"A Look Back"

The Stories presented here are about people and events during the early days when this corner of Colorado was first settled.

One Boy's Life
By Claude Wakeland

One Boy's Life

By Claude Wakeland

Claude Wakeland was born in La Jara, Colorado in 1888, the son of Louis B. and Georgia Wakeland. The family lived in the San Luis Valley where they farmed, before moving to Denver in 1899. In 1900, they moved to the K Diamond ranch at Lay Colorado, where LB was to be the ranch foreman and Georgia would do the cooking for the ranch hands. After several years of working on the K Diamond ranch, the family homesteaded on Lay Creek. When Claude was old enough, he too took up a homestead near his parent's place.

Claude went to school in Craig , then on to Fort Collins to take a course in the college prep school. He received his B.S. and M.S. degrees at Colorado State University and his doctorate in entomology at Ohio State University. Dr. Claude Wakeland retired from the Bureau of Entomology of the U.S. Department of Agriculture on September 1, 1948.

"One Boy's Life" is the story of life in rural Western Colorado as Claude remembered it. Unfortunately, it was not completed at the time of his death in 1960. ___________________________________________________

Through the curtained front window we watched the policeman, my mother and I, as he turned from the sidewalk toward our door. Our family had been expecting something like this, yet hoping somehow we might be spared. Mother answered the bell. The officer handed her a notice from the mayor that Dad would soon be dismissed from the fire department job he had held for several years. Robert E. Speer had been elected Mayor of Denver and was rewarding some of his friends by appointments to city positions formerly held by Republicans, so Dad was out.

He was a hard worker, but we were always in want for whenever he had a little money he sank it into a mine at Cripple Creek. He was badly smitten with the gold fever, just a few more feet down in the shart and he'd have it made. Mother worked as a dressmaker so we could have enough to eat. Among her clients were Baby Doe and Silver Dollar Tabor, who lived not far from us at that time after the Tabor fortune had been dissipared. Day after day and often into the night she sat humped up over a sewing machine until she developed indigestion so severe that she had acute discomfort whenever she ate anything.

Mother took in more sewing so we could live while Dad looked for work - any work he could do. Day after day he tried to find work in Denver and poured over the "Help Wanted" columns in the newspapers. Finally, he saw an ad by William E. Church who wanted a man and wife for his K Diamond Ranch in Routt County, Colorado. The man would be ranch foreman and his wife would do the cooking. Dad had been a city man for several years but had been raised a farmer. Mr. Church hired them at $40.00 per month plus transportation for our family from Denver to the ranch, and board and room. My parents had many misgivings about the new job. Could they handle the work that was expected of them? Would they like the unknown country where they would make their new home? Could they stand the lonesomeness of ranch life with the nearest neighbor perhaps miles away? But I was thrilled at the prospect. I'd not be hemmed in by streets and sidewalks. I'd have a saddle horse and would learn to be a cowboy and some day we would have a bunch of cattle of our own. Dreams, dreams, such dreams as an eleven-year old boy can have.

Little did we realize then what a wondrous experience our new life would be.

Getting ready to move was not much trouble for our possessions were few. I had been studying on the piano for about five years and mother paid for the lessons by sewing for Mrs. Champlain, the teacher. She traded our old piano for a good mandolin and I had had five lessons from Mr. Lotz before we departed. A few clothes and personal things were all we took and, of course, the mandolin which I would not allow out of sight.

We left Denver March 15, 1900, on a Denver and Rio Grande train. I can't remember anything special about the trip except how luxurious it was to snuggle into a real bed on a train that night. The train trip ended at Rifle, Colorado, on what was then called the Grand River, where we stayed the next night at the old Winchester Hotel. We walked around the town for a while before dark. We were not cheered by what we saw for Rifle consisted of only a few squat, frame buildings, mostly unpainted, rough board sidewalks, and streets a quagmire of mud. I saw a store sign that meant nothing to em then, so I have often wondered why it stuck in my memory. It read, "Billy Thompson, Saddle Maker." I was to learn that to own a Billy Thomson saddle was the cowboy's goal of perfection in riding gear in all of Northwestern Colorado.

The K Diamond Ranch was on the Yampa River; Yampa is the Indian name for "bear". You will find the river so named on maps, but in those days local inhabitants almost always called the river "Bear River" - about 100 miles north of Rifle, a grueling three-day trip as we were to find out. It was the time of the spring break-up. The snow had just gone but the ground had not dried out. We left Rifle early in the morning that St. Patrick's Day in a Concord coach pulled by a four-horse team. The horses wallowed through the mud until we reached the stage station on Piceance Creek, near the top of the divide between Grand and White Rivers, about noon. There was almost no road, only a series of ruts made by wagon wheels and horses. When one rut became impassable, some driver would pull out of it and start another, which was followed by other drivers until there was need to start another. On the numerous side-hill grades or the approaches to one-way bridges, only the driver and horses had the confidence to plunge into seemingly bottomless mud where the coach axles often dragged the mud.

