%<^- i. v^^ ■ ,0^ u -^yi^:- oY> ^ X'' •^c.. - ^/ <\ , , B '^/. ^ , X * BADLANDS AND BRONCHO TRAILS BY LEWIS F. CRAWFORD Capital Book Co. Bismarck, N. D. Ffe 3 7 c? COPYRIGHT, 1922 BY THE AUTHOR. Press work and binding by The Bismarck Tribune Co. Bismarck, N. D. JAn : IC1AG90«37 ^ I TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface 5 I. Idyl to Sentinel Butte 7- 11 II. A Range Tragedy 12 - 20 III. The Old Regular 21 - 25 IV. Vesuvius 26- 49 V. Nugget 50- 58 VI. Horse Thief Springs 59- 70 VII. The Banker's Plot 71 - 96 VIII. By-Products of the Day's Work 97-111 IX. A Tenderfoot, A Cowboy and , A Truth 112-114 PREFACE These sketches are not intended to make up a history of the badlands, nor a story of the occupations of the people who make a living therein. They are merely re- lief points in the monotony of every-day events and it is hoped they will stir in the reader's vein the pulse of interest in the Badlands and in the human side of the rancher's life. It is a commonplace to say that fact is stronger than fiction, truth more romantic than romance. The life scenes in the Badlands are really pictures in action — sometimes pathetic but aways virile and stirring. Almost all of the frontier life and frontier types have passed, and will never be seen again in their picturesque setting. The stories of our Homeric age are worth record- ing, and I deem no apology is necessary if I venture to add a few pictures, however crude, to the romantic gallery of North Da- kota's permanent frontier. Lewis F. Crawford, Formerly of Sentinel Butte, Now of Bismarck, N. D. Nov. 15, 1922. [5] SENTINEL BUTTE ENTINEL BUTTE is situated just outside of the western edge of the badlands on the main line of the Northern Pacific at an elevation of 3430 feet. It overlooks the ground fought over by General Alfred Sully and the Sioux on August 8, 1864. Twelve years later Gener- al Geo. A. Custer passed the base of the Butte on his way to his final resting place on the Little Big Horn. The Northern Pacific reached this point in its construction in 1880, where work ceased for the winter. Until recently Sentinel Butte was con- sidered the highest point in the State but Black Butte, about forty miles to the south- east is found to be of somewhat greater ele- vation. The cut shows the view from the north side about a mile and a half distant. The summit of Sentinel Butte is 650 feet above the village of the same name which nestles in a valley about two and a half miles to the north. The butte is three miles long from east to west and about a [7] half mile wide on the average and flat on top. To the westward the land is level or gently roUing. The oligocene geologic period has a small outcropping on the west end of the Butte — revealing fossil fish; and a twenty- seven foot vein of lignite runs underneath the whole Butte, although much of the coal in near-by land is burned out. The east end of the Butte is a fine point from which to view the badlands. From there one sees the riot of clay and tousled scoria representing all the pigments of belli- cose passion. The opulent glare of the fore- ground fades imperceptibly into the gray incertitude and shadowy dimness of the dis- tance. The best time to view the badlands is in the soft hours of late afternoon in June or July when they surrender all the wealth and wonder of their beauty — sometimes sweetly frightful, sometimes terrible, some- times pathetic — always irresistible. Invol- untarily one uncovers before this unscarred sanctuary, this soul-accreting solitude — ^the BADLANDS, the static achievement of the Infinite. [8] IDYL TO SENTINEL BUTTE \ HAT A bewitching charm there is about Sentinel Butte — her solem- -^ nity, her grandeur, her majesty, and her agricultural inutility! What a history the geologist reads from the delicate tracery of her fossil fish, the prodigal veins of her lignite, the scarred escarpments of her declivities, and the rocky battlements of her towering summit! In unremembered aeons of the past slimy saurians dragged their cumbrous lengths over her surface and fishes gambol- ed in the salty deep which covered her, and have left only fossil remains to tell their re- luctant story. In the next day of geologic time the sea was swept away and in its wake grew up dense forests, and mastodon-« tic mammals to feed on their succulent hern bage, and in quick succession the alchemist [9] in Nature's laboratory added the massive beds of lignite as a continuing chapter in her wondrous past. Majestic and reverent is the mind and speechless the tongue when contemplating the dynamic changes, the up- heaval, the subsidence, the deposit, the ero- sion — yet there she stands, true to her name — a sentinel, a guide, an inspiration. How many times have her protecting gorges given security to the buffalo, the deer, and the antelope! How many times without human audience, have her solitudes resounded to the wolf's lonesome ululations or the piercing sovereignty of the eagle's cry! How many times has she served as chart and compass to Indian hunter, half- breed trapper, or Jesuit priest! What daunt- less courage did she give to Sully, when her more than ''forty centuries" looked down upon the Battle of the Badlands. What sub- lime faith or unavailing hope did she bestow upon Custer and his handful of brave men as they bade a last adieu to her retreating form from the Yellowstone divide. [10] If her lips could speak of the past, what chaos, what loneliness, what struggle and solace, what achievement and defeat, what glory and what gloom! If to her were the gift of prophecy, what peace and plenty, what serenity and contentment, what nobili- ty and grandeur, what inspiration and hope, what faith and what holiness could not her unsealed lips foretell? She has hitherto stood the most con- spicuous tenant in a solitude of vacancy su- perlative, though now within daily vision of five thousand prosperous people in the far- sung Golden Valley, who raise their hopeful matins and thankful vespers to her benign- ant and towering form out of whose womb issues fruitfulness surpassing the wont of Nature. Though now surrounded by thrift and activity, may she herself ever stand un- profaned by the hand of commerce — the ver- itable "Great Stone Face" to these who look upon her confidently expecting and patiently awaiting the fulfillment of prophecy. [11] ! I A RANGE TRAGEDY he wide open range plays no favor- ites. Here the law of the survi- val of the fittest finds unpitying expression. Here the race is to the swift and the battle to the strong. The claw, the horn, the hoof, the fang are ever ready to act on the aggressive or the defensive as occasion demands. In the ceaseless struggle for existence the unfit must give way or become fit. Only thus is Nature's balance maintained. Even domestic animals develop "rustling" qualities when left in large measure to shift for themselves in the wide, unfenced, semi-arid ranges. Na- ture is quick to take advantage and improve upon not only the physical form of animals but on their instinct and intelligence as well, in order to prepare each the better to meet the demands of its environments. [12] Under the constant need of self-protec- tion range horses and cattle, even as wild animals, are alert in scenting danger and re- sourceful in meeting it. Thus reared they develop a hardihood unknown to their own kith and kin brought up on farms where their every whim is gratified by the hus- bandman and where there are no predatory animals to wage unrelenting warfare against tnem. #:|(:l.:t!