A Line from Grandma Before You Read Willie’s Story

For some time, I have been trying to induce Willie, you know that he has always been Willie to us to write up something of cowboy life as lived back in those same old days you’ve been reading about.

Until now, since hearing the story read, I never realized what my boy was really going through during those wild exciting times. Had Carrie or I really have known, I think we would have passed many sleepless nights over it. I see now, that he must have been very careful to keep a great deal of it to himself. But now, after much talking and persuasion, the digging up of these old memories, has afforded him great pleasure, and has been a real tonic to him besides.

As he is getting old, he as well as I spends many hours living again in the past; and I find much that cheers me, and as a matter of course, much that I would fain forget.

I trust that you may enjoy the perusal of Willie’s first attempt at story writing.

Re-typed from original

My Home on the Range manuscript of Willie

It was on May the 14th, 1890, that I hired out to Elton T. Beckwith as a bronco breaker. He was State Senator at the time, as well as a big cattle man. He owned a fine home of about two thousand acres, which was located about forty miles South West of Canyon City, Colorado, in the beautiful Wet Mountain valley, some ten thousand to fourteen thousand feet elevation. Gibs Peak, which had an elevation of about fourteen thousand feet, was about twelve miles from the grand old Beckwith Ranch. Bear, deer, antelope, Mountain sheep and elk were in great numbers in the early days. The crystal-clear streams that came down from the never ending, snow on the mountains, furnished great sport for the anglers, who caught those lovely speckled mountain trout.

Carrie, my sister and I used to go down to old Grape Creek which was very close to the house. We would sit down on the bank, and watch those big speckled trout jump up and play in the water. We were only kids then, but kept the family well supplied with those fine fish.

There were thousands of wild ducks also and I surely got my share of them when I went hunting. In earlier days, there were lots of buffalo-for there were lots of their carcasses’ out on the hills.

The valley was about thirty miles long, and about fifteen miles wide. Fine grass was on the foot hills. Thousands of cattle and horses ran on the range, winter and summer. There were also many Indians living in the foothills. They were mostly Utes.

My Grandfather, Mr. George W. Voris, with his sons and son in-laws were among the first to settle in the valley. This was in April of 1869. About two years later, old man Beckwith, with his two sons, Elton and Ed brought several hundred head of Texas cattle, and turned them on the range. In a few years great numbers of cattle men and farmers settled in the valley, and in a few more years there were thousands of cattle and horses running on the range.

At one time, there were one hundred and twenty men on the roundup, with about six hundred head of saddle horses. Each man riding from four to eight horses each. They used to bunch right by our fence. They would have two or three thousand head of cattle in one bunch. They would have to brand all of the calves and gather all the steers all in one afternoon. Things were booming in those early days. That was before my time as a cowboy.

I see that I have been writing about the Valley, but let me come back to my story. As I said at first, it was on May 14, 1890 that I boarded a stage at my home twelve miles farther down the valley. We had a nice home and a small bunch of cattle and horses at the same time, as our cattle and horses ran on the range.

It was in the evening when I arrived there, and all cowboys were there. rolled in the day before. Milt, the cook, had a dandy supper ready. There were about one half dozen ravishing wild animals- cowboys, I mean sticking their feet under the table.

I remember that it was a good supper. We had sour dough punk, butter, beef steak, strong coffee, Mexican beans and tomatoes. That supper started my long career as a top bronco buster.

But before I go farther, I might as well give you our names first. Elton T. Beckwith, General Manager and owner, Mrs. Elsie Beckwith, wife of the foreman and owner. Miss Velma Beckwith their daughter, Eddie Chapin. The cowboys, Asa Gove, an old-time cow hand, who had ridden for them for fifteen years or more. Tom Hilton, an all-around cowboy. One of the best. Gill Heister, a dare devil, and one of the best men on the range. When Gill could not get them, it was because they were not there. Scot McComb, a typical cowboy and bronco buster.