We stayed at the stage station only long enough to change teams and for the passengers to get something to eat. Almost every foot of the way was difficult but exciting to me who had never been out of the city before. I saw my first coyote trotting along parallel to the road but out of good rifle range. Frequently we would meet freight outfits pulled by four, six, or eight horse teams going to Rifle for merchandise for the Meeker stores or for some large stock ranch, or we would overtake loaded wagons on their return trip. At such times our driver would pull out of the ruts and with much bumping and jolting go around the freight outfits and back into the ruts again. We got into Meeker about dark and the fact that we had seen only two or three houses before reaching White River impressed me that we were in a country of wide open spaces.

We stayed at the Meeker Hotel that night where Charley, a ranch hand met us and told us to be ready for an early start to the ranch the next morning. When we went through the lobby to our rooms, I observed several cowpunchers in Levis, jumpers or vests, and high-heeled boots, sitting around in the lobby. This was the heart of the cow country, a different world than I had ever known. Scarcely were we in our room when there was a knock at the door. A cowpuncher who had seen me carrying the mandolin asked if I would come down and play some "tunes" for them. In those days there were no radios or telephones and the cowpunchers were hungry for any kind of music. Tremulously, I gathered up a music book and stand and followed the cowboy downstairs. Stumblingly I played as well as I could, "My Coal Black Lady", "Just One Girl", and one or two other pieces in the book, and the cowboys applauded heartily after every piece. When I told them I didn't know any more they were so insistent that I played the few pieces over and over until Dad came down and told me it was time for bed.

During the evening there in the hotel lobby, I looked over the exhibits such as mounted deer heads, a mountain lion skin, rattlesnake rattles and several photographs of hunters groups, roundups, etc. Among the pictures was one of three dead men laid out side by side which especially aroused my curiosity. The clerk told me they were bank robbers that had all been killed before they could get to their horses which were tied to a wagon wheel about 30 feet from the bank door. The robbery attempt was fresh in the mind of the clerk and some of the guests in the lobby so they told me the story in vivid detail.

The Meeker Hotel was next door to the J.W. Hugus and Co. store building. The Bank of Meeker was in the store but partitioned off by a glass partition. About three o'clock of the afternoon of October 13, 1896 two men entered the store building by the front door. One turned off to the bank cashier's window, the other proceeded down the aisle to the center of the room. A third man entered a door from a side street. Two robbers herded the clerks and customers into a bunch, and one stood guard over them while the other went to the support of the bandit at the bank window.

Joe Rooney, clerk of the Meeker Hotel was making a deposit. The robber quietly waited until Rooney was through and had stepped aside when he poked his gun through the brass railing and fired close to the head of David Smith, the assistant cashier and ordered him to throw up his hands. Mr. Smith was slow in obeying so another bullet whistled past his head. These two shots aroused Mr. Moulton, the manager of the Hugus Company who, with his clerks, was busy waiting on customers. They looked up to find they were covered by revolvers. The robber at the bank window moved around to the bank office door but, being unable to open it, marched Joe Rooney to the center of the room to join those other two who were standing there with their hands up.

The leader of the gang then ordered Mr. Moulton to open the bank door where he, assisted by one of the other robbers, entered hurriedly, scooped up what cash they could find and marched the cashier and assistant to join the "bunch" of employees and customers previously rounded up, and who were being herded by the third robber.

The robber gang then took all the rifles and ammunition from stock, loaded the magazines of three rifles and made the other rifles useless. Thus reinforced each robber had a rifle and his own heavy revolver.

Only about five minutes had elapsed from the time the two shots were fired by the nervous robber at the bank window until the gang filed out the side door with hostages, but time to seal the fate of the robbers.

The shots had attracted the attention of Tom Shervin of the Meeker Hotel, who ran down to the Hugus corner and, seeing what was happening, gave the alarm. In less than three minutes every avenue of escape was closed and a dozen or more good marksmen awaited the robbers' escape from the store building while others were hastening to the scene. The robber's shot at persons who came in sight near them but they were not shot at because of their hostages whom they used as shields. Finally, their hostages, getting tired of holding their hands above their heads, made a break for freedom. The robbers started shooting at the running, dodging hostages but being exposed were soon shot down by Meeker citizens shooting from doors, windows and protected places in nearby business houses. The leader was soon on the ground with a bullet hoe through his left lung and another bandit was shot through the heart and he died instantly. The third bandit, seeing his pals drop, ran toward the river but had not gone far before a bullet in the left lung and another through the left leg brought him down. He lived for about an hour. The bandits, when they ran from the store and during the fusillade when their hostages broke for freedom, wounded three men all of whom recovered. The Meeker Herald said in its first issue after the episode, "Thus was justice meted out to three bold bandits who struck the wrong town in which to ply their villainous calling. So began and ended the first attempt to rob a bank in this part of the state. The affair makes a very creditable showing for the citizens of Meeker." It was commonly supposed that the gang was from Brown's Park, well known as an outlaw hide-out, and that a fourth member was left with a relay of fresh horses but fled to Brown's Park when his companions failed to return. Two horses, which had short ropes tied to them were found in Powell Park, October 17, which were said to be identified as belonging to the robbers.