*** **** The heart-wearying sn ow b lanket that had covered the ground for many lingering' months had disappeared. Even the spring squalls that occasionally swept over the plains in blinding fury had reached their seasonal limitations, and the air was becom- ing warm and balmy The buds of the stunt- ed sage were bursting ; the pasque flower had come and gone, primroses dotted the gumbo spots with charming beauty, the lilting lark bunting was sending forth his liquid notes from winged flights, and the shining new [13] coats of the cattle gave a holiday appearance to thgir.4)luBi£ing bodies. The fear of storms being over the cat- tle had begun to range farther and farther back from the rough breaks and water holes onto the fresh luscious grass of the open plains, broken only occasionally by a brush- fringed draw or coulee. Cattle are gregarious, yet a cow, seven or eight years old, went apart from the range herd of white faces which was slowly grazing along the banks of the Prairie Dog — a dry run in summer but now containing a running tricklet of water and at intervals a considerable pool. Approaching maternity sent this cow to seek sanctuary in solitude. She wished to avoid the eyes of the merely curious in the herd she had left, now some distance away, and secreting herself in a clump of plum and chokecherry bushes she awaited her months of expectancy to cul- minate in a little wobbly baby as dear to her as life itself. [14] In time her welcomed agony was re- warded. She licked her helpless, pinknosed, floundering, white-headed baby into shape. With much encouraging and almost inaudi- Dle crooning on her part, and after many in- effectual efforts on his part, he arose on un- steady legs for a few moments — instinctive- ly nosing the while his full dinner pail. Many times he collapsed only to struggle to his feet stronger, and each time he arose stood for a longer period as his augmenting strength enabled him to do. He was hungry and his every thought was the life-giving milk, which instinct taught him was provid- ed somewhere within reach After getting his first breakfast he lay down in full con- tent to rest after his rewarded exertions. This poor mother, like others of her kind, was the product of instinct and exper- ience, both of which taught her that death lurked among the foothills and the gulches more frequently than upon the open plains, where an enemy might less readily approach [15] unobserved. In every flit of a bird, the hum of an insect or the rustle of the wind, her terror paid the price of her tenderness. But her own bodily wants soon became insistent. She had a feverish thirst. She had been in this secluded draw a whole day and night without drink and the nearest water was two miles away. As the day wore on her fever and thirst increased — water she must have. After repeated cautions to her baby to lie still and make no noise while she was gone, she cropped a few mouthfuls of grass edging away leisurely the while towards the nearest water hole. After every few steps she looked around with dilated eyes suffused in a crowning mother's love upon the object of her devotion as he lay obediently flat up- on the ground and repeatedly crooned, as she edged away, a low good-bye and many heartening reassurances that she would not be gone long. He lay there sweetly in his in- fantile ignorance and in the blessed calm of [16] inexperience, his thick velvety coat shining in the warm sun and his eyes beaming with contentment, his weakness and innocence adding their twin appeal to the instinctive mother love for protection. Only the pangs of thirst could drive this mother from her offspring. She admonish- ed him by look and word and gesture to lie still and make no noise while she was gone and she knew he would instinctively obey. After she had gone leisurely, and apparently unpremeditatively, a hundred yards from the side of her baby, she took a last affec- tionate look to the rear before heading with rapid gait straight for water. She lost no time, drank until her thirst was quenched, when with quickened pace she retraced her steps. In her absence the despoilers set the seal of disaster upon her hopes. A pack of lurking coyotes, unknown to her, was impa- tiently awaiting her expected trip to the wa- ter hole, and in her absence had falkrn upon [17] her bossy with sharp fangs and ravenous ap- pertites and not only torn him limb from limb but had devoured his last quivering shred. The stricken mother, dazed in agonized grief, sniffed the bloodstained grass and knew that he had been killed and devoured, yet with that mother's love that knows no bounds she returned time and time again to the sacred spot, where the agony of her travail was so soon forgotten in the brief trans- port of her maternity — and poured out her heart in lonely lamentations. It may be that the philosopher is right when he gives to humanity a soul and to the "lower" animals only an instinct. It may be that the barrier between the powers of ex- pression in man and thoughts that are im- prisoned and dumb in the lower animals places the former in a higher category; but to us common folks, the mother-love is al- ways the same wherever found. For possibly thirty-six hours the dis- consolate mother mourned and would not [18] depart the grief-hallowed shrine. At times it seemed as if she were harassed by an up- braiding conscience reproving her for leav- ing her offspring until he were strong enough to accompany her to water. She seemed to think that in some way, somehow she might have been spared this sacrifice. But no mat- ter, she did not eat, she did not go for wa- ter — all she wanted was a chance to lavish her abounding mother-love upon her prom- ising son who had been so suddenly and so shockingly torn from her. At first she walked around with head erect and ears alert to catch a sound that might bring relief to her burdened heart. Again she would sniff the grass or bawl in pleading tones, then listen for a response which never came. As time wore on she stopped walking and at infrequent intervals sent forth a prolonged succession of bawls, hoarsely strident, ending in a low moan, as she stood a defeated and agonized object of pathos. [19] But mothers must be brave and not give way to grief. She had just met one of life's big, bitter tragedies and with back bowed, hair standing on end, unkempt, with eyes sunken and body gaunt, she gradually drifted with feverish and bursting udders to the herd, which she entered unobserved, bearing her burden of sorrow alone, buoyed, as I think, by the sweet memory of the loved and lost. The coyotes again pour forth their bit- ter hunger-howls; and her kind, as before, depart the herd in solitude to find their young. [20] THE OLD REGULAR he great West is a monument to the services and achievements of the Old Regular. He was home- less, yet everywhere at home. Un- like the volunteer, he was not a citizen of the state, but a citizen of the Re- public. Usually under political disfavor, and, for the most part held by the public just short of contempt, yet he did his work with no approving voice to cheer him on, with no Red Cross nurse to alleviate suffer- ing and ease the pangs of death. The Regular traversed wind-swept plains, alkali deserts, snowcapped mountains, treacherous rivers ; surveyed unknown wilds ; built army posts; escorted gold-seeking car- avans ; executed punitive expeditions against crafty savages, and in all, as a matter of course, faced death gloriously for the honor of his flag. [21] He laid out and protected the numer- ous overland trails that penetrated the West. What entrancing story is woven into the Santa Fe, the Salt Lake, the Bozeman, the Oregon, the Fort Keogh trails! What grip- ping tragedy was enacted on the banks of the Washita, the Republican, the Powder, the Big Horn, the Yellowstone What su- perb Indian fighters — Canby, Crook, Custer, Fetterman, Lawton, Miles, Forsyth, Howard, Pershing What resourceful adversaries — Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Roman Nos'a, Black Kettle, Gall, Dull Knife, Chief Joseph, Ger- onimo ! In the stormy scenes of a tumultuous life he displayed matchless fortitude. He was the incarnation of law and order, duty and service; his was to obey, not to argue. No swashbuckler, no chronicler of his own deeds, no vain-glorious braggart, he. His great victories have been almost unnoticed and practically unrewarded. No herald or press agent embellished the story of his trag- [22] ic fate. His life was ruled by iron require- ments and unfalteringly he paid the penal- ties. His prowess has been all too seldom storied on wood and canvas, in bronze and marble. No marvelous pile even elusively suggests his virtues, yet each Regular, as a part of the old army, in perfect self-efface- ment