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Title: The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail Days

Author: Andy Adams

Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #12797]
                Most recently updated: June 13, 2023

Language: English

Credits: Keith M. Eckrich, and the PG Online Distributed
        Proofreaders Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOG OF A COWBOY: A NARRATIVE OF THE OLD TRAIL DAYS ***




                     [Illustration: THE STAMPEDE]




                          THE LOG OF A COWBOY

                   A Narrative of the Old Trail Days

                             BY ANDY ADAMS

                    _ILLUSTRATED BY E. BOYD SMITH_

                  “Our cattle also shall go with us.”
                          --_Exodus_ iv. 26.

                  [Illustration: The Riverside Press]

          BOSTON AND NEW YORK: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,

                    The Riverside Press, Cambridge


                                _1903_.




            TO THE COWMEN AND BOYS OF THE OLD WESTERN TRAIL

                 THESE PAGES ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED




                               CONTENTS


CHAP.

    I. UP THE TRAIL

   II. RECEIVING

  III. THE START

   IV. THE ATASCOSA

    V. A DRY DRIVE

   VI. A REMINISCENT NIGHT

  VII. THE COLORADO

 VIII. ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA

   IX. DOAN’S CROSSING

    X. NO MAN’S LAND

   XI. A BOGGY FORD

  XII. THE NORTH FORK

 XIII. DODGE

  XIV. SLAUGHTER’S BRIDGE

   XV. THE BEAVER

  XVI. THE REPUBLICAN

 XVII. OGALALLA

XVIII. THE NORTH PLATTE

  XIX. FORTY ISLANDS FORD

   XX. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE

  XXI. THE YELLOWSTONE

 XXII. OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE

XXIII. DELIVERY

 XXIV. BACK TO TEXAS


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

     THE STAMPEDE

     MAP SHOWING THE TRAIL

     HEAT AND THIRST

     MEETING WITH INDIANS

     CELEBRATING IN DODGE

     STORY-TELLING

     SWIMMING THE PLATTE




THE LOG OF A COWBOY




CHAPTER I

UP THE TRAIL

Just why my father moved, at the close of the civil war, from Georgia
to Texas, is to this good hour a mystery to me. While we did not
exactly belong to the poor whites, we classed with them in poverty,
being renters; but I am inclined to think my parents were
intellectually superior to that common type of the South. Both were
foreign born, my mother being Scotch and my father a north of Ireland
man,--as I remember him, now, impulsive, hasty in action, and slow to
confess a fault. It was his impulsiveness that led him to volunteer
and serve four years in the Confederate army,--trying years to my
mother, with a brood of seven children to feed, garb, and house. The
war brought me my initiation as a cowboy, of which I have now, after
the long lapse of years, the greater portion of which were spent with
cattle, a distinct recollection. Sherman’s army, in its march to the
sea, passed through our county, devastating that section for miles in
its passing.

Foraging parties scoured the country on either side of its path. My
mother had warning in time and set her house in order. Our work stock
consisted of two yoke of oxen, while our cattle numbered three cows,
and for saving them from the foragers credit must be given to my
mother’s generalship. There was a wild canebrake, in which the cattle
fed, several hundred acres in extent, about a mile from our little
farm, and it was necessary to bell them in order to locate them when
wanted. But the cows were in the habit of coming up to be milked, and
a soldier can hear a bell as well as any one. I was a lad of eight at
the time, and while my two older brothers worked our few fields, I was
sent into the canebrake to herd the cattle. We had removed the bells
from the oxen and cows, but one ox was belled after darkness each
evening, to be unbelled again at daybreak. I always carried the bell
with me, stuffed with grass, in order to have it at hand when wanted.

During the first few days of the raid, a number of mounted foraging
parties passed our house, but its poverty was all too apparent, and
nothing was molested. Several of these parties were driving herds of
cattle and work stock of every description, while by day and by night
gins and plantation houses were being given to the flames. Our
one-roomed log cabin was spared, due to the ingenious tale told by my
mother as to the whereabouts of my father; and yet she taught her
children to fear God and tell the truth. My vigil was trying to one of
my years, for the days seemed like weeks, but the importance of hiding
our cattle was thoroughly impressed upon my mind. Food was secretly
brought to me, and under cover of darkness, my mother and eldest
brother would come and milk the cows, when we would all return home
together. Then, before daybreak, we would be in the cane listening for
the first tinkle, to find the cattle and remove the bell. And my day’s
work commenced anew.

Only once did I come near betraying my trust. About the middle of the
third day I grew very hungry, and as the cattle were lying down, I
crept to the edge of the canebrake to see if my dinner was not
forthcoming. Soldiers were in sight, which explained everything.
Concealed in the rank cane I stood and watched them. Suddenly a squad
of five or six turned a point of the brake and rode within fifty feet
of me. I stood like a stone statue, my concealment being perfect.
After they had passed, I took a step forward, the better to watch them
as they rode away, when the grass dropped out of the bell and it
clattered. A red-whiskered soldier heard the tinkle, and wheeling his
horse, rode back. I grasped the clapper and lay flat on the ground, my
heart beating like a trip-hammer. He rode within twenty feet of me,
peering into the thicket of cane, and not seeing anything unusual,
turned and galloped away after his companions. Then the lesson, taught
me by my mother, of being “faithful over a few things,” flashed
through my mind, and though our cattle were spared to us, I felt very
guilty.

Another vivid recollection of those boyhood days in Georgia was the
return of my father from the army. The news of Lee’s surrender had
reached us, and all of us watched for his coming. Though he was long
delayed, when at last he did come riding home on a swallow-marked
brown mule, he was a conquering hero to us children. We had never
owned a horse, and he assured us that the animal was his own, and by
turns set us on the tired mule’s back. He explained to mother and us
children how, though he was an infantryman, he came into possession of
the animal. Now, however, with my mature years and knowledge of
brands, I regret to state that the mule had not been condemned and was
in the “U.S.” brand. A story which Priest, “The Rebel,” once told me
throws some light on the matter; he asserted that all good soldiers
would steal. “Can you take the city of St. Louis?” was asked of
General Price. “I don’t know as I can take it,” replied the general to
his consulting superiors, “but if you will give me Louisiana troops,
I’ll agree to steal it.”

Though my father had lost nothing by the war, he was impatient to go
to a new country. Many of his former comrades were going to Texas,
and, as our worldly possessions were movable, to Texas we started. Our
four oxen were yoked to the wagon, in which our few household effects
were loaded and in which mother and the smaller children rode, and
with the cows, dogs, and elder boys bringing up the rear, our caravan
started, my father riding the mule and driving the oxen. It was an
entire summer’s trip, full of incident, privation, and hardship. The
stock fared well, but several times we were compelled to halt and
secure work in order to supply our limited larder. Through certain
sections, however, fish and game were abundant. I remember the
enthusiasm we all felt when we reached the Sabine River, and for the
first time viewed the promised land. It was at a ferry, and the
sluggish river was deep. When my father informed the ferryman that he
had no money with which to pay the ferriage, the latter turned on him
remarking, sarcastically: “What, no money? My dear sir, it certainly
can’t make much difference to a man which side of the river he’s on,
when he has no money.”

Nothing daunted by this rebuff, my father argued the point at some
length, when the ferryman relented so far as to inform him that ten
miles higher up, the river was fordable. We arrived at the ford the
next day. My father rode across and back, testing the stage of the
water and the river’s bottom before driving the wagon in. Then taking
one of the older boys behind him on the mule in order to lighten the
wagon, he drove the oxen into the river. Near the middle the water was
deep enough to reach the wagon box, but with shoutings and a free
application of the gad, we hurried through in safety. One of the wheel
oxen, a black steer which we called “Pop-eye,” could be ridden, and I
straddled him in fording, laving my sunburned feet in the cool water.
The cows were driven over next, the dogs swimming, and at last, bag
and baggage, we were in Texas.

We reached the Colorado River early in the fall, where we stopped and
picked cotton for several months, making quite a bit of money, and
near Christmas reached our final destination on the San Antonio River,
where we took up land and built a house. That was a happy home; the
country was new and supplied our simple wants; we had milk and honey,
and, though the fig tree was absent, along the river grew endless
quantities of mustang grapes. At that time the San Antonio valley was
principally a cattle country, and as the boys of our family grew old
enough the fascination of a horse and saddle was too strong to be
resisted. My two older brothers went first, but my father and mother
made strenuous efforts to keep me at home, and did so until I was
sixteen. I suppose it is natural for every country boy to be
fascinated with some other occupation than the one to which he is
bred. In my early teens, I always thought I should like either to
drive six horses to a stage or clerk in a store, and if I could have
attained either of those lofty heights, at that age, I would have
asked no more. So my father, rather than see me follow in the
footsteps of my older brothers, secured me a situation in a village
store some twenty miles distant. The storekeeper was a fellow
countryman of my father--from the same county in Ireland, in fact--and
I was duly elated on getting away from home to the life of the
village.

But my elation was short-lived. I was to receive no wages for the
first six months. My father counseled the merchant to work me hard,
and, if possible, cure me of the “foolish notion,” as he termed it.
The storekeeper cured me. The first week I was with him he kept me in
a back warehouse shelling corn. The second week started out no better.
I was given a shovel and put on the street to work out the poll-tax,
not only of the merchant but of two other clerks in the store. Here
was two weeks’ work in sight, but the third morning I took breakfast
at home. My mercantile career had ended, and forthwith I took to the
range as a preacher’s son takes to vice. By the time I was twenty
there was no better cow-hand in the entire country. I could, besides,
speak Spanish and play the fiddle, and thought nothing of riding
thirty miles to a dance. The vagabond temperament of the range I
easily assimilated.

Christmas in the South is always a season of festivity, and the magnet
of mother and home yearly drew us to the family hearthstone. There we
brothers met and exchanged stories of our experiences. But one year
both my brothers brought home a new experience. They had been up the
trail, and the wondrous stories they told about the northern country
set my blood on fire. Until then I thought I had had adventures, but
mine paled into insignificance beside theirs. The following summer, my
eldest brother, Robert, himself was to boss a herd up the trail, and I
pleaded with him to give me a berth, but he refused me, saying: “No,
Tommy; the trail is one place where a foreman can have no favorites.
Hardship and privation must be met, and the men must throw themselves
equally into the collar. I don’t doubt but you’re a good hand; still
the fact that you’re my brother might cause other boys to think I
would favor you. A trail outfit has to work as a unit, and dissensions
would be ruinous.” I had seen favoritism shown on ranches, and
understood his position to be right. Still I felt that I must make
that trip if it were possible. Finally Robert, seeing that I was
overanxious to go, came to me and said: “I’ve been thinking that if I
recommended you to Jim Flood, my old foreman, he might take you with
him next year. He is to have a herd that will take five months from
start to delivery, and that will be the chance of your life. I’ll see
him next week and make a strong talk for you.”

True to his word, he bespoke me a job with Flood the next time he met
him, and a week later a letter from Flood reached me, terse and
pointed, engaging my services as a trail hand for the coming summer.
The outfit would pass near our home on its way to receive the cattle
which were to make up the trail herd. Time and place were appointed
where I was to meet them in the middle of March, and I felt as if I
were made. I remember my mother and sisters twitted me about the
swagger that came into my walk, after the receipt of Flood’s letter,
and even asserted that I sat my horse as straight as a poker.
Possibly! but wasn’t I going up the trail with Jim Flood, the boss
foreman of Don Lovell, the cowman and drover?

Our little ranch was near Cibollo Ford on the river, and as the outfit
passed down the country, they crossed at that ford and picked me up.
Flood was not with them, which was a disappointment to me, “Quince”
Forrest acting as _segundo_ at the time. They had four mules to the
“chuck” wagon under Barney McCann as cook, while the _remuda_, under
Billy Honeyman as horse wrangler, numbered a hundred and forty-two,
ten horses to the man, with two extra for the foreman. Then, for the
first time, I learned that we were going down to the mouth of the Rio
Grande to receive the herd from across the river in Old Mexico; and
that they were contracted for delivery on the Blackfoot Indian
Reservation in the northwest corner of Montana. Lovell had several
contracts with the Indian Department of the government that year, and
had been granted the privilege of bringing in, free of duty, any
cattle to be used in filling Indian contracts.

My worst trouble was getting away from home on the morning of
starting. Mother and my sisters, of course, shed a few tears; but my
father, stern and unbending in his manner, gave me his benediction in
these words: “Thomas Moore, you’re the third son to leave our roof,
but your father’s blessing goes with you. I left my own home beyond
the sea before I was your age.” And as they all stood at the gate, I
climbed into my saddle and rode away, with a lump in my throat which
left me speechless to reply.




CHAPTER II

RECEIVING

It was a nice ten days’ trip from the San Antonio to the Rio Grande
River. We made twenty-five to thirty miles a day, giving the saddle
horses all the advantage of grazing on the way. Rather than hobble,
Forrest night-herded them, using five guards, two men to the watch of
two hours each. “As I have little hope of ever rising to the dignity
of foreman,” said our _segundo_, while arranging the guards, “I’ll
take this occasion to show you varmints what an iron will I possess.
With the amount of help I have, I don’t propose to even catch a night
horse; and I’ll give the cook orders to bring me a cup of coffee and a
cigarette before I arise in the morning. I’ve been up the trail before
and realize that this authority is short-lived, so I propose to make
the most of it while it lasts. Now you all know your places, and see
you don’t incur your foreman’s displeasure.”

The outfit reached Brownsville on March 25th, where we picked up Flood
and Lovell, and dropping down the river about six miles below Fort
Brown, went into camp at a cattle ford known as Paso Ganado. The Rio
Grande was two hundred yards wide at this point, and at its then stage
was almost swimming from bank to bank. It had very little current, and
when winds were favorable the tide from the Gulf ran in above the
ford. Flood had spent the past two weeks across the river, receiving
and road-branding the herd, so when the cattle should reach the river
on the Mexican side we were in honor bound to accept everything
bearing the “circle dot” the left hip. The contract called for a
thousand she cattle, three and four years of age, and two thousand
four and five year old beeves, estimated as sufficient to fill a
million-pound beef contract. For fear of losses on the trail, our
foreman had accepted fifty extra head of each class, and our herd at
starting would number thirty-one hundred head. They were coming up
from ranches in the interior, and we expected to cross them the first
favorable day after their arrival. A number of different rancheros had
turned in cattle in making up the herd, and Flood reported them in
good, strong condition.

Lovell and Flood were a good team of cowmen. The former, as a youth,
had carried a musket in the ranks of the Union army, and at the end of
that struggle, cast his fortune with Texas, where others had seen
nothing but the desolation of war, Lovell saw opportunities of
business, and had yearly forged ahead as a drover and beef contractor.
He was well calculated to manage the cattle business, but was
irritable and inclined to borrow trouble, therefore unqualified
personally to oversee the actual management of a cow herd. In repose,
Don Lovell was slow, almost dull, but in an emergency was
astonishingly quick-witted and alert. He never insisted on temperance
among his men, and though usually of a placid temperament, when out of
tobacco--Lord!

Jim Flood, on the other hand, was in a hundred respects the antithesis
of his employer. Born to the soil of Texas, he knew nothing but
cattle, but he knew them thoroughly. Yet in their calling, the pair
were a harmonious unit. He never crossed a bridge till he reached it,
was indulgent with his men, and would overlook any fault, so long as
they rendered faithful service. Priest told me this incident: Flood
had hired a man at Red River the year before, when a self-appointed
guardian present called Flood to one side and said,--“Don’t you know
that that man you’ve just hired is the worst drunkard in this
country?”

“No, I didn’t know it,” replied Flood, “but I’m glad to hear he is. I
don’t want to ruin an innocent man, and a trail outfit is not supposed
to have any morals. Just so the herd don’t count out shy on the day of
delivery, I don’t mind how many drinks the outfit takes.”

The next morning after going into camp, the first thing was the
allotment of our mounts for the trip. Flood had the first pick, and
cut twelve bays and browns. His preference for solid colors, though
they were not the largest in the _remuda_, showed his practical sense
of horses. When it came the boys’ turn to cut, we were only allowed to
cut one at a time by turns, even casting lots for first choice. We had
ridden the horses enough to have a fair idea as to their merits, and
every lad was his own judge. There were, as it happened, only three
pinto horses in the entire saddle stock, and these three were the last
left of the entire bunch. Now a little boy or girl, and many an older
person, thinks that a spotted horse is the real thing, but practical
cattle men know that this freak of color in range-bred horses is the
result of in-and-in breeding, with consequent physical and mental
deterioration. It was my good fortune that morning to get a good mount
of horses,--three sorrels, two grays, two coyotes, a black, a brown,
and a _grulla_. The black was my second pick, and though the color is
not a hardy one, his “bread-basket” indicated that he could carry food
for a long ride, and ought to be a good swimmer. My judgment of him
was confirmed throughout the trip, as I used him for my night horse
and when we had swimming rivers to ford. I gave this black the name of
“Nigger Boy.”

For the trip each man was expected to furnish his own accoutrements.
In saddles, we had the ordinary Texas make, the housings of which
covered our mounts from withers to hips, and would weigh from thirty
to forty pounds, bedecked with the latest in the way of trimmings and
trappings.

Our bridles were in keeping with the saddles, the reins as long as
plough lines, while the bit was frequently ornamental and costly. The
indispensable slicker, a greatcoat of oiled canvas, was ever at hand,
securely tied to our cantle strings. Spurs were a matter of taste. If
a rider carried a quirt, he usually dispensed with spurs, though, when
used, those with large, dull rowels were the make commonly chosen. In
the matter of leggings, not over half our outfit had any, as a trail
herd always kept in the open, and except for night herding they were
too warm in summer. Our craft never used a cattle whip, but if
emergency required, the loose end of a rope served instead, and was
more humane.

Either Flood or Lovell went into town every afternoon with some of the
boys, expecting to hear from the cattle. On one trip they took along
the wagon, laying in a month’s supplies. The rest of us amused
ourselves in various ways. One afternoon when the tide was in, we
tried our swimming horses in the river, stripping to our
underclothing, and, with nothing but a bridle on our horses, plunged
into tidewater. My Nigger Boy swam from bank to bank like a duck. On
the return I slid off behind, and taking his tail, let him tow me to
our own side, where he arrived snorting like a tugboat.

One evening, on their return from Brownsville, Flood brought word that
the herd would camp that night within fifteen miles of the river. At
daybreak Lovell and the foreman, with “Fox” Quarternight and myself,
started to meet the herd. The nearest ferry was at Brownsville, and it
was eleven o’clock when we reached the cattle. Flood had dispensed
with an interpreter and had taken Quarternight and me along to do the
interpreting. The cattle were well shed and in good flesh for such an
early season of the year, and in receiving, our foreman had been
careful and had accepted only such as had strength for a long voyage.
They were the long-legged, long-horned Southern cattle, pale-colored
as a rule, possessed the running powers of a deer, and in an ordinary
walk could travel with a horse. They had about thirty vaqueros under a
corporal driving the herd, and the cattle were strung out in regular
trailing manner. We rode with them until the noon hour, when, with the
understanding that they were to bring the herd to Paso Ganado by ten
o’clock the following day, we rode for Matamoros. Lovell had other
herds to start on the trail that year, and was very anxious to cross
the cattle the following day, so as to get the weekly steamer--the
only mode of travel--which left Point Isabel for Galveston on the
first of April.

The next morning was bright and clear, with an east wind, which
insured a flood tide in the river. On first sighting the herd that
morning, we made ready to cross them as soon as they reached the
river. The wagon was moved up within a hundred yards of the ford, and
a substantial corral of ropes was stretched. Then the entire saddle
stock was driven in, so as to be at hand in case a hasty change of
mounts was required. By this time Honeyman knew the horses of each
man’s mount, so all we had to do was to sing out our horse, and Billy
would have a rope on one and have him at hand before you could
unsaddle a tired one. On account of our linguistic accomplishments,
Quarternight and I were to be sent across the river to put the cattle
in and otherwise assume control. On the Mexican side there was a
single string of high brush fence on the lower side of the ford,
commencing well out in the water and running back about two hundred
yards, thus giving us a half chute in forcing the cattle to take
swimming water. This ford had been in use for years in crossing
cattle, but I believe this was the first herd ever crossed that was
intended for the trail, or for beyond the bounds of Texas.

When the herd was within a mile of the river, Fox and I shed our
saddles, boots, and surplus clothing and started to meet it. The water
was chilly, but we struck it with a shout, and with the cheers of our
outfit behind us, swam like smugglers. A swimming horse needs freedom,
and we scarcely touched the reins, but with one hand buried in a mane
hold, and giving gentle slaps on the neck with the other, we guided
our horses for the other shore. I was proving out my black, Fox had a
gray of equal barrel displacement,--both good swimmers; and on
reaching the Mexican shore, we dismounted and allowed them to roll in
the warm sand.

Flood had given us general instructions, and we halted the herd about
half a mile from the river. The Mexican corporal was only too glad to
have us assume charge, and assured us that he and his outfit were ours
to command. I at once proclaimed Fox Quarternight, whose years and
experience outranked mine, the _gringo_ corporal for the day, at which
the vaqueros smiled, but I noticed they never used the word. On Fox’s
suggestion the Mexican corporal brought up his wagon and corralled his
horses as we had done, when his cook, to our delight, invited all to
have coffee before starting. That cook won our everlasting regards,
for his coffee was delicious. We praised it highly, whereupon the
corporal ordered the cook to have it at hand for the men in the
intervals between crossing the different bunches of cattle. A March
day on the Rio Grande with wet clothing is not summer, and the
vaqueros hesitated a bit before following the example of Quarternight
and myself and dispensing with saddles and boots. Five men were then
detailed to hold the herd as compact as possible, and the remainder,
twenty-seven all told, cut off about three hundred head and started
for the river. I took the lead, for though cattle are less gregarious
by nature than other animals, under pressure of excitement they will
follow a leader. It was about noon and the herd were thirsty, so when
we reached the brush chute, all hands started them on a run for the
water. When the cattle were once inside the wing we went rapidly, four
vaqueros riding outside the fence to keep the cattle from turning the
chute on reaching swimming water. The leaders were crowding me close
when Nigger breasted the water, and closely followed by several lead
cattle, I struck straight for the American shore. The vaqueros forced
every hoof into the river, following and shouting as far as the
midstream, when they were swimming so nicely, Quarternight called off
the men and all turned their horses back to the Mexican side. On
landing opposite the exit from the ford, our men held the cattle as
they came out, in order to bait the next bunch.

I rested my horse only a few minutes before taking the water again,
but Lovell urged me to take an extra horse across, so as to have a
change in case my black became fagged in swimming. Quarternight was a
harsh _segundo_, for no sooner had I reached the other bank than he
cut off the second bunch of about four hundred and started them.
Turning Nigger Boy loose behind the brush fence, so as to be out of
the way, I galloped out on my second horse, and meeting the cattle,
turned and again took the lead for the river. My substitute did not
swim with the freedom and ease of the black, and several times cattle
swam so near me that I could lay my hand on their backs. When about
halfway over, I heard shoutings behind me in English, and on looking
back saw Nigger Boy swimming after us. A number of vaqueros attempted
to catch him, but he outswam them and came out with the cattle; the
excitement was too much for him to miss.

Each trip was a repetition of the former, with varying incident. Every
hoof was over in less than two hours. On the last trip, in which there
were about seven hundred head, the horse of one of the Mexican
vaqueros took cramps, it was supposed, at about the middle of the
river, and sank without a moment’s warning. A number of us heard the
man’s terrified cry, only in time to see horse and rider sink. Every
man within reach turned to the rescue, and a moment later the man rose
to the surface. Fox caught him by the shirt, and, shaking the water
out of him, turned him over to one of the other vaqueros, who towed
him back to their own side. Strange as it may appear, the horse never
came to the surface again, which supported the supposition of cramps.

After a change of clothes for Quarternight and myself, and rather late
dinner for all hands, there yet remained the counting of the herd. The
Mexican corporal and two of his men had come over for the purpose, and
though Lovell and several wealthy rancheros, the sellers of the
cattle, were present, it remained for Flood and the corporal to make
the final count, as between buyer and seller. There was also present a
river guard,--sent out by the United States Custom House, as a matter
of form in the entry papers,--who also insisted on counting. In order
to have a second count on the herd, Lovell ordered The Rebel to count
opposite the government’s man. We strung the cattle out, now logy with
water, and after making quite a circle, brought the herd around where
there was quite a bluff bank of the river. The herd handled well, and
for a quarter of an hour we lined them between our four mounted
counters. The only difference in the manner of counting between Flood
and the Mexican corporal was that the American used a tally string
tied to the pommel of his saddle, on which were ten knots, keeping
count by slipping a knot on each even hundred, while the Mexican used
ten small pebbles, shifting a pebble from one hand to the other on
hundreds. “Just a mere difference in nationality,” Lovell had me
interpret to the selling dons.

When the count ended only two of the men agreed on numbers, The Rebel
and the corporal making the same thirty-one hundred and five,--Flood
being one under and the Custom House man one over. Lovell at once
accepted the count of Priest and the corporal; and the delivery,
which, as I learned during the interpreting that followed, was to be
sealed with a supper that night in Brownsville, was consummated.
Lovell was compelled to leave us, to make the final payment for the
herd, and we would not see him again for some time. They were all
seated in the vehicle ready to start for town, when the cowman said to
his foreman,--

“Now, Jim, I can’t give you any pointers on handling a herd, but you
have until the 10th day of September to reach the Blackfoot Agency. An
average of fifteen miles a day will put you there on time, so don’t
hurry. I’ll try and see you at Dodge and Ogalalla on the way. Now,
live well, for I like your outfit of men. Your credit letter is good
anywhere you need supplies, and if you want more horses on the trail,
buy them and draft on me through your letter of credit. If any of your
men meet with accident or get sick, look out for them the same as you
would for yourself, and I’ll honor all bills. And don’t be stingy over
your expense account, for if that herd don’t make money, you and I had
better quit cows.”

I had been detained to do any interpreting needful, and at parting
Lovell beckoned to me. When I rode alongside the carriage, he gave me
his hand and said,--

“Flood tells me to-day that you’re a brother of Bob Quirk. Bob is to
be foreman of my herd that I’m putting up in Nueces County. I’m glad
you’re here with Jim, though, for it’s a longer trip. Yes, you’ll get
all the circus there is, and stay for the concert besides. They say
God is good to the poor and the Irish; and if that’s so, you’ll pull
through all right. Good-by, son.” And as he gave me a hearty, ringing
grip of the hand, I couldn’t help feeling friendly toward him, Yankee
that he was.

After Lovell and the dons had gone, Flood ordered McCann to move his
wagon back from the river about a mile. It was now too late in the day
to start the herd, and we wanted to graze them well, as it was our
first night with them. About half our outfit grazed them around on a
large circle, preparatory to bringing them up to the bed ground as it
grew dusk. In the untrammeled freedom of the native range, a cow or
steer will pick old dry grass on which to lie down, and if it is
summer, will prefer an elevation sufficient to catch any passing
breeze. Flood was familiar with the habits of cattle, and selected a
nice elevation on which the old dry grass of the previous summer’s
growth lay matted like a carpet.

Our saddle horses by this time were fairly well broken to camp life,
and, with the cattle on hand, night herding them had to be abandoned.
Billy Honeyman, however, had noticed several horses that were inclined
to stray on day herd, and these few leaders were so well marked in his
memory that, as a matter of precaution, he insisted on putting a rope
hobble on them. At every noon and night camp we strung a rope from the
hind wheel of our wagon and another from the end of the wagon tongue
back to stakes driven in the ground or held by a man, forming a
triangular corral. Thus in a few minutes, under any conditions, we
could construct a temporary corral for catching a change of mounts, or
for the wrangler to hobble untrustworthy horses. On the trail all
horses are free at night, except the regular night ones, which are
used constantly during the entire trip, and under ordinary conditions
keep strong and improve in flesh.

Before the herd was brought in for the night, and during the supper
hour, Flood announced the guards for the trip. As the men usually
bunked in pairs, the foreman chose them as they slept, but was under
the necessity of splitting two berths of bedfellows. “Rod” Wheat, Joe
Stallings, and Ash Borrowstone were assigned to the first guard, from
eight to ten thirty P.M. Bob Blades, “Bull” Durham, and Fox
Quarternight were given second guard, from ten thirty to one. Paul
Priest, John Officer, and myself made up the third watch, from one to
three thirty. The Rebel and I were bunkies, and this choice of guards,
while not ideal, was much better than splitting bedfellows and having
them annoy each other by going out and returning from guard
separately. The only fault I ever found with Priest was that he could
use the poorest judgment in selecting a bed ground for our blankets,
and always talked and told stories to me until I fell asleep. He was a
light sleeper himself, while I, being much younger, was the reverse.
The fourth and last guard, from three thirty until relieved after
daybreak, fell to Wyatt Roundtree, Quince Forrest, and “Moss”
Strayhorn. Thus the only men in the outfit not on night duty were
Honeyman, our horse wrangler, Barney McCann, our cook, and Flood, the
foreman. The latter, however, made up by riding almost double as much
as any man in his outfit. He never left the herd until it was bedded
down for the night, and we could always hear him quietly arousing the
cook and horse wrangler an hour before daybreak. He always kept a
horse on picket for the night, and often took the herd as it left the
bed ground at clear dawn.

A half hour before dark, Flood and all the herd men turned out to bed
down the cattle for our first night. They had been well grazed after
counting, and as they came up to the bed ground there was not a hungry
or thirsty animal in the lot. All seemed anxious to lie down, and by
circling around slowly, while gradually closing in, in the course of
half an hour all were bedded nicely on possibly five or six acres. I
remember there were a number of muleys among the cattle, and these
would not venture into the compact herd until the others had lain
down. Being hornless, instinct taught them to be on the defensive, and
it was noticeable that they were the first to arise in the morning, in
advance of their horned kin. When all had lain down, Flood and the
first guard remained, the others returning to the wagon.

The guards ride in a circle about four rods outside the sleeping
cattle, and by riding in opposite directions make it impossible for
any animal to make its escape without being noticed by the riders. The
guards usually sing or whistle continuously, so that the sleeping herd
may know that a friend and not an enemy is keeping vigil over their
dreams. A sleeping herd of cattle make a pretty picture on a clear
moonlight night, chewing their cuds and grunting and blowing over
contented stomachs. The night horses soon learn their duty, and a
rider may fall asleep or doze along in the saddle, but the horses will
maintain their distance in their leisurely, sentinel rounds.

On returning to the wagon, Priest and I picketed our horses, saddled,
where we could easily find them in the darkness, and unrolled our bed.
We had two pairs of blankets each, which, with an ordinary wagon sheet
doubled for a tarpaulin, and coats and boots for pillows, completed
our couch. We slept otherwise in our clothing worn during the day, and
if smooth, sandy ground was available on which to spread our bed, we
had no trouble in sleeping the sleep that long hours in the saddle
were certain to bring. With all his pardonable faults, The Rebel was a
good bunkie and a hail companion, this being his sixth trip over the
trail. He had been with Lovell over a year before the two made the
discovery that they had been on opposite sides during the “late
unpleasantness.” On making this discovery, Lovell at once rechristened
Priest “The Rebel,” and that name he always bore. He was fifteen years
my senior at this time, a wonderfully complex nature, hardened by
unusual experiences into a character the gamut of whose moods ran from
that of a good-natured fellow to a man of unrelenting severity in
anger.

We were sleeping a nine knot gale when Fox Quarternight of the second
guard called us on our watch. It was a clear, starry night, and our
guard soon passed, the cattle sleeping like tired soldiers. When the
last relief came on guard and we had returned to our blankets, I
remember Priest telling me this little incident as I fell asleep.

“I was at a dance once in Live Oak County, and there was a stuttering
fellow there by the name of Lem Todhunter. The girls, it seems, didn’t
care to dance with him, and pretended they couldn’t understand him. He
had asked every girl at the party, and received the same answer from
each--they couldn’t understand him. ‘W-w-w-ell, g-g-g-go to hell,
then. C-c-c-can y-y-you understand that?’ he said to the last girl,
and her brother threatened to mangle him horribly if he didn’t
apologize, to which he finally agreed. He went back into the house and
said to the girl, ‘Y-y-you n-n-n-needn’t g-g-g-go to hell; y-y-your
b-b-b-brother and I have m-m-made other ’r-r-r-rangements.’”




CHAPTER III

THE START

On the morning of April 1, 1882, our Circle Dot herd started on its
long tramp to the Blackfoot Agency in Montana. With six men on each
side, and the herd strung out for three quarters of a mile, it could
only be compared to some mythical serpent or Chinese dragon, as it
moved forward on its sinuous, snail-like course. Two riders, known as
point men, rode out and well back from the lead cattle, and by riding
forward and closing in as occasion required, directed the course of
the herd. The main body of the herd trailed along behind the leaders
like an army in loose marching order, guarded by outriders, known as
swing men, who rode well out from the advancing column, warding off
range cattle and seeing that none of the herd wandered away or dropped
out. There was no driving to do; the cattle moved of their own free
will as in ordinary travel. Flood seldom gave orders; but, as a number
of us had never worked on the trail before, at breakfast on the
morning of our start he gave in substance these general directions:--

“Boys, the secret of trailing cattle is never to let your herd know
that they are under restraint. Let everything that is done be done
voluntarily by the cattle. From the moment you let them off the bed
ground in the morning until they are bedded at night, never let a cow
take a step, except in the direction of its destination. In this
manner you can loaf away the day, and cover from fifteen to twenty
miles, and the herd in the mean time will enjoy all the freedom of an
open range. Of course, it’s long, tiresome hours to the men; but the
condition of the herd and saddle stock demands sacrifices on our part,
if any have to be made. And I want to caution you younger boys about
your horses; there is such a thing as having ten horses in your
string, and at the same time being afoot. You are all well mounted,
and on the condition of the _remuda_ depends the success and safety of
the herd. Accidents will happen to horses, but don’t let it be your
fault; keep your saddle blankets dry and clean, for no better word can
be spoken of a man than that he is careful of his horses. Ordinarily a
man might get along with six or eight horses, but in such emergencies
as we are liable to meet, we have not a horse to spare, and a man
afoot is useless.”

And as all of us younger boys learned afterward, there was plenty of
good, solid, horse-sense in Flood’s advice; for before the trip ended
there were men in our outfit who were as good as afoot, while others
had their original mounts, every one fit for the saddle. Flood had
insisted on a good mount of horses, and Lovell was cowman enough to
know that what the mule is to the army the cow-horse is to the herd.

The first and second day out there was no incident worth mentioning.
We traveled slowly, hardly making an average day’s drive. The third
morning Flood left us, to look out a crossing on the Arroyo Colorado.
On coming down to receive the herd, we had crossed this sluggish bayou
about thirty-six miles north of Brownsville. It was a deceptive-looking
stream, being over fifty feet deep and between bluff banks. We ferried
our wagon and saddle horses over, swimming the loose ones. But the
herd was keeping near the coast line for the sake of open country, and
it was a question if there was a ford for the wagon as near the coast
as our course was carrying us. The murmurings of the Gulf had often
reached our ears the day before, and herds had been known, in former
years, to cross from the mainland over to Padre Island, the intervening
Laguna Madre being fordable.

We were nooning when Flood returned with the news that it would be
impossible to cross our wagon at any point on the bayou, and that we
would have to ford around the mouth of the stream. Where the fresh and
salt water met in the laguna, there had formed a delta, or shallow
bar; and by following its contour we would not have over twelve to
fourteen inches of water, though the half circle was nearly two miles
in length. As we would barely have time to cross that day, the herd
was at once started, veering for the mouth of the Arroyo Colorado. On
reaching it, about the middle of the afternoon, the foreman led the
way, having crossed in the morning and learned the ford. The wagon
followed, the saddle horses came next, while the herd brought up the
rear. It proved good footing on the sandbar, but the water in the
laguna was too salty for the cattle, though the loose horses lay down
and wallowed in it. We were about an hour in crossing, and on reaching
the mainland met a vaquero, who directed us to a large fresh-water
lake a few miles inland, where we camped for the night.

It proved an ideal camp, with wood, water, and grass in abundance, and
very little range stock to annoy us. We had watered the herd just
before noon, and before throwing them upon the bed ground for the
night, watered them a second time. We had a splendid camp-fire that
night, of dry live oak logs, and after supper was over and the first
guard had taken the herd, smoking and story telling were the order of
the evening. The camp-fire is to all outdoor life what the evening
fireside is to domestic life. After the labors of the day are over,
the men gather around the fire, and the social hour of the day is
spent in yarning. The stories told may run from the sublime to the
ridiculous, from a true incident to a base fabrication, or from a
touching bit of pathos to the most vulgar vulgarity.

“Have I ever told this outfit my experience with the vigilantes when I
was a kid?” inquired Bull Durham. There was a general negative
response, and he proceeded. “Well, our folks were living on the Frio
at the time, and there was a man in our neighborhood who had an outfit
of four men out beyond Nueces Cañon hunting wild cattle for their
hides. It was necessary to take them out supplies about every so
often, and on one trip he begged my folks to let me go along for
company. I was a slim slip of a colt about fourteen at the time, and
as this man was a friend of ours, my folks consented to let me go
along. We each had a good saddle horse, and two pack mules with
provisions and ammunition for the hunting camp. The first night we
made camp, a boy overtook us with the news that the brother of my
companion had been accidentally killed by a horse, and of course he
would have to return. Well, we were twenty miles on our way, and as it
would take some little time to go back and return with the loaded
mules, I volunteered, like a fool kid, to go on and take the packs
through.

“The only question was, could I pack and unpack. I had helped him at
this work, double-handed, but now that I was to try it alone, he
showed me what he called a squaw hitch, with which you can lash a pack
single-handed. After putting me through it once or twice, and
satisfying himself that I could do the packing, he consented to let me
go on, he and the messenger returning home during the night. The next
morning I packed without any trouble and started on my way. It would
take me two days yet, poking along with heavy packs, to reach the
hunters. Well, I hadn’t made over eight or ten miles the first
morning, when, as I rounded a turn in the trail, a man stepped out
from behind a rock, threw a gun in my face, and ordered me to hold up
my hands. Then another appeared from the opposite side with his gun
leveled on me. Inside of half a minute a dozen men galloped up from
every quarter, all armed to the teeth. The man on leaving had given me
his gun for company, one of these old smoke-pole, cap-and-ball
six-shooters, but I must have forgotten what guns were for, for I
elevated my little hands nicely. The leader of the party questioned me
as to who I was, and what I was doing there, and what I had in those
packs. That once, at least, I told the truth. Every mother’s son of
them was cursing and cross-questioning me in the same breath. They
ordered me off my horse, took my gun, and proceeded to verify my tale
by unpacking the mules. So much ammunition aroused their suspicions,
but my story was as good as it was true, and they never shook me from
the truth of it. I soon learned that robbery was not their motive, and
the leader explained the situation.

“A vigilance committee had been in force in that county for some time,
trying to rid the country of lawless characters. But lawlessness got
into the saddle, and had bench warrants issued and served on every
member of this vigilance committee. As the vigilantes numbered several
hundred, there was no jail large enough to hold such a number, so they
were released on parole for appearance at court. When court met, every
man served with a capias”--

“Hold on! hold your horses just a minute,” interrupted Quince Forrest,
“I want to get that word. I want to make a memorandum of it, for I may
want to use it myself sometime. Capias? Now I have it; go ahead.”

“When court met, every man served with a bench warrant from the judge
presiding was present, and as soon as court was called to order, a
squad of men arose in the court room, and the next moment the judge
fell riddled with lead. Then the factions scattered to fight it out,
and I was passing through the county while matters were active.

“They confiscated my gun and all the ammunition in the packs, but
helped me to repack and started me on my way. A happy thought struck
one of the men to give me a letter, which would carry me through
without further trouble, but the leader stopped him, saying, ‘Let the
boy alone. Your letter would hang him as sure as hell’s hot, before he
went ten miles farther.’ I declined the letter. Even then I didn’t
have sense enough to turn back, and inside of two hours I was rounded
up by the other faction. I had learned my story perfectly by this
time, but those packs had to come off again for everything to be
examined. There was nothing in them now but flour and salt and such
things--nothing that they might consider suspicious. One fellow in
this second party took a fancy to my horse, and offered to help hang
me on general principles, but kinder counsels prevailed. They also
helped me to repack, and I started on once more. Before I reached my
destination the following evening, I was held up seven different
times. I got so used to it that I was happily disappointed every
shelter I passed, if some man did not step out and throw a gun in my
face.

“I had trouble to convince the cattle hunters of my experiences, but
the absence of any ammunition, which they needed worst, at last led
them to give credit to my tale. I was expected home within a week, as
I was to go down on the Nueces on a cow hunt which was making up, and
I only rested one day at the hunters’ camp. On their advice, I took a
different route on my way home, leaving the mules behind me. I never
saw a man the next day returning, and was feeling quite gala on my
good fortune. When evening came on, I sighted a little ranch house
some distance off the trail, and concluded to ride to it and stay
overnight. As I approached, I saw that some one lived there, as there
were chickens and dogs about, but not a person in sight. I dismounted
and knocked on the door, when, without a word, the door was thrown
wide open and a half dozen guns were poked into my face. I was ordered
into the house and given a chance to tell my story again. Whether my
story was true or not, they took no chances on me, but kept me all
night. One of the men took my horse to the stable and cared for him,
and I was well fed and given a place to sleep, but not a man offered a
word of explanation, from which I took it they did not belong to the
vigilance faction. When it came time to go to bed, one man said to me,
‘Now, sonny, don’t make any attempt to get away, and don’t move out of
your bed without warning us, for you’ll be shot as sure as you do. We
won’t harm a hair on your head if you’re telling us the truth; only do
as you’re told, for we’ll watch you.’

“By this time I had learned to obey orders while in that county, and
got a fair night’s sleep, though there were men going and coming all
night. The next morning I was given my breakfast; my horse, well
cuffed and saddled, was brought to the door, and with this parting
advice I was given permission to go: ‘Son, if you’ve told us the
truth, don’t look back when you ride away. You’ll be watched for the
first ten miles after leaving here, and if you’ve lied to us it will
go hard with you. Now, remember, don’t look back, for these are times
when no one cares to be identified.’ I never questioned that man’s
advice; it was ‘die dog or eat the hatchet’ with me. I mounted my
horse, waved the usual parting courtesies, and rode away. As I turned
into the trail about a quarter mile from the house, I noticed two men
ride out from behind the stable and follow me. I remembered the story
about Lot’s wife looking back, though it was lead and not miracles
that I was afraid of that morning.

“For the first hour I could hear the men talking and the hoofbeats of
their horses, as they rode along always the same distance behind me.
After about two hours of this one-sided joke, as I rode over a little
hill, I looked out of the corner of my eye back at my escort, still
about a quarter of a mile behind me. One of them noticed me and raised
his gun, but I instantly changed my view, and the moment the hill hid
me, put spurs to my horse, so that when they reached the brow of the
hill, I was half a mile in the lead, burning the earth like a canned
dog. They threw lead close around me, but my horse lengthened the
distance between us for the next five miles, when they dropped
entirely out of sight. By noon I came into the old stage road, and by
the middle of the afternoon reached home after over sixty miles in the
saddle without a halt.”

Just at the conclusion of Bull’s story, Flood rode in from the herd,
and after picketing his horse, joined the circle. In reply to an
inquiry from one of the boys as to how the cattle were resting, he
replied,--

“This herd is breaking into trail life nicely. If we’ll just be
careful with them now for the first month, and no bad storms strike us
in the night, we may never have a run the entire trip. That last drink
of water they had this evening gave them a night-cap that’ll last them
until morning. No, there’s no danger of any trouble to-night.”

For fully an hour after the return of our foreman, we lounged around
the fire, during which there was a full and free discussion of
stampedes. But finally, Flood, suiting the action to the word by
arising, suggested that all hands hunt their blankets and turn in for
the night. A quiet wink from Bull to several of the boys held us for
the time being, and innocently turning to Forrest, Durham inquired,--

“Where was--when was--was it you that was telling some one about a run
you were in last summer? I never heard you tell it. Where was it?”

“You mean on the Cimarron last year when we mixed two herds,” said
Quince, who had taken the bait like a bass and was now fully embarked
on a yarn. “We were in rather close quarters, herds ahead and behind
us, when one night here came a cow herd like a cyclone and swept right
through our camp. We tumbled out of our blankets and ran for our
horses, but before we could bridle”--

Bull had given us the wink, and every man in the outfit fell back, and
the snoring that checked the storyteller was like a chorus of rip saws
running through pine knots. Forrest took in the situation at a glance,
and as he arose to leave, looked back and remarked,--

“You must all think that’s smart.”

Before he was out of hearing, Durham said to the rest of us,--

“A few doses like that will cure him of sucking eggs and acting smart,
interrupting folks.”




CHAPTER IV


THE ATASCOSA

For the next few days we paralleled the coast, except when forced
inland by various arms of the Laguna Madre. When about a week out from
the Arroyo Colorado, we encountered the Salt Lagoon, which threw us at
least fifty miles in from the coast. Here we had our last view of salt
water, and the murmurings of the Gulf were heard no more. Our route
now led northward through what were then the two largest ranches in
Texas, the “Running W” and Laurel Leaf, which sent more cattle up the
trail, bred in their own brand, than any other four ranches in the
Lone Star State. We were nearly a week passing through their ranges,
and on reaching Santa Gertruda ranch learned that three trail herds,
of over three thousand head each, had already started in these two
brands, while four more were to follow.

So far we had been having splendid luck in securing water for the
herd, once a day at least, and often twice and three times. Our herd
was becoming well trail-broken by this time, and for range cattle had
quieted down and were docile and easy to handle. Flood’s years of
experience on the trail made him a believer in the theory that
stampedes were generally due to negligence in not having the herd full
of grass and water on reaching the bed ground at night. Barring
accidents, which will happen, his view is the correct one, if care has
been used for the first few weeks in properly breaking the herd to the
trail. But though hunger and thirst are probably responsible for more
stampedes than all other causes combined, it is the unexpected which
cannot be guarded against. A stampede is the natural result of fear,
and at night or in an uncertain light, this timidity might be imparted
to an entire herd by a flash of lightning or a peal of thunder, while
the stumbling of a night horse, or the scent of some wild animal,
would in a moment’s time, from frightening a few head, so infect a
herd as to throw them into the wildest panic. Amongst the thousands of
herds like ours which were driven over the trail during its brief
existence, none ever made the trip without encountering more or less
trouble from runs. Frequently a herd became so spoiled in this manner
that it grew into a mania with them, so that they would stampede on
the slightest provocation,--or no provocation at all.

A few days after leaving Santa Gertruda Ranch, we crossed the Nueces
River, which we followed up for several days, keeping in touch with it
for water for the herd. But the Nueces, after passing Oakville, makes
an abrupt turn, doubling back to the southwest; and the Atascosa, one
of its tributaries, became our source of water supply. We were
beginning to feel a degree of overconfidence in the good behavior of
our herd, when one night during the third week out, an incident
occurred in which they displayed their running qualities to our
complete satisfaction.

It occurred during our guard, and about two o’clock in the morning.
The night was an unusually dark one and the atmosphere was very humid.
After we had been on guard possibly an hour, John Officer and I riding
in one direction on opposite sides of the herd, and The Rebel circling
in the opposite, Officer’s horse suddenly struck a gopher burrow with
his front feet, and in a moment horse and rider were sprawling on the
ground. The accident happened but a few rods from the sleeping herd,
which instantly came to their feet as one steer, and were off like a
flash. I was riding my Nigger Boy, and as the cattle headed toward me,
away from the cause of their fright, I had to use both quirt and rowel
to keep clear of the onrush. Fortunately we had a clear country near
the bed ground, and while the terrified cattle pressed me close, my
horse kept the lead. In the rumbling which ensued, all sounds were
submerged by the general din; and I was only brought to the
consciousness that I was not alone by seeing several distinct flashes
from six-shooters on my left, and, realizing that I also had a gun,
fired several times in the air in reply. I was soon joined by Priest
and Officer, the latter having lost no time in regaining his seat in
the saddle, and the three of us held together some little distance,
for it would have been useless to attempt to check or turn this
onslaught of cattle in their first mad rush.

