all Americans are bad spellers. For instance, the business man who, on reading about Roosevelt’s spelling reform, said that he could not see anything new about it, as that was the way he had spelled all his life! If here and in other places I seem to roast Americans, they must not be offended, as it is meant in all good nature; and they must also remember that I have been roasted by them for the past sixteen years, and this is the first time I have had a chance to get back at them without giving them a chance to answer me.
CHAPTER II
Calgary—A Cow-puncher—"Roping"—Life on a Ranch—A Calgary Hail-storm—“Gun-plays” and "Bad-men"—Sarci Indians.
Leaving the Agricultural College at Guelph on the start of the summer holidays of 1891, I took advantage of settlers’ cheap rates and went to Calgary, at the foot of the Rockies, to try and get some practical experience. After drifting round for a week, I found that green Englishmen were at a discount, but finally managed to get work with a Mr. Berney, who owned two ranches, one within three miles of town, and the other on Pine Creek, about thirty-eight miles out. Mr. Berney asked if I could ride, and on my saying yes, told one of the boys to bring out Bill and saddle him. I noticed all the family (consisting of four grown girls and two boys) and most of the men loitering round in front when I proceeded to mount, but thought nothing of it at the time. I rode Bill out a mile or so, circled him at a good speed, and rattled him up to the house, trying to show off, as a young lad will, in front of the girls; but I noticed they all looked very disappointed. After this trial I moved my baggage, and was duly installed, and Bill was turned over to me as a saddle-horse. I found out a month later the meaning of the trial and the girls’ disappointment. I had come in from town, taken off my saddle, and proceeded to ride Bill down to the creek to water; I had on a pair of box spurs (which are taboo in the cattle country), and, coming up the steep bank, I happened to touch Bill with one of the spurs, and the next second I knew what bucking meant. Luckily the ground was soft. George Berney told me then that the horse had originally belonged to a livery stable in town much frequented by cow-punchers, where, originally a bad bucker, he had been trained by means of cockleburrs put under his saddle blanket to become an expert. Every young man who came to the stable looking for a mount, and bragged of his riding, was given Bill. But one day a young Englishman, who insisted on saddling and doing for himself, rode Bill to a standstill, and in an English saddle! So Bill was sold for a song to Mr. Berney, and the family had hoped to see some fun when I mounted; only it happened to be Bill’s day off. I moved to the out-ranch, and learned to do many kinds of work, and found out that on a ranch one did many things besides ride, such as building log corrals seven feet high and sixty feet across, with two wings to guide the cattle right to the gate.
I built cattle stables, horse stables, and fences all out of logs of spruce, and during the five months I was there I broke twelve or fourteen horses to the saddle. None were very bad, and I was never thrown again in Calgary, though I had a rather nasty experience with a half-broken mare. She was seven years old, and had never had a rope on her, but in a couple of weeks, during odd times, I broke her and thought she was gentle. Her only fault had been rearing, and she never bucked or kicked. One day I put on my best tight riding-breeches and top-boots, and started off to show her to some friends of mine on Sheep Creek, about sixteen miles away. About a mile from our shack I had to cross Pine Creek, which has high steep banks, but luckily very little water. Going up the opposite bank the mare suddenly took it into her head to rear, and the next instant we were off the bank and into the creek. I fell clear on my feet; but the mare, falling square on her back, had buried the horn and pommel of the saddle in the bottom of the creek, and could not turn over. I grabbed her head, and could just keep her muzzle out of the water, though the rest of her was under. I shouted and shouted, and emptied my pistol, and did all I knew to attract attention, till finally, after about twenty minutes which seemed hours, the local scout of the mounted police came to see what was up, and helped me to get the mare out. My clothes were a sight, and I split the knees of my riding-breeches as I fell.
I had learned to rope fairly well on foot, but never made much of a success of it on horseback. By the way, the word “lasso” is never heard in the cattle country; the phrase is “roping.” After I had learned to rope stumps, and could catch Bill two throws out of three, I began to think I was a star. I went to a local round-up on Pine Creek, and went into the corral to get out a mare and yearling colt that belonged to us. I was rather nervous after I once was in, but made my throw after the approved fashion from the ground, and to my amazement captured the mare and colt in the same loop. I had a gay ten minutes; but some of the boys, after they got through laughing, came to my assistance, roped the mare by the legs, threw her, and got my rope off. In a corral it is not permissible to whirl a rope round your head, as it frightens the animals, but the throw must be made from the ground, where the coil is spread out. Only in Buffalo Bill shows, where it gives more flourish to the proceedings, and sometimes when roping from a horse at the gallop, is this done—i.e. whirling the rope—and I have seen good ropers, both in Canada and Texas, even in the latter case trail a rope behind and throw it with one forward swing. Another point about ropes is never to tie one to the horn of your saddle while riding, if you have anything at the other end. I had gone out one day to bring in a two-year-old heifer from a neighbouring ranch. After getting my rope on her horns, I took one turn round the horn of my saddle, and proceeded to pull her home, she protesting. After we had gone a few miles she quieted down, and I thought I would take a smoke. I tied my rope in two half-hitches to the horn of my saddle, got out my tobacco and papers, and proceeded to make a cigarette. Just then simultaneously my horse stopped dead and the heifer circled me on the dead run, and I could not get the brute of a horse to turn. I cut away the rope before it cut me in two, and gained another experience at the cost of a fine waxed linen rope and a sore waistband.
My life on the ranch was far from being all hard work, and so it is on most ranches, though probably I was more favourably situated than most, owing to the owner having a large family who were fond of amusement and could well afford it. We had picnics, surprise parties, and dances, in all of which we hands had our share, being treated as members of the family. The work, of course, was not neglected on these occasions, but so arranged as not to interfere, and if some one had to stay behind we took it in turns. The theory of a surprise party is as follows. A number of young people arrange to have a party at a certain person’s house; all the edibles are cooked beforehand and taken along by the guests, and the hosts are taken by surprise. But so many accidents occurred, such as the hosts going to bed early, or, worse, going out and locking up the house, that in practice notice is generally given to the hosts of the proposed surprise a couple of days beforehand. The people in the West are most hospitable—in fact, this applies to a great extent to all Canada. A stranger is always taken on trust till he proves himself unworthy. Riding past any ranch-house near a meal-time, the owner will call you to come in and eat, if he is at home. Should he be out, however, you will generally come across a note like the following pinned to the door: “Have gone … will be back … the key is under the stone to the right of the steps. Go in and make yourself at home.” This I have often done, hunting out his grub and cooking what I needed; and on one occasion, getting caught out at night, I fed my horse, ate supper, and went to bed. I woke up when the owner returned, smoked and talked with him (a complete stranger) till he was undressed, and turned in again till morning. In the morning you get up, help with the chores (odd jobs such as feeding the stable animals), have breakfast, saddle up, and depart.
Calgary is a beautiful place on the slope of the foothills, at an elevation of about 3400 feet, rather cold in winter, but delightful in the summer and fall. On the out-ranch, however, where there was a lot of timber, the winged pests—mosquitoes, gnats, horse- and deer-flies—made work in the woods very trying, more especially the two latter, whose bite will draw blood every time. The surrounding country, especially out towards Fort McLeod, is full of immense sloughs, where the wild slough grass will often grow to a height of five feet, and as much as 1000 tons can be cut off a single slough. But haying is made hard work by the gnats and mosquitoes.
It
