TX BIOS:  Victor R. Scoville
   Selected and converted.American Memory, Library of Congress.
   
   Washington, 1994.
   
   Preceding element provides place and date of transcription only.
   
   This transcription intended to be 99.95% accurate.
   
   For more information about this text and this American Memory
   collection, refer to accompanying matter.
   
   U.S. Work Projects Administration, Federal Writers' Project (Folklore
   Project, Life Histories, 1936-39); Manuscript Division, Library of
   Congress.Copyright status not determined.
   
   00011
   
   Folk stuff - Range lore [113?]
   
   Phipps, Woody
   
   Rangelore
   
   Tarrant Co., Dist. #7
   
   Page #1
   
   FC
   
   Victor R. Scoville, 48, was born on his father's ranch. The
   Cloverleaf, which was located in three adjoining counties, the
   headquarters being about 54 Mi. S. of San Antonio, Tex. Scoville's
   ambition as a child, was to emulate the various cowboys on the ranch
   in riding and roping. Since his father encouraged him in this
   ambition, he was able to ride a horse at the age of four, and at
   eight, he was able to perform anything on a horse that didn't require
   a man's strength. As a large part of a cowboy's work depends on the
   horse's knowledge and strength, Scoville was able to perform the
   regular duties of a cowboy. Scoville left the range when he was 18, to
   work in the various oil booms that occured in Tex. Whenever possible,
   he entered various rodeos and won many contests, being a proficient
   rider. He was mustered out of the World War, a cripple, and now tours
   the country with a trained mule. He recieves his mail at 700 N. Main
   St., Ft. Worth, Tex. His story:
   
   "I was a cowboy back in the days when they didn't have no fences
   everywhere you looked. In fact, when I was a kid, they didn't have a
   fence nowhere near my dad's place. That was 'way back in the 1890's,
   though. To begin with, I was born on my dad's ranch, on Dec. the 17th,
   1889. The ranch was known as the 'Cloverleaf', and was located in
   Frio, Zavalla, and LaSalle Counties. Headquarters was in Frio county,
   about 54 miles South of San Antonio. Dad had over 50,000 head in the
   'VA', and 'Cloverleaf' irons. The last iron wasn't really a cloverleaf
   design but kinda looked like one. It was made with two S's, One of
   them being a straight S, with the other made in a horizontal way
   without leaving an opening in the first S.
   
   "I can remember now how anxious I was to be a cow puncher, and how I'd
   ride everything I could get on 'til I was able to ride anything that
   run on four feet, and I could get to a snubbing post.
   
     NOTE: C.12 - 2/11/41 - Texas
     
   00022I rode yearlings 'til I rode 'em down, and I rode every horse I
   could saddle 'til I really did get good at it for sure. My dad wanted
   me to be a good rider, so he helped me along by giving me a hoss now
   and then, and pointing out my faults. When I was four years old, I
   could ride real good. Of course, I couldn't ride no wild hosses but I
   had several spills from broncs on frosty mornings when they kinda
   wanted to stretch out. You take any bronc, and he'll do it in spite of
   anything you can do. I've seen 'em whipped 'til the blood run, but
   they'd buck again as if they'd never been whipped for it. regular cow
   puncher takes that in a day's work and never gets mad about it because
   he knows the bronc wants to limber up.
   
   "Now, I don't mean to brag when I tell you about riding wild hosses,
   but some people are born with the knack of handling some things good,
   and others not a-tall. I reckon if you was to ask me to push a
   typewriter, I couldn't get to first base in ten years. On the other
   hand, if you was offered a job wrangling hosses, you might do the same
   as I would in pushing a typewriter. Of course, you can't never tell
   about those things but I do know that few people can handle hosses as
   well as some can.
   
   "Now, about wild hosses, why, I was riding 'em when I was eight years
   old, and my dad would bet money that I could ride any hoss anywhere.
   Tell you another thing. I was never th'owed after I was eight years
   old. I rode in rodeos, too. Rode man killers that had already
   [killed?] several men. One of 'em I rode was named 'North Fork Blue'.
   He killed six or seven men before I got the chance to ride him at the
   [?] Nevada Rodeo, in 1915. rode that hoss and won the content. Well
   the papers told about the men he'd 00033killed and said that I was the
   only man that ever rode him. I know he was a bad hoss because a couple
   of cow punchers told me about what the hoss had done before. I didn't
   care much, but I was extra careful.
   
