The day at the ranch begins early, for by daybreak the men have slept enough. There is little to induce them to sit up late at night. Sometimes a trapper or wolfer stops at the ranch, and there may be spirited games inaugurated over the well-worn and greasy pack of cards, the currency being what money the cow-punchers may have, together with due bills against their coming pay day, these perhaps staked against strings of coyote feet and wolf scalps which are good for so much bounty at the county seat. Of reading the cowpuncher does hut little, and his facilities for obtaining literature are very limited. The periodicals reaching the cow camp are apt to be of the sensational, pink-tinted sort, with crude pictures and lurid letter-text. His books are too often of much the same type, though at some of the ranches there may be some few works of fiction of a better sort. Whatever the books at the ranch may be, from society novel to farrier's guide, the cowpuncher reads them all over and over again until he is tired of seeing them. Not having much more to do of an evening, he goes to bed. It is supposed by some misguided souls that when the so-called wild cowboys of a ranch have met at night after the close of their exciting duties the scene at the ranch house is one of rude hilarity and confusion. Really quite the opposite of this is true. The interior of a ranch house of an evening offers rather a quiet and orderly appearance. Liquor is something rarely seen there, because it comes very rarely, and does not last long when it comes. As a rule, the cowpuncher is rather a silent man, though not so silent as the melancholy sheep herder, who rarely endures the terrible monotony of his calling for more than seven years without becoming insane. A cowboy who is very "mouthy" is not usually in high repute at a cow camp, and one disposed to personal brilliance or sarcastic comment on the peculiarities of his fellow-men is apt to meet with swift and effectual discouragement. Rude and unlettered though he be, and treating his companions with a rough and ready familiarity, the cowpuncher yet accords to his neighbour the right to live the life and go the gait which seems most pleasing to himself. One does not intrude upon the rights of others in the cow country, and he looks to it very promptly that no one shall intrude upon his. In the cow towns or at the cow camps one never hears the abusiveness or rude speech common in the older settlements. On the range, especially in the earlier days, if a man applied to another an epithet which in the States would be taken as something to be endured or returned in kind, the result would have been the essential and immediate preparations for a funeral.
In all countries where the home is unknown and the society is made up of males altogether, the men grow very morose and surly, and all the natural ugliness of their dispositions comes out. They are more apt to magnify small slights and slips, and more apt to get into trouble over small matters of personal honour. Upon the other hand, the best possible correction for this tendency is the acknowledged fact that it is not personally safe to go into a quarrel. It was never safe to quarrel on the cow range.
The cook, of course, is the first one up about the camp, and he "makes the breakfast" in his own room. The toilet of the cowpuncher is simple, and, after he has kicked off his blankets, it is but a few moments before he is at the table eating his plateful of beef or bacon and beans. The meal does not last long, and those which follow it later in the day are much the same. The city club man is fond of wild game as an adjunct to a good dinner. The "granger" sets oysters and ice cream as the highest possible luxuries of life. The cowboy thinks of fresh green vegetables in his epicurean dreams, and he longs for the indigestible pie of civilization. Any pure cowpuncher would sell his birthright for half a dozen pies. The cow cook can not make actual pies, only leathery imitations encasing stewed dried apples. One remembers very well a certain Christmas dinner in a little far-away Western plains town which cost two men twenty-five dollars, and which consisted of some badly cooked beef, one can of oysters, a frosted cake, and five green onions, the latter obtained from somewhere by a hothouse miracle. This dinner was voted a very extraordinary and successful affair. The men at the ranch house are not averse to an occasional change in their diet, and fresh game is appreciated. Deer, antelope, wild turkey, and sometimes smaller game often appeared on the menu of the ranch in the old days, but big game is scarce now over most of the range, and small game has rarely had much attention from the cowboys, who, as a rule, do not at best do a great deal of hunting.
After breakfast, if this be in the winter season and in a cold Northern country, the first work is attending to the riding horses kept in the stables, which are in such a country a necessity. Behind each horse in the stable is a long wooden peg, upon which hang the bridle and saddle. Each man has his own place reserved, and resents any intrusion upon his rights as to saddle, bridle, and rope. One man may use freely the tobacco or whisky of a fellow-cowpuncher, but he may not touch his rope, quirt, or other parts of his riding outfit. Of course, one man will not want to use another's saddle. "I wouldn't ride a mile in that thing o' yourn fer the best heifer that runs the range," says the cowpuncher, referring contemptuously to the prized saddle of another. "I'd plum have a misery if I had to ride yourn," is the reply.
Part or all of the horse herd will not be kept up at the ranch house, but will be watched, so that their whereabouts will be known. A man may be sent out in the morning to bring in the horse herd, and then ensues one of the most picturesque events of the day. The bunch of horses comes up on a gallop, urged by the cowpuncher behind them. All sorts of horses are in the collection, all of them rough of coat and hard of form, and not one of them has a pleasant expression of countenance as he turns into the ranch corral, with his ears drooping and his eye rolling about in search of trouble. Inside the corral each horse runs about and dodges behind his fellows when he fancies himself wanted, doing his best to escape till he actually feels the circle of the rope, when he falls into meek but mutinous quiet. The cowpuncher leads him out, and throws on his back the heavy saddle, the pony meanwhile standing the picture of forlornness and despair, apparently upon his very last legs and quite unfit for travel. To his airs and attitudes the cowpuncher gives no attention, but proceeds to cinch up the saddle. As he begins this the pony heaves a deep, long breath, which converts him temporarily into something of the figure of a balloon. The cowpuncher knows what this means, and, putting his foot against the side of the pony, he gives a quick, strong pull on the girth, which causes the pony to grunt in a grieved way and to lessen his size abruptly. The hind cinch is not drawn tight, for in regard to that a cow horse feels that it has certain rights to breathing room which even a cowpuncher is bound to respect. In any case, the pony may pitch a little when the cowboy swings into the saddle, especially if it has not been ridden for some time. It may do this because it is happy or because it is not happy, but the cowpuncher does not pay much attention to it unless it be very violent, in which case he may join the yells of his companions as the pony goes thumping stiff-legged over a dozen yards or so before it settles down.
The conventional picture of a cowboy shows him going at a sweeping gallop over the plains, his hair flying wildly and his horse venire a terre, its eyes bulging out in the exultation of speed. Sometimes the cowboy rides hard on the round-up or when he comes to town, but when he sets out across the range on his day's work at the ranch he does not spur and gallop his horse. He goes at a steady, ceaseless, choppy little trot, which it tires the life out of a tenderfoot to follow all day. This short trot is a natural gait for the cow pony, and it will maintain it for a long time if not crowded too hard. These little horses make very enduring driving horses when broken to that work, and a team of them has been known to pull a light wagon eighty miles in a day's drive — a feat which would be impossible upon Eastern roads and in the Eastern atmosphere.
As Jim, our cowpuncher, rides along on his day's work, quite alone, of course, he sees many things which the tenderfoot would not notice. He notes where a deer has crossed the ranch road, where the wolves have been playing in the sand, where the "bob cat" has walked along the muddy bank. He sees the track of the horse which crossed, and can tell whether