The wagon was camped about two hundred yards from the bed ground, and
the herd had given ample warning to the boys asleep, so that if we
three could hold our position in the lead, help would come to us as
soon as the men in camp could reach their horses. Realizing the wide
front of the running cattle, Priest sent Officer to the left and
myself to the right, to point in the leaders in order to keep the herd
from splitting or scattering, while he remained in the centre and led
the herd. I soon gained the outside of the leaders, and by dropping
back and coming up the line, pointed them in to the best of my
ability. I had repeated this a number of times, even quirting some
cattle along the outside, or burning a little powder in the face of
some obstinate leader, when across the herd and to the rear I saw a
succession of flashes like fireflies, which told me the boys were
coming to our assistance.

Running is not a natural gait with cattle, and if we could only hold
them together and prevent splitting up, in time they would tire, while
the rear cattle could be depended on to follow the leaders. All we
could hope to do was to force them to run straight, and in this
respect we were succeeding splendidly, though to a certain extent it
was a guess in the dark. When they had run possibly a mile, I noticed
a horseman overtake Priest. After they had ridden together a moment,
one of them came over to my point, and the next minute our foreman was
racing along by my side. In his impatience to check the run, he took
me with him, and circling the leaders we reached the left point, by
which time the remainder of the outfit had come up. Now massing our
numbers, we fell on the left point, and amid the flash of guns
deflected their course for a few moments. A dozen men, however, can
cover but a small space, and we soon realized that we had turned only
a few hundred head, for the momentum of the main body bore steadily
ahead. Abandoning what few cattle we had turned, which, owing to their
running ability, soon resumed their places in the lead, we attempted
to turn them to the left. Stretching out our line until there was a
man about every twenty feet, we threw our force against the right
point and lead in the hope of gradually deviating their course. For a
few minutes the attempt promised to be successful, but our cordon was
too weak and the cattle went through between the riders, and we soon
found a portion of our forces on either side of the herd, while a few
of the boys were riding out of the rush in the lead.

On finding our forces thus divided, the five or six of us who remained
on the right contented ourselves by pointing in the leaders, for the
cattle, so far as we could tell, were running compactly. Our foreman,
however, was determined to turn the run, and after a few minutes’ time
rejoined us on the right, when under his leadership we circled the
front of the herd and collected on the left point, when, for a third
time, we repeated the same tactics in our efforts to turn the
stampede. But in this, which was our final effort, we were attempting
to turn them slowly and on a much larger circle, and with a promise of
success. Suddenly in the dark we encountered a mesquite thicket into
which the lead cattle tore with a crashing of brush and a rattle of
horns that sent a chill up and down my spine. But there was no time to
hesitate, for our horses were in the thicket, and with the herd
closing in on us there was no alternative but to go through it, every
man for himself. I gave Nigger a free rein, shutting my eyes and
clutching both cantle and pommel to hold my seat; the black responded
to the rowel and tore through the thicket, in places higher than my
head, and came out in an open space considerably in the lead of the
cattle.

This thicket must have been eight or ten rods wide, and checked the
run to a slight extent; but as they emerged from it, they came out in
scattering flies and resumed their running. Being alone, and not
knowing which way to turn, I rode to the right and front and soon
found myself in the lead of quite a string of cattle. Nigger and I
were piloting them where they listed, when Joe Stallings, hatless
himself and his horse heaving, overtook me, and the two of us gave
those lead cattle all the trouble we knew how. But we did not attempt
to turn them, for they had caught their wind in forcing the thicket,
and were running an easy stroke. Several times we worried the leaders
into a trot, but as other cattle in the rear came up, we were
compelled to loosen out and allow them to resume their running, or
they would have scattered on us like partridges. At this stage of the
run, we had no idea where the rest of the outfit were, but both of us
were satisfied the herd had scattered on leaving the mesquite thicket,
and were possibly then running in half a dozen bunches like the one we
were with.

Stallings’s horse was badly winded, and on my suggestion, he dropped
out on one side to try to get some idea how many cattle we were
leading. He was gone some little time, and as Nigger cantered along
easily in the lead, I managed to eject the shells from my six-shooter
and refill the cylinder. On Joe’s overtaking me again, he reported
that there was a slender column of cattle, half a mile in length,
following. As one man could easily lead this string of the herd until
daybreak, I left Stallings with them and rode out to the left nearly a
quarter of a mile, listening to hear if there were any cattle running
to the left of those we were leading. It took me but a few minutes to
satisfy myself that ours was the outside band on the left, and after I
rejoined Joe, we made an effort to check our holding.

There were about fifty or sixty big steers in the lead of our bunch,
and after worrying them into a trot, we opened in their front with our
six-shooters, shooting into the ground in their very faces, and were
rewarded by having them turn tail and head the other way. Taking
advantage of the moment, we jumped our horses on the retreating
leaders, and as fast as the rear cattle forged forward, easily turned
them. Leaving Joe to turn the rear as they came up, I rode to the
lead, unfastening my slicker as I went, and on reaching the turned
leaders, who were running on an angle from their former course,
flaunted my “fish” in their faces until they reentered the rear guard
of our string, and we soon had a mill going which kept them busy, and
rested our horses. Once we had them milling, our trouble, as far as
running was concerned, was over, for all two of us could hope to do
was to let them exhaust themselves in this endless circle.

It then lacked an hour of daybreak, and all we could do was to ride
around and wait for daylight. In the darkness preceding dawn, we had
no idea of the number of our bunch, except as we could judge from the
size and compactness of the milling cattle, which must have covered an
acre or more. The humidity of the atmosphere, which had prevailed
during the night, by dawn had changed until a heavy fog, cutting off
our view on every hand, left us as much at sea as we had been
previously. But with the break of day we rode through our holding a
number of times, splitting and scattering the milling cattle, and as
the light of day brightened, we saw them quiet down and go to grazing
as though they had just arisen from the bed ground. It was over an
hour before the fog lifted sufficiently to give us any idea as to our
whereabouts, and during the interim both Stallings and myself rode to
the nearest elevation, firing a number of shots in the hope of getting
an answer from the outfit, but we had no response.

When the sun was sufficiently high to scatter the mists which hung in
clouds, there was not an object in sight by which we could determine
our location. Whether we had run east, west, or south during the night
neither of us knew, though both Stallings and myself were satisfied
that we had never crossed the trail, and all we did know for a
certainty was that we had between six and seven hundred head of
cattle. Stallings had lost his hat, and I had one sleeve missing and
both outside pockets torn out of my coat, while the mesquite thorns
had left their marks on the faces of both of us, one particularly ugly
cut marking Joe’s right temple. “I’ve worn leggins for the last ten
years,” said Stallings to me, as we took an inventory of our
disfigurements, “and for about ten seconds in forcing that mesquite
thicket was the only time I ever drew interest on my investment.
They’re a heap like a six-shooter--wear them all your life and never
have any use for them.”

With a cigarette for breakfast, I left Joe to look after our bunch,
and after riding several miles to the right, cut the trail of quite a
band of cattle. In following up this trail I could easily see that
some one was in their lead, as they failed to hold their course in any
one direction for any distance, as free cattle would. After following
this trail about three miles, I sighted the band of cattle, and on
overtaking them, found two of our boys holding about half as many as
Stallings had. They reported that The Rebel and Bob Blades had been
with them until daybreak, but having the freshest horses had left them
with the dawn and ridden away to the right, where it was supposed the
main body of the herd had run. As Stallings’s bunch was some three or
four miles to the rear and left of this band, Wyatt Roundtree
suggested that he go and pilot in Joe’s cattle, as he felt positive
that the main body were somewhere to our right. On getting directions
from me as to where he would find our holding, he rode away, and I
again rode off to the right, leaving Rod Wheat with their catch.

The sun was now several hours high, and as my black’s strength was
standing the test bravely, I cross-cut the country and was soon on
another trail of our stampeded cattle. But in following this trail, I
soon noticed two other horsemen preceding me. Knowing that my services
would be too late, I only followed far enough to satisfy myself of the
fact. The signs left by the running cattle were as easy to follow as a
public road, and in places where the ground was sandy, the sod was cut
up as if a regiment of cavalry had charged across it. On again bearing
off to the right, I rode for an elevation which ought to give me a
good view of the country. Slight as this elevation was, on reaching
it, I made out a large band of cattle under herd, and as I was on the
point of riding to them, saw our wagon and saddle horses heave in
sight from a northwest quarter. Supposing they were following up the
largest trail, I rode for the herd, where Flood and two of the boys
had about twelve hundred cattle. From a comparison of notes, our
foreman was able to account for all the men with the exception of two,
and as these proved to be Blades and Priest, I could give him a
satisfactory explanation as to their probable whereabouts. On my
report of having sighted the wagon and _remuda_, Flood at once ordered
me to meet and hurry them in, as not only he, but Strayhorn and
Officer, were badly in need of a change of mounts.

I learned from McCann, who was doing the trailing from the wagon, that
the regular trail was to the west, the herd having crossed it within a
quarter of a mile after leaving the bed ground. Joining Honeyman, I
took the first horse which came within reach of my rope, and with a
fresh mount under me, we rushed the saddle horses past the wagon and
shortly came up with our foreman. There we rounded in the horses as
best we could without the aid of the wagon, and before McCann arrived,
all had fresh mounts and were ready for orders. This was my first trip
on the trail, and I was hungry and thirsty enough to hope something
would be said about eating, but that seemed to be the last idea in our
foreman’s mind. Instead, he ordered me to take the two other boys with
me, and after putting them on the trail of the bunch which The Rebel
and Blades were following, to drift in what cattle we had held on our
left. But as we went, we managed to encounter the wagon and get a
drink and a canteen of water from McCann before we galloped away on
our mission. After riding a mile or so together, we separated, and on
my arrival at the nearest bunch, I found Roundtree and Stallings
coming up with the larger holding. Throwing the two hunches together,
we drifted them a free clip towards camp. We soon sighted the main
herd, and saw across to our right and about five miles distant two of
our men bringing in another hunch. As soon as we turned our cattle
into the herd, Flood ordered me, on account of my light weight, to
meet this bunch, find out where the last cattle were, and go to their
assistance.

With a hungry look in the direction of our wagon, I obeyed, and on
meeting Durham and Borrowstone, learned that the outside bunch on the
right, which had got into the regular trail, had not been checked
until daybreak. All they knew about their location was that the up
stage from Oakville had seen two men with Circle Dot cattle about five
miles below, and had sent up word by the driver that they had
something like four hundred head. With this meagre information, I rode
away in the direction where one would naturally expect to find our
absent men, and after scouring the country for an hour, sighted a
single horseman on an elevation, whom from the gray mount I knew for
Quince Forrest. He was evidently on the lookout for some one to pilot
them in. They had been drifting like lost sheep ever since dawn, but
we soon had their cattle pointed in the right direction, and Forrest
taking the lead, Quarternight and I put the necessary push behind
them. Both of them cursed me roundly for not bringing them a canteen
of water, though they were well aware that in an emergency like the
present, our foreman would never give a thought to anything but the
recovery of the herd. Our comfort was nothing; men were cheap, but
cattle cost money.

We reached the camp about two o’clock, and found the outfit cutting
out range cattle which had been absorbed into the herd during the run.
Throwing in our contingent, we joined in the work, and though Forrest
and Quarternight were as good as afoot, there were no orders for a
change of mounts, to say nothing of food and drink. Several hundred
mixed cattle were in the herd, and after they had been cut out, we
lined our cattle out for a count. In the absence of Priest, Flood and
John Officer did the counting, and as the hour of the day made the
cattle sluggish, they lined through between the counters as though
they had never done anything but walk in their lives. The count showed
sixteen short of twenty-eight hundred, which left us yet over three
hundred out. But good men were on their trail, and leaving two men on
herd, the rest of us obeyed the most welcome orders of the day when
Flood intimated that we would “eat a bite and go after the rest.”

As we had been in our saddles since one or two o’clock the morning
before, it is needless to add that our appetites were equal to the
spread which our cook had waiting for us. Our foreman, as though
fearful of the loss of a moment’s time, sent Honeyman to rustle in the
horses before we had finished our dinners. Once the _remuda_ was
corralled, under the rush of a tireless foreman, dinner was quickly
over, and fresh horses became the order of the moment. The Atascosa,
our nearest water, lay beyond the regular trail to the west, and
leaving orders for the outfit to drift the herd into it and water,
Flood and myself started in search of our absent men, not forgetting
to take along two extra horses as a remount for Blades and Priest. The
leading of these extra horses fell to me, but with the loose end of a
rope in Jim Flood’s hand as he followed, it took fast riding to keep
clear of them.

After reaching the trail of the missing cattle, our foreman set a pace
for five or six miles which would have carried us across the Nueces by
nightfall, and we were only checked by Moss Strayhorn riding in on an
angle and intercepting us in our headlong gait. The missing cattle
were within a mile of us to the right, and we turned and rode to them.
Strayhorn explained to us that the cattle had struck some recent
fencing on their course, and after following down the fence several
miles had encountered an offset, and the angle had held the squad
until The Rebel and Blades overtook them. When Officer and he reached
them, they were unable to make any accurate count, because of the
range cattle amongst them, and they had considered it advisable to
save horseflesh, and not cut them until more help was available. When
we came up with the cattle, my bunkie and Blades looked wistfully at
our saddles, and anticipating their want, I untied my slicker, well
remembering the reproof of Quarternight and Forrest, and produced a
full canteen of water,--warm of course, but no less welcome.

No sooner were saddles shifted than we held up the bunch, cut out the
range cattle, counted, and found we had some three hundred and thirty
odd Circle Dots,--our number more than complete. With nothing now
missing, Flood took the loose horses and two of the boys with him and
returned to the herd, leaving three of us behind to bring in this last
contingent of our stampeded cattle. This squad were nearly all large
steers, and had run fully twenty miles, before, thanks to an angle in
a fence, they had been checked. As our foreman galloped away, leaving
us behind, Bob Blades said,--

“Hasn’t the boss got a wiggle on himself today! If he’d made this old
world, he’d have made it in half a day, and gone fishing in the
afternoon--if his horses had held out.”

We reached the Atascosa shortly after the arrival of the herd, and
after holding the cattle on the water for an hour, grazed them the
remainder of the evening, for if there was any virtue in their having
full stomachs, we wanted to benefit from it. While grazing that
evening, we recrossed the trail on an angle, and camped in the most
open country we could find, about ten miles below our camp of the
night before. Every precaution was taken to prevent a repetition of
the run; our best horses were chosen for night duty, as our regular
ones were too exhausted; every advantage of elevation for a bed ground
was secured, and thus fortified against accident, we went into camp
for the night. But the expected never happens on the trail, and the
sun arose the next morning over our herd grazing in peace and
contentment on the flowery prairies which border on the Atascosa.




CHAPTER V

A DRY DRIVE

Our cattle quieted down nicely after this run, and the next few weeks
brought not an incident worth recording. There was no regular trail
through the lower counties, so we simply kept to the open country.
Spring had advanced until the prairies were swarded with grass and
flowers, while water, though scarcer, was to be had at least once
daily. We passed to the west of San Antonio--an outfitting point which
all herds touched in passing northward--and Flood and our cook took
the wagon and went in for supplies. But the outfit with the herd kept
on, now launched on a broad, well-defined trail, in places
seventy-five yards wide, where all local trails blent into the one
common pathway, known in those days as the Old Western Trail. It is
not in the province of this narrative to deal with the cause or origin
of this cattle trail, though it marked the passage of many hundred
thousand cattle which preceded our Circle Dots, and was destined to
afford an outlet to several millions more to follow. The trail proper
consisted of many scores of irregular cow paths, united into one broad
passageway, narrowing and widening as conditions permitted, yet ever
leading northward. After a few years of continued use, it became as
well defined as the course of a river.

Several herds which had started farther up country were ahead of ours,
and this we considered an advantage, for wherever one herd could go,
it was reasonable that others could follow. Flood knew the trail as
well as any of the other foremen, but there was one thing he had not
taken into consideration: the drouth of the preceding summer. True,
there had been local spring showers, sufficient to start the grass
nicely, but water in such quantities as we needed was growing daily
more difficult to find. The first week after leaving San Antonio, our
foreman scouted in quest of water a full day in advance of the herd.
One evening he returned to us with the news that we were in for a dry
drive, for after passing the next chain of lakes it was sixty miles to
the next water, and reports regarding the water supply even after
crossing this arid stretch were very conflicting.

“While I know every foot of this trail through here,” said the
foreman, “there’s several things that look scaly. There are only five
herds ahead of us, and the first three went through the old route, but
the last two, after passing Indian Lakes, for some reason or other
turned and went westward. These last herds may be stock cattle,
pushing out west to new ranges; but I don’t like the outlook. It would
take me two days to ride across and back, and by that time we could be
two thirds of the way through. I’ve made this drive before without a
drop of water on the way, and wouldn’t dread it now, if there was any
certainty of water at the other end. I reckon there’s nothing to do
but tackle her; but isn’t this a hell of a country? I’ve ridden fifty
miles to-day and never saw a soul.”

The Indian Lakes, some seven in number, were natural reservoirs with
rocky bottoms, and about a mile apart. We watered at ten o’clock the
next day, and by night camped fifteen miles on our way. There was
plenty of good grazing for the cattle and horses, and no trouble was
experienced the first night. McCann had filled an extra twenty gallon
keg for this trip. Water was too precious an article to be lavish
with, so we shook the dust from our clothing and went unwashed. This
was no serious deprivation, and no one could be critical of another,
for we were all equally dusty and dirty.

The next morning by daybreak the cattle were thrown off the bed ground
and started grazing before the sun could dry out what little moisture
the grass had absorbed during the night. The heat of the past week had
been very oppressive, and in order to avoid it as much as possible, we
made late and early drives. Before the wagon passed the herd during
the morning drive, what few canteens we had were filled with water for
the men. The _remuda_ was kept with the herd, and four changes of
mounts were made during the day, in order not to exhaust any one
horse. Several times for an hour or more, the herd was allowed to lie
down and rest; but by the middle of the afternoon thirst made them
impatient and restless, and the point men were compelled to ride
steadily in the lead in order to hold the cattle to a walk. A number
of times during the afternoon we attempted to graze them, but not
until the twilight of evening was it possible.

After the fourth change of horses was made, Honeyman pushed on ahead
with the saddle stock and overtook the wagon. Under Flood’s orders he
was to tie up all the night horses, for if the cattle could be induced
to graze, we would not bed them down before ten that night, and all
hands would be required with the herd. McCann had instructions to make
camp on the divide, which was known to be twenty-five miles from our
camp of the night before, or forty miles from the Indian Lakes. As we
expected, the cattle grazed willingly after nightfall, and with a fair
moon, we allowed them to scatter freely while grazing forward. The
beacon of McCann’s fire on the divide was in sight over an hour before
the herd grazed up to camp, all hands remaining to bed the thirsty
cattle. The herd was given triple the amount of space usually required
for bedding, and even then for nearly an hour scarcely half of them
lay down.

We were handling the cattle as humanely as possible under the
circumstances. The guards for the night were doubled, six men on the
first half and the same on the latter, Bob Blades being detailed to
assist Honeyman in night-herding the saddle horses. If any of us got
more than an hour’s sleep that night, he was lucky. Flood, McCann, and
the horse wranglers did not even try to rest. To those of us who could
find time to eat, our cook kept open house. Our foreman knew that a
well-fed man can stand an incredible amount of hardship, and
appreciated the fact that on the trail a good cook is a valuable
asset. Our outfit therefore was cheerful to a man, and jokes and songs
helped to while away the weary hours of the night.

The second guard, under Flood, pushed the cattle off their beds an
hour before dawn, and before they were relieved had urged the herd
more than five miles on the third day’s drive over this waterless
mesa. In spite of our economy of water, after breakfast on this third
morning there was scarcely enough left to fill the canteens for the
day. In view of this, we could promise ourselves no midday
meal--except a can of tomatoes to the man; so the wagon was ordered to
drive through to the expected water ahead, while the saddle horses
were held available as on the day before for frequent changing of
mounts. The day turned out to be one of torrid heat, and before the
middle of the forenoon, the cattle lolled their tongues in despair,
while their sullen lowing surged through from rear to lead and back
again in piteous yet ominous appeal. The only relief we could offer
was to travel them slowly, as they spurned every opportunity offered
them either to graze or to lie down.

[Illustration: HEAT AND THIRST]

It was nearly noon when we reached the last divide, and sighted the
scattering timber of the expected watercourse. The enforced order of
the day before--to hold the herd in a walk and prevent exertion and
heating--now required four men in the lead, while the rear followed
over a mile behind, dogged and sullen. Near the middle of the
afternoon, McCann returned on one of his mules with the word that it
was a question if there was water enough to water even the horse
stock. The preceding outfit, so he reported, had dug a shallow well in
the bed of the creek, from which he had filled his kegs, but the stock
water was a mere loblolly. On receipt of this news, we changed mounts
for the fifth time that day; and Flood, taking Forrest, the cook, and
the horse wrangler, pushed on ahead with the _remuda_ to the waterless
stream.

The outlook was anything but encouraging. Flood and Forrest scouted
the creek up and down for ten miles in a fruitless search for water.
The outfit held the herd back until the twilight of evening, when
Flood returned and confirmed McCann’s report. It was twenty miles yet
to the next water ahead, and if the horse stock could only be watered
thoroughly, Flood was determined to make the attempt to nurse the herd
through to water. McCann was digging an extra well, and he expressed
the belief that by hollowing out a number of holes, enough water could
be secured for the saddle stock. Honeyman had corralled the horses and
was letting only a few go to the water at a time, while the night
horses were being thoroughly watered as fast as the water rose in the
well.

Holding the herd this third night required all hands. Only a few men
at a time were allowed to go into camp and eat, for the herd refused
even to lie down. What few cattle attempted to rest were prevented by
the more restless ones. By spells they would mill, until riders were
sent through the herd at a break-neck pace to break up the groups.
During these milling efforts of the herd, we drifted over a mile from
camp; but by the light of moon and stars and the number of riders,
scattering was prevented. As the horses were loose for the night, we
could not start them on the trail until daybreak gave us a change of
mounts, so we lost the early start of the morning before.

Good cloudy weather would have saved us, but in its stead was a sultry
morning without a breath of air, which bespoke another day of sizzling
heat. We had not been on the trail over two hours before the heat
became almost unbearable to man and beast. Had it not been for the
condition of the herd, all might yet have gone well; but over three
days had now elapsed without water for the cattle, and they became
feverish and ungovernable. The lead cattle turned back several times,
wandering aimlessly in any direction, and it was with considerable
difficulty that the herd could be held on the trail. The rear overtook
the lead, and the cattle gradually lost all semblance of a trail herd.
Our horses were fresh, however, and after about two hours’ work, we
once more got the herd strung out in trailing fashion; but before a
mile had been covered, the leaders again turned, and the cattle
congregated into a mass of unmanageable animals, milling and lowing in
their fever and thirst. The milling only intensified their sufferings
from the heat, and the outfit split and quartered them again and
again, in the hope that this unfortunate outbreak might be checked. No
sooner was the milling stopped than they would surge hither and yon,
sometimes half a mile, as ungovernable as the waves of an ocean. After
wasting several hours in this manner, they finally turned back over
the trail, and the utmost efforts of every man in the outfit failed to
check them. We threw our ropes in their faces, and when this failed,
we resorted to shooting; but in defiance of the fusillade and the
smoke they walked sullenly through the line of horsemen across their
front. Six-shooters were discharged so close to the leaders’ faces as
to singe their hair, yet, under a noonday sun, they disregarded this
and every other device to turn them, and passed wholly out of our
control. In a number of instances wild steers deliberately walked
against our horses, and then for the first time a fact dawned on us
that chilled the marrow in our bones,--_the herd was going blind_.

The bones of men and animals that lie bleaching along the trails
abundantly testify that this was not the first instance in which the
plain had baffled the determination of man. It was now evident that
nothing short of water would stop the herd, and we rode aside and let
them pass. As the outfit turned back to the wagon, our foreman seemed
dazed by the sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, but rallied and
met the emergency.

“There’s but one thing left to do,” said he, as we rode along, “and
that is to hurry the outfit back to Indian Lakes. The herd will travel
day and night, and instinct can be depended on to carry them to the
only water they know. It’s too late to be of any use now, but it’s
plain why those last two herds turned off at the lakes; some one had
gone back and warned them of the very thing we’ve met. We must beat
them to the lakes, for water is the only thing that will check them
now. It’s a good thing that they are strong, and five or six days
without water will hardly kill any. It was no vague statement of the
man who said if he owned hell and Texas, he’d rent Texas and live in
hell, for if this isn’t Billy hell, I’d like to know what you call
it.”

We spent an hour watering the horses from the wells of our camp of the
night before, and about two o’clock started back over the trail for
Indian Lakes. We overtook the abandoned herd during the afternoon.
They were strung out nearly five miles in length, and were walking
about a three-mile gait. Four men were given two extra horses apiece
and left to throw in the stragglers in the rear, with instructions to
follow them well into the night, and again in the morning as long as
their canteens lasted. The remainder of the outfit pushed on without a
halt, except to change mounts, and reached the lakes shortly after
midnight. There we secured the first good sleep of any consequence for
three days.

It was fortunate for us that there were no range cattle at these
lakes, and we had only to cover a front of about six miles to catch
the drifting herd. It was nearly noon the next day before the cattle
began to arrive at the water holes in squads of from twenty to fifty.
Pitiful objects as they were, it was a novelty to see them reach the
water and slack their thirst. Wading out into the lakes until their
sides were half covered, they would stand and low in a soft moaning
voice, often for half an hour before attempting to drink. Contrary to
our expectation, they drank very little at first, but stood in the
water for hours. After coming out, they would lie down and rest for
hours longer, and then drink again before attempting to graze, their
thirst overpowering hunger. That they were blind there was no
question, but with the causes that produced it once removed, it was
probable their eyesight would gradually return.

By early evening, the rear guard of our outfit returned and reported
the tail end of the herd some twenty miles behind when they left them.
During the day not over a thousand head reached the lakes, and towards
evening we put these under herd and easily held them during the night.
All four of the men who constituted the rear guard were sent back the
next morning to prod up the rear again, and during the night at least
a thousand more came into the lakes, which held them better than a
hundred men. With the recovery of the cattle our hopes grew, and with
the gradual accessions to the herd, confidence was again completely
restored. Our saddle stock, not having suffered as had the cattle,
were in a serviceable condition, and while a few men were all that
were necessary to hold the herd, the others scoured the country for
miles in search of any possible stragglers which might have missed the
water.

During the forenoon of the third day at the lakes, Nat Straw, the
foreman of Ellison’s first herd on the trail, rode up to our camp. He
was scouting for water for his herd, and, when our situation was
explained and he had been interrogated regarding loose cattle, gave us
the good news that no stragglers in our road brand had been met by
their outfit. This was welcome news, for we had made no count yet, and
feared some of them, in their locoed condition, might have passed the
water during the night. Our misfortune was an ill wind by which Straw
profited, for he had fully expected to keep on by the old route, but
with our disaster staring him in the face, a similar experience was to
be avoided. His herd reached the lakes during the middle of the
afternoon, and after watering, turned and went westward over the new
route taken by the two herds which preceded us. He had a herd of about
three thousand steers, and was driving to the Dodge market. After the
experience we had just gone through, his herd and outfit were a
welcome sight. Flood made inquiries after Lovell’s second herd, under
my brother Bob as foreman, but Straw had seen or heard nothing of
them, having come from Goliad County with his cattle.

After the Ellison herd had passed on and out of sight, our squad which
had been working the country to the northward, over the route by which
the abandoned herd had returned, came in with the information that
that section was clear of cattle, and that they had only found three
head dead from thirst. On the fourth morning, as the herd left the bed
ground, a count was ordered, and to our surprise we counted out
twenty-six head more than we had received on the banks of the Rio
Grande a month before. As there had been but one previous occasion to
count, the number of strays absorbed into our herd was easily
accounted for by Priest: “If a steer herd could increase on the trail,
why shouldn’t ours, that had over a thousand cows in it?” The
observation was hardly borne out when the ages of our herd were taken
into consideration. But 1882 in Texas was a liberal day and
generation, and “cattle stealing” was too drastic a term to use for
the chance gain of a few cattle, when the foundations of princely
fortunes were being laid with a rope and a branding iron.

In order to give the Ellison herd a good start of us, we only moved
our wagon to the farthest lake and went into camp for the day. The
herd had recovered its normal condition by this time, and of the
troubles of the past week not a trace remained. Instead, our herd
grazed in leisurely content over a thousand acres, while with the
exception of a few men on herd, the outfit lounged around the wagon
and beguiled the time with cards.

We had undergone an experience which my bunkie, The Rebel, termed “an
interesting incident in his checkered career,” but which not even he
would have cared to repeat. That night while on night herd
together--the cattle resting in all contentment--we rode one round
together, and as he rolled a cigarette he gave me an old war story:--

“They used to tell the story in the army, that during one of the
winter retreats, a cavalryman, riding along in the wake of the column
at night, saw a hat apparently floating in the mud and water. In the
hope that it might be a better hat than the one he was wearing, he
dismounted to get it. Feeling his way carefully through the ooze until
he reached the hat, he was surprised to find a man underneath and
wearing it. ‘Hello, comrade,’ he sang out, ‘can I lend you a hand?’

“‘No, no,’ replied the fellow, ‘I’m all right; I’ve got a good mule
yet under me.’”




CHAPTER VI

A REMINISCENT NIGHT

On the ninth morning we made our second start from the Indian Lakes.
An amusing incident occurred during the last night of our camp at
these water holes. Coyotes had been hanging around our camp for
several days, and during the quiet hours of the night these scavengers
of the plain had often ventured in near the wagon in search of scraps
of meat or anything edible. Rod Wheat and Ash Borrowstone had made
their beds down some distance from the wagon; the coyotes as they
circled round the camp came near their bed, and in sniffing about
awoke Borrowstone. There was no more danger of attack from these
cowards than from field mice, but their presence annoyed Ash, and as
he dared not shoot, he threw his boots at the varmints. Imagine his
chagrin the next morning to find that one boot had landed among the
banked embers of the camp-fire, and was burned to a crisp. It was
looked upon as a capital joke by the outfit, as there was no telling
when we would reach a store where he could secure another pair.

The new trail, after bearing to the westward for several days, turned
northward, paralleling the old one, and a week later we came into the
old trail over a hundred miles north of the Indian Lakes. With the
exception of one thirty-mile drive without water, no fault could be
found with the new trail. A few days after coming into the old trail,
we passed Mason, a point where trail herds usually put in for
supplies. As we passed during the middle of the afternoon, the wagon
and a number of the boys went into the burg. Quince Forrest and Billy
Honeyman were the only two in the outfit for whom there were any
letters, with the exception of a letter from Lovell, which was common
property. Never having been over the trail before, and not even
knowing that it was possible to hear from home, I wasn’t expecting any
letter; but I felt a little twinge of homesickness that night when
Honeyman read us certain portions of his letter, which was from his
sister. Forrest’s letter was from a sweetheart, and after reading it a
few times, he burnt it, and that was all we ever knew of its contents,
for he was too foxy to say anything, even if it had not been
unfavorable. Borrowstone swaggered around camp that evening in a new
pair of boots, which had the Lone Star set in filigree-work in their
red tops.

At our last camp at the lakes, The Rebel and I, as partners, had been
shamefully beaten in a game of seven-up by Bull Durham and John
Officer, and had demanded satisfaction in another trial around the
fire that night. We borrowed McCann’s lantern, and by the aid of it
and the camp-fire had an abundance of light for our game. In the
absence of a table, we unrolled a bed and sat down Indian fashion over
a game of cards in which all friendship ceased.

The outfit, with the exception of myself, had come from the same
neighborhood, and an item in Honeyman’s letter causing considerable
comment was a wedding which had occurred since the outfit had left. It
seemed that a number of the boys had sparked the bride in times past,
and now that she was married, their minds naturally became reminiscent
over old sweethearts.

“The way I make it out,” said Honeyman, in commenting on the news, “is
that the girl had met this fellow over in the next county while
visiting her cousins the year before. My sister gives it as a
horseback opinion that she’d been engaged to this fellow nearly eight
months; girls, you know, sabe each other that way. Well, it won’t
affect my appetite any if all the girls I know get married while I’m
gone.”

“You certainly have never experienced the tender passion,” said Fox
Quarternight to our horse wrangler, as he lighted his pipe with a
brand from the fire. “Now I have. That’s the reason why I sympathize
with these old beaus of the bride. Of course I was too old to stand
any show on her string, and I reckon the fellow who got her ain’t so
powerful much, except his veneering and being a stranger, which was a
big advantage. To be sure, if she took a smile to this stranger, no
other fellow could check her with a three-quarter rope and a snubbing
post. I’ve seen girls walk right by a dozen good fellows and fawn over
some scrub. My experience teaches me that when there’s a woman in it,
it’s haphazard pot luck with no telling which way the cat will hop.
You can’t play any system, and merit cuts little figure in general
results.”

“Fox,” said Durham, while Officer was shuffling the cards, “your auger
seems well oiled and working keen to-night. Suppose you give us that
little experience of yours in love affairs. It will be a treat to
those of us who have never been in love, and won’t interrupt the game
a particle. Cut loose, won’t you?”

“It’s a long time back,” said Quarternight, meditatively, “and the
scars have all healed, so I don’t mind telling it. I was born and
raised on the border of the Blue Grass Region in Kentucky. I had the
misfortune to be born of poor but honest parents, as they do in
stories; no hero ever had the advantage of me in that respect. In love
affairs, however, it’s a high card in your hand to be born rich. The
country around my old home had good schools, so we had the advantage
of a good education. When I was about nineteen, I went away from home
one winter to teach school--a little country school about fifteen
miles from home. But in the old States fifteen miles from home makes
you a dead rank stranger. The trustee of the township was shucking
corn when I went to apply for the school. I simply whipped out my peg
and helped him shuck out a shock or two while we talked over school
matters. The dinner bell rang, and he insisted on my staying for
dinner with him. Well, he gave me a better school than I had asked
for--better neighborhood, he said--and told me to board with a certain
family who had no children; he gave his reasons, but that’s
immaterial. They were friends of his, so I learned afterwards. They
proved to be fine people. The woman was one of those kindly souls who
never know where to stop. She planned and schemed to marry me off in
spite of myself. The first month that I was with them she told me all
about the girls in that immediate neighborhood. In fact, she rather
got me unduly excited, being a youth and somewhat verdant. She dwelt
powerful heavy on a girl who lived in a big brick house which stood
back of the road some distance. This girl had gone to school at a
seminary for young ladies near Lexington,--studied music and painting
and was ’way up on everything. She described her to me as black-eyed
with raven tresses, just like you read about in novels.

“Things were rocking along nicely, when a few days before Christmas a
little girl who belonged to the family who lived in the brick house
brought me a note one morning. It was an invitation to take supper
with them the following evening. The note was written in a pretty
hand, and the name signed to it--I’m satisfied now it was a forgery.
My landlady agreed with me on that point; in fact, she may have
mentioned it first. I never ought to have taken her into my confidence
like I did. But I wanted to consult her, showed her the invitation,
and asked her advice. She was in the seventh heaven of delight; had me
answer it at once, accept the invitation with pleasure and a lot of
stuff that I never used before--she had been young once herself. I
used up five or six sheets of paper in writing the answer, spoilt one
after another, and the one I did send was a flat failure compared to
the one I received. Well, the next evening when it was time to start,
I was nervous and uneasy. It was nearly dark when I reached the house,
but I wanted it that way. Say, but when I knocked on the front door of
that house it was with fear and trembling. ‘Is this Mr. Quarternight?’
inquired a very affable lady who received me. I knew I was one of old
man Quarternight’s seven boys, and admitted that that was my name,
though it was the first time any one had ever called me _mister_. I
was welcomed, ushered in, and introduced all around. There were a few
small children whom I knew, so I managed to talk to them. The girl
whom I was being braced against was not a particle overrated, but
sustained the Kentucky reputation for beauty. She made herself so
pleasant and agreeable that my fears soon subsided. When the man of
the house came in I was cured entirely. He was gruff and hearty,
opened his mouth and laughed deep. I built right up to him. We talked
about cattle and horses until supper was announced. He was really
sorry I hadn’t come earlier, so as to look at a three year old colt
that he set a heap of store by. He showed him to me after supper with
a lantern. Fine colt, too. I don’t remember much about the supper,
except that it was fine and I came near spilling my coffee several
times, my hands were so large and my coat sleeves so short. When we
returned from looking at the colt, we went into the parlor. Say,
fellows, it was a little the nicest thing that ever I went against.
Carpet that made you think you were going to bog down every step,
springy like marsh land, and I was glad I came. Then the younger
children were ordered to retire, and shortly afterward the man and his
wife followed suit.

“When I heard the old man throw his heavy boots on the floor in the
next room, I realized that I was left all alone with their charming
daughter. All my fears of the early part of the evening tried to crowd
on me again, but were calmed by the girl, who sang and played on the
piano with no audience but me. Then she interested me by telling her
school experiences, and how glad she was that they were over. Finally
she lugged out a great big family album, and sat down aside of me on
one of these horsehair sofas. That album had a clasp on it, a buckle
of pure silver, same as these eighteen dollar bridles. While we were
looking at the pictures--some of the old varmints had fought in the
Revolutionary war, so she said--I noticed how close we were sitting
together. Then we sat farther apart after we had gone through the
album, one on each end of the sofa, and talked about the neighborhood,
until I suddenly remembered that I had to go. While she was getting my
hat and I was getting away, somehow she had me promise to take dinner
with them on Christmas.

“For the next two or three months it was hard to tell if I lived at my
boarding house or at the brick. If I failed to go, my landlady would
hatch up some errand and send me over. If she hadn’t been such a good
woman, I’d never forgive her for leading me to the sacrifice like she
did. Well, about two weeks before school was out, I went home over
Saturday and Sunday. Those were fatal days in my life. When I returned
on Monday morning, there was a letter waiting for me. It was from the
girl’s mamma. There had been a quilting in the neighborhood on
Saturday, and at this meet of the local gossips, some one had hinted
that there was liable to be a wedding as soon as school was out. Mamma
was present, and neither admitted nor denied the charge. But there was
a woman at this quilting who had once lived over in our neighborhood
and felt it her duty to enlighten the company as to who I was. I got
all this later from my landlady. ‘Law me,’ said this woman, ‘folks
round here in this section think our teacher is the son of that big
farmer who raises so many cattle and horses. Why, I’ve known both
families of those Quarternights for nigh on to thirty year. Our
teacher is one of old John Fox’s boys, the Irish Quarternights, who
live up near the salt licks on Doe Run. They were always so poor that
the children never had enough to eat and hardly half enough to wear.’

“This plain statement of facts fell like a bombshell on mamma. She
started a private investigation of her own, and her verdict was in
that letter. It was a centre shot. That evening when I locked the
schoolhouse door it was for the last time, for I never unlocked it
again. My landlady, dear old womanly soul, tried hard to have me teach
the school out at least, but I didn’t see it that way. The cause of
education in Kentucky might have gone straight to eternal hell, before
I’d have stayed another day in that neighborhood. I had money enough
to get to Texas with, and here I am. When a fellow gets it burnt into
him like a brand that way once, it lasts him quite a while. He’ll
feel his way next time.”

“That was rather a raw deal to give a fellow,” said Officer, who had
been listening while playing cards. “Didn’t you never see the girl
again?”

“No, nor you wouldn’t want to either if that letter had been written
to you. And some folks claim that seven is a lucky number; there were
seven boys in our family and nary one ever married.”

“That experience of Fox’s,” remarked Honeyman, after a short silence,
“is almost similar to one I had. Before Lovell and Flood adopted me, I
worked for a horse man down on the Nueces. Every year he drove up the
trail a large herd of horse stock. We drove to the same point on the
trail each year, and I happened to get acquainted up there with a
family that had several girls in it. The youngest girl in the family
and I seemed to understand each other fairly well. I had to stay at
the horse camp most of the time, and in one way and another did not
get to see her as much as I would have liked. When we sold out the
herd, I hung around for a week or so, and spent a month’s wages
showing her the cloud with the silver lining. She stood it all easy,
too. When the outfit went home, of course I went with them. I was
banking plenty strong, however, that next year, if there was a good
market in horses, I’d take her home with me. I had saved my wages and
rustled around, and when we started up the trail next year, I had
forty horses of my own in the herd. I had figured they would bring me
a thousand dollars, and there was my wages besides.

“When we reached this place, we held the herd out twenty miles, so it
was some time before I got into town to see the girl. But the first
time I did get to see her I learned that an older sister of hers, who
had run away with some renegade from Texas a year or so before, had
drifted back home lately with tears in her eyes and a big fat baby boy
in her arms. She warned me to keep away from the house, for men from
Texas were at a slight discount right then in that family. The girl
seemed to regret it and talked reasonable, and I thought I could see
encouragement. I didn’t crowd matters, nor did her folks forget me
when they heard that Byler had come in with a horse herd from the
Nueces. I met the girl away from home several times during the summer,
and learned that they kept hot water on tap to scald me if I ever
dared to show up. One son-in-law from Texas had simply surfeited that
family--there was no other vacancy. About the time we closed out and
were again ready to go home, there was a cattleman’s ball given in
this little trail town. We stayed over several days to take in this
ball, as I had some plans of my own. My girl was at the ball all easy
enough, but she warned me that her brother was watching me. I paid no
attention to him, and danced with her right along, begging her to run
away with me. It was obviously the only play to make. But the more I’d
’suade her the more she’d ’fuse. The family was on the prod bigger
than a wolf, and there was no use reasoning with them. After I had had
every dance with her for an hour or so, her brother coolly stepped in
and took her home. The next morning he felt it his duty, as his
sister’s protector, to hunt me up and inform me that if I even spoke
to his sister again, he’d shoot me like a dog.

“‘Is that a bluff, or do you mean it for a real play?’ I inquired,
politely.

“‘You’ll find that it will be real enough,’ he answered, angrily.

“‘Well, now, that’s too bad,’ I answered; ‘I’m really sorry that I
can’t promise to respect your request. But this much I can assure you:
any time that you have the leisure and want to shoot me, just cut
loose your dog. But remember this one thing--that it will be my second
shot.’”

“Are you sure you wasn’t running a blazer yourself, or is the wind
merely rising?” inquired Durham, while I was shuffling the cards for
the next deal.

“Well, if I was, I hung up my gentle honk before his eyes and ears and
gave him free license to call it. The truth is, I didn’t pay any more
attention to him than I would to an empty bottle. I reckon the girl
was all right, but the family were these razor-backed, barnyard
savages. It makes me hot under the collar yet when I think of it.
They’d have lawed me if I had, but I ought to have shot him and
checked the breed.”

“Why didn’t you run off with her?” inquired Fox, dryly.

“Well, of course a man of your nerve is always capable of advising
others. But you see, I’m strong on the breed. Now a girl can’t show
her true colors like the girl’s brother did, but get her in the
harness once, and then she’ll show you the white of her eye, balk, and
possibly kick over the wagon tongue. No, I believe in the
breed--blood’ll tell.”

“I worked for a cowman once,” said Bull, irrelevantly, “and they told
it on him that he lost twenty thousand dollars the night he was
married.”

“How, gambling?” I inquired.

“No. The woman he married claimed to be worth twenty thousand dollars
and she never had a cent. Spades trump?”

“No; hearts,” replied The Rebel. “I used to know a foreman up in
DeWitt County,--‘Honest’ John Glen they called him. He claimed the
only chance he ever had to marry was a widow, and the reason he didn’t
marry her was, he was too honest to take advantage of a dead man.”

While we paid little attention to wind or weather, this was an ideal
night, and we were laggard in seeking our blankets. Yarn followed
yarn; for nearly every one of us, either from observation or from
practical experience, had a slight acquaintance with the great
mastering passion. But the poetical had not been developed in us to an
appreciative degree, so we discussed the topic under consideration
much as we would have done horses or cattle.

Finally the game ended. A general yawn went the round of the loungers
about the fire. The second guard had gone on, and when the first rode
in, Joe Stallings, halting his horse in passing the fire, called out
sociably, “That muley steer, the white four year old, didn’t like to
bed down amongst the others, so I let him come out and lay down by
himself. You’ll find him over on the far side of the herd. You all
remember how wild he was when we first started? Well, you can ride
within three feet of him to-night, and he’ll grunt and act sociable
and never offer to get up. I promised him that he might sleep alone as
long as he was good; I just love a good steer. Make down our bed,
pardner; I’ll be back as soon as I picket my horse.”




CHAPTER VII

THE COLORADO

The month of May found our Circle Dot herd, in spite of all drawbacks,
nearly five hundred miles on its way. For the past week we had been
traveling over that immense tableland which skirts the arid portion of
western Texas. A few days before, while passing the blue mountains
which stand as a southern sentinel in the chain marking the headwaters
of the Concho River, we had our first glimpse of the hills. In its
almost primitive condition, the country was generous, supplying every
want for sustenance of horses and cattle. The grass at this stage of
the season was well matured, the herd taking on flesh in a very
gratifying manner, and, while we had crossed some rocky country, lame
and sore-footed cattle had as yet caused us no serious trouble.

One morning when within one day’s drive of the Colorado River, as our
herd was leaving the bed ground, the last guard encountered a bunch of
cattle drifting back down the trail. There were nearly fifty head of
the stragglers; and as one of our men on guard turned them to throw
them away from our herd, the road brand caught his eye, and he
recognized the strays as belonging to the Ellison herd which had
passed us at the Indian Lakes some ten days before. Flood’s attention
once drawn to the brand, he ordered them thrown into our herd. It was
evident that some trouble had occurred with the Ellison cattle,
possibly a stampede; and it was but a neighborly act to lend any
assistance in our power. As soon as the outfit could breakfast, mount,
and take the herd, Flood sent Priest and me to scout the country to
the westward of the trail, while Bob Blades and Ash Borrowstone
started on a similar errand to the eastward, with orders to throw in
any drifting cattle in the Ellison road brand. Within an hour after
starting, the herd encountered several straggling bands, and as Priest
and I were on the point of returning to the herd, we almost overrode a
bunch of eighty odd head lying down in some broken country. They were
gaunt and tired, and The Rebel at once pronounced their stiffened
movements the result of a stampede.

We were drifting them back towards the trail, when Nat Straw and two
of his men rode out from our herd and met us. “I always did claim that
it was better to be born lucky than handsome,” said Straw as he rode
up. “One week Flood saves me from a dry drive, and the very next one,
he’s just the right distance behind to catch my drift from a nasty
stampede. Not only that, but my peelers and I are riding Circle Dot
horses, as well as reaching the wagon in time for breakfast and lining
our flues with Lovell’s good chuck. It’s too good luck to last, I’m
afraid.

“I’m not hankering for the dramatic in life, but we had a run last
night that would curl your hair. Just about midnight a bunch of range
cattle ran into us, and before you could say Jack Robinson, our dogies
had vamoosed the ranch and were running in half a dozen different
directions. We rounded them up the best we could in the dark, and then
I took a couple of men and came back down the trail about twenty miles
to catch any drift when day dawned. But you see there’s nothing like
being lucky and having good neighbors,--cattle caught, fresh horses,
and a warm breakfast all waiting for you. I’m such a lucky dog, it’s a
wonder some one didn’t steal me when I was little. I can’t help it,
but some day I’ll marry a banker’s daughter, or fall heir to a ranch
as big as old McCulloch County.”

