Frontier Types

By Theodore Roosevelt in 1888

The American West, a vast and untamed expanse, has always been a crucible for unique characters. Among these, the old race of Rocky Mountain hunters and trappers stands out, a breed of men defined by their recklessness, dauntless spirit, and unparalleled skill in the wilderness. These Frontier Types of Indian fighters are now dwindling, their numbers thinning with each passing year. Yet, scattered across the remote corners of the land, some still cling to their traditional way of life. They persist in wooded enclaves untouched by the miner’s pickaxe and in mountain valleys where the rancher’s cattle have yet to graze.

These hardy individuals often maintain the sartorial traditions of their forebears, favoring the fringed tunic or hunting shirt. This garment, crafted from buckskin or homespun cloth and cinched at the waist with a belt, represents perhaps the most picturesque and distinctively national dress ever seen in America. This was the attire worn by Daniel Boone as he navigated the dense forests of the Alleghenies, venturing into the heart of Kentucky in pursuit of unparalleled hunting opportunities. It was the same garb donned by the legendary Davy Crockett when he met his end at the Alamo. The backwoods soldiery sported this attire when they secured victories over Ferguson and Pakenham at King’s Mountain and New Orleans, when they conquered the French towns along the Illinois River, and when they emerged victorious against Red Eagle’s warriors at the bloody Horseshoe Bend. The Frontier Types embodied a spirit of rugged individualism.

These old-time hunters served as the vanguard of white expansion across the Western territories. Early in the 19th century, they fearlessly ventured beyond the Mississippi River, charting courses across the seemingly endless plains of grass. Others forged paths up the valleys of the great, solitary rivers, traversing the mountain passes that snaked through the towering peaks of the Rockies. They endured the desolate expanses of sagebrush and alkali flats. Eventually, they broke through the dense woodlands that lined the coast, beholding the expansive waves of the Pacific Ocean. These Frontier Types lived for extended periods, often years, among various Native American tribes, engaging in relationships that alternated between friendship and hostility, participating in warfare, hunting alongside them, and even intermarrying. They served as guides for exploring expeditions and scouts for the soldiers deployed against the different hostile tribes. Infrequently, they would arrive at a frontier settlement or a fur company’s fort, strategically situated in the wilderness’s heart, to trade their valuable bales of furs, replenish their ammunition supplies, and purchase meager provisions of coarse food and clothing. These Frontier Types were a vital bridge between cultures and a force that shaped the landscape.

From that bygone era to the present day, their way of life has remained remarkably unchanged. However, their numbers have drastically dwindled. The basin of the Upper Missouri River, once their stronghold, was the last great hunting ground of the Native Americans. The white trappers were constantly engaged in conflict and disputes with them. Yet, paradoxically, the Indians’ presence helped preserve the game that sustained the trappers’ livelihoods. The era of the old Frontier Types was drawing to a close.

As the cattlemen began to pour into the land, buffalo and beaver were still plentiful, and the old hunters were a common sight. Many times, the author hunted with them, shared nights in their smoke-filled cabins, or welcomed them as guests at his ranch. However, within a couple of years after the cattlemen’s arrival, the last of the buffalo herds were decimated, and the beaver were trapped out of existence in all the plains’ streams.

Consequently, the hunters also vanished, except for a few who remained in secluded nooks and out-of-the-way corners. The rest wandered restlessly across the land, some seeking refuge with their brethren in the Coeur d’Alene or the northern Rockies, others heading to the coastal ranges or the distant Alaskan wilderness. Furthermore, their ranks were rapidly diminished by death, and the fallen were not replaced by new recruits. Their lives were arduous, and the constant strain of their demanding and perilous existence took a toll on even the most robust individuals.

They met their demise in drunken brawls or in encounters with roving Native Americans. They succumbed to the myriad accidents inherent in their way of life – floods, quicksand, exposure to the elements, starvation, falls from cliffs, or the stumble of a horse. They perished from diseases exacerbated by terrible privation and punctuated by savage excesses.

