New Spun Yarns From Across the Big Divide

There was a saying in the Old West, “There’s nothin’ dumber than sheep except the man who herds them.” Cowboys and sheepherders seldom mingled. In many cases, they plumb didn’t care for each other’s society. Said lack of friendship stemmed from the lack of affection between the critters themselves.

The injun truth is most cattle would rather die of hunger or thirst than graze or water where sheep have been. And by the time the stockmen’s range wars began, those dirty little buggers had been almost everywhere, most often takin’ the best waterin’ and grazin’ spots. In some states, both breeds of stockmen took to expressin’ their views with their guns, and more often than not, the sheep raisers took second money. There was a practice among cattlemen called “cookin’ mutton,” which meant settin’ fire to a sheep-grazin’ range to drive out a sheep outfit.

Let’s saddle our imaginations for a short ride and fancy that cattle and sheep honest to John did enjoy each other’s company. Wouldn’t we still see as much difference between the two breeds of stockmen as we see between cattle and sheep? Cowboys always rode the best horses their roll could buy, but sheepherders mostly traveled on foot. A cowboy would almost rather herd sheep than be caught afoot. But then again, sheepherders didn’t travel much. They couldn’t leave their sheep to fall prey to wolves, coyotes, bears, lions, renegades, and low-down sheep rustlers.

A few times a year, the owner of a sheep outfit would give a sheepherder a day or two off if he could find another man feeble-minded enough to guard the sheep. The sheepherder would walk to town with his dog and drink in whatever saloon would allow his dog to enter. For a long time, sheep dogs were more welcome than their masters in most saloons, but by now, town laws began to ban dogs from these distinguished drinkin’ establishments. So a few saloon owners, probably former sheepherders, built sheds out back for sheepherders’ dogs.

When cowboys hit town after weeks of roundin’ up or drivin’ cattle, they weren’t slow to find a saloon with poker games and the society of the gals they called “painted cats.” But most sheepherders would seek a quieter saloon and drink alone—except for the society of their dogs when welcome—until their roll was gone. Then they’d sleep off their drunk and return to the companionship of their sheep for a few more months.

Of course, there were always a few sheepherders who did seek the society of a painted cat, but such a rendezvous was as risky to a sheepherder as ridin’ a green bronc. Often the barkeeps were in cahoots with them painted cats. They’d slip a drug into every sheepherder’s drink to make ’em fall dead asleep quick as the painted cats could lure ’em upstairs, and while their lights were out, said painted cats would lift their roll. Sometimes a sheepherder would lose a few months’ pay in the hold-up.

Sheepherder Bill had lost his roll in this fashion more than once, but he still wouldn’t quit them painted cats. He allowed the way to side-step a sheepherder’s fate was to disguise himself as a cowboy. The next time he walked to Billings, he tracked into the Montgomery Wards store and bought him a ten-gallon hat, ridin’ boots, California-made cowboy trousers, a flannel western shirt, an orange vest, a blue bandana, and a pair of crooked-shank spurs. Dressed as a mail order catalog on a spree, he pointed his muzzle into a waterin’ hole called Bob Nix’s Saloon.

Bearcat Williams, foreman for the N Bar outfit, had just blown into Nix’s fresh off the trail with his herd of gritty riders when Sheepherder Bill trundled in and ordered a round for the house. Bill told everybody he’d just ridden down from Alberta where he’d been ridin’ brand for an open-range cattle outfit. Of course, any thoroughbred Montana cowboy can tell a true rider and roper from a Monkey Ward cowboy at forty paces. Besides, they well savvied a cowboy smells like a cowboy and a sheepherder smells like a sheepherder, same as a horse smells like a horse and a sheep smells like a sheep.

“Some deck must be shy a joker,” a rider told Bearcat.

“This Alberta joker smells like a sheepherder to me,” another chipped in as Sheepherder Bill ordered a second round for the house.

“I could see wool around his eyes the second he ambled in,” another rider stacked in.

“It’s a cinch he’s a sheepherder masqueradin’ as a cowhand,” Bearcat agreed. “But as long as he’s payin’ for our drinks, let him play out his hand.”

After Bill’s paid for three or four rounds, in blows Lou Hankins, trail boss for the Bird Head outfit. Bearcat tells him, “This here’s Alberta Bill. He’s been ridin’ brand for an outfit across the border.”

Bearcat throws Hankins a wink to tip him off that everybody’s ridin’ this Monkey Ward cowboy to rope onto free drinks. But somehow Hankins don’t see that wink, and he puts up, “It’s a load of corral dust he’s been feedin’ you, Bearcat. This four-flusher is one of Charlie Bair’s sheepherders.”

“No, that can’t be so,” bluffs Bearcat.

“I reckon it is, sure as the hills,” Hankins stacks in. “I’ve seen him herdin’ every time I’ve rode out there to scare old man Bair.”

“Impersonatin’ a cowboy is a hangin’ offense in Yellowstone County, Mr. Sheepherder,” a rider antes up.

“Let’s stretch his neck from the rafters of this ceiling,” another chips in.

“I’ll trail out and fetch my lariat,” another raises him. “You punchers fetch hold of him and heft him on top of a stool.”

“Wait a minute!” Bearcat orders ’em. “Before we swing him off, this man gets a gambler’s chance for his ante. We’re no lynch mob here. Let’s conduct ourselves like a fair and just vigilance committee and hold a trial. Barkeep, the cards fall to you to appoint a judge, a nine-man jury, two lawyers, and two bailiffs.”

The barkeep wasn’t slow to appoint Bearcat to be judge. The cattle boss camped in a chair behind a card table and hammered on the table with the butt of his Peacemaker.

“Order! It’s time to shuffle, deal, and open this game. Bailiffs, bring forth the accused.”

Two stalwart young bronc busters hefted Bill by the upper arms and planted him in front of the judge. Bearcat opened the game with, “Sheepherder Bill, you are hereby accused of impersonatin’ your betters. How do you plead?”

For a moment, Bill said nothin’. Bearcat broke the silence with, “In this court, silence is a plea of guilty. If that’s your choice, I’ll send for a lariat.”

“Innocent, Your Honor,” the accused decided to plead.

The judge dealt, “The chief witness for the prosecution will start the bettin’. Lou Hankins, the play is to you.”

Hankins bowlegs up to the jury and puts up, “Three times I’ve had to ride out to Bair’s spread to warn him about waterin’ sheep upstream from our cattle. Every time, I’ve seen this man tendin’ Bair’s sheep.”

“Now the play is to the defense to place its bets,” deals Judge Williams.

Sheepherder Bill’s lawyer antes up, “I’d like to cross examine the witness, Your Honor.”

“Permission granted.”

The lawyer leads with, “Mr. Hankins, are you sure you ain’t mistakin’ Alberta Bill for some sheepherder who favors him?”

“It it was this man, I tell ya. I’d know his ashes in a March wind.”

“Then you must have stacked him up very close as you rode past.”

“You betcha’.”

“Why did you want to size him up so close?”

“I had a feelin’ he’d need hangin’ some day.”

“I see,” said the lawyer as he stepped closer to Hankins. He planted himself in front of Hankins so Lou couldn’t see the sheepherder and said, “Since you eyed the accused so thoroughly, surely you noticed the mole on his face. Can you tell us where it is?”

“I didn’t see no mole,” Hankins snorted back.