Before meeting us, Straw had confided to our foreman that he could
assign no other plausible excuse for the stampede than that it was the
work of cattle rustlers. He claimed to know the country along the
Colorado, and unless it had changed recently, those hills to the
westward harbored a good many of the worst rustlers in the State. He
admitted it might have been wolves chasing the range cattle, but
thought it had the earmarks of being done by human wolves. He
maintained that few herds had ever passed that river without loss of
cattle, unless the rustlers were too busy elsewhere to give the
passing herd their attention. Straw had ordered his herd to drop back
down the trail about ten miles from their camp of the night previous,
and about noon the two herds met on a branch of Brady Creek. By that
time our herd had nearly three hundred head of the Ellison cattle, so
we held it up and cut theirs out. Straw urged our foreman, whatever he
did, not to make camp in the Colorado bottoms or anywhere near the
river, if he didn’t want a repetition of his experience. After
starting our herd in the afternoon, about half a dozen of us turned
back and lent a hand in counting Straw’s herd, which proved to be over
a hundred head short, and nearly half his outfit were still out
hunting cattle. Acting on Straw’s advice, we camped that night some
five or six miles back from the river on the last divide. From the
time the second guard went on until the third was relieved, we took
the precaution of keeping a scout outriding from a half to three
quarters of a mile distant from the herd, Flood and Honeyman serving
in that capacity. Every precaution was taken to prevent a surprise;
and in case anything did happen, our night horses tied to the wagon
wheels stood ready saddled and bridled for any emergency. But the
night passed without incident.

An hour or two after the herd had started the next morning, four well
mounted, strange men rode up from the westward, and representing
themselves as trail cutters, asked for our foreman. Flood met them, in
his usual quiet manner, and after admitting that we had been troubled
more or less with range cattle, assured our callers that if there was
anything in the herd in the brands they represented, he would gladly
hold it up and give them every opportunity to cut their cattle out. As
he was anxious to cross the river before noon, he invited the visitors
to stay for dinner, assuring them that before starting the herd in the
afternoon, he would throw the cattle together for their inspection.
Flood made himself very agreeable, inquiring into cattle and range
matters in general as well as the stage of water in the river ahead.
The spokesman of the trail cutters met Flood’s invitation to dinner
with excuses about the pressing demands on his time, and urged, if it
did not seriously interfere with our plans, that he be allowed to
inspect the herd before crossing the river. His reasons seemed trivial
and our foreman was not convinced.

“You see, gentlemen,” he said, “in handling these southern cattle, we
must take advantage of occasions. We have timed our morning’s drive so
as to reach the river during the warmest hour of the day, or as near
noon as possible. You can hardly imagine what a difference there is,
in fording this herd, between a cool, cloudy day and a clear, hot one.
You see the herd is strung out nearly a mile in length now, and to
hold them up and waste an hour or more for your inspection would
seriously disturb our plans. And then our wagon and _remuda_ have gone
on with orders to noon at the first good camp beyond the river. I
perfectly understand your reasons, and you equally understand mine;
but I will send a man or two back to help you recross any cattle you
may find in our herd. Now, if a couple of you gentlemen will ride
around on the far side with me, and the others will ride up near the
lead, we will trail the cattle across when we reach the river without
cutting the herd into blocks.”

Flood’s affability, coupled with the fact that the lead cattle were
nearly up to the river, won his point. Our visitors could only yield,
and rode forward with our lead swing men to assist in forcing the lead
cattle into the river. It was swift water, but otherwise an easy
crossing, and we allowed the herd, after coming out on the farther
side, to spread out and graze forward at its pleasure. The wagon and
saddle stock were in sight about a mile ahead, and leaving two men on
herd to drift the cattle in the right direction, the rest of us rode
leisurely on to the wagon, where dinner was waiting. Flood treated our
callers with marked courtesy during dinner, and casually inquired if
any of their number had seen any cattle that day or the day previous
in the Ellison road brand. They had not, they said, explaining that
their range lay on both sides of the Concho, and that during the trail
season they kept all their cattle between that river and the main
Colorado. Their work had kept them on their own range recently, except
when trail herds were passing and needed to be looked through for
strays. It sounded as though our trail cutters could also use
diplomacy on occasion.

When dinner was over and we had caught horses for the afternoon and
were ready to mount, Flood asked our guests for their credentials as
duly authorized trail cutters. They replied that they had none, but
offered in explanation the statement that they were merely cutting in
the interest of the immediate locality, which required no written
authority.

Then the previous affability of our foreman turned to iron. “Well,
men,” said he, “if you have no authority to cut this trail, then you
don’t cut this herd. I must have inspection papers before I can move a
brand out of the county in which it is bred, and I’ll certainly let no
other man, local or duly appointed, cut an animal out of this herd
without written and certified authority. You know that without being
told, or ought to. I respect the rights of every man posted on a trail
to cut it. If you want to see my inspection papers, you have a right
to demand them, and in turn I demand of you your credentials, showing
who you work for and the list of brands you represent; otherwise no
harm’s done; nor do you cut any herd that I’m driving.”

“Well,” said one of the men, “I saw a couple of head in my own
individual brand as we rode up the herd. I’d like to see the man who
says that I haven’t the right to claim my own brand, anywhere I find
it.”

“If there’s anything in our herd in your individual brand,” said
Flood, “all you have to do is to give me the brand, and I’ll cut it
for you. What’s your brand?”

“The ‘Window Sash.’”

“Have any of you boys seen such a brand in our herd?” inquired Flood,
turning to us as we all stood by our horses ready to start.

“I didn’t recognize it by that name,” replied Quince Forrest, who rode
in the swing on the branded side of the cattle and belonged to the
last guard, “but I remember seeing such a brand, though I would have
given it a different name. Yes, come to think, I’m sure I saw it, and
I’ll tell you where: yesterday morning when I rode out to throw those
drifting cattle away from our herd, I saw that brand among the Ellison
cattle which had stampeded the night before. When Straw’s outfit cut
theirs out yesterday, they must have left the ‘Window Sash’ cattle
with us; those were the range cattle which stampeded his herd. It
looked to me a little blotched, but if I’d been called on to name it,
I’d called it a thief’s brand. If these gentlemen claim them, though,
it’ll only take a minute to cut them out.”

“This outfit needn’t get personal and fling out their insults,”
retorted the claimant of the “Window Sash” brand, “for I’ll claim my
own if there were a hundred of you. And you can depend that any animal
I claim, I’ll take, if I have to go back to the ranch and bring twenty
men to help me do it.”

“You won’t need any help to get all that’s coming to you,” replied our
foreman, as he mounted his horse. “Let’s throw the herd together,
boys, and cut these ‘Window Sash’ cattle out. We don’t want any cattle
in our herd that stampede on an open range at midnight; they must
certainly be terrible wild.”

As we rode out together, our trail cutters dropped behind and kept a
respectable distance from the herd while we threw the cattle together.
When the herd had closed to the required compactness, Flood called our
trail cutters up and said, “Now, men, each one of you can take one of
my outfit with you and inspect this herd to your satisfaction. If you
see anything there you claim, we’ll cut it out for you, but don’t
attempt to cut anything yourselves.”

We rode in by pairs, a man of ours with each stranger, and after
riding leisurely through the herd for half an hour, cut out three head
in the blotched brand called the “Window Sash.” Before leaving the
herd, one of the strangers laid claim to a red cow, but Fox
Quarternight refused to cut the animal.

When the pair rode out the stranger accosted Flood. “I notice a cow of
mine in there,” said he, “not in your road brand, which I claim. Your
man here refuses to cut her for me, so I appeal to you.”

“What’s her brand, Fox?” asked Flood.

“She’s a ‘Q’ cow, but the colonel here thinks it’s an ‘O.’ I happen to
know the cow and the brand both; she came into the herd four hundred
miles south of here while we were watering the herd in the Nueces
River. The ‘Q’ is a little dim, but it’s plenty plain to hold her for
the present.”

“If she’s a ‘Q’ cow I have no claim on her,” protested the stranger,
“but if the brand is an ‘O,’ then I claim her as a stray from our
range, and I don’t care if she came into your herd when you were
watering in the San Fernando River in Old Mexico, I’ll claim her just
the same. I’m going to ask you to throw her.”

“I’ll throw her for you,” coolly replied Fox, “and bet you my saddle
and six-shooter on the side that it isn’t an ‘O,’ and even if it was,
you and all the thieves on the Concho can’t take her. I know a few of
the simple principles of rustling myself. Do you want her thrown?”

“That’s what I asked for.”

“Throw her, then,” said Flood, “and don’t let’s parley.”

Fox rode back in to the herd, and after some little delay, located the
cow and worked her out to the edge of the cattle. Dropping his rope,
he cut her out clear of the herd, and as she circled around in an
endeavor to reenter, he rode close and made an easy cast of the rope
about her horns. As he threw his horse back to check the cow, I rode
to his assistance, my rope in hand, and as the cow turned ends, I
heeled her. A number of the outfit rode up and dismounted, and one of
the boys taking her by the tail, we threw the animal as humanely as
possible. In order to get at the brand, which was on the side, we
turned the cow over, when Flood took out his knife and cut the hair
away, leaving the brand easily traceable.

“What is she, Jim?” inquired Fox, as he sat his horse holding the rope
taut.

“I’ll let this man who claims her answer that question,” replied
Flood, as her claimant critically examined the brand to his
satisfaction.

“I claim her as an ‘O’ cow,” said the stranger, facing Flood.

“Well, you claim more than you’ll ever get,” replied our foreman.
“Turn her loose, boys.”

The cow was freed and turned back into the herd, but the claimant
tried to argue the matter with Flood, claiming the branding iron had
simply slipped, giving it the appearance of a “Q” instead of an “O” as
it was intended to be. Our foreman paid little attention to the
stranger, but when his persistence became annoying checked his
argument by saying,--

“My Christian friend, there’s no use arguing this matter. You asked to
have the cow thrown, and we threw her. You might as well try to tell
me that the cow is white as to claim her in any other brand than a
‘Q.’ You may read brands as well as I do, but you’re wasting time
arguing against the facts. You’d better take your ‘Window Sash’ cattle
and ride on, for you’ve cut all you’re going to cut here to-day. But
before you go, for fear I may never see you again, I’ll take this
occasion to say that I think you’re common cow thieves.”

By his straight talk, our foreman stood several inches higher in our
estimation as we sat our horses, grinning at the discomfiture of the
trail cutters, while a dozen six-shooters slouched languidly at our
hips to give emphasis to his words.

“Before going, I’ll take this occasion to say to you that you will see
me again,” replied the leader, riding up and confronting Flood. “You
haven’t got near enough men to bluff me. As to calling me a cow thief,
that’s altogether too common a name to offend any one; and from what I
can gather, the name wouldn’t miss you or your outfit over a thousand
miles. Now in taking my leave, I want to tell you that you’ll see me
before another day passes, and what’s more, I’ll bring an outfit with
me and we’ll cut your herd clean to your road brand, if for no better
reasons, just to learn you not to be so insolent.”

After hanging up this threat, Flood said to him as he turned to ride
away, “Well, now, my young friend, you’re bargaining for a whole lot
of fun. I notice you carry a gun and quite naturally suppose you shoot
a little as occasion requires. Suppose when you and your outfit come
back, you come a-shooting, so we’ll know who you are; for I’ll
promise you there’s liable to be some powder burnt when you cut this
herd.”

Amid jeers of derision from our outfit, the trail cutters drove off
their three lonely “Window Sash” cattle. We had gained the point we
wanted, and now in case of any trouble, during inspection or at night,
we had the river behind us to catch our herd. We paid little attention
to the threat of our disappointed callers, but several times Straw’s
remarks as to the character of the residents of those hills to the
westward recurred to my mind. I was young, but knew enough, instead of
asking foolish questions, to keep mum, though my eyes and ears drank
in everything. Before we had been on the trail over an hour, we met
two men riding down the trail towards the river. Meeting us, they
turned and rode along with our foreman, some distance apart from the
herd, for nearly an hour, and curiosity ran freely among us boys
around the herd as to who they might be. Finally Flood rode forward to
the point men and gave the order to throw off the trail and make a
short drive that afternoon. Then in company with the two strangers, he
rode forward to overtake our wagon, and we saw nothing more of him
until we reached camp that evening. This much, however, our point man
was able to get from our foreman: that the two men were members of a
detachment of Rangers who had been sent as a result of information
given by the first herd over the trail that year. This herd, which had
passed some twenty days ahead of us, had met with a stampede below the
river, and on reaching Abilene had reported the presence of rustlers
preying on through herds at the crossing of the Colorado.

On reaching camp that evening with the herd, we found ten of the
Rangers as our guests for the night. The detachment was under a
corporal named Joe Hames, who had detailed the two men we had met
during the afternoon to scout this crossing. Upon the information
afforded by our foreman about the would-be trail cutters, these
scouts, accompanied by Flood, had turned back to advise the Ranger
squad, encamped in a secluded spot about ten miles northeast of the
Colorado crossing. They had only arrived late the day before, and this
was their first meeting with any trail herd to secure any definite
information.

Hames at once assumed charge of the herd, Flood gladly rendering every
assistance possible. We night herded as usual, but during the two
middle guards, Hames sent out four of his Rangers to scout the
immediate outlying country, though, as we expected, they met with no
adventure. At daybreak the Rangers threw their packs into our wagon
and their loose stock into our _remuda_, and riding up the trail a
mile or more, left us, keeping well out of sight. We were all hopeful
now that the trail cutters of the day before would make good their
word and return. In this hope we killed time for several hours that
morning, grazing the cattle and holding the wagon in the rear. Sending
the wagon ahead of the herd had been agreed on as the signal between
our foreman and the Ranger corporal, at first sight of any posse
behind us. We were beginning to despair of their coming, when a dust
cloud appeared several miles back down the trail. We at once hurried
the wagon and _remuda_ ahead to warn the Rangers, and allowed the
cattle to string out nearly a mile in length.

A fortunate rise in the trail gave us a glimpse of the cavalcade in
our rear, which was entirely too large to be any portion of Straw’s
outfit; and shortly we were overtaken by our trail cutters of the day
before, now increased to twenty-two mounted men. Flood was
intentionally in the lead of the herd, and the entire outfit galloped
forward to stop the cattle. When they had nearly reached the lead,
Flood turned back and met the rustlers.

“Well, I’m as good as my word,” said the leader, “and I’m here to trim
your herd as I promised you I would. Throw off and hold up your
cattle, or I’ll do it for you.”

Several of our outfit rode up at this juncture in time to hear Flood’s
reply: “If you think you’re equal to the occasion, hold them up
yourself. If I had as big an outfit _as_ you have, I wouldn’t ask any
man to help me. I want to watch a Colorado River outfit work a
herd,--I might learn something. My outfit will take a rest, or perhaps
hold the cut or otherwise clerk for you. But be careful and don’t
claim anything that you are not certain is your own, for I reserve the
right to look over your cut before you drive it away.”

The rustlers rode in a body to the lead, and when they had thrown the
herd off the trail, about half of them rode back and drifted forward
the rear cattle. Flood called our outfit to one side and gave us our
instructions, the herd being entirely turned over to the rustlers.
After they began cutting, we rode around and pretended to assist in
holding the cut as the strays in our herd were being cut out. When the
red “Q” cow came out, Fox cut her back, which nearly precipitated a
row, for she was promptly recut to the strays by the man who claimed
her the day before. Not a man of us even cast a glance up the trail,
or in the direction of the Rangers; but when the work was over, Flood
protested with the leader of the rustlers over some five or six head
of dim-branded cattle which actually belonged to our herd. But he was
exultant and would listen to no protests, and attempted to drive away
the cut, now numbering nearly fifty head. Then we rode across their
front and stopped them.

In the parley which ensued, harsh words were passing, when one of our
outfit blurted out in well feigned surprise,--

“Hello, who’s that, coming over there?”

A squad of men were riding leisurely through our abandoned herd,
coming over to where the two outfits were disputing.

“What’s the trouble here, gents?” inquired Hames as he rode up.

“Who are you and what might be your business, may I ask?” inquired the
leader of the rustlers.

“Personally I’m nobody, but officially I’m Corporal in Company B,
Texas Rangers--well, if there isn’t smiling Ed Winters, the biggest
cattle thief ever born in Medina County. Why, I’ve got papers for you;
for altering the brands on over fifty head of ‘C’ cattle into a ‘G’
brand. Come here, dear, and give me that gun of yours. Come on, and no
false moves or funny work or I’ll shoot the white out of your eye.
Surround this layout, lads, and let’s examine them more closely.”

At this command, every man in our outfit whipped out his six-shooter,
the Rangers leveled their carbines on the rustlers, and in less than a
minute’s time they were disarmed and as crestfallen a group of men as
ever walked into a trap of their own setting. Hames got out a “black
book,” and after looking the crowd over concluded to hold the entire
covey, as the descriptions of the “wanted” seemed to include most of
them. Some of the rustlers attempted to explain their presence, but
Hames decided to hold the entire party, “just to learn them to be more
careful of their company the next time,” as he put it.

The cut had drifted away into the herd again during the arrest, and
about half our outfit took the cattle on to where the wagon camped for
noon. McCann had anticipated an extra crowd for dinner and was
prepared for the emergency. When dinner was over and the Rangers had
packed and were ready to leave, Hames said to Flood,--

“Well, Flood, I’m powerful glad I met you and your outfit. This has
been one of the biggest round-ups for me in a long time. You don’t
know how proud I am over this bunch of beauties. Why, there’s liable
to be enough rewards out for this crowd to buy my girl a new pair of
shoes. And say, when your wagon comes into Abilene, if I ain’t there,
just drive around to the sheriff’s office and leave those captured
guns. I’m sorry to load your wagon down that way, but I’m short on
pack mules and it will be a great favor to me; besides, these fellows
are not liable to need any guns for some little time. I like your
company and your chuck, Flood, but you see how it is; the best of
friends must part; and then I have an invitation to take dinner in
Abilene by to-morrow noon, so I must be a-riding. Adios, everybody.”




CHAPTER VIII

ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA

As we neared Buffalo Gap a few days later, a deputy sheriff of Taylor
County, who resided at the Gap, rode out and met us. He brought an
urgent request from Hames to Flood to appear as a witness against the
rustlers, who were to be given a preliminary trial at Abilene the
following day. Much as he regretted to leave the herd for even a
single night, our foreman finally consented to go. To further his
convenience we made a long evening drive, camping for the night well
above Buffalo Gap, which at that time was little more than a landmark
on the trail. The next day we made an easy drive and passed Abilene
early in the afternoon, where Flood rejoined us, but refused any one
permission to go into town, with the exception of McCann with the
wagon, which was a matter of necessity. It was probably for the best,
for this cow town had the reputation of setting a pace that left the
wayfarer purseless and breathless, to say nothing about headaches.
Though our foreman had not reached those mature years in life when the
pleasures and frivolities of dissipation no longer allure, yet it was
but natural that he should wish to keep his men from the temptation of
the cup that cheers and the wiles of the siren. But when the wagon
returned that evening, it was evident that our foreman was human, for
with a box of cigars which were promised us were several bottles of
Old Crow.

After crossing the Clear Fork of the Brazos a few days later, we
entered a well-watered, open country, through which the herd made
splendid progress. At Abilene, we were surprised to learn that our
herd was the twentieth that had passed that point. The weather so far
on our trip had been exceptionally good; only a few showers had
fallen, and those during the daytime. But we were now nearing a
country in which rain was more frequent, and the swollen condition of
several small streams which have their headwaters in the Staked Plains
was an intimation to us of recent rains to the westward of our route.
Before reaching the main Brazos, we passed two other herds of yearling
cattle, and were warned of the impassable condition of that river for
the past week. Nothing daunted, we made our usual drive; and when the
herd camped that night, Flood, after scouting ahead to the river,
returned with the word that the Brazos had been unfordable for over a
week, five herds being waterbound.

As we were then nearly twenty miles south of the river, the next
morning we threw off the trail and turned the herd to the northeast,
hoping to strike the Brazos a few miles above Round Timber ferry. Once
the herd was started and their course for the day outlined to our
point men by definite landmarks, Flood and Quince Forrest set out to
locate the ferry and look up a crossing. Had it not been for our
wagon, we would have kept the trail, but as there was no ferry on the
Brazos at the crossing of the western trail, it was a question either
of waiting or of making this detour. Then all the grazing for several
miles about the crossing was already taken by the waterbound herds,
and to crowd up and trespass on range already occupied would have been
a violation of an unwritten law. Again, no herd took kindly to another
attempting to pass them when in traveling condition the herds were on
an equality. Our foreman had conceived the scheme of getting past
these waterbound herds, if possible, which would give us a clear field
until the next large watercourse was reached.

Flood and Forrest returned during the noon hour, the former having
found, by swimming, a passable ford near the mouth of Monday Creek,
while the latter reported the ferry in “apple-pie order.” No sooner,
then, was dinner over than the wagon set out for the ferry under
Forrest as pilot, though we were to return to the herd once the ferry
was sighted. The mouth of Monday Creek was not over ten miles below
the regular trail crossing on the Brazos, and much nearer our noon
camp than the regular one; but the wagon was compelled to make a
direct elbow, first turning to the eastward, then doubling back after
the river was crossed. We held the cattle off water during the day, so
as to have them thirsty when they reached the river. Flood had swum it
during the morning, and warned us to be prepared for fifty or sixty
yards of swimming water in crossing. When within a mile, we held up
the herd and changed horses, every man picking out one with a tested
ability to swim. Those of us who were expected to take the water as
the herd entered the river divested ourselves of boots and clothing,
which we intrusted to riders in the rear. The approach to crossing was
gradual, but the opposite bank was abrupt, with only a narrow
passageway leading out from the channel. As the current was certain to
carry the swimming cattle downstream, we must, to make due allowance,
take the water nearly a hundred yards above the outlet on the other
shore. All this was planned out in advance by our foreman, who now
took the position of point man on the right hand or down the
riverside; and with our saddle horses in the immediate lead, we
breasted the angry Brazos.

The water was shallow as we entered, and we reached nearly the middle
of the river before the loose saddle horses struck swimming water.
Honeyman was on their lee, and with the cattle crowding in their rear,
there was no alternative but to swim. A loose horse swims easily,
however, and our _remuda_ readily faced the current, though it was
swift enough to carry them below the passageway on the opposite side.
By this time the lead cattle were adrift, and half a dozen of us were
on their lower side, for the footing under the cutbank was narrow, and
should the cattle become congested on landing, some were likely to
drown. For a quarter of an hour it required cool heads to keep the
trail of cattle moving into the water and the passageway clear on the
opposite landing. While they were crossing, the herd represented a
large letter “U,” caused by the force of the current drifting the
cattle downstream, or until a foothold was secured on the farther
side. Those of us fortunate enough to have good swimming horses swam
the river a dozen times, and then after the herd was safely over, swam
back to get our clothing. It was a thrilling experience to us younger
lads of the outfit, and rather attractive; but the elder and more
experienced men always dreaded swimming rivers. Their reasons were
made clear enough when, a fortnight later, we crossed Red River, where
a newly made grave was pointed out to us, amongst others of men who
had lost their lives while swimming cattle.

Once the bulk of the cattle were safely over, with no danger of
congestion on the farther bank, they were allowed to loiter along
under the cutbank and drink to their hearts’ content. Quite a number
strayed above the passageway, and in order to rout them out, Bob
Blades, Moss Strayhorn, and I rode out through the outlet and up the
river, where we found some of them in a passageway down a dry arroyo.
The steers had found a soft, damp place in the bank, and were so busy
horning the waxy, red mud, that they hardly noticed our approach until
we were within a rod of them. We halted our horses and watched their
antics. The kneeling cattle were cutting the bank viciously with their
horns and matting their heads with the red mud, but on discovering our
presence, they curved their tails and stampeded out as playfully as
young lambs on a hillside.

“Can you sabe where the fun comes in to a steer, to get down on his
knees in the mud and dirt, and horn the bank and muss up his curls and
enjoy it like that?” inquired Strayhorn of Blades and me.

“Because it’s healthy and funny besides,” replied Bob, giving me a
cautious wink. “Did you never hear of people taking mud baths? You’ve
seen dogs eat grass, haven’t you? Well, it’s something on the same
order. Now, if I was a student of the nature of animals, like you are,
I’d get off my horse and imagine I had horns, and scar and otherwise
mangle that mud bank shamefully. I’ll hold your horse if you want to
try it--some of the secrets of the humor of cattle might be revealed
to you.”

The banter, though given in jest, was too much for this member of a
craft that can always be depended on to do foolish things; and when we
rejoined the outfit, Strayhorn presented a sight no sane man save a
member of our tribe ever would have conceived of.

The herd had scattered over several thousand acres after leaving the
river, grazing freely, and so remained during the rest of the evening.
Forrest changed horses and set out down the river to find the wagon
and pilot it in, for with the long distance that McCann had to cover,
it was a question if he would reach us before dark. Flood selected a
bed ground and camp about a mile out from the river, and those of the
outfit not on herd dragged up an abundance of wood for the night, and
built a roaring fire as a beacon to our absent commissary. Darkness
soon settled over camp, and the prospect of a supperless night was
confronting us; the first guard had taken the herd, and yet there was
no sign of the wagon. Several of us youngsters then mounted our night
horses and rode down the river a mile or over in the hope of meeting
McCann. We came to a steep bank, caused by the shifting of the first
bottom of the river across to the north bank, rode up this bluff some
little distance, dismounted, and fired several shots; then with our
ears to the earth patiently awaited a response. It did not come, and
we rode back again. “Hell’s fire and little fishes!” said Joe
Stallings, as we clambered into our saddles to return, “it’s not
supper or breakfast that’s troubling me, but will we get any dinner
to-morrow? That’s a more pregnant question.”

It must have been after midnight when I was awakened by the braying of
mules and the rattle of the wagon, to hear the voices of Forrest and
McCann, mingled with the rattle of chains as they unharnessed,
condemning to eternal perdition the broken country on the north side
of the Brazos, between Round Timber ferry and the mouth of Monday
Creek.

“I think that when the Almighty made this country on the north side of
the Brazos,” said McCann the next morning at breakfast, “the Creator
must have grown careless or else made it out of odds and ends. There’s
just a hundred and one of these dry arroyos that you can’t see until
you are right onto them. They wouldn’t bother a man on horseback, but
with a loaded wagon it’s different. And I’ll promise you all right now
that if Forrest hadn’t come out and piloted me in, you might have
tightened up your belts for breakfast and drank out of cow tracks and
smoked cigarettes for nourishment. Well, it’ll do you good; this high
living was liable to spoil some of you, but I notice that you are all
on your feed this morning. The black strap? Honeyman, get that
molasses jug out of the wagon--it sits right in front of the chuck
box. It does me good to see this outfit’s tastes once more going back
to the good old staples of life.”

We made our usual early start, keeping well out from the river on a
course almost due northward. The next river on our way was the
Wichita, still several days’ drive from the mouth of Monday Creek.
Flood’s intention was to parallel the old trail until near the river,
when, if its stage of water was not fordable, we would again seek a
lower crossing in the hope of avoiding any waterbound herds on that
watercourse. The second day out from the Brazos it rained heavily
during the day and drizzled during the entire night. Not a hoof would
bed down, requiring the guards to be doubled into two watches for the
night. The next morning, as was usual when off the trail, Flood
scouted in advance, and near the middle of the afternoon’s drive we
came into the old trail. The weather in the mean time had faired off,
which revived life and spirit in the outfit, for in trail work there
is nothing that depresses the spirits of men like falling weather. On
coming into the trail, we noticed that no herds had passed since the
rain began. Shortly afterward our rear guard was overtaken by a
horseman who belonged to a mixed herd which was encamped some four or
five miles below the point where we came into the old trail. He
reported the Wichita as having been unfordable for the past week, but
at that time falling; and said that if the rain of the past few days
had not extended as far west as the Staked Plains, the river would be
fordable in a day or two.

Before the stranger left us, Flood returned and confirmed this
information, and reported further that there were two herds lying over
at the Wichita ford expecting to cross the following day. With this
outlook, we grazed our herd up to within five miles of the river and
camped for the night, and our visitor returned to his outfit with
Flood’s report of our expectation of crossing on the morrow. But with
the fair weather and the prospects of an easy night, we encamped
entirely too close to the trail, as we experienced to our sorrow. The
grazing was good everywhere, the recent rains having washed away the
dust, and we should have camped farther away. We were all sleepy that
night, and no sooner was supper over than every mother’s son of us was
in his blankets. We slept so soundly that the guards were compelled to
dismount when calling the relief, and shake the next guards on duty
out of their slumber and see that they got up, for men would
unconsciously answer in their sleep. The cattle were likewise tired,
and slept as willingly as the men.

About midnight, however, Fox Quarternight dashed into camp, firing his
six-shooter and yelling like a demon. We tumbled out of our blankets
in a dazed condition to hear that one of the herds camped near the
river had stampeded, the heavy rumbling of the running herd and the
shooting of their outfit now being distinctly audible. We lost no time
getting our horses, and in less than a minute were riding for our
cattle, which had already got up and were timidly listening to the
approaching noise. Although we were a good quarter mile from the
trail, before we could drift our herd to a point of safety, the
stampeding cattle swept down the trail like a cyclone and our herd was
absorbed into the maelstrom of the onrush like leaves in a whirlwind.
It was then that our long-legged Mexican steers set us a pace that
required a good horse to equal, for they easily took the lead, the
other herd having run between three and four miles before striking us,
and being already well winded. The other herd were Central Texas
cattle, and numbered over thirty-five hundred, but in running capacity
were never any match for ours.

Before they had run a mile past our camp, our outfit, bunched well
together on the left point, made the first effort to throw them out
and off the trail, and try to turn them. But the waves of an angry
ocean could as easily have been brought under subjection as our
terrorized herd during this first mad dash. Once we turned a few
hundred of the leaders, and about the time we thought success was in
reach, another contingent of double the number had taken the lead;
then we had to abandon what few we had, and again ride to the front.
When we reached the lead, there, within half a mile ahead, burned the
camp-fire of the herd of mixed cattle which had moved up the trail
that evening. They had had ample warning of impending trouble, just as
we had; and before the running cattle reached them about half a dozen
of their outfit rode to our assistance, when we made another effort to
turn or hold the herds from mixing. None of the outfit of the first
herd had kept in the lead with us, their horses fagging, and when the
foreman of this mixed herd met us, not knowing that we were as
innocent of the trouble as himself, he made some slighting remarks
about our outfit and cattle. But it was no time to be sensitive, and
with his outfit to help we threw our whole weight against the left
point a second time, but only turned a few hundred; and before we
could get into the lead again their campfire had been passed and their
herd of over three thousand cattle more were in the run. As cows and
calves predominated in this mixed herd, our own southerners were still
leaders in the stampede.

It is questionable if we would have turned this stampede before
daybreak, had not the nature of the country come to our assistance.
Something over two miles below the camp of the last herd was a deep
creek, the banks of which were steep and the passages few and narrow.
Here we succeeded in turning the leaders, and about half the outfit of
the mixed herd remained, guarding the crossing and turning the lagging
cattle in the run as they came up. With the leaders once turned and no
chance for the others to take a new lead, we had the entire run of
cattle turned back within an hour and safely under control. The first
outfit joined us during the interim, and when day broke we had over
forty men drifting about ten thousand cattle back up the trail. The
different outfits were unfortunately at loggerheads, no one being
willing to assume any blame. Flood hunted up the foreman of the mixed
herd and demanded an apology for his remarks on our abrupt meeting
with him the night before; and while it was granted, it was plain that
it was begrudged. The first herd disclaimed all responsibility,
holding that the stampede was due to an unavoidable accident, their
cattle having grown restless during their enforced lay-over. The
indifferent attitude of their foreman, whose name was Wilson, won the
friendly regard of our outfit, and before the wagon of the mixed
cattle was reached, there was a compact, at least tacit, between their
outfit and ours. Our foreman was not blameless, for had we taken the
usual precaution and camped at least a mile off the trail, which was
our custom when in close proximity to other herds, we might and
probably would have missed this mix-up, for our herd was inclined to
be very tractable. Flood, with all his experience, well knew that if
stampeded cattle ever got into a known trail, they were certain to
turn backward over their course; and we were now paying the fiddler
for lack of proper precaution.

Within an hour after daybreak, and before the cattle had reached the
camp of the mixed herd, our saddle horses were sighted coming over a
slight divide about two miles up the trail, and a minute later
McCann’s mules hove in sight, bringing up the rear. They had made a
start with the first dawn, rightly reasoning, as there was no time to
leave orders on our departure, that it was advisable for Mahomet to go
to the mountain. Flood complimented our cook and horse wrangler on
their foresight, for the wagon was our base of sustenance; and there
was little loss of time before Barney McCann was calling us to a
hastily prepared breakfast. Flood asked Wilson to bring his outfit to
our wagon for breakfast, and as fast as they were relieved from herd,
they also did ample justice to McCann’s cooking. During breakfast, I
remember Wilson explaining to Flood what he believed was the cause of
the stampede. It seems that there were a few remaining buffalo ranging
north of the Wichita, and at night when they came into the river to
drink they had scented the cattle on the south side. The bellowing of
buffalo bulls had been distinctly heard by his men on night herd for
several nights past. The foreman stated it as his belief that a number
of bulls had swum the river and had by stealth approached near the
sleeping cattle,--then, on discovering the presence of the herders,
had themselves stampeded, throwing his herd into a panic.

We had got a change of mounts during the breakfast hour, and when all
was ready Flood and Wilson rode over to the wagon of the mixed herd,
the two outfits following, when Flood inquired of their foreman,--

“Have you any suggestions to make in the cutting of these herds?”

“No suggestions,” was the reply, “but I intend to cut mine first and
cut them northward on the trail.”

“You intend to cut them northward, you mean, provided there are no
objections, which I’m positive there will be,” said Flood. “It takes
me some little time to size a man up, and the more I see of you during
our brief acquaintance, the more I think there’s two or three things
that you might learn to your advantage. I’ll not enumerate them now,
but when these herds are separated, if you insist, it will cost you
nothing but the asking for my opinion of you. This much you can depend
on: when the cutting’s over, you’ll occupy the same position on the
trail that you did before this accident happened. Wilson, here, has
nothing but jaded horses, and his outfit will hold the herd while
yours and mine cut their cattle. And instead of you cutting north, you
can either cut south where you belong on the trail or sulk in your
camp, your own will and pleasure to govern. But if you are a cowman,
willing to do your part, you’ll have your outfit ready to work by the
time we throw the cattle together.”

Not waiting for any reply, Flood turned away, and the double outfit
circled around the grazing herd and began throwing the sea of cattle
into a compact body ready to work. Rod Wheat and Ash Borrowstone were
detailed to hold our cut, and the remainder of us, including Honeyman,
entered the herd and began cutting. Shortly after we had commenced the
work, the mixed outfit, finding themselves in a lonesome minority,
joined us and began cutting out their cattle to the westward. When we
had worked about half an hour, Flood called us out, and with the
larger portion of Wilson’s men, we rode over and drifted the mixed cut
around to the southward, where they belonged. The mixed outfit
pretended they meant no harm, and were politely informed that if they
were sincere, they could show it more plainly. For nearly three hours
we sent a steady stream of cattle out of the main herd into our cut,
while our horses dripped with sweat. With our advantage in the start,
as well as that of having the smallest herd, we finished our work
first. While the mixed outfit were finishing their cutting, we changed
mounts, and then were ready to work the separated herds. Wilson took
about half his outfit, and after giving our herd a trimming, during
which he recut about twenty, the mixed outfit were given a similar
chance, and found about half a dozen of their brand. These cattle of
Wilson’s and the other herd amongst ours were not to be wondered at,
for we cut by a liberal rule. Often we would find a number of ours on
the outside of the main herd, when two men would cut the squad in a
bunch, and if there was a wrong brand amongst them, it was no
matter,--we knew our herd would have to be retrimmed anyhow, and the
other outfits might be disappointed if they found none of their cattle
amongst ours.

The mixed outfit were yet working our herd when Wilson’s wagon and
saddle horses arrived, and while they were changing mounts, we cut the
mixed herd of our brand and picked up a number of strays which we had
been nursing along, though when we first entered the main herd, strays
had received our attention, being well known to us by ranch brands as
well as flesh marks. In gathering up this very natural flotsam of the
trail, we cut nothing but what our herd had absorbed in its travels,
showing due regard to a similar right of the other herds. Our work was
finished first, and after Wilson had recut the mixed herd, we gave his
herd one more looking over in a farewell parting. Flood asked him if
he wanted the lead, but Wilson waived his right in his open, frank
manner, saying, “If I had as long-legged cattle as you have, I
wouldn’t ask no man for the privilege of passing. Why, you ought to
out-travel horses. I’m glad to have met you and your outfit,
personally, but regret the incident which has given you so much
trouble. As I don’t expect to go farther than Dodge or Ogalalla at the
most, you are more than welcome to the lead. And if you or any of
these rascals in your outfit are ever in Coryell County, hunt up Frank
Wilson of the Block Bar Ranch, and I’ll promise you a drink of milk or
something stronger if possible.”

We crossed the Wichita late that afternoon, there being not over fifty
feet of swimming water for the cattle. Our wagon gave us the only
trouble, for the load could not well be lightened, and it was an
imperative necessity to cross it the same day. Once the cattle were
safely over and a few men left to graze them forward, the remainder of
the outfit collected all the ropes and went back after the wagon. As
mules are always unreliable in the water, Flood concluded to swim them
loose. We lashed the wagon box securely to the gearing with ropes,
arranged our bedding in the wagon where it would be on top, and ran
the wagon by hand into the water as far as we dared without flooding
the wagon box. Two men, with guy ropes fore and aft, were then left to
swim with the wagon in order to keep it from toppling over, while the
remainder of us recrossed to the farther side of the swimming channel,
and fastened our lariats to two long ropes from the end of the tongue.
We took a wrap on the pommels of our saddles with the loose end, and
when the word was given our eight horses furnished abundant motive
power, and the wagon floated across, landing high and dry amid the
shoutings of the outfit.




CHAPTER IX

DOAN’S CROSSING

It was a nice open country between the Wichita and Pease rivers. On
reaching the latter, we found an easy stage of water for crossing,
though there was every evidence that the river had been on a recent
rise, the débris of a late freshet littering the cutbank, while
high-water mark could be easily noticed on the trees along the river
bottom. Summer had advanced until the June freshets were to be
expected, and for the next month we should be fortunate if our advance
was not checked by floods and falling weather. The fortunate stage of
the Pease encouraged us, however, to hope that possibly Red River, two
days’ drive ahead, would be fordable. The day on which we expected to
reach it, Flood set out early to look up the ford which had then been
in use but a few years, and which in later days was known as Doan’s
Crossing on Red River. Our foreman returned before noon and reported a
favorable stage of water for the herd, and a new ferry that had been
established for wagons. With this good news, we were determined to put
that river behind us in as few hours as possible, for it was a common
occurrence that a river which was fordable at night was the reverse by
daybreak. McCann was sent ahead with the wagon, but we held the saddle
horses with us to serve as leaders in taking the water at the ford.

The cattle were strung out in trailing manner nearly a mile, and on
reaching the river near the middle of the afternoon, we took the water
without a halt or even a change of horses. This boundary river on the
northern border of Texas was a terror to trail drovers, but on our
reaching it, it had shallowed down, the flow of water following
several small channels. One of these was swimming, with shallow bars
intervening between the channels. But the majestic grandeur of the
river was apparent on every hand,--with its red, bluff banks, the
sediment of its red waters marking the timber along its course, while
the driftwood, lodged in trees and high on the banks, indicated what
might be expected when she became sportive or angry. That she was
merciless was evident, for although this crossing had been in use only
a year or two when we forded, yet five graves, one of which was less
than ten days made, attested her disregard for human life. It can
safely be asserted that at this and lower trail crossings on Red
River, the lives of more trail men were lost by drowning than on all
other rivers together. Just as we were nearing the river, an unknown
horseman from the south overtook our herd. It was evident that he
belonged to some through herd and was looking out the crossing. He
made himself useful by lending a hand while our herd was fording, and
in a brief conversation with Flood, informed him that he was one of
the hands with a “Running W” herd, gave the name of Bill Mann as their
foreman, the number of cattle they were driving, and reported the herd
as due to reach the river the next morning. He wasted little time with
us, but recrossed the river, returning to his herd, while we grazed
out four or five miles and camped for the night.

I shall never forget the impression left in my mind of that first
morning after we crossed Red River into the Indian lands. The country
was as primitive as in the first day of its creation. The trail led up
a divide between the Salt and North forks of Red River. To the
eastward of the latter stream lay the reservation of the Apaches,
Kiowas, and Comanches, the latter having been a terror to the
inhabitants of western Texas. They were a warlike tribe, as the
records of the Texas Rangers and government troops will verify, but
their last effective dressing down was given them in a fight at Adobe
Walls by a party of buffalo hunters whom they hoped to surprise. As we
wormed our way up this narrow divide, there was revealed to us a
panorama of green-swarded plain and timber-fringed watercourse, with
not a visible evidence that it had ever been invaded by civilized man,
save cattlemen with their herds. Antelope came up in bands and
gratified their curiosity as to who these invaders might be, while old
solitary buffalo bulls turned tail at our approach and lumbered away
to points of safety. Very few herds had ever passed over this route,
but buffalo trails leading downstream, deep worn by generations of
travel, were to be seen by hundreds on every hand. We were not there
for a change of scenery or for our health, so we may have overlooked
some of the beauties of the landscape. But we had a keen eye for the
things of our craft. We could see almost back to the river, and
several times that morning noticed clouds of dust on the horizon.
Flood noticed them first. After some little time the dust clouds arose
clear and distinct, and we were satisfied that the “Running W” herd
had forded and were behind us, not more than ten or twelve miles away.

At dinner that noon, Flood said he had a notion to go back and pay
Mann a visit. “Why, I’ve not seen ‘Little-foot’ Bill Mann,” said our
foreman, as he helped himself to a third piece of “fried chicken”
(bacon), “since we separated two years ago up at Ogalalla on the
Platte. I’d just like the best in the world to drop back and sleep in
his blankets one night and complain of his chuck. Then I’d like to
tell him how we had passed them, starting ten days’ drive farther
south. He must have been amongst those herds laying over on the
Brazos.”

“Why don’t you go, then?” said Fox Quarternight. “Half the outfit
could hold the cattle now with the grass and water we’re in at
present.”

“I’ll go you one for luck,” said our foreman. “Wrangler, rustle in
your horses the minute you’re through eating. I’m going visiting.”

We all knew what horse he would ride, and when he dropped his rope on
“Alazanito,” he had not only picked his own mount of twelve, but the
top horse of the entire _remuda_,--a chestnut sorrel, fifteen hands
and an inch in height, that drew his first breath on the prairies of
Texas. No man who sat him once could ever forget him. Now, when the
trail is a lost occupation, and reverie and reminiscence carry the
mind back to that day, there are friends and faces that may be
forgotten, but there are horses that never will be. There were
emergencies in which the horse was everything, his rider merely the
accessory. But together, man and horse, they were the force that made
it possible to move the millions of cattle which passed up and over
the various trails of the West.

When we had caught our horses for the afternoon, and Flood had saddled
and was ready to start, he said to us, “You fellows just mosey along
up the trail. I’ll not be gone long, but when I get back I shall
expect to find everything running smooth. An outfit that can’t run
itself without a boss ought to stay at home and do the milking. So
long, fellows!”

The country was well watered, and when rounded the cattle into the bed
ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs gorged
with grass and water. They went down and to sleep like tired children;
one man could have held them that night. We all felt good, and McCann
got up an extra spread for supper. We even had dried apples for
dessert. McCann had talked the storekeeper at Doan’s, where we got our
last supplies, out of some extras as a _pelon_. Among them was a can
of jam. He sprung this on us as a surprise. Bob Blades toyed with the
empty can in mingled admiration and disgust over a picture on the
paper label. It was a supper scene, every figure wearing full dress.
“Now, that’s General Grant,” said he, pointing with his finger, “and
this is Tom Ochiltree. I can’t quite make out this other duck, but I
reckon he’s some big auger--a senator or governor, maybe. Them old
girls have got their gall with them. That style of dress is what you
call _lo_ and _behold_. The whole passel ought to be ashamed. And they
seem to be enjoying themselves, too.”

Though it was a lovely summer night, we had a fire, and supper over,
the conversation ranged wide and free. As the wagon on the trail is
home, naturally the fire is the hearthstone, so we gathered and
lounged around it.

“The only way to enjoy such a fine night as this,” remarked Ash, “is
to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with your boots on. Between
too much sleep and just enough, there’s a happy medium which suits
me.”

“Officer,” inquired Wyatt Roundtree, trailing into the conversation
very innocently, “why is it that people who live up among those
Yankees always say ‘be’ the remainder of their lives?”

“What’s the matter with the word?” countered Officer.

“Oh, nothing, I reckon, only it sounds a little odd, and there’s a
tale to it.”

“A story, you mean,” said Officer, reprovingly.

“Well, I’ll tell it to you,” said Roundtree, “and then you can call it
to suit yourself. It was out in New Mexico where this happened. There
was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working, dead broke.
To make matters worse, he could do nothing; he wouldn’t fit anywhere.
Still, he was a nice fellow and we all liked him. Must have had a good
education, for he had good letters from people up North. He had worked
in stores and had once clerked in a bank, at least the letters said
so. Well, we put up a job to get him a place in a little town out on
the railroad. You all know how clannish Kentuckians are. Let two meet
who never saw each other before, and inside of half an hour they’ll be
chewing tobacco from the same plug and trying to loan each other
money.”

“That’s just like them,” interposed Fox Quarternight.

“Well, there was an old man lived in this town, who was the genuine
blend of bluegrass and Bourbon. If another Kentuckian came within
twenty miles of him, and he found it out, he’d hunt him up and they’d
hold a two-handed reunion. We put up the job that this young man
should play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old man would
take him to his bosom and give him something to do. So we took him
into town one day, coached and fully posted how to act and play his
part. We met the old man in front of his place of business, and, after
the usual comment on the news over our way, weather, and other small
talk, we were on the point of passing on, when one of our own crowd
turned back and inquired, ‘Uncle Henry, have you met the young
Kentuckian who’s in the country?’

“‘No,’ said the old man, brightening with interest, ‘who is he and
where is he?’

“‘He’s in town somewhere,’ volunteered one of the boys. We pretended
to survey the street from where we stood, when one of the boys blurted
out, ‘Yonder he stands now. That fellow in front of the drug store
over there, with the hard-boiled hat on.’

“The old man started for him, angling across the street, in disregard
of sidewalks. We watched the meeting, thinking it was working all
right. We were mistaken. We saw them shake hands, when the old man
turned and walked away very haughtily. Something had gone wrong. He
took the sidewalk on his return, and when he came near enough to us,
we could see that he was angry and on the prod. When he came near
enough to speak, he said, ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you? He’s a
Kentuckian, is he? Hell’s full of such Kentuckians!’ And as he passed
beyond hearing he was muttering imprecations on us. The young fellow
joined us a minute later with the question, ‘What kind of a crank is
that you ran me up against?’

“‘He’s as nice a man as there is in this country,’ said one of the
crowd. ‘What did you say to him?’

“‘Nothing’; he came up to me, extended his hand, saying, “My young
friend, I understand that you’re from Kentucky.” “I be, sir,” I
replied, when he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re a G---- d----
liar,” and turned and walked away. Why, he must have wanted to insult
me. And then we all knew why our little scheme had failed. There was
food and raiment in it for him, but he would use that little word
‘be.’”

