Across the Fence: English Joe

The following is an abbreviated retelling of John Clay's book "A Sheepherder's Grave" Joseph Arthur was an Englishman and a farmer whose meager landholdings lay at the foot of the Cheviot Hills. The farm was a good one, with grassy meadows where cattle grazed and sheep drifted in woolen white dots on emerald hills. The land was rich and fertile and turned up black as coal dust behind the plow. Like many dwellings in the English countryside Joseph's home was already ancient when he was born, but the stone walls and thatched roof provided ample shelter and reasonable warmth for his wife and growing family.

The farm would never have made Joseph rich, but could have provided all the family's needs if he had possessed a passion for farming that was stronger than his passion for hunting and fishing. A nearby stream, lush with trout and grayling, often beckoned to Joseph, who left his chores behind to heed the call. Joseph was a horseman and a hunter and the baying of hounds on the hot trail of a fox was more inviting than the lowing of cattle. And so it was that in time the local auctioneer was summoned to sell his stock and other holdings in order to settle his mounting debts.

Joseph left England and sailed to Canada, where he hoped to find employment that would support himself and provide for his family in England. But good fortune would not smile on Joseph, and what little earnings that might have been sent homeward were spent on the whiskey that would temporarily dull the pain and bring the fleeting relief of forgetfulness.

When his family finally realized that Joseph was lost they scattered to parts unknown. Joseph drifted south and west, across the border, through the Dakotas and into Wyoming where, after the great blizzard in the winter of 1886-87, Wyoming ranchers were bringing in sheep to offset the devastating losses of cattle.

John Clay, born and raised in Scotland, was an extraordinarily astute businessman and as a young man in Scotland he was often hired to manage the estates of others. It was during this time that young John Clay had heard stories of the English farmer, Joseph Arthur. In the mid 1870s, when John was in his late 20s, he left Scotland and pursued business interests in Canada. Being a frugal Scotsman, but also a cautious investor, John recognized the opportunities for financial success in the booming cattle industry of the United States. Sometime around the year 1878 John Clay came to Wyoming Territory and soon found employment managing several cattle ranches.

John became a citizen of the U.S. and a successful rancher and businessman in Wyoming. His long and successful career included the position of ranch manager of the Swan Land and Livestock Company near Chugwater. He was a rancher, a banker and for a time held the position of President of the Wyoming Stockgrowers Association during the infamous Johnson County War. But John Clay was also a cowboy. He rode with the men that worked under his management and took an active part in the physical operation of the ranches he managed.

One day, in the early 1890s, John Clay was riding past Split Rock, the well-known landmark of the valley near Three Crossings, when he came across an old man. Sun and wind had left their marks upon his bronzed face in wrinkled lines that marked the valleys and tributaries of a long and rugged life. The old man's clothes were ragged, worn and dirty and a tattered, short brimmed hat with grease stained crown drooped upon his head. He stood on the crest of a small hill, a faithful collie dog sat at his feet watching the large flock of sheep that grazed along the nearby Sweetwater. As John approached the man the collie dog sprang up, the hair on his back bristled and a low growl rumbled from his throat. The old man lifted the hand that hung at his side, in a nearly imperceptible motion, and the dog settled back at his master's feet.

"Hallo!" The old man shouted, lifting his hat and waving a welcome. "They call me English Joe," said the old man, "I'm sheepherder for the Mackenzie's."

John introduced himself and the Englishman and the Scotsman held a brief reunion of fellow countrymen. With unchecked tears rolling down his weathered cheeks, English Joe spoke of a family, a wife and young ones sadly remembered but lost to time and neglect. Later, with a lively sparkle in his eyes he told of rousing fox hunts, the landing of monstrous trout and the excitement of races at the Derby. And then, John Clay knew that English Joe, the sheepherder on the Sweetwater was Joseph Arthur, the reluctant farmer of Northumberland.

In years that followed, English Joe remained with the Mackenzie's and John Clay, as well as the men who worked alongside him, would stop and visit with the old sheepherder. The loneliness of a sheepherder on the Wyoming rangeland lent itself to lively conversation whenever unexpected company happened to drop by, and their infrequent visits seemed to bring a renewed spark into English Joe's solitary life. But companionship and brief conversation were not the only cravings for English Joe.

Whenever Joe would find himself a bit ahead in cash, the imagined sweet smell of whiskey would take hold and nothing could stop him from heading up north, a good twenty miles, to Rongis. Joe would swing by the Seventy-one Quarter Circle cookhouse, smoke his pipe and swap stories with Flood, the cook. While there he would invariably convince Pete Steckle, one of the Seventy-one's hands, to ride along. Pete and Joe enjoyed each others company and it didn't take long to reach Rongis as the two rattled away in conversation. Mackenzie would have to herd his own sheep while Joe was away, but he did so willingly.

A day or two later Pete and Joe would return to the ranch, much worse for the wear but able to stay in the saddle. Pete would stumble in to Flood's kitchen for strong coffee and Joe continued on to his flock of sheep, where Mackenzie would saddle up his cow pony and leave Joe to his sobering solitude.

One year in late February John Clay and others left from Rawlins and headed for the home ranch near the Sweetwater. The day was clear, calm and unseasonably warm. The crew spent the night at Bohack's ranch on Lost Soldier and left early the following morning riding across the divide then down through Crook's Gap and into the valley of the Sweetwater. That night a raging blizzard swept the valley and for two full days the crew stayed in the bunkhouse while outside the swirling snow and freezing winds laid siege to the land.

After the storm had passed, as the men sat down for breakfast, Flood broke the early morning quiet and proclaimed, "English Joe must have had a hell of a time yesterday." As if in answer to Flood's speculation Mackenzie's son rode up in a swirl of powdery snow, reigned his horse so sharply that the steed threw itself on his haunches, "Say men," the boy announced as his horse skittered nervously, "dad wants you to come down and help find English Joe. We found the sheep, but the herder's gone."

The men wasted no time in gathering up their coats and gloves and saddling their horses. In minutes they were on their way. In a little while they spotted Mackenzie rounding up the scattered sheep then headed, single file, up a nearby draw. A sudden sharp barking turned the riders attention up the draw where Joe's collie dog came bounding down to greet them. The collie then led the men a little farther up the draw where English Joe sat, leaning against the bank his feet and legs covered with snow. Joe's drinking partner, Pete, gave a hearty yell but Joe never stirred.

Perhaps English Joe fell asleep that bitter cold winter night and dreamed of a little farm in Northumberland where he and his wife stood beside a tumbling, trout filled stream and watched their children at play.

Gus Lankin was an old hermit trapper who lived up Wild Horse canyon. He and Joe had somehow become fast friends and Gus had joined the rescue party when they returned with Joe's frozen body. Without hesitation Gus declared that he knew exactly where to bury English Joe. Up one of the rocky fingers off Wild Horse canyon Gus led the funeral procession. Joe lay on a blanket draped across a wire gate and while Gus laid his friend in a rocky crevice John Clay and his crew gathered large stones and small boulders to cover Joe's final resting place. The gruff old mountain man wept shamelessly as his friend was covered with a mound of stones more than three feet high.

English Joe's collie dog kept faithful watch beside the grave until he too succumbed and, somewhere beyond that great divide, sat once more at his master's feet.

M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. To contact Tim, email; [email protected]