Fred Koch, an old time cowboy and gunman. Mexican Dave, a nice little Mexican and cowboy. And Milt Raper, the cook. A find fellow, and a dandy cook with good meals always ready. Doing everything, he could to please the cowboys. And Bill Hendrickson, myself-bronco breaker and writer of this story.

Well the next morning, the boss and I saddled up two old saddle horses and went over in the pasture and got about one hundred head of horses, mares and colts. He picked out six big fat six-year old horses for me to break. Those six-year old horses look pretty tough to me. He had not had any broke for two years, so you see it left me a pretty shaky bunch to break. They sure looked pretty wild and as wild as a deer. Well we ran one in the circle corral, caught him by the front feet first-troughed him on his side, put on a scotch hobble and then let him up. I put on my saddle, and then got up on his back. He sure done a good job of it. All the cowboys sat on the fence to see the fun. Well I rode him easy. I had rode lots of bad horses, but never as a business before. Of course, I naturally would feel sorter shaky, but that soon wore off.

I guess I will tell you how we do the job. We run a wild bronco in the circle corral, and as he runs around the corral, we catch him by the front feet, rare back on the rope and he goes spinning through the air, and lights on his side. A cowboy falls on him. Puts his knees on his neck, then takes him by the nose and turns him nose up. (Holding to it.)

You then take your rope and put it around his neck. Making a collar. Then take the rope and put it around his hind foot making it short enough so he can not get his hind foot to the ground.

Then let him up. He can’t do a thing. Can’t kick you or hardly move. He is under your control. Then put on your saddle. Take the scotch hobble off, and turn him loose in the corral. He will do his best bucking with the saddle. Then catch him and he is ready to ride.

Many bronco riders come here from all over the West. They were riding Broncos here twenty years before my time. Scot Mc Comb, a noted rider from Bear River, Colorado, came here to break bronchos. He had a reputation as long as the Mosaic law. We thought he was going to show us something about bronco riding. Well, I will tell you how he came out he got piled three times in about two weeks, so you can see that he did not show us much about bronco riding. Tom Hylton and Scot McComb just showered the range to find a horse that I could not ride. Well one day, they ran one in. A big sorrel with white in the sides of his eyes. He was about as wolfish a looking critter I had seen for a long time. I named him Gold Dust. He was eight or nine years old. He was an old timer, and had never been rode. Believe me he was a hard a horse to ride as any I ever tried.

Long came a bronco rider from Wyoming he was Charley Right. He too had a reputation as long as the old Mosaic law or a foot or two longer. Him and I rode bronco’s for about a month. The Boss gave us five horses each to break that month. Charley was thrown twice that month. One morning, I saddled up old Gold Dust. Charley Right had gone to Silver Cliff, a mining camp five miles away. I rode Gold Dust out to the front gate. I was going to Silver Cliff also. Just then Jim Duckett came along. I took my tobacco out while talking to Jim got out my cigarette papers and rolled me a soke. Old Gold Dust was turning his head from side to side snorting. My bridle reins was laying on his neck. I took my quirt off the horn and struck him in the opposite flank. He gave one snort. Something must have happened. He threw me so high that the buzzards had time to build a nest in my hair before I hit the ground. I turned clear over in the air and lit on my feet, and when I hit the ground, I was on the run, for old Gold Dust would have pawed me to death or took me by the top of the head with his teeth.

The cowboys tell that I ran in the bunk house and rolled under the bed. I think they kinder exaggerated that, but I can’t really say just what did happen. Well I got on him again and Jim and I rode to Silver Cliff. I thumbed him all the way to town, and he bucked fifteen or twenty times going there.