“Did any of you notice my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed
this last creek this afternoon?” inquired Rod Wheat.

“No; what made him lie down?” asked several of the boys.

“Oh, he just found a gopher hole and stuck his forefeet into it one at
a time, and then tried to pull them both out at once, and when he
couldn’t do it, he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and lay
down.”

“Then you’ve seen sheep die,” said the horse wrangler.

“Of course I have; a sheep can die any time he makes up his mind to by
simply shutting both eyes--then he’s a goner.”

Quince Forrest, who had brought in his horse to go out with the second
watch, he and Bob Blades having taken advantage of the foreman’s
absence to change places on guard for the night, had been listening to
the latter part of Wyatt’s yarn very attentively. We all hoped that he
would mount and ride out to the herd, for though he was a good
story-teller and meaty with personal experiences, where he thought
they would pass muster he was inclined to overcolor his statements. We
usually gave him respectful attention, but were frequently compelled
to regard him as a cheerful, harmless liar. So when he showed no
disposition to go, we knew we were in for one from him.

“When I was boss bull-whacker,” he began, “for a big army sutler at
Fort Concho, I used to make two round trips a month with my train. It
was a hundred miles to wagon from the freight point where we got our
supplies. I had ten teams, six and seven yoke to the team, and trail
wagons to each. I was furnished a night herder and a cook, saddle
horses for both night herder and myself. You hear me, it was a slam up
fine layout. We could handle three or four tons to the team, and with
the whole train we could chamber two car loads of anything. One day we
were nearing the fort with a mixed cargo of freight, when a messenger
came out and met us with an order from the sutler. He wanted us to
make the fort that night and unload. The mail buckboard had reported
us to the sutler as camped out back on a little creek about ten miles.
We were always entitled to a day to unload and drive back to camp,
which gave us good grass for the oxen, but under the orders the whips
popped merrily that afternoon, and when they all got well strung out,
I rode in ahead, to see what was up. Well, it seems that four
companies of infantry from Fort McKavett, which were out for field
practice, were going to be brought into this post to be paid three
months’ wages. This, with the troops stationed at Concho, would turn
loose quite a wad of money. The sutler called me into his office when
I reached the fort, and when he had produced a black bottle used for
cutting the alkali in your drinking water, he said, ‘Jack,’--he called
me Jack; my full name is John Quincy Forrest,--‘Jack, can you make the
round trip, and bring in two cars of bottled beer that will be on the
track waiting for you, and get back by pay day, the 10th?’

“I figured the time in my mind; it was twelve days.

“‘There’s five extra in it for each man for the trip, and I’ll make it
right with you,’ he added, as he noticed my hesitation, though I was
only making a mental calculation.

“‘Why, certainly, Captain,’ I said. ‘What’s that fable about the jack
rabbit and the land tarrapin?’ He didn’t know and I didn’t either, so
I said to illustrate the point: ‘Put your freight on a bull train, and
it always goes through on time. A race horse can’t beat an ox on a
hundred miles and repeat to a freight wagon.’ Well, we unloaded before
night, and it was pitch dark before we made camp. I explained the
situation to the men. We planned to go in empty in five days, which
would give us seven to come back loaded. We made every camp on time
like clockwork. The fifth morning we were anxious to get a daybreak
start, so we could load at night. The night herder had his orders to
bring in the oxen the first sign of day, and I called the cook an hour
before light. When the oxen were brought in, the men were up and ready
to go to yoking. But the nigh wheeler in Joe Jenk’s team, a big
brindle, muley ox, a regular pet steer, was missing. I saw him myself,
Joe saw him, and the night herder swore he came in with the rest.
Well, we looked high and low for that Mr. Ox, but he had vanished.
While the men were eating their breakfast, I got on my horse and the
night herder and I scoured and circled that country for miles around,
but no ox. The country was so bare and level that a jack rabbit needed
to carry a fly for shade. I was worried, for we needed every ox and
every moment of time. I ordered Joe to tie his mate behind the trail
wagon and pull out one ox shy.

“Well, fellows, that thing worried me powerful. Half the teamsters,
good, honest, truthful men as ever popped a whip, swore they saw that
ox when they came in. Well, it served a strong argument that a man can
be positive and yet be mistaken. We nooned ten miles from our night
camp that day. Jerry Wilkens happened to mention it at dinner that he
believed his trail needed greasing. ‘Why,’ said Jerry, ‘you’d think
that I was loaded, the way my team kept their chains taut.’ I noticed
Joe get up from dinner before he had finished, as if an idea had
struck him. He went over and opened the sheet in Jerry’s trail wagon,
and a smile spread over his countenance. ‘Come here, fellows,’ was all
he said.

“We ran over to the wagon and there”--

The boys turned their backs with indistinct mutterings of disgust.

“You all don’t need to believe this if you don’t want to, but there
was the missing ox, coiled up and sleeping like a bear in the wagon.
He even had Jerry’s roll of bedding for a pillow. You see, the wagon
sheet was open in front, and he had hopped up on the trail tongue and
crept in there to steal a ride. Joe climbed into the wagon, and gave
him a few swift kicks in the short ribs, when he opened his eyes,
yawned, got up, and jumped out.”

Bull was rolling a cigarette before starting, while Fox’s night horse
was hard to bridle, which hindered them. With this slight delay,
Forrest turned his horse back and continued: “That same ox on the next
trip, one night when we had the wagons parked into a corral, got away
from the herder, tip-toed over the men’s beds in the gate, stood on
his hind legs long enough to eat four fifty-pound sacks of flour out
of the rear end of a wagon, got down on his side, and wormed his way
under the wagon back into the herd, without being detected or waking a
man.”

As they rode away to relieve the first guard, McCann said, “Isn’t he a
muzzle-loading daisy? If I loved a liar I’d hug that man to death.”

The absence of our foreman made no difference. We all knew our places
on guard. Experience told us there would be no trouble that night.
After Wyatt Roundtree and Moss Strayhorn had made down their bed and
got into it, Wyatt remarked,--

“Did you ever notice, old sidey, how hard this ground is?”

“Oh, yes,” said Moss, as he turned over, hunting for a soft spot, “it
is hard, but we’ll forget all that when this trip ends. Brother, dear,
just think of those long slings with red cherries floating around in
them that we’ll be drinking, and picture us smoking cigars in a blaze.
That thought alone ought to make a hard bed both soft and warm. Then
to think we’ll ride all the way home on the cars.”

McCann banked his fire, and the first guard, Wheat, Stallings, and
Borrowstone, rode in from the herd, all singing an old chorus that had
been composed, with little regard for music or sense, about a hotel
where they had stopped the year before:--

     “Sure it’s one cent for coffee and two cents for bread,
     Three for a steak and five for a bed,
     Sea breeze from the gutter wafts a salt water smell,
     To the festive cowboy in the Southwestern hotel.”




CHAPTER X

“NO MAN’S LAND”

Flood overtook us the next morning, and as a number of us gathered
round him to hear the news, told us of a letter that Mann had got at
Doan’s, stating that the first herd to pass Camp Supply had been
harassed by Indians. The “Running W” people, Mann’s employers, had a
representative at Dodge, who was authority for the statement. Flood
had read the letter, which intimated that an appeal would be made to
the government to send troops from either Camp Supply or Fort Sill to
give trail herds a safe escort in passing the western border of this
Indian reservation. The letter, therefore, admonished Mann, if he
thought the Indians would give any trouble, to go up the south side of
Red River as far as the Pan-handle of Texas, and then turn north to
the government trail at Fort Elliot.

“I told Mann,” said our foreman, “that before I’d take one step
backward, or go off on a wild goose chase through that Pan-handle
country, I’d go back home and start over next year on the Chisholm
trail. It’s the easiest thing in the world for some big auger to sit
in a hotel somewhere and direct the management of a herd. I don’t look
for no soldiers to furnish an escort; it would take the government six
months to get a move on her, even in an emergency. I left Billy Mann
in a quandary; he doesn’t know what to do. That big auger at Dodge is
troubling him, for if he don’t act on his advice, and loses cattle as
the result--well, he’ll never boss any more herds for King and
Kennedy. So, boys, if we’re ever to see the Blackfoot Agency, there’s
but one course for us to take, and that’s straight ahead. As old
Oliver Loving, the first Texas cowman that ever drove a herd, used to
say, ‘Never borrow trouble, or cross a river before you reach it.’ So
when the cattle are through grazing, let them hit the trail north.
It’s entirely too late for us to veer away from any Indians.”

We were following the regular trail, which had been slightly used for
a year or two, though none of our outfit had ever been over it, when
late on the third afternoon, about forty miles out from Doan’s, about
a hundred mounted bucks and squaws sighted our herd and crossed the
North Fork from their encampment. They did not ride direct to the
herd, but came into the trail nearly a mile above the cattle, so it
was some little time from our first sighting them before we met. We
did not check the herd or turn out of the trail, but when the lead
came within a few hundred yards of the Indians, one buck, evidently
the chief of the band, rode forward a few rods and held up one hand,
as if commanding a halt. At the sight of this gaudily bedecked
apparition, the cattle turned out of the trail, and Flood and I rode
up to the chief, extending our hands in friendly greeting. The chief
could not speak a word of English, but made signs with his hands; when
I turned loose on him in Spanish, however, he instantly turned his
horse and signed back to his band. Two young bucks rode forward and
greeted Flood and myself in good Spanish.

On thus opening up an intelligible conversation, I called Fox
Quarternight, who spoke Spanish, and he rode up from his position of
third man in the swing and joined in the council. The two young
Indians through whom we carried on the conversation were Apaches, no
doubt renegades of that tribe, and while we understood each other in
Spanish, they spoke in a heavy guttural peculiar to the Indian. Flood
opened the powwow by demanding to know the meaning of this visit. When
the question had been properly interpreted to the chief, the latter
dropped his blanket from his shoulders and dismounted from his horse.
He was a fine specimen of the Plains Indian, fully six feet in height,
perfectly proportioned, and in years well past middle life. He looked
every inch a chief, and was a natural born orator. There was a certain
easy grace to his gestures, only to be seen in people who use the sign
language, and often when he was speaking to the Apache interpreters, I
could anticipate his requests before they were translated to us,
although I did not know a word of Comanche.

Before the powwow had progressed far it was evident that begging was
its object. In his prelude, the chief laid claim to all the country in
sight as the hunting grounds of the Comanche tribe,--an intimation
that we were intruders. He spoke of the great slaughter of the buffalo
by the white hide-hunters, and the consequent hunger and poverty
amongst his people. He dwelt on the fact that he had ever counseled
peace with the whites, until now his band numbered but a few squaws
and papooses, the younger men having deserted him for other chiefs of
the tribe who advocated war on the palefaces. When he had fully stated
his position, he offered to allow us to pass through his country in
consideration of ten beeves. On receiving this proposition, all of us
dismounted, including the two Apaches, the latter seating themselves
in their own fashion, while we whites lounged on the ground in truly
American laziness, rolling cigarettes. In dealing with people who know
not the value of time, the civilized man is taken at a disadvantage,
and unless he can show an equal composure in wasting time, results
will be against him. Flood had had years of experience in dealing with
Mexicans in the land of _mañana_, where all maxims regarding the value
of time are religiously discarded. So in dealing with this Indian
chief he showed no desire to hasten matters, and carefully avoided all
reference to the demand for beeves.

[Illustration: MEETING WITH INDIANS]

His first question, instead, was to know the distance to Fort Sill and
Fort Elliot. The next was how many days it would take for cavalry to
reach him. He then had us narrate the fact that when the first herd of
cattle passed through the country less than a month before, some bad
Indians had shown a very unfriendly spirit. They had taken many of the
cattle and had killed and eaten them, and now the great white man’s
chief at Washington was very much displeased. If another single ox
were taken and killed by bad Indians, he would send his soldiers from
the forts to protect the cattle, even though their owners drove the
herds through the reservation of the Indians--over the grass where
their ponies grazed. He had us inform the chief that our entire herd
was intended by the great white man’s chief at Washington as a present
to the Blackfeet Indians who lived in Montana, because they were good
Indians, and welcomed priests and teachers amongst them to teach them
the ways of the white man. At our foreman’s request we then informed
the chief that he was under no obligation to give him even a single
beef for any privilege of passing through his country, but as the
squaws and little papooses were hungry, he would give him two beeves.

The old chief seemed not the least disconcerted, but begged for five
beeves, as many of the squaws were in the encampment across the North
Fork, those present being not quite half of his village. It was now
getting late in the day and the band seemed to be getting tired of the
parleying, a number of squaws having already set out on their return
to the village. After some further talk, Flood agreed to add another
beef, on condition they be taken to the encampment before being
killed. This was accepted, and at once the entire band set up a
chattering in view of the coming feast. The cattle had in the mean
time grazed off nearly a mile, the outfit, however, holding them under
a close herd during the powwowing. All the bucks in the band,
numbering about forty, now joined us, and we rode away to the herd. I
noticed, by the way, that quite a number of the younger braves had
arms, and no doubt they would have made a display of force had Flood’s
diplomacy been of a more warlike character. While drifting the herd
back to the trail we cut out a big lame steer and two stray cows for
the Indians, who now left us and followed the beeves which were being
driven to their village.

Flood had instructed Quarternight and me to invite the two Apaches to
our camp for the night, on the promise of sugar, coffee, and tobacco.
They consulted with the old chief, and gaining his consent came with
us. We extended the hospitality of our wagon to our guests, and when
supper was over, promised them an extra beef if they would give us
particulars of the trail until it crossed the North Fork, after that
river turned west towards the Pan-handle. It was evident that they
were familiar with the country, for one of them accepted our offer,
and with his finger sketched a rude map on the ground where there had
formerly been a camp-fire. He outlined the two rivers between which we
were then encamped, and traced the trail until it crossed the North
Fork or beyond the Indian reservation. We discussed the outline of the
trail in detail for an hour, asking hundreds of unimportant questions,
but occasionally getting in a leading one, always resulting in the
information wanted. We learned that the big summer encampment of the
Comanches and Kiowas was one day’s ride for a pony or two days’ with
cattle up the trail, at the point where the divide between Salt and
North Fork narrows to about ten miles in width. We leeched out of them
very cautiously the information that the encampment was a large one,
and that all herds this year had given up cattle, some as many as
twenty-five head.

Having secured the information we wanted, Flood gave to each Apache a
package of Arbuckle coffee, a small sack of sugar, and both smoking
and chewing tobacco. Quarternight informed them that as the cattle
were bedded for the night, they had better remain until morning, when
he would pick them out a nice fat beef. On their consenting, Fox
stripped the wagon sheet off the wagon and made them a good bed, in
which, with their body blankets, they were as comfortable as any of
us. Neither of them was armed, so we felt no fear of them, and after
they had lain down on their couch, Flood called Quarternight and me,
and we strolled out into the darkness and reviewed the information. We
agreed that the topography of the country they had given was most
likely correct, because we could verify much of it by maps in our
possession. Another thing on which we agreed was, that there was some
means of communication between this small and seemingly peaceable band
and the main encampment of the tribe; and that more than likely our
approach would be known in the large encampment before sunrise. In
spite of the good opinion we entertained of our guests, we were also
satisfied they had lied to us when they denied they had been in the
large camp since the trail herds began to pass. This was the last
question we had asked, and the artful manner in which they had parried
it showed our guests to be no mean diplomats themselves.

Our camp was astir by daybreak, and after breakfast, as we were
catching our mounts for the day, one of the Apaches offered to take a
certain pinto horse in our _remuda_ in lieu of the promised beef, but
Flood declined the offer. On overtaking the herd after breakfast,
Quarternight cut out a fat two year old stray heifer, and he and I
assisted our guests to drive their beef several miles toward their
village. Finally bidding them farewell, we returned to the herd, when
the outfit informed us that Flood and The Rebel had ridden on ahead to
look out a crossing on the Salt Fork. From this move it was evident
that if a passable ford could be found, our foreman intended to
abandon the established route and avoid the big Indian encampment.

On the return of Priest and Flood about noon, they reported having
found an easy ford of the Salt Fork, which, from the indications of
their old trails centring from every quarter at this crossing, must
have been used by buffalo for generations. After dinner we put our
wagon in the lead, and following close at hand with the cattle, turned
off the trail about a mile above our noon camp and struck to the
westward for the crossing. This we reached and crossed early that
evening, camping out nearly five miles to the west of the river. Rain
was always to be dreaded in trail work, and when bedding down the herd
that night, we had one of the heaviest downpours which we had
experienced since leaving the Rio Grande. It lasted several hours, but
we stood it uncomplainingly, for this fortunate drenching had
obliterated every trace left by our wagon and herd since abandoning
the trail, as well as the sign left at the old buffalo crossing on the
Salt Fork. The rain ceased about ten o’clock, when the cattle bedded
down easily, and the second guard took them for their watch. Wood was
too scarce to afford a fire, and while our slickers had partially
protected us from the rain, many of us went to bed in wet clothing
that night. After another half day’s drive to the west, we turned
northward and traveled in that direction through a nice country, more
or less broken with small hills, but well watered. On the morning of
the first day after turning north, Honeyman reported a number of our
saddle horses had strayed from camp. This gave Flood some little
uneasiness, and a number of us got on our night horses without loss of
time and turned out to look up the missing saddle stock. The Rebel and
I set out together to the southward, while others of the outfit set
off to the other points of the compass.

I was always a good trailer, was in fact acknowledged to be one of the
best, with the exception of my brother Zack, on the San Antonio River,
where we grew up as boys. In circling about that morning, I struck the
trail of about twenty horses--the missing number--and at once signaled
to Priest, who was about a mile distant, to join me. The ground was
fortunately fresh from the recent rain and left an easy trail. We
galloped along it easily for some little distance, when the trail
suddenly turned and we could see that the horses had been running,
having evidently received a sudden scare. On following up the trail
nearly a mile, we noticed where they had quieted down and had
evidently grazed for several hours, but in looking up the trail by
which they had left these parts, Priest made the discovery of signs of
cattle. We located the trail of the horses soon, and were again
surprised to find that they had been running as before, though the
trail was much fresher, having possibly been made about dawn. We ran
the trail out until it passed over a slight divide, when there before
us stood the missing horses. They never noticed us, but were standing
at attention, cautiously sniffing the early morning air, on which was
borne to them the scent of something they feared. On reaching them,
their fear seemed not the least appeased, and my partner and I had our
curiosity sufficiently aroused to ride forward to the cause of their
alarm. As we rounded the spur of the hill, there in plain view grazed
a band of about twenty buffalo. We were almost as excited as the
horses over the discovery. By dropping back and keeping the hill
between us and them, then dismounting and leaving our horses, we
thought we could reach the apex of the hill. It was but a small
elevation, and from its summit we secured a splendid view of the
animals, now less than three hundred yards distant. Flattening
ourselves out, we spent several minutes watching the shaggy animals as
they grazed leisurely forward, while several calves in the bunch
gamboled around their mothers. A buffalo calf, I had always heard,
made delicious veal, and as we had had no fresh meat since we had
started, I proposed to Priest that we get one. He suggested trying our
ropes, for if we could ever get within effective six-shooter range, a
rope was much the surest. Certainly such cumbrous, awkward looking
animals, he said, could be no match for our Texas horses. We
accordingly dropped back off the hill to our saddle stock, when Priest
said that if he only had a certain horse of his out of the band we had
been trailing he would promise me buffalo veal if he had to follow
them to the Pan-handle. It took us but a few minutes to return to our
horses, round them in, and secure the particular horse he wanted. I
was riding my Nigger Boy, my regular night horse, and as only one of
my mount was in this bunch,--a good horse, but sluggish,--I concluded
to give my black a trial, not depending on his speed so much as his
staying qualities. It took but a minute for The Rebel to shift his
saddle from one horse to another, when he started around to the south,
while I turned to the north, so as to approach the buffalo
simultaneously. I came in sight of the band first, my partner having a
farther ride to make, but had only a few moments to wait, before I
noticed the quarry take alarm, and the next instant Priest dashed out
from behind a spur of the hill and was after them, I following suit.
They turned westward, and when The Rebel and I came together on the
angle of their course, we were several hundred yards in their rear. My
bunkie had the best horse in speed by all odds, and was soon crowding
the band so close that they began to scatter, and though I passed
several old bulls and cows, it was all I could do to keep in sight of
the calves. After the chase had continued over a mile, the staying
qualities of my horse began to shine, but while I was nearing the
lead, The Rebel tied to the largest calf in the bunch. The calf he had
on his rope was a beauty, and on overtaking him, I reined in my horse,
for to have killed a second one would have been sheer waste. Priest
wanted me to shoot the calf, but I refused, so he shifted the rope to
the pommel of my saddle, and, dismounting, dropped the calf at the
first shot. We skinned him, cut off his head, and after disemboweling
him, lashed the carcass across my saddle. Then both of us mounted
Priest’s horse, and started on our return.

On reaching the horse stock, we succeeded in catching a sleepy old
horse belonging to Rod Wheat’s mount, and I rode him bridleless and
bareback to camp. We received an ovation on our arrival, the recovery
of the saddle horses being a secondary matter compared to the buffalo
veal. “So it was buffalo that scared our horses, was it, and ran them
out of camp?” said McCann, as he helped to unlash the calf. “Well,
it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” There was no particular loss
of time, for the herd had grazed away on our course several miles, and
after changing our mounts we overtook the herd with the news that not
only the horses had been found, but that there was fresh meat in
camp--and buffalo veal at that! The other men out horse hunting,
seeing the cattle strung out in traveling shape, soon returned to
their places beside the trailing herd.

We held a due northward course, which we figured ought to carry us
past and at least thirty miles to the westward of the big Indian
encampment. The worst thing with which we had now to contend was the
weather, it having rained more or less during the past day and night,
or ever since we had crossed the Salt Fork. The weather had thrown the
outfit into such a gloomy mood that they would scarcely speak to or
answer each other. This gloomy feeling had been growing on us for
several days, and it was even believed secretly that our foreman
didn’t know where he was; that the outfit was drifting and as good as
lost. About noon of the third day, the weather continuing wet with
cold nights, and with no abatement of the general gloom, our men on
point noticed smoke arising directly ahead on our course, in a little
valley through which ran a nice stream of water. When Flood’s
attention was directed to the smoke, he rode forward to ascertain the
cause, and returned worse baffled than I ever saw him.

It was an Indian camp, and had evidently been abandoned only that
morning, for the fires were still smouldering. Ordering the wagon to
camp on the creek and the cattle to graze forward till noon, Flood
returned to the Indian camp, taking two of the boys and myself with
him. It had not been a permanent camp, yet showed evidence of having
been occupied several days at least, and had contained nearly a
hundred lean-tos, wickyups, and tepees--altogether too large an
encampment to suit our tastes. The foreman had us hunt up the trail
leaving, and once we had found it, all four of us ran it out five or
six miles, when, from the freshness of it, fearing that we might be
seen, we turned back. The Indians had many ponies and possibly some
cattle, though the sign of the latter was hard to distinguish from
buffalo. Before quitting their trail, we concluded they were from one
of the reservations, and were heading for their old stamping ground,
the Pan-handle country,--peaceable probably; but whether peaceable or
not, we had no desire to meet with them. We lost little time, then, in
returning to the herd and making late and early drives until we were
out of that section.

But one cannot foresee impending trouble on the cattle trail, any more
than elsewhere, and although we encamped that night a long distance to
the north of the abandoned Indian camp, the next morning we came near
having a stampede. It happened just at dawn. Flood had called the cook
an hour before daybreak, and he had started out with Honeyman to drive
in the _remuda_, which had scattered badly the morning before. They
had the horses rounded up and were driving them towards camp when,
about half a mile from the wagon, four old buffalo bulls ran
quartering past the horses. This was tinder among stubble, and in
their panic the horses outstripped the wranglers and came thundering
for camp. Luckily we had been called to breakfast, and those of us who
could see what was up ran and secured our night horses. Before half of
the horses were thus secured, however, one hundred and thirty loose
saddle stock dashed through camp, and every horse on picket went with
them, saddles and all, and dragging the picket ropes. Then the cattle
jumped from the bed ground and were off like a shot, the fourth guard,
who had them in charge, with them. Just for the time being it was an
open question which way to ride, our saddle horses going in one
direction and the herd in another. Priest was an early riser and had
hustled me out early, so fortunately we reached our horses, though
over half the outfit in camp could only look on and curse their luck
at being left afoot. The Rebel was first in the saddle, and turned
after the horses, but I rode for the herd. The cattle were not badly
scared, and as the morning grew clearer, five of us quieted them down
before they had run more than a short mile.

The horses, however, gave us a long, hard run, and since a horse has a
splendid memory, the effects of this scare were noticeable for nearly
a month after. Honeyman at once urged our foreman to hobble at night,
but Flood knew the importance of keeping the _remuda_ strong, and
refused. But his decision was forced, for just as it was growing dusk
that evening, we heard the horses running, and all hands had to turn
out, to surround them and bring them into camp. We hobbled every horse
and side-lined certain leaders, and for fully a week following, one
scare or another seemed to hold our saddle stock in constant terror.
During this week we turned out our night horses, and taking the worst
of the leaders in their stead, tied them solidly to the wagon wheels
all night, not being willing to trust to picket ropes. They would even
run from a mounted man during the twilight of evening or early dawn,
or from any object not distinguishable in uncertain light; but the
wrangler now never went near them until after sunrise, and their
nervousness gradually subsided. Trouble never comes singly, however,
and when we struck the Salt Fork, we found it raging, and impassable
nearly from bank to bank. But get across we must. The swimming of it
was nothing, but it was necessary to get our wagon over, and there
came the rub. We swam the cattle in twenty minutes’ time, but it took
us a full half day to get the wagon over. The river was at least a
hundred yards wide, three quarters of which was swimming to a horse.
But we hunted up and down the river until we found an eddy, where the
banks had a gradual approach to deep water, and started to raft the
wagon over--a thing none of the outfit had ever seen done, though we
had often heard of it around camp-fires in Texas. The first thing was
to get the necessary timber to make the raft. We scouted along the
Salt Fork for a mile either way before we found sufficient dry, dead
cottonwood to form our raft. Then we set about cutting it, but we had
only one axe, and were the poorest set of axemen that were ever called
upon to perform a similar task; when we cut a tree it looked as though
a beaver had gnawed it down. On horseback the Texan shines at the head
of his class, but in any occupation which must be performed on foot he
is never a competitor. There was scarcely a man in our outfit who
could not swing a rope and tie down a steer in a given space of time,
but when it came to swinging an axe to cut logs for the raft, our
lustre faded. “Cutting these logs,” said Joe Stallings, as he mopped
the sweat from his brow, “reminds me of what the Tennessee girl who
married a Texan wrote home to her sister. ‘Texas,’ so she wrote, ‘is a
good place for men and dogs, but it’s hell on women and oxen.’”

Dragging the logs up to the place selected for the ford was an easy
matter. They were light, and we did it with ropes from the pommels of
our saddles, two to four horses being sufficient to handle any of the
trees. When everything was ready, we ran the wagon out into two-foot
water and built the raft under it. We had cut the dry logs from
eighteen to twenty feet long, and now ran a tier of these under the
wagon between the wheels. These we lashed securely to the axle, and
even lashed one large log on the underside of the hub on the outside
of the wheel. Then we cross-timbered under these, lashing everything
securely to this outside guard log. Before we had finished the
cross-timbering, it was necessary to take an anchor rope ashore for
fear our wagon would float away. By the time we had succeeded in
getting twenty-five dry cottonwood logs under our wagon, it was
afloat. Half a dozen of us then swam the river on our horses, taking
across the heaviest rope we had for a tow line. We threw the wagon
tongue back and lashed it, and making fast to the wagon with one end
of the tow rope, fastened our lariats to the other. With the remainder
of our unused rope, we took a guy line from the wagon and snubbed it
to a tree on the south bank. Everything being in readiness, the word
was given, and as those on the south bank eased away, those on
horseback on the other side gave the rowel to their horses, and our
commissary floated across. The wagon floated so easily that McCann was
ordered on to the raft to trim the weight when it struck the current.
The current carried it slightly downstream, and when it lodged on the
other side, those on the south bank fastened lariats to the guy rope;
and with them pulling from that side and us from ours, it was soon
brought opposite the landing and hauled into shallow water. Once the
raft timber was unlashed and removed, the tongue was lowered, and from
the pommels of six saddles the wagon was set high and dry on the north
bank. There now only remained to bring up the cattle and swim them,
which was an easy task and soon accomplished.

After putting the Salt Fork behind us, our spirits were again
dampened, for it rained all the latter part of the night and until
noon the next day. It was with considerable difficulty that McCann
could keep his fire from drowning out while he was getting breakfast,
and several of the outfit refused to eat at all. Flood knew it was
useless to rally the boys, for a wet, hungry man is not to be jollied
or reasoned with. Five days had now elapsed since we turned off the
established trail, and half the time rain had been falling. Besides,
our doubt as to where we were had been growing, so before we started
that morning, Bull Durham very good-naturedly asked Flood if he had
any idea where he was.

“No, I haven’t. No more than you have,” replied our foreman. “But this
much I do know, or will just as soon as the sun comes out: I know
north from south. We have been traveling north by a little west, and
if we hold that course we’re bound to strike the North Fork, and
within a day or two afterwards we will come into the government trail,
running from Fort Elliot to Camp Supply, which will lead us into our
own trail. Or if we were certain that we had cleared the Indian
reservation, we could bear to our right, and in time we would reenter
the trail that way. I can’t help the weather, boys, and as long as I
have chuck, I’d as lief be lost as found.”

If there was any recovery in the feelings of the outfit after this
talk of Flood’s, it was not noticeable, and it is safe to say that two
thirds of the boys believed we were in the Pan-handle of Texas. One
man’s opinion is as good as another’s in a strange country, and while
there wasn’t a man in the outfit who cared to suggest it, I know the
majority of us would have indorsed turning northeast. But the fates
smiled on us at last. About the middle of the forenoon, on the
following day, we cut an Indian trail, about three days old, of
probably fifty horses. A number of us followed the trail several miles
on its westward course, and among other things discovered that they
had been driving a small bunch of cattle, evidently making for the
sand hills which we could see about twenty miles to our left. How they
had come by the cattle was a mystery,--perhaps by forced levy, perhaps
from a stampede. One thing was certain: the trail must have
contributed them, for there were none but trail cattle in the country.
This was reassuring and gave some hint of guidance. We were all
tickled, therefore, after nooning that day and on starting the herd in
the afternoon, to hear our foreman give orders to point the herd a
little east of north. The next few days we made long drives, our
saddle horses recovered from their scare, and the outfit fast regained
its spirits.

On the morning of the tenth day after leaving the trail, we loitered
up a long slope to a divide in our lead from which we sighted timber
to the north. This we supposed from its size must be the North Fork.
Our route lay up this divide some distance, and before we left it,
some one in the rear sighted a dust cloud to the right and far behind
us. As dust would hardly rise on a still morning without a cause, we
turned the herd off the divide and pushed on, for we suspected
Indians. Flood and Priest hung back on the divide, watching the dust
signals, and after the herd had left them several miles in the rear,
they turned and rode towards it,--a move which the outfit could hardly
make out. It was nearly noon when we saw them returning in a long
lope, and when they came in sight of the herd, Priest waved his hat in
the air and gave the long yell. When he explained that there was a
herd of cattle on the trail in the rear and to our right, the yell
went around the herd, and was reechoed by our wrangler and cook in the
rear. The spirits of the outfit instantly rose. We halted the herd and
camped for noon, and McCann set out his best in celebrating the
occasion. It was the most enjoyable meal we had had in the past ten
days. After a good noonday rest, we set out, and having entered the
trail during the afternoon, crossed the North Fork late that evening.
As we were going into camp, we noticed a horseman coming up the trail,
who turned out to be smiling Nat Straw, whom we had left on the
Colorado River. “Well, girls,” said Nat, dismounting, “I didn’t know
who you were, but I just thought I’d ride ahead and overtake whoever
it was and stay all night. Indians? Yes; I wouldn’t drive on a trail
that hadn’t any excitement on it. I gave the last big encampment ten
strays, and won them all back and four ponies besides on a horse race.
Oh, yes, got some running stock with us. How soon will supper be
ready, cusi? Get up something extra, for you’ve got company.”




CHAPTER XI

A BOGGY FORD

That night we learned from Straw our location on the trail. We were
far above the Indian reservation, and instead of having been astray
our foreman had held a due northward course, and we were probably as
far on the trail as if we had followed the regular route. So in spite
of all our good maxims, we had been borrowing trouble; we were never
over thirty miles to the westward of what was then the new Western
Cattle Trail. We concluded that the “Running W” herd had turned back,
as Straw brought the report that some herd had recrossed Red River the
day before his arrival, giving for reasons the wet season and the
danger of getting waterbound.

About noon of the second day after leaving the North Fork of Red
River, we crossed the Washita, a deep stream, the slippery banks of
which gave every indication of a recent rise. We had no trouble in
crossing either wagon or herd, it being hardly a check in our onward
course. The abandonment of the regular trail the past ten days had
been a noticeable benefit to our herd, for the cattle had had an
abundance of fresh country to graze over as well as plenty of rest.
But now that we were back on the trail, we gave them their freedom and
frequently covered twenty miles a day, until we reached the South
Canadian, which proved to be the most delusive stream we had yet
encountered. It also showed, like the Washita, every evidence of
having been on a recent rampage. On our arrival there was no volume of
water to interfere, but it had a quicksand bottom that would bog a
saddle blanket. Our foreman had been on ahead and examined the regular
crossing, and when he returned, freely expressed his opinion that we
would be unable to trail the herd across, but might hope to effect it
by cutting it into small bunches. When we came, therefore, within
three miles of the river, we turned off the trail to a near-by creek
and thoroughly watered the herd. This was contrary to our practice,
for we usually wanted the herd thirsty when reaching a large river.
But any cow brute that halted in fording the Canadian that day was
doomed to sink into quicksands from which escape was doubtful.

We held the wagon and saddle horses in the rear, and when we were half
a mile away from the trail ford, cut off about two hundred head of the
leaders and started for the crossing, leaving only the horse wrangler
and one man with the herd. On reaching the river we gave them an extra
push, and the cattle plunged into the muddy water. Before the cattle
had advanced fifty feet, instinct earned them of the treacherous
footing, and the leaders tried to turn back; but by that time we had
the entire bunch in the water and were urging them forward. They had
halted but a moment and begun milling, when several heavy steers sank;
then we gave way and allowed the rest to come back. We did not realize
fully the treachery of this river until we saw that twenty cattle were
caught in the merciless grasp of the quicksand. They sank slowly to
the level of their bodies, which gave sufficient resistance to support
their weight, but they were hopelessly bogged. We allowed the free
cattle to return to the herd, and immediately turned our attention to
those that were bogged, some of whom were nearly submerged by water.
We dispatched some of the boys to the wagon for our heavy corral ropes
and a bundle of horse-hobbles; and the remainder of us, stripped to
the belt, waded out and surveyed the situation at close quarters. We
were all experienced in handling bogged cattle, though this quicksand
was the most deceptive that I, at least, had ever witnessed. The
bottom of the river as we waded through it was solid under our feet,
and as long as we kept moving it felt so, but the moment we stopped we
sank as in a quagmire. The “pull” of this quicksand was so strong that
four of us were unable to lift a steer’s tail out, once it was
imbedded in the sand. And when we had released a tail by burrowing
around it to arm’s length and freed it, it would sink of its own
weight in a minute’s time until it would have to be burrowed out
again. To avoid this we had to coil up the tails and tie them with a
soft rope hobble.

Fortunately none of the cattle were over forty feet from the bank, and
when our heavy rope arrived we divided into two gangs and began the
work of rescue. We first took a heavy rope from the animal’s horns to
solid footing on the river bank, and tied to this five or six of our
lariats. Meanwhile others rolled a steer over as far as possible and
began burrowing with their hands down alongside a fore and hind leg
simultaneously until they could pass a small rope around the pastern
above the cloof, or better yet through the cloven in the hoof, when
the leg could be readily lifted by two men. We could not stop
burrowing, however, for a moment, or the space would fill and
solidify. Once a leg was freed, we doubled it back short and securely
tied it with a hobble, and when the fore and hind leg were thus
secured, we turned the animal over on that side and released the other
legs in a similar manner. Then we hastened out of the water and into
our saddles, and wrapped the loose end of our ropes to the pommels,
having already tied the lariats to the heavy corral rope from the
animal’s horns. When the word was given, we took a good swinging
start, and unless something gave way there was one steer less in the
bog. After we had landed the animal high and dry on the bank, it was
but a minute’s work to free the rope and untie the hobbles. Then it
was advisable to get into the saddle with little loss of time and give
him a wide berth, for he generally arose angry and sullen.

It was dark before we got the last of the bogged cattle out and
retraced our way to camp from the first river on the trip that had
turned us. But we were not the least discouraged, for we felt certain
there was a ford that had a bottom somewhere within a few miles, and
we could hunt it up on the morrow. The next one, however, we would try
before we put the cattle in. There was no question that the
treacherous condition of the river was due to the recent freshet,
which had brought down new deposits of sediment and had agitated the
old, even to changing the channel of the river, so that it had not as
yet had sufficient time to settle and solidify.

The next morning after breakfast, Flood and two or three of the boys
set out up the river, while an equal number of us started, under the
leadership of The Rebel, down the river on a similar errand,--to
prospect for a crossing. Our party scouted for about five miles, and
the only safe footing we could find was a swift, narrow channel
between the bank and an island in the river, while beyond the island
was a much wider channel with water deep enough in several places to
swim our saddle horses. The footing seemed quite secure to our horses,
but the cattle were much heavier; and if an animal ever bogged in the
river, there was water enough to drown him before help could be
rendered. We stopped our horses a number of times, however, to try the
footing, and in none of our experiments was there any indication of
quicksand, so we counted the crossing safe. On our return we found the
herd already in motion, headed up the river where our foreman had
located a crossing. As it was then useless to make any mention of the
island crossing which we had located, at least until a trial had been
given to the upper ford, we said nothing. When we came within half a
mile of the new ford, we held up the herd and allowed them to graze,
and brought up the _remuda_ and crossed and recrossed them without
bogging a single horse. Encouraged at this, we cut off about a hundred
head of heavy lead cattle and started for the ford. We had a good push
on them when we struck the water, for there were ten riders around
them and Flood was in the lead. We called to him several times that
the cattle were bogging, but he never halted until he pulled out on
the opposite bank, leaving twelve of the heaviest steers in the
quicksand.

“Well, in all my experience in trail work,” said Flood, as he gazed
back at the dozen animals struggling in the quicksand, “I never saw as
deceptive a bottom in any river. We used to fear the Cimarron and
Platte, but the old South Canadian is the girl that can lay it over
them both. Still, there ain’t any use crying over spilt milk, and we
haven’t got men enough to hold two herds, so surround them, boys, and
we’ll recross them if we leave twenty-four more in the river. Take
them back a good quarter, fellows, and bring them up on a run, and
I’ll take the lead when they strike the water; and give them no show
to halt until they get across.”

As the little bunch of cattle had already grazed out nearly a quarter,
we rounded them into a compact body and started for the river to
recross them. The nearer we came to the river, the faster we went,
till we struck the water. In several places where there were channels,
we could neither force the cattle nor ride ourselves faster than a
walk on account of the depth of the water, but when we struck the
shallows, which were the really dangerous places, we forced the cattle
with horse and quirt. Near the middle of the river, in shoal water,
Rod Wheat was quirting up the cattle, when a big dun steer, trying to
get out of his reach, sank in the quicksand, and Rod’s horse stumbled
across the animal and was thrown. He floundered in attempting to rise,
and his hind feet sank to the haunches. His ineffectual struggles
caused him to sink farther to the flanks in the loblolly which the
tramping of the cattle had caused, and there horse and steer lay, side
by side, like two in a bed. Wheat loosened the cinches of the saddle
on either side, and stripping the bridle off, brought up the rear,
carrying saddle, bridle, and blankets on his back. The river was at
least three hundred yards wide, and when we got to the farther bank,
our horses were so exhausted that we dismounted and let them blow. A
survey showed we had left a total of fifteen cattle and the horse in
the quicksands. But we congratulated ourselves that we had bogged down
only three head in recrossing. Getting these cattle out was a much
harder task than the twenty head gave us the day before, for many of
these were bogged more than a hundred yards from the bank. But no time
was to be lost; the wagon was brought up in a hurry, fresh horses were
caught, and we stripped for the fray. While McCann got dinner we got
out the horse, even saving the cinches that were abandoned in freeing
him of the saddle.

During the afternoon we were compelled to adopt a new mode of
procedure, for with the limited amount of rope at hand, we could only
use one rope for drawing the cattle out to solid footing, after they
were freed from the quagmire. But we had four good mules to our chuck
wagon, and instead of dragging the cattle ashore from the pommels of
saddles, we tied one end of the rope to the hind axle and used the
mules in snaking the cattle out. This worked splendidly, but every
time we freed a steer we had to drive the wagon well out of reach, for
fear he might charge the wagon and team. But with three crews working
in the water, tying up tails and legs, the work progressed more
rapidly than it had done the day before, and two hours before sunset
the last animal had been freed. We had several exciting incidents
during the operation, for several steers showed fight, and when
released went on the prod for the first thing in sight. The herd was
grazing nearly a mile away during the afternoon, and as fast as a
steer was pulled out, some one would take a horse and give the freed
animal a start for the herd. One big black steer turned on Flood, who
generally attended to this, and gave him a spirited chase. In getting
out of the angry steer’s way, he passed near the wagon, when the
maddened beef turned from Flood and charged the commissary. McCann was
riding the nigh wheel mule, and when he saw the steer coming, he
poured the whip into the mules and circled around like a battery in
field practice, trying to get out of the way. Flood made several
attempts to cut off the steer from the wagon, but he followed it like
a mover’s dog, until a number of us, fearing our mules would be gored,
ran out of the water, mounted our horses, and joined in the chase.
When we came up with the circus, our foreman called to us to rope the
beef, and Fox Quarternight, getting in the first cast, caught him by
the two front feet and threw him heavily. Before he could rise,
several of us had dismounted and were sitting on him like buzzards on
carrion. McCann then drove the team around behind a sand dune, out of
sight; we released the beef, and he was glad to return to the herd,
quite sobered by the throwing.

Another incident occurred near the middle of the afternoon. From some
cause or other, the hind leg of a steer, after having been tied up,
became loosened. No one noticed this; but when, after several
successive trials, during which Barney McCann exhausted a large
vocabulary of profanity, the mule team was unable to move the steer,
six of us fastened our lariats to the main rope, and dragged the beef
ashore with great _éclat_. But when one of the boys dismounted to
unloose the hobbles and rope, a sight met our eyes that sent a
sickening sensation through us, for the steer had left one hind leg in
the river, neatly disjointed at the knee. Then we knew why the mules
had failed to move him, having previously supposed his size was the
difficulty, for he was one of the largest steers in the herd. No doubt
the steer’s leg had been unjointed in swinging him around, but it had
taken six extra horses to sever the ligaments and skin, while the
merciless quicksands of the Canadian held the limb. A friendly shot
ended the steer’s sufferings, and before we finished our work for the
day, a flight of buzzards were circling around in anticipation of the
coming feast.

Another day had been lost, and still the South Canadian defied us. We
drifted the cattle back to the previous night camp, using the same bed
ground for our herd. It was then that The Rebel broached the subject
of a crossing at the island which we had examined that morning, and
offered to show it to our foreman by daybreak. We put two extra horses
on picket that night, and the next morning, before the sun was half an
hour high, the foreman and The Rebel had returned from the island down
the river with word that we were to give the ford a trial, though we
could not cross the wagon there. Accordingly we grazed the herd down
the river and came opposite the island near the middle of the
forenoon. As usual, we cut off about one hundred of the lead cattle,
the leaders naturally being the heaviest, and started them into the
water. We reached the island and scaled the farther bank without a
single animal losing his footing. We brought up a second bunch of
double, and a third of triple the number of the first, and crossed
them with safety, but as yet the Canadian was dallying with us. As we
crossed each successive bunch, the tramping of the cattle increasingly
agitated the sands, and when we had the herd about half over, we
bogged our first steer on the farther landing. As the water was so
shallow that drowning was out of the question, we went back and
trailed in the remainder of the herd, knowing the bogged steer would
be there when we were ready for him, The island was about two hundred
yards long by twenty wide, lying up and down the river, and in leaving
it for the farther bank, we always pushed off at the upper end. But
now, in trailing the remainder of the cattle over, we attempted to
force them into the water at the lower end, as the footing at that
point of this middle ground had not, as yet, been trampled up as had
the upper end. Everything worked nicely until the rear guard of the
last five or six hundred congested on the island, the outfit being
scattered on both sides of the river as well as in the middle, leaving
a scarcity of men at all points. When the final rear guard had reached
the river the cattle were striking out for the farther shore from
every quarter of the island at their own sweet will, stopping to drink
and loitering on the farther side, for there was no one to hustle them
out.

All were over at last, and we were on the point of congratulating
ourselves,--for, although the herd had scattered badly, we had less
than a dozen bogged cattle, and those near the shore,--when suddenly
up the river over a mile, there began a rapid shooting. Satisfied that
it was by our own men, we separated, and, circling right and left,
began to throw the herd together. Some of us rode up the river bank
and soon located the trouble. We had not ridden a quarter of a mile
before we passed a number of our herd bogged, these having reentered
the river for their noonday drink, and on coming up with the men who
had done the shooting, we found them throwing the herd out from the
water. They reported that a large number of cattle were bogged farther
up the river.

All hands rounded in the herd, and drifting them out nearly a mile
from the river, left them under two herders, when the remainder of us
returned to the bogged cattle. There were by actual count, including
those down at the crossing, over eighty bogged cattle that required
our attention, extending over a space of a mile or more above the
island ford.

The outlook was anything but pleasing. Flood was almost speechless
over the situation, for it might have been guarded against. But
realizing the task before us, we recrossed the river for dinner, well
knowing the inner man needed fortifying for the work before us. No
sooner had we disposed of the meal and secured a change of mounts all
round, than we sent two men to relieve the men on herd. When they were
off, Flood divided up our forces for the afternoon work.

“It will never do,” said he, “to get separated from our commissary.
So, Priest, you take the wagon and _remuda_ and go back up to the
regular crossing and get our wagon over somehow. There will be the
cook and wrangler besides yourself, and you may have two other men.
You will have to lighten your load; and don’t attempt to cross those
mules hitched to the wagon; rely on your saddle horses for getting the
wagon over. Forrest, you and Bull, with the two men on herd, take the
cattle to the nearest creek and water them well. After watering, drift
them back, so they will be within a mile of these bogged cattle. Then
leave two men with them and return to the river. I’ll take the
remainder of the outfit and begin at the ford and work up the river.
Get the ropes and hobbles, boys, and come on.”

