Chapter 17
(.   The "mean" horse — Ben Butler — Dr.   Stickney — Dinner with Mrs. Cummins — The stampede — Roping an earl's son — A letter to Lodge — Sylvane's adventure — Law.)

At a round-up on the Gily,
One sweet mornin' long ago,
Ten of us was throwed right freely
By a hawse from Idaho.
And we thought he'd go a-beggin'
For a man to break his pride,
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin',
Boastful Bill cut loose and cried—

"I'm an on'ry proposition for to hurt;
I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt;
I kin ride the highest liver
'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,
And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt."

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury,
And they mangled up the air,
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned his brag was fair.
Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
And the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hawse's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert—

"I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.
Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!
If you think my fame needs bright'nin',
Why, I'll rope a streak of lightnin',
And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke."

Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hawse's back in two.
Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
Skyward man and saddle flew.
Up he mounted, never laggin',
While we watched him through our tears,
And his last thin bit of braggin'
Came a-droppin' to our ears—

"If you'd ever watched my habits very close,
You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.
I have kep' my talent hidin';
I'm too good for earthly ridin',
And I'm off to bust the lightnin'—Adios!"

Badger Clark

If Roosevelt anticipated that he would have trouble with his untamed broncos, he was not disappointed.   "The effort," as he subsequently remarked, "both to ride them, and to look as if I enjoyed doing so, on some cool morning when my grinning cowboy friends had gathered round 'to see whether the high-headed bay could buck the boss off,' doubtless was of benefit to me, but lacked much of being enjoyable."

One morning, when the round-up "outfits" were camped on the Logging Camp Range, south of the Big Ox Bow, Roosevelt had a memorable struggle with one of his four broncos.   The camp was directly behind the ranch-house (which the Eaton brothers owned), and close by was a chasm some sixty feet deep, a great gash in the valley which the torrents of successive springs had through the centuries cut there.   The horse had to be blindfolded before he would allow a saddle to be put on him.

Lincoln Lang was among the cowboys who stood in an admiring circle, hoping for the worst.

"Mr. Roosevelt mounted, with the blind still on the horse," Lang said, telling the story afterward, "so that the horse stood still, although with a well-defined hump on his back, which, as we all knew very well, meant trouble to come.   As soon as Mr. Roosevelt got himself fixed in the saddle, the men who were holding the horse pulled off the blind and turned him loose."

Here Bill Dantz, who was also in the "gallery," takes up the story:

"The horse did not buck.   He started off quietly, in fact, until he was within a few feet of the chasm.   Then he leapt in the air like a shot deer, and came down with all four feet buckled under him, jumped sideways and went in the air a second time, twisting ends."

Here Lang resumes the narrative:

"Almost any kind of a bucking horse is hard to ride, but the worst of all are the 'sunfishers' who change end for end with each jump, maintaining the turning movement in one direction so that the effect is to get the rider dizzy.   This particular horse was of that type, and almost simultaneous with the removal of the blind he was in gyroscopic action.

"I am aware that Mr. Roosevelt did not like to 'pull leather,' as the term goes, but this time at least he had to, but for the matter of that there were not many who would not have done the same thing.   As nearly as I can remember, he got the horn of his saddle in one hand and the cantle in the other, then swung his weight well into the inside and hung like a leech.   Of course, it took sheer grit to do it, because in thus holding himself tight to the saddle with his hands, he had to take full punishment, which can be avoided only when one has acquired the knack of balancing and riding loosely.

"As it was, his glasses and six-shooter took the count within the first few jumps, but in one way or another he hung to it himself, until some of the boys rode up and got the horse headed into a straightaway by the liberal use of their quirts.   Once they got him running, it was all over, of course.   If I remember right, Mr. Roosevelt rode the horse on a long circle that morning and brought him in safe, hours later, as good as gold." [Footnote 17: "During the course of the Barnes-Roosevelt trial at Syracuse in 1916, Roosevelt was taking dinner one evening at the house of Mr. Horace S.   Wilkinson.   Chancellor Day, of Syracuse University, who was present, said: 'Mr. Roosevelt, my attention was first directed to you by an account of a scene when you were with the cowboys.   It told of your trying to get astride a bronco, and it was a struggle.   But you finally conquered him, and away you went in a cloud of dust.'

