For a good many years there was a section of the country along the Canadian border and the Milk River that the cattlemen thought was no good for cattle—but in the late eighties and early nineties they discovered that it was a much better cattle country than the Missouri and Yellowstone country as it produced a buffalo-grass that I think had no equal for fattening cattle. It was a short grass, but had plenty of fattening qualities, especially in the Sweet Grass Hills area. I have seen steers so fat we could hardly drive them into the roundups.

So nearly all the Judith Basin and Moccasin outfits moved into that country. They had to swim all their herds across the Missouri River and it was between a quarter and a half mile wide and swimming water from bank to bank.

Most of the herds were crossed at a place called Judith Landing, an old steamboat landing in the early days. It was afterwards named Claggot.

There was a man by the name of Bill Norris who had a store and saloon there, and for a few years, while these herds were crossing, he reaped a rich harvest off the cowboys. Charlie Russell helped swim some of those herds and he told me he believed Bill made his own whiskey and must have made it especially for swimming cattle, as when a cowboy got about three drinks of that whiskey the Missouri River looked like a very small creek. It made him plenty brave. There must have been some truth in what Charlie said, as I cannot recall where one cowboy was drowned.

I went over to that country about the spring of 1890 and went to work for the TL outfit, which belonged to McNamar and Broadwater. They had a ranch in the Bear Paw Mountains.

When I went to the ranch and asked for work, the boss said it was too early in the spring to hire any men as the roundup wouldn’t start for a long time, but would hire a bronc rider if he could get a good one. Now I had rode broncs and rough strings (which is spoiled horses) for several years and had no fear of any horse and had a good opinion of myself. So I told him I was sure a bronc rider. Now I had wintered pretty hard that winter as I had lived in town and had sold everything I had in the way of a good rig and looked pretty seedy. They had four or five steady men on the ranch. I didn’t know any of them, and as I didn’t have any boots, only a cheap pair of shoes, one spur and an old rattle-trap saddle, they didn’t think I looked like a bronc fighter. Anyway the boss took a chance and hired me.

The next day he had the men run in the saddle bunch to pick out some horses to ride to gather those colts I was to break that ranged down in the Badlands. He looked the bunch over quite a while, as he said he wanted to find a good strong horse for me. He finally found him. I remember his name yet—it was “Humpy,” a very pretty horse. He said, “This fellow might hump up a little but that is all. He is a good horse.”

I told him I didn’t mind that; in fact I was in hopes he would do something, as I had an idea they didn’t rate me very high. Anyway I mounted Humpy—and about that time they turned the loose horses out of the corral. Humpy wanted to go with them. I gave him a pull and down went his head. I hit him with my hat and took a rake at him with that one spur. The next thing I knew I was on the ground about ten feet in front of him, but I held to my hackamore rope. He didn’t get away from me.

When I got up and looked around everything was as silent as a graveyard. Those men and the boss were sitting on their horses looking at each other with a grin on their faces, that I couldn’t tell whether it was pity or disgust and, of course, I had no alibi. I got back on Humpy and took another rake at him and he galloped off as nice as you please.

We had about two miles to ride to the house. Nobody said anything, only the boss. He said he was afraid some of them colts would buck harder than Humpy did. I didn’t answer him.

But before we got ready to gather those colts, somebody brought a horse to the ranch that the outfit had sold to a livery stable in Big Sandy for a buggy horse. I found out afterwards that the reason was nobody could ride him. He had a wide reputation and was known as S.Y. (from his brand) all over the country. The weather being bad when they sold him on trial to the livery stable they didn’t hitch him up for about a month and had fed him grain all that time. So when they did try him out he kicked the buggy all to pieces and ran away. So they sent him home, as they didn’t want him. He was a beautiful horse, weighed about 1150 and built like a greyhound, and I was itching to tie into S.Y., as I knew my standing was bad, and I asked the boss to let me try him out. He told me it would be useless, as one of the best riders in the state had given that horse up as a bad job. Then I kidded him and told him I didn’t think the horse could buck at all, was just a plow horse. Anyway I rode S.Y. and as I knew I had to make good, I scratched him everywhere I could reach him and, of course, I was made from then on. I never rode him again and I know I was lucky that day, as that horse had throwed better riders than I ever was.

I broke about thirty head of colts for the outfit before I quit the job.

When I was young I never stayed anywhere very long. If I didn’t get fired, I would quit and in the winter time I liked to live in town, so when spring came and time to go to work, I was always broke. No saddle, no boots, no nothing. If possible I would hunt Charlie Russell up for help. I used to think up a pretty good hard luck tale to tell him. But before I got started he would laugh and say, “What do you need now?” Charlie didn’t always have money either, but had good credit and could always get anything he wanted. Indians, cowboys, gamblers, everybody borrowed off Charlie and I don’t know if they all paid him back or not—if they didn’t Charlie would never tell it to anyone.

I have often wondered if horses go crazy like humans. The reason I say this is that while I was breaking horses for the TL outfit, they had a fine imported stallion—paid three thousand dollars for him. They had an old man taking care of him. His name was Cayouse George. He knew stallions thoroughly, had done that kind of work for several years. This horse had always been gentle as a lamb. He had him in a box stall loose. He used to go in there and feed and curry him and lead him to water. One day two men were stacking hay outside the barn, when they heard a terrible racket inside. They ran in there and the horse had George by the side with his teeth and was throwing him up and down, trying to get him under his feet. One of the boys hit him on the head with a club and they dragged George outside. Meantime that horse roared like a lion.

They sent George to town to be doctored.

The next morning the boss told me to water the stallion. He said, “Just take his bridle to the box stall. Hold it up. He will take the bit and lead him to water.” I did as he told me, but I had a forty-five Colt in my bed. I went and got that first, filled it full of bullets and cocked it. I held the bridle up for the stallion to take with one hand and held the gun with the other, and kept that position until he was watered and back in the stall.

A few mornings later the boss came out when I was watering him. He looked me and the stud over and told me I needn’t water him anymore, which pleased me very much. I believe if he had even winked at me I would have killed him, as I was deathly afraid of him. They carried water to him for a while, then hitched him in a four horse team and started to town. He died on the way—being soft, they overworked him.