John Officer and I were left with The Rebel to get the wagon across,
and while waiting for the men on herd to get in, we hooked up the
mules. Honeyman had the _remuda_ in hand to start the minute our
herders returned, their change of mounts being already tied to the
wagon wheels. The need of haste was very imperative, for the river
might rise without an hour’s notice, and a two-foot rise would drown
every hoof in the river as well as cut us off from our wagon. The
South Canadian has its source in the Staked Plains and the mountains
of New Mexico, and freshets there would cause a rise here, local
conditions never affecting a river of such width. Several of us had
seen these Plains rivers,--when the mountain was sportive and dallying
with the plain,--under a clear sky and without any warning of falling
weather, rise with a rush of water like a tidal wave or the stream
from a broken dam. So when our men from herd galloped in, we stripped
their saddles from tired horses and cinched them to fresh ones, while
they, that there might be no loss of time, bolted their dinners. It
took us less than an hour to reach the ford, where we unloaded the
wagon of everything but the chuck-box, which was ironed fast. We had
an extra saddle in the wagon, and McCann was mounted on a good horse,
for he could ride as well as cook. Priest and I rode the river,
selecting a route; and on our return, all five of us tied our lariats
to the tongue and sides of the wagon. We took a running start, and
until we struck the farther bank we gave the wagon no time to sink,
but pulled it out of the river with a shout, our horses’ flanks
heaving. Then recrossing the river, we lashed all the bedding to four
gentle saddle horses and led them over. But to get our provisions
across was no easy matter, for we were heavily loaded, having taken on
a supply at Doan’s sufficient to last us until we reached Dodge, a
good month’s journey. Yet over it must go, and we kept a string of
horsemen crossing and recrossing for an hour, carrying everything from
pots and pans to axle grease, as well as the staples of life. When we
had got the contents of the wagon finally over and reloaded, there
remained nothing but crossing the saddle stock.

The wagon mules had been turned loose, harnessed, while we were
crossing the wagon and other effects; and when we drove the _remuda_
into the river, one of the wheel mules turned back, and in spite of
every man, reached the bank again. Part of the boys hurried the others
across, but McCann and I turned back after our wheeler. We caught him
without any trouble, but our attempt to lead him across failed. In
spite of all the profanity addressed personally to him, he proved a
credit to his sire, and we lost ground in trying to force him into the
river. The boys across the river watched a few minutes, when all
recrossed to our assistance.

“Time’s too valuable to monkey with a mule to-day,” said Priest, as he
rode up; “skin off that harness.”

It was off at once, and we blindfolded and backed him up to the river
bank; then taking a rope around his forelegs, we threw him, hog-tied
him, and rolled him into the water. With a rope around his forelegs
and through the ring in the bridle bit, we asked no further favors,
but snaked him ignominiously over to the farther side and reharnessed
him into the team.

The afternoon was more than half spent when we reached the first
bogged cattle, and by the time the wagon overtook us we had several
tied up and ready for the mule team to give us a lift. The herd had
been watered in the mean time and was grazing about in sight of the
river, and as we occasionally drifted a freed animal out to the herd,
we saw others being turned in down the river. About an hour before
sunset, Flood rode up to us and reported having cleared the island
ford, while a middle outfit under Forrest was working down towards it.
During the twilight hours of evening, the wagon and saddle horses
moved out to the herd and made ready to camp, but we remained until
dark, and with but three horses released a number of light cows. We
were the last outfit to reach the wagon, and as Honeyman had tied up
our night horses, there was nothing for us to do but eat and go to
bed, to which we required no coaxing, for we all knew that early
morning would find us once more working with bogged cattle.

The night passed without incident, and the next morning in the
division of the forces, Priest was again allowed the wagon to do the
snaking out with, but only four men, counting McCann. The remainder of
the outfit was divided into several gangs, working near enough each
other to lend a hand in case an extra horse was needed on a pull. The
third animal we struck in the river that morning was the black steer
that had showed fight the day before. Knowing his temper would not be
improved by soaking in the quicksand overnight, we changed our
tactics. While we were tying up the steer’s tail and legs, McCann
secreted his team at a safe distance. Then he took a lariat, lashed
the tongue of the wagon to a cottonwood tree, and jacking up a hind
wheel, used it as a windlass. When all was ready, we tied the loose
end of our cable rope to a spoke, and allowing the rope to coil on the
hub, manned the windlass and drew him ashore. When the steer was
freed, McCann, having no horse at hand, climbed into the wagon, while
the rest of us sought safety in our saddles, and gave him a wide
berth. When he came to his feet he was sullen with rage and refused to
move out of his tracks. Priest rode out and baited him at a distance,
and McCann, from his safe position, attempted to give him a scare,
when he savagely charged the wagon. McCann reached down, and securing
a handful of flour, dashed it into his eyes, which made him back away;
and, kneeling, he fell to cutting the sand with his horns. Rising, he
charged the wagon a second time, and catching the wagon sheet with his
horns, tore two slits in it like slashes of a razor. By this time The
Rebel ventured a little nearer, and attracted the steer’s attention.
He started for Priest, who gave the quirt to his horse, and for the
first quarter mile had a close race. The steer, however, weakened by
the severe treatment he had been subjected to, soon fell to the rear,
and gave up the chase and continued on his way to the herd.

After this incident we worked down the river until the outfits met. We
finished the work before noon, having lost three full days by the
quicksands of the Canadian. As we pulled into the trail that afternoon
near the first divide and looked back to take a parting glance at the
river, we saw a dust cloud across the Canadian which we knew must be
the Ellison herd under Nat Straw. Quince Forrest, noticing it at the
same time as I did, rode forward and said to me, “Well, old Nat will
get it in the neck this time, if that old girl dallies with him as she
did with us. I don’t wish him any bad luck, but I do hope he’ll bog
enough cattle to keep his hand in practice. It will be just about his
luck, though, to find it settled and solid enough to cross.” And the
next morning we saw his signal in the sky about the same distance
behind us, and knew he had forded without any serious trouble.




CHAPTER XII

THE NORTH FORK

There was never very much love lost between government soldiers and
our tribe, so we swept past Camp Supply in contempt a few days later,
and crossed the North Fork of the Canadian to camp for the night.
Flood and McCann went into the post, as our supply of flour and navy
beans was running rather low, and our foreman had hopes that he might
be able to get enough of these staples from the sutler to last until
we reached Dodge. He also hoped to receive some word from Lovell.

The rest of us had no lack of occupation, as a result of a chance find
of mine that morning. Honeyman had stood my guard the night before,
and in return, I had got up when he was called to help rustle the
horses. We had every horse under hand before the sun peeped over the
eastern horizon, and when returning to camp with the _remuda_, as I
rode through a bunch of sumach bush, I found a wild turkey’s nest with
sixteen fresh eggs in it. Honeyman rode up, when I dismounted, and
putting them in my hat, handed them up to Billy until I could mount,
for they were beauties and as precious to us as gold. There was an egg
for each man in the outfit and one over, and McCann threw a heap of
swagger into the inquiry, “Gentlemen, how will you have your eggs this
morning?” just as though it was an everyday affair. They were issued
to us fried, and I naturally felt that the odd egg, by rights, ought
to fall to me, but the opposing majority was formidable,--fourteen to
one,--so I yielded. A number of ways were suggested to allot the odd
egg, but the gambling fever in us being rabid, raffling or playing
cards for it seemed to be the proper caper. Raffling had few
advocates.

“It reflects on any man’s raising,” said Quince Forrest,
contemptuously, “to suggest the idea of raffling, when we’ve got cards
and all night to play for that egg. The very idea of raffling for it!
I’d like to see myself pulling straws or drawing numbers from a hat,
like some giggling girl at a church fair. Poker is a science; the
highest court in Texas has said so, and I want some little show for my
interest in that speckled egg. What have I spent twenty years learning
the game for, will some of you tell me? Why, it lets me out if you
raffle it.” The argument remained unanswered, and the play for it gave
interest to that night.

As soon as supper was over and the first guard had taken the herd, the
poker game opened, each man being given ten beans for chips. We had
only one deck of cards, so one game was all that could be run at a
time, but there were six players, and when one was frozen out another
sat in and took his place. As wood was plentiful, we had a good fire,
and this with the aid of the cook’s lantern gave an abundance of
light. We unrolled a bed to serve as a table, sat down on it Indian
fashion, and as fast as one seat was vacated there was a man ready to
fill it, for we were impatient for our turns in the game. The talk
turned on an accident which had happened that afternoon. While we were
crossing the North Fork of the Canadian, Bob Blades attempted to ride
out of the river below the crossing, when his horse bogged down. He
instantly dismounted, and his horse after floundering around scrambled
out and up the bank, but with a broken leg. Our foreman had ridden up
and ordered the horse unsaddled and shot, to put him out of his
suffering.

While waiting our turns, the accident to the horse was referred to
several times, and finally Blades, who was sitting in the game, turned
to us who were lounging around the fire, and asked, “Did you all
notice that look he gave me as I was uncinching the saddle? If he had
been human, he might have told what that look meant. Good thing he was
a horse and couldn’t realize.”

From then on, the yarning and conversation was strictly _horse_.

“It was always a mystery to me,” said Billy Honeyman, “how a Mexican
or Indian knows so much more about a horse than any of us. I have seen
them trail a horse across a country for miles, riding in a long lope,
with not a trace or sign visible to me. I was helping a horseman once
to drive a herd of horses to San Antonio from the lower Rio Grande
country. We were driving them to market, and as there were no
railroads south then, we had to take along saddle horses to ride home
on after disposing of the herd. We always took favorite horses which
we didn’t wish to sell, generally two apiece for that purpose. This
time, when we were at least a hundred miles from the ranch, a Mexican,
who had brought along a pet horse to ride home, thought he wouldn’t
hobble this pet one night, fancying the animal wouldn’t leave the
others. Well, next morning his pet was missing. We scoured the country
around and the trail we had come over for ten miles, but no horse. As
the country was all open, we felt positive he would go back to the
ranch.

“Two days later and about forty miles higher up the road, the Mexican
was riding in the lead of the herd, when suddenly he reined in his
horse, throwing him back on his haunches, and waved for some of us to
come to him, never taking his eyes off what he saw in the road. The
owner was riding on one point of the herd and I on the other. We
hurried around to him and both rode up at the same time, when the
vaquero blurted out, ‘There’s my horse’s track.’

“‘What horse?’ asked the owner.

“‘My own; the horse we lost two days ago,’ replied the Mexican.

“‘How do you know it’s your horse’s track from the thousands of others
that fill the road?’ demanded his employer.

“‘Don Tomas,’ said the Aztec, lifting his hat, ‘how do I know your
step or voice from a thousand others?’

“We laughed at him. He had been a peon, and that made him respect our
opinions--at least he avoided differing with us. But as we drove on
that afternoon, we could see him in the lead, watching for that
horse’s track. Several times he turned in his saddle and looked back,
pointed to some track in the road, and lifted his hat to us. At camp
that night we tried to draw him out, but he was silent.

“But when we were nearing San Antonio, we overtook a number of wagons
loaded with wool, lying over, as it was Sunday, and there among their
horses and mules was our Mexican’s missing horse. The owner of the
wagons explained how he came to have the horse. The animal had come to
his camp one morning, back about twenty miles from where we had lost
him, while he was feeding grain to his work stock, and being a pet
insisted on being fed. Since then, I have always had a lot of respect
for a Greaser’s opinion regarding a horse.”

“Turkey eggs is too rich for my blood,” said Bob Blades, rising from
the game. “I don’t care a continental who wins the egg now, for
whenever I get three queens pat beat by a four card draw, I have
misgivings about the deal. And old Quince thinks he can stack cards.
He couldn’t stack hay.”

“Speaking about Mexicans and Indians,” said Wyatt Roundtree, “I’ve got
more use for a good horse than I have for either of those grades of
humanity. I had a little experience over east here, on the cut off
from the Chisholm trail, a few years ago, that gave me all the Injun I
want for some time to come. A band of renegade Cheyennes had hung
along the trail for several years, scaring or begging passing herds
into giving them a beef. Of course all the cattle herds had more or
less strays among them, so it was easier to cut out one of these than
to argue the matter. There was plenty of herds on the trail then, so
this band of Indians got bolder than bandits. In the year I’m speaking
of, I went up with a herd of horses belonging to a Texas man, who was
in charge with us. When we came along with our horses--only six men
all told--the chief of the band, called Running Bull Sheep, got on the
bluff bigger than a wolf and demanded six horses. Well, that Texan
wasn’t looking for any particular Injun that day to give six of his
own dear horses to. So we just drove on, paying no attention to Mr.
Bull Sheep. About half a mile farther up the trail, the chief overtook
us with all his bucks, and they were an ugly looking lot. Well, this
time he held up four fingers, meaning that four horses would be
acceptable. But the Texan wasn’t recognizing the Indian levy of
taxation that year. When he refused them, the Indians never parleyed a
moment, but set up a ‘ki yi’ and began circling round the herd on
their ponies, Bull Sheep in the lead.

“As the chief passed the owner, his horse on a run, he gave a special
shrill ‘ki yi,’ whipped a short carbine out of its scabbard, and shot
twice into the rear of the herd. Never for a moment considering
consequences, the Texan brought his six-shooter into action. It was a
long, purty shot, and Mr. Bull Sheep threw his hands in the air and
came off his horse backward, hard hit. This shooting in the rear of
the horses gave them such a scare that we never checked them short of
a mile. While the other Indians were holding a little powwow over
their chief, we were making good time in the other direction,
considering that we had over eight hundred loose horses. Fortunately
our wagon and saddle horses had gone ahead that morning, but in the
run we overtook them. As soon as we checked the herd from its scare,
we turned them up the trail, stretched ropes from the wheels of the
wagon, ran the saddle horses in, and changed mounts just a little
quicker than I ever saw it done before or since. The cook had a saddle
in the wagon, so we caught him up a horse, clapped leather on him, and
tied him behind the wagon in case of an emergency. And you can just
bet we changed to our best horses. When we overtook the herd, we were
at least a mile and a half from where the shooting occurred, and there
was no Indian in sight, but we felt that they hadn’t given it up. We
hadn’t long to wait, though we would have waited willingly, before we
heard their yells and saw the dust rising in clouds behind us. We quit
the herd and wagon right there and rode for a swell of ground ahead
that would give us a rear view of the scenery. The first view we
caught of them was not very encouraging. They were riding after us
like fiends and kicking up a dust like a wind storm. We had nothing
but six-shooters, no good for long range. The owner of the horses
admitted that it was useless to try to save the herd now, and if our
scalps were worth saving it was high time to make ourselves scarce.

“Cantonment was a government post about twenty-five miles away, so we
rode for it. Our horses were good Spanish stock, and the Indians’
little bench-legged ponies were no match for them. But not satisfied
with the wagon and herd falling into their hands, they followed us
until we were within sight of the post. As hard luck would have it,
the cavalry stationed at this post were off on some escort duty, and
the infantry were useless in this case. When the cavalry returned a
few days later, they tried to round up those Indians, and the Indian
agent used his influence, but the horses were so divided up and
scattered that they were never recovered.”

“And did the man lose his horses entirely?” asked Flood, who had
anteed up his last bean and joined us.

“He did. There was, I remember, a tin horn lawyer up about Dodge who
thought he could recover their value, as these were agency Indians and
the government owed them money. But all I got for three months’ wages
due me was the horse I got away on.”

McCann had been frozen out during Roundtree’s yarn, and had joined the
crowd of story-tellers on the other side of the fire. Forrest was
feeling quite gala, and took a special delight in taunting the
vanquished as they dropped out.

“Is McCann there?” inquired he, well knowing he was. “I just wanted to
ask, would it be any trouble to poach that egg for my breakfast and
serve it with a bit of toast; I’m feeling a little bit dainty. You’ll
poach it for me, won’t you, please?”

McCann never moved a muscle as he replied, “Will you please go to
hell?”

The story-telling continued for some time, and while Fox Quarternight
was regaling us with the history of a little black mare that a
neighbor of theirs in Kentucky owned, a dispute arose in the card game
regarding the rules of discard and draw.

“I’m too old a girl,” said The Rebel, angrily, to Forrest, “to allow a
pullet like you to teach me this game. When it’s my deal, I’ll discard
just when I please, and it’s none of your business so long as I keep
within the rules of the game;” which sounded final, and the game
continued.

Quarternight picked up the broken thread of his narrative, and the
first warning we had of the lateness of the hour was Bull Durham
calling to us from the game, “One of you fellows can have my place,
just as soon as we play this jack pot. I’ve got to saddle my horse and
get ready for our guard. Oh, I’m on velvet, anyhow, and before this
game ends, I’ll make old Quince curl his tail; I’ve got him going
south now.”

It took me only a few minutes to lose my chance at the turkey egg, and
I sought my blankets. At one A.M., when our guard was called, the
beans were almost equally divided among Priest, Stallings, and Durham;
and in view of the fact that Forrest, whom we all wanted to see
beaten, had met defeat, they agreed to cut the cards for the egg,
Stallings winning. We mounted our horses and rode out into the night,
and the second guard rode back to our camp-fire, singing:--

     “Two little niggers upstairs in bed,
     One turned ober to de oder an’ said,
     ‘How ’bout dat short’nin’ bread,
     How ’bout dat short’nin’ bread?’”




CHAPTER XIII

DODGE

At Camp Supply, Flood received a letter from Lovell, requesting him to
come on into Dodge ahead of the cattle. So after the first night’s
camp above the Cimarron, Flood caught up a favorite horse, informed
the outfit that he was going to quit us for a few days, and designated
Quince Forrest as the _segundo_ during his absence.

“You have a wide, open country from here into Dodge,” said he, when
ready to start, “and I’ll make inquiry for you daily from men coming
in, or from the buckboard which carries the mail to Supply. I’ll try
to meet you at Mulberry Creek, which is about ten miles south of
Dodge. I’ll make that town to-night, and you ought to make the
Mulberry in two days. You will see the smoke of passing trains to the
north of the Arkansaw, from the first divide south of Mulberry. When
you reach that creek, in case I don’t meet you, hold the herd there
and three or four of you can come on into town. But I’m almost certain
to meet you,” he called back as he rode away.

“Priest,” said Quince, when our foreman had gone, “I reckon you didn’t
handle your herd to suit the old man when he left us that time at
Buffalo Gap. But I think he used rare judgment this time in selecting
a _segundo_. The only thing that frets me is, I’m afraid he’ll meet us
before we reach the Mulberry, and that won’t give me any chance to go
in ahead like a sure enough foreman. Fact is I have business there; I
deposited a few months’ wages at the Long Branch gambling house last
year when I was in Dodge, and failed to take a receipt. I just want to
drop in and make inquiry if they gave me credit, and if the account is
drawing interest. I think it’s all right, for the man I deposited it
with was a clever fellow and asked me to have a drink with him just as
I was leaving. Still, I’d like to step in and see him again.”

Early in the afternoon of the second day after our foreman left us, we
sighted the smoke of passing trains, though they were at least fifteen
miles distant, and long before we reached the Mulberry, a livery rig
came down the trail to meet us. To Forrest’s chagrin, Flood, all
dressed up and with a white collar on, was the driver, while on a back
seat sat Don Lovell and another cowman by the name of McNulta. Every
rascal of us gave old man Don the glad hand as they drove around the
herd, while he, liberal and delighted as a bridegroom, passed out the
cigars by the handful. The cattle were looking fine, which put the old
man in high spirits, and he inquired of each of us if our health was
good and if Flood had fed us well. They loitered around the herd the
rest of the evening, until we threw off the trail to graze and camp
for the night, when Lovell declared his intention of staying all night
with the outfit.

While we were catching horses during the evening, Lovell came up to me
where I was saddling my night horse, and recognizing me gave me news
of my brother Bob. “I had a letter yesterday from him,” he said,
“written from Red Fork, which is just north of the Cimarron River over
on the Chisholm route. He reports everything going along nicely, and
I’m expecting him to show up here within a week. His herd are all beef
steers, and are contracted for delivery at the Crow Indian Agency.
He’s not driving as fast as Flood, but we’ve got to have our beef for
that delivery in better condition, as they have a new agent there this
year, and he may be one of these knowing fellows. Sorry you couldn’t
see your brother, but if you have any word to send him, I’ll deliver
it.”

I thanked him for the interest he had taken in me, and assured him
that I had no news for Robert; but took advantage of the opportunity
to inquire if our middle brother, Zack Quirk, was on the trail with
any of his herds. Lovell knew him, but felt positive he was not with
any of his outfits.

We had an easy night with the cattle. Lovell insisted on standing a
guard, so he took Rod Wheat’s horse and stood the first watch, and
after returning to the wagon, he and McNulta, to our great interest,
argued the merits of the different trails until near midnight. McNulta
had two herds coming in on the Chisholm trail, while Lovell had two
herds on the Western and only one on the Chisholm.

The next morning Forrest, who was again in charge, received orders to
cross the Arkansaw River shortly after noon, and then let half the
outfit come into town. The old trail crossed the river about a mile
above the present town of Dodge City, Kansas, so when we changed
horses at noon, the first and second guards caught up their top
horses, ransacked their war bags, and donned their best toggery. We
crossed the river about one o’clock in order to give the boys a good
holiday, the stage of water making the river easily fordable. McCann,
after dinner was over, drove down on the south side for the benefit of
a bridge which spanned the river opposite the town. It was the first
bridge he had been able to take advantage of in over a thousand miles
of travel, and to-day he spurned the cattle ford as though he had
never crossed at one. Once safely over the river, and with the
understanding that the herd would camp for the night about six miles
north on Duck Creek, six of our men quit us and rode for the town in a
long gallop. Before the rig left us in the morning, McNulta, who was
thoroughly familiar with Dodge, and an older man than Lovell, in a
friendly and fatherly spirit, seeing that many of us were youngsters,
had given us an earnest talk and plenty of good advice.

“I’ve been in Dodge every summer since ’77,” said the old cowman, “and
I can give you boys some points. Dodge is one town where the average
bad man of the West not only finds his equal, but finds himself badly
handicapped. The buffalo hunters and range men have protested against
the iron rule of Dodge’s peace officers, and nearly every protest has
cost human life. Don’t ever get the impression that you can ride your
horses into a saloon, or shoot out the lights in Dodge; it may go
somewhere else, but it don’t go there. So I want to warn you to behave
yourselves. You can wear your six-shooters into town, but you’d better
leave them at the first place you stop, hotel, livery, or business
house. And when you leave town, call for your pistols, but don’t ride
out shooting; omit that. Most cowboys think it’s an infringement on
their rights to give up shooting in town, and if it is, it stands, for
your six-shooters are no match for Winchesters and buckshot; and
Dodge’s officers are as game a set of men as ever faced danger.”

Nearly a generation has passed since McNulta, the Texan cattle drover,
gave our outfit this advice one June morning on the Mulberry, and in
setting down this record, I have only to scan the roster of the peace
officials of Dodge City to admit its correctness. Among the names that
graced the official roster, during the brief span of the trail days,
were the brothers Ed, Jim, and “Bat” Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Jack
Bridges, “Doc” Holliday, Charles Bassett, William Tillman, “Shotgun”
Collins, Joshua Webb, Mayor A.B. Webster, and “Mysterious” Dave
Mather. The puppets of no romance ever written can compare with these
officers in fearlessness. And let it be understood, there were plenty
to protest against their rule; almost daily during the range season
some equally fearless individual defied them.

“Throw up your hands and surrender,” said an officer to a Texas
cowboy, who had spurred an excitable horse until it was rearing and
plunging in the street, leveling meanwhile a double-barreled shotgun
at the horseman.

“Not to you, you white-livered s---- of a b----,” was the instant
reply, accompanied by a shot.

The officer staggered back mortally wounded, but recovered himself,
and the next instant the cowboy reeled from his saddle, a load of
buckshot through his breast.

After the boys left us for town, the remainder of us, belonging to the
third and fourth guard, grazed the cattle forward leisurely during the
afternoon. Through cattle herds were in sight both up and down the
river on either side, and on crossing the Mulberry the day before, we
learned that several herds were holding out as far south as that
stream, while McNulta had reported over forty herds as having already
passed northward on the trail. Dodge was the meeting point for buyers
from every quarter. Often herds would sell at Dodge whose destination
for delivery was beyond the Yellowstone in Montana. Herds frequently
changed owners when the buyer never saw the cattle. A yearling was a
yearling and a two year old was a two year old, and the seller’s word,
that they were “as good or better than the string I sold you last
year,” was sufficient. Cattle were classified as northern, central,
and southern animals, and, except in case of severe drouth in the
preceding years, were pretty nearly uniform in size throughout each
section. The prairie section of the State left its indelible imprint
on the cattle bred in the open country, while the coast, as well as
the piney woods and black-jack sections, did the same, thus making
classification easy.

McCann overtook us early in the evening, and, being an obliging
fellow, was induced by Forrest to stand the first guard with Honeyman
so as to make up the proper number of watches, though with only two
men on guard at a time, for it was hardly possible that any of the
others would return before daybreak. There was much to be seen in
Dodge, and as losing a night’s sleep on duty was considered nothing,
in hilarious recreation sleep would be entirely forgotten. McCann had
not forgotten us, but had smuggled out a quart bottle to cut the
alkali in our drinking water. But a quart amongst eight of us was not
dangerous, so the night passed without incident, though we felt a
growing impatience to get into town. As we expected, about sunrise the
next morning our men off on holiday rode into camp, having never
closed an eye during the entire night. They brought word from Flood
that the herd would only graze over to Saw Log Creek that day, so as
to let the remainder of us have a day and night in town. Lovell would
only advance half a month’s wages--twenty-five dollars--to the man. It
was ample for any personal needs, though we had nearly three months’
wages due, and no one protested, for the old man was generally right
in his decisions. According to their report the boys had had a
hog-killing time, old man Don having been out with them all night. It
seems that McNulta stood in well with a class of practical jokers
which included the officials of the town, and whenever there was
anything on the tapis, he always got the word for himself and friends.
During breakfast Fox Quarternight told this incident of the evening.

“Some professor, a professor in the occult sciences I think he called
himself, had written to the mayor to know what kind of a point Dodge
would be for a lecture. The lecture was to be free, but he also
intimated that he had a card or two on the side up his sleeve, by
which he expected to graft onto some of the coin of the realm from the
wayfaring man as well as the citizen. The mayor turned the letter over
to Bat Masterson, the city marshal, who answered it, and invited the
professor to come on, assuring him that he was deeply interested in
the occult sciences, personally, and would take pleasure in securing
him a hall and a date, besides announcing his coming through the
papers.

“Well, he was billed to deliver his lecture last night. Those old long
horns, McNulta and Lovell, got us in with the crowd, and while they
didn’t know exactly what was coming, they assured us that we couldn’t
afford to miss it. Well, at the appointed hour in the evening, the
hall was packed, not over half being able to find seats. It is safe to
say there were over five hundred men present, as it was announced for
‘men only.’ Every gambler in town was there, with a fair sprinkling of
cowmen and our tribe. At the appointed hour, Masterson, as chairman,
rapped for order, and in a neat little speech announced the object of
the meeting. Bat mentioned the lack of interest in the West in the
higher arts and sciences, and bespoke our careful attention to the
subject under consideration for the evening. He said he felt it hardly
necessary to urge the importance of good order, but if any one had
come out of idle curiosity or bent on mischief, as chairman of the
meeting and a peace officer of the city, he would certainly brook no
interruption. After a few other appropriate remarks, he introduced the
speaker as Dr. J. Graves-Brown, the noted scientist.

“The professor was an oily-tongued fellow, and led off on the prelude
to his lecture, while the audience was as quiet as mice and as grave
as owls. After he had spoken about five minutes and was getting warmed
up to his subject, he made an assertion which sounded a little fishy,
and some one back in the audience blurted out, ‘That’s a damned lie.’
The speaker halted in his discourse and looked at Masterson, who
arose, and, drawing two six-shooters, looked the audience over as if
trying to locate the offender. Laying the guns down on the table, he
informed the meeting that another interruption would cost the offender
his life, if he had to follow him to the Rio Grande or the British
possessions. He then asked the professor, as there would be no further
interruptions, to proceed with his lecture. The professor hesitated
about going on, when Masterson assured him that it was evident that
his audience, with the exception of one skulking coyote, was deeply
interested in the subject, but that no one man could interfere with
the freedom of speech in Dodge as long as it was a free country and he
was city marshal. After this little talk, the speaker braced up and
launched out again on his lecture. When he was once more under good
headway, he had occasion to relate an exhibition which he had
witnessed while studying his profession in India. The incident related
was a trifle rank for any one to swallow raw, when the same party who
had interrupted before sang out, ‘That’s another damn lie.’

“Masterson came to his feet like a flash, a gun in each hand, saying,
‘Stand up, you measly skunk, so I can see you.’ Half a dozen men rose
in different parts of the house and cut loose at him, and as they did
so the lights went out and the room filled with smoke. Masterson was
blazing away with two guns, which so lighted up the rostrum that we
could see the professor crouching under the table. Of course they were
using blank cartridges, but the audience raised the long yell and
poured out through the windows and doors, and the lecture was over. A
couple of police came in later, so McNulta said, escorted the
professor to his room in the hotel, and quietly advised him that Dodge
was hardly capable of appreciating anything so advanced as a lecture
on the occult sciences.”

Breakfast over, Honeyman ran in the _remuda_, and we caught the best
horses in our mounts, on which to pay our respects to Dodge. Forrest
detailed Rod Wheat to wrangle the horses, for we intended to take
Honeyman with us. As it was only about six miles over to the Saw Log,
Quince advised that they graze along Duck Creek until after dinner,
and then graze over to the former stream during the afternoon. Before
leaving, we rode over and looked out the trail after it left Duck, for
it was quite possible that we might return during the night; and we
requested McCann to hang out the lantern, elevated on the end of the
wagon tongue, as a beacon. After taking our bearings, we reined
southward over the divide to Dodge.

“The very first thing I do,” said Quince Forrest, as we rode leisurely
along, “after I get a shave and hair-cut and buy what few tricks I
need, is to hunt up that gambler in the Long Branch, and ask him to
take a drink with me--I took the parting one on him. Then I’ll simply
set in and win back every dollar I lost there last year. There’s
something in this northern air that I breathe in this morning that
tells me that this is my lucky day. You other kids had better let the
games alone and save your money to buy red silk handkerchiefs and soda
water and such harmless jimcracks.” The fact that The Rebel was ten
years his senior never entered his mind as he gave us this fatherly
advice, though to be sure the majority of us were his juniors in
years.

On reaching Dodge, we rode up to the Wright House, where Flood met us
and directed our cavalcade across the railroad to a livery stable, the
proprietor of which was a friend of Lovell’s. We unsaddled and turned
our horses into a large corral, and while we were in the office of the
livery, surrendering our artillery, Flood came in and handed each of
us twenty-five dollars in gold, warning us that when that was gone no
more would be advanced. On receipt of the money, we scattered like
partridges before a gunner. Within an hour or two, we began to return
to the stable by ones and twos, and were stowing into our saddle
pockets our purchases, which ran from needles and thread to .45
cartridges, every mother’s son reflecting the art of the barber, while
John Officer had his blond mustaches blackened, waxed, and curled like
a French dancing master. “If some of you boys will hold him,” said
Moss Strayhorn, commenting on Officer’s appearance, “I’d like to take
a good smell of him, just to see if he took oil up there where the end
of his neck’s haired over.” As Officer already had several drinks
comfortably stowed away under his belt, and stood up strong six feet
two, none of us volunteered.

After packing away our plunder, we sauntered around town, drinking
moderately, and visiting the various saloons and gambling houses. I
clung to my bunkie, The Rebel, during the rounds, for I had learned to
like him, and had confidence he would lead me into no indiscretions.
At the Long Branch, we found Quince Forrest and Wyatt Roundtree
playing the faro bank, the former keeping cases. They never recognized
us, but were answering a great many questions, asked by the dealer and
lookout, regarding the possible volume of the cattle drive that year.
Down at another gambling house, The Rebel met Ben Thompson, a faro
dealer not on duty and an old cavalry comrade, and the two cronied
around for over an hour like long lost brothers, pledging anew their
friendship over several social glasses, in which I was always
included. There was no telling how long this reunion would have
lasted, but happily for my sake, Lovell--who had been asleep all the
morning--started out to round us up for dinner with him at the Wright
House, which was at that day a famous hostelry, patronized almost
exclusively by the Texas cowmen and cattle buyers.

We made the rounds of the gambling houses, looking for our crowd. We
ran across three of the boys piking at a monte game, who came with us
reluctantly; then, guided by Lovell, we started for the Long Branch,
where we felt certain we would find Forrest and Roundtree, if they had
any money left. Forrest was broke, which made him ready to come, and
Roundtree, though quite a winner, out of deference to our employer’s
wishes, cashed in and joined us. Old man Don could hardly do enough
for us; and before we could reach the Wright House, had lined us up
against three different bars; and while I had confidence in my
navigable capacity, I found they were coming just a little too fast
and free, seeing I had scarcely drunk anything in three months but
branch water. As we lined up at the Wright House bar for the final
before dinner, The Rebel, who was standing next to me, entered a
waiver and took a cigar, which I understood to be a hint, and I did
likewise.

We had a splendid dinner. Our outfit, with McNulta, occupied a
ten-chair table, while on the opposite side of the room was another
large table, occupied principally by drovers who were waiting for
their herds to arrive. Among those at the latter table, whom I now
remember, was “Uncle” Henry Stevens, Jesse Ellison, “Lum” Slaughter,
John Blocker, Ike Pryor, “Dun” Houston, and last but not least,
Colonel “Shanghai” Pierce. The latter was possibly the most widely
known cowman between the Rio Grande and the British possessions. He
stood six feet four in his stockings, was gaunt and raw-boned, and the
possessor of a voice which, even in ordinary conversation, could be
distinctly heard across the street.

“No, I’ll not ship any more cattle to your town,” said Pierce to a
cattle solicitor during the dinner, his voice in righteous indignation
resounding like a foghorn through the dining-room, “until you adjust
your yardage charges. Listen! I can go right up into the heart of your
city and get a room for myself, with a nice clean bed in it, plenty of
soap, water, and towels, and I can occupy that room for twenty-four
hours for two bits. And your stockyards, away out in the suburbs, want
to charge me twenty cents a head and let my steer stand out in the
weather.”

After dinner, all the boys, with the exception of Priest and myself,
returned to the gambling houses as though anxious to work overtime.
Before leaving the hotel, Forrest effected the loan of ten from
Roundtree, and the two returned to the Long Branch, while the others
as eagerly sought out a monte game. But I was fascinated with the
conversation of these old cowmen, and sat around for several hours
listening to their yarns and cattle talk.

“I was selling a thousand beef steers one time to some Yankee army
contractors,” Pierce was narrating to a circle of listeners, “and I
got the idea that they were not up to snuff in receiving cattle out on
the prairie. I was holding a herd of about three thousand, and they
had agreed to take a running cut, which showed that they had the
receiving agent fixed. Well, my foreman and I were counting the cattle
as they came between us. But the steers were wild, long-legged
coasters, and came through between us like scared wolves. I had lost
the count several times, but guessed at them and started over, the
cattle still coming like a whirlwind; and when I thought about nine
hundred had passed us, I cut them off and sang out, ‘Here they come
and there they go; just an even thousand, by gatlins! What do you make
it, Bill?’

“‘Just an even thousand, Colonel,’ replied my foreman. Of course the
contractors were counting at the same time, and I suppose didn’t like
to admit they couldn’t count a thousand cattle where anybody else
could, and never asked for a recount, but accepted and paid for them.
They had hired an outfit, and held the cattle outside that night, but
the next day, when they cut them into car lots and shipped them, they
were a hundred and eighteen short. They wanted to come back on me to
make them good, but, shucks! I wasn’t responsible if their Jim Crow
outfit lost the cattle.”

Along early in the evening, Flood advised us boys to return to the
herd with him, but all the crowd wanted to stay in town and see the
sights. Lovell interceded in our behalf, and promised to see that we
left town in good time to be in camp before the herd was ready to move
the next morning. On this assurance, Flood saddled up and started for
the Saw Log, having ample time to make the ride before dark. By this
time most of the boys had worn off the wire edge for gambling and were
comparing notes. Three of them were broke, but Quince Forrest had
turned the tables and was over a clean hundred winner for the day.
Those who had no money fortunately had good credit with those of us
who had, for there was yet much to be seen, and in Dodge in ’82 it
took money to see the elephant. There were several variety theatres, a
number of dance halls, and other resorts which, like the wicked,
flourish best under darkness. After supper, just about dusk, we went
over to the stable, caught our horses, saddled them, and tied them up
for the night. We fully expected to leave town by ten o’clock, for it
was a good twelve mile ride to the Saw Log. In making the rounds of
the variety theatres and dance halls, we hung together. Lovell excused
himself early in the evening, and at parting we assured him that the
outfit would leave for camp before midnight. We were enjoying
ourselves immensely over at the Lone Star dance hall, when an incident
occurred in which we entirely neglected the good advice of McNulta,
and had the sensation of hearing lead whistle and cry around our ears
before we got away from town.

Quince Forrest was spending his winnings as well as drinking freely,
and at the end of a quadrille gave vent to his hilarity in an
old-fashioned Comanche yell. The bouncer of the dance hall of course
had his eye on our crowd, and at the end of a change, took Quince to
task. He was a surly brute, and instead of couching his request in
appropriate language, threatened to throw him out of the house.
Forrest stood like one absent-minded and took the abuse, for
physically he was no match for the bouncer, who was armed, moreover,
and wore an officer’s star. I was dancing in the same set with a
red-headed, freckled-faced girl, who clutched my arm and wished to
know if my friend was armed. I assured her that he was not, or we
would have had notice of it before the bouncer’s invective was ended.
At the conclusion of the dance, Quince and The Rebel passed out,
giving the rest of us the word to remain as though nothing was wrong.
In the course of half an hour, Priest returned and asked us to take
our leave one at a time without attracting any attention, and meet at
the stable. I remained until the last, and noticed The Rebel and the
bouncer taking a drink together at the bar,--the former apparently in
a most amiable mood. We passed out together shortly afterward, and
found the other boys mounted and awaiting our return, it being now
about midnight. It took but a moment to secure our guns, and once in
the saddle, we rode through the town in the direction of the herd. On
the outskirts of the town, we halted. “I’m going back to that dance
hall,” said Forrest, “and have one round at least with that
whore-herder. No man who walks this old earth can insult me, as he
did, not if he has a hundred stars on him. If any of you don’t want to
go along, ride right on to camp, but I’d like to have you all go. And
when I take his measure, it will be the signal to the rest of you to
put out the lights. All that’s going, come on.” There were no
dissenters to the programme. I saw at a glance that my bunkie was
heart and soul in the play, and took my cue and kept my mouth shut. We
circled round the town to a vacant lot within a block of the rear of
the dance hall. Honeyman was left to hold the horses; then, taking off
our belts and hanging them on the pommels of our saddles, we secreted
our six-shooters inside the waistbands of our trousers. The hall was
still crowded with the revelers when we entered, a few at a time,
Forrest and Priest being the last to arrive. Forrest had changed hats
with The Rebel, who always wore a black one, and as the bouncer
circulated around, Quince stepped squarely in front of him. There was
no waste of words, but a gun-barrel flashed in the lamplight, and the
bouncer, struck with the six-shooter, fell like a beef. Before the
bewildered spectators could raise a hand, five six-shooters were
turned into the ceiling. The lights went out at the first fire, and
amidst the rush of men and the screaming of women, we reached the
outside, and within a minute were in our saddles. All would have gone
well had we returned by the same route and avoided the town; but after
crossing the railroad track, anger and pride having not been properly
satisfied, we must ride through the town.

On entering the main street, leading north and opposite the bridge on
the river, somebody of our party in the rear turned his gun loose into
the air. The Rebel and I were riding in the lead, and at the
clattering of hoofs and shooting behind us, our horses started on the
run, the shooting by this time having become general. At the second
street crossing, I noticed a rope of fire belching from a Winchester
in the doorway of a store building. There was no doubt in my mind but
we were the object of the manipulator of that carbine, and as we
reached the next cross street, a man kneeling in the shadow of a
building opened fire on us with a six-shooter. Priest reined in his
horse, and not having wasted cartridges in the open-air shooting,
returned the compliment until he emptied his gun. By this time every
officer in the town was throwing lead after us, some of which cried a
little too close for comfort. When there was no longer any shooting on
our flanks, we turned into a cross street and soon left the lead
behind us. At the outskirts of the town we slowed up our horses and
took it leisurely for a mile or so, when Quince Forrest halted us and
said, “I’m going to drop out here and see if any one follows us. I
want to be alone, so that if any officers try to follow us up, I can
have it out with them.”

[Illustration: CELEBRATING IN DODGE]

As there was no time to lose in parleying, and as he had a good horse,
we rode away and left him. On reaching camp, we secured a few hours’
sleep, but the next morning, to our surprise, Forrest failed to
appear. We explained the situation to Flood, who said if he did not
show up by noon, he would go back and look for him. We all felt
positive that he would not dare to go back to town; and if he was
lost, as soon as the sun arose he would be able to get his bearings.
While we were nooning about seven miles north of the Saw Log, some one
noticed a buggy coming up the trail. As it came nearer we saw that
there were two other occupants of the rig besides the driver. When it
drew up old Quince, still wearing The Rebel’s hat, stepped out of the
rig, dragged out his saddle from under the seat, and invited his
companions to dinner. They both declined, when Forrest, taking out his
purse, handed a twenty-dollar gold piece to the driver with an oath.
He then asked the other man what he owed him, but the latter very
haughtily declined any recompense, and the conveyance drove away.

“I suppose you fellows don’t know what all this means,” said Quince,
as he filled a plate and sat down in the shade of the wagon. “Well,
that horse of mine got a bullet plugged into him last night as we were
leaving town, and before I could get him to Duck Creek, he died on me.
I carried my saddle and blankets until daylight, when I hid in a draw
and waited for something to turn up. I thought some of you would come
back and look for me sometime, for I knew you wouldn’t understand it,
when all of a sudden here comes this livery rig along with that
drummer--going out to Jetmore, I believe he said. I explained what I
wanted, but he decided that his business was more important than mine,
and refused me. I referred the matter to Judge Colt, and the judge
decided that it was more important that I overtake this herd. I’d have
made him take pay, too, only he acted so mean about it.”

After dinner, fearing arrest, Forrest took a horse and rode on ahead
to the Solomon River. We were a glum outfit that afternoon, but after
a good night’s rest were again as fresh as daisies. When McCann
started to get breakfast, he hung his coat on the end of the wagon
rod, while he went for a bucket of water. During his absence, John
Officer was noticed slipping something into Barney’s coat pocket, and
after breakfast when our cook went to his coat for his tobacco, he
unearthed a lady’s cambric handkerchief, nicely embroidered, and a
silver mounted garter. He looked at the articles a moment, and,
grasping the situation at a glance, ran his eye over the outfit for
the culprit. But there was not a word or a smile. He walked over and
threw the articles into the fire, remarking, “Good whiskey and bad
women will be the ruin of you varmints yet.”




CHAPTER XIV

SLAUGHTER’S BRIDGE

Herds bound for points beyond the Yellowstone, in Montana, always
considered Dodge as the halfway landmark on the trail, though we had
hardly covered half the distance to the destination of our Circle
Dots. But with Dodge in our rear, all felt that the backbone of the
drive was broken, and it was only the middle of June. In order to
divide the night work more equitably, for the remainder of the trip
the first and fourth guards changed, the second and third remaining as
they were. We had begun to feel the scarcity of wood for cooking
purposes some time past, and while crossing the plains of western
Kansas, we were frequently forced to resort to the old bed grounds of
a year or two previous for cattle chips. These chips were a poor
substitute, and we swung a cowskin under the reach of the wagon, so
that when we encountered wood on creeks and rivers we could lay in a
supply. Whenever our wagon was in the rear, the riders on either side
of the herd were always on the skirmish for fuel, which they left
alongside the wagon track, and our cook was sure to stow it away
underneath on the cowskin.

In spite of any effort on our part, the length of the days made long
drives the rule. The cattle could be depended on to leave the bed
ground at dawn, and before the outfit could breakfast, secure mounts,
and overtake the herd, they would often have grazed forward two or
three miles. Often we never threw them on the trail at all, yet when
it came time to bed them at night, we had covered twenty miles. They
were long, monotonous days; for we were always sixteen to eighteen
hours in the saddle, while in emergencies we got the benefit of the
limit. We frequently saw mirages, though we were never led astray by
shady groves of timber or tempting lakes of water, but always kept
within a mile or two of the trail. The evening of the third day after
Forrest left us, he returned as we were bedding down the cattle at
dusk, and on being assured that no officers had followed us, resumed
his place with the herd. He had not even reached the Solomon River,
but had stopped with a herd of Millet’s on Big Boggy. This creek he
reported as bottomless, and the Millet herd as having lost between
forty and fifty head of cattle in attempting to force it at the
regular crossing the day before his arrival. They had scouted the
creek both up and down since without finding a safe crossing. It
seemed that there had been unusually heavy June rains through that
section, which accounted for Boggy being in its dangerous condition.
Millet’s foreman had not considered it necessary to test such an
insignificant stream until he got a couple of hundred head of cattle
floundering in the mire. They had saved the greater portion of the
mired cattle, but quite a number were trampled to death by the others,
and now the regular crossing was not approachable for the stench of
dead cattle. Flood knew the stream, and so did a number of our outfit,
but none of them had any idea that it could get into such an
impassable condition as Forrest reported.

The next morning Flood started to the east and Priest to the west to
look out a crossing, for we were then within half a day’s drive of the
creek. Big Boggy paralleled the Solomon River in our front, the two
not being more than five miles apart. The confluence was far below in
some settlements, and we must keep to the westward of all immigration,
on account of the growing crops in the fertile valley of the Solomon.
On the westward, had a favorable crossing been found, we would almost
have had to turn our herd backward, for we were already within the
half circle which this creek described in our front. So after the two
men left us, we allowed the herd to graze forward, keeping several
miles to the westward of the trail in order to get the benefit of the
best grazing. Our herd, when left to itself, would graze from a mile
to a mile and a half an hour, and by the middle of the forenoon the
timber on Big Boggy and the Solomon beyond was sighted. On reaching
this last divide, some one sighted a herd about five or six miles to
the eastward and nearly parallel with us. As they were three or four
miles beyond the trail, we could easily see that they were grazing
along like ourselves, and Forrest was appealed to to know if it was
the Millet herd. He said not, and pointed out to the northeast about
the location of the Millet cattle, probably five miles in advance of
the stranger on our right. When we overtook our wagon at noon, McCann,
who had never left the trail, reported having seen the herd. They
looked to him like heavy beef cattle, and had two yoke of oxen to
their chuck wagon, which served further to proclaim them as strangers.

Neither Priest nor Flood returned during the noon hour, and when the
herd refused to lie down and rest longer, we grazed them forward till
the fringe of timber which grew along the stream loomed up not a mile
distant in our front. From the course we were traveling, we would
strike the creek several miles above the regular crossing, and as
Forrest reported that Millet was holding below the old crossing on a
small rivulet, all we could do was to hold our wagon in the rear, and
await the return of our men out on scout for a ford. Priest was the
first to return, with word that he had ridden the creek out for
twenty-five miles and had found no crossing that would be safe for a
mud turtle. On hearing this, we left two men with the herd, and the
rest of the outfit took the wagon, went on to Boggy, and made camp. It
was a deceptive-looking stream, not over fifty or sixty feet wide. In
places the current barely moved, shallowing and deepening, from a few
inches in places to several feet in others, with an occasional pool
that would swim a horse. We probed it with poles until we were
satisfied that we were up against a proposition different from
anything we had yet encountered. While we were discussing the
situation, a stranger rode up on a fine roan horse, and inquired for
our foreman. Forrest informed him that our boss was away looking for a
crossing, but we were expecting his return at any time; and invited
the stranger to dismount. He did so, and threw himself down in the
shade of our wagon. He was a small, boyish-looking fellow, of sandy
complexion, not much, if any, over twenty years old, and smiled
continuously.