"'Very true, very true,' said Roosevelt, 'but I rode him all the way from the tip of his ear to the end of his tail.'"—Rev.   D.   B.   Thompson, Syracuse, N.Y.   End Footnote]

The horse which Roosevelt had called "Ben Butler" was not so easily subdued.   It was "Ben Butler's" special antic to fall over backward.   He was a sullen, evil-eyed brute, with a curve in his nose and a droop in his nostrils, which gave him a ridiculous resemblance to the presidential candidate of the Anti-Monopoly Party.   He was a great man-killing bronco, with a treacherous streak, and Roosevelt had put him in his "string" against the protests of his own men.   "That horse is a plumb outlaw," Bill Dantz declared, "an' outlaws is never safe.   They kinda git bad and bust out at any time.   He will sure kill you, sooner or later, if you try to ride him."

One raw, chilly morning, Roosevelt, who had been ordered to ride "the outside circle," chose "Ben Butler" for his mount, because he knew the horse was tireless and could stand the long, swift ride better than any other pony he had.   As Roosevelt mounted him, the horse reared and fell over backward.   He had done that before, but this time he fell on his rider.   Roosevelt, with a sharp pain in his shoulder, extricated himself and mounted once more.   But the horse now refused to go in any direction, backward or forward.

Sylvane and George Myers threw their lariats about the bronco's neck, and dragged him a few hundred yards, choking but stubborn, all four feet firmly planted and pawing the ground.   When they released the ropes, "Ben Butler" lay down and refused to get up.

The round-up had started; there was no time to waste.   Sylvane gave Roosevelt his horse, Baldy, which sometimes bucked, but never went over backwards, and himself mounted the now re-arisen "Ben Butler." To Roosevelt's discomfiture, the horse that had given him so much trouble started off as meekly as any farm-horse.

"Why," remarked Sylvane, not without a touch of triumph, "there's nothing the matter with this horse.   He's a plumb gentle horse."

But shortly after, Roosevelt noticed that Sylvane had fallen behind.   Then he heard his voice, in persuasive tones, "That's all right! Come along!" Suddenly a new note came into his entreaties.   "Here you! Go on you! Hi, hi, fellows, help me out! He's laying on me!"

They dragged Sylvane from under the sprawling steed, whereupon Sylvane promptly danced a war-dance, spurs and all, on the iniquitous "Ben." Roosevelt gave up the attempt to take that particular bronco on the round-up that day.

"By gollies," remarked "Dutch Wannigan" in later days, "he rode some bad horses, some that did quite a little bucking around for us.   I don't know if he got throwed.   If he did, there wouldn't have been nothin' said about it.   Some of those Eastern punkin-lilies now, those goody-goody fellows, if they'd ever get throwed off you'd never hear the last of it.   He didn't care a bit.   By gollies, if he got throwed off, he'd get right on again.   He was a dandy fellow."

