Sanford Stoneberg 

Stories of Sanford Stoneberg

Sanford Stoneberg

First story was told to Everette Sutton by Tom Belt.

During World War II years I run cattle on the Rosenfelt ranch, just above Sanford Stoneberg, on Indian Greek. To be "Patriotic " weekends, I rode my pony the 9 miles from Max to check the cattle, and cold days would stop at Stoneberg’s to warm up.

Dern little warming there. After morning chores, Stoneberg, overcoat and all would crawl into his bed, which was in the kitchen, and cover up, reading in his bed. I would shake down the kitchen stove fire which made Stanford remark, “There’s no use wasting coal, I got to go to work soon.” It hurt Stoney every time I tossed in a couple of chunks of coal. I had loaned him books for years, and even loaned him my suit of clothes when he went to Sweden to visit his kin. I was surely entitled to some warmth, and did get it, along with coffee, not his, but mine, I brought along a thermos bottle of home brew.

In the corner stood a beautiful Winchester —40/65 highwall. It came about this way:

The county road was more than a mile north. To save a mile, the homesteaders and cowboys from the ranches above came down the Creek, thru Stoneberg’s holdings and past his house. The ranchers and farmers appreciated his courtesy, closed the gates, but not a group of young fellows, with big hats and hi-heels.

“Danged Bustards, they left my gates open."

The more Sanford remonstrated, the more arrogant they became. One morning Sanford stood at his gate with a pitchfork, a gleam in his eye that meant trouble, and he threatened to stack them in a pile if the gates were not closed.

With a whoop and nose-thumbing they nearly galloped over the Swede.

“By GAR, Ay vent to Joe Robidoux. Ay want your biggest rifle and all that makes her pop”.

Stoneberg returned home with a hi-wall 40-65 rifle in a gun case, 24 mty cartridge cases, 2 lb black powder, two dozen primer caps and one pound of lead and a mould.

Sanford fired up the stove, put lead in an oversize spoon, moulded seven bullets, loaded the cartridges and was sitting on his porch when the young rowdies came down the valley.

“Ay say, you can’t come through the gate, I will shoot the first bustard off his horse." They opened the gate and Stoneberg laid down a shot in their direction and they retreated up the valley.

Next day, Sunday, Stoneberg still atremble, saw the gang driving down the valley, this time on a hayrack with logs piled in front and horses behind. He grabbed his rifle—and a double barrel shotgun, stepped behind a tree, calling out "You Dom Bustards, don’t open the gate," but knowing he couldn’t hit the side of a barn, never having fired a rifle in his life, the men paid no heed, they waved their hats, unloaded posts and a swing gate. By that time Stoneberg managed to wobble out there, rifle and shotgun laying at the tree, while the boys sunk posts and hung a gate, not only there, but down at the lower gate. That made friends.

Sanford couldn’t figure out how to unload the gun, so he shot off the 5 rounds, cleaned the gun, socked it into the scabbard. “Its too danged expensive to shoot," and never did...

One of the boys asked to buy the rifle when he got the money. It went on for years.

Personally, I was nuts to get the gun, but Stoneberg refused to deal, saying it was promised to Lingo.

One day I had a hunch to ride out, some 15 years after he told me the story, and 50 years after he purchased the gun.

Yes, he would sell...but I had to make an offer.

When I saw it was a no-go, even after the second trip out. I agreed. Yes, it’s a fine gun. It cost you about $25.00 for gun and material....it could bring (at that time) $35 to 45.00 depending on the buyer, not the market. But that’s not my offer.

Stoneberg replied, “Will you give me $30.00 for the whole shooting match and the double barrel hammer gun?”

Leaving, I asked Sanford, why $30.00? I was willing to pay that, perhaps more just for the rifle, but you toss in the shotgun, a couple of arrowheads and a five dollar gold piece without my asking. What happened to Lingo, he wanted it?

Sanford pulled his hat cockwise..."Lingo...he tried to make a fool of me when he came for the gun."

* * * * *

This story was told to Everette Sutton by August Schwartz. It’s about Tom Belt quoted above.

Tom Belt, a Civil war veteran, died as he had lived, alone and unattended in his shack.

Schwartz tells it this way. "We dern near had to take a maul to straighten him out. He was stuffed into a rough box and a short service at the little schoolhouse. A handful of curious ones braved the blizzard. After all, Old Tom was a soldier and we sure owed him something. A flag was hung and a salute made and his body started to the cemetery.

Old Jim Girt, cussing and full of whiskey (to keep from freezing) wrapped in a buffalo hide coat and lap robe pulled out in an old lumber wagon, in the teeth of a raging northwesterner, and drove the nine miles to the Benkelman Cemetery.