“My name is Pete Slaughter,” said he, by way of introduction, “and
I’ve got a herd of twenty-eight hundred beef steers, beyond the trail
and a few miles back. I’ve been riding since daybreak down the creek,
and I’m prepared to state that the chance of crossing is as good right
here as anywhere. I wanted to see your foreman, and if he’ll help,
we’ll bridge her. I’ve been down to see this other outfit, but they
ridicule the idea, though I think they’ll come around all right. I
borrowed their axe, and to-morrow morning you’ll see me with my outfit
cutting timber to bridge Big Boggy. That’s right, boys; it’s the only
thing to do. The trouble is I’ve only got eight men all told. I don’t
aim to travel over eight or ten miles a day, so I don’t need a big
outfit. You say your foreman’s name is Flood? Well, if he don’t return
before I go, some of you tell him that he’s wasting good time looking
for a ford, for there ain’t none.”

In the conversation which followed, we learned that Slaughter was
driving for his brother Lum, a widely known cowman and drover, whom we
had seen in Dodge. He had started with the grass from north Texas, and
by the time he reached the Platte, many of his herd would be fit to
ship to market, and what were not would be in good demand as feeders
in the corn belt of eastern Nebraska. He asked if we had seen his herd
during the morning, and on hearing we had, got up and asked McCann to
let him see our axe. This he gave a critical examination, before he
mounted his horse to go, and on leaving said,--

“If your foreman don’t want to help build a bridge, I want to borrow
that axe of yours. But you fellows talk to him. If any of you boys has
ever been over on the Chisholm trail, you will remember the bridge on
Rush Creek, south of the Washita River. I built that bridge in a day
with an outfit of ten men. Why, shucks! if these outfits would pull
together, we could cross to-morrow evening. Lots of these old foremen
don’t like to listen to a cub like me, but, holy snakes! I’ve been
over the trail oftener than any of them. Why, when I wasn’t big enough
to make a hand with the herd,--only ten years old,--in the days when
we drove to Abilene, they used to send me in the lead with an old
cylinder gun to shoot at the buffalo and scare them off the trail. And
I’ve made the trip every year since. So you tell Flood when he comes
in, that Pete Slaughter was here, and that he’s going to build a
bridge, and would like to have him and his outfit help.”

Had it not been for his youth and perpetual smile, we might have taken
young Slaughter more seriously, for both Quince Forrest and The Rebel
remembered the bridge on Rush Creek over on the Chisholm. Still there
was an air of confident assurance in the young fellow; and the fact
that he was the trusted foreman of Lum Slaughter, in charge of a
valuable herd of cattle, carried weight with those who knew that
drover. The most unwelcome thought in the project was that it required
the swinging of an axe to fell trees and to cut them into the
necessary lengths, and, as I have said before, the Texan never took
kindly to manual labor. But Priest looked favorably on the suggestion,
and so enlisted my support, and even pointed out a spot where timber
was most abundant as a suitable place to build the bridge.

“Hell’s fire,” said Joe Stallings, with infinite contempt, “there’s
thousands of places to build a bridge, and the timber’s there, but the
idea is to cut it.” And his sentiments found a hearty approval in the
majority of the outfit.

Flood returned late that evening, having ridden as far down the creek
as the first settlement. The Rebel, somewhat antagonized by the
attitude of the majority, reported the visit and message left for him
by young Slaughter. Our foreman knew him by general reputation amongst
trail bosses, and when Priest vouched for him as the builder of the
Rush Creek bridge on the Chisholm trail, Flood said, “Why, I crossed my
herd four years ago on that Rush Creek bridge within a week after it
was built, and wondered who it could be that had the nerve to undertake
that task. Rush isn’t over half as wide a bayou as Boggy, but she’s a
true little sister to this miry slough. So he’s going to build a bridge
anyhow, is he?”

The next morning young Slaughter was at our camp before sunrise, and
never once mentioning his business or waiting for the formality of an
invitation, proceeded to pour out a tin cup of coffee and otherwise
provide himself with a substantial breakfast. There was something
amusing in the audacity of the fellow which all of us liked, though
he was fifteen years the junior of our foreman. McCann pointed out
Flood to him, and taking his well-loaded plate, he went over and sat
down by our foreman, and while he ate talked rapidly, to enlist our
outfit in the building of the bridge. During breakfast, the outfit
listened to the two bosses as they discussed the feasibility of the
project,--Slaughter enthusiastic, Flood reserved, and asking all sorts
of questions as to the mode of procedure. Young Pete met every question
with promptness, and assured our foreman that the building of bridges
was his long suit. After breakfast, the two foremen rode off down the
creek together, and within half an hour Slaughter’s wagon and _remuda_
pulled up within sight of the regular crossing, and shortly afterwards
our foreman returned, and ordered our wagon to pull down to a clump of
cotton woods which grew about half a mile below our camp. Two men were
detailed to look after our herd during the day, and the remainder of us
returned with our foreman to the site selected for the bridge. On our
arrival three axes were swinging against as many cottonwoods, and there
was no doubt in any one’s mind that we were going to be under a new
foreman for that day at least. Slaughter had a big negro cook who swung
an axe in a manner which bespoke him a job for the day, and McCann was
instructed to provide dinner for the extra outfit.

The site chosen for the bridge was a miry bottom over which oozed
three or four inches of water, where the width of the stream was about
sixty feet, with solid banks on either side. To get a good foundation
was the most important matter, but the brush from the trees would
supply the material for that; and within an hour, brush began to
arrive, dragged from the pommels of saddles, and was piled into the
stream. About this time a call went out for a volunteer who could
drive oxen, for the darky was too good an axeman to be recalled. As I
had driven oxen as a boy, I was going to offer my services, when Joe
Stallings eagerly volunteered in order to avoid using an axe.
Slaughter had some extra chain, and our four mules were pressed into
service as an extra team in snaking logs. As McCann was to provide for
the inner man, the mule team fell to me; and putting my saddle on the
nigh wheeler, I rode jauntily past Mr. Stallings as he trudged
alongside his two yoke of oxen.

About ten o’clock in the morning, George Jacklin, the foreman of the
Millet herd, rode up with several of his men, and seeing the bridge
taking shape, turned in and assisted in dragging brush for the
foundation. By the time all hands knocked off for dinner, we had a
foundation of brush twenty feet wide and four feet high, to say
nothing about what had sunk in the mire. The logs were cut about
fourteen feet long, and old Joe and I had snaked them up as fast as
the axemen could get them ready. Jacklin returned to his wagon for
dinner and a change of horses, though Slaughter, with plenty of
assurance, had invited him to eat with us, and when he declined had
remarked, with no less confidence, “Well, then, you’ll be back right
after dinner. And say, bring all the men you can spare; and if you’ve
got any gunny sacks or old tarpaulins, bring them; and by all means
don’t forget your spade.”

Pete Slaughter was a harsh master, considering he was working
volunteer labor; but then we all felt a common interest in the bridge,
for if Slaughter’s beeves could cross, ours could, and so could
Millet’s. All the men dragging brush changed horses during dinner, for
there was to be no pause in piling in a good foundation as long as the
material was at hand. Jacklin and his outfit returned, ten strong, and
with thirty men at work, the bridge grew. They began laying the logs
on the brush after dinner, and the work of sodding the bridge went
forward at the same time. The bridge stood about two feet above the
water in the creek, but when near the middle of the stream was
reached, the foundation gave way, and for an hour ten horses were kept
busy dragging brush to fill that sink hole until it would bear the
weight of the logs. We had used all the acceptable timber on our side
of the stream for half a mile either way, and yet there were not
enough logs to complete the bridge. When we lacked only some ten or
twelve logs, Slaughter had the boys sod a narrow strip across the
remaining brush, and the horsemen led their mounts across to the
farther side. Then the axemen crossed, felled the nearest trees, and
the last logs were dragged up from the pommels of our saddles.

It now only remained to sod over and dirt the bridge thoroughly. With
only three spades the work was slow, but we cut sod with axes, and
after several hours’ work had it finished. The two yoke of oxen were
driven across and back for a test, and the bridge stood it nobly.
Slaughter then brought up his _remuda_, and while the work of dirting
the bridge was still going on, crossed and recrossed his band of
saddle horses twenty times. When the bridge looked completed to every
one else, young Pete advised laying stringers across on either side;
so a number of small trees were felled and guard rails strung across
the ends of the logs and staked. Then more dirt was carried in on
tarpaulins and in gunny sacks, and every chink and crevice filled with
sod and dirt. It was now getting rather late in the afternoon, but
during the finishing touches, young Slaughter had dispatched his
outfit to bring up his herd; and at the same time Flood had sent a
number of our outfit to bring up our cattle. Now Slaughter and the
rest of us took the oxen, which we had unyoked, and went out about a
quarter of a mile to meet his herd coming up. Turning the oxen in the
lead, young Pete took one point and Flood the other, and pointed in
the lead cattle for the bridge. On reaching it the cattle hesitated
for a moment, and it looked as though they were going to balk, but
finally one of the oxen took the lead, and they began to cross in
almost Indian file. They were big four and five year old beeves, and
too many of them on the bridge at one time might have sunk it, but
Slaughter rode back down the line of cattle and called to the men to
hold them back.

“Don’t crowd the cattle,” he shouted. “Give them all the time they
want. We’re in no hurry now; there’s lots of time.”

They were a full half hour in crossing, the chain of cattle taking the
bridge never for a moment being broken. Once all were over, his men
rode to the lead and turned the herd up Boggy, in order to have it
well out of the way of ours, which were then looming up in sight.
Slaughter asked Flood if he wanted the oxen; and as our cattle had
never seen a bridge in their lives, the foreman decided to use them;
so we brought them back and met the herd, now strung out nearly a
mile. Our cattle were naturally wild, but we turned the oxen in the
lead, and the two bosses again taking the points, moved the herd up to
the bridge. The oxen were again slow to lead out in crossing, and
several hundred head of cattle had congested in front of the new
bridge, making us all rather nervous, when a big white ox led off, his
mate following, and the herd began timidly to follow. Our cattle
required careful handling, and not a word was spoken as we nursed them
forward, or rode through them to scatter large bunches. A number of
times we cut the train of cattle off entirely, as they were congesting
at the bridge entrance, and, in crossing, shied and crowded so that
several were forced off the bridge into the mire. Our herd crossed in
considerably less time than did Slaughter’s beeves, but we had five
head to pull out; this, however, was considered nothing, as they were
light, and the mire was as thin as soup. Our wagon and saddle horses
crossed while we were pulling out the bogged cattle, and about half
the outfit, taking the herd, drifted them forward towards the Solomon.
Since Millet intended crossing that evening, herds were likely to be
too thick for safety at night. The sun was hardly an hour high when
the last herd came up to cross. The oxen were put in the lead, as with
ours, and all four of the oxen took the bridge, but when the cattle
reached the bridge, they made a decided balk and refused to follow the
oxen. Not a hoof of the herd would even set foot on the bridge. The
oxen were brought back several times, but in spite of all coaxing and
nursing, and our best endeavors and devices, they would not risk it.
We worked with them until dusk, when all three of the foremen decided
it was useless to try longer, but both Slaughter and Flood promised to
bring back part of their outfits in the morning and make another
effort.

McCann’s camp-fire piloted us to our wagon, at least three miles from
the bridge, for he had laid in a good supply of wood during the day;
and on our arrival our night horses were tied up, and everything made
ready for the night. The next morning we started the herd, but Flood
took four of us with him and went back to Big Boggy. The Millet herd
was nearly two miles back from the bridge, where we found Slaughter at
Jacklin’s wagon; and several more of his men were, we learned, coming
over with the oxen at about ten o’clock. That hour was considered soon
enough by the bosses, as the heat of the day would be on the herd by
that time, which would make them lazy. When the oxen arrived at the
bridge, we rode out twenty strong and lined the cattle up for another
trial. They had grazed until they were full and sleepy, but the memory
of some of them was too vivid of the hours they had spent in the slimy
ooze of Big Boggy once on a time, and they began milling on sight of
the stream. We took them back and brought them up a second time with
the same results. We then brought them around in a circle a mile in
diameter, and as the rear end of the herd was passing, we turned the
last hundred, and throwing the oxen into their lead, started them for
the bridge; but they too sulked and would have none of it. It was now
high noon, so we turned the herd and allowed them to graze back while
we went to dinner. Millet’s foreman was rather discouraged with the
outlook, but Slaughter said they must be crossed if he had to lay over
a week and help. After dinner, Jacklin asked us if we wanted a change
of horses, and as we could see a twenty mile ride ahead of us in
overtaking our herd, Flood accepted.

When all was ready to start, Slaughter made a suggestion. “Let’s go
out,” he said, “and bring them up slowly in a solid body, and when we
get them opposite the bridge, round them in gradually as if we were
going to bed them down. I’ll take a long lariat to my white wheeler,
and when they have quieted down perfectly, I’ll lead old Blanco
through them and across the bridge, and possibly they’ll follow.
There’s no use crowding them, for that only excites them, and if you
ever start them milling, the jig’s up. They’re nice, gentle cattle,
but they’ve been balked once and they haven’t forgotten it.”

What we needed right then was a leader, for we were all ready to catch
at a straw, and Slaughter’s suggestion was welcome, for he had
established himself in our good graces until we preferred him to
either of the other foremen as a leader. Riding out to the herd, which
were lying down, we roused and started them back towards Boggy. While
drifting them back, we covered a front a quarter of a mile in width,
and as we neared the bridge we gave them perfect freedom. Slaughter
had caught out his white ox, and we gradually worked them into a body,
covering perhaps ten acres, in front of the bridge. Several small
bunches attempted to mill, but some of us rode in and split them up,
and after about half an hour’s wait, they quieted down. Then Slaughter
rode in whistling and leading his white ox at the end of a thirty-five
foot lariat, and as he rode through them they were so logy that he had
to quirt them out of the way. When he came to the bridge, he stopped
the white wheeler until everything had quieted down; then he led old
Blanco on again, but giving him all the time he needed and stopping
every few feet. We held our breath, as one or two of the herd started
to follow him, but they shied and turned back, and our hopes of the
moment were crushed. Slaughter detained the ox on the bridge for
several minutes, but seeing it was useless, he dismounted and drove
him back into the herd. Again and again he tried the same ruse, but it
was of no avail. Then we threw the herd back about half a mile, and on
Flood’s suggestion cut off possibly two hundred head, a bunch which
with our numbers we ought to handle readily in spite of their will,
and by putting their _remuda_ of over a hundred saddle horses in the
immediate lead, made the experiment of forcing them. We took the
saddle horses down and crossed and recrossed the bridge several times
with them, and as the cattle came up turned the horses into the lead
and headed for the bridge. With a cordon of twenty riders around them,
no animal could turn back, and the horses crossed the bridge on a
trot, but the cattle turned tail and positively refused to have
anything to do with it. We held them like a block in a vise, so
compactly that they could not even mill, but they would not cross the
bridge.

When it became evident that it was a fruitless effort, Jacklin,
usually a very quiet man, gave vent to a fit of profanity which would
have put the army in Flanders to shame. Slaughter, somewhat to our
amusement, reproved him: “Don’t fret, man; this is nothing,--I balked
a herd once in crossing a railroad track, and after trying for two
days to cross them, had to drive ten miles and put them under a
culvert. You want to cultivate patience, young fellow, when you’re
handling dumb brutes.”

If Slaughter’s darky cook had been thereabouts then, and suggested a
means of getting that herd to take the bridge, his suggestion would
have been welcomed, for the bosses were at their wits’ ends. Jacklin
swore that he would bed that herd at the entrance, and hold them there
until they starved to death or crossed, before he would let an animal
turn back. But cooler heads were present, and The Rebel mentioned a
certain adage, to the effect that when a bird or a girl, he didn’t
know which, could sing and wouldn’t, she or it ought to be made to
sing. He suggested that we hold the four oxen on the bridge, cut off
fifteen head of cattle, and give them such a running start, they
wouldn’t know which end their heads were on when they reached the
bridge. Millet’s foreman approved of the idea, for he was nursing his
wrath. The four oxen were accordingly cut out, and Slaughter and one
of his men, taking them, started for the bridge with instructions to
hold them on the middle. The rest of us took about a dozen head of
light cattle, brought them within a hundred yards of the bridge, then
with a yell started them on a run from which they could not turn back.
They struck the entrance squarely, and we had our first cattle on the
bridge. Two men held the entrance, and we brought up another bunch in
the same manner, which filled the bridge. Now, we thought, if the herd
could be brought up slowly, and this bridgeful let off in their lead,
they might follow. To June a herd of cattle across in this manner
would have been shameful, and the foreman of the herd knew it as well
as any one present; but no one protested, so we left men to hold the
entrance securely and went back after the herd. When we got them
within a quarter of a mile of the creek, we cut off about two hundred
head of the leaders and brought them around to the rear, for amongst
these leaders were certain to be the ones which had been bogged, and
we wanted to have new leaders in this trial. Slaughter was on the
farther end of the bridge, and could be depended on to let the oxen
lead off at the opportune moment. We brought them up cautiously, and
when the herd came within a few rods of the creek the cattle on the
bridge lowed to their mates in the herd, and Slaughter, considering
the time favorable, opened out and allowed them to leave the bridge on
the farther side. As soon as the cattle started leaving on the farther
side, we dropped back, and the leaders of the herd to the number of a
dozen, after smelling the fresh dirt and seeing the others crossing,
walked cautiously up on the bridge. It was a moment of extreme
anxiety. None of us spoke a word, but the cattle crowding off the
bridge at the farther end set it vibrating. That was enough: they
turned as if panic-stricken and rushed back to the body of the herd. I
was almost afraid to look at Jacklin. He could scarcely speak, but he
rode over to me, ashen with rage, and kept repeating, “Well, wouldn’t
that beat hell!”

Slaughter rode back across the bridge, and the men came up and
gathered around Jacklin. We seemed to have run the full length of our
rope. No one even had a suggestion to offer, and if any one had had,
it needed to be a plausible one to find approval, for hope seemed to
have vanished. While discussing the situation, a one-eyed, pox-marked
fellow belonging to Slaughter’s outfit galloped up from the rear, and
said almost breathlessly, “Say, fellows, I see a cow and calf in the
herd. Let’s rope the calf, and the cow is sure to follow. Get the rope
around the calf’s neck, and when it chokes him, he’s liable to bellow,
and that will call the steers. And if you never let up on the choking
till you get on the other side of the bridge, I think it’ll work.
Let’s try it, anyhow.”

We all approved, for we knew that next to the smell of blood, nothing
will stir range cattle like the bellowing of a calf. At the mere
suggestion, Jacklin’s men scattered into the herd, and within a few
minutes we had a rope round the neck of the calf. As the roper came
through the herd leading the calf, the frantic mother followed, with a
train of excited steers at her heels. And as the calf was dragged
bellowing across the bridge, it was followed by excited, struggling
steers who never knew whether they were walking on a bridge or on
_terra firma_. The excitement spread through the herd, and they
thickened around the entrance until it was necessary to hold them
back, and only let enough pass to keep the chain unbroken.

They were nearly a half hour in crossing, for it was fully as large a
herd as ours; and when the last animal had crossed, Pete Slaughter
stood up in his stirrups and led the long yell. The sun went down that
day on nobody’s wrath, for Jacklin was so tickled that he offered to
kill the fattest beef in his herd if we would stay overnight with him.
All three of the herds were now over, but had not this herd balked on
us the evening before, over nine thousand cattle would have crossed
Slaughter’s bridge the day it was built.

It was now late in the evening, and as we had to wait some little time
to get our own horses, we stayed for supper. It was dark before we set
out to overtake the herd, but the trail was plain, and letting our
horses take their own time, we jollied along until after midnight. We
might have missed the camp, but, by the merest chance, Priest sighted
our camp-fire a mile off the trail, though it had burned to embers. On
reaching camp, we changed saddles to our night horses, and, calling
Officer, were ready for our watch. We were expecting the men on guard
to call us any minute, and while Priest was explaining to Officer the
trouble we had had in crossing the Millet herd, I dozed off to sleep
there as I sat by the rekindled embers. In that minute’s sleep my mind
wandered in a dream to my home on the San Antonio River, but the next
moment I was aroused to the demands of the hour by The Rebel shaking
me and saying,--“Wake up, Tom, and take a new hold. They’re calling us
on guard. If you expect to follow the trail, son, you must learn to do
your sleeping in the winter.”




CHAPTER XV

THE BEAVER

After leaving the country tributary to the Solomon River, we crossed a
wide tableland for nearly a hundred miles, and with the exception of
the Kansas Pacific Railroad, without a landmark worthy of a name.
Western Kansas was then classified, worthily too, as belonging to the
Great American Desert, and most of the country for the last five
hundred miles of our course was entitled to a similar description.
Once the freshness of spring had passed, the plain took on her natural
sunburnt color, and day after day, as far as the eye could reach, the
monotony was unbroken, save by the variations of the mirages on every
hand. Except at morning and evening, we were never out of sight of
these optical illusions, sometimes miles away, and then again close
up, when an antelope standing half a mile distant looked as tall as a
giraffe. Frequently the lead of the herd would be in eclipse from
these illusions, when to the men in the rear the horsemen and cattle
in the lead would appear like giants in an old fairy story. If the
monotony of the sea can be charged with dulling men’s sensibilities
until they become pirates, surely this desolate, arid plain might be
equally charged with the wrongdoing of not a few of our craft.

On crossing the railroad at Grinnell, our foreman received a letter
from Lovell, directing him to go to Culbertson, Nebraska, and there
meet a man who was buying horses for a Montana ranch. Our employer had
his business eye open for a possible purchaser for our _remuda_, and
if the horses could be sold for delivery after the herd had reached
its destination, the opportunity was not to be overlooked.
Accordingly, on reaching Beaver Creek, where we encamped, Flood left
us to ride through to the Republican River during the night. The trail
crossed this river about twenty miles west of Culbertson, and if the
Montana horse buyer were yet there, it would be no trouble to come up
to the trail crossing and look at our horses.

So after supper, and while we were catching up our night horses, Flood
said to us, “Now, boys, I’m going to leave the outfit and herd under
Joe Stallings as _segundo_. It’s hardly necessary to leave you under
any one as foreman, for you all know your places. But some one must be
made responsible, and one bad boss will do less harm than half a dozen
that mightn’t agree. So you can put Honeyman on guard in your place at
night, Joe, if you don’t want to stand your own watch. Now behave
yourselves, and when I meet you on the Republican, I’ll bring out a
box of cigars and have it charged up as axle grease when we get
supplies at Ogalalla. And don’t sit up all night telling fool
stories.”

“Now, that’s what I call a good cow boss,” said Joe Stallings, as our
foreman rode away in the twilight; “besides, he used passable good
judgment in selecting a _segundo_. Now, Honeyman, you heard what he
said. Billy dear, I won’t rob you of this chance to stand a guard.
McCann, have you got on your next list of supplies any jam and jelly
for Sundays? You have? That’s right, son--that saves you from standing
a guard tonight. Officer, when you come off guard at 3.30 in the
morning, build the cook up a good fire. Let me see; yes, and I’ll
detail young Tom Quirk and The Rebel to grease the wagon and harness
your mules before starting in the morning. I want to impress it on
your mind, McCann, that I can appreciate a thoughtful cook. What’s
that, Honeyman? No, indeed, you can’t ride my night horse. Love me,
love my dog; my horse shares this snap. Now, I don’t want to be under
the necessity of speaking to any of you first guard, but flop into
your saddles ready to take the herd. My turnip says it’s eight o’clock
now.”

“Why, you’ve missed your calling--you’d make a fine second mate on a
river steamboat, driving niggers,” called back Quince Forrest, as the
first guard rode away.

When our guard returned, Officer intentionally walked across
Stallings’s bed, and catching his spur in the tarpaulin, fell heavily
across our _segundo_.

“Excuse me,” said John, rising, “but I was just nosing around looking
for the foreman. Oh, it’s you, is it? I just wanted to ask if 4.30
wouldn’t be plenty early to build up the fire. Wood’s a little scarce,
but I’ll burn the prairies if you say so. That’s all I wanted to know;
you may lay down now and go to sleep.”

Our camp-fire that night was a good one, and in the absence of Flood,
no one felt like going to bed until drowsiness compelled us. So we
lounged around the fire smoking the hours away, and in spite of the
admonition of our foreman, told stories far into the night. During the
early portion of the evening, dog stories occupied the boards. As the
evening wore on, the subject of revisiting the old States came up for
discussion.

“You all talk about going back to the old States,” said Joe Stallings,
“but I don’t take very friendly to the idea. I felt that way once and
went home to Tennessee; but I want to tell you that after you live a
few years in the sunny Southwest and get onto her ways, you can’t
stand it back there like you think you can. Now, when I went back, and
I reckon my relations will average up pretty well,--fought in the
Confederate army, vote the Democratic ticket, and belong to the
Methodist church,--they all seemed to be rapidly getting locoed. Why,
my uncles, when they think of planting the old buck field or the
widow’s acre into any crop, they first go projecting around in the
soil, and, as they say, analyze it, to see what kind of a fertilizer
it will require to produce the best results. Back there if one man
raises ten acres of corn and his neighbor raises twelve, the one
raising twelve is sure to look upon the other as though he lacked
enterprise or had modest ambitions. Now, up around that old cow town,
Abilene, Kansas, it’s a common sight to see the cornfields stretch out
like an ocean.

“And then their stock--they are all locoed about that. Why, I know
people who will pay a hundred dollars for siring a colt, and if
there’s one drop of mongrel blood in that sire’s veins for ten
generations back on either side of his ancestral tree, it condemns
him, though he may be a good horse otherwise. They are strong on
standard bred horses; but as for me, my mount is all right. I wouldn’t
trade with any man in this outfit, without it would be Flood, and
there’s none of them standard bred either. Why, shucks! if you had the
pick of all the standard bred horses in Tennessee, you couldn’t handle
a herd of cattle like ours with them, without carrying a commissary
with you to feed them. No; they would never fit here--it takes a
range-raised horse to run cattle; one that can rustle and live on
grass.”

[Illustration: STORY TELLING]

“Another thing about those people back in those old States: Not one in
ten, I’ll gamble, knows the teacher he sends his children to school
to. But when he has a promising colt to be shod, the owner goes to the
blacksmith shop himself, and he and the smith will sit on the back
sill of the shop, and they will discuss how to shoe that filly so as
to give her certain knee action which she seems to need. Probably,
says one, a little weight on her toe would give her reach. And there
they will sit and powwow and make medicine for an hour or two. And
while the blacksmith is shoeing her, the owner will tell him in
confidence what a wonderful burst of speed she developed yesterday,
while he was speeding her on the back stretch. And then just as he
turned her into the home stretch, she threw a shoe and he had to check
her in; but if there’d been any one to catch her time, he was certain
it was better than a two-ten clip. And that same colt, you couldn’t
cut a lame cow out of the shade of a tree on her. A man back
there--he’s rich, too, though his father made it--gave a thousand
dollars for a pair of dogs before they were born. The terms were one
half cash and the balance when they were old enough to ship to him.
And for fear they were not the proper mustard, he had that dog man sue
him in court for the balance, so as to make him prove the pedigree.
Now Bob, there, thinks that old hound of his is the real stuff, but he
wouldn’t do now; almost every year the style changes in dogs back in
the old States. One year maybe it’s a little white dog with red eyes,
and the very next it’s a long bench-legged, black dog with a Dutch
name that right now I disremember. Common old pot hounds and everyday
yellow dogs have gone out of style entirely. No, you can all go back
that want to, but as long as I can hold a job with Lovell and Flood,
I’ll try and worry along in my own way.”

On finishing his little yarn, Stallings arose, saying, “I must take a
listen to my men on herd. It always frets me for fear my men will ride
too near the cattle.”

A minute later he called us, and when several of us walked out to
where he was listening, we recognized Roundtree’s voice, singing:--

     “Little black bull came down the hillside,
     Down the hillside, down the hillside,
     Little black bull came down the hillside,
     Long time ago.”

“Whenever my men sing that song on guard, it tells me that everything
is amply serene,” remarked our _segundo_, with the air of a
field-marshal, as we walked back to the fire.

The evening had passed so rapidly it was now almost time for the
second guard to be called, and when the lateness of the hour was
announced, we skurried to our blankets like rabbits to their warrens.
The second guard usually got an hour or two of sleep before being
called, but in the absence of our regular foreman, the mice would
play. When our guard was called at one o’clock, as usual, Officer
delayed us several minutes looking for his spurs, and I took the
chance to ask The Rebel why it was that he never wore spurs.

“It’s because I’m superstitious, son,” he answered. “I own a fine pair
of silver-plated spurs that have a history, and if you’re ever at
Lovell’s ranch I’ll show them to you. They were given to me by a
mortally wounded Federal officer the day the battle of Lookout
Mountain was fought. I was an orderly, carrying dispatches, and in
passing through a wood from which the Union army had been recently
driven, this officer was sitting at the root of a tree, fatally
wounded. He motioned me to him, and when I dismounted, he said,
‘Johnny Reb, please give a dying man a drink.’ I gave him my canteen,
and after drinking from it he continued, ‘I want you to have my spurs.
Take them off. Listen to their history: as you have taken them off me
to-day, so I took them off a Mexican general the day the American army
entered the capital of Mexico.’”




CHAPTER XVI

THE REPUBLICAN

The outfit were awakened out of sleep the next morning by shouts of
“Whoa, _mula_! Whoa, you mongrel outcasts! Catch them blankety blank
mules!” accompanied by a rattle of chain harness, and Quince Forrest
dashed across our _segundo’s_ bed, shaking a harness in each hand. We
kicked the blankets off, and came to our feet in time to see the
offender disappear behind the wagon, while Stallings sat up and
yawningly inquired “what other locoed fool had got funny.” But the
camp was awake, for the cattle were leisurely leaving the bed ground,
while Honeyman, who had been excused from the herd with the first sign
of dawn, was rustling up the horses in the valley of the Beaver below
camp. With the understanding that the Republican River was a short
three days’ drive from our present camp, the herd trailed out the
first day with not an incident to break the monotony of eating and
sleeping, grazing and guarding. But near noon of the second day, we
were overtaken by an old, long-whiskered man and a boy of possibly
fifteen. They were riding in a light, rickety vehicle, drawn by a
small Spanish mule and a rough but clean-limbed bay mare. The
strangers appealed to our sympathy, for they were guileless in
appearance, and asked so many questions, indicating that ours might
have been the first herd of trail cattle they had ever seen. The old
man was a free talker, and innocently allowed us to inveigle it out of
him that he had been down on the North Beaver, looking up land to
homestead, and was then on his way up to take a look at the lands
along the Republican. We invited him and the boy to remain for dinner,
for in that monotonous waste, we would have been only too glad to
entertain a bandit, or an angel for that matter, provided he would
talk about something else than cattle. In our guest, however, we found
a good conversationalist, meaty with stories not eligible to the
retired list; and in return, the hospitality of our wagon was his and
welcome. The travel-stained old rascal proved to be a good mixer, and
before dinner was over he had won us to a man, though Stallings, in
the capacity of foreman, felt it incumbent on him to act the host in
behalf of the outfit. In the course of conversation, the old man
managed to unearth the fact that our acting foreman was a native of
Tennessee, and when he had got it down to town and county, claimed
acquaintanceship with a family of men in that locality who were famed
as breeders of racehorses. Our guest admitted that he himself was a
native of that State, and in his younger days had been a devotee of
the racecourse, with the name of every horseman in that commonwealth
as well as the bluegrass regions of Kentucky on his tongue’s end. But
adversity had come upon him, and now he was looking out a new country
in which to begin life over again.

After dinner, when our _remuda_ was corralled to catch fresh mounts,
our guest bubbled over with admiration of our horses, and pointed out
several as promising speed and action. We took his praise of our
horseflesh as quite a compliment, never suspecting flattery at the
hands of this nomadic patriarch. He innocently inquired which was
considered the fastest horse in the _remuda_, when Stallings pointed
out a brown, belonging to Flood’s mount, as the best quarter horse in
the band. He gave him a critical examination, and confessed he would
never have picked him for a horse possessing speed, though he admitted
that he was unfamiliar with range-raised horses, this being his first
visit in the West. Stallings offered to loan him a horse out of his
mount, and as the old man had no saddle, our _segundo_ prevailed on
McCann to loan his for the afternoon. I am inclined to think there was
a little jealousy amongst us that afternoon, as to who was best
entitled to entertain our company; and while he showed no partiality,
Stallings seemed to monopolize his countryman to our disadvantage. The
two jollied along from point to rear and back again, and as they
passed us riders in the swing, Stallings ignored us entirely, though
the old man always had a pleasant word as he rode by.

“If we don’t do something to wean our _segundo_ from that old man,”
said Fox Quarternight, as he rode up and overtook me, “he’s liable to
quit the herd and follow that old fossil back to Tennessee or some
other port. Just look at the two now, will you? Old Joe’s putting on
as much dog as though he was asking the Colonel for his daughter.
Between me and you and the gatepost, Quirk, I’m a little dubious
about the old varmint--he talks too much.”

But I had warmed up to our guest, and gave Fox’s criticism very little
weight, well knowing if any one of us had been left in charge, he
would have shown the old man similar courtesies. In this view I was
correct, for when Stallings had ridden on ahead to look up water that
afternoon, the very man that entirely monopolized our guest for an
hour was Mr. John Fox Quarternight. Nor did he jar loose until we
reached water, when Stallings cut him off by sending all the men on
the right of the herd to hold the cattle from grazing away until every
hoof had had ample time to drink. During this rest, the old man
circulated around, asking questions as usual, and when I informed him
that, with a half mile of water front, it would take a full hour to
water the herd properly, he expressed an innocent amazement which
seemed as simple as sincere. When the wagon and _remuda_ came up, I
noticed the boy had tied his team behind our wagon, and was riding one
of Honeyman’s horses bareback, assisting the wrangler in driving the
saddle stock. After the wagon had crossed the creek, and the kegs had
been filled and the teams watered, Stallings took the old man with him
and the two rode away in the lead of the wagon and _remuda_ to select
a camp and a bed ground for the night. The rest of us grazed the
cattle, now thoroughly watered, forward until the wagon was sighted,
when, leaving two men as usual to nurse them up to bed, the remainder
of us struck out for camp. As I rode in, I sought out my bunkie to get
his opinion regarding our guest. But The Rebel was reticent, as usual,
of his opinions of people, so my inquiries remained unanswered, which
only served to increase my confidence in the old man.

On arriving at camp we found Stallings and Honeyman entertaining our
visitor in a little game of freeze-out for a dollar a corner, while
McCann looked wistfully on, as if regretting that his culinary duties
prevented his joining in. Our arrival should have been the signal to
our wrangler for rounding in the _remuda_ for night horses, but
Stallings was too absorbed in the game even to notice the lateness of
the hour and order in the saddle stock. Quarternight, however, had a
few dollars burning holes in his pocket, and he called our horse
rustler’s attention to the approaching twilight; not that he was in
any hurry, but if Honeyman vacated, he saw an opportunity to get into
the game. The foreman gave the necessary order, and Quarternight at
once bargained for the wrangler’s remaining beans, and sat into the
game. While we were catching up our night horses, Honeyman told us
that the old man had been joking Stallings about the speed of Flood’s
brown, even going so far as to intimate that he didn’t believe that
the gelding could outrun that old bay harness mare which he was
driving. He had confessed that he was too hard up to wager much on it,
but he would risk a few dollars on his judgment on a running horse any
day. He also said that Stallings had come back at him, more in earnest
than in jest, that if he really thought his harness mare could outrun
the brown, he could win every dollar the outfit had. They had codded
one another until Joe had shown some spirit, when the old man
suggested they play a little game of cards for fun, but Stallings had
insisted on stakes to make it interesting, and on the old homesteader
pleading poverty, they had agreed to make it for a dollar on the
corner. After supper our _segundo_ wanted to renew the game; the old
man protested that he was too unlucky and could not afford to lose,
but was finally persuaded to play one more game, “just to pass away
the evening.” Well, the evening passed, and within the short space of
two hours, there also passed to the supposed lean purse of our guest
some twenty dollars from the feverish pockets of the outfit. Then the
old man felt too sleepy to play any longer, but loitered around some
time, and casually inquired of his boy if he had picketed their mare
where she would get a good bait of grass. This naturally brought up
the proposed race for discussion.

“If you really think that that old bay palfrey of yours can outrun any
horse in our _remuda_,” said Stallings, tauntingly, “you’re missing
the chance of your life not to pick up a few honest dollars as you
journey along. You stay with us to-morrow, and when we meet our
foreman at the Republican, if he’ll loan me the horse, I’ll give you a
race for any sum you name, just to show you that I’ve got a few drops
of sporting blood in me. And if your mare can outrun a cow, you stand
an easy chance to win some money.”

Our visitor met Joe’s bantering in a timid manner. Before turning in,
however, he informed us that he appreciated our hospitality, but that
he expected to make an early drive in the morning to the Republican,
where he might camp several days. With this the old man and the boy
unrolled their blankets, and both were soon sound asleep. Then our
_segundo_ quietly took Fox Quarternight off to one side, and I heard
the latter agree to call him when the third guard was aroused. Having
notified Honeyman that he would stand his own watch that night,
Stallings, with the rest of the outfit, soon joined the old man in the
land of dreams. Instead of the rough shaking which was customary on
arousing a guard, when we of the third watch were called, we were
awakened in a manner so cautious as to betoken something unusual in
the air. The atmosphere of mystery soon cleared after reaching the
herd, when Bob Blades informed us that it was the intention of
Stallings and Quarternight to steal the old man’s harness mare off the
picket rope, and run her against their night horses in a trial race.
Like love and war, everything is fair in horse racing, but the
audacity of this proposition almost passed belief. Both Blades and
Durham remained on guard with us, and before we had circled the herd
half a dozen times, the two conspirators came riding up to the bed
ground, leading the bay mare. There was a good moon that night;
Quarternight exchanged mounts with John Officer, as the latter had a
splendid night horse that had outstripped the outfit in every stampede
so far, and our _segundo_ and the second guard rode out of hearing of
both herd and camp to try out the horses.

After an hour, the quartette returned, and under solemn pledges of
secrecy Stallings said, “Why, that old bay harness mare can’t run fast
enough to keep up with a funeral. I rode her myself, and if she’s got
any run in her, rowel and quirt won’t bring it out. That chestnut of
John’s ran away from her as if she was hobbled and side-lined, while
this coyote of mine threw dust in her face every jump in the road from
the word ‘go.’ If the old man isn’t bluffing and will hack his mare,
we’ll get back our freeze-out money with good interest. Mind you, now,
we must keep it a dead secret from Flood--that we’ve tried the mare;
he might get funny and tip the old man.”

We all swore great oaths that Flood should never hear a breath of it.
The conspirators and their accomplices rode into camp, and we resumed
our sentinel rounds. I had some money, and figured that betting in a
cinch like this would be like finding money in the road.

But The Rebel, when we were returning from guard, said, “Tom, you keep
out of this race the boys are trying to jump up. I’ve met a good many
innocent men in my life, and there’s something about this old man that
reminds me of people who have an axe to grind. Let the other fellows
run on the rope if they want to, but you keep your money in your
pocket. Take an older man’s advice this once. And I’m going to round
up John in the morning, and try and beat a little sense into his head,
for he thinks it’s a dead immortal cinch.”

I had made it a rule, during our brief acquaintance, never to argue
matters with my bunkie, well knowing that his years and experience in
the ways of the world entitled his advice to my earnest consideration.
So I kept silent, though secretly wishing he had not taken the trouble
to throw cold water on my hopes, for I had built several air castles
with the money which seemed within my grasp. We had been out then over
four months, and I, like many of the other boys, was getting ragged,
and with Ogalalla within a week’s drive, a town which it took money to
see properly, I thought it a burning shame to let this opportunity
pass. When I awoke the next morning the camp was astir, and my first
look was in the direction of the harness mare, grazing peacefully on
the picket rope where she had been tethered the night before.

Breakfast over, our venerable visitor harnessed in his team,
preparatory to starting. Stallings had made it a point to return to
the herd for a parting word.

“Well, if you must go on ahead,” said Joe to the old man, as the
latter was ready to depart, “remember that you can get action on your
money, if you still think that your bay mare can outrun that brown cow
horse which I pointed out to you yesterday. You needn’t let your
poverty interfere, for we’ll run you to suit your purse, light or
heavy. The herd will reach the river by the middle of the afternoon,
or a little later, and you be sure and stay overnight there,--stay
with us if you want to,--and we’ll make up a little race for any sum
you say, from marbles and chalk to a hundred dollars. I may be as
badly deceived in your mare as I think you are in my horse; but if
you’re a Tennesseean, here’s your chance.”

But beyond giving Stallings his word that he would see him again
during the afternoon or evening, the old man would make no definite
proposition, and drove away. There was a difference of opinion amongst
the outfit, some asserting that we would never see him again, while
the larger portion of us were at least hopeful that we would. After
our guest was well out of sight, and before the wagon started,
Stallings corralled the _remuda_ a second time, and taking out Flood’s
brown and Officer’s chestnut, tried the two horses for a short dash of
about a hundred yards. The trial confirmed the general opinion of the
outfit, for the brown outran the chestnut over four lengths, starting
half a neck in the rear. A general canvass of the outfit was taken,
and to my surprise there was over three hundred dollars amongst us. I
had over forty dollars, but I only promised to loan mine if it was
needed, while Priest refused flat-footed either to lend or bet his. I
wanted to bet, and it would grieve me to the quick if there was any
chance and I didn’t take it--but I was young then.

Flood met us at noon about seven miles out from the Republican with
the superintendent of a cattle company in Montana, and, before we
started the herd after dinner, had sold our _remuda_, wagon, and mules
for delivery at the nearest railroad point to the Blackfoot Agency
sometime during September. This cattle company, so we afterwards
learned from Flood, had headquarters at Helena, while their ranges
were somewhere on the headwaters of the Missouri. But the sale of the
horses seemed to us an insignificant matter, compared with the race
which was on the tapis; and when Stallings had made the ablest talk of
his life for the loan of the brown, Flood asked the new owner, a Texan
himself, if he had any objections.

“Certainly not,” said he; “let the boys have a little fun. I’m glad to
know that the _remuda_ has fast horses in it. Why didn’t you tell me,
Flood?--I might have paid you extra if I had known I was buying
racehorses. Be sure and have the race come off this evening, for I
want to see it.”

And he was not only good enough to give his consent, but added a word
of advice. “There’s a deadfall down here on the river,” said he, “that
robs a man going and coming. They’ve got booze to sell you that would
make a pet rabbit fight a wolf. And if you can’t stand the whiskey,
why, they have skin games running to fleece you as fast as you can get
your money to the centre. Be sure, lads, and let both their whiskey
and cards alone.”

While changing mounts after dinner, Stallings caught out the brown
horse and tied him behind the wagon, while Flood and the horse buyer
returned to the river in the conveyance, our foreman having left his
horse at the ford. When we reached the Republican with the herd about
two hours before sundown, and while we were crossing and watering, who
should ride up on the Spanish mule but our Tennessee friend. If
anything, he was a trifle more talkative and boastful than before,
which was easily accounted for, as it was evident that he was
drinking; and producing a large bottle which had but a few drinks left
in it, insisted on every one taking a drink with him. He said he was
encamped half a mile down the river, and that he would race his mare
against our horse for fifty dollars; that if we were in earnest, and
would go back with him and post our money at the tent, he would cover
it. Then Stallings in turn became crafty and diplomatic, and after
asking a number of unimportant questions regarding conditions,
returned to the joint with the old man, taking Fox Quarternight. To
the rest of us it looked as though there was going to be no chance to
bet a dollar even. But after the herd had been watered and we had
grazed out some distance from the river, the two worthies returned.
They had posted their money, and all the conditions were agreed upon;
the race was to take place at sundown over at the saloon and gambling
joint. In reply to an earnest inquiry by Bob Blades, the outfit were
informed that we might get some side bets with the gamblers, but the
money already posted was theirs, win or lose. This selfishness was not
looked upon very favorably, and some harsh comments were made, but
Stallings and Quarternight were immovable.

We had an early supper, and pressing in McCann to assist The Rebel in
grazing the herd until our return, the cavalcade set out, Flood and
the horse buyer with us. My bunkie urged me to let him keep my money,
but under the pretense of some of the outfit wanting to borrow it, I
took it with me. The race was to be catch weights, and as Rod Wheat
was the lightest in our outfit, the riding fell to him. On the way
over I worked Bull Durham out to one side, and after explaining the
jacketing I had got from Priest, and the partial promise I had made
not to bet, gave him my forty dollars to wager for me if he got a
chance. Bull and I were good friends, and on the understanding that it
was to be a secret, I intimated that some of the velvet would line his
purse. On reaching the tent, we found about half a dozen men loitering
around, among them the old man, who promptly invited us all to have a
drink with him. A number of us accepted and took a chance against the
vintage of this canvas roadhouse, though the warnings of the Montana
horse buyer were fully justified by the quality of the goods
dispensed. While taking the drink, the old man was lamenting his
poverty, which kept him from betting more money, and after we had gone
outside, the saloonkeeper came and said to him, in a burst of generous
feeling,--

“Old sport, you’re a stranger to me, but I can see at a glance that
you’re a dead game man. Now, if you need any more money, just give me
a bill of sale of your mare and mule, and I’ll advance you a hundred.
Of course I know nothing about the merits of the two horses, but I
noticed your team as you drove up to-day, and if you can use any more
money, just ask for it.”

The old man jumped at the proposition in delighted surprise; the two
reentered the tent, and after killing considerable time in writing out
a bill of sale, the old graybeard came out shaking a roll of bills at
us. He was promptly accommodated, Bull Durham making the first bet of
fifty; and as I caught his eye, I walked away, shaking hands with
myself over my crafty scheme. When the old man’s money was all taken,
the hangers-on of the place became enthusiastic over the betting, and
took every bet while there was a dollar in sight amongst our crowd,
the horse buyer even making a wager. When we were out of money they
offered to bet against our saddles, six-shooters, and watches. Flood
warned us not to bet our saddles, but Quarternight and Stallings had
already wagered theirs, and were stripping them from their horses to
turn them over to the saloonkeeper as stakeholder. I managed to get a
ten-dollar bet on my six-shooter, though it was worth double the
money, and a similar amount on my watch. When the betting ended, every
watch and six-shooter in the outfit was in the hands of the
stakeholder, and had it not been for Flood our saddles would have been
in the same hands.

It was to be a three hundred yard race, with an ask and answer start
between the riders. Stallings and the old man stepped off the course
parallel with the river, and laid a rope on the ground to mark the
start and the finish. The sun had already set and twilight was
deepening when the old man signaled to his boy in the distance to
bring up the mare. Wheat was slowly walking the brown horse over the
course, when the boy came up, cantering the mare, blanketed with an
old government blanket, over the imaginary track also. These
preliminaries thrilled us like the tuning of a fiddle for a dance.
Stallings and the old homesteader went out to the starting point to
give the riders the terms of the race, while the remainder of us
congregated at the finish. It was getting dusk when the blanket was
stripped from the mare and the riders began jockeying for a start. In
that twilight stillness we could hear the question, “Are you ready?”
and the answer “No,” as the two jockeys came up to the starting rope.
But finally there was an affirmative answer, and the two horses were
coming through like arrows in their flight. My heart stood still for
the time being, and when the bay mare crossed the rope at the outcome
an easy winner, I was speechless. Such a crestfallen-looking lot of
men as we were would be hard to conceive. We had been beaten, and not
only felt it but looked it. Flood brought us to our senses by calling
our attention to the approaching darkness, and setting off in a gallop
toward the herd. The rest of us trailed along silently after him in
threes and fours. After the herd had been bedded and we had gone in to
the wagon my spirits were slightly lightened at the sight of the two
arch conspirators, Stallings and Quarternight, meekly riding in
bareback. I enjoyed the laughter of The Rebel and McCann at their
plight; but when my bunkie noticed my six-shooter missing, and I
admitted having bet it, he turned the laugh on me.