The encounter with "Ben Butler" brought a new element into Roosevelt's cowpunching experience, and made what remained of the round-up somewhat of an ordeal.   For he discovered that the point of his shoulder was broken.   Under other circumstances he would have gone to a doctor, but in the Bad Lands you did not go to doctors, for the simple reason that there was only one physician in the whole region and he might at any given moment be anywhere from fifty to two hundred and fifty miles away.   If you were totally incapacitated with a broken leg or a bullet in your lungs, you sent word to Dr.   Stickney's office in Dickinson.   The doctor might be north in the Killdeer Mountains or south in the Cave Hills or west in Mingusville, for the territory he covered stretched from Mandan a hundred and twenty miles east of Medora, to Glendive, the same distance westward, south to the Black Hills and north beyond the Canadian border, a stretch of country not quite as large as New England, but almost.   The doctor covered it on horseback or in a buckboard; in the cab of a wild-cat engine or the caboose of a freight, or, on occasion, on a hand-car.   He was as young as everybody else in that young country, utterly fearless, and, it seemed, utterly tireless.   He rode out into the night careless alike of blinding sleet and drifting snow.   At grilling speed he rode until his horse stood with heaving sides and nose drooping; then, at some ranch, he changed to another and rode on.   Over a course of a hundred miles or more he would ride relays at a speed that seemed incredible, and at the end of the journey operate with a calm hand for a gun-shot wound or a cruelly broken bone, sometimes on the box of a mess-wagon turned upside down on the prairie.

Dr.   Stickney was from Vermont, a quiet, lean man with a warm smile and friendly eyes, a sense of humor and a zest for life.   He had a reputation for never refusing a call whatever the distance or the weather.   Sometimes he rode with a guide; more often he rode alone.   He knew the landmarks for a hundred miles in any direction.   At night, when the trail grew faint, he held his course by the stars; when an unexpected blizzard swept down upon him and the snow hid the trail, he sought a brush-patch in a coulee and tramped back and forth to keep himself from freezing until the storm had spent itself.   It was a life of extraordinary devotion.   Stickney took it with a laugh, blushing when men spoke well of him; and called it the day's work.

God alone knew where the doctor happened to be on the day that "Ben Butler" rolled over backward with Theodore Roosevelt.   It is safe to surmise that Roosevelt did not inquire.   You did not send for Dr.   Stickney for a break in the point of your shoulder.   You let the thing heal by itself and went on with your job.   Of course, it was not pleasant; but there were many things that were not pleasant.   It was, in fact, Roosevelt found, excruciating.   But he said nothing about that.

By the beginning of June, the round-up had worked down to Tepee Bottom, two or three miles south of the Maltese Cross, making its midday camp, one hot and sultry day, in a grove of ancient cottonwoods that stood like unlovely, weather-beaten, gnarled old men, within hailing distance of "Deacon" Cummins's ranch-house.   A messenger from Mrs. Cummins arrived at the camp at noon inviting Roosevelt and three or four of his friends to dinner.   A "home dinner" was not to be spurned, and they all rode over to the comfortable log cabin.   The day was blistering, a storm hung in the humid air, and none of them remembered, not even Roosevelt, that "gentlemen" did not go to dinner parties in their shirt-sleeves, at least not in the world to which Mrs. Cummins liked to believe she belonged.   Roosevelt was in his shirt and trousers, cowboy fashion.

As the men prepared to sit down to dinner, Mrs. Cummins was obviously perturbed.   She left the room, returning a minute later with a coat over her arm.

"Mr. Roosevelt," she said, "I know you won't like to come to dinner without a coat.   I have got one of Mr. Cummins's that will fit you.   I am sure you will feel more comfortable."

What Roosevelt's emotions were at being thus singled out and proclaimed a "dude" among the men he wanted, above all things, to consider him their peer, Roosevelt concealed at the moment and later only fitfully revealed.   He accepted the coat with as good grace as he could muster, to the suppressed delight of his friends.

But Mrs. Cummins was not yet done with her guest of honor.   She had evidently been hurt, poor lady, by his failure to observe the amenities of social intercourse, for during the dinner she said to him, "I don't see why men and women of culture come out here and let the people pull them down.   What they should do is to raise the people out here to their level."

What Roosevelt answered is lost to history; but Lincoln Lang, who was with him when he rode back to camp that afternoon, reported that Roosevelt's comments on the dinner party were "blistering." "He told my mother afterwards," said Lang in later times, "that Mrs. Cummins was out of place in the Bad Lands"; which was Mrs. Cummins's tragedy in a nutshell.