gave his best — all he had to give. The spirit of the gift proves his kinship with the Divine. He is the outstanding figure in a tale of thrilling interest, the brilliant chap- ter of a history too little known, the embodi- ment of the toil and moil of frontier life, the settler's advance guard — the harbinger of civilization. Undisturbed by wavering un- sureness or spectral haunting fear, the Old Regular stands in unflawed strength, stead- fast in unshaken hope and errorless purpose. Though in his zenith in the heroic age of the West, he is the unlaurelled hero, unwritten and unsung — a vicarious sacrifice on the al- tar of civilization. The Regular "rests where he wearied and lies where he fell". At the old Fort [23] Keogh Crossing on the Little Missouri lies one of the Old Regulars — buried in 1877. Be- neath the silken whispers of the pine, over- looking the tortuous windings of the Little Missouri, "Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear". What more fitting sepulcher! Here in the wildness and seclusion of the badlands, whera conical buttes, heaven yearning, stand like sentinels at the outpost of death — far removed from the tolling bell, the gilded casket, the rich trappings, the funeral wreath — it is fitting he should sleep in the land his valor won. This lonely mound, gar- landed only by the wind-sown herbage of God will be a shrine of devotion for peoples yet to be. The narrow house containing these unconscious shreds of human clay, is but one of multiplied thousands, similarly oc- cupied, that singly or in pathetic clusters dot the great West. Their lives were spent away [24] from the respectable lust, the feverish un- rest, the voluptuous splendors of civilization, and it is fitting that the scenes of their triumphs be their palaces of peace. Theirs the daring, ours the dowry; theirs the, pri- vation, ours the plenty; theirs the victory, ours the veneration. The conquest of the West will be a worthy them^a for the artist and poet as long as the heart has reverence and heroism its votaries. Those old days are gone, together with the harming hazards they begot; but every community in the West is enveloped in the sacred memories of the Old Regulars, and their daeds are enshrined in the hearts of a grateful citizenry. Today we gather lush harvests above their undreaming dust — ^which we fain would moisten with an indebted tear. Time may dim but it will nevecr efface the memor- ies born of their heroism. Peace to their ashes ! [25] VESUVIUS he Circle N Outfit was astir mak- ing ready for the arrival of an ex- pected guest from Boston — by name B. Buttleford Frothingham. The information had leaked out that B. Buttleford had never been out West, that he had recently been graduated from Harvard, and that he might make thei ranch his home for some years, and that his ante- cedents were people of financial distinction and lived in the aristocratic Back Bay dis- trict of that famous old town. Guests the Circle N Outfit nearly always had, and they came and went without making so much as a ripple on the variegated routine of ranch life — but never before had they entertained one from classic Boston. The men, all west- erners, felt ill at eas«£i for fear they could not make feel at home one who had spent all [26] his days within the shadows of colleges, art museums and libraries. They speculated in their own minds as to whether he were large or small, morose or pleasant, irritable or tranquil and whether he would fit into ranch lifi£, or be forever in the way. They had found by experience that the more schooling some received the less able they were to ac- commodate themselves to their surround- ings. Would he ba a man and try to learn to do a man's part or would he want to remain a guest and be waited on just because he was a nephew of the Boss? Time alone would answer th&se questions. In order that the reader may the better understand what follows a brief picture of the ranch personnel and surroundings is nec- ctssary. The ranch owner, or Boss, as the boys always affectionately called him when speaking in the third person, was by name Sid Monroe, and was moreover an "ancle to the expected guest from Boston. Monroe, too, like B. Buttleford Frothingham wa« [27] born in Boston, had finisbed college and had come to the badlands country of Dakota along the Little Missouri when a mere youth over a quarter of a century earlier. He was intimate with Theodore Roosevelt when the latter occupied the Chimney Butte Ranch for a brief spell but a few miles farther up the Little Missouri. Then there was Tex Miller — a long lanky, thorough-going cowman from the Pan-handle who acted as foreman, but more often known as the straw boss. He spoke slowly and with a southern drawl. He came to the Northwest years ago with a trail he o a lH^ i^: "In about twenty minutes we noticed a light in the house — which confirmed our sus- picions. Carter and Chaney had undoubted- ly gone in to get breakfast and would pro- bably sleep during the day, or at least, that is the way we doped it out. So while Pussy- foot just watched I sneaks around about a half a mile to the west to see that our part- ners — the two sheriffs, were hipped to what was going on. They were already wise to what was doing, had rolled their bed and were waiting for word from us. We agreed to close in to within one hundred fifty yards of the house before it got light and lay low until daylight. We left our horses back where we had kep' them over night — as we knowed they'd be sure to nicker if we brung them up in sight of the loose horses and the jig would be up. "So we just tramped around, enough to k'Eiep from getting too stiff, as it was purty chilly at that time a morning, and waited for daylight. As soon as it got light enough for [65] a white handkerchief in the hands of Pussy to be seen from the opposite hill where the two sheriffs crouched — he give a signal and we walked up slow-like to within seventy-five yards of the house. There was no light showing in the shack except on the side where Pussy and me stood. The bed rooms was on the opposite side and our two pals could see nothing. Pussy and me could make out the indistinct forms of two men through the window — in the dim light of the small kerosene lamp. We raised our gUns and fired. Just at that instant two men ran out of the door at a two-forty gait for the barn, which was a little log and sod affair at the bottom of the gulch. We let a few shots loose in their direction to keep them moving swiftly and I'll be blamed if we didn't make a plumb miss, as it was still too dark to see our gun sights, and they got on their horses, took up a gulch and got clear away." Here Evans stopped — shook th& ashes from his pipe, picked up a sprig of buck [66] brush and began to clean his pipe stem. But young Lowery one of the listeners, impatiently asktd : "Didn't you hit either of them?" "Well, continued Evans slowly "the wo- man was then making a great hullaballoo so we went to the house to see what the trouble was all about, and what do you think? Theire were two dead men on the floor both of them shot in a vital part of the body — one of them passed for the husband of the woman who was stirring up such a commotion. A smoking pot of coffee and a skillet of bacon were on the stove and we needed no invitation to fall to and help our- selves. We turned the two bodies over and see that nothing short of the judgment day would bring them to — so we drug them out into the bed room and spread a horse blanket over them. Being as they were already dead we couldn't be no more help to her. We brought up our saddle horses and give them a bite of hay. While they were eating we [67] just naturally explored around a little. We found a pole shed covered with old hay — built back into the bank. It was closed up and dark. We opened the door and there before our eyes were about thirty head of horses, all T's from the old D6«p Creek ranch. Horses of the same brand are used to running together and drive in a band with little trouble — ^while horses picked here and there will not stay together and will wear saddle horses out to get them over th&t road. This