“That’s right, son,” he said; “don’t you take anybody’s advice. You’re
young yet, but you’ll learn. And when you learn it for yourself,
you’ll remember it that much better.”

That night when we were on guard together, I eased my conscience by
making a clean breast of the whole affair to my bunkie, which resulted
in his loaning me ten dollars with which to redeem, my six-shooter in
the morning. But the other boys, with the exception of Officer, had no
banker to call on as we had, and when Quarternight and Stallings asked
the foreman what they were to do for saddles, the latter suggested
that one of them could use the cook’s, while the other could take it
bareback or ride in the wagon. But the Montana man interceded in their
behalf, and Flood finally gave in and advanced them enough to redeem
their saddles. Our foreman had no great amount of money with him, but
McCann and the horse buyer came to the rescue for what they had, and
the guns were redeemed; not that they were needed, but we would have
been so lonesome without them. I had worn one so long I didn’t trim
well without it, but toppled forward and couldn’t maintain my balance.
But the most cruel exposure of the whole affair occurred when Nat
Straw, riding in ahead of his herd, overtook us one day out from
Ogalalla.

“I met old ‘Says I’ Littlefield,” said Nat, “back at the ford of the
Republican, and he tells me that they won over five hundred dollars
off this Circle Dot outfit on a horse race. He showed me a whole
basketful of your watches. I used to meet old ‘Says I’ over on the
Chisholm trail, and he’s a foxy old innocent. He told me that he put
tar on his harness mare’s back to see if you fellows had stolen the
nag off the picket rope at night, and when he found you had, he robbed
you to a finish. He knew you fool Texans would bet your last dollar on
such a cinch. That’s one of his tricks. You see the mare you tried
wasn’t the one you ran the race against. I’ve seen them both, and they
look as much alike as two pint bottles. My, but you fellows are easy
fish!”

And then Jim Flood lay down on the grass and laughed until the tears
came into his eyes, and we understood that there were tricks in other
trades than ours.




CHAPTER XVII

OGALALLA

From the head of Stinking Water to the South Platte was a waterless
stretch of forty miles. But by watering the herd about the middle of
one forenoon, after grazing, we could get to water again the following
evening. With the exception of the meeting with Nat Straw, the drive
was featureless, but the night that Nat stayed with us, he regaled us
with his experiences, in which he was as lucky as ever. Where we had
lost three days on the Canadian with bogged cattle, he had crossed it
within fifteen minutes after reaching it. His herd was sold before
reaching Dodge, so that he lost no time there, and on reaching
Slaughter’s bridge, he was only two days behind our herd. His cattle
were then en route for delivery on the Crazy Woman in Wyoming, and, as
he put it, “any herd was liable to travel faster when it had a new
owner.”

Flood had heard from our employer at Culbertson, learning that he
would not meet us at Ogalalla, as his last herd was due in Dodge about
that time. My brother Bob’s herd had crossed the Arkansaw a week
behind us, and was then possibly a hundred and fifty miles in our
rear.

We all regretted not being able to see old man Don, for he believed
that nothing was too good for his men, and we all remembered the good
time he had shown us in Dodge. The smoke of passing trains hung for
hours in signal clouds in our front, during the afternoon of the
second day’s dry drive, but we finally scaled the last divide, and
there, below us in the valley of the South Platte, nestled Ogalalla,
the Gomorrah of the cattle trail. From amongst its half hundred
buildings, no church spire pointed upward, but instead three fourths
of its business houses were dance halls, gambling houses, and saloons.
We all knew the town by reputation, while the larger part of our
outfit had been in it before. It was there that Joel Collins and his
outfit rendezvoused when they robbed the Union Pacific train in
October, ’77. Collins had driven a herd of cattle for his father and
brother, and after selling them in the Black Hills, gambled away the
proceeds. Some five or six of his outfit returned to Ogalalla with
him, and being moneyless, concluded to recoup their losses at the
expense of the railway company. Going eighteen miles up the river to
Big Springs, seven of them robbed the express and passengers, the
former yielding sixty thousand dollars in gold. The next morning they
were in Ogalalla, paying debts, and getting their horses shod. In
Collins’s outfit was Sam Bass, and under his leadership, until he met
his death the following spring at the hands of Texas Rangers, the
course of the outfit southward was marked by a series of daring bank
and train robberies.

We reached the river late that evening, and after watering, grazed
until dark and camped for the night. But it was not to be a night of
rest and sleep, for the lights were twinkling across the river in
town; and cook, horse wrangler, and all, with the exception of the
first guard, rode across the river after the herd had been bedded.
Flood had quit us while we were watering the herd and gone in ahead to
get a draft cashed, for he was as moneyless as the rest of us. But his
letter of credit was good anywhere on the trail where money was to be
had, and on reaching town, he took us into a general outfitting store
and paid us twenty-five dollars apiece. After warning us to be on hand
at the wagon to stand our watches, he left us, and we scattered like
lost sheep. Officer and I paid our loans to The Rebel, and the three
of us wandered around for several hours in company with Nat Straw.
When we were in Dodge, my bunkie had shown no inclination to gamble,
but now he was the first one to suggest that we make up a “cow,” and
let him try his luck at monte. Straw and Officer were both willing,
and though in rags, I willingly consented and contributed my five to
the general fund.

Every gambling house ran from two to three monte layouts, as it was a
favorite game of cowmen, especially when they were from the far
southern country. Priest soon found a game to his liking, and after
watching his play through several deals, Officer and I left him with
the understanding that he would start for camp promptly at midnight.
There was much to be seen, though it was a small place, for the ends
of the earth’s iniquity had gathered in Ogalalla. We wandered through
the various gambling houses, drinking moderately, meeting an
occasional acquaintance from Texas, and in the course of our rounds
landed in the Dew-Drop-In dance hall. Here might be seen the frailty
of women in every grade and condition. From girls in their teens,
launching out on a life of shame, to the adventuress who had once had
youth and beauty in her favor, but was now discarded and ready for the
final dose of opium and the coroner’s verdict,--all were there in
tinsel and paint, practicing a careless exposure of their charms. In a
town which has no night, the hours pass rapidly; and before we were
aware, midnight was upon us. Returning to the gambling house where we
had left Priest, we found him over a hundred dollars winner, and,
calling his attention to the hour, persuaded him to cash in and join
us. We felt positively rich, as he counted out to each partner his
share of the winnings! Straw was missing to receive his, but we knew
he could be found on the morrow, and after a round of drinks, we
forded the river. As we rode along, my bunkie said,--“I’m
superstitious, and I can’t help it. But I’ve felt for a day or so that
I was in luck, and I wanted you lads in with me if my warning was
true. I never was afraid to go into battle but once, and just as we
were ordered into action, a shell killed my horse under me and I was
left behind. I’ve had lots of such warnings, good and bad, and I’m
influenced by them. If we get off to-morrow, and I’m in the mood, I’ll
go back there and make some monte bank look sick.”

We reached the wagon in good time to be called on our guard, and after
it was over secured a few hours’ sleep before the foreman aroused us
in the morning. With herds above and below us, we would either have to
graze contrary to our course or cross the river. The South Platte was
a wide, sandy river with numerous channels, and as easily crossed as
an alkali flat of equal width, so far as water was concerned. The sun
was not an hour high when we crossed, passing within two hundred yards
of the business section of the town, which lay under a hill. The
valley on the north side of the river, and beyond the railroad, was
not over half a mile wide, and as we angled across it, the town seemed
as dead as those that slept in the graveyard on the first hill beside
the trail.

Finding good grass about a mile farther on, we threw the herd off the
trail, and leaving orders to graze until noon, the foreman with the
first and second guard returned to town. It was only about ten miles
over to the North Platte, where water was certain; and in the hope
that we would be permitted to revisit the village during the
afternoon, we who were on guard threw riders in the lead of the
grazing cattle, in order not to be too far away should permission be
granted us. That was a long morning for us of the third and fourth
guards, with nothing to do but let the cattle feed, while easy money
itched in our pockets. Behind us lay Ogalalla--and our craft did
dearly love to break the monotony of our work by getting into town.
But by the middle of the forenoon, the wagon and saddle horses
overtook us, and ordering McCann into camp a scant mile in our lead,
we allowed the cattle to lie down, they having grazed to contentment.
Leaving two men on guard, the remainder of us rode in to the wagon,
and lightened with an hour’s sleep in its shade the time which hung
heavy on our hands. We were aroused by our horse wrangler, who had
sighted a cavalcade down the trail, which, from the color of their
horses, he knew to be our outfit returning. As they came nearer and
their numbers could be made out, it was evident that our foreman was
not with them, and our hopes rose. On coming up, they informed us that
we were to have a half holiday, while they would take the herd over to
the North River during the afternoon. Then emergency orders rang out
to Honeyman and McCann, and as soon as a change of mounts could be
secured, our dinners bolted, and the herders relieved, we were ready
to go. Two of the six who returned had shed their rags and swaggered
about in new, cheap suits; the rest, although they had money, simply
had not had the time to buy clothes in a place with so many
attractions.

When the herders came in deft hands transferred their saddles to
waiting mounts while they swallowed a hasty dinner, and we set out for
Ogalalla, happy as city urchins in an orchard. We were less than five
miles from the burg, and struck a free gait in riding in, where we
found several hundred of our craft holding high jinks. A number of
herds had paid off their outfits and were sending them home, while
from the herds for sale, holding along the river, every man not on day
herd was paying his respects to the town. We had not been there five
minutes when a horse race was run through the main street, Nat Straw
and Jim Flood acting as judges on the outcome. The officers of
Ogalalla were a different crowd from what we had encountered at Dodge,
and everything went. The place suited us. Straw had entirely forgotten
our “cow” of the night before, and when The Rebel handed him his share
of the winnings, he tucked it away in the watch pocket of his trousers
without counting. But he had arranged a fiddling match between a darky
cook of one of the returning outfits and a locoed white man, a
mendicant of the place, and invited us to be present. Straw knew the
foreman of the outfit to which the darky belonged, and the two had
fixed it up to pit the two in a contest, under the pretense that a
large wager had been made on which was the better fiddler. The contest
was to take place at once in the corral of the Lone Star livery
stable, and promised to be humorous if nothing more. So after the race
was over, the next number on the programme was the fiddling match, and
we followed the crowd. The Rebel had given us the slip during the
race, though none of us cared, as we knew he was hungering for a monte
game. It was a motley crowd which had gathered in the corral, and all
seemed to know of the farce to be enacted, though the Texas outfit to
which the darky belonged were flashing their money on their dusky
cook, “as the best fiddler that ever crossed Red River with a cow
herd.”

“Oh, I don’t know that your man is such an Ole Bull as all that,” said
Nat Straw. “I just got a hundred posted which says he can’t even play
a decent second to my man. And if we can get a competent set of judges
to decide the contest, I’ll wager a little more on the white against
the black, though I know your man is a cracker-jack.”

A canvass of the crowd was made for judges, but as nearly every one
claimed to be interested in the result, having made wagers, or was
incompetent to sit in judgment on a musical contest, there was some
little delay. Finally, Joe Stallings went to Nat Straw and told him
that I was a fiddler, whereupon he instantly appointed me as judge,
and the other side selected a redheaded fellow belonging to one of
Dillard Fant’s herds. Between the two of us we selected as the third
judge a bartender whom I had met the night before. The conditions
governing the contest were given us, and two chuck wagons were drawn
up alongside each other, in one of which were seated the contestants
and in the other the judges. The gravity of the crowd was only broken
as some enthusiast cheered his favorite or defiantly offered to wager
on the man of his choice. Numerous sham bets were being made, when the
redheaded judge arose and announced the conditions, and urged the
crowd to remain quiet, that the contestants might have equal justice.
Each fiddler selected his own piece. The first number was a waltz, on
the conclusion of which partisanship ran high, each faction cheering
its favorite to the echo. The second number was a jig, and as the
darky drew his bow several times across the strings tentatively, his
foreman, who stood six inches taller than any man in a crowd of tall
men, tapped himself on the breast with one forefinger, and with the
other pointed at his dusky champion, saying, “Keep your eye on me,
Price. We’re going home together, remember. You black rascal, you can
make a mocking bird ashamed of itself if you try. You know I’ve swore
by you through thick and thin; now win this money. Pay no attention to
any one else. Keep your eye on me.”

Straw, not to be outdone in encouragement, cheered his man with
promises of reward, and his faction of supporters raised such a din
that Fant’s man arose, and demanded quiet so the contest could
proceed. Though boisterous, the crowd was good-tempered, and after the
second number was disposed of, the final test was announced, which was
to be in sacred music. On this announcement, the tall foreman waded
through the crowd, and drawing the darky to him, whispered something
in his ear, and then fell back to his former position. The dusky
artist’s countenance brightened, and with a few preliminaries he
struck into “The Arkansaw Traveler,” throwing so many contortions into
its execution that it seemed as if life and liberty depended on his
exertions. The usual applause greeted him on its conclusion, when Nat
Straw climbed up on the wagon wheel, and likewise whispered something
to his champion. The little, old, weazened mendicant took his cue, and
cut into “The Irish Washerwoman” with a great flourish, and in the
refrain chanted an unintelligible gibberish like the yelping of a
coyote, which the audience so cheered that he repeated it several
times. The crowd now gathered around the wagons and clamored for the
decision, and after consulting among ourselves some little time, and
knowing that a neutral or indefinite verdict was desired, we delegated
the bartender to announce our conclusions. Taking off his hat, he
arose, and after requesting quietness, pretended to read our decision.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “your judges feel a delicacy in passing on the
merits of such distinguished artists, but in the first number the
decision is unanimously in favor of the darky, while the second is
clearly in favor of the white contestant. In regard to the last test,
your judges cannot reach any decision, as the selections rendered fail
to qualify under the head of”--

But two shots rang out in rapid succession across the street, and the
crowd, including the judges and fiddlers, rushed away to witness the
new excitement. The shooting had occurred in a restaurant, and quite a
mob gathered around the door, when the sheriff emerged from the
building.

“It’s nothing,” said he; “just a couple of punchers, who had been
drinking a little, were eating a snack, and one of them asked for a
second dish of prunes, when the waiter got gay and told him that he
couldn’t have them,--‘that he was full of prunes now.’ So the lad took
a couple of shots at him, just to learn him to be more courteous to
strangers. There was no harm done, as the puncher was too unsteady.”

As the crowd dispersed from the restaurant, I returned to the livery
stable, where Straw and several of our outfit were explaining to the
old mendicant that he had simply outplayed his opponent, and it was
too bad that they were not better posted in sacred music. Under
Straw’s leadership, a purse was being made up amongst them, and the
old man’s eyes brightened as he received several crisp bills and a
handful of silver. Straw was urging the old fiddler to post himself in
regard to sacred music, and he would get up another match for the next
day, when Rod Wheat came up and breathlessly informed Officer and
myself that The Rebel wanted us over at the Black Elephant gambling
hall. As we turned to accompany him, we eagerly inquired if there were
any trouble. Wheat informed us there was not, but that Priest was
playing in one of the biggest streaks of luck that ever happened.
“Why, the old man is just wallowing in velvet,” said Rod, as we
hurried along, “and the dealer has lowered the limit from a hundred to
fifty, for old Paul is playing them as high as a cat’s tack. He isn’t
drinking a drop, and is as cool as a cucumber. I don’t know what he
wants with you fellows, but he begged me to hunt you up and send you
to him.”

The Black Elephant was about a block from the livery, and as we
entered, a large crowd of bystanders were watching the playing around
one of the three monte games which were running. Elbowing our way
through the crowd, we reached my bunkie, whom Officer slapped on the
back and inquired what he wanted.

“Why, I want you and Quirk to bet a little money for me,” he replied.
“My luck is with me to-day, and when I try to crowd it, this layout
gets foxy and pinches the limit down to fifty. Here, take this money
and cover both those other games. Call out as they fall the layouts,
and I’ll pick the card to bet the money on. And bet her carelessly,
boys, for she’s velvet.”

As he spoke he gave Officer and myself each a handful of uncounted
money, and we proceeded to carry out his instructions. I knew the game
perfectly, having spent several years’ earnings on my tuition, and was
past master in the technical Spanish terms of the game, while Officer
was equally informed. John took the table to the right, while I took
the one on the left, and waiting for a new deal, called the cards as
they fell. I inquired the limit of the dealer, and was politely
informed that it was fifty to-day. At first our director ordered a
number of small bets made, as though feeling his way, for cards will
turn; but as he found the old luck was still with him, he gradually
increased them to the limit. After the first few deals, I caught on to
his favorite cards, which were the queen and seven, and on these we
bet the limit. Aces and a “face against an ace” were also favorite
bets of The Rebel’s, but for a smaller sum. During the first hour of
my playing--to show the luck of cards--the queen won five consecutive
times, once against a favorite at the conclusion of a deal. My
judgment was to take up this bet, but Priest ordered otherwise, for it
was one of his principles never to doubt a card as long as it won for
you.

The play had run along some time, and as I was absorbed with watching,
some one behind me laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. Having every
card in the layout covered with a bet at the time, and supposing it to
be some of our outfit, I never looked around, when there came a slap
on my back which nearly loosened my teeth. Turning to see who was
making so free with me when I was absorbed, my eye fell on my brother
Zack, but I had not time even to shake hands with him, for two cards
won in succession and the dealer was paying me, while the queen and
seven were covered to the limit and were yet to be drawn for. When the
deal ended and while the dealer was shuffling, I managed to get a few
words with my brother, and learned that he had come through with a
herd belonging to one-armed Jim Reed, and that they were holding about
ten miles up the river. He had met Flood, who told him that I was in
town; but as he was working on first guard with their herd, it was
high time he was riding. The dealer was waiting for me to cut the
cards, and stopping only to wring Zack’s hand in farewell, I turned
again to the monte layout.

Officer was not so fortunate as I was, partly by reason of delays, the
dealer in his game changing decks on almost every deal, and under
Priest’s orders, we counted the cards with every change of the deck. A
gambler would rather burn money than lose to a citizen, and every
hoodoo which the superstition of the craft could invoke to turn the
run of the cards was used to check us. Several hours passed and the
lamps were lighted, but we constantly added to the good--to the
discomfiture of the owners of the games. Dealers changed, but our
vigilance never relaxed for a moment. Suddenly an altercation sprang
up between Officer and the dealer of his game. The seven had proved
the most lucky card to John, which fact was as plain to dealer as to
player, but the dealer, by slipping one seven out of the pack after it
had been counted, which was possible in the hands of an adept in spite
of all vigilance, threw the percentage against the favorite card and
in favor of the bank. Officer had suspected something wrong, for the
seven had been loser during several deals, when with a seven-king
layout, and two cards of each class yet in the pack, the dealer drew
down until there were less than a dozen cards left, when the king
came, which lost a fifty dollar bet on the seven. Officer laid his
hand on the money, and, as was his privilege, said to the dealer, “Let
me look over the remainder of those cards. If there’s two sevens
there, you have won. If there isn’t, don’t offer to touch this bet.”

But the gambler declined the request, and Officer repeated his demand,
laying a blue-barreled six-shooter across the bet with the remark,
“Well, if you expect to rake in this bet you have my terms.”

Evidently the demand would not have stood the test, for the dealer
bunched the deck among the passed cards, and Officer quietly raked in
the money. “When I want a skin game,” said John, as he arose, “I’ll
come back and see you. You saw me take this money, did you? Well, if
you’ve got anything to say, now’s your time to spit it out.”

But his calling had made the gambler discreet, and he deigned no reply
to the lank Texan, who, chafing under the attempt to cheat him, slowly
returned his six-shooter to its holster. Although holding my own in my
game, I was anxious to have it come to a close, but neither of us
cared to suggest it to The Rebel; it was his money. But Officer passed
outside the house shortly afterward, and soon returned with Jim Flood
and Nat Straw.

As our foreman approached the table at which Priest was playing, he
laid his hand on The Rebel’s shoulder and said, “Come on, Paul, we’re
all ready to go to camp. Where’s Quirk?”

Priest looked up in innocent amazement,--as though he had been
awakened out of a deep sleep, for, in the absorption of the game, he
had taken no note of the passing hours and did not know that the lamps
were burning. My bunkie obeyed as promptly as though the orders had
been given by Don Lovell in person, and, delighted with the turn of
affairs, I withdrew with him. Once in the street, Nat Straw threw an
arm around The Rebel’s neck and said to him, “My dear sir, the secret
of successful gambling is to quit when you’re winner, and before luck
turns. You may think this is a low down trick, but we’re your friends,
and when we heard that you were a big winner, we were determined to
get you out of there if we had to rope and drag you out. How much are
you winner?”

Before the question could be correctly answered, we sat down on the
sidewalk and the three of us disgorged our winnings, so that Flood and
Straw could count. Priest was the largest winner, Officer the
smallest, while I never will know the amount of mine, as I had no idea
what I started with. But the tellers’ report showed over fourteen
hundred dollars among the three of us. My bunkie consented to allow
Flood to keep it for him, and the latter attempted to hurrah us off to
camp, but John Officer protested.

“Hold on a minute, Jim,” said Officer. “We’re in rags; we need some
clothes. We’ve been in town long enough, and we’ve got the price, but
it’s been such a busy afternoon with us that we simply haven’t had the
time.”

Straw took our part, and Flood giving in, we entered a general
outfitting store, from which we emerged within a quarter of an hour,
wearing cheap new suits, the color of which we never knew until the
next day. Then bidding Straw a hearty farewell, we rode for the North
Platte, on which the herd would encamp. As we scaled the bluffs, we
halted for our last glimpse of the lights of Ogalalla, and The Rebel
remarked, “Boys, I’ve traveled some in my life, but that little hole
back there could give Natchez-under-the-hill cards and spades, and
then outhold her as a tough town.”




CHAPTER XVIII

THE NORTH PLATTE

It was now July. We had taken on new supplies at Ogalalla, and a week
afterwards the herd was snailing along the North Platte on its way to
the land of the Blackfeet. It was always hard to get a herd past a
supply point. We had the same trouble when we passed Dodge. Our long
hours in the saddle, coupled with the monotony of our work, made these
supply points of such interest to us that they were like oases in
desert lands to devotees on pilgrimage to some consecrated shrine. We
could have spent a week in Ogalalla and enjoyed our visit every
blessed moment of the time. But now, a week later, most of the
headaches had disappeared and we had settled down to our daily work.

At Horse Creek, the last stream of water before entering Wyoming, a
lad who cut the trail at that point for some cattle companies, after
trimming us up, rode along for half a day through their range, and
told us of an accident which happened about a week before. The horse
of some peeler, working with one of Shanghai Pierce’s herds, acted up
one morning, and fell backward with him so that his gun accidentally
discharged. The outfit lay over a day and gave him as decent a burial
as they could. We would find the new-made grave ahead on Squaw Creek,
beyond the crossing, to the right hand side in a clump of cottonwoods.
The next day, while watering the herd at this creek, we all rode over
and looked at the grave. The outfit had fixed things up quite nicely.
They had built a square pen of rough cottonwood logs around the grave,
and had marked the head and foot with a big flat stone, edged up,
heaping up quite a mound of stones to keep the animals away. In a tree
his name was cut--sounded natural, too, though none of us knew him, as
Pierce always drove from the east coast country. There was nothing
different about this grave from the hundreds of others which made
landmarks on the Old Western Trail, except it was the latest.

That night around the camp-fire some of the boys were moved to tell
their experiences. This accident might happen to any of us, and it
seemed rather short notice to a man enjoying life, even though his
calling was rough.

“As for myself,” said Rod Wheat, “I’m not going to fret. You can’t
avoid it when it comes, and every now and then you miss it by a hair.
I had an uncle who served four years in the Confederate army, went
through thirty engagements, was wounded half a dozen times, and came
home well and sound. Within a month after his return, a plough handle
kicked him in the side and we buried him within a week.”

“Oh, well,” said Fox, commenting on the sudden call of the man whose
grave we had seen, “it won’t make much difference to this fellow back
here when the horn toots and the graves give up their dead. He might
just as well start from there as anywhere. I don’t envy him none,
though; but if I had any pity to offer now, it would be for a mother
or sister who might wish that he slept nearer home.”

This last remark carried our minds far away from their present
surroundings to other graves which were not on the trail. There was a
long silence. We lay around the camp-fire and gazed into its depths,
while its flickering light threw our shadows out beyond the circle.
Our reverie was finally broken by Ash Borrowstone, who was by all odds
the most impressionable and emotional one in the outfit, a man who
always argued the moral side of every question, yet could not be
credited with possessing an iota of moral stamina. Gloomy as we were,
he added to our depression by relating a pathetic incident which
occurred at a child’s funeral, when Flood reproved him, saying,--

“Well, neither that one you mention, nor this one of Pierce’s man is
any of our funeral. We’re on the trail with Lovell’s cattle. You
should keep nearer the earth.”

There was a long silence after this reproof of the foreman. It was
evident there was a gloom settling over the outfit. Our thoughts were
ranging wide. At last Rod Wheat spoke up and said that in order to get
the benefit of all the variations, the blues were not a bad thing to
have.

But the depression of our spirits was not so easily dismissed. In
order to avoid listening to the gloomy tales that were being narrated
around the camp-fire, a number of us got up and went out as if to look
up the night horses on picket. The Rebel and I pulled our picket pins
and changed our horses to fresh grazing, and after lying down among
the horses, out of hearing of the camp, for over an hour, returned to
the wagon expecting to retire. A number of the boys were making down
their beds, as it was already late; but on our arrival at the fire one
of the boys had just concluded a story, as gloomy as the others which
had preceded it.

“These stories you are all telling to-night,” said Flood, “remind me
of what Lige Link said to the book agent when he was shearing sheep.
‘I reckon,’ said Lige, ‘that book of yours has a heap sight more
poetry in it than there is in shearing sheep.’ I wish I had gone on
guard to-night, so I could have missed these stories.”

At this juncture the first guard rode in, having been relieved, and
John Officer, who had exchanged places on guard that night with Moss
Strayhorn, remarked that the cattle were uneasy.

“This outfit,” said he, “didn’t half water the herd to-day. One third
of them hasn’t bedded down yet, and they don’t act as if they aim to,
either. There’s no excuse for it in a well-watered country like this.
I’ll leave the saddle on my horse, anyhow.”

“Now that’s the result,” said our foreman, “of the hour we spent
around that grave to-day, when we ought to have been tending to our
job. This outfit,” he continued, when Officer returned from picketing
his horse, “have been trying to hold funeral services over that Pierce
man’s grave back there. You’d think so, anyway, from the tales they’ve
been telling. I hope you won’t get the sniffles and tell any.”

“This letting yourself get gloomy,” said Officer, “reminds me of a
time we once had at the ‘J.H.’ camp in the Cherokee Strip. It was near
Christmas, and the work was all done up. The boys had blowed in their
summer’s wages and were feeling glum all over. One or two of the boys
were lamenting that they hadn’t gone home to see the old folks. This
gloomy feeling kept spreading until they actually wouldn’t speak to
each other. One of them would go out and sit on the wood pile for
hours, all by himself, and make a new set of good resolutions. Another
would go out and sit on the ground, on the sunny side of the corrals,
and dig holes in the frozen earth with his knife. They wouldn’t come
to meals when the cook called them.

“Now, Miller, the foreman, didn’t have any sympathy for them; in fact
he delighted to see them in that condition. He hadn’t any use for a
man who wasn’t dead tough under any condition. I’ve known him to camp
his outfit on alkali water, so the men would get out in the morning,
and every rascal beg leave to ride on the outside circle on the
morning roundup.

“Well, three days before Christmas, just when things were looking
gloomiest, there drifted up from the Cheyenne country one of the old
timers. None of them had seen him in four years, though he had worked
on that range before, and with the exception of myself, they all knew
him. He was riding the chuckline all right, but Miller gave him a
welcome, as he was the real thing. He had been working out in the
Pan-handle country, New Mexico, and the devil knows where, since he
had left that range. He was meaty with news and scarey stories. The
boys would sit around and listen to him yarn, and now and then a smile
would come on their faces. Miller was delighted with his guest. He had
shown no signs of letting up at eleven o’clock the first night, when
he happened to mention where he was the Christmas before.

“‘There was a little woman at the ranch,’ said he, ‘wife of the owner,
and I was helping her get up dinner, as we had quite a number of folks
at the ranch. She asked me to make the bear sign--doughnuts, she
called them--and I did, though she had to show me how some little.
Well, fellows, you ought to have seen them--just sweet enough, browned
to a turn, and enough to last a week. All the folks at dinner that day
praised them. Since then, I’ve had a chance to try my hand several
times, and you may not tumble to the diversity of all my
accomplishments, but I’m an artist on bear sign.’

“Miller arose, took him by the hand, and said, ‘That’s straight, now,
is it?’

“‘That’s straight. Making bear sign is my long suit.’

“‘Mouse,’ said Miller to one of the boys, ‘go out and bring in his
saddle from the stable and put it under my bed. Throw his horse in the
big pasture in the morning. He stays here until spring; and the first
spear of green grass I see, his name goes on the pay roll. This outfit
is shy on men who can make bear sign. Now, I was thinking that you
could spread down your blankets on the hearth, but you can sleep with
me to-night. You go to work on this specialty of yours right after
breakfast in the morning, and show us what you can do in that line.’

“They talked quite a while longer, and then turned in for the night.
The next morning after breakfast was over, he got the needed articles
together and went to work. But there was a surprise in store for him.
There was nearly a dozen men lying around, all able eaters. By ten
o’clock he began to turn them out as he said he could. When the
regular cook had to have the stove to get dinner, the taste which we
had had made us ravenous for more. Dinner over, he went at them again
in earnest. A boy riding towards the railroad with an important letter
dropped in, and as he claimed he could only stop for a moment, we
stood aside until he had had a taste, though he filled himself like a
poisoned pup. After eating a solid hour, he filled his pockets and
rode away. One of our regular men called after him, ‘Don’t tell
anybody what we got.’

“We didn’t get any supper that night. Not a man could have eaten a
bite. Miller made him knock off along in the shank of the evening, as
he had done enough for any one day. The next morning after breakfast
he fell to at the bear sign once more. Miller rolled a barrel of flour
into the kitchen from the storehouse, and told him to fly at them.
‘About how many do you think you’ll want?’ asked our bear sign man.

“‘That big tub full won’t be any too many,’ answered Miller. ‘Some of
these fellows haven’t had any of this kind of truck since they were
little boys. If this gets out, I look for men from other camps.’

“The fellow fell to his work like a thoroughbred, which he surely was.
About ten o’clock two men rode up from a camp to the north, which the
boy had passed the day before with the letter. They never went near
the dug-out, but straight to the kitchen. That movement showed that
they were on to the racket. An hour later old Tom Cave rode in, his
horse all in a lather, all the way from Garretson’s camp, twenty-five
miles to the east. The old sinner said that he had been on the
frontier some little time, and that there were the best bear sign he
had tasted in forty years. He refused to take a stool and sit down
like civilized folks, but stood up by the tub and picked out the ones
which were a pale brown.

“After dinner our man threw off his overshirt, unbuttoned his red
undershirt and turned it in until you could see the hair on his
breast. Rolling up his sleeves, he flew at his job once more. He was
getting his work reduced to a science by this time. He rolled his
dough, cut his dough, and turned out the fine brown bear sign to the
satisfaction of all.

“His capacity, however, was limited. About two o’clock Doc Langford
and two of his peelers were seen riding up. When he came into the
kitchen, Doc swore by all that was good and holy that he hadn’t heard
that our artist had come back to that country. But any one that was
noticing could see him edge around to the tub. It was easy to see that
he was lying. This luck of ours was circulating faster than a secret
amongst women. Our man, though, stood at his post like the boy on the
burning deck. When night came on, he hadn’t covered the bottom of the
tub. When he knocked off, Doc Langford and his men gobbled up what was
left. We gave them a mean look as they rode off, but they came back
the next day, five strong. Our regular men around camp didn’t like it,
the way things were going. They tried to act polite to”--

“Calling bear sign doughnuts,” interrupted Quince Forrest, “reminds me
what”--

“Will you kindly hobble your lip,” said Officer; “I have the floor at
present. As I was saying, they tried to act polite to company that
way, but we hadn’t got a smell the second day. Our man showed no signs
of fatigue, and told several good stories that night. He was tough.
The next day was Christmas, but he had no respect for a holiday, and
made up a large batch of dough before breakfast. It was a good thing
he did, for early that morning ‘Original’ John Smith and four of his
peelers rode in from the west, their horses all covered with frost.
They must have started at daybreak--it was a good twenty-two mile
ride. They wanted us to believe that they had simply come over to
spend Christmas with us. Company that way, you can’t say anything. But
the easy manner in which they gravitated around that tub--not even
waiting to be invited--told a different tale. They were not nearly
satisfied by noon.

“Then who should come drifting in as we were sitting down to dinner,
but Billy Dunlap and Jim Hale from Quinlin’s camp, thirty miles south
on the Cimarron. Dunlap always holed up like a bear in the winter, and
several of the boys spilled their coffee at sight of him. He put up a
thin excuse just like the rest. Any one could see through it. But
there it was again--he was company. Lots of us had eaten at his camp
and complained of his chuck; therefore, we were nice to him. Miller
called our man out behind the kitchen and told him to knock off if he
wanted to. But he wouldn’t do it. He was clean strain--I’m not
talking. Dunlap ate hardly any dinner, we noticed, and the very first
batch of bear sign turned out, he loads up a tin plate and goes out
and sits behind the storehouse in the sun, all alone in his glory. He
satisfied himself out of the tub after that.

“He and Hale stayed all night, and Dunlap kept every one awake with
the nightmare. Yes, kept fighting the demons all night. The next
morning Miller told him that he was surprised that an old gray-haired
man like him didn’t know when he had enough, but must gorge himself
like some silly kid. Miller told him that he was welcome to stay a
week if he wanted to, but he would have to sleep in the stable. It was
cruel to the horses, but the men were entitled to a little sleep, at
least in the winter. Miller tempered his remarks with all kindness,
and Dunlap acted as if he was sorry, and as good as admitted that his
years were telling on him. That day our man filled his tub. He was
simply an artist on bear sign.”

“Calling bear sign doughnuts,” cut in Quince Forrest again, as soon as
he saw an opening, “reminds me what the little boy said who went”--

But there came a rumbling of many hoofs from the bed ground. “There’s
hell for you,” said half a dozen men in a chorus, and every man in
camp ran for his horse but the cook, and he climbed into the wagon.
The roar of the running cattle was like approaching thunder, but the
flash from the six-shooters of the men on guard indicated they were
quartering by camp, heading out towards the hills. Horses became so
excited they were difficult to bridle. There was plenty of earnest and
sincere swearing done that night. All the fine sentiment and
melancholy of the hour previous vanished in a moment, as the men threw
themselves into their saddles, riding deep, for it was uncertain
footing to horses.

Within two minutes from the time the herd left the bed ground,
fourteen of us rode on their left point and across their front, firing
our six-shooters in their faces. By the time the herd had covered a
scant mile, we had thrown them into a mill. They had run so compactly
that there were no stragglers, so we loosened out and gave them room;
but it was a long time before they relaxed any, but continued going
round and round like a water wheel or an endless chain. The foreman
ordered three men on the heaviest horses to split them. The men rode
out a short distance to get the required momentum, wheeled their
horses, and, wedge-shaped, struck this sea of cattle and entered, but
it instantly closed in their wake as though it had been water. For an
hour they rode through the herd, back and forth, now from this
quarter, now from that, and finally the mill was broken. After
midnight, as luck would have it, heavy dark clouds banked in the
northwest, and lightning flashed, and before a single animal had lain
down, a drizzling rain set in. That settled it; it was an all-night
job now. We drifted about hither and yon. Horses, men, and cattle
turned their backs to the wind and rain and waited for morning. We
were so familiar with the signs of coming day that we turned them
loose half an hour before dawn, leaving herders, and rode for camp.

As we groped our way in that dark hour before dawn, hungry, drenched,
and bedraggled, there was nothing gleeful about us, while Bob Blades
expressed his disgust over our occupation. “If ever I get home again,”
said he, and the tones of his voice were an able second to his
remarks, “you all can go up the trail that want to, but here’s one
chicken that won’t. There isn’t a cowman in Texas who has money enough
to hire me again.”

“Ah, hell, now,” said Bull, “you oughtn’t to let a little rain ruffle
your feathers that way. Cheer up, sonny; you may be rich some day yet
and walk on brussels and velvet.”




CHAPTER XIX

FORTY ISLANDS FORD

After securing a count on the herd that morning and finding nothing
short, we trailed out up the North Platte River. It was an easy
country in which to handle a herd; the trail in places would run back
from the river as far as ten miles, and again follow close in near the
river bottoms. There was an abundance of small creeks putting into
this fork of the Platte from the south, which afforded water for the
herd and good camp grounds at night. Only twice after leaving Ogalalla
had we been compelled to go to the river for water for the herd, and
with the exception of thunderstorms and occasional summer rains, the
weather had been all one could wish. For the past week as we trailed
up the North Platte, some one of us visited the river daily to note
its stage of water, for we were due to cross at Forty Islands, about
twelve miles south of old Fort Laramie. The North Platte was very
similar to the South Canadian,--a wide sandy stream without banks; and
our experience with the latter was fresh in our memories. The stage of
water had not been favorable, for this river also had its source in
the mountains, and as now midsummer was upon us, the season of heavy
rainfall in the mountains, augmented by the melting snows, the
prospect of finding a fordable stage of water at Forty Islands was not
very encouraging.

We reached this well-known crossing late in the afternoon the third
day after leaving the Wyoming line, and found one of the Prairie
Cattle Company’s herds water-bound. This herd had been wintered on one
of that company’s ranges on the Arkansaw River in southern Colorado,
and their destination was in the Bad Lands near the mouth of the
Yellowstone, where the same company had a northern range. Flood knew
the foreman, Wade Scholar, who reported having been waterbound over a
week already with no prospect of crossing without swimming. Scholar
knew the country thoroughly, and had decided to lie over until the
river was fordable at Forty Islands, as it was much the easiest
crossing on the North Platte, though there was a wagon ferry at Fort
Laramie. He returned with Flood to our camp, and the two talked over
the prospect of swimming it on the morrow.

“Let’s send the wagons up to the ferry in the morning,” said Flood,
“and swim the herds. If you wait until this river falls, you are
liable to have an experience like we had on the South Canadian,--lost
three days and bogged over a hundred cattle. When one of these sandy
rivers has had a big freshet, look out for quicksands; but you know
that as well as I do. Why, we’ve swum over half a dozen rivers
already, and I’d much rather swim this one than attempt to ford it
just after it has fallen. We can double our outfits and be safely
across before noon. I’ve got nearly a thousand miles yet to make, and
have just _got_ to get over. Think it over to-night, and have your
wagon ready to start with ours.”

Scholar rode away without giving our foreman any definite answer as to
what he would do, though earlier in the evening he had offered to
throw his herd well out of the way at the ford, and lend us any
assistance at his command. But when it came to the question of
crossing his own herd, he seemed to dread the idea of swimming the
river, and could not be induced to say what he would do, but said that
we were welcome to the lead. The next morning Flood and I accompanied
our wagon up to his camp, when it was plainly evident that he did not
intend to send his wagon with ours, and McCann started on alone,
though our foreman renewed his efforts to convince Scholar of the
feasibility of swimming the herds. Their cattle were thrown well away
from the ford, and Scholar assured us that his outfit would be on hand
whenever we were ready to cross, and even invited all hands of us to
come to his wagon for dinner. When returning to our herd, Flood told
me that Scholar was considered one of the best foremen on the trail,
and why he should refuse to swim his cattle was unexplainable. He must
have time to burn, but that didn’t seem reasonable, for the earlier
through cattle were turned loose on their winter range the better. We
were in no hurry to cross, as our wagon would be gone all day, and it
was nearly high noon when we trailed up to the ford.

With the addition to our force of Scholar and nine or ten of his men,
we had an abundance of help, and put the cattle into the water
opposite two islands, our saddle horses in the lead as usual. There
was no swimming water between the south shore and the first island,
though it wet our saddle skirts for some considerable distance, this
channel being nearly two hundred yards wide. Most of our outfit took
the water, while Scholar’s men fed our herd in from the south bank, a
number of their men coming over as far as the first island. The second
island lay down the stream some little distance; and as we pushed the
cattle off the first one we were in swimming water in no time, but the
saddle horses were already landing on the second island, and our lead
cattle struck out, and, breasting the water, swam as proudly as swans.
The middle channel was nearly a hundred yards wide, the greater
portion of which was swimming, though the last channel was much wider.
But our saddle horses had already taken it, and when within fifty
yards of the farther shore, struck solid footing. With our own outfit
we crowded the leaders to keep the chain of cattle unbroken, and
before Honeyman could hustle his horses out of the river, our lead
cattle had caught a foothold, were heading up stream and edging out
for the farther shore.

I had one of the best swimming horses in our outfit, and Flood put me
in the lead on the point. As my horse came out on the farther bank, I
am certain I never have seen a herd of cattle, before or since, which
presented a prettier sight when swimming than ours did that day. There
was fully four hundred yards of water on the angle by which we
crossed, nearly half of which was swimming, but with the two islands
which gave them a breathing spell, our Circle Dots were taking the
water as steadily as a herd leaving their bed ground. Scholar and his
men were feeding them in, while half a dozen of our men on each island
were keeping them moving. Honeyman and I pointed them out of the
river; and as they grazed away from the shore, they spread out
fan-like, many of them kicking up their heels after they left the
water in healthy enjoyment of their bath. Long before they were half
over, the usual shouting had ceased, and we simply sat in our saddles
and waited for the long train of cattle to come up and cross. Within
less than half an hour from the time our saddle horses entered the
North Platte, the tail end of our herd had landed safely on the
farther bank.

[Illustration: SWIMMING THE PLATTE]

As Honeyman and I were the only ones of our outfit on the north side
of the river during the passage, Flood called to us from across the
last channel to graze the herd until relieved, when the remainder of
the outfit returned to the south side to recover their discarded
effects and to get dinner with Scholar’s wagon. I had imitated
Honeyman, and tied my boots to my cantle strings, so that my effects
were on the right side of the river; and as far as dinner was
concerned,--well, I’d much rather miss it than swim the Platte twice
in its then stage of water. There is a difference in daring in one’s
duty and in daring out of pure venturesomeness, and if we missed our
dinners it would not be the first time, so we were quite willing to
make the sacrifice. If the Quirk family never achieve fame for daring
by field and flood, until this one of the old man’s boys brings the
family name into prominence, it will be hopelessly lost to posterity.

We allowed the cattle to graze of their own free will, and merely
turned in the sides and rear, but on reaching the second bottom of the
river, where they caught a good breeze, they lay down for their
noonday siesta, which relieved us of all work but keeping watch over
them. The saddle horses were grazing about in plain view on the first
bottom, so Honeyman and I dismounted on a little elevation overlooking
our charges. We were expecting the outfit to return promptly after
dinner was over, for it was early enough in the day to have trailed
eight or ten miles farther. It would have been no trouble to send some
one up the river to meet our wagon and pilot McCann to the herd, for
the trail left on a line due north from the river. We had been
lounging about for an hour while the cattle were resting, when our
attention was attracted by our saddle horses in the bottom. They were
looking at the ford, to which we supposed their attention had been
attracted by the swimming of the outfit, but instead only two of the
boys showed up, and on sighting us nearly a mile away, they rode
forward very leisurely. Before their arrival we recognized them by
their horses as Ash Borrowstone and Rod Wheat, and on their riding up
the latter said as he dismounted,--

“Well, they’re going to cross the other herd, and they want you to
come back and point the cattle with that famous swimming horse of
yours. You’ll learn after a while not to blow so much about your
mount, and your cutting horses, and your night horses, and your
swimming horses. I wish every horse of mine had a nigger brand on him,
and I had to ride in the wagon, when it comes to swimming these
rivers. And I’m not the only one that has a distaste for a wet
proposition, for I wouldn’t have to guess twice as to what’s the
matter with Scholar. But Flood has pounded him on the back ever since
he met him yesterday evening to swim his cattle, until it’s either
swim or say he’s afraid to,--it’s ‘Shoot, Luke, or give up the gun’
with him. Scholar’s a nice fellow, but I’ll bet my interest in goose
heaven that I know what’s the matter with him. And I’m not blaming
him, either; but I can’t understand why our boss should take such an
interest in having him swim. It’s none of his business if he swims
now, or fords a month hence, or waits until the river freezes over in
the winter and crosses on the ice. But let the big augers wrangle it
out; you noticed, Ash, that not one of Scholar’s outfit ever said a
word one way or the other, but Flood poured it into him until he
consented to swim. So fork that swimming horse of yours and wet your
big toe again in the North Platte.”

As the orders had come from the foreman, there was nothing to do but
obey. Honeyman rode as far as the river with me, where after shedding
my boots and surplus clothing and secreting them, I rode up above the
island and plunged in. I was riding the gray which I had tried in the
Rio Grande the day we received the herd, and now that I understood
handling him better, I preferred him to Nigger Boy, my night horse. We
took the first and second islands with but a blowing spell between,
and when I reached the farther shore, I turned in my saddle and saw
Honeyman wave his hat to me in congratulation. On reaching their
wagon, I found the herd was swinging around about a mile out from the
river, in order to get a straight shoot for the entrance at the ford.
I hurriedly swallowed my dinner, and as we rode out to meet the herd,
asked Flood if Scholar were not going to send his wagon up to the
ferry to cross, for there was as yet no indication of it. Flood
replied that Scholar expected to go with the wagon, as he needed some
supplies which he thought he could get from the sutler at Fort
Laramie.

Flood ordered me to take the lower point again, and I rode across the
trail and took my place when the herd came within a quarter of a mile
of the river, while the remainder of the outfit took positions near
the lead on the lower side. It was a slightly larger herd than
ours,--all steers, three-year-olds that reflected in their glossy
coats the benefits of a northern winter. As we came up to the water’s
edge, it required two of their men to force their _remuda_ into the
water, though it was much smaller than ours,--six horses to the man,
but better ones than ours, being northern wintered. The cattle were
well trail-broken, and followed the leadership of the saddle horses
nicely to the first island, but they would have balked at this second
channel, had it not been for the amount of help at hand. We lined them
out, however, and they breasted the current, and landed on the second
island. The saddle horses gave some little trouble on leaving for the
farther shore, and before they were got off, several hundred head of
cattle had landed on the island. But they handled obediently and were
soon trailing out upon terra firma, the herd following across without
a broken link in the chain. There was nothing now to do but keep the
train moving into the water on the south bank, see that they did not
congest on the islands, and that they left the river on reaching the
farther shore. When the saddle horses reached the farther bank, they
were thrown up the river and turned loose, so that the two men would
be available to hold the herd after it left the water. I had crossed
with the first lead cattle to the farther shore, and was turning them
up the river as fast as they struck solid footing on that side. But
several times I was compelled to swim back to the nearest island, and
return with large bunches which had hesitated to take the last
channel.

The two outfits were working promiscuously together, and I never knew
who was the directing spirit in the work; but when the last two or
three hundred of the tail-enders were leaving the first island for the
second, and the men working in the rear started to swim the channel,
amid the general hilarity I recognized a shout that was born of fear
and terror. A hushed silence fell over the riotous riders in the
river, and I saw those on the sand bar nearest my side rush down the
narrow island and plunge back into the middle channel. Then it dawned
on my mind in a flash that some one had lost his seat, and that
terrified cry was for help. I plunged my gray into the river and swam
to the first bar, and from thence to the scene of the trouble. Horses
and men were drifting with the current down the channel, and as I
appealed to the men I could get no answer but their blanched faces,
though it was plain in every countenance that one of our number was
under water if not drowned. There were not less than twenty horsemen
drifting in the middle channel in the hope that whoever it was would
come to the surface, and a hand could be stretched out in succor.