Despite the inherent hardships, their wild, free, and reckless existence possessed a certain allure. Moreover, the men themselves possessed admirable qualities. They were – and those who remain still are – frank, bold, and remarkably self-reliant. They feared neither man, beast, nor the elements. They were generous and hospitable, loyal to their friends, and relentless in their pursuit of enemies. Beyond these shared traits, they exhibited a wide range of virtues and vices, even more pronounced than those found in civilized society. On the frontier, both virtue and wickedness took on extreme forms. A man who might merely be a backbiter in civilization could become a murderer on the frontier. Conversely, one who might simply offer a cheerful greeting in the city could share his last piece of dried venison with a stranger facing starvation in the wilderness. One hunter might be a dark-browed, menacing figure, readily stealing cattle or horses, and turning to highway robbery if game became scarce. Another might be a quiet, kindly, simple-hearted individual, law-abiding, unassuming about his own courage and endurance, and unwavering in his loyalty to friends and women. The Frontier Types were a study in contrasts, their characters forged by the extremes of their environment.

The hunter epitomized freedom. His well-being depended solely on his own abilities. He chopped and hewed logs to build his cabin, or perhaps constructed a crude dugout in the side of a hill, covered with a skin roof and skin flaps for a door. He purchased small quantities of flour and salt, and occasionally sugar and tea in times of plenty. These provisions were carried hundreds of miles on the backs of his sturdy pack ponies. A bunk covered with deerskins served as his bed in one corner of the cabin, and a kettle and frying pan might be his only cooking utensils. When fresh meat was unavailable, he relied on his supply of jerked venison, dried in long strips over the fire or in the sun.

Most of the trappers were Americans, although some were Frenchmen and mixed-bloods. The latter, particularly those on the plains, sometimes used peculiar wooden carts, crudely constructed with stout wheels that produced a mournful squeaking sound. In earlier times, they often took Native American wives. However, by this time, those who lived among and intermarried with the Native Americans were looked down upon by other frontiersmen, who contemptuously referred to them as "squaw men." All of them depended on their rifles for food and self-defense, and they made a living by trapping, as pelts were valuable and easily transportable. They were skilled marksmen, particularly the pure Americans, although they were prone to boast and exaggerate their shooting abilities. Nevertheless, they often demonstrated remarkable feats of speed and accuracy. One skill that the author could never master was their ability to shoot accurately after nightfall. Of course, this applied only to genuine hunters, not the many pretenders who lingered on the outskirts of towns, attempting to deceive unsuspecting strangers into hiring them as guides. These Frontier Types were masters of their craft, essential to survival in the harsh landscape.

On one mountain trip, the author encountered several old-style hunters simultaneously. Two were returning from the woods after spending the entire winter and spring without seeing another white person. They had been fortunate, and their battered pack saddles carried bales of valuable furs – fisher, sable, otter, mink, and beaver. The two men, despite being close friends and allies for many years, presented a striking contrast. One was a short, stocky, good-humored "Kanuck," always laughing and talking, interspersing his conversation with a unique mixture of the most egregious French and English profanity. His partner was an American, gray-eyed, tall, and as straight as a young pine, with a saturnine, rather haughty face and proud bearing. He spoke sparingly and in low tones, never using an oath, but occasionally revealing an unexpected dry wit. Both embodied bronzed and rugged strength.

Neither possessed any trace of a bullying nature; they treated others with the same respect they demanded for themselves. They were known not only for their exceptional woodcraft and marksmanship but also for their unwavering courage and integrity, and their word was implicitly trusted.

