In Bar U Country.

by

"Middle Fork"

Having tried farming on a small scale in England, I thought I should like a change. A gentleman and his wife who came to look at the house and farm I was leaving, said, you're just the man for Alberta. After making enquiries I found that Alberta was a newly-opened territory in the Dominion of Canada, situated just east of the Rocky Mountains. The C.P. Railway was then opened in a way, that is to say, trains ran through when convenient. I read "The Beef Bonanza," "Go West," sheep and cattle ranching books and pamphlets by numbers, and in two months I had sold out of my farm and gone to Canada, as an emigrant for the railway journey, but with a first class ticket in the steamer.

The gentleman before mentioned had given me a letter of introduction to the gentleman managing the cattle and horse ranch he was partner in. He told me I should find him a capital host, but leading a rough life, shewing me a letter in which the manager said he was getting pretty comfortable, had a wooden floor down in the kitchen, and if things turned out well hoped to have a looking glass next season.

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On board ship I met another man going out to the ranch country to take charge of a cattle ranch; he agreed to travel "emigrant" with me. My idea at that time was all for sheep. He was all cattle. On board ship the usual things happened, except that we had two very curious passengers, one, a young man, came on board with the London mails in Ireland, and never appeared again except an hour or so on in the dark, on deck, until we got to Canada.

The other was a man who was gifted with great musical powers; he said he was a glass blower, but he played and sang beautifully; his peculiarity was unbounded confidence. He would tell you all his history, declared he carried all his fortune in his pocket, pulling a few sovereigns and what looked like a bundle of notes from his pocket, saying there were some thousands there, but somehow I never believed a word he said. His wife was with him; she also was a very good musician; they were amusing, very amusing.

At Halifax we disembarked. After the usual tedious preliminaries the train started; we found ourselves in a car, of the emigrant class, full to overflowing with Germans, Russians, Dutch, Norwegians, Icelanders, Irish, English, and Scotch. Our nearest neighbours were in front, a family party of, I believe, Norwegians. I could not speak a word to them, but soon got friends with the children. On the seat behind me was a settler returning after a visit to the old country, with a large bundle of fruit and rose trees, which he guarded with the greatest care.

The outlook from the windows was one perpetual sheet of snow, forests, clearings, and towns. Truro is one of the principal stations, and I believe that is where the condensed milk factory and mines are. At Quebec we missed the train on purpose and so missed the emigrants, went on to Montreal where I had an introduction to the manager's brother. On the way between Montreal and Winnipeg, we made the acquaintance of a Canadian cattle dealer, from whom my companion afterwards bought some 800 heifers.

In the course of ten days we reached Calgary, the chief town of Alberta, and got lodgings in a widow's house who had some very attractive daughters, so attractive that they could hardly find time to do the work, so many admirers had they. Keeping these poor young men at peace with each other, and with themselves, was so engrossing an occupation that, I am sorry to say, they could not find time to keep the house as clean as was necessary.

There was no snow or very little at Calgary. After a couple of days waiting, I was at the Post Office one morning when I saw a man I guessed to be "The Manager" I was going to visit, and it was, dressed in a blue serge shirt, with a pocket on the breast; the shirt made double breasted, a "Sombrero" (broad-brimmed hat) on his head, with a leather band around it, and a belt of substantial proportions, his trousers inside high boots, and with all a man some 6 feet 3 inches high and of great strength. I felt convinced "that's my man" and it was.

In due time I was introduced to a real "old timer," whom I will call Tom [Lynch], Tom was a considerable horse owner and had a square mile fenced in, besides several thousands of acres of open grazing and was then pretty well fixed. Tom is fond of a gamble and loves a horse race. Just the very man to have a fast team in his top buggy; and he had a pair of grey mares, one of them stanch and steady, the other a flyer, but if the breeching touched her down hill she stopped dead. We were in a spider-wheeled buggy not much heavier than a wheelbarrow. The way we flew down the sides of the canons (pronounced canyons) was a caution. The only way Tom could put the break on was to run the wheel up the bank first here and there and keeping the steady one back as much as possible. But Tom could drive, and had just enough whiskey in him to make him amusing, but not too much. The flighty-tempered one took us two hours to start after we had stopped about 11 o'clock at night for some supper.

On the road I found Tom had a great wish to go to a cowboy dance at one of the stopping places. He meant to take me to his house first and then go five miles to the dance; as there was no hopes of our getting to his house before 1:30 a.m., and it was a 40-mile drive, I said he must go straight to his friends at the dance, and leave me to enjoy myself how I could. After some persuasion we went to the dance straight, Tom got me a bed, put some of my belongings on it and disappeared, I am very much afraid, to the gambling saloon.

