The vast, untamed landscapes of Montana set the stage for one of history’s most iconic figures: the Montana cowboy. This detailed account, originally penned by Rufus Fairchild Zogbaum in 1885, transports us to a daybreak on the wild plains, offering an intimate glimpse into the rigorous life of a cowboy during a challenging cattle drive through the formidable Montana wilderness.
The Dawn of a Montana Cattle Drive
As the first faint blush of morning steals across the clear eastern sky, outlining the towering mountain ranges, the wide plains of Montana awaken. Stars recede and the moon dips, yielding to the approaching sun whose golden rays stretch across the vast prairie, chasing lingering shadows.
Down in the heart of a secluded camp, nestled within a grove of trees beside a winding stream, activity already stirs. The watch-fire, fed by dry sagebrush, sends a straight blue column of smoke upwards, warming the crisp morning air. The camp cook, a figure of gleaming ebony against his enormous white felt hat, busies himself over a steaming kettle of coffee. Cowboys, some stretching and yawning, others performing a quick ablution by the stream, rouse their sleepy comrades from heaps of blankets. Nearby, their horses graze peacefully, while hundreds of half-savage, sharp-horned cattle dot the plain, some still lying, others standing in small groups, chewing their cud in the cool morning air.
With the sun now cresting the mountains, coyotes loping stealthily back to their dens, and the discordant calls of magpies mingling with curlews, the urgency of the day is palpable: “Rustle now, boys, rustle for you have a long and hard day’s work before you.” These cattle, numbering in the hundreds, must be driven through a narrow mountain canyon today, destined for the lush Great Plains on the other side of the divide. There is no time for idleness; bedding is rolled, wagons packed, breakfast devoured, and the day’s epic journey is about to commence.
The Life of a Cowboy: Grit and Skill
These wild cowboys are a hardy, picturesque lot, gathered around the fire for their morning meal. Each man grips his coffee can, his fragrant fried bacon rapidly consumed, his appetite sharpened by the invigorating high-plains air.
Observe the brawny figure with crisp, tight-curling yellow hair, his sun-browned face framed by the broad brim of his hat, revealing piercing gray eyes. His lower limbs encased in heavy, reddish-brown chaps, stained by constant use and exposure, a revolver swung from his cartridge-filled belt, and his great spurs jingled with every stride. Having finished his coffee, he turns from the fire, retrieving the massive leather saddle—his night’s pillow—with its high pommel and streaming rawhide thongs. Swiftly, his cayuse is saddled, the broad hair-rope girths cinched tight, and the huge bit slipped into the pony’s unwilling mouth. With a powerful bound, the agile cowboy is in the saddle. The struggle is brief; the practiced hand, heavy spurs, and stinging whip quickly reassert dominance, a daily lesson for the spirited mount. With a final defiant shake of its head, the wiry cayuse settles into an easy lope, carrying horse and rider to their assigned position on the flank of the immense drove.
The remaining cowboys soon follow suit; the camp is broken, the chuck wagon securely packed, and the day’s work formally begins. The cattle, sensing the impending movement, lift their heads, gazing with a mixture of stupidity and fear at the swift-riding horsemen. As the flanks are turned, they begin to converge, moving in small groups towards a common center. Occasionally, a headstrong steer or terrified young bull breaks away, only to be swiftly pursued, turned, and driven back into the burgeoning herd. Gradually, rounded up on all sides by the adept cowboys, the cattle are gently urged forward, forming a loose, wide column. They graze as they advance, headed towards the mountain pass—the mouth of the canyon that marks the day’s challenging route.
Guiding the Herd: The Journey Begins
The prairie crossing proceeds steadily. The nervous beasts are crowded closer together with quiet persistence. Two or three riders gallop ahead to the canyon’s entrance—a narrow pass flanked by two cone-shaped mounds, almost like natural redoubts protecting the mountain’s fastnesses. Their task is to head off stragglers and guide the lead cattle into the confined trail that threads between the high, tree-covered, rocky walls of the canyon. “So! So-o-o! Gently calling, quietly and patiently urging,” the drivers compact the horned multitude into an almost solid mass. “So-o-o! So! Gently! Gently! push, boys, push in from both sides, curb your horses, and keep them quiet.” Slow, steady pressure from the rear ensures the herd’s head finally enters the pass.
