CHAPTER VI
RUNNING A STOCK RANCH
It was while I was in Iowa that the transformation
came in tlie harvesting of small grain. I saw the transformation from
the cradle, not to the grave, but to the self-binder. The advent of the
railroad brought us the modern machinery. The cradle was laid aside for
what was known as the dropper, a machine which cut the small grain, it
falling on to a wicker platform, and when of sufficient quantity to
make a bundle the driver would drop the platform and the grain slid
off. It required six men to keep the grain bound up, before the next
round. The next improvement was the Marsh harvester. With that machine
three men accomplished what it took seven witli the dropper. The three
men rode on the machine. The Marsh harvester cut the grain, elevated it
to a scoop receptacle, alongside of which stood two of the men on a
platform binding the grain. The next machine and the most complete that
any one could desire was the self-binder. Think of driving into a field
of grain with a machine that a boy could handle, which would cut the
grain, elevate it into a receptacle, circle each bundle as it formed
with twine, tie the twine into a knot, cut the twine and throw the
bundle, tightly bound, clear of the machine, and immediately repeat the
operation; such was the self-binder.
What a godsend to the "women folks" was the selfbinder! In the days of
the dropper they had to bake bread for a week, kill all the chickens on
the place, and peel a barrel of potatoes to feed a lot of hungry
harvesters. With the self-binder there were only the regular household,
no transient guests. Many a bright summer's morning I have driven into
a field of yellow grain with my self-binder, with the ribbons over
three horses abreast, comfortably seated in a cushioned seat with a
canopy to protect me from the hot rays of the sun, witli a long straw,
I on one end and an occasional mint julep on the other, and, before the
sun went down, with the aid of one of the boys, put twenty-five acres
of grain into the shock, and never turned a hair.
As the great prairies began to settle up, and the range cut off, the
day of grass-fed cattle saw its finish. Cornfed steers came instead.
Thousands of acres of prairie were broken up, corn planted, and the
cattle yarded to be fattened and shipped to the Eastern markets.
Absolutely nothing but corn was fed. It was fed in the ear, broken
about twice in two and fed in a large box, similar to a table and about
as high. The droppings from the cattle were as yellow as corn meal; in
fact, it was ground corn, so to speak. In all feed-yards there were
twice the number of hogs as of cattle; the hogs were fattened from the
droppings of the steers. We calculated what passed through one steer
would fatten two hogs. The cattle ate the corn, the hogs the droppings,
and we ate the hogs.
The feed-lot was the cause of the dehorning of cattle. As it is with
humanity, about eyery other steer wanted his share and part of the
other fellow's, and some, after they had eaten all they could, tried to
keep the others away. The result was they were continually prodding
each other, and dehorning was a necessity for fattening purposes. It
was also a godsend to the shipper. The dehorning process was simply to
run the steers into a shute that narrowed as it led on to where only
one steer could stand. We would then clap a clamp over his neck, and,
with a common handsaw, saw his horns off close to the head. I was not
aware of the anatomical formation, so far as the horn is concerned, of
the head of cattle until after I had done my first dehorning. I was
riding over the range shortly before sundown a few days after some
dehorning, and as I glanced at a steer I saw the sun right through his
head. It seems the horn of cattle is hollow; that is, there is simply a
pith in it. Sometimes the pith dries up. In the case of this animal the
pith had fallen out, leaying a hollow through his head. I haye heard of
"the wind blew through his whiskers," but I never saw a case before
where it blew through his head. That steer should never get excited, as
the wind blowing through his head would certainly keep his brain cool.
How much pleasanter it is to handle an intelligent animal than a stupid
one. What a difference there is between a horse and a horned animal.
Though the ground is covered with snow the horse has intelligence enough to know that there is
plenty of feed underneath, and paws to it, but the cattle will stand
and starve to death. It used to make me so mad that I felt like
grabbing them by the horns and shoving their heads down to the grass.