The author’s hunting companion at the time, though equally skilled as a marksman and woodsman, was morally their opposite. He was a pleasant and helpful companion, diligent, and unruffled by anything. He was also a handsome fellow with honest brown eyes, but he possessed no sense of right and wrong, seemingly oblivious to any distinction beyond personal taste. He recounted his past misdeeds without boasting or regret, simply as incidental details in conversation. For example, he casually mentioned making considerable money as a government scout in the Southwest by purchasing cartridges from black troops for a cent apiece and selling them to hostile Apache for a dollar each. He dismissed questions of sentiment as irrelevant to a purely mercantile transaction. On another occasion, while discussing the strange angles at which bullets sometimes ricochet, he related an experience in his own words, describing how a bullet striking a crowbar killed a man who was trying to kill him. The Frontier Types represented a wide spectrum of morality.

The fourth member of the campfire that night was a powerfully built trapper, partly of French descent, who wore a brightly colored capote, or blanket coat, a greasy fur cap, and moccasins. He had grizzled hair and a restless, furtive look in his eyes. He seemed reluctant to be approached suddenly from behind. His odd behavior prompted the author to inquire about his history. It turned out that he had endured a harrowing experience the previous winter. He and another man had ventured into a remote basin in the mountains, where game was abundant. They decided to spend the winter there, building a log cabin and killing only enough meat for their immediate needs. Just as they finished the cabin, winter arrived with fierce snowstorms.

When they went out to hunt, they were dismayed to find that all the game had vanished from the valley. Every animal had abandoned it for their winter habitats. The two adventurers faced a dire situation. They feared venturing out through the deep snowdrifts, but staying meant starvation. The man the author met had his dog with him. They rationed their flour to prolong its use and hunted relentlessly but found nothing. A violent quarrel erupted between them. The other man, a fierce, sullen individual, insisted on killing the dog, but its owner, deeply attached to the animal, refused. For weeks, they did not speak to each other, confined within the narrow log cabin. Then, one night, the dog’s owner awoke to the animal’s cries; the other man had tried to kill it with his knife but had failed. With their provisions almost exhausted, the two men glared at each other with the rage of starvation. Neither dared sleep for fear of being killed. The dog’s owner proposed that they separate to improve their chances of survival.

He would take half of the remaining flour and attempt to reach home. The other man would stay behind, warned that any attempt to follow would be met with deadly force. The wanderer would face the same fate if he returned to the cabin. The agreement was made, and the two men parted ways, neither daring to turn his back within rifle shot of the other. For two days, the one who left struggled through the snowdrifts, growing weaker with each step.

Late on the second afternoon, from a high ridge, he spotted a black speck in the distance, following his trail. His companion was tracking him. Immediately, he retraced his steps and lay in ambush. At dusk, his companion crept up stealthily, rifle in hand, his gaunt face showing the starved ferocity of a wild animal. The man he hunted shot him down as if he were game. Leaving the body where it fell, the wanderer continued his journey, the dog staggering behind him. The next evening, he baked his last cake and shared it with the dog. In the morning, with his belt tightened around his skeletal frame, he set out once more, seemingly facing only a few hours of miserable existence before death. At noon, he crossed the tracks of a massive timber wolf. The dog instantly barked and, summoning its remaining strength, followed the trail. The man struggled after.

Finally, his strength failed, and he sat down to die. As he sat still, slowly stiffening with the cold, he heard the dog baying in the woods. Shaking off his mortal numbness, he crawled toward the sound and found the wolf over the body of a deer it had just killed, keeping the dog at bay. At the approach of the new assailant, the wolf reluctantly retreated, and man and dog devoured the raw deer flesh with savage eagerness. They became violently ill for the next 24 hours, but, lying by the carcass for two or three days, they regained their strength. A week later, the trapper reached a miner’s cabin in safety. He recounted his tale, while the only man who could have disputed it lay dead in the depths of the wolf-haunted forest. The Frontier Types often faced life-or-death situations, pushing them to the limits of human endurance.

The cowboys, who have replaced the old hunters and trappers as the quintessential men of the plains, lead lives almost as filled with hardship and adventure. The unbearable cold of winter could render small, isolated camps uninhabitable if fuel ran short. Line riders caught in blizzards while returning to the home ranch were fortunate to escape with only frostbitten feet and faces.

