Next morning, the other party struck the trail, but something had happened to Bill’s feet, and he was two days before he could get his boots on, and, as we had to eat something every day, our provisions again became perilously low. However, when we did catch the other party up, they had been sitting a corresponding number of days on the bank of the next river. Perhaps the saying “We’re from the Black Hills, we ain’t no tenderfeet” did get rubbed in a bit. That was in return for all the hot air Bill and I had to put up with when away from water, and I must admit I got a certain amount of fun out of pulling their legs, anyway.
For the last week before striking civilisation, provisions completely petered out, and we lived on the inner bark of jack pines and sourdocks. This inner bark is mainly resin, and as none of us had used a razor since we had started the trail, we all had pretty good healthy beards, which, when mixed up with this resin, turned them into useful doormats. Still, we were not bothering about our outward appearance, so much as out inward feelings, and great were the rejoicings when we met an outward bound outfit, on the same quest from which we were returning. We were able to trade a rifle, and ammunition, for some good old sow-belly, beans, and tea, and had our first square meal for a month.
Bill and I actually arrived back in Edmonton with our horses, a rifle, half a cup of rice, and three cents between us. At that time Edmonton was full of returned prospectors as a result of the great disaster which had befallen the overland trail. It was a saying in those parts that you could find your way from Edmonton to the Klondyke, via the overland trail, by the bones of men and horses that had died by the way. Very little was heard of it outside the country, in fact, the north is notorious for its silence, both of nature and man. A more silent man than the Hudson Bay trapper and trader, and the old time prospector, it would be hard to find.
Many outfits set out from Edmonton on this terrible overland trail with little or no idea of what they were going to run up against.
One amazing ass started on a bicycle, with bottles of Bovril strapped on behind.
The trouble commenced in the earlier days, when they got away insufficiently “grub staked.” Having gone so far and taken such an appalling time to cover the distance, which on paper, of course, looked trifling — they found themselves with insufficient provisions to complete the journey. Many would push on and on, in the faint hopes of the trail improving and their being able to make better time; also, in the fond hope of finding game. Very nearly everybody was confident they could rely on the country to replenish their larder. At last, when the bitter truth was borne in on them, they were truly between the devil and the deep sea. With the Rocky Mountains, forming an impassable barrier on one side, and the prairie with its muskegs and lakes on the other, they, like us, just had to decide whether or no they would push on, or face about and go back. Naturally, an outfit would push as long as ever there was the slightest chance, and often, even longer. Then, in final desperation, they would at last be driven into turning back, both men and horses by this time terribly emaciated and weak, through hardships and short commons. They would then meet an outward-bound outfit, who, by the unwritten law of the North-West, could do no less than grub stake them; that is, give them sufficient to eat for a few days at least. This act automatically lessened the outward bound outfit’s chances of getting through and so the bad work went on, outfit after outfit, pushing away north, having to reduce their own stock by helping those who were starving on their way back, only to land in the same predicament themselves. The cumulative effect almost beggars description.
It should be borne in mind that it was not a case of just a few men, but of thousands. The total number will never be known, but to my mind, it would be no exaggeration to say that at least ten thousand men lost their lives on the overland trail. Outfits, made up of experienced men, well provisioned, frequently with a sectional boar and every contrivance that years of experience in that country could suggest, came to grief; their whole expedition sapped and crippled, in efforts to save others.
I was invited to join up with an outfit of this description when first we arrived in Edmonton. Their supplies ran to a full ton, not including the sectional boat they had. These men were real old timers and I should have been one of their party, only for the fact that I was an utter greenhorn, and did not realise, until it was too late, that an invitation though given in seemingly quite a casual manner, was meant in all seriousness. By the time I did wake up, I had made arrangements with my own chum and the others to forge our own trail.
As it turned out I should not have been a scrap better off anyhow, for, despite their experience, none of them were ever heard of again.
Yes, Edmonton was full of men just broke to the world, who had what they stood up in, and absolutely nothing else. So when Bill and I got back with all our worldly wealth comprised in the half cup of rice and three cents, it was not long before I hit the trail for happier hunting grounds.
We decided in the circumstances, it was best for us each to play his own hand, so we parted, and within a week I found myself cow punching on the prairies.
There were three or four of us cowboys with some thousands of head of cattle to look after. Here again was a new experience. A happy life; a careless life. The stars for your blanket, the prairies for your bed, and your horse still your best friend. Cook what you have with you, when you can and how you can. Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, nothing much to do so long as long as you keep your eyes open, and the cattle well under control. But heaven help you when one of those brief, but terrific thunderstorms comes down and stampedes your bunch.
Some of these are fairly big horned beasts, and, in their maddened stride, will rip up a horse like a piece of tissue paper. There is only one thing to do and that is to get to the leaders of the rush, and head them off. You work away from the wind, and so you throw the head round, forming a huge circle, until, finally with luck, the head of the stampede catches up with the stern. At that moment it is very necessary to be on the outer rim, for as one end catches up with the other, so they form literally a gigantic whirlpool and the whole lot run up together in one solid mass. Not infrequently, a good bit of damage is done, but that cannot be helped. You will know all about the damage if you happen to be on the inside. Then there is only one way you will get out and that is by walking across the backs of the steers; but you can say “good-bye” to your horse. This went on for a few weeks, till, sitting by the camp fire one night, smoking and thinking things out, I realised that what I had set myself out to do, namely, to make just enough money to grub stake myself and to then head off again into the mountains, was impossible, partly because I had determined this time to try the west side, where there is less water and more gold.
The ordinary life led by a cowboy doesn’t tend to gather in the shekels, or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it isn’t conducive to keeping them. Every so often a bunch of steers has to be taken to the railway, or somewhere near thereto, and having disposed of them, the temptation to “blue” one’s hard-earned wealth, in one great and glorious spree is usually too great to be withstood. Not necessarily a drinking spree, because, actually, there is little of that done in Canada.