In my life on the prairies, where neighbors were few and far between,
the most dangerous element to contend with was the prairie fires. In my
boyhood days, as a hunter in tlie Adirondacks, I learned never to go
into the North Woods without a guide. In the fall of the year never oo
out on the prairies of the West without a match. Many a time while
traveling- afoot, horseback or in my old Schutler wagon, I saved my
life when I saw a prairie fire coming by setting fire to the grass and
driving on to the burned portion. There is nothing more entrancing than
to watch a prairie fire, especially at night, yet it is anything but
entrancing when it is coming with a high wind toward your earthly
possessions. I have lost miles of fence and hundreds of tons of hay
through prairie fires, and have back-fired against it and fought it up
hill and down twenty-four hours at a stretch.
What a drearv waste back in the early sixties was the country west of
the Mississippi River! Miles upon miles of unoccupied land with not a
tree to break the monotony of that undulating plain. The only timber in
Iowa was a fringe along the river bank and here and there a grove. God
provided for the early settlers, where fuel was concerned, by allowing
an occasional grove of timber to escape the devastating fire of the
prairie. The early inhabitants of Iowa settled in or near the groves.
The cold winters necessitated this. Before the advent of the railroad
the fuel question was an important one. On the plains of Nebraska there
was no timber. The Lord evidently had no idea anybody would settle
there. The early settlers in that State set aside a field of corn for
fuel. There is worse fuel than ear corn. On the advent of the
railroads, coal became the universal fuel. As the great prairie settled
up, groves of trees were planted and hedges set out, and that barren
waste of the sixties was transformed into a beautiful wooded landscape.
About the only recreation of the farmer on the Western prairie was to
go to town. With the tired housewife and little ones tucked in a wagon,
off they would go. The town was the Casino of the farmer. It was the
meeting place of the isolated settlers. On all the holidays the farmers
went to town. All kinds of excuses were offered to "get to go" to town.
I recall that the whole countryside went to town one day to see the
eclipse of the sun. With the coming of the iron horse came the styles
from the East, the money-shark, and discontent. In the good old days
everybody was contented. Mortgages, a stranger in the land heretofore,
began to appear on the records. On my way to town one day I met one of
the old settlers, who said: ''Well, Stanton, I have mortgaged the farm
to one of them 'ere money critters. I had to pay ten per cent interest,
by gosh! and a bonus, I think they called it, to git the money. Betsey
said she wouldn't wear that darned old sunbonnet to town again. My boy
told me he would leave the farm if I didn't get him a top-buggy to take
his gal out riding, and our little girl has cried ever since she see'd
that young lady git off the cars at Woodbine with them high-heel shoes
and a feather in her hat. Well, I be dog-goned, Stanton, if I ain't
going to see some of this life with the rest on 'em."
In the groves of timber scattered throughout the State of Iowa, the
All-seeing One provided fuel for the earlier settler. It was the custom
that each settler should have the privilege of owning a sufficient
acreage in the groves for his wants in the fuel line, and it was the
unwritten law that those who owned more of the grove than they
absolutely needed were compelled to sell the newcomer a portion of
their holdings.
If some Rockefeller had come sailing along in the early days of Iowa,
he would likely have formed a stock company to acquire the groves of
the State, and would have had the settlers where the Standard Oil
Company has the people of this country at the present time. Some
Rockefeller might have tried the game, but he wouldn't have found the
submissive individual of to-day, nor would he have found corrupt
legislators to enact, nor courts to construe, the law to his liking,
but he would have found a note in his
morning mail notifying him that it would be beneficial for his health
if he took a change of venue and to be quick about it.
The "Co-operation Society" of Six Mile Grove, in which I was
interested, demonstrated the fact that a "holding company'' is not
absolutely essential for the success of an enterprise. If commercialism
as practiced to-day had been in esse
in the early days of Iowa, how natural it would have been for one of
these "Napoleons of finance" to have cornered the groves of Iowa and
made the poor settler of the sixties pay tribute, so this "successful"
business man could travel in European waters in his yacht, his daughter
marry a prince, and his son by a display of the predatory wealth of the
parent demoralize the youth of the land.