is why they stole in straight brands. "So we turned the horses out — to start them towards home. This was the morn- ing of March 12th. The weather had been warm for the time of year for two weeks and there wasn't no snow on the ground. The snow was just a commencing — and we pulled out toward home mighty quick, to where we knowed of a ranch on Beaver Creek where we could get a flop if the bliz- zard come on as it 'peared to be doing. We reached the ranch by noon and stayed there [68] for four days — and such a turrible blizzard I never see before or since. The wind was so strong it would hold a rope straight out." "Didn't you ever see the men who got away", ''Were they Carter and Chaney"? was asked. "No, we didn't see them any more. About the middle of April a sheepherder found the bodies of two men southwest of Sentinel Butte. They were just beginning to thaw out after the deep snow drift that covered them had melted. The bodies were Carter's and Chaney 's. We come on the shack so unexpectedly on Cabin Creek — and in their haste to make their get away they didn't get their overshoes or overcoats on. They undoubtedly started for home here, to this very shack, but the blizzard caused thom to lose their way and both just naturally froze to death. One horse was found dead with the saddle on and the other saddle was found — ^but not tha horse. "This was the beginning of the break- up of the worst gang of horse rustlers I ever [69] knowed of, and since that time these springs have been called Horse Thief Springs. "You can't tell me anything about that blizzard" said Sid Monroe, the roundup foreman, "I was in it too." [70] THE BANKER'S PLOT FTER Some urging all waited ex- pectantly. Whereupon Monroe straighten- ed up from his reclining posture on his bed roll, draped one leg over the other, clasped his hands over his knee and began: "I have lived in this man's country ever since 1902 and for fifteen years before, but I want to say in all that time I have not seen tbe equal of that March blizzard either in length of duration or intensity. Now don't get into your mind that this blizzard was a common snow storm. Not on your life. When I was a college student on the Atlantic seaboard I saw some heavy snow storms there, but to compare one of them to the blizzard of 1902 is to compare the Tower of Babel with the tin whistle on a toy loco- motive. [71 [ "The winter of 1901-2 I spent on Third Creek, not a great way from the old Logging Camp. As some of you may recall, the Log- ging Camp was so named because this was the point that the railroad ties, hauled from the Cave Hills, wera dumped into the Little Missouri and floated to Medora in 1881 when the Northern Pacific was building. I said, I spent the winter on Third Creek, but as a matter of fact only that part of it up to the tenth of March. The winter was considered easy, aside from this one blizzard, and where feed was plentiful cattle came through in splendid shape. The summer of 1901 was dry and grass was not so good as usual, and hay, except stacks carried over for several years, was scarce and of poor quality. My cattle had come through in fairly good con- dition but the grass was about all gone from the territory tributary to Third Creek. In fact the range close around the ranch was so bare that one could not have got enough grass on an acre with the use of a grubbing [72] hoe to make a bantam's nest. When our cat- tle were rounded up and a wagon load of necessary supplies was loaded we were ready to start. The summer camp was located some six miles north of Rainey Butte, on the left bank of the Cannon BaU. It is usually dangerous to move cattle out of the bad- lands into the open prairie so early in the season, as there is some risk from spring squalls until the middle of May. But my necessity was such that the cattle had to be moved to new feeding grounds, the danger, as I saw it then, being greater in the bad- lands from lack of feed than from lack of protection against an occasional snow storm on the high level lands. For some days be- fore my departure with the herd the weather had been mild and every vestige of snow had disappeared, but in doing so it had filled every pool, pond and creek with water. For two successive nights even the water in small pools had not frozen, birds weo-e twit- tering in the trees and every evidence, ex-^ cept the calendar, pointed to spring. [73] My wife and a son of twelve years set out with the wagon loaded with household supplies, and a small amount of wood, to take care of immediate necessities, until we could make another trip. Two men and my- self followed with the cattle herd — about 1000 in number. This was all the cattle we had gathered except some fifty head that were under feed in the corrals, consisting of thin cows and a few young calves and non- descripts. On the evening of March 11th we dropped the cattle some five or six miles north of the Cannon Ball, where they had plenty of fine feed and could get water from pools everywhere. The sky was clear and we had neither apprehension nor premoni- tion of evil. The wagon carrying my wife and son moved faster than the cattle and reached the summer camp several hours ahead of the herd contingent, which I accom- panied. When we arrived it was late in the evening but we found that they had unload- ed the bedding, and other plunder, and had [74] a good fire going and everything looking home-like. The summer camp had stoves of its own that were left there over the winter, and also some cupboards, wall furniture, and just enough chairs and bedsteads to leave the place picturesquely barren. A little lignite had been left over in the coal house which had slacked to what seem- ed a shapeless mass of dust, but the wagon had brought in enough wood to last us for a week under expected conditions, so when we went to bed that night all were in the best of spirits. Wtt were up before day light. The sky was overcast with rather ominous dark gray clouds and a gentle wind of some ten to fifteen miles an hour was blowing from the north by a little west. By the time it was broad day light the blizzard began with a gentle fall of icy pellets, which changed rapidly to microscopic snow sift- ings, increasing in intensity with the grow- ing velocity of the wind. Soon the air was filled with horizontal veils of snow moving [75] in regular pulsebeats, and on the ground serpentine waves sped before the wind — crawling and sinister. As the storm pro- gressed these surging gusts changed to a sustained tempest of arctic rigor filled with continuous blinding snow sheets. "The cattle had not had time to get lo- cated on their new range and even under the best conditions would be somewhat unsettl«^ ed. We had no sheds or wind breaks at the summer camp and in consequence were not prepared for severe weather. At this sea- son of the year the cattle are always thin and they can not stand the grief they endure in the fall when they have more tallow on them. So leaving my wife and son at the camp, who I knew would make things as com« fortable as possible, no easy task as the house was not built to withstand cold weath- er, my two men and I set out on horseback to ride on the cattle which we were sure would be ill at ease and possibly drifting be- fore the storm at this very moment. No [76] rancher ever had more faithful men than the two who accompanied me. They were good riders, judicious, reliable, and thoroughly trained cowmen. I do believe that both of them would have remained with the cattle until they perished if I had given them the word to stay, or if there had been any chance of their saving the lives of the cattle by so doing. The three horses we rode had no superiors and in addition to innate good qualities they had been used as winter horses and had been oat feed and were equal to the most trying emergency. "As was expected we found the cattle scattered over a territory several miles wide — all on the go and voicing an instinctive terror of the coming storm. Up to this time I had little foreboding, as so often we have snow flurries at this season that last only an hour or two, followed by balmy weatheir, but the cattle