For the most part, they were hardworking, dependable individuals, but they frequently found themselves in trouble through no fault of their own. On one wagon trip, the author was stranded when his horses strayed. Nearby, two cowboys were riding the line for a large Southern cattle outfit.

He did not know their names but, passing by them, told them of his predicament. The following day, they returned with the missing horses, having searched for them for 24 hours. In return, the author could only offer them reading material – something the men in those isolated camps always appreciated. Afterward, he spent a few days with his new friends, and they became quite close. They were Texans, quiet, well-mannered, and soft-spoken, rarely swearing except when severely provoked by a difficult horse or steer. However, to his surprise, the author learned that they were, in a sense, fugitives from justice. They longed to return to the South but could not because they had participated in a small civil war in one of the wilder counties of New Mexico the previous summer. The conflict stemmed from a dispute between two large ranches over water and range rights – a type of quarrel common among pastoral peoples since the days of Lot and Abraham. The Frontier Types were often embroiled in conflicts over resources and territory.

There were clashes between armed cowboys, cattle were driven from water sources, outlying camps were burned down, and the sons of the rival owners fought to the death with knives and revolvers when they encountered each other in the squalid towns. The long-standing animosity between the Americans and Mexicans of the frontier was soon ignited. Even after the original cause of the conflict was resolved, a fierce racial struggle ensued. It was quickly suppressed by the arrival of a strong sheriff’s posse and the threat of intervention by regular troops, but not before several bloody skirmishes. In one incident, American cowboys drove out Mexican vaqueros from a certain range. In another, cowboys avenged the murder of one of their own by storming a Mexican village, killing four inhabitants. The author’s two friends had participated in the latter affair. They gave a vague account of the details, but the author gathered that one was "wanted" as a participant and the other as a witness.

Despite their past, they were good men, and their actions were likely justifiable, at least according to the rough justice of the border. As they sat up late around the fire, they became more open. Initially, their conversation revolved around the usual topics common to every cow camp.

A herd of steers had been sighted traveling over the scoria buttes toward Elk Creek, mostly Texan doggies (young, recently arrived cattle), but also some of the Hash-Knife four-year-olds. A stray horse with a faded brand had joined the saddle pony herd. A red F. V. cow, with a leg badly bitten by a wolf, had become mired in an alkali spring and, when pulled out, had charged her rescuer.

The old mule, Sawback, was recovering from a rattlesnake bite. The river was receding, but the fords were still treacherous, and the quicksand at the Custer Trail crossing had shifted, requiring wagons to cross opposite the blasted cottonwood tree. One of the men had seen a Three-Seven-B rider who had just left the Green River round-up and reported that they had found some cattle on the reservation and were holding about 1,200 head on the brushy bottom below Rainy Butte.

Bronco Jim, a local show-off, had attempted to ride the large, bald-faced sorrel belonging to the Oregon horse outfit and had been thrown, injuring his face. This news elicited much criticism of Jim’s riding skills. It was agreed that he "wasn’t the sure-enough bronco-buster he thought himself," and he was compared unfavorably to legendary riders from Texas and Colorado, as the best rider, like the best hunter, was always either dead or living in another region.

After exhausting these topics, they discussed the rumor that vigilantes had warned two men who had built a shack at the head of Little Dry to leave, as their horses displayed a suspiciously large number of brands, most of them altered. Their conversation became more personal, and they asked if the author would mail some letters for them. He agreed, and two letters, clearly the result of much effort, were produced. Each was addressed to a girl, and his companions, now very friendly, spent the next hour describing their sweethearts’ charms and virtues.

However, plainsmen rarely spoke so freely. They were reserved, especially with strangers, and distrusted anyone who talked excessively upon first meeting them. When visiting a strange camp or ranch, it was always best to remain silent.