They moved the camp that same afternoon a mile or two north to a wide bottom that lay at the base of the peak known as Chimney Butte, north of Garner Creek and west of the Little Missouri.   As evening approached, heavy black clouds began to roll up in the west, bringing rain.   The rain became a downpour, through which flashes of lightning and rumblings of thunder came with increasing violence.   The cattle were very restless and uneasy, running up and down and trying here and there to break out of the herd.   The guards were doubled in anticipation of trouble.

At midnight, fearing a stampede, the night-herders, of whom Lincoln Lang happened to be one, sent a call of "all hands out." Roosevelt leaped on the pony he always kept picketed near him.   Suddenly there was a terrific peal of thunder.   The lightning struck almost into the herd itself, and with heads and tails high the panic-stricken animals plunged off into the darkness.

Will Dow was at Roosevelt's side.   The tumult evidently had not affected his imperturbable gayety.   "There'll be racing and chasing on Cannobie lea," Roosevelt heard him gayly quote.   An instant later the night had swallowed him.

For a minute or two Roosevelt could make out nothing except the dark forms of the beasts, running on every side of him like the black waters of a roaring river.   He was conscious that if his horse should stumble there would be no hope for him in the path of those panicky hoofs.   The herd split, a part turning to one side, while the other part kept straight ahead.   Roosevelt galloped at top speed, hoping to reach the leaders and turn them.

He heard a wild splashing ahead.   One instant he was aware that the cattle in front of him and beside him were disappearing; the next, he himself was plunging over a cutbank into the Little Missouri.   He bent far back in the saddle.   His horse almost fell, recovered himself, plunged forward, and, struggling through water and quicksand, made the other side.

For a second he saw another cowboy beside him.   The man disappeared in the darkness and the deluge, and Roosevelt galloped off through a grove of cottonwoods after the diminished herd.   The ground was rough and full of pitfalls.   Once his horse turned a somersault and threw him.   At last the cattle came to a halt, but soon they were again away through the darkness.   Thrice again he halted them, and thrice again they stampeded.

"The country was muddy and wet," said Lincoln Lang afterward.   "We were having a heavy rain all night.   I don't know how we ever got through.   All we had was lightning flashes to go by.   It was really one of the worst mix-ups I ever saw.   That surely was a night."

Day broke at last, and as the light filtered through the clouds Roosevelt could dimly discern where he was.   He succeeded at last in turning back what remained of the cattle in the direction of the camp, gathering in stray groups of cattle as he went, and driving them before him.   He came upon a cowboy on foot carrying his saddle on his head.   It was the man he had seen for a flash during the storm.   His horse had run into a tree and been killed.   He himself had escaped by a miracle.

The men in the camp were just starting on the "long circle" when Roosevelt returned.   One of them saddled a fresh horse for him while he snatched a hasty breakfast; then he was off for the day's work.

As only about half of the night-herd had been brought back, the circle-riding was particularly heavy, and it was ten hours before Roosevelt was back at the wagon camp once more for a hasty meal and a fresh horse.   He finished work as the late twilight fell.   He had been in the saddle forty hours, changing horses five times.   That night he slept like the dead.

The storm had raised the level of the river and filled every wash-out with swirling brown waters.   The following day Roosevelt had an adventure which came within an ace of being tragedy and culminated in hilarious farce.   He was riding with a young Englishman, the son of Lord Somebody or Other—the name is immaterial—who was living that spring with the Langs.   Just north of the Custer Trail Ranch a bridge of loose stringers had been laid across the wash-out, which, except at times of heavy rains or melting snows, was completely dry.   On this occasion, however, it was full to the banks, and had even flowed over the rude bridge, jumbling the light logs.

The stringers parted as their horses attempted to make their way gingerly across, and in an instant horses and riders and bridge timbers were floundering indiscriminately in the rushing torrent.   Roosevelt's horse worked his way out, but the Englishman, who was a good rider according to his lights, was not altogether used to mishaps of this sort and became excited.