What I mean by thumbing a horse to make him buck is simply taking your thumbs and raking him on each side of his neck. At the same time and if it is an old gentle horse, he will sure go down after you. We went on Old Gold Dust bucking and the water just running off of him. Gold Dust never could trough me when I had my reins. When we got to town, Charley Right was there. I told Charley, Gold Dust had soiled my moccasins that morning. He said. “Take off your saddle-I want to show you how to ride that Gold dust horse.”, I told him it would not be fair for Gold Dust, as he was played out, and had been buking all the way from the ranch. Well Charley put on his saddle. By that time about one hundred men had gathered to see the fun. Well Charley got on. He stuck his spurs in old Gold Dusts shoulders, and the third jump, Charley landed on his back, about ten feet ahead of Gold Dust. He nearly struck on his head. So much for Gold Dust. Two men in one day. Well I rode there six long years and that was the only time that I was ever thrown. I had the best record any man had made in twenty years, on the

Beckwith Ranch as a bronco rider. I could sit here and tell you thrilling stories till midnight, but I am just giving you an outline of how we do things on the range.

Well, I will try and tell you how we handle cattle out on the range. About June the fifteenth, the big spring round-up starts. Each outfit arrives at the appointed place to start the round-up. Each rider has from five to ten well trained cow horses. About sun up the next morning, they all start from cap to ride circle. They have a certain place to bunch the cattle. They all scatter out for several miles, and bring all the cattle to this big bunch. Sometimes they will have two or three thousand head. Each outfit cuts out his cattle from this big bunch. Each outfit has his own bunch, and they brand the calves and hold the steers in the day heard, till they can take them to the pastures on their ranches, where there are fine meadow pastures. They are kept there until driven to market in the fall.

There are lots of things going on, on the roundup. Most any morning, you can see some cowboys getting bucked off, or something for excitement every day. We move camp every four or five days, and go to some other camp to roundup.

I must say something for the cook. Well, when we get in after a ride, the cook has a dandy dinner ready for us. We don’t have a nice table cloth with silver knives and forks. We have something much better. Our table cloth is a black rubber table cloth. The cook spreads his down on the grass and scatters the tin dishes all round over the table. The puts on a big plate of fine steak, plenty of butter and hot rolls. Sour dough punk we call it. As fine as any you can get in a first class bakery. Beans, corn, tomatoes, and dried fruit, and lots of hot coffee. Well we keep this up till the third of July.

On the fourth of July, we generally would go up in the valley to a big Dutch picnic. They had a big platform to dance on and after dancing a set, we would take our girls and treat them to beer. Now those girls are fine girls, but they always have been raised that way. All they are after is a good time. They like the cowboys better than they did the other boys, so you can see why we like to go to those Dutch picnics. We would dance until two in the morning, then go home. We surely thought we were in clover. Your little Dutch girl would have you eat dinner with her.

We would stay at the ranch till about August the first, then go out on the round up again, and stay till about October the 20th.

One time, we went and were camped at Iron Mountain. We went up on old Blues mountain after a bunch of those long horns. Gills horse was very fast, and Gill was sure sending him. Gill went to go by a pinon tree. There was a sharp limb sticking out. The horse made a quick jump to one side. The limb striking Gill in the side-knocking Gill off. We thought he would die. He breathed as fast as a dog would when he is tired and wanted water. Well we just piled him in the wagon, and took him to town to the Doctor., who was about, twenty miles away. In about two weeks, Gill was back on the job. Gill wasn’t only a good cow puncher and bronco rider, but he was also a tight rope walker.

One day, we were out on a ride, and Gill said he could tie his new slick, hard twist lariat rope between two trees on a steep side hill, about ten feet from the ground, and walk that slick one half inch rope with his high heeled boots on.

There were five of us there. He said he would bet five pints of whisky, he could do it. Of course, I took him up. Well we stopped our horses and Gill got up on the rope He had a stick about six feet long to balance himself. There was a big cedar snag down under the rope about fifteen feet from the tree. Well he started and when he got out to the snag he would drop down. Take hold of the rope and drop to the ground. He said he wanted to get up nerve to pass that snag. The next time he got upon the rope, he just walked so smoothly, and never made a bobble.

After he got to the tree, he began to walk it backwards, I told him to stop, as he had won the bet.