were so frenzied that I almost lost hope of trying to do anything with them. Animals have instincts that are surer guides [77] to their personal safety than all man's intell- igence, and judging by their terror I expect- ed the storm would be a record-breaker. The fear of monetary loss did not occur to me at the time, though the petty savings of years were bound up in this band of cattle, but up- permost in my mind was a feeling for their safety as their breeding and tending had given me a personal interest in their welfare. "The greatest danger from storms, I knew, came when the creeks were full of wa- ter, just as they were at this time. The wind was in the direction that would push the cattle directly into the tortuous windings of the Cannon Ball, in spite of all human 'eiff orts to prevent it. I reasoned that even if an ani- mal got through the water the chilling blast after it climbed out would be too much for it to endure. I even went so far as to con- sider making an effort to take the herd back against the wind over our old trail into some sheltered gorges of the badlands. Such an effort, of course, was futile in the face of the [78] blizzard, now in progress, and besides it was too far to the badlands to offer any hope of our getting there. "We rode to the southeast of the moving herd and made an effort to bunch them, thinking we might hold the leaders in check and possibly get them to milling, which to- gether with the sense of security human companionship would give them, might stay their onward progress. We rode like Co- manches, now here, now there, across a wide front to check the leaders and if possible hold a united front. The snow had blown into their hair until the cattle wttre almost white and the swirling spume often blinded us, making them invisible more than a rod or two away. The animals had turned tail to the wind, and in trying to stop them we were obliged to face the biting blast which brought water to our eyes, froze our lashes and the stinging snow particles gave a chill- ing numbness to our cheeks. The turning, and twisting on insecure footing, always at [79] full speed, soon began to show upon our horses. "Above the tumult of the storm we could hear the crunching of the cattle's feet in the cold, dry, pulverized snow and a jingling of pendent ice wattles as the cattle shook their heads to free their lashes and eyes from the blinding siftings — but always onward. The temperature continued to fall rapidly and the velocity of the wind grew hourly in un- bridled vehemence. With hissing quirt and much hallooing we would make a momentary check in one part of the herd only to find its irresistible flow had passed around on both sides of us to unite beyond in solid phalanx. Then we would fail back, get ahead of the herd to present a united front, and repeat, but on it came like an avalanche that simply overpowered us. It became clear that we wera wearying our horses and the cattle to no purpose. The leaders in the march were the best and strongest cattle, followed by the drags more slowly but with an equally [80] > > ■ D M 3 C5 ^j 1=; 3 dogged persistence. It was becoming so un- bearably cold that the cattle could live only by keeping on the move, and as a last resort we tried manfully to turn the course by veer- ing it so that it would miss the worst bends in the Cannon Ball. Here we met with no better success. Instead of saving the cattle it now became a question of saving our- selves. After a little hurried conference with my heroic, but now exhausted, helpers we did all that was left for us to do that of- fered any hope of success — and even that, as you will suspect, a forlorn hope, started to find the summer camp. "In general we knew the direction of the camp, which was at least five miles away. To get there we had to three-quarter the wind. Our horses that had worked in heavy footing so willingly and freely for the past several hours had almost used up their vitality and found it difficult to take the pun- ishment the breasting of the wind demand- ed. With bowed heads, so as to protect our [81] eyes and faces as much as possible, we gave free rein to our horses trusting in their in- stincts to carry us safely home. There was not another ranch for miles in any direction and if there had been we could have passed by and unless our horses stopped from in- stinct we would have passed unknowingly. We knew that neither horse nor man could stand many hours of such exertion in the face of this relentless blizzard. Wc had our misgivings. Our horses had stayed only one night at the summer camp and it was weary miles to the winter camp in the badlands. In fact the horses would go or try to go whero they thought was home, but we were in doubt as to where they might think we want- ed to go. Even horse sense can not alv/ays divine a man's mind. It was under such misgivings that we gave them the rein and underwent three hours of excrutiating tor- ture, now falling in ravines, now stumbling in buffalo wallows or over sage brush, now floundering through snow drifts, all with [82] fatiguing struggle. I'l tell you now that we were all dreaming, in a sort of semi-stupor, when our horses stopped short. The sudden stop rous'&d us from our lethargy. We were within ten feet of the south side of the barn at the summer camp — but could get only momentary glimpses of it even at that dis- tance through the swirling snow with our half shut 'ayes. Only by painful effort were we able to dismount and get our horses in- side the barn. Our hands and feet were mere clubs, our cheeks were» covered with a coat of ice and eyes almost closed. A ting- ling sensation at first gave evidence of re- turning circulation to hands and feet — fol- lowed by excruciating pain. "It was nearly four o'clock when we hob- bled our way to the house. My wife and son, blanched with fear for our safety, were over- joyed to welcome us. Thoughtful soul that she was, with the help of our son, she had brought in wood, a coal box full of lignite, in which were a few large pieces that had [83] been covered by the slack and escaped disin- tegration, much to my surprise, and plenty of water for household use. They had also filled the mangers with hay from an old butt of a stack, the last in the stack yards, and to cap it all had a steaming pot of coffee on the stove and a hot meal ready to put before us as soon as we were ready to eat. "All three of us had our ears, nose, cheeks, feet and hands badly frosted and each of us lost at least a finger or a toe as a result of our experiences that day. "Having nothing else to do we went to bed early to get a much needed rest after the arduous duties of the day. And I'm tell- ing you that my sleep was burdemed with the thoughts of the morrow. In all my waking moments there was the same monotonous creaking of doors and windows, the same straining of roof supports, the same flapping of loose boards and tar paper, and the same whistling and moaning of the wind through the gables. [84] "The next morning we were up early, but the prospects were harrowing in the ex- treme. I do not believe the U. S. Weather bureau has ever cakaidared a day that equals in blizzard severity that Saturday. It was only with great exertions that we were able to reach the bam and care for the simple wants of our horses. Sunday was almost if not quite as bad — although in the afternoon it seemed that the violence was somewhat abating — and here the wish may have been the father to the thought. "The two days we were imprisoned by the blizzard we could do nothing but gaze spellbound on the storm's fury and grieve in- wardly for the suffering of the unhoused ani- mals and lament the financial losses that would come to the stockmen in all the terri-* tory covered by the storm. The snow cry- stals, ground to powder, blew like a cloud — which no eye could penetrate. The wind shrieked and moaned in a fury forbidding and cruel. It seemed that the whole world [85] was lost in a confused roar. Within doors watching its relentless, overpowering frenzy, we sat dazed in shuddering terror. All day Saturday and Sunday the thermometer was below zero and the wind maintained an