Navigating the Canyon: A Perilous Passage
“Patter! Patter! Patter!” The air fills with the peculiar, rushing, confused roar of hundreds of hooves striking the hard roadbed. It’s a low, penetrating sound, like millions of hailstones falling on dry leaves, a muffled rolling, distinct from the sharp clang of iron-shod horses— akin to the distant rumble of a heavily laden freight train. Slowly, irresistibly, the mighty herd presses onward through the wild canyon. On one side, frowning walls of sandstone and gigantic pines tower overhead; on the other, and below, the river rushes and foams over its rough bed, pushing forward like liquid lava. In a long, crowded, dense column, the cattle move along the narrow, winding trail. A thick, smoke-like cloud of yellow dust hovers above, through which sunlight occasionally breaks, illuminating the tangle of horns swaying and tossing like foam cresting angry billows. A heavy, sweetish odor permeates the air, and mingling with the rhythmic patter of hooves and the river’s roar is the occasional booming bellow of a frightened steer.
The herd’s progress is agonizingly slow and cautious. Halts occur frequently at the front, causing those in the rear to press closer. With soothing cries and gentle nudges, the experienced Montana cowboys coax them onward. This is ticklish work, for a momentary panic could send scores of cattle plunging down the precipitous mountain sides. Just this morning, one unfortunate steer, caught in a sudden, fearful rush of its companions, was pushed over the trail’s edge, falling into the foaming torrent and dashed to death on the jagged rocks a hundred feet below. Riders at the rear scan the trail and the advancing cattle up the canyon. The path sometimes descends to meet the stream, spreading into shallow pools or cutting directly through it as it curves around rocky points, only to re-cross further on.
Open Plains and Evening Rest
Eventually, the canyon begins to widen. The high rock walls and great trees give way to gently rising, grass-covered slopes. The river, too, broadens, its surface shining like polished silver, its onward movement betrayed only by a soft ripple and the low lap-lap of water against its banks. From these banks, wild rose bushes, breathing out the sweet fragrance of newly opened buds, hang down their slender branches. Up the slopes, gaily colored wildflowers—yellow sunflowers, daisies, and blue harebells—dance and nod, their bright hues melting into a vibrant carpet covering distant hilltops.
Now, the herd can move more easily, drifting slowly along, its ranks opening slightly to allow the hungry beasts to crop at the fresh, juicy grass as they go. The cowboys find a moment of respite, perhaps opening their saddle-bags for a quick lunch, “sur le pouce,” and a swig of whiskey and water. Pipes are lit, bridles fall onto cayuses’ necks, and the men lounge in their saddles, arms folded, elbows resting on the high pommel. Yet, their eyes remain watchful, lest an adventurous two-year-old wander from the drove and become lost in the deep coulees or ravines. Though the sun pours down its full power, the breeze tempers the heat. No blinding dust rises from the soft grass, save for a cloud where a tyrannical bull charges encroaching comrades. The afternoon slowly wanes, the herd constantly advancing, with occasional brief halts at inviting spots where grass is luxuriant or the stream crosses the path. The hills grow smaller, wide openings appear between them, and soon a broad plain stretches to the far horizon. Rich in shifting light and shade, covered with brown waving grass and great patches of bluish-gray sagebrush, it lies flat and level as a billiard table, promising rest and refreshment for the hot and tired beasts.
As evening approaches, numerous good camping places present themselves. Grass is abundant, and the herd continues to follow the rivulet’s course, ensuring a plentiful supply of water. Fuel for the campfire is easily gathered by cutting a few armfuls of sagebrush. The cattle, sensing the hour of rest, roam freely onto the prairie, or stand knee-deep in the water, drinking long draughts and elevating their dripping muzzles to moo forth their contentment. Horses are unsaddled and allowed to browse. As the sun sinks in the west, and fires are kindled, all hands busy themselves with preparing the evening meal.
Conclusion: The Enduring Spirit of the Montana Cowboy
The long twilight descends, gradually melting into the shades of night. Silence reigns over the prairie, broken only by the distant yelp of a prowling coyote or the crackling of a dry twig as a restless steer shifts in the sagebrush. The weary Montana cowboy, having briefly discussed the day’s events over an after-supper pipe by the glowing embers, spreads his bedding on the ground. Rolling his blanket around him, his head resting in the seat of his saddle, he quickly succumbs to the dreamless sleep of the hardy frontiersman. This vivid narrative of a day on the range captures the essence of a bygone era, celebrating the resilience, skill, and indelible spirit of the American cowboy whose tireless efforts shaped the West. Rufus Fairchild Zogbaum’s artistry not only paints a picture of a cattle drive but immortalizes the profound connection between these men, their animals, and the majestic, untamed lands of Montana.
