Roundup from the Sky

“I’D CERTAINLY like to see a real cowboy while I’m visiting over here at Grandma Grace’s,” said Marilyn. She stretched out on the green lawn and began to look for four-leaf clovers. “So would I! And maybe I could ride on his horse.

Wouldn’t that be fun?” added seven-year-old Stephen Joel. His brown eyes sparkled at the thought of riding a prancing pony down the main street of Burns. “What does a cowboy look like, anyway?” he questioned his sister.

“Oh, he’s a man who wears a silk shirt with a bright bandanna neckerchief and big woolly chaps and a big hat and—oh, yes—high-heeled cowboy boots with pointed toes and silver spurs that jangle when he walks.” “Ho!” sneered Cedric. “Isn’t that just like a girl? What a foolish idea!

A cowboy doesn’t look like that at all.” “He does too,” stoutly maintained Marilyn.

“I know he does, because I’ve seen magazine pictures of cowboys, and they were dressed exactly that way.” “Maybe you’ve seen such photographs, Miss Smarty, but those weren’t real buckaroos.

Those were just dude ranch folks all dressed up to impress their city guests. Real cowboys out here on the range ride hard and work long hours. And they wear plain shirts, with tight-fitting, belted overalls, and old weatherbeaten hats. They do wear high-heeled boots, but only because that kind fit best into the stirrups—not for looks.”

Marilyn and Stephen looked so crestfallen that Grandpa Jim got up out of his porch rocker and joined the quarreling children. “Here, here,” he smiled.

“Let’s settle the argument in a friendly way. Cedric’s right about the buckaroo and his horse, youngsters, but even at that he hasn’t described the very latest style in cowboy travel.

Your grandmother and I are going out on the Bend Highway on an errand. Do you want to go with us and meet a modern cowboy?” Grandpa and Grandma Lampshire laughed heartily at the speed with which their grandchildren clambered into the back of the Chevrolet pick-up truck. “Hold on tight!”

Grandpa called, “and don’t lean out over the sides. Here we go.” A few blocks beyond the outskirts of the town he turned the truck off the highway and toward a small, tree-shaded house that sat companionably near a large building. “I wonder why we’re stopping here?”

Marilyn asked the boys. “I don’t see any horses out in the fields near by.” Cedric shrugged his shoulders, and Stephen’s happy face clouded over with disappointment. “Where’s that cowboy we’re going to see, Grandpa Jim?

And where’s his horse?” he asked, as his grandfather opened the cab door. “Jump out, all of you,” smiled Grandpa Jim. “Come along with us and you’ll soon find out.” As they followed the Lampshires up the path, Stephen whispered to Marilyn.

“Maybe he keeps all his horses shut up in that big shed right over there. I imagine that’s where all of them are. Don’t you think so?” But just then a sweet-faced young woman greeted them at the door, and in the midst of all the introductions Marilyn’s answer was lost.

“So these are your young visitors for the summer,” Mrs. Roe Davis said, as she smiled at the children. “Come right in. My daughters, Lola and Mildred, will be especially glad to meet you, for some years ago they studied piano from your mother, when she taught school over here.

“You arrived at the right time, for they and their father have just come in from a morning ride down to the White Horse Ranch. Roe had to go there to locate a band of horses, and urged all of us to ride with him. However, I couldn’t spare the time from needed household tasks.

Yesterday we rode down to Cottage Grove, and tomorrow we’re going to Boise, Idaho.” White Horse Ranch—Cottage Grove, Oregon—Boise, Idaho—Cedric’s head began to spin as he mentally calculated the distance of each trip. That historic old stage-coach stop, the White Horse Ranch in the south end of Harney County, was many hours’ journey by car from Burns, as were the two cities. “Then you’ll have ridden hundreds of miles in less than three days!” he puzzled.

“I don’t see how you could do it and still be back here this early, even with a new car.” “New car!” interrupted Marilyn. “Why, he doesn’t even use a car. Does he, Mrs.

Davis? He must be the cowboy that Grandpa Jim told us we were coming to see, and so I’m sure he’d ride horseback. But I—well, I don’t understand how any horses could go that far in two or three days.”

“Well, well, so you’re wondering about my horses,” laughed Mr. Davis good-naturedly. He shook hands with everyone and then sat down with Stephen on his knee.

“Would you like to see what carries me so swiftly over the country?” Stephen nodded his head and smiled shyly up at the friendly speaker. “Is he white? I guess he must be, if you got him at the White Horse Ranch when you went down to look at those horses.

Could I see him now, please?” “Of course you may. Come along, all of you.” Stephen and Marilyn clasped hands tightly as they skipped along to the large building.

“Just think! Now we’re really going to see what they look like,” whispered the little boy to his sister. “And I’m going to ask if I can ride on that white pony. Maybe he’ll let me.

