The incident provided local newspapers with plenty of material for the summer of 1883. As fall began to descend on the Badlands, one more event filled the pages of the local newspapers. September 8, 1883, marked the completion of the Northern Pacific rail line to Seattle, Washington, with the driving of a golden spike in Gold Creek, Montana Territory. To commemorate the special event, the president of Northern Pacific, Henry Villard, commissioned a locomotive to carry four luxury private cars holding three hundred guests from the East to the ceremonial location, including former president Ulysses S. Grant. The festooned train, with fluttering American flags, passed through the tiny hamlet of Little Missouri on September 7, as the locals waved, shouted, and, in typical Wild West fashion, fired off rounds from their pistols.
Hours later, no newspapers covered the arrival of another person. No locals came to greet him. No one in the Badlands, at that time, was aware of Theodore Roosevelt.
* For years, the terms buffalo and bison have been used interchangeably in describing these beasts. For the sake of clarity, I have chosen to use buffalo to refer to the animal.
The Dude Goes West
Life is a great adventure . . . accept it in such a spirit.
THE LOCOMOTIVE MADE ITS WAY THROUGH THE DARKNESS IN THE early-morning hours of September 8, 1883, the passenger cars rocking back and forth rhythmically. Anyone who happened to be awake at three in the morning would have seen nothing outside the windows. With no full moon to illuminate the landscape, the view offered nothing but blackness.
The lamp at the front of the locomotive splashed out in a vain attempt to brighten the tracks ahead, but it hardly pierced the onyx of the evening. The temperature was in the low fifties; the air was cold and crisp. Stars glistened in the sky like diamonds against black velvet. As stunning as the area was in the daytime, night offered a mixture of feelings, making one feel diminutive and peaceful, but with a hint of uneasiness that something might be out there. The nighttime silence of the Badlands was absorbed by the vast darkness draping the land.
Slowing as it made its way down the slope and across the bridge that spanned the Little Missouri River, the train eased its way to a stop at the local depot. Unlike most train depots, the one in Little Missouri was devoid of such pleasantries as a waiting platform or porters to handle luggage. The simple rough shack, which handled telegraph messages and little else, was closed up. The waiting platform was nothing but the ground, mixed with sagebrush. Steam hissing from the engine created its own melody as the wheels offered up a massive moan, coming to a halt. The train’s lantern did little to illuminate the endless nightfall. Stepping down from one of the passenger cars, the conductor, lantern in hand, waited for a sole passenger.
The slim, bespectacled young man of twenty-five came down the steps carrying his duffel bag, his Sharps .45 caliber rifle, and a double-barreled shotgun. His face was still showing the effects of a serious bout with asthma and of the cholera morbus he had suffered only a few months earlier.1 The combination of building a new home at Oyster Bay on Long Island and learning his wife was pregnant with their first child had been sufficient stress to trigger another attack.
Waving his lantern to signal the engineer they were clear, the conductor climbed aboard without so much as a glance at the young man. Blowing the whistle, the engineer slowly moved the throttle as the large wheels groaned. The passenger cars, making the familiar sound of clanging and lurching in synchronization, began to roll out.2 Standing alone in the crisp night air, the young man watched as the train made its way along the tall bluffs, its headlamp shining into the darkness as it picked up speed and disappeared around the bend.
He looked around, discerning the faint outline of a few buildings as the cottonwood trees rustled in the wind. Surmising the two-story structure to be the hamlet’s hotel, he picked up his bag and rifles and walked to the building.
Theodore Roosevelt had arrived in the Badlands.
There was no light in any of the hotel’s windows. No clerk on duty. Banging on the door, Theodore kept up this noise until he rousted from the arms of Morpheus the manager of the hotel, the always crusty “Captain” Moore. Opening the door, he offered some of the salty verbiage he had learned as a riverboat captain. It wasn’t until Theodore showed him his letter of introduction from Henry Gorringe that Moore’s tirade subsided and he escorted his guest into the building. For reasons that are lost to history, Gorringe had dropped out of the planned hunting trip, leaving Theodore to travel alone. He had provided the young man with a letter of introduction, as well as alerted his secretary, W. R. Wright, to see to Theodore’s needs.
Climbing up the stairs, the manager waved a hand at the only cot available. A few fellow guests may have grumbled their dislike of being awakened, but Theodore paid them no mind. Nor did he look too carefully at the bed or the well-used pillow. Tired from his long trip, Theodore rolled into the blanket and slept.
Breakfast in all Western towns begins early—very early. The fourteen guests at the Pyramid Park Hotel had all the luxuries one could expect out West: one washbasin and one towel for all to share. By the time the guests had made use of the water and towel, it resembled the Missouri River’s nickname, “The Big Muddy.” After cleaning up, they stampeded down the stairs to the long table and benches, where breakfast would be served. Conversation was minimal, if any at all. Manners did not matter, and a timid soul was apt to wind up with little on his plate. Breakfast in most Western establishments consisted of pancakes, biscuits, bacon, eggs, and an ample amount of coffee. Depending on the location and how civilized the hotel and cook were, steak, fresh fruit, and even preserves could be offered.