"I'm drowning! I'm drowning!" he called to Roosevelt.

Roosevelt snatched the lasso from his saddle.   He was not famous as a roper, but on this occasion his "throw" went true.   The rope descended over the shoulders of the British aristocrat, and an instant later Roosevelt had him on solid ground.

"As he was yanked unceremoniously out of that creek," Roosevelt subsequently remarked, "he did not seem to be very thankful."

Sober second thoughts, however, brought gratitude with them.   The Britisher never forgot that Roosevelt had saved his life, and Roosevelt never forgot the picture that a son of a lord made, dragged through the water at the end of a lasso.

On June 5th, which must have been the day after the rescue of the Englishman, Roosevelt was writing to Lodge.

A cowboy from "down river" has just come up to the round-up, and brought me my mail, with your letter in it.   I am writing on the ground; so my naturally good handwriting will not show to its usual advantage.

I have been three weeks on the round-up and have worked as hard as any of the cowboys; but I have enjoyed it greatly.   Yesterday I was eighteen hours in the saddle—from 4 A.M.   to 10 P.M.—having a half-hour each for dinner and tea.   I can now do cowboy work pretty well.

Toronto [Footnote 18: Toronto was the name of Lodge's hunter.   End Footnote] must be a dandy; I wish I could pick up one as good.   That is, if he is gentle.   You are all off about my horsemanship; as you would say if you saw me now.   Almost all of our horses on the ranch being young, I had to include in my string three that were but partially broken; and I have had some fine circuses with them.   One of them had never been saddled but once before, and he proved vicious, and besides bucking, kept falling over backwards with me; finally he caught me, giving me an awful slat, from which my left arm has by no means recovered.   Another bucked me off going down hill; but I think I have cured him, for I put him through a desperate course of sprouts when I got on again.   The third I nearly lost in swimming him across a swollen creek, where the flood had carried down a good deal of drift timber.   However, I got him through all right in the end, after a regular ducking.   Twice one of my old horses turned a somersault while galloping after cattle; once in a prairie-dog town, and once while trying to prevent the herd from stampeding in a storm at night.   I tell you, I like gentle and well-broken horses if I am out for pleasure, and I do not get on any other, unless, as in this case, from sheer necessity.

It is too bad that letters cannot be published with stage directions.   For surely the words, "I like gentle and well-broken horses," should bear about them somewhere the suggestion of the glint of the eye, the flash of the teeth, the unctuous deliberateness, and the comical break in the voice with which, surely, Roosevelt whispered them to his soul before he wrote them down.

While Roosevelt was enjoying adventures and misadventures of various sorts, Sylvane Ferris was having what he might have described as "a little party" of his own.   For Sylvane, most honest and guileless of men, had got into the clutches of the law.   It happened this way.

Early in the spring some cowpunchers, driving in cattle which had strayed during the winter over the level country far to the east of the Little Missouri, came upon a cow marked with the maltese cross.   They drove her westward with the rest of the "strays," but none of the men belonged to the "Roosevelt outfit" and their interest in this particular cow was therefore purely altruistic.   She was not a particularly good cow, moreover, for she had had a calf in the winter and her udder had partially frozen.   When, therefore, the necessity arose of paying board at the section-house at Gladstone after a few happy days at that metropolis, the cowboys, who did not have a cent of real money among them, hit upon the brilliant idea of offering the cow in payment.

The section boss accepted the settlement, but evidently not without a sense of the consequences that might follow the discovery in his possession of a cow for which he could not present a bill of sale.   He therefore promptly passed the cow on to a Russian cobbler in payment for a pair of shoes.   The cobbler, with the European peasant's uncanny ability to make something out of nothing, doctored the cow with a care which he would not have dreamed of bestowing on his wife, and made a profitable milk-provider out of her.

