Soapweed
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From the book
HI, STRANGER! Get Off Your Horse and Come In Get Off Your Horse and Come In
By Joy J. Fairhead (published sometime during the 1970's, there is no copyright). Grace Fairhead Moreland was Steve Moreland's grandmother, and Joy J. Fairhead was her brother.
[World War I had just ended in 1919]
It wasn't long until I got my discharge. I went home, and went to clerking in a store, but as spring came on I hated to stay inside.
During the war we had a potash plant start in our town (Merriman, Nebraska); it supplied work for about 300 people. I worked as a tester. We tested soils, lakes, and ponds to find where the most potash was. That spring a fire started in the factory, and our plant burned to the ground.
In 1917, as I said before, my father sold his ranch and he and several other ranchers started a bank—American State Bank of Merriman. All went fine until the war ended. Cattle got real high priced during the war. Cows were selling for $125 to $150. Within a year, cattle prices dropped to where a cow was only worth $25 each. People who had borrowed and bought high priced cows came in and said, "We owe $80 on those cows, and they are only worth $25; come and get them." The bank went broke, but my father and the bankers (ranchers) paid off all depositors. No one but they took a loss, but it nearly broke Dad and his friends.
Since we had no ranch to go back to and seeing no progress in working out, we [Joy and his brother Leigh] began to look around. Just previous go going to the service, the government opened up the Pine Ridge Reservation to settlement. Land could be leased for a five year period, and there were some Indian lands for sale.
We had rode all over the reservations and remembered the wonderful grass lands up there. Wheat grass was over knee high, and there was over a million acres without a fence for 60 miles to the north and not a plowed field. It was a rancher's paradise, or so we thought, so Leigh and I picked out an ideal place for a ranch. We were the first two white boys to buy and lease lands between Martin, South Dakota, and Vetal, South Dakota, a distance of 25 miles.
We bought near Dead Man's Lake and leased around 3,000 acres. We each built a little home, and fenced in our leased lands. There wasn't a sign of life for miles, except wild horses, a few cattle running loose, and lots of bird life. What appealed to me was all the range horses running in small bunches—mostly 25-40—mares and colts and a few stallions. These horses carried many brands. Each spring and fall the Indians had a big round up. They would gather all the horses, usually there would be a thousand or two or three thousand, then they would brand their colts with the brand their mothers carried if she belonged to one of those represented in the round up. All strays were cut out, and all yearling colts not branded were also cut out. Then each Indian got to take his turn putting his brand on those allotted to him. Then they would turn these horse loose and the next morning start on gathering horses for that day, branding until all the district had been covered These horses consisted of little old Indian pony mares to real good horses carrying a lot of breeding. The Indian government was shipping in good stallions, Morgan, quarter horse, and hot bloods. These studs were kept at Pine Ridge issue stations, Porcupine, Allen, Rosebud, and many other boss farmer stations on the reservation. Then many ranchers, as the Cravens, Pouriers, Lesserts, DuBrays, Bullards, and Wards, all had studs which they turned out on the range and raised the best saddle horses.
This was the spring of 1919, April 15th. I was staying with my brother, Leigh. Our dad had come out to see us. Leigh had gone to Merriman with the freight wagon, and an awful blizzard came up. We had a team of horses in a yard, so I went to let them out. On my way back to the house I got lost and had to follow the fence around until I got back to the house. You just couldn't see a thing. The next morning after the storm, the sky cleared, and the sun was shining, but it was awful cold—around 10 degrees below zero. The wind was blowing, and there was a ground blizzard, with snow blowing about four feet above the ground.
There was a knock at our door. I opened it, and a rancher, Albert Lamb, was there. We asked him in. He asked if we had seen a bunch of steers go by. We said, "No, the storm was so bad we couldn't see a thing." I asked him to stay for breakfast. We put his horse in our 'straw shed' and fed him oats and hay. I made some coffee and fried some eggs and bacon. He told us he and his men had just taken 1,200 head of two and three year old Hereford steers to Pass Creek to summer range, and had bedded them down and gone home. When the storm came up, they drifted south.
I told Mr. Lamb I would go help find the cattle. We put on our chaps and sheepskin coats, and rode to Little White River. There we found two hundred head of steers grazing, but they had mud over their backs and tails. We also found a bunch of horses all covered with frozen mud. We headed back and found a thousand big steers in Dead Man's Lake, all frozen in. These 1,200 steers had probably followed the bunch of horses as they broke a trail through the snow, had hit the lake and drifted in, breaking the thin ice. The horses and 200 steers waded through the lake, which was shallow. The other thousand steers must have stopped about a hundred feet from the bank, started to mill, going round and round until they were packed like sardines in a can.
Mr. Lamb and I saw them from a hill and he thought the cattle were around a hay stack. I was sure they were in the lake. When we got there, Albert said, "Oh my God, Joy, see where they are?" I replied, "Let's ride out to them." We started, but our horses were breaking through. Albert said, "Those cattle are hungry." They were bawling, like asking for help.
