Uncle Roy
My Uncle Roy Whip was a REAL cowboy. He and his family settled on the Arizona Strip several miles from where Dad's homestead was located, so he is in my memory from my earliest recollection. I can't remember that he ever went to church, but he had a way with us kids. We admired and loved him. He was kind to us and always talked to me when I was nearby.
He gave all the kids nicknames, especially his nephews. Mine started with Bud, then Spud, then Potate, Tater, Tate and other variations and names. All of these names pleased me for I knew that my favorite uncle was taking notice of me.
He never swore, smoked or drank liquor. He was a good and honest man. He was a top hand with livestock and always had good horses at his place. He raised cattle and horses and never dug up the grass to try to raise corn. He was strictly a stockman. He looked like a cowboy from his Stetson hat down to the underslung boot heels. I wanted to grow up to be just like him.
His son, Meb, was like his dad in a lot of ways. As far back as my memory goes Meb was a "chip off the old block." He also wore spurs and boots with Levi pants and a cowboy hat. He always rode good horses, not kid ponies. It seemed to me he could handle well any horse he got on. Meb was about 2 years older than me so I was the butt of some teasing and practical jokes, but I could endure those for the fun we had otherwise. I liked nothing better than to stay at their place and tag around after Uncle Roy and Meb.
Tony & Meb Whipple, Budd & Grant Iverson
My folks couldn't afford to buy boots for me so I wore ankle high work shoes. Meb told me anybody that wore them kind of shoes was a clodhopper and a lot lower type person than a cowboy. He said they were nesters (homesteaders). That made me feel pretty sad until I noticed that Uncle Roy had a pair of shoes that he wore whenever he had to haul wood or water to the house or do other work where he didn't use a horse, so I figured it wasn't so bad to wear shoes, although I did wish for some boots.
Uncle Roy gave me one of his old hats that was a great treasure to me. It had a hole in the crown but that made me look more like a cowboy. I used it for several years and it kept off the sun and the rain which wasn't a worry since it only came 2 or 3 times a summer.
One day Uncle Roy rode over to talk to George Western, who was camped a mile or two down the country and I followed along riding on Roany, a gentle red roan mare that they had owned for quite a few years. (In her younger years I think she had taught Meb to ride a horse and I'm sure that Suedy, Meb's sister learned to ride on her.) She was a dependable riding mare and I thought she was the best there was.
I liked to hear the men talk and was standing by the wagon tongue fiddling, turning myself around till I wound up in the bridle reins, then I'd turn the other way and unwind. George watched me a time or two, then he said, in his gruff voice: "Get them reins off from you." He was looking right at me and I knew who he was talking to. I just stood there like a dumb kid, looking at him, not comprehending much while he eyed me back. Then he said: "Stand there like a wart on a washer woman's nose, do what I said, get them reins off from you. That horse could drag you to death." The tone of his voice meant business. It woke me up and I unwound in a hurry. He taught me a lesson I remembered all the rest of my life and also an expression that I have used many time since.
One time when I was riding along with Uncle Roy he went over to see the Sweezy outfit. They had a rough cut lumber cabin with a porch across the front side. Most of the cabins and other buildings on the Arizona Strip in the area where we lived were constructed of unfinished lumber cut on Mt. Trumble. The one inch boards stood vertical with strips over the cracks and sometimes paper felt lining on the inside. No paint was used and in about 2 years the outside boards weathered to a grey color. There was no water for a lawn or to raise a garden so the ground around the houses remained in it's natural state with cedar trees as a hitching post to tie the horses to. Usually a corral was built not far away. Mrs. Sweezy was sitting on the porch. Uncle Roy said "howdy" to her, got off his horse then walked over in front of her out from the porch and squatted down on his boot heels. I stayed over by the horses and could hear most of what was said.
Seems like Sweezy's pond had gone dry. The Rosenberry place that lay east of Sweezy's still had a lot of water in the pond next to the road. Apparently Uncle Roy had given them permission to water their cows there if they opened the gate to let them drink then drove them back into their own place and shut the gate. Instead, they had thrown the gate open and left it so their cows could water any time and mix in with the cattle in the Rosenberry place. Their argument was that all the cattle could feed in both places, but Uncle Roy said the Sweezy place was already fed off and the Sweezy cattle was not only watering on Rosenberry but feeding there too.
The old lady was showing her temper and talking mean, then a young teenage girl came out of the house and sided in with her ma, chewing on Uncle Roy. He didn't raise his voice any, just calmly told them what the agreement was. The girl said they needed to shoot Uncle Roy, so I got over on the east end of the house where I could peak around the corner, things were getting dangerous out where Uncle Roy sat on his boot heels.
She ran in the house and came out with a .22 cal. rifle and said: "I'll shoot the so and so." Her ma got out of her rocking chair and said: "No, no, don't shoot him even though he deserves it." The two women argued about it for 3 or 4 minutes while the girl pretended she was trying to get by her ma so she could get a clear shot.
Uncle Roy just stayed where he was. I was jigging up and down, motioning with my hand "come on, let's get out of here." I could just see him laying there on the ground bleeding with bullet holes in him. He didn't pay any attention to me.
After the girl and her ma got through arguing, she took the rifle back in the house. Uncle Roy stood up and said something to the women, then came over and helped me get on Roany and we rode away. Can't remember what he did about Sweezy's cattle but you can bet I was sure glad we were still alive.
Uncle Roy was not only a good cowboy but he was also a real good cook. A feller had to work at whatever was available to earn money for his family. Cowpunching wages was only $45 a month but a good cook for a big sheep outfit was paid about $70 a month. Of course, $1 in those days would purchase what 50 of these FRN's will now, maybe more. With $2 you could buy a good pair of shoes that would cost $80 today.
One day Uncle Roy hitched up the team to the iron tired wagon, loaded some supplies in it and had me and Meb follow along horseback leading two 5 or 6 year old broncs. They were big stout sorrel geldings that hadn't been handled much and were quite rank and set in their ways. The one I was leading kept trying to yank away and my saddle horn was a slick bronze metal that didn't hold a dally very well. When we were crossing through Pat Bundy's homestead he hit it hard and the rope burned out through my hands, but we caught him again without too much trouble, then Uncle Roy tied him to the back of the wagon.
Our course turned west over beyond Poverty Knoll not far from the Hidden Canyon rim. The sun was laying to the west about to quarter point when we arrived at the sheep camp. A couple men saw us coming and rode over. One untied Ol' Onery from the back of Uncle Roy's rig and proceeded to tie up one of his hind feet. Ol' Onery flounced around and fell over on the ground and that "Mutton Eater" put his saddle on him while he was down. He had to roll him around some to get the cinch underneath but as he let him up he stepped across that horses middle and some wild action began.
The brush out in front of the sheep wagon took a mighty tromping as Ol' Onery bucked and bellered, trying to shed that sheep herder. All the time this show was taking place Uncle Roy was busy just inside the wagon door fixing supper. With spurs raking his shoulders and flanks, a big quirt popping his butt it wasn't long till Ol' Onery took out running down through the buck brush. Half hour later when he came back dripping sweat there was no doubt in his mind who was the master. He looked at life from an entirely new perspective. It felt so good to rest a little he didn't even tighten the rope that anchored him to a cedar tree.
Supper was ready and so was I. We hadn't eaten since breakfast early that morning. I thought sure I was going to die for lack of grub. A good hot biscuit with a dab of butter and a chunk of fried mutton was the best eating a kid like me could possibly imagine. Meb thought so too. Five minutes longer and I would have been plumb dead from starvation.