FRONTIER TYPES 



97 



one hand, and began pounding his face with a triangular rock held in the 

 other. To the onlookers the fate of the battle seemed decided ; but Cold 

 Turkey better appreciated the endurance of his adversary, and it soon 

 appeared that he sympathized with the traditional hunter who, having 

 caught a wildcat, earnestly besought a comrade to help him let it go. 

 While still pounding vigorously he raised an agonized wail : " Help me 

 off, fellows, for the Lord's sake ; he 's tiring me out ! " There was no 

 resisting so plaintive an appeal, and the bystanders at once abandoned 

 their attitude of neutrality for one of armed intervention. 



I have always been treated with the utmost courtesy by all cowboys, 

 whether on the round-up or in camp ; and the few real desperadoes I 

 have seen were also perfectly polite. Indeed, I never was shot at mali- 

 ciously but once. This was on an occasion when I had to pass the night 

 in a little frontier hotel where the bar-room occupied the whole lower 

 floor, and was in consequence the place where every one, drunk or sober, 

 had to sit. My assailant was neither a cowboy nor a bona fide "bad 

 man," but a broad-hatted ruffian of cheap and commonplace type, who 

 had for the moment terrorized the other men in the bar-room, these being 

 mostly sheep- herders and small grangers. The fact that I wore glasses, 

 together with my evident desire to avoid a fight, apparently gave him the 

 impression a mistaken one that I would not resent an injury. 



The first deadly affray that took place in our town, after the cattle-men 

 came in and regular settlement began, was between a Scotchman and a 

 Minnesota man, the latter being one of the small stockmen. Both had 

 "shooting" records, and each was a man with a varied past. The Scotch- 

 man, a noted bully, was the more daring of the two, but he was much too 

 hot-headed and overbearing to be a match for his gray-eyed, hard-featured 

 foe. After a furious quarrel and threats of violence, the Scotchman 

 mounted his horse, and, rifle in hand, rode to the door of the mud ranch, 

 perched on the brink of the river-bluff, where the American lived, and was 

 instantly shot down by the latter from behind a corner of the building. 



Later on I once opened a cowboy ball with the wife of the victor in this 

 contest, the husband himself dancing opposite. It was the lanciers, and 

 he knew all the steps far better than I did. He could have danced 

 a minuet very well with a little practice. The scene reminded one of the 

 ball where Bret Harte's heroine "danced down the middle with the man 

 who shot Sandy Magee." 



But though there were plenty of men present each of whom had shot 

 his luckless Sandy Magee, yet there was no Lily of Poverty Flat. There 

 is an old and true border saying that " the frontier is hard on women and 

 cattle." There are some striking exceptions ; but, as a rule, the grinding 