On another occasion, at a ranch near his own, the author found two Bible-reading Methodists among the cowboys gathered for the round-up. They were strict but did not impose their beliefs on others and were excellent workers, so they had no issues with the other men. In their company were two or three bleary-eyed, slit-mouthed ruffians, as loose of tongue as they were of life.

Generally, a form of stable government was established in the counties as soon as their population became settled, demonstrating the frontiersmen’s natural aptitude for organization. Lawlessness was then suppressed effectively. For instance, as soon as they organized the government of Medora, they elected competent officers, built a log jail, prohibited shooting in the streets, and enforced the ban.

Before this, lawlessness was common, only restrained by occasional acts of retribution or sporadic vigilance committee actions. In such a society, desperadoes of every stripe thrived. Many were simply ordinary rogues and swindlers, dangerous only when led by a cunning villain. Gamblers, with their sharp eyes and nimble fingers, were not usually considered criminals; indeed, they might be public-spirited citizens. However, their trade was often conducted in saloons, and even if they did not cheat, many of their opponents attempted to do so, making skill with weapons essential, and gambling brawls were commonplace. The Frontier Types developed a unique sense of justice and order, often taking matters into their own hands.

Cowboys often lost their earnings to gamblers, exchanging the wages of six months of grueling labor and isolated danger for three days of reckless revelry, spending their money on poor-quality whiskey or losing it at cards in disreputable dance halls. As previously noted, they were generally good men, and their disturbances in town were often due to sheer high spirits. They might shoot off boot heels or tall hats or make someone "dance" by shooting around their feet, but they rarely bothered those who did not act foolishly. A street fight was almost always a duel between two men with a grudge; bystanders were usually hurt only in a general melee in a saloon, and then it was their fault for being there. One evening in Medora, a cowboy rode his horse up the steps of a rickety "hotel" piazza into the bar-room, firing at the clock and decanters. The bartender returned fire, missing. After emptying his revolver, the cowboy paid for the damage with a roll of banknotes and rode off into the darkness, accompanied by yells and pistol shots exchanged between himself and passers-by who seemed to be joining in the spirit of the occasion, as it was the Fourth of July, and everyone had come to town for a celebration.

This was mere horseplay, the cowboy’s way of "painting the town red" during a break from his harsh, monotonous life. While there were hard characters among cowboys, it was no more than among lumbermen or others. Cowboys were simply quicker to use their weapons, making a bully in their camp a murderer rather than simply a bruiser. Also, long trails or isolated camps could lead to feuds that would eventually be settled with bloodshed. Generally, cowboys who became desperadoes were forced to leave their original profession and were no longer employed on ranches, except in regions where the law was lax, and cattle owners needed hired thugs. This was the case in parts of Arizona and New Mexico, where land claims were "jumped" and cattle were stolen, driving up wages for anyone with murderous tendencies and skill with a six-shooter.

Even in quieter regions, the character of employees varied greatly between outfits. Some employed skilled ropers and riders who were also gamblers, brawlers, and heavy drinkers, always shooting at each other or strangers. In these cases, the boss was often as objectionable as his men, having risen through dishonesty and closely watched by his neighbors for shifting calves onto his own cows, branding unmarked animals, or altering brands. However, brand alteration had become risky due to the organization of the cattle country and the appointment of trained brand-readers as inspectors. These inspectors examined the hides of every animal slain, sold, or driven off, quickly detecting any signs of tampering. Dishonesty of this kind was much less common than it had been, when entire herds were occasionally stolen.

Claim-jumpers were usually blackmailers, sometimes driving ignorant foreigners from their claims but rarely targeting experienced frontiersmen. They preferred to squat near ranchmen who were trying to keep land to which they were not entitled, knowing that bribery or bullying were their only options.

Cattle thieves were uncommon for the reasons stated above, although many shiftless men would kill a cow or steer for meat in the winter if given the opportunity.