With his breakfast consumed, Theodore stepped outside the hotel to see Little Missouri in daylight. What met his eyes that morning were steep slopes and a bottomland that greeted the banks of the Little Missouri River. No doubt it filled him with a romantic feeling of the Wild West he had read about. The landscape enveloped him with wonder. The magnetic beauty of the area, the lyrical sounds of the cottonwood leaves blowing in the wind, the enchanting melody from a meadowlark, and the comforting sound of a babbling river ignited his emotions.
Gorringe’s secretary, W. R. Wright (“a wide awake Yankee,” as Theodore called him), had had the young man’s belongings moved to the company ranch house, where, as Theodore noted in a letter to Alice, he had “a room to myself and am very comfortable.” Wright then took him for a horseback ride to show him the landscape. (Gorringe had probably ordered Wright to do this, with hopes of enticing Theodore to invest in his hunting lodge.) Theodore described the land as “a very desolate place, high, barren hills, scantily clad with coarse grass . . . a few stunted cottonwood trees.” The washouts, he noted, would deepen into great canyons in some areas, while the steep cliffs, “a most curious formation,” were everywhere.3 He also saw the growing town of Medora, which by the time of his arrival had an assortment of tents dotting the area mixed in with wood-frame buildings in various stages of completion. Slightly west of the town-in-progress was the Marquis’s slaughterhouse, a series of buildings with a tall brick chimney, set to open within a few weeks.
Although the horseback tour was entertaining, Theodore was anxious to get started on his hunting trip. Wright introduced Theodore to Frank Moore, the son of the manager of the Pyramid Park Hotel, as someone who might help to locate a guide. Unlike his father, Frank was a genial man willing to help anyone, despite his fondness for the bottle. Frank quickly suggested Joe Ferris, the superintendent of Gorringe’s cantonment stables, as a likely candidate.
Joe Ferris was a year older than his potential client. A native of New Brunswick in eastern Canada, he sported a typically long Western mustache on a wide face with strong cheekbones and a nose that gave him a no-nonsense look. He had come west, along with his brother, Sylvane, to find employment. They had taken jobs clearing wheat in the Red River Valley area near Fargo in 1880.4 It was there that they had crossed paths with Bill Merrifield, a Quebec native, and the three young
men struck up a friendship that lasted until their deaths. Learning that the Northern Pacific Railroad was providing free transportation to any passenger willing to work on the frontier, the trio quickly boarded the next train, landing in Little Missouri in the summer of 1881. What they did not realize was that a return trip on the rails would cost five cents a mile, so the three were effectively stranded in this small outpost. They worked as section hands until the jobs were completed, then made arrangements to cut cordwood for the railroad from autumn through the winter of 1882. After that, Joe and Sylvane took jobs at the cantonment stables, while Merrifield hunted game for the railroad.
Joe Ferris took one look at Theodore and flatly refused.
Theodore was just another Eastern dude coming to the West to play frontier hunter, Ferris thought. He sensed the dude wouldn’t be able to stand a long hunting trip, and he himself would have to serve not only as guide but as nursemaid. It was not the type of job Ferris wished to take. In addition to being a dude, Theodore’s glasses were a negative setback. To Westerners, a man who wore glasses, especially at such a young age, was looked upon as somewhat defective, a cross Theodore had to bear in his younger years. “When I went among strangers,” he wrote in his autobiography, “I always had to spend twenty-four hours living down the fact that I wore spectacles, remaining as long as I could judiciously deaf to any side remarks about ‘four eyes,’ unless it became evident that my being quiet was misconstrued and that it was better to bring matters to a head at once.”5 Whether it was Theodore’s persistence, or the money he offered, Joe Ferris finally gave in and agreed to guide the dude to find his buffalo.
Ferris and Moore discussed the best place for a buffalo hunt, especially for a bull, deciding it would be wise to head to Gregor Lang’s ranch and start from there. Lang, a friend of Ferris’s, would let them bunk at his cabin, a perfect spot to serve as a base. Loading a wagon with provisions, Ferris and Theodore left in the late afternoon, with Ferris hoping to find a buffalo and get rid of his charge in short time. As they crossed the ford near the train trestle, the two men discovered that Theodore’s Sharps rifle had a broken hammer. Ferris stopped at the cabin of Eldridge “Jerry” Paddock, who supplied Theodore with a new part, as well as lending him another buffalo rifle.
Over the years, there has been a question about which rifle had the broken part. Hermann Hagedorn claimed that it was a Winchester, but that company never manufactured a buffalo rifle. Prior to his trip, Theodore had written in a letter to Gorringe that he had a .45 Sharps rifle, and in his Hunting Trips of a Ranchman (1888), he commented, “When I first came to the plains I had a heavy Sharps rifle . . . and a 50-calibre, double barreled English express [shotgun].”6 Author Carleton Putnam suggested that the Winchester Hagedorn mentioned may have been Theodore’s “faithful old standby,” the 1876 Winchester Centennial model (.45-75).7 It is possible that the hammer, or the firing pin, may have been broken on his Sharps rifle, and that is why Paddock lent him another. There is no documentation that Theodore was carrying his Winchester, and Hagedorn may simply have mistaken the Sharps for a Winchester.
