Richmond P. Hobson - Nothing Too Good for a Cowboy

Copyright 1955 by Richmond P. Hobson Jr.

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency is an infringement of the copyright law.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Hobson, Richmond P., 1907-1966.
Nothing too good for a cowboy.

eISBN: 978-1-55199-714-8

1. Hobson, Richmond P., 1907-1966. 2. Cattle British Columbia.
3. Ranch life British Columbia. I. Title.

FC3817.3.H78 1979 971.03 C79-094206-2
F1087.H78 1979

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v3.1

NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR A COWBOY

GRASS BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS

RANCHER TAKES A WIFE

This book is dedicated to GLORIA

IT WAS OCTOBER, 1939. George Pennoyer, iron-jawed boss and general manager of the Frontier Cattle Company, Limited, whose four million acres of controlled range land sprawled across the wild, little-known interior of British Columbia, faced Panhandle Phillips and me in our ground-floor room in the historic Quesnel Hotel, in the Cariboo district of British Columbia. Our bosss face was grave and hard, expressionless to an outsider, but to me, who had known and worked for him, and admired him for so many years, the telltale crinkles spreading like little fans from the corners of his icy blue eyes revealed an unaccustomed sadness.

I shall never forget our bosss words; his sum-up of Pans and my five years with the cattle company. I realized that a major crisis in our lives was at hand.

Sit down, boys, George said. You might as well make yourselves comfortable while I round this situation up for you.

Pan and I shuffled about, neither of us finding a suitable place to sit. Pennoyer came straight to the point.

Boys, he said, the cattle company has blown its capthe layout you buccaroos have thrown yourselves into has exploded like a car of stumping powder Pennoyer paused a minute and pointed to the old-fashioned spring bed in the middle of the room. Grab a seat on that bed. When I get through with you, youll need a good comfortable place where you can lie down and cry.

I moved hurriedly to the bed, awkwardly stepping on the protruding paw of my trail partner, the Bear, a mongrel dog who had thrown in with me several years before.

Pan straddled the brass foot rail, his deeply tanned, long-jawed, Roman-nosed face serious.

Shoot, George, Pan said. I dont think youre going to tell us anything we dont already know, but we want to hear how youre going to cut out the culls.

George lit his old, life-worn pipe. Instinctively he shielded the bowl for a moment with his rope-calloused hand. I noticed his steely blue eyes narrowing to slits. He stared at the toe of his riding boot.

Pennoyer said, The financial backers of the company were making sense on the telephone this morning. They have the right idea when they say that from now on and to the end of the war, it will be impossible to line up enough top hands to carry on with the Frontier layout. Its October now. Our hay crews have left us right in the middle of haying to join up. The war has upset the directors plans and they cant guarantee us any further financial support.

Weve got a smart bunch of purebred cows back there on the range, worth a lot of money to us as breeding stock, but very little as beef. Were going to have to sell a big bunch of those critters to pay off the company debts.

Whoa there a minute, exclaimed Pan. Youre going a little too fast for me, George. Pan snapped to his feet and then ducked under the bed for the case of beer he had hidden there the night before. He slid the beer case out and, snapping off the tops, passed around bottles.

Youll need it, Pennoyer drawled, to fog up your minds.

I felt the tension in the room recede and leaned back on my elbow, took a long gulp of beer, and looked at Pennoyer. Pan restraddled the foot rail of the bed.

George said, Both of you boys are foremen of a layout with great possibilities, the granddaddy of controlled land areas, and I know what youve put into its foundation during the last five years, and what its success means to you both. But the cards just arent stacked in your favor.

Looking at this setup from a purely practical point of view, you boys, with what little help youve gota few Indians, a cowhand or two, and a couple of greenhorns from the citywill be marooned back there on the most isolated, the most remote cattle ranch in North America.

Youre back there two hundred miles by pack horse and wagon trail from Quesnel here, the nearest town. Youll be cut off from any contact with the outside world from freeze-up in November to break-up in Maysix months of the year. You havent got half enough hay to winter the cattle that we trailed in there. You havent got the men to plant at the hay units to feed the cattle this coming winter even if we did have the feed.

George paused for a moment, taking a gulp from his bottle of beer. Pan and I remained silent.

Pennoyer continued: Therere the cattle drives, moving herds from unit to unit through dense jackpine jungles where, as yet, few trails are cut. Youve got to have top mengood riders, men who can handle cattle in rough, dangerous country. As you fellows have already found out, its a rough deal when a herd breaks or stampedes on you in these bushes, not like the open country in the States.

When the company was formed and we had money and men to open up this new country and plant cows on the range, there was nothing to it. But, now that the war has hit, the money and the men have flown away.

George cleared his throat.

To sum up, he said, we havent got the men, the money for this size operation, or the backing, and if you boys tried to carry on youd be risking not only what capital the financiers can still get out of the sale of assetsbut your own lives as well.

George relit his pipe. Again he looked grimly at the toe of his boot.

Then you figure the only sensible, businesslike thing to do is close down now? I asked him.

George nodded his head.

Pan was staring across the room at Pennoyer. He snorted loudly, took a careful drag at his tailormade, and blew smoke through his long nose. He spoke in a twangy, nasal voice.

George, he said, us fellows know youve got to go back to Wyoming to your family, your own ranch and your businesses in Lander. But suppose you was in our place right nowthirty years old. There is gonna be a shortage of beef and the Frontier is waitin back there with cows already belly-deep in grass. Suppose you figured there was a fightin chance. What would you do yourself?

George looked sharply at Pan. His eyes glittered like newly polished steel.