We did not drink very much, but you know a cowboy takes a little nip once in a while.

Those cattle were very wild. Much wilder than any I had ever tried to handle. You see the winter rider uses dogs. They call them catch dogs. When he finds a big yearling that he can’t catch, on account of the steep ridges and scrubby pinons, he tells his dog to catch it. The dog makes a jump and catches the yearling by the nose.

These winter riders go from camp to camp all winter. They get all kinds of winter calves. This makes them very wild, and they never forget it. The winter riders ride about three grain feed horses a piece. There were two of us, Gill and myself. We were supposed to brand up all the calves that the round up did not het, and keep watch for rustlers also. Quite often a cowboy would get a horse killed by a big steer.

Tom and I were down in a very rough country. Tom got after a big long horned steer. His horse was tired. The steer made a quick dive at Tom’s horse. I yelled for Tom to get out of the way. Tom stuck the spurts to his horse. But the horse was too tired and that old steer run his horn nearly threw that fine little brown horse. I had a nice bay horse killed by a big steer. We went up on a big mountain after a bunch of those old wild steers. When we hit the park, those old steers went off that mountain, down over the rocks and through the timber like wild fire. When we got them off the mountain, one old steer broke off from the bunch. I could not handle him. He was bound to go back on the mountain. He whirled around here he came to hook my horse, and as he went by my horse, I put a rope on him. This was the first time a rope had ever been thrown from this horse and to tackle a big steer the first time. It was taking plenty of chances. Well I started for camp about three miles away. We sure had a time. Part of the time I was in the lead and him chasing me. The other part of the time I was chasing him. He sure was on the fight, but I worked him as easy as I could. Trying not to do something which would cause him to probably kill my horse. At times he would nearly get me. Bellowing and hooking at my horse. Well after a while I got to the corral with the steer. I could have put him in the corral, but Tom Hilton saw me at the corral and he came down to the corral. I called to him to stay back till I put the steer in the corral as my was all in, but he came the faster on a big fresh horse.

That excited the steer and he made a dive at me running his horns straddle of my leg. One horn went in my horse’s flank clear up to the steers’ head. Well, he killed my horse and I was not in a very safe place myself. I could look down and see that big long horned steer, pinning my leg to the horse, and one horn in my horse clear up to his head and nearly lifting my horse off his feet. You can see from this that those old steers are really dangerous and hard to handle. Such is the life of a cowboy, but we liked it just the same.

When we were all in camp, and Milt, the cook had dinner ready, we all sat down on the ground, crossing our legs as we sat around the big rubber table. A cowboy would rather set down on the ground and cross his legs, than to have the best chair and table in the land. We don’t have a stove. Simply a couple of iron posts about eight feet apart, with a long rod with hooks to hang your coffee, boiled beans, boiled beef, or anything that you would like to boil. They bake their biscuits in bake ovens. Simply by putting the bake over on the coals. After getting the camp fire hot, pull out a few coals and place in a little pile on the ground. Then put your bake over on those coals – taking the lid and covering it with a few hot coals and you will have as fine a bread as you can buy at any bakery.

Each outfit does their own cooking, so you see we have a lot of cooks. It looks like an army, with all the tents.

Well we scour the range all summer, branding the calves and gathering the steers. The cattle run on the range the year around, and lots of them come out fat in the spring. I have butchered good beef off the range in February.

Along about the last of October, we are all done and are at the home ranch, getting ready for the big drive. This is driving all of those steers to the rail road, where we loaded them for the Kansas City Market. It takes two days to reach the railroad. About eight men are required to drive them. We start just after daylight, and drive them to Indian Springs, about fifteen miles. We would get there about one thirty in the afternoon. We would let them graze on Indian Spring park till about sundown, then put them in the big round up corral for the night.