The West should insist on constitutional conventions to revise the
National and State constitutions, so that tlie people can bring them up
to date, and brush aside the old theories and provisions under which
the robber Barons hang on to their ill-gotten gains. What does the
Standard Oil crowd care if you dissolve their corporations so long as
you do not wrest from them their money? So revise the Statute Law that
the government or any citizen can bring an action against any
wrong-doer for a readjustment of his affairs, in which action, on proof
that the defendant has acquired any
portion of his wealth by fraud, the court shall have the power to
decree that all of his wealth shall be turned into the public treasury;
and that no Statute of Limitations shall apply to such an action.
The courts have decided that the various Standard Oil companies are
illegal combinations. The law should be that all malefactors who have
acquired wealth through those companies must disgorge. If the
malefactors cry ''confiscation," let the people answer, ''No, simply an equitable, moral readjustment."
On account of the long distance to the towns, keeping the larder
supplied was one of the problems constantly confronting us. It was
fifteen miles from my ranch to the nearest town. Having to make a round
trip of thirty miles to supply our wants, it necessitated our keeping a
close watch on the "trestle-board.'' I remember once having to make the
thirty miles simply for a match. Forever after that trip, a piece of
pasteboard was hung up in the diningroom; whenever any one discovered
that anything was needed its name was written on the pasteboard, so when the usual trip
was made to town the "score card" would show what was required.
Until I went to Iowa I thought the Sun, as regards vegetation, was more
important than the Moon, but I soon learned that the Moon was the "cock
of the walk." The Moon seemed to regulate everything. During the
planting season about all you heard was "the full of the Moon," "the
dark of the Moon" and other moonshines. On one of my trips to Woodbine,
I met a neighbor with his horses on the jump for home. I inquired what
was the matter, and he yelled back the Moon fulled at six o'clock and
he must get those potatoes in before that hour or they would all run to
vines. One of my neighbors had it so badly that he actually told me
that one of his children was doomed to be unlucky all its life as it
was born at the wrong time of the Moon.
There were two rules which evertbody followed - never pass a
rattlesnake without killing it, and when you went to town call for your
neighbor's mail. I use the word neighbor, but it hardly applies to the
situation, as the word "neighbor" with me covered a circuit of forty
miles in diameter. I was amused at a remark a fellow made when I
settled on the Pigeon. His nearest "neighbor'' was fourteen miles away.
My location was about six miles from him, whereupon the fellow made the
remark: "Well, I guess I will have to move; neighbors are getting too
thick.'' Speaking of rattlesnakes, the Indian was the only individual
who let the rattlesnakes alone. The rattlesnake will ahvays give you
warning, and will not attack you unless first attacked. The Indian
seemed to appreciate these two cardinal virtues of the rattlesnake. The
bite of the rattler is deadly poison, and an antidote is necessary to
save life. Whiskey was as good an antidote as one could take, and no
larder was complete without it. A weakness of one of my neighbors was
partaking too freely of the "Oh, be joyful"; in fact, he was under the
influence more times than over it. Yet he offered a very sensible
excuse: "You see, boys, it is this way. When one of you fellows gets
stung with a rattler you rush all over the neighborhood, losing lots of
time, hunting for whiskey, and often die before you get it; but when a
rattler jumps me, the remedy is already there, and I keep right on
plowing." Mud is also a remedy. I recall one time visiting an isolated
stock ranch, and, as we approached, we saw the only herder in a
peculiar position on the ground. As we came up to him he had one leg
bare to the knee in a hole in the ground, with a pail of water beside
him, and he was tamping wet dirt
around the leg. He had been bitten by a rattler and was applying the
only remedy at hand.
In the fall following my arrival in the Hawkeye State, there was a hot
political contest going on, and I attended one of the meetings at
Harlan, the county seat of Shelby County. Speaking of Harlan, I will
never forget the way they distributed the mail. The post office was in
the hotel where I stopped. The "post office" consisted of two dry goods
boxes, one where you deposited the mail and the other where you
got it. When the mail-carrier arrived, he would hand the pouch to the
postmaster, who was the proprietor of the hotel, also hostler and
waiter combined. The
combination postmaster, proprietor, hostler and waiter would dump the
mail into one of the boxes, and whenever a citizen called for his mail,
he would dig into the dry goods box, look over its contents and take
what mail belonged to him, and thus the mail in the early sixties was
distributed in the shire-town of Shelby County.