He seems awfully nice.” But the children’s wide eyes saw no horses of any kind in that large building.

For when Mr. Davis opened the doors, they saw, instead of horses, several shiny airplanes. “Oh, oh!” exclaimed Cedric, grinning sheepishly. “I understand now.

I should have known what you meant when you talked about traveling so far in such a short time. But Grandpa Jim kept talking about a modern cowboy, you see, and naturally I didn’t even think about airplanes.”

“But—but I want to see a horse,” burst forth Stephen, his mouth drooping. “I’ve seen lots of airplanes.” “Well, perhaps you’ve seen many planes, but you’ve never seen anyone use a plane as Roe Davis does,” said Grandma Grace.

“Perhaps he’ll tell you about his work while I talk to Mrs. Davis for a few minutes.” “Oh, please do tell us,” begged Marilyn, as they returned to the house and sat down. “I’d certainly like to know how you can be called a cowboy when you don’t even ride horseback.”

“Well, it’s quite a long story,” smiled Mr. Davis, “but I’ll try to give you the main facts, partly as outlined in Newsweek magazine and partly as I can recall other experiences of interest to you.

“Some writers have called me a ‘modern cowhand,’ a sort of flying handyman who helps the many ranchers in the high desert country of southeastern Oregon. I’ve done several things, from sowing seed for the farmers and hunting coyotes with plane and shotgun, to rounding up herds of wild horses. “About three years ago my partner, Bill Stevens, and I began hunting coyotes in my Piper Cub. We first began working for some sheepmen, who hired us by the hour.

Later on, the price of coyote pelts rose to fifteen dollars apiece, and in 1943 we bagged more than four hundred pelts. By the time prices had dropped we still had employment of the same type, for the Oregon Game Commission hired three teams of pilots and gunners to destroy these prairie wolves which prey upon cattle and game. In February, which is the mating season, Bill and I bagged 137 coyotes in fifty-seven hours. “I was the pilot, and Bill was the gunner, using a shotgun loaded with BB shot.

We found that coyote hunting by air was the most successful over the sagebrush range at a height of about five hundred feet. At that height the tracks of rabbits, deer, and coyotes can best be seen in the snow.” “Can you really see the coyote plainly, Mr. Davis?” breathlessly asked Marilyn.

“Indeed we can,” nodded the cowboy-pilot. “Coyotes run about twenty-five miles an hour and usually travel in pairs or families. They run in packs from the last of December to the first part of February, which, as I have already told you, is the coyote mating season. “Sometimes we have seen as many as eleven coyotes in a pack.

We watch, and try to locate them at their dens in the sagebrush up the little ravines. They often choose a shallow badger hole from three to six feet back in the top of a little hill, because they don’t care much about digging out the dens themselves. “We fly about 150 feet above the ground to locate the coyote. When we see him we come down to a distance of only twenty feet above the ground, as when pelt hunting we hunt mostly in open country where we can land for a pickup, and take off again.”

“You mean you save the animal’s fur?” cried Stephen. “How can you stop to pick up the coyote?” “Indeed we save the pelt,” smiled the pilot. “If we’re on wheels, we land about a quarter of a mile away, or, if the landing place is not suitable, we just let the prairie wolf run until we can shoot and then land.

But when the snow is good, we fly on skis. Here is a picture showing the plane on skis and three of the coyotes killed at that time.” “Does your gunner always kill the animals? Or do any of the wounded ones try to attack you?” breathlessly questioned Cedric.

“Bill’s a mighty good shot, missing only about one in every five shots,” answered Mr. Davis. “He has to shoot from the left side of the plane, too, with time for only one shot.

If this misses, the plane has to take a long sweep and come back for a second run. Whenever he sees a pair he tries to kill the male first, for the female will stay beside the body of her mate. But if the female is killed first, the male tries to run away.

“And, by the way, I heard an interesting fact as to how the male coyote cares for the young ones if the female is killed. I can’t verify this statement but I was told that the male will go out to hunt, will eat the food, and will then from his stomach return this predigested food for the pups.

At the age of seven weeks the pups are able to eat solid food. “But to get back to your question, Cedric,” he continued, “I can say that I’ve had a few exciting experiences in which a wounded animal tried to attack me.

One old fellow became pretty wise after escaping two plane runs. We had quite a time when he began dodging us instead of running straight ahead.

But at last Bill shot him, wounding him. After we had landed on skis, I began to follow the trail, and came suddenly upon the animal.

Instead of being afraid, he started savagely toward me, and I had to shoot him with my pistol. At another time we saw an enraged coyote actually turn at bay and try to attack the airplane as we passed over him. Lola, will you please hand us that picture taken by Mr. Meyers?

