Biography; Frontier and pioneer life -- Dakota Territory; Roosevelt, Theodore, 1858-1919
The horses, running free on the range, seemed to feel the cold
comparatively little, eating the snow for water, and pawing through it
to the stem-cured prairie-grass for food. But the cattle suffered
intensely, especially the Southern stock which had not yet learnt that
they must eat their way through the snow to the sustenance beneath.
They stood huddled together at every wind-break, and in the first
biting storm of the new year even sought the shelter of the towns,
taking possession of the streets. The cows, curiously enough, seemed
to bear the hardship better than the bulls. The male, left to his own
resources, had a tendency to "give up" and creep into the brush and
die, while the females, reduced to skin and bones, struggled on,
gnawing at the frozen stumps of sagebrush, battling to the last.
Western newspapers, "booming" the cattle business, insisted that every
blizzard was followed by a warm wind known as a "chinook" which
brought a prompt return of comfort and sleekness to the most unhappy
steer; but wise men knew better. For the cattle, seeking a livelihood
on the snowy, wind-swept wastes, the winter was one long-protracted
misery.
It was in fact not an unalloyed delight for human beings, especially
for those whose business it was to guard the cattle. The hardest and
the bitterest work was what was called "line riding." The ranchmen
cared little if their cattle grazed westward toward the Yellowstone;
it was a different matter, however, if they drifted east and southeast
to the granger country and the Sioux Reservation, where there were
flat, bare plains which offered neither food nor shelter, and where
thieves were many and difficult to apprehend. Along the line where the
broken ground of the Bad Lands met the prairie east of the Little
Missouri, the ranchmen, therefore, established a series of camps, from
each of which two cowboys, starting in opposite directions, patrolled
the invisible line halfway to the adjoining camps.
Bill Sewall gazed out over the bleak country with a homesick and
apprehensive heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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