Feb 2, 1905, New York World, page 1
KING OF THE COWBOYS
ELLSION CARROL of Oklahoma, is the champion steer roper of the United States. Mr. Carrol wrested the "belt" from his good friend, but bitter rival, Clay McConagill, of Texas.
No prize was fought more fiercely. Thousands of spectators cheered themselves into a frenzy and declared the battle to be the greatest ever waged. Wherever cattle and Cowboys congregate, the title of champion steer roper is looked on as the highest honor a man can wear. The cowboy who can claim it and hold it is a king.
And Mr. Carrol, of Oklahoma, has the title and a purse of $6,000 with side bets of nearly as much again. Both Ellison and Clay are the modern type of cowboys, hale, hearty fellows, good natured and happy. McConagill is over six feet high, proportionately strong and weighs about 180 pounds, while his rival is three inches taller and tips the scales at 210 pounds. They are both well off and own their own cattle ranges.
An incident occurred during the contest here which shows the true spirit of good fellowship that exists between cowboys, even when big money and a championship of the world are at stake. After McConagill broke two lariats on one steer and started back to his corner for another, his opponent, Carrol, came riding out with his own rope for his unfortunate competitor. Both men smiled as the lariat was handed over and Clay said, "Much obliged old man."
Mr. Carrol made the marvelous record of roping and tieing twenty eight steers in 18 minutes and 58 1/5 seconds. Mr. Carrol rode three different horses during the tournament-- Jack Hill, Red Buck and Necktie. Jack Hill threw one steer after Mr. Carroll left his back.
Sun Monitor JAN 7, 1904
A TEXAS GREEN HORN
The prophet hath prophesied: yea he hath held his breath, pulled his hair and spoken again and again! But all his prophesies have come to naught.
Looking back three, four, five years ago we see white covered "schooners" coming over the prairie from Texas and the south, or from Kansas and the north. Now and then one from Arkansas or the Indian Territory, and in fact from everywhere. But see them as they came across the border.
See the poor horses, the little ragged children, the careworn father and mother, even the dog looks melancholy and sad. But, they are led on and on by the hope of a home, a free gift from Uncle Sam.
Now, we see the prophet (the big ranchers who were here before the homesteaders) as he spied the "newcomers" and hastens to fill his mission here below. He looks sad, wearing his long face, just filled up for the occasion, with his sombrero and big boots and spurs--an ideal prophet.
After asking the head of the family "where ye from?" "where ye goin?, and with a knowing look,-- for the prophet must look wise,-- he proceeds to deal out his knowledge of "old Greer" in magnificent style to his attentive listeners. With great earnestness he tells of the hardships, the suffering of the innumerable home seekers, then stretches himself and tells of the "gip water" which is a slow but sure death: and then "the great drouth" when every one moved off and left their machinery setting idle in the field, and how the cattle all nearly died and the prairie dogs did die by the thousands, and then finished by telling the poor people that "they never have any schools and taxes are high, winds his bridle reins around the saddle horn and calmly rolls a "sig."
After he has secured a light, he puffs a moment, then as he is about to go, gives a piece of advice of great value. "You'd better look after your hosses, stranger, fer some fellers hosses ramble off mighty sudden sometimes in this ere noo country." Then the prophet is gone in a cloud of dust down the road, having done his duty well.
In a few days we see the father building a dugout, his "hosses" are staked out nearby and he is using every member of his family, from little "Jimmie" to "Pollyann" to erect that dugout. When some how or other, the grass gets afire on the north of him, and by a scratch, he gets his outfit to a neighboring prairie dog town and don't loose anything only grass. Let us leave him here, facing every obstacle with a grim determination to stay or starve, 'tis useless to try to tell how he got through that first year for he or no other man can tell how it was done.
Let us draw aside the curtain after five years have passed, years of toil 'tis true, but what different picture. A good house, a wind mill, a good barn, a fine farm, good wagons, buggies and farm implements, good horses, fat cows, hogs. And just look at those boys and girls, well fed and clothed, stepping out into young manhood and womanhood with health, happiness and an independent air which says of itself that they are indeed an independent people, subject to no land lord. Then we see the father after he has returned from Mangum, he is reading his patent from Uncle Sam, to Polly and the children, after which he turns and we hear him say, "Polly get the book," after a chapter is read, we see them bow around that family alter.. Let us leave them there and turn again and look for our prophets.
Where, Oh! where are they? The answer is that Greer with her 50,000 bales of cotton, her miles and miles of railroad, her splendid towns and hundreds of school houses and churches with all of her happy prosperous homes is no good for the prophet and he has vamoosed or lost his job.
Corn in the crib
Money in the pocket
Gravy in the dish
And yaller bread to sop it.
With Teddie in the chair
And McQuire on the fence
The Monitor up in Mangum
We get our recompense
Hurrah for "old Greer" and her sturdy sons of toil as well as amen to Uncle Sam.
TEXAS GREEN HORN, ESP
A TEXAS GREEN HORN
Forty or fifty years ago, when I was a boy, I remember seeing great wagon loads of buffalo hides pass along the road in front of our house in Texas, and how well I remember, too, hearing the hunters tell about killing them, all the different methods used, etc.
How many air castles I built about hunting buffalo when I "growed up," but alas, when I got to be a man, the buffalo were all gone---where? Only a horn here and there tell us of the great herds which once lived on the "great plains".
Then the deer and antelope followed and now, it is a rare thing to hear of one where only a few years ago thousands roamed the country. Next on the hunters' program of destruction was the wild turkey until now, you can't find one. How many times have we seen them killed just for "sport".
Then, prairie chicken was the game and the sport soon made them so scarce that, now, we never hear them call to their mate in the spring.
We have now with us, but one species of game destroyer and he will be the last of his kind, for there will be no game to slaughter when he quits. The quail hunter is the party I have in mind. When he passes off the stage of action no more "thoroughbred sports" will come to the surface and the rest of humanity will get a rest. The gentlemen in question in his yellow leggings, rides out from town in a buggy with a dog, a smart dog too, that knows his business better than his master. He has a fine gun and like to prate about his shooting and the records he has made. He gets out of his buggy, ties his "hoss" to a fence post and gets over in a field and soon you see birds fly. Pop, pop, pop goes the gun, down comes the poor little birds and the fellow tells the nester that he is out for a little sport and there is no "harm in killing the birds."
The farmer, (nester) tells him to move on, he don't want his birds killed and the sport, goes but he is huffy and swears about the law, the "nester", the everything and in fact thinks he is the only chap in the country.
We see these fellows all over the country, they are clerks, hobos, barbers, bartenders, bankers and toughs. They would get insulted if you ask them if they were hungry and wanted the birds to eat.
You ask them why they kill? "Oh, just for sport, for pastime and for practice," they tell you. Of all the pests that ever came into the country, these fellows are the worst. Why don't they kill prairie dogs, or black birds, field larks, or something of that kind? Because they would be doing a kindness. But, when you get them cornered and find them in your field, they will tell you they are hunting rabbits, here they tell a lie.
I long to see the time when it will be a penitentiary offense to kill one little quail, for the time is not long when they will go like many other branches of game that are now extinct.
We have only a few birds left and they will soon be gone. The coming generation will not know what a quail looks like if these "smart alecks" ain't shut off some way
TEXAS GREEN HORN, ESQ. RUSSELL, OKLA.
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