To guard against the restless condition of the cattle, so fatal to the success of a drive, there was put in practice one of the most curious customs of the range, and one in regard to which there exists even to-day something of diversity of opinion. The herd was rarely if ever left out of the hearing of the human voice, and it was considered a necessity at night to "sing to the cattle," as the peculiar process of vocalization was termed. The cattle when bedded down were timid and suspicious to a degree, and the sudden appearance of any strange object might set them off in a run. They might take fright at the dim form of one of the herders coming up in the night, though if they knew it was the herder they would not be frightened but reassured, through that vague and ill-understood feeling of dependence these half-wild creatures certainly had for their human masters. The night herder in riding about the bedding ground always kept up a low humming or singing, to let the cattle know of his presence, and the cowboy who could not or would not sing was inadequate in his profession. The "hymns" were sometimes of sacred air and profane words, and sometimes of compounds of both, but it was certain that some sort of this music was in course of rendition throughout the night. "When one watch went in to sleep and another set of men came on duty the new men in riding up to the cattle always prefaced their approach with this odd psalmody of the plains. Let us suppose that our friend the cowpuncher is called from his slumbers at midnight to take his turn at watching the cattle on a bedding ground along the trail. He arouses himself from his hard couch on the ground and goes after the horse which he has kept picketed as close at hand as practicable. If the weather has been threatening, he has perhaps, in common with every other man of the outfit, kept his best horse saddled ready for sudden call. If the weather is mild, he cinches up his unwilling and sulky steed and at once starts for the edge of the herd. The air of the high plains is chilly, and a tenderfoot would need an overcoat, but the cowboy probably does not even button his loose coat at the neck, and his flannel shirt is hardly caught the tighter at the throat when he rolls out of his blankets to take the saddle. His slicker is tied at the cantle of his saddle. Sleepily but methodically he takes up his round, calling to the cattle as he comes up to the herd. He rides slowly around them, sometimes stopping as he moves about the edge of the herd. Each gully and grassy swale, each bit of broken ground or ragged hillside is scanned closely as he moves about in the dim light. This may be country where there are men quite willing to run off a few head of cattle or to create a stampede. There may be Indians about, whose demands for toll have not been satisfactorily settled, and who are not averse to making a little trouble, even to the extent of a quiet arrow or so. Or there may be wild animals, whose presence will frighten the herd. The sudden appearance of a wolf on the outline of a hill may bring a hundred steers to their feet with snorts of terror. The sharp cracking of a twig may cause a sudden fright. It is of record that the appearance of the full moon, rising between the two peaks of a cleft hill and shining red and large over into a little valley that had been quite dark till then, once caused one of the most uncontrollable of stampedes. The aim of the cowboy is to prevent any cause of fright which can be prevented, and to give what courage and comfort he can of his own store in case any unusual or terrifying circumstances arise. Timidity relies on courage always. That thing does not walk the plains which shall terrify this bold soul, born and bred upon the range. The night has no secrets for him, nor the day any terrors. He is not afraid, and the cattle know it. He is the guard and protector, and they know it, even though they may fear him. So on and around he rides slowly, humming his little song, now a sweet one, let us hope, often not a good one, we may fear, and all the time he keeps his eyes open for anything and everything going on about him. "Under the moon or the stars or the black sky, he fulfills the requirements of his wild calling, patiently and faithfully, shirking nothing and fearing nothing, doing his duty not more because he is paid to do it than because he would not feel himself a man up to the standards of his calling if he failed to do his duty in every detail.
At daybreak the camp is astir, the men rolling out of their blankets to the cook's cry of "Grub pi-i-i-le!" The hot coffee is gulped down and the rude fare goes into stomachs well able to withstand it. Ten minutes later the outfit is in the saddle. The blanket rolls, loose hobbles or such odds and ends are tossed into the cook's wagon; the hobbled horses, which have not wandered far during the night, are caught up, and each rider saddles the horse whose turn he thinks it is to carry him, the others going into the horse herd for the day. The sun is barely up when the long line of cattle is again on the move, slowly working to the northward, grazing, walking spasmodically, stopping, or plodding steadily along, according to the conditions of grass and water. Sometimes it is necessary to push the herd sharply along to reach water, for on the trail the cattle need water more regularly and more often than on their feeding range, where the cactus may give them some liquid, and where their blood is not heated by continuous exercise. If water is found often, the cattle will drink with something of regularity of order and in safety, but if there has been a long and thirsty march there may be a horrible crowding stampede to the stream or water hole, and many of the weaker animals may be crushed to death.
There were no bridges on the trail of the old drives, and all streams had to be crossed by wading or swimming, as the case might be. Often it happened that the cattle would not take to the water, and sometimes it was hours or days before a herd could be got across a swollen river. The most difficult thing in such an emergency was to get the leaders of the herd started
into the water. Once that was done, the rest would follow without further trouble. The line of march for this indomitable cavalcade was the same in the water as upon the land. As upon the land, the cowboys in the river remained at intervals along the flanks of the herd, their hardy ponies swimming strongly under them. Sometimes in the water, as upon the land, a sudden panic would seize the herd, and they would fall to "milling" in the water, swimming round and round helplessly, to drown in scores if no remedy were found. Then again the hardihood of the range rider was called upon. Without a moment of thought or hesitation the cowboy spurred his swimming horse into the thick of the tossing heads, and by shouts and blows did all he could to break the "mill" and get the cattle headed properly. Often unhorsed and threatened with death among the plunging animals in the water, he was forced to swim out as best he could, sometimes scrambling upon the backs of swimming cattle, sometimes catching a floating tail and impressing it into service for a temporary tow. The rope of the cowboy came into full play in these exciting and perilous episodes. With it he pulled cattle out of the water or the quicksands or the mud, whether they wanted to come or not, the fierce little ponies seeming to know as well as their riders what was needed, and exerting a power which, thanks to the heavy and well-cinched saddle, was something remarkable to witness. Both horse and man had enough asked of them at such seasons of stress, and it was with great relief that the trail outfit saw the last of their herd, or at least the last of those left alive and under possession, across the stream and ready for the further march. Sometimes, at such a river as the Platte, on the north drive to the Territories, there would be a dozen herds piled up on the river shore in a distressing confusion, from which' the heart of a States drover could see no possible extrication; yet patience and courage of the cowpuncher sort certainly brought each herd out in order, with only such loss as the river inflicted. The eye of the cowboy was keen to detect the brand of his herd, and his pony was swift and the rider was tireless. So the great herd worked on, always to the North, over obstacles of every sort. In course of time the herd, dusty, footsore, perhaps thin of flesh and reduced in numbers, arrived at its destination. This might be far up on the northern range, in Wyoming or Montana, or it might be at some of the lurid little cow towns along the new railroad. Perhaps in the latter case the owner of the herd found no buyer to suit him, and very likely he lost money after all his weary effort. Sometimes it was necessary to hold the cattle on the Kansas range over winter, and indeed at the time of the feeling against Southern cattle on account