Albert said, "If we could get a load of hay, we could coax them out." So we rode home, got a wagon, and pulled up to a stack, which someone had made, and got a part load of hay. We went back to the lake and threw out the hay, but the cattle had given up. We then rode back to our place, and got a stacker rope and some heavy potash wire. By that time an Indian cowboy of Lamb's had shown up. His name was Bat DuBray. I broke a trail out through the ice and put the rope over the head of one of the steers. My dad and Albert hooked onto the wire, which was on the end of the rope, and they would pull the steers onto the bank. Some of the steers died pulling them through the water, others got mad and chased the men on shore after the rope was taken off.
Bat would bring the rope out to me, and I would hook onto another steer's head. We thought if we loosened up the cattle they would walk out, but they wouldn't. I would walk around on their backs, they were so tight together. We pulled out nearly a hundred head, but about half of them died by getting water into their lungs. It was cold and my overshoes were icy. If a steer bucked, I'd fall off his back into the lake. The water was cold and muddy and only about four feet deep, but I'd crawl up onto their backs. The water was warmer than on top, but I was afraid of getting tromped down under their feet.
After getting out nearly one hundred head, we thought we had loosened them up enough. The men all waded out to see if we could drive the cattle out. We beat them, yelled, and drove out about 25 head, but by that time the main herd was all tightened up again. A few were dead, and night was coming. We were freezing up. We gave up at dark and rode home through the cold. Our chaps, Levi's, and underwear were all frozen in one piece. Such a mess of frozen mud, ice, and frozen men you have never seen. My legs were numb for over a month. I surely felt sorry for Leigh when he got home that night. We had thawed out our clothes on us, with a fire in his stove. Water and mud was all over his one room shack.
The next morning we rode back to the herd, but about half of the cattle were dead. They were so numb that only a few bawled. We knew there was no chance to get them out, so we didn't try. We had had it! Mr. Lamb with his partner, A.T. Davis, lost over 900 head of steers worth $150 each. It broke both of them.
Word got to the Omaha World Herald of this tragedy, and it was published in papers all over the USA. Mr. S.T. Mapper of Norfolk, Nebraska, heard of this loss of livestock, came up and bought the hides on these cattle. He sent word all over the reservation for Indians to come and they could have the meat, as all he wanted was the hides. Two weeks later there was a thaw. The cattle were frozen in water. More than a thousand Indians came. They dragged the steers out of refrigeration, skinned them, and soon there was jerked beef over wagon tongues, wheels, and rope fences. The jerked meat was meat sliced real thin and dried. They ate or cured everything but the bones, including the stomach, gut, liver, and meat.
Mr. Lamb and his partner borrowed and restocked their range, but the decline in cattle prices broke them again
HI, STRANGER! Get Off Your Horse and Come In Get Off Your Horse and Come In
By Joy J. Fairhead (published sometime during the 1970's, there is no copyright). Grace Fairhead Moreland was Steve Moreland's grandmother, and Joy J. Fairhead was her brother.
[World War I had just ended in 1919]
It wasn't long until I got my discharge. I went home, and went to clerking in a store, but as spring came on I hated to stay inside.
During the war we had a potash plant start in our town (Merriman, Nebraska); it supplied work for about 300 people. I worked as a tester. We tested soils, lakes, and ponds to find where the most potash was. That spring a fire started in the factory, and our plant burned to the ground.
In 1917, as I said before, my father sold his ranch and he and several other ranchers started a bank—American State Bank of Merriman. All went fine until the war ended. Cattle got real high priced during the war. Cows were selling for $125 to $150. Within a year, cattle prices dropped to where a cow was only worth $25 each. People who had borrowed and bought high priced cows came in and said, "We owe $80 on those cows, and they are only worth $25; come and get them." The bank went broke, but my father and the bankers (ranchers) paid off all depositors. No one but they took a loss, but it nearly broke Dad and his friends.
Since we had no ranch to go back to and seeing no progress in working out, we [Joy and his brother Leigh] began to look around. Just previous go going to the service, the government opened up the Pine Ridge Reservation to settlement. Land could be leased for a five year period, and there were some Indian lands for sale.
We had rode all over the reservations and remembered the wonderful grass lands up there. Wheat grass was over knee high, and there was over a million acres without a fence for 60 miles to the north and not a plowed field. It was a rancher's paradise, or so we thought, so Leigh and I picked out an ideal place for a ranch. We were the first two white boys to buy and lease lands between Martin, South Dakota, and Vetal, South Dakota, a distance of 25 miles.
We bought near Dead Man's Lake and leased around 3,000 acres. We each built a little home, and fenced in our leased lands. There wasn't a sign of life for miles, except wild horses, a few cattle running loose, and lots of bird life. What appealed to me was all the range horses running in small bunches—mostly 25-40—mares and colts and a few stallions. These horses carried many brands. Each spring and fall the Indians had a big round up. They would gather all the horses, usually there would be a thousand or two or three thousand, then they would brand their colts with the brand their mothers carried if she belonged to one of those represented in the round up. All strays were cut out, and all yearling colts not branded were also cut out. Then each Indian got to take his turn putting his brand on those allotted to him. Then they would turn these horse loose and the next morning start on gathering horses for that day, branding until all the district had been covered These horses consisted of little old Indian pony mares to real good horses carrying a lot of breeding. The Indian government was shipping in good stallions, Morgan, quarter horse, and hot bloods. These studs were kept at Pine Ridge issue stations, Porcupine, Allen, Rosebud, and many other boss farmer stations on the reservation. Then many ranchers, as the Cravens, Pouriers, Lesserts, DuBrays, Bullards, and Wards, all had studs which they turned out on the range and raised the best saddle horses.