Accounts of the identity and age of the robbers vary but the warning shorts of the blusterous, nervous man at the bank window and the fact that the money taken was found in the bank office after the smoke of battle cleared away, pointed to their being amateurs.

The morning came quickly. We breakfasted and were ready to start when Charley drove up to the hotel about seven o'clock. For the first few miles the trip was much the same as the day before except that we were in a wagon drawn by a single team. The team wallowed through the mud up Bear River until we came to the snow line on Nine-Mile Hill. There we found a bobsled by the side of the road, the one that Charley had left the day before, and transferred the team and everything from the wagon to it. Now the going was much easier for we were following a road that had been packed by constant travel throughout the winter. The horses unerringly followed the single track in the snow that extended unbrokenly on all sides of us. The ride was very smooth until we would meet another sled. Then the drivers with much maneuvering would get one horse and the runners of one side of the sled off into the deep snow through which the horses floundered until the sleds had passed each other and the horses could struggle back onto the packed road. While the sleds were passing each other, they were tipped in a precarious position so all passengers would crowd to the upper side to keep them from overturning.

We ate our noon meal at a little house on top of Nine-Mile Hill and Charley fed and rested the horses. Going down on the north side of the divide was easy while the snow lasted. Soon we were in the mud again so transferred everything to the wagon that Charley had brought from the ranch. We stayed that night at the Joe Collom ranch in the first log cabin I had ever been in. All of the buildings were of logs with dirt roofs. This, unmistakably, was a cattle ranch with its corrals, saddle horses, and cow talk of the punchers to assure me I was not dreaming all of this.

The main residence was quite comfortable and commodious and there in the living room was a piano, one of the few in the entire county. Mr. Collom had hauled it by wagon from Rifle. I enjoyed playing and was kept busy until a late hour, for I yet had not had time to forget what I had learned in Denver.

The trip from Collom's to the K Diamond was comparatively easy for some of the road was dry and firm. We crossed the Bear River on the rickety old Government Bridge. Near the north approach was a roadhouse run by Mrs. Hattie Ward. She was a person of clouded reputation and was know far and wide as Old Hat. Travelers were so rare that she came out to our wagon to chat with Charley and satisfy her curiosity about the tenderfeet he was hauling. Everything I was seeing was so new and strange that I must have been a nuisance by the stream of questions I asked. When I could get in a word between Old Hat's flow of words I said, "Are there any fish in that river?" "My goodness, sonny," she replied, "There are fish in there as big as that thing you're carrying," meaning the mandolin.

The ranch was made up of what was known as the Lower and the Upper ranches, which were both on Bear River but about five miles apart. Ed Hodges was general manager of both but his interest was mainly cattle. Dad was to be foreman of the Upper Ranch where most of the cattle feed was raised. For some reason we stayed with the Hodges for a few days before going to the place we were to live. About the only thing I remember about that visit was the awful noise. It was weaning time. The corral was not far from the house. Hundreds of cows and calves had been separated - the calves were inside and the cows outside the corral. Day and night all the calves and all the cows bawled incessantly until it seemed I could hear them in my sleep. The old timers on the ranch acted like nothing unusual was going on.

The buildings on the Upper K Diamond were at the base of a hill several hundred feet high, capped by rim-rock that was effective as a stock fence. One could easily reach the house in a wagon when the river was fordable, but now was high water and the only easy way to get to the ranch from the road at Government Bridge was by horseback on a narrow trail around the base of the mountain. To reach the ranch by wagon, we traveled several miles eastward to the top of the mountain, circled southward and then back westward until we came to the rimrock above the ranch and jolted our way downward through a narrow passage that had been blasted in the rimrock and which was closed by a wire gate. Our hearts sank, especially mother's, when we first saw the ranch buildings. A small stable, blacksmith shop, bunkhouse and the main ranch house all made of logs and all dirt roofed. The main building where we would live and where mother would do most of her work had only two rooms separated by a passageway. Off the passageway, a door led into a dugout storage cellar. The southern room was a bedroom with two beds curtained off. The northern room with a rough plank floor was the cook house and dining room where at haying time as many as fifteen men would come to be served at a long oil cloth- covered table three times a day.