unbe- lievable velocity of almost sixty miles an hour. Such malignant violence is without parallel. About ten o'clock on Sunday even- ing the first stars made their appearance through the thinning clouds and the wind gradually subsided to a stiff breeze. The blizzard was over. "At daylight on Monday we were all astir. The sky was cloudless and the tempera- ture stood 24 below zero. Never did slave work under the eye of a task master with more speed than we. With what few tools we had we cleared out the snow from the barn doors so we could get feed into the horses. Wherever there was a small crack the snow had found its way and formed huge mounds. In some places drifts were as high as the buildings, and hard from the impact [86] of the wind. We gave the horses time to eat while we cleared out around the buildings and then saddled and started eastward to strike the trail, now obliterated, of the herd, as it sped before the piercing blast. "Our horses walked over the impacted snow, leaving only slight indentations. In some places the ground was brushed bare, especially where the grass was short. We did not ride far until my fears met their realization. Since we had left the herd on Friday noon it had drifted ceaselessly driven by the pitiless gale — and here and there leaving the dead hulks of the weaker to mark their sorrowful way. Tha force of the wind drove them blindly down the general course of the Cannon Ball. Being bank full and without ice made it a death trap for practically all that fell into its congealing waters. The cattle's eyes were frozen shut with snow in many instances and they walk- ed off the banks and were submerged in the water, swimming or wading through, clam- [87] bered out and as soon as the air struck them a coat of ice was frozen over their bodies. The stronger may have gone through two or three crossings, the weaker only through one, or at most two, before succumbing. Some drowned in the river, some stood en- snared in snow drifts, some fell in the open encased in icy coats of mail, while others with striving decency turned aside into eddying niches in the foot hills and there sought secrecy to face the last mortal agony. "I had not gone far until I realized that I was no longer a cattle rancher. Of course there were many dead cattle that did not carry my brand. Some of them had come for miles farther to the northward. Occasional- ly we found a few of my original herd still alivev genuine relics clinging to the brink of immolation, their feet tender, their eyes red and swollen, pendant icicles still hanging all over them, and showing the general appear-* ance of the severe hardships through which they had passed. As an after effect of the [88] blizzard, some of the surviving cattle lost their horns, others their tails, others their ears, and still others their hoofs, and some lost all these members. No more appalling sight has ever been seen on the western ranges. " Here Monroe paused as if his story were ended, when a voice piped up from a comer of the tent — "How were you ever able to get cattle enough to run a wagon after your heavy loss?" Whereupon slowly Monroe continued: "Well, for some time after the blizzard was over I continued to ride in the vain ef- fort to find the remnants of my cattle — many of which I still hoped were alive, but my first fears weire less stupefying than the facts. As the days wore on my old time op- timism and good spirits departed leaving me depressed. I was painfully aware that the little property I had left would not take care of my mortgage indebtedness. My loss had been so unlooked for and so staggering, and [89] my resultant humiliation so complete that it seemed as if every spark of hope had been taken from me. Being naturally of an op- timistic temperament, careful in my invest- ments, and inexpensive in personal and household habits, caused the blow to strike me with redoubled force. I figured over my prospects, and painting them more roseate than the facts of the case would justify, I could see nothing but a loss for my one cred- itor and stark penury for myself and wife who, even under the dark outlook, remained cheerful and uncomplaining. Not once did she blame me for moving the cattle from the badlands earlier than had been my custom — as she knew as well as I did the necessity that prompted the removal, although as it turned out, if I had kept them in the bad- lands the loss would have been small. "I had always prided myself on taking care of my obligations with promptness and hitherto I had never seen a time when I could not meet all reasonable financial de* [90] mands made upon me right on the dot. Now, however, I could not do so, try as I might. Brooding fear banished sheep from my eyes and tossed my frame in nervous agonized wakefulness. The old time buoyancy and de- cision vanished. My face took on a tired and hunted expression, the seamy corrugations in my weather-worn visage deepened, and my mind vacillated between unrealized hope and confronted ill-fortune. The fact that I would have to begin at the bottom gave me no qualms, but the knowledge that I could not pay what I owed lay heavily upon me. "If I could get to a new place I felt that w& could drown our misfortunes in hard work and abject but honorable poverty among strangers. I felt a desire to get away from it all, from my old friends and associates, and dreaded going to town for supplies which I would have to do before long. Formerly I went in with my head up, now I was dejected and downcast. My feel- ings may have been induced by a self-con- [91] sciousness born of a high degree of pride in my former standing in the community. I am trying to tell you just the way I felt, with- out in any way attempting to justify my acts and thoughts or the feelings that prompted them. I alternated in resolution whether to go to my banker in person and turn over everything, or whether I should write and tell him to come and take charge — and to leave between two suns. My feelings would be best spared by the latter method, but my mind was vacillating and even what at one time seemed a settled determination proved in the end fleeting, and every decision I made lacked anchorage. "It was more than a month after the blizzard that I made my first trip to town to see my banker. It was probably the gentle encouragement of my wife that led me to make the trip — although I loathed to do it. On reaching the place I put my team in a livery barn but loitered, as if driven by a superior power than my own, until the [92] bank closed at four o'clock. Really I was gratified when I tried the door and found the bank closed for the day. I seemed to be driven by an indecision which I was powerless to overcome. During the tossings of the night I literally made up my mind and unmade it hundreds of times. My nerves were so frayed and irritated that I was unfitted to think calmly and logically on the one subject which harassed me, and the mental agony that tortured would not be put aside. "Just how I reached the bank the next morning seems to me a perfect blank. My first remembrance came as I was leaning against one corner of the check desk await- ing my turn to the directors' room where the cashier was giving one by one the wait- ing line the third degree. There were at least a half dozen men ahead of me — each probably under a burden as great as my own but apparently carrying it more lightly. I had heard much of the heartless bankers [93] who gloat in an opportunity to strip those in their powers, but this was the first time in my life that the experience was to come to me first hand. While standing there waiting I had time to think of many things that I had heard of bankers — not one of which reflected much credit on them. Occa- sionally contentious rumblings would come from the cashier's room and I could catch a few strident and caustic words — just enough to fill me with the deepest forebodings. Although my banker and myself had always enjoyed each other's confidence and, I may say, even esteem, get as I waited my doom my deep humility turned to loathing and hatred. I anticipated what I would get and steeled myself against him with a