Had Jim been plum sober he would never had made it thru the drifts.

There wern't anyone at the cemetery, so Jim unloads Old Tom, drops first one end from the wagon box, then pulls up the team. Chilled and no help, Jim was a mind to leave the box sit at grave side but on second thought he pushed the box into the hole, leaving it standing mostly on end. Old Tom won’t care and won’t give a damn anyway, being as how he is as solid as a brass monkey. Don’t figure Tom will try to get out of that hole.

(Researcher note: I could find no record of Tom Belt being buried at the Benkelman cemetery.)

* * * * *

More about Sanford Stoneberg written by Everette Sutton.

Few people could take Sanford for a sucker but Frank Ferguson managed someway. He would pick up an old house for almost a song, move it to Benkelman with a total cost of $1500 to 2000 and then get a loan from Stoneberg for $4000 to $5000.

At that time there was a need for rentals and Sanford seemed set for prosperity but as time went on, better homes were built and the old shacks Stoneberg held mortgages on, soon became his property by foreclosure or merely lapse of payments.

Sanford was not one to keep up repairs. He soon had several shacks unrentable and unsaleable.

One young man came to Dan Owens and Dan went to Sanford, it ended by renting a well worn down house, the first month free as a bait for a clean-up. In addition the new tenant put in cement steps, did some replacement of window glass and in general improved the property.

One day he came to Dan saying. “We must have a new water heater, this one leaks and cannot be repaired.” Suspecting Stoneberg’s reaction, Dan replied---Stoneberg is pretty set against any improvements but with the prospect of a good renter, he may talk. However, you will have to see Stoneberg.

Few days later the renter turned in the keys to Dan, saying Stoneberg kicked him out, damned if he would stand for any such fancy stuff. What the Hell is a hot-eater heater, what do you want it for?

The tenant tried to explain. “Well, By Gar, you are too damn dumb to rent a house of mine. Ain’t you got sense enough to put a kettle on the stove and build a fire under it?

All sorts of explanation never convinced Stoneberg the need of a hot water heater---nor an inside toilet.

* * * * *

Parker Thompson and Stoneberg hated the guts of each other. No one ever knew the reason. When Stoneberg first went to Sweden to bring to this country two of his nephews, he purchased a blue tinted woolen suit from Sutton. It seemed never to wear out. Stoneberg used it to go to town or to the sale barn. Parker said Stoneberg wore that dam coat until it turned green and rotted away.

Stoneberg came to Sutton some 25 years after purchase of that suit. Perhaps it cost $35.00 tailor made, asking to get another exactly the same size and color and material, saying the scallywag merchants are hold ups, they are asking $45.00.

* * * * *

More from Everette Sutton about Sanford Stoneberg.

“Sanford Stoneberg he bane one vary gud Swede, Yah!”

Migrated to The States as a youngster, soon became a citizen and at once went in search of land. The only cheap property was in the West but his observation after visiting his brother on Indian Creek proved farming was an uncertain venture, unless coupled with cattle.

Alright, he would learn the cattle business and no better school than a cattle ranch where he could get wages and learn the cow language. Spent three years in Wyoming, with different cattle outfits, but mostly with John Clay but being a Swede he spent nothing else.

Then returned to his homestead on Indian Creek, the drouth of the nineties started most of the settlers unravelling, and Sanford began to pick up cheap pasture land as fast as he made the money. It was not long before his 160 acre patch grew into a 4000 acre domain.

He figured it would take at least eight acres to pasture a steer, good years and bad ones. He used the hay meadows along the creek to winter range his stock and the stacked feed had to measure at least one ton of feed per animal. He never got short on feed and long on cattle as did many of the cattlemen.

Once he had a bunch of steers drift into a canyon pocket during a blizzard, the mouth snow blocked.

The drifts were too high and wide to dig through and the stock was in a fair way of suffering for feed.

Sanford concluded he could drop down into the pocket, opposite the mouth and force the spooky cattle out.

His men explained it was unsafe but Sanford dropped into the hole with a whoop, expecting to see the cattle stampede toward the lower end and crash through the snow barricade. He lit alright, right in front of a 1100 pound steer, showing fight. They exchanged glances, Sanford roared Boo, Boo, and waved his arms in a threatening manner, the steer merely waved his tail, backed up, pawing the snow and replied with a snort. That was when the Swede should have shown some cow-sense.

Instead, he 'Booed' again and made a pass at the red-eyed fellow. The response was an angry shake of his head, then backed up a few feet, dropped his head and charged.