Dad soon proved to himself and to Mr. Church that he was a capable foreman. In addition to raising bumper crops of alfalfa he raised the first crop of oats in that part of the country and had a threshing machine come from Meeker to thresh them. Formerly, potatoes had been hauled from Rifle but he soon was raising all the potatoes needed on the ranch. He and the hired me broke and tamed some of the cows, of which there were hundreds on the ranch at winter feeding time so that fresh milk, cream, and butter, which were rarely available in that part of the country replaced the canned products.

Mother had never cooked for a crew of men before, but she rose to every occasion. She was at work before dawn and didn't stop until after dark. She baked all of the bread, pies, and cakes, besides doing all of the plain cooking of meats and vegetables that hungry men eat so much of. She learned to fix up dried fruit and canned products so they were very appetizing and tasty and derived great pleasure in doing such things to please "the boys." She quickly became a great favorite with the ranch hands, most of whom showed their appreciation in many small ways. In spite of the rigorous life she was suddenly thrown into, or perhaps because of it, she soon was free of the stomach disorder that had for several years caused so much discomfort and rarely had a sick day during the many years she was to live on a ranch.

I had had frequent sick headaches in Denver, but these ceased as soon as I got out on the ranch. Day after happy day that spring I was completely absorbed in doing the things I had only dreamed of before. Mumbley peg, tops, and marbles were only memories because there were no other boys to play the games with. Even had there been, I am quite sure we would have had little time to play them for we would be so busy with other more interesting and active outdoor pursuits.

One day I would climb the mountain back of the ranch and from the rimrock idly watch for hours the graceful soaring of buzzards or hawks. Observing the comings and goings of a pair of eagles I soon spotted their nest. Coming toward their nest their talons were suspended by what they were carrying. Leaving, their legs were not discernible but were folded closely against their bodies. By lying on my stomach with only my head out over the rimrock I saw them feed their two babies such tidbits as mice, young cottontails, and ground squirrels. Between feeding, the young birds remained motionless as a rock. I pondered much on how they sensed their parents were approaching with food, for they stuck up their heads with mouths agape before I could detect any sound from the old birds flying toward the nest.

Another day, with a willow pole and a chunk of fresh meat for bait I would walk to the river, about a half-mile from the house, and fish for what everyone called squaw fish. There were many in the river and they were easy to catch. They were very bony but of good flavor. We had many fish dinners. One favorite sport was there a levy of large rocks had been placed to keep the stream from undermining the hay meadow creating an eddy on the down-stream side. Out of these rocks one day a bull snake four or five feet long crawled, almost where I was sitting. I was frightened because I knew nothing about bull snakes. It seemed to be sunning itself and paid no attention to me. I threw some bait to it and was quite excited to see it consume the meat. Many days thereafter, I sat in the same place to fish and had for a companion the bull snake which seemed to live in those rocks.

Other days were for exploration. I'd work for hours to find a killdeer's nest or a sage hen's clutch of eggs. I'd sneak for hours to try to get close to wild geese I had seen alight, but invariably they would take wing before I got near enough for a good look. Then off to the rocks on the hillside to watch the woodchucks or hear them "whistle." On these excursions I always was armed with a long, strong stick and advanced stealthily for this was rattlesnake country and many of these I killed with sticks and stones.

Along with seeding of new crops the first ranch job after the soil had become dry enough to work in the spring and the ice had broken up in the river was to clean the main ditch and repair the diversion dam in Bear River. Brush that had gained a foothold was grubbed out and sediment removed by teams and scrapers. It was a slow, laborious task for the ditch was long and mainly in a gummy blue clay or adobe soil. When the crews started work at the upper end of the ditch they were about three miles from the house so mother prepared a hot lunch each day and I carried it to them, riding Old Blue. As I rode over the hill to where the crew was working I usually smelled smoke before I saw any of the men. It would be noon hour when teams were feeding and men were making coffee over the campfire. The smoke smell was that of burning sagebrush, new to me then, but once smelled never to be confused with any other odor. The incident is told here only to illustrate how easily a boy's impressions may be formed and once formed how difficult it is to change them.

On the ditch crews were two or three Mormons who had emigrated from western Utah. These men were generally disliked by the other workers who were given to discussing their bad traits among themselves when the Mormons were not around. Tales were that they lied to and stole from all who were not Mormons, were immoral, had hair on their teeth, smelled badly and so on. Such talk was very influential on an eleven year old's thinking. Unconsciously I connected sagebrush smoke odor with Mormons and to this day thoughts of them may flash through my mind when I smell the pleasant odor burning sagebrush. Since then, I have lived and worked with many Mormons to learn that there are good ones and bad ones just as in other creeds.