They forded the Little Missouri several times, and as the wagon creaked along, Theodore found himself mesmerized by the landscape. A wide valley would open to them, followed by high buttes close enough to touch. Cottonwood trees lined the riverbank, a sure sign of water for any novice to notice. Seven miles later, the two men arrived at the Chimney Butte ranch run by Joe’s brother, Sylvane, and Bill Merrifield. Sylvane was the same age as Theodore; Merrifield, the senior man of the trio, was twenty-eight years old. Although they had a minimal education, the three men were all literate and known for their honesty and forthrightness. Wanting to cash in on the growing cattle business, Sylvane and Merrifield leased land from Hiram B. Wadsworth and W. L. Halley, two ranch owners from Minnesota, and added a few horses and head of cattle in 1882. The two owners made a deal to supply 150 additional cattle; in exchange, the young men would act as superintendents.8 Sylvane and Merrifield named it the Chimney Butte Ranch, but people in the area called it the Maltese Cross, because of its brand.
Joe introduced Theodore to the other two men, who treated him coolly. They were not impressed, naturally thinking that he was just another dude coming west to play cowboy.
The cabin was a small, one-room shack with three beds, a table, few chairs, and a dirt floor. Behind the cabin was a chicken coop and a horse corral. After dinner, the four men played a card game of “Old Sledge,” which started to break the ice. They dropped their cards when the chickens in the coop raised a ruckus over a visiting bobcat. Rushing out the door, they found nothing but a few highly agitated chickens and returned to their card game. During the game, Theodore asked Sylvane and Merrifield if he could have the loan of a saddle horse, because the idea of sitting on the bench seat of a creaking wagon was not his idea of seeing the West. Both Sylvane and Merrifield were unmoved by the dude’s pleas and began to get suspicious of his request. They replied they had none to lend him.
“By gosh, he wanted that saddle horse so bad,” Joe Ferris later recalled. “We were afraid to let him have it. Why, we didn’t know him from Job’s off ox. We didn’t know but what he’d ride away with it. But, say he wanted that horse so blamed bad, that when he saw we weren’t going to let him have it, he offered to buy it for cash.”9 Theodore took ownership of a buckskin mare he called Nell, his first Western horse.
While the trio was somewhat impressed by this dude when he offered to buy the horse, they really began to question their first impression of him when it came to bedding down for the night. Theodore refused to take one of their bunks, happy to roll up in his blankets and sleep on the dirt floor.
As dawn broke over the hills, Joe and Theodore were on their way toward Gregor Lang’s ranch. It took them all day and into the early evening, crossing the Little Missouri River at least twenty times, before they reached the shallow Little Cannonball Creek.
Fifty yards from where the creek hooked up with the Little Missouri stood Gregor Lang’s ranch. Lang had arrived in Little Missouri with his sixteen-year-old son, Lincoln, that spring on behalf of London capitalist Sir John Pender. Gregor, a Scotsman who had settled in Dublin, Ireland, had knowledge of raising cattle and was a business acquaintance of Pender’s. As he had been doing with other potential investors, Henry Gorringe had spoken to Pender about the money to be made in the growing cattle business in the Dakota Territory, especially in his hunting lodge project. Pender was a shrewd businessman, and so asked Lang to go to America, namely the Little Missouri area, and report on Gorringe’s proposal.
In New York City, Gorringe met Lang, accompanied by his son, Lincoln, with a cold detachment. He had hoped Pender would arrive with cash in hand to invest, not send an underling to investigate the area. The Langs departed New York in early April for Little Missouri. Quickly assessing that Gorringe’s proposal was fraught with headaches, namely “Captain” Moore’s questionable accounting practices, Lang advised Pender against entering any business deal. Pender swiftly replied that he would provide the capital for Lang to purchase a ranch and the necessary cattle for their own enterprise.
As the sun was setting behind the hills that September evening, Gregor and Lincoln were about to have dinner when they heard the rumble of the buckboard wagon approaching. Stepping into the doorway, Lincoln made out the beefy build of the driver as Joe Ferris, even before he shouted hello.10 The rider on the pony was a complete stranger.
“To the rear, sitting on a pony, with a rifle lying across the saddle in front of him, was a second individual of lighter build,” Lincoln later wrote. “I could make out he was a young man, who wore large conspicuous- looking glasses, through which I was being regarded with interest by a pair of bright twinkling eyes. Amply supporting them was the expansive grin overspreading his prominent, forceful looking lower face, plainly revealing a set of large white teeth. Smiling teeth, yet withal conveying a strong suggestion of hang-and-rattle, the kind of teeth that are made to hold anything th
ey once close upon.”11
Gregor Lang stepped through the door and past his son to greet the two men. When introduced by his father to Theodore, Lincoln was greeted by the familiar “ Dee-lighted,” grasping the boy’s hand with both of his in a hearty handshake. “I don’t know if it was the direct, forceful manner of his speech, his sincere hearty grip, the open friendly gaze with which he regarded me, or something of all combined, that instantly reached for and numbered me among his friends,” Lincoln recalled.12
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 6