Sanford managed to sidetrack the attack, the animal stopped short at the canyon wall, the respite gave Sanford time to attach himself to the fellows tail. When the steer seen what he had, he wheeled to renew the attack and Sanford stretched out like a red flannel shirt on a windy day. Perhaps three turns around the arena and when Sanford’s feet did hit the ground, he merely bounced a bit higher and lengthened the next stride, his britches near the splitting point and all the time Sanford calling out, "Ay Say, Shoot the Bustard, Ay can’t unhitch!"

Just when it seemed Sanford would unhitch and be trampled by the bunch, human endurance having reached its limit, the steer charged head-on into the snow barricade and telescoped like a turtle going into its shell and Sanford folded around the critter like a pretzel. Then man and beast disappeared in the snow, with cattle ahead, behind and attempting to go around...above the uproar Sanford calling, “Ay Say, shoot the bustard, ay can’t unhitch!”

All at once the cattle began to pop out of the drift with the Swede attached and right on his heels stampeded the entire bunch.

Then they disappeared into the second drift, went right over Sanford, but above the uproar could be heard, "AY say, Don’t shoot the bustard, Ay unhitched! "

Sanford never had a 'female' of any sort on the ranch except once. Bought some heifers, expecting a quick profit, but with the first winter storms they began to drop calves – or tried to. Kept him busy pulling calves, and dragging heifers out of bogs.

They caused "So danged much misery" he washed them out as soon as possible and thereafter stayed with steers.

They were purchased as long yearlings and turned at three'ers. The system seldom varied, 300 on pasture all the time, 100 sold off each fall and a like number of yearlings bought.

Sanford awoke one morning with ambitious thoughts wiggling about in his thin bosom. His steers were contracted at a good figure, money in the bank, and he figured it was time for a man to step out and assume some responsibility in the national economy. Politics appeared to be a good place to start. Politicians were rich or soon became rich, and with most foreign born people, he held government officials in high regard.

He went to the township caucus and would drop a discrete hint that he would like to be named a delegate to the County Convention.

In a tactful manner he whispered to Chairman Vic Ham, "Ay bane one Gud delegate, ay tank I better go, haw, haw, haw!"

Since no one wished that thankless and dubious honor, Sanford was named to represent his precinct.

Old Fred Schwartz had dominated the County Conventions many years. His Prussian tactics steam-rolled all opposition. Nothing pleased the old hellion more than to encourage a candidate whom he did not especially like, and just when all things looked smooth and lovely, he would, so to speak, "Dig up a buried hide" and in high indignation wave it before the assembly.

It seldom failed to cold-cock the candidate, and it always made Fred happy.

In those days, as it is today, most everyone had a "skeleton " in the closet, or something buried which would be embarrassing if disclosed, if not damaging. Fred made it a hobby to gather in those skeletons and never failed to rattle them when the demonstration would be the most effective.

Properly outfitted with credentials, Sanford was warned what to expect. "Ay bane not scared." he replied. “Ay don’t have any buried hides. Ay sold mine. Ay got a horse buried in my pasture but ay will bet one dollar and fifty cents Old Fred don’t know where it bane buried."

Shortly after the Convention convened, Sanford hunted up chairman Vic Ham and in great agitation exclaimed, "Ay bane resigning, politics bane too danged expensive. Ay had to buy my dinner, and Ay had to spend all of FIFTY cents for see-gars for them danged politicians. Ay RESIGN." And he did.

* * * * *

Sanford Stoneberg, 1942, as related to Everette Sutton:

I came to Dundy County Nebraska in 1887 because my brother was already here and after traveling some in Colorado, Wyoming and Utah decided the country was best suited for cattle raising, which was to be my future vocation. I knew it was to be a long hard pull as my finances were just about as low as they can get and yet be called assets.

I took a quarter section joining his place and put in crops. It was a bad drouth year but I managed to raise an estimated 200 bushels of corn which went into the stacked fodder. My neighbors did a poor job of farming and they had nothing but burned crops, then they turned their hogs loose and it was not long until they had eaten all my corn. When it was all wound up, I had fifty dollars to my name.

I decided then and there I was not going to be a crop farmer. Cattle could use roughage which could not be sold and I noticed good farmers all raised plenty of feed even if very little grain. Why not bank on something percentage wise in my favor.

Before settling down I decided to go back to Wyoming where my brother and I had worked near Cheyenne in 1888-9 for a rancher named Post, his brand the P.O. The winter of 1890-91 was open and the range stock did very well but with the first shoots of new grass there came a terrible blizzard. As I travelled along the Un Pac between Julesburg and Denver there were thousands of dead cattle which had drifted to the railroad fence and perished. In one 12 mile stretch near Orchard, Colorado, it was estimated there were 10,000 dead cattle. Months after the storm the stench was awful. Section men quit and it was impossible to get laborers along that section of track.