Mr. Hodges brought me a saddle horse, Old Blue, which had been one of his favorite cow horses but now was too old for active service any longer. He assured me he was gentle and a good horse to learn to ride on. Three times a week the mail carrier from Axial to Maybell passes the ranch and left our mail. During high water he left it at Old Hat's, but when the river became fordable, in a mail box at the red gate, which was much closer to the house. It was a very pleasant task for me to ride Old Blue to get the mail. I would ride the trail along the mountain to Old Hat's who usually "forced" me to have some cookies or other delicacies she always had on hand. She was a very kindly person who often gave herself pleasure in telling of former glories. Occasionally she would lead me into a back bedroom, open up a trunk or chest and lay out silks, satins and plumes - fineries from her past - and tell me of the occasions when she had worn them. Though she was known to be a dissolute character with whom none of the respectable women associated, she never gave me a cause to think of her as other than motherly and lonesome. When I was around and I enjoyed visiting with her as I think she did with me. She had two little bulldogs as pets. Many were the times I wondered why she had chosen to name them Sanky and Moody, after the evangelists.

That first year on the ranch I had my first experience with a troublesome insect invasion. One day in June a few ferocious looking, large, dark brown insects made their way into the yard soon followed by others in untold numbers. The ranch hands said they were called Mormon crickets. They came down the mountain east of the ranch. Those in the front ranks were pushed onward by those in the rear. Barns, corrals, houses were literally colored by brown bodies ever marching westward. Chickens excitedly chased and gobbled up the first few but shortly became so engorged they paid no attention to the marchers. The garden was either completely demolished or so contaminated that vegetables were unfit for food. The marching hoard left as suddenly as it had arrived pushing on westward through the hay fields with little injury to the alfalfa and wild hay.

When the migrating army came to Bear River it plunged in and was carried swiftly downstream. The river was at high water. By steps I followed the band downstream. I crossed at Government Bridge and continued following the band until I saw individuals crawling out of the water at a large eddy against the west bank about five miles downstream from where they had entered the river. Undoubtedly countless numbers were drowned or floated farther but the main band continued on its western course in apparently undiminished numbers.

In 1900, the only fences in Routt County were those enclosing the few ranches. A rider could go one hundred or more miles cross-country without hitting a fence. There was little to disturb the natural seasonal migration of the mule deer that were so abundant. They wintered at the lower elevations in the western part of the county where there was little or no snow and summered in the high mountains in the eastern part of the county or in near-by counties. With the first snows in the mountains, they began drifting westward about mid October and soon afterward would pass through our part of the county in hundreds and thousands. In the spring their migration was reversed when browse plants began to green up or after about the first of April. We would see them a few in a bunch or up to hundreds on a large hillside. Migration in either direction lasted but a short period and during the remainder of the year there were few deer that stayed in our part of the county.

It was strange, exciting enchantment to watch the deer drifting eastward that first spring. We still had to take the roundabout route over the mountain when we drove a wagon to the lower ranch. I was always eager to go along for there was so much to see. On a hillside so distant they were not disturbed by us we was deer in unknown numbers grazing or moving around or suddenly bunches of them would bound across the road in front of the team.

I went along on my first deer hunt shortly after I had learned to ride Old Blue. Jack Dolan, one of the ranch hands asked if I'd like to go with him. Would I! We rode west of the ranch about five miles up Jesse Gulch along the base of Juniper Mountain. I expected to see deer every place, but we saw nothing. A boy's interest soon dulls when nothing is happening. Suddenly Jack was off his horse sighting his rifle up hill. I looked toward where he was aiming. There ran two deer. Jack shot just as they were going out of sight over the hill. We got on our horses and we rode up over the hill and there lay one of the deer. What a hunter, I thought. I was to learn afterward that he was known as a great hunter who rarely missed his mark. There was a windmill and a well on the ranch but the water was so full of alkali it was used only for stock. Domestic water we had to haul from the river. A low-wheeled wagon stood just outside the kitchen door. On it were the water containers-two 50 gallon wooden barrels. A water-hauling trip to the river had to be made about every day or oftener when the crew was large. The driver would back his team until the wagon was in the river then he'd fill the barrels by dipping out of the river with a water pail. When the barrels were full, each was covered with burlap which was held in place by a hoop to keep the water from sloshing while it was being hauled. During warm weather, the barrels were kept covered as the water was being used to help keep the water cool and during cold weather to help keep it from freezing.

When the river was clear the water was very good tasting, but during high water, which lasted about three months, it was horrid. After the ice went out in the spring and melting snow began to raise the stream, it was full of sediment that the punchers called it too thick to drink and too thin to cut. Whole cottonwood trees floated by and frequently bloated carcasses of cattle that had died during the winter to be preserved by the intense cold until the spring thaw would release them to the rolling waters of Bear River. This roily, contaminated water we had no way to filter or purify. We avoided most of the sediment by letting it settle in the barrel, carefully dipping from the top each time we got a bucketful for the house, and then dumping the dregs and rinsing the barrel when we went for the next load from the river. Most of the people living along the river used its water for domestic purposes. I do not remember ever hearing of anyone in our part of the county being made sick or dying from drinking that dirty, impure river water.