Milt would have a dandy supper ready, and we would all do our part. After supper, we would snake up logs, and pitch chunks, and make two log piles. One on each side of the corral set them on fire. Two cowboys would ride around the corral and talk and sing songs to keep the cattle quiet. This would also keep a coyote from coming around the corral. These boys would stay there till about twelve thirty, then two more men would take their place, and stay there till after daylight. A little after day light, we would turn them out of the corral. They would come out of that corral like wild fire- hooking at your horse every jump. And you were right in front of about five hundred stampeding cattle. There were lots of badger holes down that draw, down to the big park. Sometimes my nerve would nearly go back on me. As five hundred long horned steers were running and bawling right ten feet behind me, and hooking at my horse’s tail. If my horse would have stepped in a badger hole and had of fallen. I would have been ground into mince meat in one second. Sometimes we would have to circle them on the big park for one hour before we could get them quieted down enough to drive them on to market. It would be about evening before we could get them in the stock yards, and not until the next day were they loaded in the cars and ready for shipment to Canyon City.

This was done by all the cowboys got on one side of the herd, and began to crowd the leaders. In a short time, we had them running in a circle and the more we crowded the leaders, the smaller the circle. As it began to get lighter, I saw a cowboy and heard him moan. It was Scot McComb. He was nearly froze n to his saddle. You see, when the cattle broke some two and one half hours before, he jumped from his bed and grabbed his chaps. He did not take any time to put on any pants or any socks. Just his shape and boots and hat and spurs. No coat. Well we sent a cowboy to take him to camp, and as quick as he had a couple of slices of bread, and a cup of coffee, and a hunk of meat he was OK. Well we finally got them to the rail road.

That night they broke the D and R G rail road stock yards down and they all got away.

Beckwith’s contract with the buyer was to deliver them in the stock yards. Beckwith got all his money, but Mr. Wolf lost heavily, as he had to hire Cotlan’s cowboys to round them up for him.

Well I quit riding in 1897 and got married. Gill Heister rode a couple of years longer and then went down in the Ozark Mountains and married a fine girl and raised a big family. Gill lives at 331 Oak St. Salida, Colorado. I live at Battle Ground, Washington, route 2 Box 12 Those good old days are gone, yes gone forever. The cruel hand of death had taken them nearly all. Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith and all the cowboys who ever rode on that old historic cow ranch except Gill and myself are gone.

Scot Mc Comb also got married and went out west to make a fortune. He also died. Tom Hilton quit riding and was the Depot Police in Pueblo. Colorado for several years. He died with sleeping sickness. Fred Koch and Mil Raper died of pneumonia. Mexican Dave, the little cowboy was killed while riding a race at Silver Cliff, Colorado. (He was a rider at the time.) His horse fell on him. Asa Gove died of old age. And so, they all one by one, have passed away. And as I sit here with my pen in hand, pondering those old days it is a very sad picture to me.

If I could turn back the time piece of life, and go back to those good old days of over half a century ago-and could just take my ten big fat cow horses and go out on that same old round up and tangle with one of those old long horned steers, or ride Black Bally, my coal black balled faced single footer in at the big front gate – then down to the bunk house to see Elton Beckwith and all of the cowboys and the bunk house. I could see the same old kitchen and put my feet under that same old table, and eat some more of those fine biscuits, Milt, the cook used to make. And if after supper we could all go over to that big green pasture and just take one more look at those old long horned steers.

No more do we hear the Coyote howling in the evening or hear the cowboys singing those good old songs or playing the old banjo. Instead, we hear the hum of the threshing machine, the gas engine and the cream separator. No more do we see Elton Beckwith, with his ten thousand head of cattle, his fine carriages and rubber tired buggies. All we can see is a farm house -where the humble house wife takes her bucket cows and feed her chickens. Those old days – those happy days are gone forever. All that is left of that old historic cow ranch, is the memory.— Sweet memory!

I wrote this story from memory, at the age of seventy-three. A request from my Dear Old Mother, who will be ninty-five on her next birthday, which is on August the twentieth, 1941. This is the first story I ever wrote, so please forgitve all mistakes.