Horse thieves, however, were always numerous and dangerous on the frontier, although they had been significantly reduced in recent years. The severe punishment for horse stealing on the border was often mocked, but there were valid reasons for it. Horses were the most valuable property of the frontiersman, whether cowboy, hunter, or settler, and were often crucial to his well-being and survival. They were always marketable and easily stolen. Horse stealing was thus tempting, particularly to reckless ruffians, and was always conducted by armed men. Consequently, it could only be controlled through harsh punishment. Horse thieves often allied with road agents (highwaymen) and other desperadoes in secret organizations that terrorized a district until overthrown by force. The Frontier Types were shaped by the unique challenges and opportunities of the West.

Following the Civil War, many guerrillas, particularly from Arkansas and Missouri, migrated to the plains, often drifting northward. They naturally turned to horse stealing and similar activities. Since the author had been in the northern cattle country, he had known of half a dozen former members of William Quantrill’s gang being hanged or shot.

Professional killers, or "bad men," might be horse thieves or highwaymen, but often they were neither. Some, like some Texan cowboys, became very skilled with the revolver, their constant companion. However, in the open, a composed man with a rifle always had the advantage at close quarters due to the rifle’s superiority. Some "bad men" were quiet, decent individuals who had been driven to their way of life by circumstances. One might have killed a man in self-defense, gaining a reputation that made him a target for other bullies, forcing him to be constantly vigilant, quick to draw, and accurate in his shooting. He might have to take multiple lives to save his own.

Some of these men were brave only because of their confidence in their skill and strength. Once they realized they were outmatched, they became abject cowards. Others possessed nerves of steel and would face any odds, even certain death, without hesitation. The author had once stayed in a town where a desperate fight occurred. A notorious desperado, an Arkansas man, had been quarreling with two Irishmen, who were partners. For days, the three men lurked in the saloon-filled streets of the town, each trying to get the first shot. The other residents anticipated the fight with curiosity, with no one intervening.

Eventually, one of the partners shot his opponent as he entered a gambling den, breaking his back near the hips. The wounded man twisted around as he fell and shot his assailant dead. Knowing he had only a few moments to live and expecting the other opponent to flee, he dragged himself out into the street, where the second partner appeared and was killed on the spot. The victor died within 20 minutes. As in most of these encounters, all the men killed deserved their fate. In the author’s experience, only one man killed in these fights was regretted, and he had been slain by a European. Generally, everyone was glad to hear of the deaths of either contestant, regretting only that the other survived.

One curious shooting incident in Medora was worthy of being chronicled by Bret Harte. It occurred in the summer of 1884, but the author did not witness it directly. One of the men, Welshy, was a saloon-keeper. The other, Hay, had been arguing with him for some time. One day, Hay, upset about losing a wrestling match, entered Welshy’s saloon and became abusive. The quarrel escalated, and Welshy drew his revolver and fired at Hay.

Hay staggered, shook himself, extended his hand, and returned the bullet to his assailant, saying, "Here, man, here’s the bullet." It had grazed his breastbone, entered his body, and exited at the shoulder, dropping down his sleeve into his hand. The local newspaper, "The Bad Lands Cowboy," vaguely described the event as an "unfortunate occurrence" between "two of our most esteemed fellow citizens." The editor, a college graduate and baseball player, opposed corruption but was acquainted with both combatants in nearly every fight.

The following winter, the author returned to find out about the fates of his acquaintances. Among others, he asked about a traveling preacher, a good but irritable man. His foreman replied, "Oh, the parson! Well – he beat a man over the head with an ax, and they put him in jail!"

Another acquaintance had met a similar fate. "He started to go out of the country, but they ketched him at Bismarck and put him in jail" – apparently on general principles, as the author heard of no specific crime he had committed. The author’s foreman sometimes had his own theories of propriety. He objected to lynching a French-Canadian suspected of horse thievery, arguing that "it didn’t seem anyways right to hang a man who had been so long in the country."

