He came through his initiation into ranch life the idol of his men, though they never got to the stage where they would neglect a chance to poke sly fun at him. He relates how once, when on a wood-chopping expedition, he overheard someone ask Dow, a ranchman bred in the Maine woods, what the total cut had been. Dow, unconscious that he was within hearing, said: “Well, Bill cut down fifty-three, I cut forty-nine and the boss he beavered seventeen.” The force of the jest, Roosevelt explains, lies not in the small number of trees his ax felled, but in the comparison of his chopping with the gnawing of the beaver. At another time Roosevelt, struggling desperately to mount an unwilling horse, heard behind him a cowboy remark to the effect that he would find it hard to qualify for the job of “bronco buster.” Roosevelt enjoyed these jokes as much as those who made them. The West was a bad place for a coward or a shirker, and the man who permitted himself to be bullied and made a butt was in for an uncomfortable existence. On the other hand, the man who did his work and gave and took jests in the spirit in which they were intended quickly made lasting friends. One of the stories “Bill” Sewall tells of Roosevelt’s ranch life is this: “Once on the cattle ranch in North Dakota during a roundup, his horse reared, threw him and then fell on top of him. The spill broke Theodore’s shoulder-blade. But he was afraid the cow-punchers might think he was a quitter. So he stayed out on the roundup for three days, suffering the intensest pain all the while, but never saying a word about it to anyone.” The men usually carried revolvers, and now and then an ill temper or an excess of drinking led to a shooting affray. Roosevelt was witness to or had first-hand knowledge of several of these. In his book “Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail” he tells how a desperado, a man from Arkansas, had a quarrel with two Irish desperadoes who were partners. For several days the three lurked about the streets of the town, each trying to get the drop on the other. Finally one of the Irishmen crept up behind the Arkansan as he was walking into a gambling hall and shot him in the back. Mortally wounded, the man fell; yet, with the dauntless spirit found in so many of this class, he twisted around as he dropped and shot his slayer dead. Knowing that he had but a few minutes more to live and expecting that his other foe would run up on hearing the shooting, he dragged himself on his arms out into the street and waited. The second partner came up at once, to be slain instantly by a bullet from the revolver of the wounded man. The victor of this gruesome combat lived just twenty minutes after his victory.