hatred which I can not even now fathom. I hated not only this cashier, but all the banks and bankers for loaning money and making pos sible the excruciating tortures which the sons of men like myself had to undergo. My agony of spirit was such that I could have [94] committed murder and gloried in it. As those in the head of the line were taken care of I found myself coming closer and closer to the door that entered into the director's room and in the presence of the cashier. All of a sudden I heard above the former more or less subdued conversation the voice of the Cashier: 'You misrepresented this to me, you'll pay every cent, and that before night, too', and judging by the tone, he meant it. The flushed face of the downcast cus- tomer as he emerged from the room showed he had undergone a cruel grilling. I had no time for further thoughts. At a signal from the assistant at the window, I entered. The Cashier looked up with a smile, much to my surprise and I may say almost my chagrin. " 'Well, hello Sid, I'm glad to see you. I was just thinking of writing you. As a result of the blizzard losses many ranchers have cattle to sell at right prices. You have too much range for your reduced herd. Here's a check-book. Go out and buy up to [95] $10,000 worth. When you're through come in and we'll make the papers out. I wish I could visit with you, but I am too busy just now. Good day.' " "I had my bristles up when I went in but the cashier did not give me time to say a word. I could not fathom how or why it had all happened. "Being a good judge of stock I went out and bought from my unfortunate neighbors about 500 steers— all good ones, as the poor ones of the country were for the most part dead. During the next dozen years cattle appreciated in price and with free grazing and no taxes I soon recouped my losses and added to my herd, and this is how I got hold of enough cattle to run a wagon and to spare. "It was some years after the blizzard before I learned that my wife, while I was dejected and almost deprived of ambition and selfrespect, had plotted with the banker without my knowledge, and the plot worked too." [96] can hardly be found anywhere else in the world. In 1912 a party of geographers and geo- logists from the Old World made a tour of the United States in the interest of scientific research. Among the places visited were the badlands near Medora. It was the un- animous opinion of those making up the par- ty that the badlands offered more to bless the vision than any other place they had seen, and before coming to the United States they had covered nearly all the scenic won- ders of Europe. The Little Missouri river was at one time a sort of dividing line between the Sioux and the Crow Indians, each having theore- tically a prescriptive right to its own terri- tory unmolested. Even as we rode in imag- ination the eye saw the shadowy forms of the past. The mind reverted to the time when half clad humanity with unwritten history running back into the eternity of darkness dwelt here, and wondetred how many [99] imtableted thousands sleep within the rug- ged bosom of this provokingly wayward re- gion. Less than half a century has elapsed since the twang of bow, and the death chant were heard here, but now all is still — ^the Redmen gone, except on scattered reserva- tions — "None left them to inherit their name, their fame, their passions and their thrones". They bore the sorrows and the burdens allotted to them and are at rest. In tha course of the day's ride we had to pass many places of historic interest, through Medora where the Marquis De Mores started the packing plant in the mid- dle 80's, by the old beef-bottom corrals, the Maltese Cross Ranch location where Roose- velt one time lived for a brief period, by Custer's Wash and up ^ully Creek, the scenes of Military Expeditions of days long ago, by the burning coal mine, the petrified for- ests and Cedar Canyon, and by the old gambler's shack. Since statehood it has been illegal to sell liquors in North Dakota, [100] but only when public opinion became insist- ent did the blind pigs move on, taking with them to new territory, or leaving behind a:j so much junk, their accessories and money extorting accompaniments. The doors of this shack were gone; empty bottles scatter- ed here and there about the premises or pil- ed in rounded heaps in the rear were mutely reminiscent of the days of glory. On the floor were the tattered remnants of a grizzly bear rug, mounted with full head; a rickety gambler's table with moth eaten green cover occupied the center of the room; a disabled slot machine that used to respond to contri- butions by giving forth strident music now stood voiceless and dust covered. A roulette table, the figures on whose dial were still de- cipherable reposed harmlessly in one corner of the room surrounded by scraps of aban- doned clothing. The walls were adorned with the faded and tattered pictures of Lou Dillon, Dan Patch and several other kings and queens of the turf; some prize fighters [101] in menacing attitude cut from the pages of the Police Gazette, and not a few pink petal- ed daisies scantily attired portraying in col- or and daring suggestiveness the beauty of the stage. The Badlands are still an almost unin- vaded sanctuary — scarcely defined by the beautifying hand of man. To such a place one may turn from the hurry of life and find the lonesomeness agreeable. Here one still finds the cowboy, the sole remaining relic of the Old West, wearing a Carlsbad Stetson, Angora Chaps, the Justin boot, and silver inlaid spurs, and riding a horse caparisoned in the semi-barbaric but becoming splendor of a full stamped saddle, Navajo blankets, rawhide hackamore, hand-forged, silver in- laid bit and maniia throwing rope. Here in daily use are the circular corrals, into which the saddle horses are driven when mounts are to be caught — where they turn and dodge in fuliginous confusion to escape the throw- er's rope. Here is the roundup with its hilar- [102] ious spurts of speed, range roping, herd cut- ting and where the herd patriarchs, soHcitous for their harems, paw the ground and de- fiantly assert physical superiority in their narrowly limited vocal range. There is probably no better year around grazing lands in the world and certainly not in the United States than the Badlands af- ford, when judged by three essential requis- ites; quantity of nutritious grasses, natural protection from the cold driving winds, and sufficiency of stock-water. The grazing wealth of the Badlands is in its short but nourishing buffalo grasses. Animals that feed upon them are fat, trim of girth and active. In order to get sufficient nutrition to sustain life an animal in the rainy regions must eat so much of the watery herbage that it beih comes paunchy, logy and uncomely. Our horses always, and cattle and sheep for the most part, graze out all winter and it is a curious fact that they do better when on good grass than when kept in a corral and [103] fed hay. The hay, like the grass, is rich in protein but is deficient in carbonaceous or heat producing properties. The outside an- imal supplies its bodily heat by constant walking in search of food while the corral animal being confined, humps up and shivers and suffers from the cold. The western grass is nutritious in winter because it cures on the stem during the dry months of July and August, while in wet climates the frost kills the rank grass, sours its juices and leaves it woody and void of nutrition. The feeding tentacles of buffalo grass hold the clay soil in its place and prevent erosion from carry- ing the soluble and suspended particles into the wasting sea. Alternately seared by drought, frozen by the rigors of arctic win- ters, and grazed or trampled to hopeless bar- renness, yet it creeps forth from its subter- ranean vitality on the first relaxation of its enemies. With ail of its staying qualities it retires before the plow without a protest, and quietly bides its time. If a field be aban- [104] doned it is over run by Russian thistles and other rank and reaching weeds, but within a few years, at most, the native grass quiet- ly