Cowboys on the range or in the town are excessively clannish.  They never desert each other, but stay and fight and die and storm a jail and shoot a sheriff if needs press, to rescue a comrade made captive in their company.  Also they care for each other when sick or injured, and set one another’s bones when broken in the falls and tumbles of their craft.  On the range the cowboy is quiet, just and peaceable.  There are neither women nor cards nor rum about the cow camps.  The ranches and the boys themselves banish the two latter; and the first won’t come.  Women, cards and whiskey, the three war causes of the West, are confined to the towns.

Those occasions when cattle are shipped and the beef-herds, per consequence, driven to the shipping point become the only times when the cowboy sees the town.  In such hours he blooms and lives fully up to his opportunity.  He has travelled perhaps two hundred miles and has been twenty days on the trail, for cattle may only be driven about ten miles a day; he has been up day and night and slept half the time in the saddle; he has made himself hoarse singing “Sam Bass” and “The Dying Ranger” to keep the cattle quiet and stave off stampedes; he has ridden ten ponies to shadows in his twenty days of driving, wherefore, and naturally, your cowboy feels like relaxing.

There would be as many as ten men with each beef-herd; and the herd would include about five thousand head.  There would be six “riders,” divided into three watches to stand night guard over the herd and drive it through the day; there would be two “hoss hustlers,” to hold the eighty or ninety ponies, turn and turn about, and carry them along with the herd; there would be the cook, with four mules and the chuck wagon; and lastly there would be the herd-boss, a cow expert he, and at the head of the business.

Once the herd is off his hands and his mind at the end of the drive, the cowboy unbuckles and reposes himself from his labours.  He becomes deeply and famously drunk.  Hungering for the excitement of play he collides amiably with faro and monte and what other deadfalls are rife of the place.  Never does he win; for the games aren’t arranged that way.  But he enjoys himself; and his losses do not prey on him.

Sated with faro bank and monte—­they can’t be called games of chance, the only games of chance occurring when cowboys engage with each other at billiards or pool—­sated, I say, with faro and Mexican monte, and exuberant of rum, which last has regular quick renewal, our cowboy will stagger to his pony, swing into the saddle, and with gladsome whoops and an occasional outburst from his six shooter directed toward the heavens, charge up and down the street.  This last amusement appeals mightily to cowboys too drunk to walk.  For, be it known, a gentleman may ride long after he may not walk.