I naturally have heard in my life many political issues discussed, but
I never heard of a nightshirt being an issue until that night at
Harlan. There was a joint debate between the two opposing candidates for representative in the legislature. The
district generally went Republican. The Democratic candidate was a
farmer, the Republican candidate a lawyer. The majority of voters were
farmers. Many of them had never heard of a nightshirt, let alone owning
one. In the heat of a former debate the Democratic candidate had
charged his opponent with being an aristocrat in that he wore a
nightshirt. The Republican candidate at first denied it, but at the
Harlan meeting the Democratic candidate produced the necessary proof,
and from that moment the Republican candidate's chances were doomed; in
fact, if
I recollect rightly, he withdrew from the contest.
What a comfort were letters and newspapers in our isolated homes! It
was a long way to the post-offices, so the rule of getting each other's
mail was strictly adhered to, and often, when taken from the
post-office, it was a long time and by circuitous routes before it
finally reached the owner. When one got his neighbor's mail it was not
expected that he would go miles out of the way to deliver it. Sometimes
it would be a week reaching its final destination. One of the most
disagreeable nights I ever passed was trying to locate a letter with
other mail which had been taken out of the post-office by one of my
neighbors. There was a young lady from the East visiting us at the
time, who was a great letter writer, and I thought she would drive us
all crazy trying to figure out how she could get her mail to and from
the distant post-office. On one of my trips to town I found my mail had
been taken out the day before by one of my neighbors. The postmaster
vas unable to tell to whom he delivered it. It wasn't a matter of great
concern to me, as I knew it was safe somewhere and would eventually get
around. On my return home I made a great mistake. Instead of saying
there wasn't any mail, I said it was taken out by somebody. The words
had no sooner left my mouth than our guest gave a yell like a Comanche
Indian and almost had a fit. It seems she was expecting an important
letter. All her letters, both going and coming, seemed "important," and
those going were generally marked "in haste." As evening approached the
more hysterical she got. My wife told me there wouldn't be any sleep in
that house that night if I didn't strike out and get that mail.
It was more than a night's ride to all my neighbors, so I divided up
the territory with one of ni.y men. He was to cover one-half and I the
other. I was in hopes that my nearest neighbor, who was five miles
away, would be the man, but there was no such luck in store for me. If
I had known what was ahead of me I would never have left the place, but slept in one of the barns. There was nothing delightful
riding over the prairies in the dark of the moon, trying to steer clear
of dogs while waking your neighbors up in the middle of the night. The
first streak of daylight was shedding its luster over the horizon as
Captain Dyes' place near Gallon's Grove came in sight three miles away.
The captain's was the last place on my list. As I left the last place
before the captain's - the distance between the two being seven miles -
I came near starting home, believing my man had gotten the "important"
letter on his route. It was lucky that I didn't turn back, as the
captain had the coveted prize. Old Sol was showing his scalp above the
prairie grass as I reached the captain's. In the cattleyard was the
captain milking the cows. I propounded the now stereotyped question,
"Got any mail for me?" "Yes," came back the reply. "Well, Cap, for
God's sake let me have it." I explained the situation, and he laughed
so hard he rolled off the milk stool. Headachy and hungry, I started
for my home, fifteen miles away. When I arrived the house was in an
uproar. Nobody had slept a wink. The young lady had collapsed at 2
a.m., and they had sent for a doctor. My man had returned at that hour
with the report that some mail had been lost by Bill Cuppy near
Leland's Grove, and he believed my mail was among the rest. The first
thing I did on my return was to dispatch one of the men to Woodbine
with a request to the postmaster: "Don't deliver any of my mail to
anybody without an order."
Chapter 5 -- Chapter 7