This was the spring of 1919, April 15th. I was staying with my brother, Leigh. Our dad had come out to see us. Leigh had gone to Merriman with the freight wagon, and an awful blizzard came up. We had a team of horses in a yard, so I went to let them out. On my way back to the house I got lost and had to follow the fence around until I got back to the house. You just couldn't see a thing. The next morning after the storm, the sky cleared, and the sun was shining, but it was awful cold—around 10 degrees below zero. The wind was blowing, and there was a ground blizzard, with snow blowing about four feet above the ground.
There was a knock at our door. I opened it, and a rancher, Albert Lamb, was there. We asked him in. He asked if we had seen a bunch of steers go by. We said, "No, the storm was so bad we couldn't see a thing." I asked him to stay for breakfast. We put his horse in our 'straw shed' and fed him oats and hay. I made some coffee and fried some eggs and bacon. He told us he and his men had just taken 1,200 head of two and three year old Hereford steers to Pass Creek to summer range, and had bedded them down and gone home. When the storm came up, they drifted south.
I told Mr. Lamb I would go help find the cattle. We put on our chaps and sheepskin coats, and rode to Little White River. There we found two hundred head of steers grazing, but they had mud over their backs and tails. We also found a bunch of horses all covered with frozen mud. We headed back and found a thousand big steers in Dead Man's Lake, all frozen in. These 1,200 steers had probably followed the bunch of horses as they broke a trail through the snow, had hit the lake and drifted in, breaking the thin ice. The horses and 200 steers waded through the lake, which was shallow. The other thousand steers must have stopped about a hundred feet from the bank, started to mill, going round and round until they were packed like sardines in a can.
Mr. Lamb and I saw them from a hill and he thought the cattle were around a hay stack. I was sure they were in the lake. When we got there, Albert said, "Oh my God, Joy, see where they are?" I replied, "Let's ride out to them." We started, but our horses were breaking through. Albert said, "Those cattle are hungry." They were bawling, like asking for help.
Albert said, "If we could get a load of hay, we could coax them out." So we rode home, got a wagon, and pulled up to a stack, which someone had made, and got a part load of hay. We went back to the lake and threw out the hay, but the cattle had given up. We then rode back to our place, and got a stacker rope and some heavy potash wire. By that time an Indian cowboy of Lamb's had shown up. His name was Bat DuBray. I broke a trail out through the ice and put the rope over the head of one of the steers. My dad and Albert hooked onto the wire, which was on the end of the rope, and they would pull the steers onto the bank. Some of the steers died pulling them through the water, others got mad and chased the men on shore after the rope was taken off.
Bat would bring the rope out to me, and I would hook onto another steer's head. We thought if we loosened up the cattle they would walk out, but they wouldn't. I would walk around on their backs, they were so tight together. We pulled out nearly a hundred head, but about half of them died by getting water into their lungs. It was cold and my overshoes were icy. If a steer bucked, I'd fall off his back into the lake. The water was cold and muddy and only about four feet deep, but I'd crawl up onto their backs. The water was warmer than on top, but I was afraid of getting tromped down under their feet.
After getting out nearly one hundred head, we thought we had loosened them up enough. The men all waded out to see if we could drive the cattle out. We beat them, yelled, and drove out about 25 head, but by that time the main herd was all tightened up again. A few were dead, and night was coming. We were freezing up. We gave up at dark and rode home through the cold. Our chaps, Levi's, and underwear were all frozen in one piece. Such a mess of frozen mud, ice, and frozen men you have never seen. My legs were numb for over a month. I surely felt sorry for Leigh when he got home that night. We had thawed out our clothes on us, with a fire in his stove. Water and mud was all over his one room shack.
The next morning we rode back to the herd, but about half of the cattle were dead. They were so numb that only a few bawled. We knew there was no chance to get them out, so we didn't try. We had had it! Mr. Lamb with his partner, A.T. Davis, lost over 900 head of steers worth $150 each. It broke both of them.
Word got to the Omaha World Herald of this tragedy, and it was published in papers all over the USA. Mr. S.T. Mapper of Norfolk, Nebraska, heard of this loss of livestock, came up and bought the hides on these cattle. He sent word all over the reservation for Indians to come and they could have the meat, as all he wanted was the hides. Two weeks later there was a thaw. The cattle were frozen in water. More than a thousand Indians came. They dragged the steers out of refrigeration, skinned them, and soon there was jerked beef over wagon tongues, wheels, and rope fences. The jerked meat was meat sliced real thin and dried. They ate or cured everything but the bones, including the stomach, gut, liver, and meat.
Mr. Lamb and his partner borrowed and restocked their range, but the decline in cattle prices broke them again
