CATTLE KATE
CHAPTER 11: I LOVE BEING A HOMESTEADER
They were ugly cows, but I didn’t care.
I was wearing a grey bonnet and a blue work dress, and I stood up straight so I looked like I was ready for business. I crossed my arms across my chest and walked around the small herd, looking like I knew what I was looking for and shaking my head in disapproval now and then to make it look like I didn’t like what I saw.
It was a fine October morning in 1888 near Independence Rock and I intended to relish every moment of this important step in my new life.
“Fales, these are some poor looking critters,” I said, as stern as I could sound. That was his cue to amble over, slow, like there was nothing to hurry about, and take over the lookin’. I went to stand next to the Nebraska wrangler who was trying to sell these straggling cattle on his way to the Territory of Washington. We watched my ranch hand look like these were the worst cows he’d ever seen.
Fales pulled on their ears, ran his hand over their hides, peered into their eyes, smelled them and reached under to heft their balls. I bet no critter had ever been so inspected. Then Fales dropped down on his haunches—his favorite sitting spot, although I couldn’t imagine it being comfortable and knew I’d never get up if I ever got down that far. He rolled himself one of his smokes and sat there like he was thinking the deepest thoughts in the territory.
“They’re in pretty bad shape. Skinny as hell. Ain’t worth much, to my way of thinkin’,” he slowly drawled.
The wrangler jumped in. “I know they ain’t the best, but they’ll fatten up and there isn’t a sore on ’em.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, because we figured he was counting on these cows for the last money he’d see out of W.T. Fales came back with the obvious. “Thing is, they can’t make it all the way to Washington, so if we don’t take ’em off your hands, what you gonna do with ’em, shoot ’em?”
That was my clue that these cows could be bought for the lowest possible price. Fales had told me ahead of time the cheapest I could get these stragglers was three or four dollars a head.
“You wouldn’t just shoot them and let them rot out here in W.T., would you?” I asked the wrangler in my best girly voice, betting he would mistake my concern for a sign of weakness.
Sometimes it’s tiring, how predictable men can be because he bit like a trout on a fat worm.“I’ll tell you what, little lady. I’ll give ’em to you for five dollars a head—now that’s a real bargain because your neighbors been payin’ as much as twenty dollars a head.” To shine his point, he pulled out of his shirt pocket the stub of a pencil and a dirty piece of paper with the handwritten title: “Bill of Sale.” He looked at me like he’d just caught the brass ring, all poised to fill it out with the little lady’s name.
“Maybe,” Fales said slowly, showing he thought the price tag had been gussied up. “Say you got that much. That was for good cows and we all know these ain’t good cows.” Fales stood up from his haunch without the least bit of trouble and flicked away his cigarette stub.
The wrangler screwed up his nose at this intrusion of reality and turned back to me with hope in his eyes that this “little lady” would understand what a great deal this was. I could see he was already counting up his money when I finally spoke.
“I’ll give you fifty-cents a head,” I said in a strong, clear voice. I’d have to be blind to miss the shock on both men’s faces. Fales looked at me like I didn’t know the value of cows on the hoof, and the wrangler looked at me like a woman whose idea of a bargain was getting something for free.
“Fifty-cents!!” he spit out like he’d just tasted rancid stew. “There’s never been a cow sold in the territories for fifty-cents. Ma’am, I know you’re new to this, but you’ve got to be reasonable. Fifty-cents isn’t even a respectable offer. OK, I’ll go to four dollars a head.”
“Seventy-five cents,” I came back, just like I hadn’t heard his scolding.
The wrangler spit on the ground and walked around like he was a dog lookin’ for a place to lay down, pulled off his John B. and threw it on the dirt and acted like he was the most insulted man to ever see dawn in Wyoming Territory. I was finding all this very entertaining.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’ve got to remind you that full grown cows can be worth sixty to seventy dollars apiece and it makes no economic sense—none whatsoever–to think you’d get that kind of return with an investment of seventy-cents. Ma’am, that’s just down right mortifying! The least I could possibly go is three dollars a head.”
I didn’t budge and I didn’t open my mouth. Silence in a bargaining moment can be painful. This was one of those moments. After a minute or two, I even turned like I was going to mount Goldie and ride off without any cows.
“Two dollars,” the wrangler almost screamed to stop me in my tracks and Fales had that pleading look like I’d better turn around because I was stretchin’ the quilt too far. But I didn’t. I took another step or two and the wrangler couldn’t stand it: “Ma’am, if I don’t get at least a dollar a head for these cows, I am going to shoot them, right here in front of your eyes.”
“Sold,” I yelled! I could hardly suppress the giggle building in my happy chest. I took three quick steps back, reached over and took the bill of sale. I filled in the date and signed my name, then folded the paper and put it in my dress pocket. “Fales, give the man twenty-eight dollars cash money, that’s the dollar-a-head he says he wants.”
That wrangler stood there with a mouth so open, flies thought they’d found themselves a hotel.
I turned and walked away. Nobody could see the smile plastered on my face. “Fales, thanks for helping out, and be sure you wave at Mr. Bothwell when you herd these cows past his ranch on the way to my corral.”
And that’s how I, Ella Watson, became a cattlewoman in Wyoming Territory.
Fales would retell that story a thousand times, regaling neighbors with my sheer pluck. I’d always blush a little and aw-shucks it, but I was real proud of myself.
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