   "The reason I was able to put on such a good show for them in the
   rodeos was because I was always picking out bad actors on the home
   ranch. I had hosses to fall on me, roped critters from green hosses
   and had 'em jerked out from under me, and roped critters too big for
   my hoss to hold. Speaking of roping big critters, I roped a 1,000
   pound steer in a rodeo at Falfurias, Texas, in 16 seconds flat. That
   was in 1904.
   
   "That same year, two famous hoss riders put up a bet that each one
   could best the other. It was Clay McGonigal, and Eddie McCarrol. They
   put up $5,000.00, with the winner to take the entire gate too. It come
   off at the Fall Park in San Antonio. Dad took me with him into San
   Antonio, and let me stay to see the whole thing. It was to last four
   days, and plenty people come out to see it.
   
   The first day, Clay's roping hoss bucked, and lost that day for him.
   The second day the same, so I went to him and asked him to use my
   hoss. I had a good one. One that I'd trained myself. He told me to
   bring him out for a trial, so the next morning, bright and early, I
   was there. I says, 'Clay, let me show you what he can do without the
   bridle on him'.
   
   "He says, 'Strut your stuff'. I took the bridle off, pointed the
   critter out to the hoss, and we had it roped in short order. [Well?],
   Clay decided to use the hoss, and he won the contest. After the doings
   was over, Clay offered me 200.00 for the hoss but i wouldn't take
   that. It wasn't long after that, that some other 00044kids and myself
   was out a-hunting. We'd tied my hoss up at the camp, and was off in
   the timber. [hen?] we come back to the camp, my hoss was down with a
   bullet in his shoulder. I walked and run all the way back to San
   Antonio, 14 miles, for a veterinarian. He come back with me in his
   buggy, and whipped the team all the way but we was too late. He cut a
   '22' bullet out of the hoss's shoulder.
   
   "Another thing about the ranches, they always kept two or three spoilt
   hosses on hand to try out new hands. You'd get on 'em like you would a
   plow hoss, and no telling when he'd come unbuckled. That was lots of
   fun. Sometimes, a fellow'd get hurt a little, but we was always on
   hand to help him out of a tight spot.
   
   I remember one green horn that come out to the place looking for a 16
   foot hoss that'd been genteeled. [Well?], you wouldn't ask for a
   better set-up for some fun than that. [?] led out an old, broke down
   looking hoss for him to try, and he almost turned the hoss down on
   account of it's looks. [We?] told him to try it, so we'd get an idea
   what he meant by a 'Genteeled hoss'. [Well?], he got on, and was
   th'owed off in [less?] time than it takes to tell it. He never did try
   another hoss under no circumstances, no matter how much we talked, but
   it was worth it. The cow punchers was fit to be tied, and they wasn't
   no work that day. They kidded the green horn 'til he left the place.
   The main give-away was when he asked for a 16 foot high hoss. He
   should have said a '16 hands high', and that's a big hoss.
   
   "The way we got our hosses for the cow work, was to catch wild ones
   out on the range. [?] had native Mustangs, and we'd turn a young
   Cleveland Bay, or a Kentucky Blackhawk stud out with 'em. 00055We'd
   have to hunt out the old studs first, though, or they'd kill the young
   ones because they'd be on the young ones before they'd know anything
   about what was going on.
   
   "The way we catched 'em up, was to let Blackie Edwards, a crack shot,
   crease 'em. The way that was done, we'd raise the herd and chase 'em
   for a day, sometimes two or three days, according to the spirit the
   stud had. You see, the stud always led the mares to the water holes,
   or everywhere the herd went, and if he had lots of spirit, or was
   extra cagy, we'd have to chase 'em 'til they was plum run down. After
   we'd run 'em 'til they was too tired to be cagy, we'd run 'em past
   Blackie, and he'd shoot the ones we wanted, right in the muscle over
   the neck. The one on top. That'd numb 'em, and they'd drop like they
   was dead. It wouldn't last but about five minutes, but that was just
   long enough for one man to hawg tie 'em, and we'd go on 'til we got
   all the hosses we wanted.
   