The thing I noticed with the greatest concern was that nearly all the dead cattle were cows. There were a lot of dead steers but they were killed by drifting over banks or smothered in a blind coulee. The cows just couldn’t stand the suffering like the steers.

At one place I noticed a lot of steers, skinny as crows, but they were on their feet and going, while in the muddy watering places the cows would be stuck and either dead or dying, too weak to fight their way out. Steers were putting on fat during grass time while the cows were sucked down, and come winter, were carrying calves.

We noticed a good many of the PO brand cattle dead along the railroad, at least 125 miles from their own range, drifters after new grass and then victims of the blizzards, several of them that spring.

This time I landed a job with the John Clay outfit. Clay had come up with some hard facts about the cattle business. Bookkeeping was to be in count-and figures, not book-count. The next thing he did, he ordered mowers and hay rakes and pitchforks. Cowboys could ride a bronco and enjoy it, but darned if they would ride a rake or mower and a pitchfork was pizzen to them. Clay saw that there was winter pasture near the ranch and there had to be at least a ton of stacked feed per critter, if not that much feed, he reduced the cow stuff in the fall, but kept the more hardy steers.

When I left the Clay outfit I had about $600 and figured I KNEW all the answers and a quick run into big money.

My brother and I purchased sixty heifers and all guaranteed to be with calf, we turned them loose on the Indian meadows, and pasture fed them from the stacks. We spent the rest of the winter pulling calves- ever time it stormed—pulling heifers out of the bog, and for thanks, they would blow snot all over us and then charge; our loss in calves was nearly half. Damn them!

I swore to the high heavens I would never permit another female on the place and didn’t (that included mares, chickens, milk cows. ESS). I had left Nebraska three years earlier with fifty dollars and now I was back to my original fifty, after cleaning up on the heifers.

With some help from my brother, I started off with a bunch of steer calves, fifty head at 6.00 but run into bad luck again. Blackleg infested the land and there was a heavy lose. No serum could be purchased locally and a vaccination for the disease was in its infancy.

The Government in Washington had a brown powder which was to be mixed with water and dropped into a cavity. The Bureau of Animal Industry said we were to expect a 4% loss, perhaps higher. That was a whole lot less than I had experienced but it was yet too high, my loss did run exactly 4%. The serum was effective to most calves but it was fatal to some.

A queer neighbor told me to use cloves of garlic, open a hole in the hide on the left shoulder of the calves and it was a sure cure. I don’t know whether it was or not, tried it and my loss was about the same.

We decided the land was infected. Old John Stroup had this place on the creek (present building site) and also two quarters to the north. We agreed on a price and I was to take care of the taxes, supposedly just a year in arrears but it turned out to be four years delinquent. I could see the time coming when free range would be gone, just now we were using land where the drouth had chased the farmers away during the drouth ( 90's) but come good years and they would be flocking back.

While I got most of my land at bargain prices, it was not long until I had to pay a premium, but my own land increased, too.

I now run 300 to 400 head and every year we put up between 600 and 800 tons of feed. It is used at the daily rate of 3 to 3 1/2 tons and we plan feeding the stock six months.

* * * * *

There is a sequel to the Stoneberg --John Clay deal. (By Everette Sutton)

Clay issued the book “My Life On The Plains”.

Stoneberg shipped cattle to the John Clay Commission Co and received a complimentary copy. Likewise the writer received a copy after shipping two cars.

My copy was lost in the Weigle fire. Stoneberg had been borrowing my books, he did not believe in buying books altho an avid reader. For several years I dickered with him for his copy, suggesting he sell it, make such an inscription in the book, and he could keep it until his death, then it was mine. He promised to see I got the book but that’s where it ended. One day I decided to GET it, so borrowed it at the time I loaned him three of my books. One day he stopped, saying he would sell the book. The price was to be $5.00 although earlier I had told him it was worth at least $15.00.

When he delivered the book, out of curiosity, I said, “Sanford, you know the book is worth more than $5.00 and that I would pay some more than that, then too you have borrowed my books for years, you could give it to me and never miss the $5.00. You borrowed my best suit of clothes to visit your people in Sweden, so just why a $5.00 charge. Get this straight, I am satisfied, it’s a bargain, but I wonder WHY Five bucks?

Sanford wiggled a bit, “Well, Everette, I told you about working for the John Clay outfit in Wyoming. When we settled up the S.O.B. of a bookkeeper beat me out of $5.00. I just wanted to get even. (That’s a Swede for you. ESS)

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