In the year of 1885 I got my first job as a real cowboy. I went to work for the “7D” outfit on the Belle Fouche River in the Black Hills night herding horses on the roundup. There was twenty outfits working together and there was about 300 riders—that was more cowboys than I ever saw hi one bunch before, or since. Also there was more grass and water that spring than I ever saw since that time and the range was open for a thousand miles in every direction and the country was just alive with cattle and it was not unusual to work and handle 5,000 cattle in one day.

Each outfit had from 150 to 200 saddle horses and from 15 to 30 cowboys. Each outfit had a grub-wagon and a bedwagon, four horses to each wagon. Each outfit had a day horse wrangler and a night wrangler and a cook. When we moved camp, the night wrangler drove the bedwagon to haul the cowboys’ beds. We didn’t have any stoves or tents those days. The cook’s outfit consisted of Dutch ovens, iron pots and coffee pot and boy, what a meal them old cooks could set up!

In the spring of 1886 I helped to gather and take a herd of cattle from the Black Hills to Miles City, Montana. The cattle belonged to a Jew by the name of Strauss and he owned the “54” Ranch on a creek named Mizpah—I don’t know where that creek got its name, but it must mean alkali, for the water there would take the skin off your lips and was equal to any dose of Epsom salts that anyone ever took.

Mr. Strauss lived in Milwaukee and had been on the ranch about a week when we arrived, and the weather was very warm and he drank plenty of that water. So one day about noon he told his foreman there was something seriously wrong with him and he had to go to Milwaukee at once. He had black whiskers and I think that water was so bad it even had an effect on his whiskers. He looked so bad he scared me.

So I told the boss I would quit and went with them to the railroad—they had to go to Miles City for the Jew to get a train to Milwaukee. So I went with them, which was about 50 miles. We made a night drive in a buckboard.

There was a road ranch about half way and the old man kept telling the foreman when we got there he would be O.K. as the lady who owned the place served nice cold milk and that was what his stomach was craving. We got there about midnight and woke the people up to get some milk for the old man. The lady sent her boy down cellar for the milk. There was a skunk in the cellar. He killed the skunk and brought the milk up to the dining room. When that old man took one swallow of that milk he stopped and his eyes set in his head. I thought he had a stroke.

He said, “Lady, I believe the animal has been in the milk.”

We got to Miles City the next day and I never saw the old man again but hope he found some milk that was not tainted with the perfume of the skunk.

I remember my first experience as a bullwhacker—that was what they named a driver the days when they hauled freight with cattle and mule teams.

When I quit the “54” outfit and went to Miles City, I proceeded to counteract that bad water on Mizpah Creek with Miles City whiskey and the results were so pleasant I stayed until I was broke and sold my saddle, and when I could not get anymore of Miles City joy juice I got in a box car one night on a train going West and landed at Ouster Junction on the Yellowstone River in Montana—that was where freight was unloaded and hauled to Fort Custer and some parts in Wyoming.

The first outfit I found was loading for Wyoming and was owned by a man by the name of Bill Marsh. He had two teams (10-yoke of Texas steers to the team) and was loaded with whiskey—I have forgotten how many barrels but they usually hauled 9,000 pounds to the team. I asked Marsh if he wanted a man. He asked me if I was a bullwhacker. I told him yes, and he hired me.

Now I never had put a yoke on a steer in my life, or drove one, but I wanted a job, so he showed me the right-hand leader, which is the first steer to be yoked. Now the way to yoke a steer is to put the yoke on your shoulder and walk up to him. The cattle were used to that way, but I took the yoke in my arms, and walked up to the steer. He took one look at me, jumped up in the air, kicked me in the stomach, knocked me down with the yoke on top of me and run off. The boss was looking at the performance and said he better help me hitch up.

We rolled about 10 miles that day and my team just simply followed the boss’ team and done about as they pleased. They certainly knew I was a tenderfoot as a bullwhacker.

That night I was pretty badly discouraged when we camped and I told the boss the truth that I had never drove oxen before but I was broke and had to have work. He said I need not tell him anything as he knew when I tried to yoke that first steer that I was not a bullwhacker.

It has always been a mystery to me about those steers—how well they knew me—after about a week on the trail they wouldn’t pull your hat off for me. I know the boss would have fired me but we were crossing the Crow Indian Reservation and we didn’t see a white man for a hundred and fifty miles, so he had to put up with me. At that I don’t think he suffered anymore than I did, because my team done just about as they pleased most of the time.

I recall one day we were pulling what they called the Lodge Grass Hill on the Little Horn River and it was very steep and scarcely any road at all. The boss and his team had pulled the hill and got over the top out of sight of me. My team stopped on the hill and refused to start. I will never forget my near wheeler—I was whipping and hollering at the rest of the cattle trying to start the load—I happened to look at him. He had the yoke up on his horns and his eyes bulged out like he was pulling his best, but the fact of the matter was he was holding back. It looked like he was just fooling me. Finally the boss came back to see what was the matter. I told him I was stuck and the cattle couldn’t pull the load.

Now Bill was a real bullwhacker and those steers knew it. He give one yell at those cattle and the three wagons began to move; in fact they went so fast I could hardly keep up with them and it looked like that old steer that had been fooling me pulled half the load himself.

We used whips, with the lash about 20 feet long and the handle about 5 feet. Those old bullwhackers could pick a fly off any steer anywhere in the team, and when they hit a steer it sounded like a six-shooter had went off—that was something I never learned. They could hit a steer with their whips and make a loud noise and not cut him. Every time I hit one I cut his hide. The boss used to give me hell about that but I would have used an axe if I had one when I got stuck.

When we had been on the road several days we lost a work steer and it broke up my team.

While the boss was out on the range looking for the steer, a young buck Indian came into camp, riding a pretty good-looking horse. He could talk a little English and I could talk some Indian. I made him understand we had lost a steer and asked him if he would go and look for it. But he wanted money and I didn’t have any ... but we had six wagon loads of whiskey and I knew Indians liked whiskey. They called it fire water—Minnie Kavea. The people we were hauling it for allowed us to drink what we wanted, the only proviso was not to put any water in the barrel after we drew the whiskey out, so I asked the Indian if he would hunt for the steer if I gave him a drink. His face immediately became all smiles and he made signs if I would give him a big drink that it would be a bargain.

I went to the grub box, got a pint tin cup and filled it for him. He drank it like water. He made signs that I was his brother and he loved me and he would find the steer right away.

I think he was gone about half an hour when he came back. His eyes were glassy and he was slobbering at the mouth but very happy. He said. “Me no see cow.” He made me understand the fire water was very fine and wanted some more. I gave him another cupful.

He started away singing, to hunt the steer again. He was riding bareback and was leaning pretty much to one side. He went about 50 yards and fell off. When he hit the ground, he completely passed out.

About that time the boss got into camp with the lost steer. When he found out what I had done he said, “My God, kid, you will have us both in the pen for giving whiskey to Indians. Yoke up your cattle quick and we will get out of here.” We left him lay where he was. I’ll bet he was a sick Indian when he woke up.

The boss sure was mad about it at the time, but had a big laugh over it afterwards.

We were six weeks making that trip, and I was a fairly good freighter by that time, but it wasn’t a very good job for a cowboy, as I had to walk too much.