   "When we had all we needed, we'd go back to each one, untie him, and
   one of us would ride him 'til he was partly broke, then we'd go on
   'til we had 'em all part broke, then head for the regular hoss corral,
   or, remuda. [hey?] was a regular hoss wrangler in charge of the
   remuda, and his job was to break the hosses, and tend to 'em all the
   time. liked that job pretty well, but I liked to get around over the
   range too well to stay put for a wrangler, so I never helt the [?]
   very long at a time.
   
   I was about 10 years old on my first trail drive. Some folks wouldn't
   call it much trail driving because we didn't run the herd very far,
   but it was done just like a long trail drive so I just call it a trail
   drive. [e?] only had two trail drives, and they was both in San
   Antonio, a 54 mile drive. 00066"The rest of the cattle that was took
   off the place, went by rail. The railroad put a spur right up to the
   ranch headquarters so it was [?] easy, and saved a lot of money by [?]
   that away. Then, too, they was lots less danger of stampedes that
   away, so it saved money that way too.because you can figure on losing
   from a dozen to a 100 critters anytime theys a stampede. They'll
   either run over a cliff, canyon, or some of 'em'll fall and the rest
   of 'em will stomp 'em down. When a stampede gets under way, you'd
   better figure on stopping it, and stopping it quick. The quicker it's
   stopped, the less beef they run off if some of 'em aint kilt.too.
   
   "The way a stampede is stopped, is to have a rider get in front and
   turn the leader. You see, the herd follers a leader, and if he's
   turned, you keep turning him 'til the herd is milling around, and
   going nowhere. They'll soon get tired, and one of 'em will bawl. Talk
   about a nice sound. The first bawl is certainly welcome because that
   means that the herd will be stopped still in less than five minutes.
   That's kind like a wild hoss. If he ever bawls, you got him licked. Of
   course, the bawl is different from a squeal. [When?] he squeals, that
   means he's still fighting mad and you'd better not give him a chance
   to stomp you, or you're a goner.
   
   "On account of I've got a bad stomach, a left over from the fracas
   'Overseas', I'm really as old as a 80, or a 90 year old. I get such
   pains at times 'til I'll do anything to anybody if they cross me.
   That's caused me to forget lots of things, and I don't remember so
   much because of it. After I left the ranch, I was an oil field boomer,
   working in first one field, then another. Everytime I got a chance,
   though, I'd enter a contest. Besides riding 00077at Elko, Nevada, I
   rode here in Fort Worth for nine straight-rodeos. Then, I rode at
   Mineral Wells, and Rawlings, Wyoming. I rode and roped at these
   rodeos, and made pretty good money at it because I pretty nearly
   always finished in the money.
   
   "Since the war, I've worked here and there at different things, but
   not for long at a time because my stomach goes to tripping me up, and
   then I have to quit. My main way of making a living now, is a
   throwback from my hoss riding days. My knack of handling hosses,
   helped me to train a mule to do anything a mule could be taught. I
   work for advertising people everywhere with the mule. About the main
   thing we do, is to work for beer companies. I fix up in a clown suit,
   and walk down the street with the mule. He'll bow to one side, then
   another, and by the time we reach a beer joint that handles the beer
   we're advertising, I holler 'Hey!' at him, and he turns his ear to me.
   [Then?] I act like I'm whispering something into his ear, and I'll
   point toward the joint, He'll shake his head up and down, then we'll
   go inside. This attracts the crowd inside, and we go right up to the
   bar, where I'll order two bottles of the kind we're advertising. Just
   set his bottle on the bar, and he picks it up in his mouth, holding on
   to the neck with his teeth, then empties the bottle. Likes it too. I'd
   [hate to have to pay for all he could hold?] because he can sure out
   drink me.

************************************************************************
USGENWEB ARCHIVES NOTICE:  These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced 
in any format for profit or presentation by any other organization or
persons.  Persons or organizations desiring to use this material, must
obtain the written consent of the contributor, or the legal representative
of the submitter, and contact the listed USGenWeb archivist with proof of
this consent. The submitter has given permission to the USGenWeb Archives
to store the file permanently for free access.

http://www.usgwarchives.net/

Thanks to the Library of Congress
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/wpaintro/txcat.html
***********************************************************************