It was about 1:30 a.m. when I was ushered into the presence of all that constitutes a cowboy's ball, as far as surrounding and circumstances permit. To the right of the door as I entered are the ladies. The ladies only; they ranged from 12 years of age upwards, very proper. In the left hand opposite corner was the band. A fiddle, banjo, and another like a banjo. All was so devoid of amusement that I went into the gloomy back premises and found the "grub pile." I had supper again, emerging when I heard the music.

The music was the signal for the men to come. They came slowly from the gambling and drinking saloon opposite. All spiritous liquours are prohibited in Alberta; so they are sold on the sly only, but there was very little sly this night. The men came. There was Mike, the Dutch Kid, the Bald Faced Kid, Mexican Bill, the Black Kid, and others; not all with nicknames by any means, but they being strange struck me most. One Kiddy was drunk. I mean so drunk as to be rather incapable. His language was as strong as his drink had been, others by dint of soft words and strong arms, removed him to the opposite house to get quite drunk, for fear the ladies should be offended if he returned.

Then up they stand to dance, not merely as a rule, but in a solemn business like way, the ladies holding a handkerchief by its middle in the right hand, held delicately; one or two pairs were more lively . But the whole soul of the party is the man with the banjo. Up he jumps, out into the middle of the floor. Nodding his head to keep time, playing away sometimes in the usual position, then over his head, behind his back, anywhere. I don't know where he did not put his banjo still playing and shouting, "Take your places," "Take your places."

The banjo man on this occasion was master of ceremonies, the proper one having sent a message across to be excused. Every figure is danced by order. After they have fallen in the music begins, banjo nodding his head, beating with his foot, elbow and looks, in fact he seemed to be beating time all over. Then the moment comes, the order is given, and off they start, any one knowing enough clapping their hands at the stopping time. Now enters the real master of ceremonies, in black evening clothes and white kids, all the other men being in only store clothes. He is a funny man evidently, takes one of the ladies ruthlessly, shunting her other "feller," she is evidently delighted. He gives his orders loudly such, "Sashay right and swing your heifer," "Alla mang." What it all meant I don't know.

After a couple of dances I went to bed. About three o'clock a man got into my bed, saying he had been sent there as all the other beds had three men in each. At four o'clock the ball stopped and a third man got into our bed.

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The next morning Tom appeared and introduced me to the manager foreman, who was then with his bride and her sisters. The male portion of us drove off to Tom's house in a snowstorm. Here I met the manager and a young man working for him, whom I will call "Henry." After a good meal, Henry and self started out in a freight waggon full of eatables for "The Ranch," about 20 miles journey. The manager and myself walked nearly all the way. All the snow had gone, it was a lovely day, about zero in temperature, but a nice bright sun.

Now I thought to myself, I wonder if the house I am going to is more rough than that I had seen, for I remembered, "If things turn out well I hope to have a looking glass." Almost VA hours after dark we got there. In the half-light the place appeared a village right through; about !4-of-a-mile on the west side was the manager's house. I was rather surprised when I got inside. I was introduced to his wife, another lady, their cousin, for husband and wife are cousins also and such a nice, warm, comfortable room, delightfully furnished.

The walls, covered with pretty cotton prints to hide the logs, and photographs, pictures, Indian bead work, horns, and such like nick-nacks covering the walls. Tables covered with all the latest American and English periodicals, books and papers, numerous easy chairs, and last, not least in an Alberta winter, a huge self-feeder stove in the middle. I have now known that ranch and its inhabitants some years, and owe them many and many a pleasant day; and the looking-glass was there. I have often laughed with them over the wooden floor and the glass. The manager was playing tough to the people in England. When he first came out he lived tough for several years and, had not his wife come up with him, he might still be on an earth floor.

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After a day or two at the ranch, I heard they were going to gather beef, so I asked the foreman, who was to take charge of the party, if I might gather beef also. "Dog-gone me," says he, "of course you may; but we live mighty tough on these round-ups." I told him I should like to go, and went. The foreman's bride gave me breakfast that morning and stuffed doughnuts into my pockets. We saw two or three bands of ranch mares whilst riding across. John [Ware] was my companion most of the way--a black man with a white heart the men say. I found him a most entertaining friend, for he was born a slave.

That night we put up in a one-roomed house with three beds in it. The foreman and a manager of a neighbouring ranch had one bed, the two occupants of the place the other, a butcher's cowboy and myself the third, John and Sammy on the floor; four more of the party had been left at a hut where we dined.

Now, John, has a wonderful dread of a mouse, rat, or snake. This was such a curious co-incidence that I several times at long intervals questioned him on it. Any real danger such as horse breaking, putting a fighting steer in the train, or knocking down men, John delights in, but a mouse terrifies him, he says. When we arrived, Sammy said he had a tame muskrat in the house. John says, "What's that?" Sammy kept on chaffing about it. Some game was "put up" I could see.