It’s really a very unusual photograph.” The children, their heads together, gazed at the picture. “Ugh!” cried Marilyn. “It seems cruel to kill the poor things.

I should think you’d hate to.” “No, you wouldn’t, Marilyn, if you could see how savage these creatures become,” Mr. Davis continued soberly. “They show no pity for harmless animals, and will kill young deer and antelope, as well as calves and lambs.

“At one time I watched two coyotes stalking two deer: a doe and her tiny fawn. One wily old coyote kept the brave mother deer busy by repeatedly rushing at her from the front while the second coyote sneaked in behind to try to kill the helpless little fawn. Both of the beasts were big fellows, and even in ten inches of snow they could have kept up these tactics until the mother deer was completely exhausted. Then they planned to rush in and hamstring the deer—cut the muscles in her hind legs so that her legs would give way.

After that she would be unable to defend herself or her fawn. We didn’t wait for this to happen. We shot those two coyotes right then and there.

“I’ve seen them try the same tactics in spring lambing time, stalking an old ewe with her lamb snuggled right up against her. Coyotes are more destructive at this time of year than at any other, because the lambs and calves are small then and unable to defend themselves.

“These prairie wolves also rob the nests of ducks and geese, and eat the young ones. After the lake freezes over, they will paw open muskrat houses that stick up out of the ice.

In fact, a woman at one of the bird refuge headquarters called me one day to come by plane and shoot a sly old coyote who sneaked into her barnyard every morning and carried away a fat chicken for his breakfast. “I still can’t see how you can bring home all those coyotes in that little plane,” interrupted Marilyn, with a puzzled frown. “I wouldn’t think you’d have room for all of them.” “That’s a good question, Dad,” laughed Lola.

“You forgot to tell the children how you do that.” “In the wintertime we can land on skis and skin a coyote in four or five minutes,” replied Mr. Davis. “To do this, we cut down the hind legs, skin the hind legs and tail, and then pull off his hide.

Thus at night we would come in with from eight to eighteen or nineteen hides. The biggest catch we had was twenty-two coyotes in one day.

“The next procedure is to stretch the hides on boards—just as fox pelts are treated—one night turning the pelts with the fur in, and the next night turning the pelts with the fur out. Sometimes it is necessary to do some scraping for fat, but not often.

Then the pelts dry for a week.” “I’m sorry to interrupt this conversation,” said Grandpa Jim, “but it’s time that we were on our way, for I have an appointment within half an hour.

Yes, I know that you hate to leave, but perhaps Mr. Davis will tell you more about his hunting some other time.” “Oh, will you, please?” chorused the three interested listeners as they reluctantly rose to go. “Of course, I’ll be glad to,” nodded Mr.

Davis. “In fact, I was just getting nicely started. I hadn’t even gotten as far as the large antelope herds we see, or the wild horses that we round up by plane, driving them up the hills into a little draw, where they are run down a chute into trucks. That also is an interesting story.”

“Dad,” broke in Mildred, “perhaps the youngsters would like several of these pictures to take along with them. Here’s one that shows you in front of your airplane with 158 coyote hides—part of your winter’s catch.” “We’d surely like to have them,” replied Cedric. “And thank you so much for the story.

I’d surely like to have a chance to see some of those wild horses you mentioned.” “Well, Cedric, I’ll be busy for the next week or so, but perhaps sometime after that you can ride with me when I go down toward Catlow Valley.

You’ll see really wild horses down there, all right, and I’ll show you how we round them up by plane. “Wait a minute before you go,” he added.

“I have a present for each of you. I’ll be right back.” “What do you suppose it can be?” Stephen whispered curiously to Marilyn.

“I can’t imagine,” she replied softly, shaking her head. “I expect it’s another picture, though.” But Mr.

Davis did not return with another picture. The youngsters gasped with delight when they saw the present that he handed to them, and each one said, “Oh, thank you, Mr.

Davis,” with heartfelt sincerity. “I thought you’d like these soft coyote furs,” he stated.

“They make fine rugs for bedside use, and they’ll last a long time. Now you’ll remember my story each morning when you jump out of bed, for you’ll step out on one of the coyotes that was rounded up by plane.”

“Wasn’t that fun, Stephen?” questioned Marilyn, as they drove away from the Davis home. “It certainly was,” agreed Stephen, clinging to the car with one hand and his precious coyote skin with the other. “We didn’t see any horses, but this was even better, because I couldn’t keep a horse in my bedroom, but I can keep a coyote rug by my bed.”

“And am I lucky!” bragged Cedric. “Just think. Maybe I’m going to get to go with Mr. Davis in his Piper Cub.

Won’t Edwin wish he’d come over with us on our trip? Just wait till I go back and tell my big brother that I met a modern cowhand and rode with him over the eastern Oregon range on his roundup from the sky!”