The Hired Man - part 2

(Cont. from last week)

by R. H. Bemis

(Originally published in the

Hysham Echo on Sept. 30, 1926)

He was fond of recounting to his help the exploits of the hired men of the former generation, much to the disparagement of his listeners, who accepted the criticism with becoming meekness, though with reservations. The present day farm has had to listen occasionally to the same comparisons and probably nurses similar mental reservations. The old time farmhand knew his stuff and the same may be said of the modern day shoveler. With both the job after all, is but temporary. No farm hand expects to labor all his life for someone else and as a matter of fact, few of them do. The job itself perhaps offers little in the way of advancement but the very nature of it builds up the character of resourcefulness and self-reliance almost unconsciously and when the opportunity arrives none are quicker to seize them then the efficient farm hand and we find men today in many of the important positions of the commercial world who have served an apprenticeship as “hired man.

On the old-time cow Ranch of Montana there was nearly always a position open for a general utility man. The cowpuncher held that his trade was separate from the drudgery of farm tasks. To be sure, he would condescend to dismount occasionally and help to stretch barbed wire and in the press of hawing operations might be persuaded to take a seat on the mower or horse rake but he balked at milking cows, nursing chickens or cutting firewood.

The bunkhouse stove was usually kept going by the losers in the “coon can” game, who were extremely careful to cut only enough for immediate use.

The numberless chores about the home ranch were delegated to the “swamper,” usually an elderly and homeless derelict who for his nominal wages gave an unswerving loyalty second only to that of the “main squeeze,” as the big boss was termed. In fact, the chore man of long standing on a big ranch was thoroughly convinced of his own importance to the general scheme of things, and excepted orders from the big boss only.

The cowpunchers and even the foreman looked upon his delusion with a good-natured tolerance and often saluted him with mock deference with a good-natured tolerance and often saluted him with mock difference and a hilarious elaborateness.
An example of this type of hired man was Mike Ffrench (don’t overlook the double f), who found a haven for his declining years on the S-bar-S ranch on Swamp creek. In his younger days Mike had been a locomotive engineer, but had committed the unpardonable error of burning out the crown sheet of his engine, losing both job and reputation, and then drifted to such employment as was open to one of bilious tendencies and a roving disposition. Mike milked the two or three cows kept at the home ranch, fed the chickens, nursed sick livestock, planted and cultivated a garden, helped irrigate the hay meadows, chopped firewood for the ranch house and kitchen, quarreled incessantly with the Chinese cook, and slept in the harness room of the long horse stable. With the haying crews and cowpunchers he maintained a dignified aloofness, but was not above accepting a drink from a smuggled bottle in its rare appearance at the ranch. About twice a year he would take a week or two off for the diversions of town, and that he was missed by his chronic enemy, the cook, was exemplified by the choice tidbits tendered by the scowling cook to tempt an internal disarrangement due to the unwonted indulgence in spirituous cheer. The strange, though invisible bond of attraction that existed between this incongruous and quarrelsome couple was brought to light when Mike came down with a mild attack of pneumonia and lay helpless in unshaven misery in his lowly bunk room. Sam Sing kept up a fire in the unlovely room, forced him to take the medicine sent out from town by an overworked doctor, would have none of the rough but kindly assistance offered by the sympathetic foreman and cowpunchers, but sat up with him himself at night during the height of the fever, cooked delicacies during convalescence, and scolded all the time in pidgin English that none but he and Mike understood.

When Sam, who was as parsimonious as Mike was prodigal, had saved sufficient for his return to China and to live in comfort the rest of his days, the dream of all good Celestials, none saw the parting between the loving enemies, but after his departure Mike was grouchier than ever, bitterly resenting the well-meant, but rather uncouth expressions of sympathy tendered by the roughnecks of the bunk house. Good Chinese cooks were becoming scarce in Montana, and to Mike’s consternation, a white woman, accompanied by a cat and a canary, was installed in Sam’s place. His disgust was complete. He lost a happy environment and despondently quit the ranch forever. The last I heard of him directly, he was occupying a lonely shack at the end of a high wooden trestle carrying the rails of one of the great trans-continental roads. This was later replaced by a steel bridge, and I suppose Mike’s humble job of watchman ended with the passing of the wooden structure.
With hairy arms and breast picked out a strange and barbaric devices done in red and blue India ink, the advent of Lars Aronson among the crew of haymakers on the Tom Burns ranch some forty odd years ago, lent an air of romantic and adventurous lustre to my young eyes. He had traveled - seen the world - in many outlandish places during a young manhood spent in the forecastles of sailing vessels poking about the seven seas. But my young thirst for knowledge was doomed to disappointment. Interrogation regarding strange ports, dimly recalled from memory of school geographies, brought the invariable reply:

“Ya, Ay ban dare. Malay Bill, he run de fine saloon him call de ‘Soomp’ on vater front. Ay bane dare two veeks and den he shanghai me on British bark for Pago-Pago.” Lars had experienced all vicissitudes of seafaring life, but was absolutely dumb when it came to descriptive narrative concerning shipwreck, smuggling, mutiny and even piracy, all of which he had taken a part in or witnessed at some time or another. He would, under pressure, merely mention the bare fact and then probably continue:

“Und ven ve got to Singapore ‘Cockney George’ meet us on ship und took us up to his svell bar, vich he call de ‘Shellback Palace.’ He haf planty good vin und half-caste gals for dance.”
Yes, lars had a most retentive memory. He could give the name and location of every foul whiskey dump on the coast line of six continents, which appeared about the limit of his mental attainments. Print this post