cowboys, keep the branding irons at the right temperature and ready for use, while Pat Lauderdale (middle, right) sees to the inoculating chores. (Bottom) Once the calf is released from the rope, the ground crew takes control during the branding and doctoring process. All of which takes place in less than 35 seconds.

Mike Lenton, sitting on the only bed with springs in the bunkhouse, has been working for the CO Bar since 1937. "Nobody retires in the cow business," he says. "They just go to easier jobs." Mike's work involves watching over the intricate system of pipelines that brings water to scattered sections of the ranch.

Working Cowboy from page 6

"Working cows on horseback," Mike says, "is the natural way. They get used to being around men and horses, and they're easy to manage. Those outfits down in Texas that were using helicopters to chouse cows are going back to using cowboys because their cattle got too wild to control."

During the 11-mile drive, the cattle move along at a casual, leisurely pace with several rest stops along the way. It seems as if the cattle are leading the hands to the branding corrals rather than the other way around. Mike looks thoughtfully out across the vast expanse of juniperand pinyon-strewn hills that stretch northward to the Grand Canyon, then back towards the herd, and asserts with a firm nod, "the man on horseback will never be replaced in this business."

The drive ends around noon at an old ranch house that once belonged to early-day sheepherders. Once everything is corraled and the horses watered, the cowboys unsaddle their horses and head for the cool shade of a screened porch.

The midday June sun has warmed things considerably from the early-morning chill of a few hours ago. By the time the last riders arrive, most of the men are slumbering on the cool concrete floor. In the meantime Sue Yeager arrives in the pick-up-turned-chuckwagon and sets up for lunch. Soon a large pot of coffee is heating over a crackling fire, the warm aromatic smell fills the air. Noon chow is biscuits, beans, strong black coffee, and a large iron pot of "SOB stew" (cow-camp stew made from an assortment of kitchen scraps). As usual, she doesn't have to call "chuck" more than once. In unison, the hungry hands are off the concrete floor as if on cue and standing in line with their tin plates and cups in hand.

Once finished eating, the men seem to be in no rush to get back to work. Three or four men head for the concrete deck and resume their siesta. Bill Howell sips black coffee in the scant shade of a juniper. After a few minutes, he stands up slowly, flips the coffee grounds out of his cup, and looks toward the cowboys. "Well, let's go get 'um," he says quietly. In an instant the men are on their feet and moving towards the corral.

Many ranches today use a branding table where calves are pushed and prodded assembly line style into a device that holds them in place while they're being doctored. At the CO Bar, calves are still roped and dragged to the fire. The punchers say they can be finished in the time it takes outfits using branding tables to separate the cows from the calves.

The calves to be branded and doc-tored are gathered on one end of a corral with their mothers, the branding fire is in the center of the corral be-tween two ground teams and ropers on horseback. After casting his loop, catching a calf by the heels and taking his dally, the roper drags it over to his respective ground crew. A flanker throws the calf and grabs the head and foreleg. His partner grabs a hind leg, removes the rope, and holds a leg tight to his body while shoving the other leg out and using his foot as a brace, calling out "bull" or "heifer" whichever the case. The rest of the crew moves quickly back and forth between the two sides. One dehorns the steers and earmarks, another inocu-lates, while another stamps a CO Bar brand on the side. While calves beller and cows bawl, Bill Howell moves quickly and skillfully from one team to the other castrating the young bulls.

The heifers are not dehorned. When they reach maturity, horns are essential to help range cows fight off predators. Horns also keep cows from bunching up too close on the drive and squeezing the calves out. "When you dehorn 'em," Mike Lenton says, "They don't think like range cows anymore."

The ropers are dragging calves over at a rate of about two a minute, with always a waiting calf on the line. The entire operation moves along at a fast pace. The two ground teams seem to be in competition. Howell pulls out a pocket watch and times one. The calf is dehorned, earmarked, inoculated, branded, and castrated in less than 35 seconds. There is little talk.

When the branding is finished, Bill checks his watch and does some figuring. "Eighty-five calves in thirty-four minutes," he says, a slow grin crinkling the area around his eyes.

A couple of large stake trucks arrive to take men and horses the 11 miles back to Cedar Ranch.

As twilight approaches, one of the cowboys wrangles up the cavvy and drives them into one end of the corral. Mike McFarland moves towards the horses, his rope dangling loosely from his hand; the horses scramble for position. Each puncher has a string of five or six that are supplied by the ranch for his exclusive use. As one calls out a particular horse, Mike casts a loop around the animal's neck. The animal is pulled out of the bunch and put in aseparate corral until morning. The rest of the cavvy is turned out to pasture.

The spring roundup will end soon. Afterwards, each puncher will pack up his belongings and head for his respective camp. Spring gathering begins in February and ends around the Fourth of July. During that time cows and calves are herded, sorted, and driven towards the summer ranges near the San Francisco Peaks. Between roundups the punchers keep busy repairing equipment and keeping an eye on the cows. Fall roundup starts after Labor Day and ends around Thanksgiving, after which most punchers and their families move to the Spider Web Ranch for the winter.

Come February, a new crop of calves heralds the beginning of another year's toil cycles of change in a changeless land.

It's a young man's job, not in age but in spirit. Most aren't in it for the money or glamour the work offers little of either. They see themselves as doing a job they enjoy rather than as romantic figures. The hours are long and there aren't many holidays. A labor strike is beyond their comprehension, as is dickering over higher wages, shorter hours, and fewer workdays. Cowboys today, as in the past, live in a world where skill and personal pride are still the trademarks of the occupation.

As in the past, they continue to present to the world a curious blending of myth and reality, creating their own colorful mystique.

There are some who say cowboys and cowboying have been diluted beyond recognition. Others say cowboys are a vanishing breed, the open country is disappearing, and time is running out for the dally-roping man on horseback.

They've been saying that for the last 80 years or so, yet today there remain good, smart, savvy cowboys, working on ranches, still plying the trade, and embracing the customs and traditions in the time-honored way. They are the legacies of the legend. When comparing these modern-day, cow-country craftsmen to their counterparts of yesteryear one finds many more similarities than differences. Their essentials - boots, hats, chaps, and saddles - are remarkably unchanged. A CO Bar puncher stated simply, "There's no substitute for leather, and I ain't seen any good plastic spurs yet."

As long as there are old-time ranches like the CO Bar operating in the West ranches willing to pay a decent wage, feed good, and provide a string of good horses the existence of the real cow-boy is assured.