Beef was the main item of food. We had it every dinner and supper and often for breakfast. When the hay crew was there and there were many mouths to feed, we butchered a long yearling or a short two-year old every week. These young steers made very tasty, tender beef usually, even though they were only grass fed. The usual procedure was for a rider to cut out a small bunch of cattle on the near-by range and herd them quietly into a small pasture near the house. One of the men would try to get in position to kill the victim chosen, shooting him in the forehead with a 22-highpower slug. Range cattle in those days were mostly skitty, scrub stuff from the south, which often would not stand long enough in a position to be aimed at accurately. Then the critter was roped and thrown and dispatched as quickly as possible. Steers that ran or struggled much made beef that my father said was "tough as whang leather". Well, anyway, I know it was might tough.

As soon as the steer fell, several men were ready with knives and a saw and he was butchered, skinned and quartered in no time at all. Butchering was usually in the evening after the air was getting cool and flies less active. The quarters were hauled to the windmill where they were pulled high up with a rope and pulley to hang there during the night. The beef was handled this way to escape the flies and to become thoroughly cooled out before the heat of another day. In the morning, the quarters were lowered separately into the cool air of the well and the cover put in place. Each day and night this procedure was repeated as long as any beef was left. Each morning Dad would carry a quarter to the kitchen where he'd saw or cut off the requirements for the day. We always had delicious, sweet beef by rigidly following this routine and with no means of refrigeration, had no trouble keeping the meat until it was consumed. One day, after the river had become fordable, I brought the mail from the red gate. When I got back, I discovered the saddle blanket had slipped out so retraced my route to search for it. Old Blue was loping in the tall grass when he shied at the blanket almost under his feet. This was so unexpected that I tumbled off at the first jump, landing on my neck and shoulders. I soon picked myself up and re-saddled Old Blue with the blanket in place. For the next few days I was so sore and stiff that I was afraid my parents would notice, question why, and forbid me to ride Old Blue again. They either did not notice my painful movements or pretended not to, as I'm sure they did on many other occasions when my actions were open to question. They were always understanding of how a boy might feel and while they did not tolerate wrong doings, they overlooked many minor infractions.

In Denver, we had never bought more that a few cents worth of groceries at a time from day to day. Here, I was amazed at the quantities of foodstuffs that were stored in the dugout cellar. Twice a year, once just after the roads became dry in the spring and again just before the winter snows began, my dad would go to Rifle or send one of the hired men with a double-bedded wagon and a four-horse team. The trip took about a week. When the wagon returned, it was backed up near the dugout door and the men carried the supplies in. Large burlap bags filled with whole hams or sides of bacon were hung on the ridgepole. Other supplies were placed on shelves. Many cases of canned corn, tomatoes, and beans. Dried beans in 100 pound sacks, syrup in five gallon cans, pickles in three gallon kegs, dried raspberries, dried apples, dried pears, prunes in 20 pound boxes, many 100 pound sacks of flour, sugar, etc. were carried into the dugout. I was awed by such plentitude and skeptical where we could use all of it.

We had several cats for they were needed to kill the mice that, if unmolested, would soon overrun the ranch buildings. Each evening when Dad had finished milking, he would pour warm milk into a pan in the passageway where the cats would be waiting. One evening, two skunks came to drink. For several evenings thereafter, they were on had at feeding time, lined up with the cats in complete harmony, and then sauntered off to the field when the milk was gone. The dugout doors were opened at night to leave in cold air, and closed in the morning to keep out the war daytime air. Then one night, Mother went down in the dugout for something and encountered the visitors prospecting around on the dirt floor. She kept the milk in large milk pans setting on a shelf and after the cream had risen would skim it off for making butter and for table use. She cautiously herded the unwelcome visitors up the stairs and outdoors, then closed the dugout door. The next evening when they had finished their repast, Hugh Gilna, one of the ranch hands, herded them out into the hay meadow and followed them for some distance where the skunk odor would not reach the house and killed them with a shot gun.

Ranchers were saddened in May at the death of Old Hat's son Clover, who was about 30 years old. He owned a bicycle, a rarity then in that part of the country. He rode it down Government Hill and out onto the Government Bridge where he hit a loose plank and was thrown into the river and drowned. Women who ordinarily would not set foot in Old Hat's house, came from afar and near to help her in her time of trouble. Clover's body was not found for nearly a month afterward, when it was discovered at Lily Park some fifty miles below the scene of the accident. Old Hat was not only a lonesome but a saddened woman after the loss of her son and announced her intention of selling her property and returning to the home of her people in Indiana.