There was one large man from Missouri known as "The Pike," who had been a woodyard keeper for steamboats on the Upper Missouri River. He was a hard case who always fought when drunk. One day, on a spree, he announced his intention to thrash the entire population of Medora, beginning with great vigor and impartiality. After defeating the first few citizens he encountered, he challenged "Cold Turkey Bill." Ordinarily, Cold Turkey would have been no match for The Pike, but the latter was tired from his previous fights. Cold Turkey got him down, choked him with one hand, and pounded his face with a rock held in the other. As Cold Turkey continued to pound, he cried out, "Help me off, fellows, for the Lord’s sake; he’s tiring me out!" The bystanders abandoned their neutrality and intervened.

The author had always been treated with courtesy by cowboys and desperadoes. He had only been shot at maliciously once, when he stayed in a frontier hotel where the barroom was the main room. His assailant, a cheap ruffian, mistook the author’s glasses and aversion to fighting for weakness.

The first deadly conflict after the arrival of the cattlemen was between a Scotsman and a Minnesotan, both with "shooting" records and checkered pasts. The Scotsman, a bully, was more daring but too hot-headed for his opponent. After a quarrel, the Scotsman rode to the Minnesotan’s mud ranch and was shot down from behind a corner of the building.

Later, the author opened a cowboy ball with the victor’s wife. The husband danced opposite, knowing the steps better than the author. The scene resembled the balls where Bret Harte’s heroine "danced down the middle with the man who shot Sandy Magee."

Though many present had shot their Sandy Magee, there was no Lily of Poverty Flat. The saying "the frontier is hard on women and cattle" was true. Despite exceptions, the toil and hardship of life in the wilderness aged women quickly. By motherhood, they were sinewy and angular, with thin lips and furrowed brows. However, they possessed qualities that compensated for their lack of grace. They were good mothers and hard-working housewives, faithful to their husbands and expecting faithfulness in return. They were undaunted by peril, hardship, or poverty. In log huts, sod hovels, or wagon camps, they were equally at home, dressed in dingy gowns and sunbonnets, bravely going about their work, resolute, silent, and uncomplaining. The children grew up as fate dictated, seeming well able to protect themselves. One teamster’s wife kept her children out of mischief by tying them to stakes with long leather strings.

The best buckskin maker the author met was a frontierswoman who had divorced her husband. She made excellent hunting shirts, leggings, and gauntlets. She possessed qualities of head and hand and a sense of justice, even toward Native Americans. Once, the author met three Sioux at her cabin, buying a tobacco pouch from their leader. She had given them dinner, paid for with a deer hide. She mentioned that a white man had tried to steal their horses but was caught and brought back. She had told the Sioux to hang him, but they had only taken his gun. She believed stealing from Native Americans was wrong.

The cowboy balls were significant events in the small towns, attended by everyone when the round-up passed by. They were usually well-behaved, with a master of ceremonies calling out the figures of the dances and maintaining order. Sometimes revolvers were allowed, sometimes not. The band varied depending on the size of the town. One ball almost failed when the fiddler "went and got himself shot."

However, these were mere incidents in the cowboy’s life. The class should not be judged by brief town visits but by the long months of honest labor. To appreciate his fine qualities, the cowboy should be seen at home, working, and facing death with fortitude. Brave, hospitable, hardy, and adventurous, he was the pioneer of the race, paving the way for the civilization that would replace him. His existence, though hard and dangerous, possessed an allure that drew his free spirit. He lived in the lonely lands where rivers twisted between bluffs, where prairies stretched into plains of grass, where he could travel for days without seeing another person. The sunsets kindled the heavens and the earth in a sea of fire. These were the lands that shaped the Frontier Types.

By Theodore Roosevelt, 1888. Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated September 2022.

"Frontier Types" was written by Theodore Roosevelt and excerpted from his book Ranch Life and the Hunting-Trail, published in 1888. In addition to Roosevelt’s active military and political career, including as President of the United States, he was an avid writer, publishing several books and articles during his lifetime.