Sylvane discovered her during the round-up, picketed outside the Russian's shack, and promptly proceeded to take possession of her.   The Russian protested and told his story.   Sylvane, pointing out that he was moved by charity and not by necessity, offered the man six dollars, which had been the price of the shoes.   The Russian threw up his hands and demanded no less than forty.   Sylvane shrugged his shoulders and annexed the cow.

That evening as Sylvane was sitting around the mess-wagon with a dozen other cowpunchers, a stranger came walking from the direction of Gladstone.   The cow was hitched to the wagon, for she had shown a tendency to choose her own master.   The stranger started to detach the rope that held her.

"Hold on!" cried Sylvane, "that is our cow."

The stranger took some papers out of his pocket and handed them to Sylvane.

"Here are replevin papers," he said.

"I don't want your papers," remarked Sylvane, who did not know a replevin paper from a dog license.

The stranger threw the papers at Sylvane's feet.

"I've come to take this cow."

"Well," remarked Sylvane, "if that's all the business you have, you can go straight back where you came from."

The stranger strode toward the cow, Sylvane did likewise.   They reached the rope at the same moment.   There was a shout from the delighted audience of cowpunchers.

The stranger released his hold on the rope.   "If you say I can't take her, I can't take her," the man grumbled.   "There's too many of you.   But I'll bring back men that can."

"Well, turn yourself loose," remarked Sylvane agreeably.   "You'll need a lot of them."

There was another shout from the onlookers, and the stranger departed.   Sylvane threw the papers into the mess-wagon.

Roosevelt did not happen to be present, and in his absence the sober counsel of "Deacon" Cummins made itself heard.   The gist of it was that Sylvane had resisted an officer of the law, which was a criminal offense.

Sylvane, who was afraid of nothing that walked on two legs or on four, had a wholesome respect for that vague and ominous thing known as the Law.

"Say, I don't want to get in bad with any sheriff," he said, really worried.   "What had I oughter do?"

The "Deacon," who possibly rejoiced at being for once taken seriously, suggested that Sylvane ride to Gladstone and see if he could not straighten the matter out.   The other cowpunchers, whose acquaintance with legal procedure was as vague as Sylvane's, agreed that that plan sounded reasonable.   Sylvane went, accompanied by the "Deacon" and another cowboy.   If there was a gleam of wicked triumph in the stranger's eye when Sylvane rode up to him, Sylvane failed to notice it.   Before a justice of the peace he agreed to appear in court on a certain date, and his two companions furnished a bond.

Next day, while they were in camp on the Heart River, an acquaintance of Sylvane's, a lawyer who rejoiced in the harmonious name of Western Starr, rode in from Dickinson to have dinner with "the boys." Sylvane showed him the papers the stranger had deposited at his feet.

The lawyer glanced over them.   "What are these?" he asked.

"I don't know," answered Sylvane lightly.   "That's what I handed them to you for, to find out."

"Why," exclaimed Starr, "these aren't anything.   They haven't been signed by anybody."

Sylvane's jaw dropped.   "Say, how about my bond?"

"Oh, that's valid, even if these are not.   You've got to appear in court."

Sylvane's feelings concerning the "Deacon" and his precious advice were deep and earnest.   The situation was serious.   He knew well enough the chance that the "outfit" of a wealthy Easterner like Roosevelt would stand with a Gladstone jury, when it was a question of depriving a poor man of his cow.

Western Starr suggested that he arrange for a change of venue.

Sylvane approved.   The change of venue cost ten dollars, but was granted.   The date of the trial was set.   Sylvane traveled to Dickinson and waited all day with his attorney for the trial to be called.   No one appeared, not even the judge.

Starr's fee was twenty dollars.   Sylvane's railroad fare was five more.   The total bill was thirty-five.

Roosevelt paid the bill.   If he remarked that, taking lost time into consideration, it would have been cheaper, in the first place, to pay the Russian the forty dollars he demanded, there is no record of it.   But the remark would not have been characteristic.   The chances are that he thought Sylvane's encounter with the law worth every cent that it cost.