L-R Pete Howard, Myrtle Bryan, Edith Howard, Maude Bryan, Lew Foster, Bert Overholt on an outing

One of the hired men that spring was Bert Overholt. He told such mighty tales of his bravery and heroism that I was quite awed by him. He thought ranch work was beneath his dignity, kept telling about how he longed to get out with the riders. That time came with the spring round-up when the new crop of calves was branded. He left the ranch in high glee, but was back again the next day. On the round-up, each rider had a "string" of about seven horses, a fresh one for each day of the week. The horse herd was known as the cavvy and herder as the wrangler. The wrangler's jog was to herd the horses where they could graze and the night wrangler would drive the herd into camp about daybreak and the cowpunchers would hold them in a rope corral until each rider roped and led out the horse he would ride that day. Bert was assigned as a night wrangler. Alone at night his imagination saw wolves or mountain lions in each shadowy, peculiarly shaped bush, and he was terrified by such simple sounds as a coyote's howl or a poor-wills whir. He managed to stick out the horrid night with the cavvy, but started it toward camp with the first streak of daylight in the east. At camp, he told the foreman the job was too lonesome for him and started on horseback to the ranch as soon as he could get breakfast. Safe within the protection of the bunkhouse he retold the horrible experiences of that night. Naturally, one of my heroes had been dethroned.

Telling tall tales in the bunkhouse was the main past time of ranch hands during the noon hour or in the evening. Frank Etchison was a taciturn, peculiar fellow. He saw no inconsistency in the tale of a catfish he had caught back in Missouri. He said he knew it weighed 50 pounds because he had weight it, then blandly told how it had gotten off the hook before he could get it out of the water. At the table, he would never ask for food to be passed, but would fix his gaze on what he wanted. The other men soon caught on to this peculiarity. When he stared at, say, the butter, the other men would pass him everything near it - meat, potatoes, vegetables - anything but butter. Disgustedly and without a word, he would get up from the table, walk around and get the dish he wanted.

Hugh Gilna wanted to get into the ranching and stock business for himself. In June, he made a start by buying the John Banks ranch which was a narrow piece of sandy river bottomland with high mountains on both sides. The improvements consisted of a log stable, a pole corral and a two-room sawed-log, shingle roofed house with a storeroom attached. Within about a quarter of a mile of the house was a vein of good grade coal that was free for the mining. Stock feed on the surrounding mountains was excellent. All in all it seemed to me he had a fabulous ranch.

Hugh continued working at the K Diamond ranch going home only over Sundays to look after his ranch. I often went with him, staying over Saturday night and Sunday. The houses on the K Diamond and on Hugh's ranch were on the same side of Bear River. It was about seven miles to ride on horseback from one place to the other when the river was low. We would ford the river near the K Diamond ranch, follow a trail over Duffy Mountain and ford the river again at Hugh's ranch. When the river was high, we traveled probably twice as far by a very rough, round about route.

Hugh was not more than eight or nine years older than I, but I looked up to him as a wise old man and fretted for the time to come when I would be more like him and do the things he did. Saturday evenings were very pleasant occasions at his ranch. We'd start in getting supper as soon as we arrived. At first I was the flunky who peeled the potatoes, sliced the onions, and set the table. Hugh let me take over some of the cooking by gradual steps and it was from him I became used to "batching it." After super, by the light of a kerosene lamp, we'd "do the dishes", then play a few games of cribbage or read a book or magazine. For breakfast we usually had flapjacks and bacon or "buckskin" (venison) and I always thrilled with expectation of seeing Hugh miss the frying pan when he flipped 'em, but he disappointed me every time.

After the first few days, the hay pitchers worked with ease and a rhythm that was beautiful to watch.

I was given the job of running the stacker horse and paid $15.00 per month, the first real money I had ever earned. I rode the stacker horse and when the fellow on the hay rack yelled "ready", I would haul the Jackson for-load upward until the boom of the Mormon stacker swung around over the stack and the stacker could push it into the spot where he wanted it dropped, when he'd holler "tripper." The harness tugs were tied together and fastened directly to the stacker rope. The tricky part of the operation was to turn the horse quickly and trot back to the stacker fast enough that the rope did not entangle the hind legs of the horse when the empty fork was pulled back to the hay rack.