and unobtrusively reasserts its sovereign- ty. With its creeping benedictions buffalo grass covers the scars of erosion with its velvety wealth, and only v/here a sunward declivity forbids the absorption of water is the surface left unclad. In our semi-arid re- gions it is the healing catholicon of nature — the antidote for barrenness; banish it and most of our western grazing lands would be- come as inhospitable as the Sahara. Unseen the Badlands can not be imag- ed, but once seen can neither be described nor forgotten. As one rides forward the view changes as a kaleidoscope — new colors, new shapes, new vistas that sometimes touch one feel- ingly and restfully or silence one by their al- lurements. There is entrancing charm in a region where nature is at her v/orst — ^where ri05] gullies are washed by the merciless surge of time, where buttes with sides covered by in- finite corrugations are scattered in promis- cuous disarrangement. The buttes when not wholly naked, are covered on their north sides at least with grass and, sometimes, trees — and are less steep — ^while the sunward-turned slopes are more precipitous and often aggressively sterile. When not capped with stone, buttes are often conical or pyramidal, erode rapidly, and are as barren and look not unlike huge sta- lagmites. Petrifactions, or more properly silicifica- tions, are by no means rare, yet are less fre- quently found than either sandstone or scoria. Many of the buttes consist of pure clay without stones of any kind and where the lignite is not burned out there will, of coursa, be an absence of scoria, as the scoria is produced by the burning lignite beds. Half way up the side of a butte is sometimes [106] found the white petrified trunks of trees in splintered decay or gnarled stumps, which have resisted the action of the weather. A butte may be capped with scoria, conglomer- ated clinkers, or sandstone, while at its base unlovely masses of all these mingle in happy- go-lucky decadence. Size is only one of the elements of grand- eur. Beauty is usually made up of fine lines and rich colorings, and depends largely up- on its transitoriness. It defies the camera. Beauty, whether in woman or nature, is nev- er static. The camera always is. Mountains are too vast to get a close up view and too far away to give distinctness ; they are grand, sublime, majestic, but are static lifeless pic- tures, unchanging through the ages from •everlasting to everlasting. The Badlands are wilfully coquettish. Mountains are the cold marble statues with unspeaking lips and unseeing eyes ; the Badlands are the liv- ing actors with flushed faces, beaming coun- tenances and pulsing blood. The sublimity [107] of the mountains is awe inspiring and re- duces the beholder to nothingness, while that of the Badlands is palpitating, alluring, ec- static; the one soul subduing, the other soul accruing. It is worth while to climb a high butte in the midst of the Badlands and alone gaze unmolested on the surrounding weird desola- tion and entrancing beauty. On this particular day I wound my way to the top of Medicine Pole Hill. On reach- ing the summit the sun was almost down and the scene as a whole was one of rugged re- pose; the unslumbering wind had calmed to a point of wayward indolence, and there was not a sound to indicate vivid existence. The view that meets one's enraptured vision is the perpetual despair of painter's brush or poet's song. Bare, sun-scorched buttes, rain-rutted and furrowed, form the outposts of chaotic masses of variegated clay, scoria and stone, thrown higelty-pigelty — making the panora- [108] ma look as if the debris of earth had been broom-swept into this industrial devastation. As far as one can see along the course of the Little Missouri in either direction there is not an eye-offending work of man. Such wild magnificence, such chaos and mystery, such vastness, such freedom, such isolation! The close up view reveals the variegated clay, the red scoria, the black seams of lig- nite stored up in earth's vernal years — ^when the saurian and the mammoth held sway. In many cases the buttes are begirt with fringes of shrubbery splotched with white blossoms of buckthorn, juneberry, plum and chokecherry and an occasional snowy dome of kinnikinik — while tongues of dark green grass reach up the narrow valleys so amorously watered by the declivities. In almost any direction one looks there is a Sierra of rugose, cedar-fringed crags, al- ternating with conical clay spires of varying heights and sizes often separated by shrub- bearing gorges, impassable except at infre- quent intervals. [109] The peaks in the midst of the Badlands seem to stand in unstable equilibrium. This adds to their apparent evanescence and changeableness. As far as one can see to the north or south unending wonder greets the eye — but to the east or west in the shadowy- distance the flux and flow of the badlands fade in harmonious outline into the effortless rest of the open prairies. As the tints of evening shaded into the panoply of night the northern lights sent their shifting rays far above the horizon, robing the heavens in gorgeous pageantry, a proper apparaling of the sky as a fitting accompaniment to the sumptuous color scheme on this vast canvas splashed from the palette of the Infinite. Except for the northern lights it would have been dark when I reached the foot of Medicine Pole Hill. A wolf set up a lone- some howl from a nearby butte. There are sounds that accentuate the feeling of vast- ness, of freedom, of isolation, and none does [110] this so effectively as the prolonged fear- shuddering howl of the gray wolf as it rever- berates in deep crescendo among the half- clad buttes. I had seen the bush burning and heard the voice in the, flame. [Ill] A TENDERFOOT, A COWBOY, AND A TRUTH N The good old days in North Da- kota when Senator Jud La Moure acted as watchdog of the treasury, the western part of the state was little known to those living in the Red River Valley. There was no state insti- tution west of Mandan, hence no junketing trip or institutional investigation ever gave occasion to visit us. However, the sen- ate and house members travelled on passes which they could use to their heart's content when relieved, as they occasionally were, from their legislative grind. Especially at week-ends those from the eastern counties occasionally visited the Badlands — which, be- cause less known, were even greater objects of mystery and wonder than at present. On one such occasion about a half doz- en law makers came to Sentinel Butte, then [112] the most westerly town in the State, and of course was as far as their passes would take them. They arrived on Saturday evening after dark and found their way through the unlighted streets to the Butte Hotel. The cowboys learned of their coming and, being desirous of staging a little fun in honor of the event, sent numerous fusi:ades from their equalizers into the night air. As volley after volley belched forth, a noticeable uneasiness began to take hold of the group of solons in the hotel lobby — and well might they be uneasy as at that time there was no closed season on tenderfeet in Sentinel Butte. One of them, more agitated than the others, paced backwards and for- wards to the plate glass window facing out upon the streets, and shading his eyes tried to get some idea of the pitched battle he was sure was in progress. He flinched and shuddered at every flash out of tha dark- ness and its accompanying report, and the hideous whooping-up the boys ware indulg- ing in chilled the marrow in his bones. [113] When he could no longer stand the sus- pense, and though trying to screen his ig- norance of the frontier, he turned to an old time cowman who was leaning back against the wall smoking, apparently wholly oblivi-* ous of the commotion going on in the street, and asked in a subdued but agitated tone, flavored by a Norw^egian accent: "How of- ten do they kill people out here? Whereup- on the old ranger deliberately took his cigar from his mouth and turning his head slowly toward his questioner, answered: ''Only once". 11J4] cc 135 a- &5 o _ O ^ O c 3 CO