The last man in has to put out the light. John was the last. He was just under the blankets when "phut" went a boot on him. Out he flew, saying, (no, I won't write it), lit a lamp, and fussed over everything, looking for the muskrat. The boot had, of course, been removed by Sammy.

The next morning we started out, all being distributed in the proper way, the neighbouring manager and myself being the centre, the outriders driving all cattle in to us, we moving along with an ever increasing herd until about noon we arrive in a bottom where the others had collected a large herd. The two gangs united make a bunch of some 2,000 head.

The butcher and two of the principal hands go into the herd, the others ride round and round the outside. The ones inside select fat steers, and fat barreners, drive them at a walk to the outside, and then rush them clear of the bunch. This is "cutting out." The cut out ones are kept separately by our horsemen. When this bunch has been well looked over, all the riders form a half circle round the doomed ones and they are started away; a few more are picked up on the way to the corral where they are to lodge that night. Then off we go for the ranch, having been in the saddle from before dawn to after dark that day without any food, and 8 or 9 hours the day before.

Then I went to look at the sheep country, passing through Calgary again and going 40 miles beyond it. I was four days with the sheepmen. I went there in fine weather, but I saw a shepherd who was used to going out with the sheep daily, wrapped in many sheep skins, with a pot of frozen coffee, a bundle of resinous wood, and a pot of glowing charcoal to keep his hands warm.

Bah! I didn't like sheep. The one continued ba, ba, I am told, drives men mad, and I don't wonder at it. I gave up the idea of sheep.

I returned to the ranch. When on invitation to another large ranch where several horses and some thousands of cattle are kept, and spent ten days there most pleasantly. I then went back to the ranch again and said goodbye to them all, going on invitation to a third ranch, where I was detained by a heavy snowstorm.

I could have got away, but my luggage had not come and the trains did not run for a few days. This was in February and March. On the 25th March the break up of the frost came. All the country was melting. Several of us went into Calgary, and again put up at the same lodgings, it being almost Hobson's choice then.

Two other instances of the same choice come to my mind. One related to the railway travelling, though in this case there are two choices. Traveller, arriving in station for dinner, sees only bacon on the tables. Says, "Bacon, it's always bacon." "waal," says mine host, "if you don't like bacon there's mustard." The other was between my friend the manager and Henry herein mentioned. Henry had not been behaving quite as he should it seems, being in Calgary one time with his boss.

On their starting to return to the ranch at an hour which would certainly land them at midnight on the familiar "bald-headed prairie," Henry asks after lunch (lunch is any meal eaten out of doors any hour). "I have plenty," says the manager, jumping up. Off they went, about midnight. The waggon stopped on the highest and bleakest part of the road. The manager unhitches, feeds the nags, and spreads his buffaloe preparatory for a snooze. "Where's the lunch?" says Henry. The manager pulls out two onions from his pocket. "Like an onion," says he. "I hate them," says Henry. "I eat both," says the manager, and does so. A pause. "Where's the lunch?" asks Henry. "I've eaten it," says the boss, and lays down under his buffaloe, I expect smiling.

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Such was my emigration. I went back to England satisfied with a country which could produce fat steers on the bare prairie in March. I was in England 21 days, and out there again with cattle of my own in June.

Today [1890] there are daily trains, both east and west; sumptuous dining and sleeping cars, and travelling is quite luxurious. The ranches are more or less the same; some very civilized, others as rough as ever. One of the little huts we stayed at when gathering beef has grown into a most important fenced-in ranch. Another of them has been amalgamated with an adjoining company. It was quite empty, with most of the roof off, when I last saw it. Another room I spent several happy days in has been burnt to the ground. The scene of the dance has been the subject of a lawsuit. Calgary is a flourishing town, with many nice villa-like houses, electric lights, large hotels, and plenty of improvements.

Thoroughbred, Hackney, and Clydesdale stallions are now comparatively common, bands of 700, and even 1,000 horses are owned by one ranch.

The wolf and the redskin are the two remaining indigenous species of any size, and in many instances the wolf is preferable. In this assertion, though, I except the Stony Indian, who I always found a very decent person.

Editor's Note: When this article was first published in the Western Times, Exeter, Devon, on February 25, 1890, the author wished to remain anonymous. However, evidence would indicate that it was probably written by William I. Ikin, who settled on the middle fork of the Highwood River in 1884. In that year he bought three hundred head of cattle from Tom Lynch and built a cottonwood cabin three miles below the Bar U Ranch. In later years, he was known for breeding fine Clydesdale horses. He died at High River in 1921. To date, no other name has been brought forward as the possible author of the article.