After the first few days the novelty of the job wore off and it became routine. The monotony was relieved by many incidents that just happened or were made to happen by the hay crew. Rhone Murray was the stacker, a talkative braggart whom none of the rest of the crew liked. Occasionally, when a forkful was passing over his head, at a signal from me who could see him, where the man on the wagon could not, he would pull the trip rope and dump the load on top of Rhone. With much sweating and swearing he would dig himself out and loudly tell the driver to be more careful of when he pulled that danged trip rope. The driver would apologize making some excuse for his mistake such as the trip rope had caught on the hayrack. One day, whether by accident or design I never knew, a rattlesnake was sent up in one fork load of hay. Murray let out a loud holler and with his pitchfork flung the rattlesnake from the stack. It came in my direction and only missed me because I ducked low over the saddle horn.

Great news in the Craig Courier, July 14, 1900, led us to feel proud of the progress that was taking place where we could feel and see it. The thrill of expectation was everywhere. A telephone line had been completed from Rifle to Meeker. Now we were only 40 miles from a telephone, weren't we?

Routt County had been settled by pioneers who sought a place of their own where they could raise livestock, some hay for feed to carry the stock through the hard winters and where they could grow with the civilization they helped make. When we arrived there most of the Government land that could be easily irrigated by individuals had been homesteaded or they had obtained ownership by some other means. Each ranch spread was where there was water, along the river, near creeks, or from natural springs. The size of individual's herds mainly was determined by the amount of hay the ranchers could provide. Summer feed was free on nearby range land but unless cattle were fed some hay, they starved to death when range feed was snowed or iced under. A herd built up for years might be wiped out in a single winter unless the owner could raise some sort of feed - mostly native hay that had to have more moisture than was provided by summer rainfall. Because ranches and homes had been chosen mainly for their favorable location with respect to water and feed the settlement pattern had no uniformity. Ranchers might be neighbors two or three miles apart along some stream or they might be neighbors twenty or thirty miles apart between streams or at isolated natural springs. Each rancher virtually controlled an empire consisting of his ranch and the range land around it.

The distances between ranch spread, the fact that ranchers might not know for weeks or months at a time what neighbors were doing, cattle sometimes not seen by their owners on the open range between spring branding and fall round-up times, the always present few people in any realm of society who try to accumulate wealth faster than they can honestly earn it, these factors worked together to make rustling easy, attractive and profitable. Rustling in those days was mainly of four forms: the rustler would put his brand on a calf of a cow that he did not own and separate the calf form its mother; he would put his brand on a so-called maverick (any unbranded critter that was not running with its mother); alter the brand of the owner to his own; slaughter, for the beef, cattle belonging to another.

The branding of other owner's calves was the most common form of rustling and accounted for the rapid rise to prosperity of several well-known cattlemen. In later years when I was working with a survey crew, Link McGowan was our cook. He was a scrupulously clean, tidy, honest individual. He told how he once had a letter from Matt Rash in Brown's Park who asked him to winter with him and join him in the cattle business. Rash said all his cows had two calves each and every year and described how easy it was to drive his cattle out of state jurisdiction and to the railroad at Rock Springs, Wyoming.

There were not many true mavericks available, only an occasional calf that had been missed in the spring branding. Some rustlers separated unbranded calves from their mothers and held them away until they were weaned when, if their ruse had not been discovered, would brand them saying that they had found some mavericks.

Slaughtering of cattle for beef did not occur on a large scale because the danger of discovery was great and the beef, without refrigeration, could be marketed only locally. There is little doubt that slaughter of other owner's cattle for home use of some ranchers occurred frequently, especially of cattle owned by the big outfits. A common saying, often repeated was that every baby in Moffat County had been raised on Two-Bar beef.

When haying was finished I had earned $45.00 for my summer's work - just the price of a good new saddle, the possession I most longed for. The saddle selected was made by the well-know saddle firm, "Hartke and Sheets", of Meeker. Now I could ride in comfort in a seat just my size and with stirrups the right length instead of booming around in a big man's saddle with feet stuck between the straps above the stirrups. Although I was extremely proud of that saddle, I believe I got the most pleasure thinking about how I had earned the money to pay for it. To make my outfit complete, Mr. Hodges gave a new Navajo saddle blanket. Saddle and blanket I used until other work took me entirely away from the ranching business seventeen years later.

With the approach of autumn, my parents' thoughts turned to where I could continue schooling. Not mine, for I had seven happy months of freedom and had a taste of the independence a boy feels from earning money. I was in the sixth grade when taken out of school to make the move to Routt County. Schooling in Denver had not been a pleasant experience for me for I was a disinterested and a poor student, and I've always had the feeling that some of the teachers passed me at the end of the term more to get rid of me than because I had earned promotion.

The school closest to the ranch was at Maybell, about 12 miles down river. The schoolhouse was near the ranch home of the O.F. Barber's whose daughter, Bell, had become the wife of Mr. Hodges.

Arrangements were worked out between the Barbers and my parents that I would stay with them for the school year. For $10.00 per month they agreed to furnish me board and room for five days each week and a saddle horse to ride home to spend the weekends.