About two hundred yards down the river was an island near the middle
of the stream. The current carried us near it, and, on landing, I
learned that the unfortunate man was none other than Wade Scholar, the
foreman of the herd. We scattered up and down this middle island and
watched every ripple and floating bit of flotsam in the hope that he
would come to the surface, but nothing but his hat was seen. In the
disorder into which the outfits were thrown by this accident, Flood
first regained his thinking faculties, and ordered a few of us to
cross to either bank, and ride down the river and take up positions on
the other islands, from which that part of the river took its name. A
hundred conjectures were offered as to how it occurred; but no one saw
either horse or rider after sinking. A free horse would be hard to
drown, and on the nonappearance of Scholar’s mount it was concluded
that he must have become entangled in the reins or that Scholar had
clutched them in his death grip, and horse and man thus met death
together. It was believed by his own outfit that Scholar had no
intention until the last moment to risk swimming the river, but when
he saw all the others plunge into the channel, his better judgment was
overcome, and rather than remain behind and cause comment, he had
followed and lost his life.

We patrolled the river until darkness without result, the two herds in
the mean time having been so neglected that they had mixed. Our wagon
returned along the north bank early in the evening, and Flood ordered
Priest to go in and make up a guard from the two outfits and hold the
herd for the night. Some one of Scholar’s outfit went back and moved
their wagon up to the crossing, within hailing distance of ours. It
was a night of muffled conversation, and every voice of the night or
cry of waterfowl in the river sent creepy sensations over us. The long
night passed, however, and the sun rose in Sabbath benediction, for it
was Sunday, and found groups of men huddled around two wagons in
silent contemplation of what the day before had brought. A more broken
and disconsolate set of men than Scholar’s would be hard to imagine.

Flood inquired of their outfit if there was any sub-foreman, or
_segundo_ as they were generally called. It seemed there was not, but
their outfit was unanimous that the leadership should fall to a
boyhood acquaintance of Scholar’s by the name of Campbell, who was
generally addressed as “Black” Jim. Flood at once advised Campbell to
send their wagon up to Laramie and cross it, promising that we would
lie over that day and make an effort to recover the body of the
drowned foreman. Campbell accordingly started his wagon up to the
ferry, and all the remainder of the outfits, with the exception of a
few men on herd, started out in search of the drowned man. Within a
mile and a half below the ford, there were located over thirty of the
forty islands, and at the lower end of this chain of sand bars we
began and searched both shores, while three or four men swam to each
island and made a vigorous search.

The water in the river was not very clear, which called for a close
inspection; but with a force of twenty-five men in the hunt, we
covered island and shore rapidly in our search. It was about eight in
the morning, and we had already searched half of the islands, when Joe
Stallings and two of Scholar’s men swam to an island in the river
which had a growth of small cottonwoods covering it, while on the
upper end was a heavy lodgment of driftwood. John Officer, The Rebel,
and I had taken the next island above, and as we were riding the
shallows surrounding it we heard a shot in our rear that told us the
body had been found. As we turned in the direction of the signal,
Stallings was standing on a large driftwood log, and signaling. We
started back to him, partly wading and partly swimming, while from
both sides of the river men were swimming their horses for the brushy
island. Our squad, on nearing the lower bar, was compelled to swim
around the driftwood, and some twelve or fifteen men from either shore
reached the scene before us. The body was lying face upward, in about
eighteen inches of eddy water. Flood and Campbell waded out, and
taking a lariat, fastened it around his chest under the arms. Then
Flood, noticing I was riding my black, asked me to tow the body
ashore. Forcing a passage through the driftwood, I took the loose end
of the lariat and started for the north bank, the double outfit
following. On reaching the shore, the body was carried out of the
water by willing hands, and one of our outfit was sent to the wagon
for a tarpaulin to be used as a stretcher.

Meanwhile, Campbell took possession of the drowned foreman’s watch,
six-shooter, purse, and papers. The watch was as good as ruined, but
the leather holster had shrunk and securely held the gun from being
lost in the river. On the arrival of the tarpaulin, the body was laid
upon it, and four mounted men, taking the four corners of the sheet,
wrapped them on the pommels of their saddles and started for our
wagon. When the corpse had been lowered to the ground at our camp, a
look of inquiry passed from face to face which seemed to ask, “What
next?” But the inquiry was answered a moment later by Black Jim
Campbell, the friend of the dead man. Memory may have dimmed the
lesser details of that Sunday morning on the North Platte, for over
two decades have since gone, but his words and manliness have lived,
not only in my mind, but in the memory of every other survivor of
those present. “This accident,” said he in perfect composure, as he
gazed into the calm, still face of his dead friend, “will impose on me
a very sad duty. I expect to meet his mother some day. She will want
to know everything. I must tell her the truth, and I’d hate to tell
her we buried him like a dog, for she’s a Christian woman. And what
makes it all the harder, I know that this is the third boy she has
lost by drowning. Some of you may not have understood him, but among
those papers which you saw me take from his pockets was a letter from
his mother, in which she warned him to guard against just what has
happened. Situated as we are, I’m going to ask you all to help me give
him the best burial we can. No doubt it will be crude, but it will be
some solace to her to know we did the best we could.”

Every one of us was eager to lend his assistance. Within five minutes
Priest was galloping up the north bank of the river to intercept the
wagon at the ferry, a well-filled purse in his pocket with which to
secure a coffin at Fort Laramie. Flood and Campbell selected a burial
place, and with our wagon spade a grave was being dug on a near-by
grassy mound, where there were two other graves.

There was not a man among us who was hypocrite enough to attempt to
conduct a Christian burial service, but when the subject came up,
McCann said as he came down the river the evening before he noticed an
emigrant train of about thirty wagons going into camp at a grove about
five miles up the river. In a conversation which he had had with one
of the party, he learned that they expected to rest over Sunday. Their
respect for the Sabbath day caused Campbell to suggest that there
might be some one in the emigrant camp who could conduct a Christian
burial, and he at once mounted his horse and rode away to learn.

In preparing the body for its last resting-place we were badly
handicapped, but by tearing a new wagon sheet into strips about a foot
in width and wrapping the body, we gave it a humble bier in the shade
of our wagon, pending the arrival of the coffin. The features were so
ashened by having been submerged in the river for over eighteen hours,
that we wrapped the face also, as we preferred to remember him as we
had seen him the day before, strong, healthy, and buoyant. During the
interim, awaiting the return of Campbell from the emigrant camp and of
the wagon, we sat around in groups and discussed the incident. There
was a sense of guilt expressed by a number of our outfit over their
hasty decision regarding the courage of the dead man. When we
understood that two of his brothers had met a similar fate in Red
River within the past five years, every guilty thought or hasty word
spoken came back to us with tenfold weight. Priest and Campbell
returned together; the former reported having secured a coffin which
would arrive within an hour, while the latter had met in the emigrant
camp a superannuated minister who gladly volunteered his services. He
had given the old minister such data as he had, and two of the
minister’s granddaughters had expressed a willingness to assist by
singing at the burial services. Campbell had set the hour for four,
and several conveyances would be down from the emigrant camp. The
wagon arriving shortly afterward, we had barely time to lay the corpse
in the coffin before the emigrants drove up. The minister was a tall,
homely man, with a flowing beard, which the frosts of many a winter
had whitened, and as he mingled amongst us in the final preparations,
he had a kind word for every one. There were ten in his party; and
when the coffin had been carried out to the grave, the two
granddaughters of the old man opened the simple service by singing
very impressively the first three verses of the Portuguese Hymn. I had
heard the old hymn sung often before, but the impression of the last
verse rang in my ears for days afterward.

     “When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
     The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
     For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
     And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.”

As the notes of the hymn died away, there was for a few moments
profound stillness, and not a move was made by any one. The touching
words of the old hymn expressed quite vividly the disaster of the
previous day, and awakened in us many memories of home. For a time we
were silent, while eyes unused to weeping filled with tears. I do not
know how long we remained so. It may have been only for a moment, it
probably was; but I do know the silence was not broken till the aged
minister, who stood at the head of the coffin, began his discourse. We
stood with uncovered heads during the service, and when the old
minister addressed us he spoke as though he might have been holding
family worship and we had been his children. He invoked Heaven to
comfort and sustain the mother when the news of her son’s death
reached her, as she would need more than human aid in that hour; he
prayed that her faith might not falter and that she might again meet
and be with her loved ones forever in the great beyond. He then took
up the subject of life,--spoke of its brevity, its many hopes that are
never realized, and the disappointments from which no prudence or
foresight can shield us. He dwelt at some length on the strange
mingling of sunshine and shadow that seemed to belong to every life;
on the mystery everywhere, and nowhere more impressively than in
ourselves. With his long bony finger he pointed to the cold, mute form
that lay in the coffin before us, and said, “But this, my friends, is
the mystery of all mysteries.” The fact that life terminated in death,
he said, only emphasized its reality; that the death of our companion
was not an accident, though it was sudden and unexpected; that the
difficulties of life are such that it would be worse than folly in us
to try to meet them in our own strength. Death, he said, might change,
but it did not destroy; that the soul still lived and would live
forever; that death was simply the gateway out of time into eternity;
and if we were to realize the high aim of our being, we could do so by
casting our burdens on Him who was able and willing to carry them for
us. He spoke feelingly of the Great Teacher, the lowly Nazarene, who
also suffered and died, and he concluded with an eloquent description
of the blessed life, the immortality of the soul, and the resurrection
of the body. After the discourse was ended and a brief and earnest
prayer was covered, the two young girls sang the hymn, “Shall we meet
beyond the river?” The services being at an end, the coffin was
lowered into the grave.

Campbell thanked the old minister and his two granddaughters on their
taking leave, for their presence and assistance; and a number of us
boys also shook hands with the old man at parting.




CHAPTER XX

A MOONLIGHT DRIVE

The two herds were held together a second night, but after they had
grazed a few hours the next morning, the cattle were thrown together,
and the work of cutting out ours commenced. With a double outfit of
men available, about twenty men were turned into the herd to do the
cutting, the remainder holding the main herd and looking after the
cut. The morning was cool, every one worked with a vim, and in about
two hours the herds were again separated and ready for the final
trimming. Campbell did not expect to move out until he could
communicate with the head office of the company, and would go up to
Fort Laramie for that purpose during the day, hoping to be able to get
a message over the military wire. When his outfit had finished
retrimming our herd, and we had looked over his cattle for the last
time, the two outfits bade each other farewell, and our herd started
on its journey.

The unfortunate accident at the ford had depressed our feelings to
such an extent that there was an entire absence of hilarity by the
way. This morning the farewell songs generally used in parting with a
river which had defied us were omitted. The herd trailed out like an
immense serpent, and was guided and controlled by our men as if by
mutes. Long before the noon hour, we passed out of sight of Forty
Islands, and in the next few days, with the change of scene, the gloom
gradually lifted. We were bearing almost due north, and passing
through a delightful country. To our left ran a range of mountains,
while on the other hand sloped off the apparently limitless plain. The
scarcity of water was beginning to be felt, for the streams which had
not a source in the mountains on our left had dried up weeks before
our arrival. There was a gradual change of air noticeable too, for we
were rapidly gaining altitude, the heat of summer being now confined
to a few hours at noonday, while the nights were almost too cool for
our comfort.

When about three days out from the North Platte, the mountains
disappeared on our left, while on the other hand appeared a
rugged-looking country, which we knew must be the approaches of the
Black Hills. Another day’s drive brought us into the main stage road
connecting the railroad on the south with the mining camps which
nestled somewhere in those rocky hills to our right. The stage road
followed the trail some ten or fifteen miles before we parted company
with it on a dry fork of the Big Cheyenne River. There was a road
house and stage stand where these two thoroughfares separated, the one
to the mining camp of Deadwood, while ours of the Montana cattle trail
bore off for the Powder River to the northwest. At this stage stand we
learned that some twenty herds had already passed by to the northern
ranges, and that after passing the next fork of the Big Cheyenne we
should find no water until we struck the Powder River,--a stretch of
eighty miles. The keeper of the road house, a genial host, informed us
that this drouthy stretch in our front was something unusual, this
being one of the dryest summers that he had experienced since the
discovery of gold in the Black Hills.

Here was a new situation to be met, an eighty-mile dry drive; and with
our experience of a few months before at Indian Lakes fresh in our
memories, we set our house in order for the undertaking before us. It
was yet fifteen miles to the next and last water from the stage stand.
There were several dry forks of the Cheyenne beyond, but as they had
their source in the tablelands of Wyoming, we could not hope for water
in their dry bottoms. The situation was serious, with only this
encouragement: other herds had crossed this arid belt since the
streams had dried up, and our Circle Dots could walk with any herd
that ever left Texas. The wisdom of mounting us well for just such an
emergency reflected the good cow sense of our employer; and we felt
easy in regard to our mounts, though there was not a horse or a man
too many. In summing up the situation, Flood said, “We’ve got this
advantage over the Indian Lake drive: there is a good moon, and the
days are cool. We’ll make twenty-five miles a day covering this
stretch, as this herd has never been put to a test yet to see how far
they could walk in a day. They’ll have to do their sleeping at noon;
at least cut it into two shifts, and if we get any sleep we’ll have to
do the same. Let her come as she will; every day’s drive is a day
nearer the Blackfoot agency.”

We made a dry camp that night on the divide between the road house and
the last water, and the next forenoon reached the South Fork of the
Big Cheyenne. The water was not even running in it, but there were
several long pools, and we held the cattle around them for over an
hour, until every hoof had been thoroughly watered. McCann had filled
every keg and canteen in advance of the arrival of the herd, and Flood
had exercised sufficient caution, in view of what lay before us, to
buy an extra keg and a bull’s-eye lantern at the road house. After
watering, we trailed out some four or five miles and camped for noon,
but the herd were allowed to graze forward until they lay down for
their noonday rest. As the herd passed opposite the wagon, we cut a
fat two-year-old stray heifer and killed her for beef, for the inner
man must be fortified for the journey before us. After a two hours’
siesta, we threw the herd on the trail and started on our way. The
wagon and saddle horses were held in our immediate rear, for there was
no telling when or where we would make our next halt of any
consequence. We trailed and grazed the herd alternately until near
evening, when the wagon was sent on ahead about three miles to get
supper, while half the outfit went along to change mounts and catch up
horses for those remaining behind with the herd. A half hour before
the usual bedding time, the relieved men returned and took the grazing
herd, and the others rode in to the wagon for supper and a change of
mounts. While we shifted our saddles, we smelled the savory odor of
fresh beef frying.

“Listen to that good old beef talking, will you?” said Joe Stallings,
as he was bridling his horse. “McCann, I’ll take my _carne fresco_ a
trifle rare to-night, garnished with a sprig of parsley and a wee bit
of lemon.”

Before we had finished supper, Honeyman had rehooked the mules to the
wagon, while the _remuda_ was at hand to follow. Before we left the
wagon, a full moon was rising on the eastern horizon, and as we were
starting out Flood gave us these general directions: “I’m going to
take the lead with the cook’s lantern, and one of you rear men take
the new bull’s-eye. We’ll throw the herd on the trail; and between the
lead and rear light, you swing men want to ride well outside, and you
point men want to hold the lead cattle so the rear will never be more
than a half a mile behind. I’ll admit that this is somewhat of an
experiment with me, but I don’t see any good reason why she won’t
work. After the moon gets another hour high we can see a quarter of a
mile, and the cattle are so well trail broke they’ll never try to
scatter. If it works all right, we’ll never bed them short of
midnight, and that will put us ten miles farther. Let’s ride, lads.”

By the time the herd was eased back on the trail, our evening
camp-fire had been passed, while the cattle led out as if walking on a
wager. After the first mile on the trail, the men on the point were
compelled to ride in the lead if we were to hold them within the
desired half mile. The men on the other side, or the swing, were
gradually widening, until the herd must have reached fully a mile in
length; yet we swing riders were never out of sight of each other, and
it would have been impossible for any cattle to leave the herd
unnoticed. In that moonlight the trail was as plain as day, and after
an hour, Flood turned his lantern over to one of the point men, and
rode back around the herd to the rear. From my position that first
night near the middle of the swing, the lanterns both rear and forward
being always in sight, I was as much at sea as any one as to the
length of the herd, knowing the deceitfulness of distance of campfires
and other lights by night. The foreman appealed to me as he rode down
the column, to know the length of the herd, but I could give him no
more than a simple guess. I could assure him, however, that the cattle
had made no effort to drop out and leave the trail. But a short time
after he passed me I noticed a horseman galloping up the column on the
opposite side of the herd, and knew it must be the foreman. Within a
short time, some one in the lead wig-wagged his lantern; it was
answered by the light in the rear, and the next minute the old rear
song,--

     “Ip-e-la-ago, go ’long little doggie,
     You’ll make a beef-steer by-and-by,”--

reached us riders in the swing, and we knew the rear guard of cattle
was being pushed forward. The distance between the swing men gradually
narrowed in our lead, from which we could tell the leaders were being
held in, until several times cattle grazed out from the herd, due to
the checking in front. At this juncture Flood galloped around the herd
a second time, and as he passed us riding along our side, I appealed
to him to let them go in front, as it now required constant riding to
keep the cattle from leaving the trail to graze. When he passed up the
opposite side, I could distinctly hear the men on that flank making a
similar appeal, and shortly afterwards the herd loosened out and we
struck our old gait for several hours.

Trailing by moonlight was a novelty to all of us, and in the stillness
of those splendid July nights we could hear the point men chatting
across the lead in front, while well in the rear, the rattling of our
heavily loaded wagon and the whistling of the horse wrangler to his
charges reached our ears. The swing men were scattered so far apart
there was no chance for conversation amongst us, but every once in a
while a song would be started, and as it surged up and down the line,
every voice, good, bad, and indifferent, joined in. Singing is
supposed to have a soothing effect on cattle, though I will vouch for
the fact that none of our Circle Dots stopped that night to listen to
our vocal efforts. The herd was traveling so nicely that our foreman
hardly noticed the passing hours, but along about midnight the singing
ceased, and we were nodding in our saddles and wondering if they in
the lead were never going to throw off the trail, when a great
wig-wagging occurred in front, and presently we overtook The Rebel,
holding the lantern and turning the herd out of the trail. It was then
after midnight, and within another half hour we had the cattle bedded
down within a few hundred yards of the trail. One-hour guards was the
order of the night, and as soon as our wagon and saddle horses came
up, we stretched ropes and caught out our night horses. These we
either tied to the wagon wheels or picketed near at hand, and then we
sought our blankets for a few hours’ sleep. It was half past three in
the morning when our guard was called, and before the hour passed, the
first signs of day were visible in the east. But even before our watch
had ended, Flood and the last guard came to our relief, and we pushed
the sleeping cattle off the bed ground and started them grazing
forward.

Cattle will not graze freely in a heavy dew or too early in the
morning, and before the sun was high enough to dry the grass, we had
put several miles behind us. When the sun was about an hour high, the
remainder of the outfit overtook us, and shortly afterward the wagon
and saddle horses passed on up the trail, from which it was evident
that “breakfast would be served in the dining car ahead,” as the
traveled Priest aptly put it. After the sun was well up, the cattle
grazed freely for several hours; but when we sighted the _remuda_ and
our commissary some two miles in our lead, Flood ordered the herd
lined up for a count. The Rebel was always a reliable counter, and he
and the foreman now rode forward and selected the crossing of a dry
wash for the counting. On receiving their signal to come on, we
allowed the herd to graze slowly forward, but gradually pointed them
into an immense “V,” and as the point of the herd crossed the dry
arroyo, we compelled them to pass in a narrow file between the two
counters, when they again spread out fan-like and continued their
feeding.

The count confirmed the success of our driving by night, and on its
completion all but two men rode to the wagon for breakfast. By the
time the morning meal was disposed of, the herd had come up parallel
with the wagon but a mile to the westward, and as fast as fresh mounts
could be saddled, we rode away in small squads to relieve the herders
and to turn the cattle into the trail. It was but a little after eight
o’clock in the morning when the herd was again trailing out on the
Powder River trail, and we had already put over thirty miles of the
dry drive behind us, while so far neither horses nor cattle had been
put to any extra exertion. The wagon followed as usual, and for over
three hours we held the trail without a break, when sighting a divide
in our front, the foreman went back and sent the wagon around the herd
with instructions to make the noon camp well up on the divide. We
threw the herd off the trail, within a mile of this stopping place,
and allowed them to graze, while two thirds of the outfit galloped
away to the wagon.

We allowed the cattle to lie down and rest to their complete
satisfaction until the middle of the afternoon; meanwhile all hands,
with the exception of two men on herd, also lay down and slept in the
shade of the wagon. When the cattle had had several hours’ sleep, the
want of water made them restless, and they began to rise and graze
away. Then all hands were aroused and we threw them upon the trail.
The heat of the day was already over, and until the twilight of the
evening, we trailed a three-mile clip, and again threw the herd off to
graze. By our traveling and grazing gaits, we could form an
approximate idea as to the distance we had covered, and the consensus
of opinion of all was that we had already killed over half the
distance. The herd was beginning to show the want of water by evening,
but amongst our saddle horses the lack of water was more noticeable,
as a horse subsisting on grass alone weakens easily; and riding them
made them all the more gaunt. When we caught up our mounts that
evening, we had used eight horses to the man since we had left the
South Fork, and another one would be required at midnight, or whenever
we halted.

We made our drive the second night with more confidence than the one
before, but there were times when the train of cattle must have been
nearly two miles in length, yet there was never a halt as long as the
man with the lead light could see the one in the rear. We bedded the
herd about midnight; and at the first break of day, the fourth guard
with the foreman joined us on our watch and we started the cattle
again. There was a light dew the second night, and the cattle,
hungered by their night walk, went to grazing at once on the damp
grass, which would allay their thirst slightly. We allowed them to
scatter over several thousand acres, for we were anxious to graze them
well before the sun absorbed the moisture, but at the same time every
step they took was one less to the coveted Powder River.

When we had grazed the herd forward several miles, and the sun was
nearly an hour high, the wagon failed to come up, which caused our
foreman some slight uneasiness. Nearly another hour passed, and still
the wagon did not come up nor did the outfit put in an appearance.
Soon afterwards, however, Moss Strayhorn overtook us, and reported
that over forty of our saddle horses were missing, while the work
mules had been overtaken nearly five miles back on the trail. On
account of my ability as a trailer, Flood at once dispatched me to
assist Honeyman in recovering the missing horses, instructing some one
else to take the _remuda_, and the wagon and horses to follow up the
herd. By the time I arrived, most of the boys at camp had secured a
change of horses, and I caught up my _grulla_, that I was saving for
the last hard ride, for the horse hunt which confronted us. McCann,
having no fire built, gave Honeyman and myself an impromptu breakfast
and two canteens of water; but before we let the wagon get away, we
rustled a couple of cans of tomatoes and buried them in a cache near
the camp-ground, where we would have no trouble in finding them on our
return. As the wagon pulled out, we mounted our horses and rode back
down the trail.

Billy Honeyman understood horses, and at once volunteered the belief
that we would have a long ride overtaking the missing saddle stock.
The absent horses, he said, were principally the ones which had been
under saddle the day before, and as we both knew, a tired, thirsty
horse will go miles for water. He recalled, also, that while we were
asleep at noon the day before, twenty miles back on the trail, the
horses had found quite a patch of wild sorrel plant, and were foolish
over leaving it. Both of us being satisfied that this would hold them
for several hours at least, we struck a free gait for it. After we
passed the point where the mules had been overtaken, the trail of the
horses was distinct enough for us to follow in an easy canter. We saw
frequent signs that they left the trail, no doubt to graze, but only
for short distances, when they would enter it again, and keep it for
miles. Shortly before noon, as we gained the divide above our noon
camp of the day before, there about two miles distant we saw our
missing horses, feeding over an alkali flat on which grew wild sorrel
and other species of sour plants. We rounded them up, and finding none
missing, we first secured a change of mounts. The only two horses of
my mount in this portion of the _remuda_ had both been under saddle
the afternoon and night before, and were as gaunt as rails, and
Honeyman had one unused horse of his mount in the hand. So when,
taking down our ropes, we halted the horses and began riding slowly
around them, forcing them into a compact body, I had my eye on a brown
horse of Flood’s that had not had a saddle on in a week, and told
Billy to fasten to him if he got a chance. This was in violation of
all custom, but if the foreman kicked, I had a good excuse to offer.

Honeyman was left-handed and threw a rope splendidly; and as we
circled around the horses on opposite sides, on a signal from him we
whirled our lariats and made casts simultaneously. The wrangler
fastened to the brown I wanted, and my loop settled around the neck of
his unridden horse. As the band broke away from our swinging ropes, a
number of them ran afoul of my rope; but I gave the rowel to my
_grulla_, and we shook them off. When I returned to Honeyman, and we
had exchanged horses and were shifting our saddles, I complimented him
on the long throw he had made in catching the brown, and incidentally
mentioned that I had read of vaqueros in California who used a
sixty-five foot lariat. “Hell,” said Billy, in ridicule of the idea,
“there wasn’t a man ever born who could throw a sixty-five foot rope
its full length--without he threw it down a well.”

The sun was straight overhead when we started back to overtake the
herd. We struck into a little better than a five-mile gait on the
return trip, and about two o’clock sighted a band of saddle horses and
a wagon camped perhaps a mile forward and to the side of the trail. On
coming near enough, we saw at a glance it was a cow outfit, and after
driving our loose horses a good push beyond their camp, turned and
rode back to their wagon.

“We’ll give them a chance to ask us to eat,” said Billy to me, “and
if they don’t, why, they’ll miss a hell of a good chance to entertain
hungry men.”

But the foreman with the stranger wagon proved to be a Bee County
Texan, and our doubts did him an injustice, for, although dinner was
over, he invited us to dismount and ordered his cook to set out
something to eat. They had met our wagon, and McCann had insisted on
their taking a quarter of our beef, so we fared well. The outfit was
from a ranch near Miles City, Montana, and were going down to receive
a herd of cattle at Cheyenne, Wyoming. The cattle had been bought at
Ogalalla for delivery at the former point, and this wagon was going
down with their ranch outfit to take the herd on its arrival. They had
brought along about seventy-five saddle horses from the ranch, though
in buying the herd they had taken its _remuda_ of over a hundred
saddle horses. The foreman informed us that they had met our cattle
about the middle of the forenoon, nearly twenty-five miles out from
Powder River. After we had satisfied the inner man, we lost no time
getting off, as we could see a long ride ahead of us; but we had
occasion as we rode away to go through their _remuda_ to cut out a few
of our horses which had mixed, and I found I knew over a dozen of
their horses by the ranch brands, while Honeyman also recognized quite
a few. Though we felt a pride in our mounts, we had to admit that
theirs were better; for the effect of climate had transformed horses
that we had once ridden on ranches in southern Texas. It does seem
incredible, but it is a fact nevertheless, that a horse, having
reached the years of maturity in a southern climate, will grow half a
hand taller and carry two hundred pounds more flesh, when he has
undergone the rigors of several northern winters.

We halted at our night camp to change horses and to unearth our cached
tomatoes, and again set out. By then it was so late in the day that
the sun had lost its force, and on this last leg in overtaking the
herd we increased our gait steadily until the sun was scarcely an hour
high, and yet we never sighted a dust-cloud in our front. About
sundown we called a few minutes’ halt, and after eating our tomatoes
and drinking the last of our water, again pushed on. Twilight had
faded into dusk before we reached a divide which we had had in sight
for several hours, and which we had hoped to gain in time to sight the
timber on Powder River before dark. But as we put mile after mile
behind us, that divide seemed to move away like a mirage, and the
evening star had been shining for an hour before we finally reached
it, and sighted, instead of Powder’s timber, the campfire of our
outfit about five miles ahead. We fired several shots on seeing the
light, in the hope that they might hear us in camp and wait; otherwise
we knew they would start the herd with the rising of the moon.

When we finally reached camp, about nine o’clock at night, everything
was in readiness to start, the moon having risen sufficiently. Our
shooting, however, had been heard, and horses for a change were tied
to the wagon wheels, while the remainder of the _remuda_ was under
herd in charge of Rod Wheat. The runaways were thrown into the horse
herd while we bolted our suppers. Meantime McCann informed us that
Flood had ridden that afternoon to the Powder River, in order to get
the lay of the land. He had found it to be ten or twelve miles distant
from the present camp, and the water in the river barely knee deep to
a saddle horse. Beyond it was a fine valley. Before we started, Flood
rode in from the herd, and said to Honeyman, “I’m going to send the
horses and wagon ahead to-night, and you and McCann want to camp on
this side of the river, under the hill and just a few hundred yards
below the ford. Throw your saddle horses across the river, and build a
fire before you go to sleep, so we will have a beacon light to pilot
us in, in case the cattle break into a run on scenting the water. The
herd will get in a little after midnight, and after crossing, we’ll
turn her loose just for luck.”

It did me good to hear the foreman say the herd was to be turned
loose, for I had been in the saddle since three that morning, had
ridden over eighty miles, and had now ten more in sight, while
Honeyman would complete the day with over a hundred to his credit. We
let the _remuda_ take the lead in pulling out, so that the wagon mules
could be spurred to their utmost in keeping up with the loose horses.
Once they were clear of the herd, we let the cattle into the trail.
They had refused to bed down, for they were uneasy with thirst, but
the cool weather had saved them any serious suffering. We all felt
gala as the herd strung out on the trail. Before we halted again there
would be water for our dumb brutes and rest for ourselves. There was
lots of singing that night. “There’s One more River to cross,” and
“Roll, Powder, roll,” were wafted out on the night air to the coyotes
that howled on our flanks, or to the prairie dogs as they peeped from
their burrows at this weird caravan of the night, and the lights which
flickered in our front and rear must have been real Jack-o’-lanterns
or Will-o’-the-wisps to these occupants of the plain. Before we had
covered half the distance, the herd was strung-out over two miles, and
as Flood rode back to the rear every half hour or so, he showed no
inclination to check the lead and give the sore-footed rear guard a
chance to close up the column; but about an hour before midnight we
saw a light low down in our front, which gradually increased until the
treetops were distinctly visible, and we knew that our wagon had
reached the river. On sighting this beacon, the long yell went up and
down the column, and the herd walked as only long-legged, thirsty
Texas cattle can walk when they scent water. Flood called all the
swing men to the rear, and we threw out a half-circle skirmish line
covering a mile in width, so far back that only an occasional glimmer
of the lead light could be seen. The trail struck the Powder on an
angle, and when within a mile of the river, the swing cattle left the
deep-trodden paths and started for the nearest water.

The left flank of our skirmish line encountered the cattle as they
reached the river, and prevented them from drifting up the stream. The
point men abandoned the leaders when within a few hundred yards of the
river. Then the rear guard of cripples and sore-footed cattle came up,
and the two flanks of horsemen pushed them all across the river until
they met, when we turned and galloped into camp, making the night
hideous with our yelling. The longest dry drive of the trip had been
successfully made, and we all felt jubilant. We stripped bridles and
saddles from our tired horses, and unrolling our beds, were soon lost
in well-earned sleep.

The stars may have twinkled overhead, and sundry voices of the night
may have whispered to us as we lay down to sleep, but we were too
tired for poetry or sentiment that night.




CHAPTER XXI

THE YELLOWSTONE

The tramping of our _remuda_ as they came trotting up to the wagon the
next morning, and Honeyman’s calling, “Horses, horses,” brought us to
the realization that another day had dawned with its duty. McCann had
stretched the ropes of our corral, for Flood was as dead to the world
as any of us were, but the tramping of over a hundred and forty horses
and mules, as they crowded inside the ropes, brought him into action
as well as the rest of us. We had had a good five hours’ sleep, while
our mounts had been transformed from gaunt animals to round-barreled
saddle horses,--that fought and struggled amongst themselves or
artfully dodged the lariat loops which were being cast after them.
Honeyman reported the herd quietly grazing across the river, and after
securing our mounts for the morning, we breakfasted before looking
after the cattle. It took us less than an hour to round up and count
the cattle, and turn them loose again under herd to graze. Those of us
not on herd returned to the wagon, and our foreman instructed McCann
to make a two hours’ drive down the river and camp for noon, as he
proposed only to graze the herd that morning. After seeing the wagon
safely beyond the rocky crossing, we hunted up a good bathing pool and
disported ourselves for half an hour, taking a much needed bath. There
were trails on either side of the Powder, and as our course was
henceforth to the northwest, we remained on the west side and grazed
or trailed down it. It was a beautiful stream of water, having its
source in the Big Horn Mountains, frequently visible on our left. For
the next four or five days we had easy work. There were range cattle
through that section, but fearful of Texas fever, their owners gave
the Powder River a wide berth. With the exception of holding the herd
at night, our duties were light. We caught fish and killed grouse; and
the respite seemed like a holiday after our experience of the past few
days. During the evening of the second day after reaching the Powder,
we crossed the Crazy Woman, a clear mountainous fork of the former
river, and nearly as large as the parent stream. Once or twice we
encountered range riders, and learned that the Crazy Woman was a stock
country, a number of beef ranches being located on it, stocked with
Texas cattle.

Somewhere near or about the Montana line, we took a left-hand trail.
Flood had ridden it out until he had satisfied himself that it led
over to the Tongue River and the country beyond. While large trails
followed on down the Powder, their direction was wrong for us, as they
led towards the Bad Lands and the lower Yellowstone country. On the
second day out, after taking the left-hand trail, we encountered some
rough country in passing across a saddle in a range of hills forming
the divide between the Powder and Tongue rivers. We were nearly a
whole day crossing it, but had a well-used trail to follow, and down
in the foothills made camp that night on a creek which emptied into
the Tongue. The roughness of the trail was well compensated for,
however, as it was a paradise of grass and water. We reached the
Tongue River the next afternoon, and found it a similar stream to the
Powder,--clear as crystal, swift, and with a rocky bottom. As these
were but minor rivers, we encountered no trouble in crossing them, the
greatest danger being to our wagon. On the Tongue we met range riders
again, and from them we learned that this trail, which crossed the
Yellowstone at Frenchman’s Ford, was the one in use by herds bound for
the Musselshell and remoter points on the upper Missouri. From one
rider we learned that the first herd of the present season which went
through on this route were cattle wintered on the Niobrara in western
Nebraska, whose destination was Alberta in the British possessions.
This herd outclassed us in penetrating northward, though in distance
they had not traveled half as far as our Circle Dots.

After following the Tongue River several days and coming out on that
immense plain tributary to the Yellowstone, the trail turned to the
northwest, gave us a short day’s drive to the Rosebud River, and after
following it a few miles, bore off again on the same quarter. In our
rear hung the mountains with their sentinel peaks, while in our front
stretched the valley tributary to the Yellowstone, in extent, itself,
an inland empire. The month was August, and, with the exception of
cool nights, no complaint could be made, for that rarefied atmosphere
was a tonic to man and beast, and there was pleasure in the primitive
freshness of the country which rolled away on every hand. On leaving
the Rosebud, two days’ travel brought us to the east fork of Sweet
Grass, an insignificant stream, with a swift current and rocky
crossings. In the first two hours after reaching it, we must have
crossed it half a dozen times, following the grassy bottoms, which
shifted from one bank to the other. When we were full forty miles
distant from Frenchman’s Ford on the Yellowstone, the wagon, in
crossing Sweet Grass, went down a sidling bank into the bottom of the
creek, the left hind wheel collided with a boulder in the water,
dishing it, and every spoke in the wheel snapped off at the shoulder
in the felloe. McCann never noticed it, but poured the whip into the
mules, and when he pulled out on the opposite bank left the felloe of
his wheel in the creek behind. The herd was in the lead at the time,
and when Honeyman overtook us and reported the accident, we threw the
herd off to graze, and over half the outfit returned to the wagon.

When we reached the scene, McCann had recovered the felloe, but every
spoke in the hub was hopelessly ruined. Flood took in the situation at
a glance. He ordered the wagon unloaded and the reach lengthened, took
the axe, and, with The Rebel, went back about a mile to a thicket of
lodge poles which we had passed higher up the creek. While the rest of
us unloaded the wagon, McCann, who was swearing by both note and
rhyme, unearthed his saddle from amongst the other plunder and cinched
it on his nigh wheeler. We had the wagon unloaded and had reloaded
some of the heaviest of the plunder in the front end of the wagon box,
by the time our foreman and Priest returned, dragging from their
pommels a thirty-foot pole as perfect as the mast of a yacht. We
knocked off all the spokes not already broken at the hub of the ruined
wheel, and after jacking up the hind axle, attached the “crutch.” By
cutting a half notch in the larger end of the pole, so that it fitted
over the front axle, lashing it there securely, and allowing the other
end to trail behind on the ground, we devised a support on which the
hub of the broken wheel rested, almost at its normal height. There was
sufficient spring to the pole to obviate any jolt or jar, while the
rearrangement we had effected in distributing the load would relieve
it of any serious burden. We took a rope from the coupling pole of the
wagon and loosely noosed it over the crutch, which allowed leeway in
turning, but prevented the hub from slipping off the support on a
short turn to the left. Then we lashed the tire and felloe to the
front end of the wagon, and with the loss of but a couple of hours our
commissary was again on the move.

The trail followed the Sweet Grass down to the Yellowstone; and until
we reached it, whenever there were creeks to ford or extra pulls on
hills, half a dozen of us would drop back and lend a hand from our
saddle pommels. The gradual decline of the country to the river was in
our favor at present, and we should reach the ford in two days at the
farthest, where we hoped to find a wheelwright. In case we did not,
our foreman thought he could effect a trade for a serviceable wagon,
as ours was a new one and the best make in the market. The next day
Flood rode on ahead to Frenchman’s Ford, and late in the day returned
with the information that the Ford was quite a pretentious frontier
village of the squatter type. There was a blacksmith and a wheelwright
shop in the town, but the prospect of an exchange was discouraging, as
the wagons there were of the heavy freighting type, while ours was a
wide tread--a serious objection, as wagons manufactured for southern
trade were eight inches wider than those in use in the north, and
therefore would not track on the same road. The wheelwright had
assured Flood that the wheel could be filled in a day, with the
exception of painting, and as paint was not important, he had decided
to move up within three or four miles of the Ford and lie over a day
for repairing the wagon, and at the same time have our mules reshod.
Accordingly we moved up the next morning, and after unloading the
wagon, both box and contents, over half the outfit--the first and
second guards--accompanied the wagon into the Ford. They were to
return by noon, when the remainder of us were to have our turn in
seeing the sights of Frenchman’s Ford. The horse wrangler remained
behind with us, to accompany the other half of the outfit in the
afternoon. The herd was no trouble to hold, and after watering about
the middle of the forenoon, three of us went into camp and got dinner.
As this was the first time since starting that our cook was absent, we
rather enjoyed the opportunity to practice our culinary skill. Pride
in our ability to cook was a weakness in our craft. The work was
divided up between Joe Stallings, John Officer, and myself, Honeyman
being excused on agreeing to rustle the wood and water. Stallings
prided himself on being an artist in making coffee, and while hunting
for the coffee mill, found a bag of dried peaches.

“Say, fellows,” said Joe, “I’ll bet McCann has hauled this fruit a
thousand miles and never knew he had it amongst all this plunder. I’m
going to stew a saucepan full of it, just to show his royal nibs that
he’s been thoughtless of his boarders.”

Officer volunteered to cut and fry the meat, for we were eating stray
beef now with great regularity; and the making of the biscuits fell to
me. Honeyman soon had a fire so big that you could not have got near
it without a wet blanket on; and when my biscuits were ready for the
Dutch oven, Officer threw a bucket of water on the fire, remarking:
“Honeyman, if you was _cusi segundo_ under me, and built up such a big
fire for the chef, there would be trouble in camp. You may be a good
enough horse wrangler for a through Texas outfit, but when it comes to
playing second fiddle to a cook of my accomplishments--well, you
simply don’t know salt from wild honey. A man might as well try to
cook on a burning haystack as on a fire of your building.”

When the fire had burned down sufficiently, the cooks got their
respective utensils upon the fire; I had an ample supply of live coals
for the Dutch oven, and dinner was shortly afterwards announced as
ready. After dinner, Officer and I relieved the men on herd, but over
an hour passed before we caught sight of the first and second guards
returning from the Ford. They were men who could stay in town all day
and enjoy themselves; but, as Flood had reminded them, there were
others who were entitled to a holiday. When Bob Blades and Fox
Quarternight came to our relief on herd, they attempted to detain us
with a description of Frenchman’s Ford, but we cut all conversation
short by riding away to camp.

“We’ll just save them the trouble, and go in and see it for
ourselves,” said Officer to me, as we galloped along. We had left word
with Honeyman what horses we wanted to ride that afternoon, and lost
little time in changing mounts; then we all set out to pay our
respects to the mushroom village on the Yellowstone. Most of us had
money; and those of the outfit who had returned were clean shaven and
brought the report that a shave was two-bits and a drink the same
price. The town struck me as something new and novel, two thirds of
the habitations being of canvas. Immense quantities of buffalo hides
were drying or already baled, and waiting transportation as we
afterward learned to navigable points on the Missouri. Large bull
trains were encamped on the outskirts of the village, while many such
outfits were in town, receiving cargoes or discharging freight. The
drivers of these ox trains lounged in the streets and thronged the
saloons and gambling resorts. The population was extremely mixed, and
almost every language could be heard spoken on the streets. The men
were fine types of the pioneer,--buffalo hunters, freighters, and
other plainsmen, though hardly as picturesque in figure and costume as
a modern artist would paint them. For native coloring, there were
typical specimens of northern Indians, grunting their jargon amid the
babel of other tongues; and groups of squaws wandered through the
irregular streets in gaudy blankets and red calico. The only
civilizing element to be seen was the camp of engineers, running the
survey of the Northern Pacific railroad.

Tying our horses in a group to a hitch-rack in the rear of a saloon
called The Buffalo Bull, we entered by a rear door and lined up at the
bar for our first drink since leaving Ogalalla. Games of chance were
running in the rear for those who felt inclined to try their luck,
while in front of the bar, against the farther wall, were a number of
small tables, around which were seated the patrons of the place,
playing for the drinks. One couldn’t help being impressed with the
unrestrained freedom of the village, whose sole product seemed to be
buffalo hides. Every man in the place wore the regulation six-shooter
in his belt, and quite a number wore two. The primitive law of nature
known as self-preservation, was very evident in August of ’82 at
Frenchman’s Ford. It reminded me of the early days at home in Texas,
where, on arising in the morning, one buckled on his six-shooter as
though it were part of his dress. After a second round of drinks, we
strolled out into the front street to look up Flood and McCann, and
incidentally get a shave. We soon located McCann, who had a hunk of
dried buffalo meat, and was chipping it off and feeding it to some
Indian children whose acquaintance he seemed to be cultivating. On
sighting us, he gave the children the remainder of the jerked buffalo,
and at once placed himself at our disposal as guide to Frenchman’s
Ford. He had been all over the town that morning; knew the name of
every saloon and those of several barkeepers as well; pointed out the
bullet holes in a log building where the last shooting scrape
occurred, and otherwise showed us the sights in the village which we
might have overlooked. A barber shop? Why, certainly; and he led the
way, informing us that the wagon wheel would be filled by evening,
that the mules were already shod, and that Flood had ridden down to
the crossing to look at the ford.

Two barbers turned us out rapidly, and as we left we continued to take
in the town, strolling by pairs and drinking moderately as we went.
Flood had returned in the mean time, and seemed rather convivial and
quite willing to enjoy the enforced lay-over with us. While taking a
drink in Yellowstone Bob’s place, the foreman took occasion to call
the attention of The Rebel to a cheap lithograph of General Grant
which hung behind the bar. The two discussed the merits of the
picture, and Priest, who was an admirer of the magnanimity as well as
the military genius of Grant, spoke in reserved yet favorable terms of
the general, when Flood flippantly chided him on his eulogistic
remarks over an officer to whom he had once been surrendered. The
Rebel took the chaffing in all good humor, and when our glasses were
filled, Flood suggested to Priest that since he was such an admirer of
Grant, possibly he wished to propose a toast to the general’s health.

“You’re young, Jim,” said The Rebel, “and if you’d gone through what I
have, your views of things might be different. My admiration for the
generals on our side survived wounds, prisons, and changes of fortune;
but time has tempered my views on some things, and now I don’t enthuse
over generals when the men of the ranks who made them famous are
forgotten. Through the fortunes of war, I saluted Grant when we were
surrendered, but I wouldn’t propose a toast or take off my hat now to
any man that lives.”

During the comments of The Rebel, a stranger, who evidently overheard
them, rose from one of the tables in the place and sauntered over to
the end of the bar, an attentive listener to the succeeding
conversation. He was a younger man than Priest,--with a head of heavy
black hair reaching his shoulders, while his dress was largely of
buckskin, profusely ornamented with beadwork and fringes. He was
armed, as was every one else, and from his languid demeanor as well as
from his smart appearance, one would classify him at a passing glance
as a frontier gambler. As we turned away from the bar to an unoccupied
table, Priest waited for his change, when the stranger accosted him
with an inquiry as to where he was from. In the conversation that
ensued, the stranger, who had noticed the good-humored manner in which
The Rebel had taken the chiding of our foreman, pretending to take him
to task for some of his remarks. But in this he made a mistake. What
his friends might safely say to Priest would be treated as an insult
from a stranger. Seeing that he would not stand his chiding, the other
attempted to mollify him by proposing they have a drink together and
part friendly, to which The Rebel assented. I was pleased with the
favorable turn of affairs, for my bunkie had used some rather severe
language in resenting the remarks of the stranger, which now had the
promise of being dropped amicably.

I knew the temper of Priest, and so did Flood and Honeyman, and we
were all anxious to get him away from the stranger. So I asked our
foreman as soon as they had drunk together, to go over and tell Priest
we were waiting for him to make up a game of cards. The two were
standing at the bar in a most friendly attitude, but as they raised
their glasses to drink, the stranger, holding his at arm’s length,
said: “Here’s a toast for you: To General Grant, the ablest”--

But the toast was never finished, for Priest dashed the contents of
his glass in the stranger’s face, and calmly replacing the glass on
the bar, backed across the room towards us. When half-across, a sudden
movement on the part of the stranger caused him to halt. But it seemed
the picturesque gentleman beside the bar was only searching his
pockets for a handkerchief.

“Don’t get your hand on that gun you wear,” said The Rebel, whose
blood was up, “unless you intend to use it. But you can’t shoot a
minute too quick to suit me. What do you wear a gun for, anyhow? Let’s
see how straight you can shoot.”

As the stranger made no reply, Priest continued, “The next time you
have anything to rub in, pick your man better. The man who insults
me’ll get all that’s due him for his trouble.” Still eliciting no
response, The Rebel taunted him further, saying, “Go on and finish
your toast, you patriotic beauty. I’ll give you another: Jeff Davis
and the Southern Confederacy.”

We all rose from the table, and Flood, going over to Priest, said,
“Come along, Paul we don’t want to have any trouble here. Let’s go
across the street and have a game of California Jack.”

But The Rebel stood like a chiseled statue, ignoring the friendly
counsel of our foreman, while the stranger, after wiping the liquor
from his face and person, walked across the room and seated himself at
the table from which he had risen. A stillness as of death pervaded
the room, which was only broken by our foreman repeating his request
to Priest to come away, but the latter replied, “No; when I leave this
place it will not be done in fear of any one. When any man goes out of
his way to insult me he must take the consequences, and he can always
find me if he wants satisfaction. We’ll take another drink before we
go. Everybody in the house, come up and take a drink with Paul
Priest.”

The inmates of the place, to the number of possibly twenty, who had
been witness to what had occurred, accepted the invitation, quitting
their games and gathering around the bar. Priest took a position at
the end of the bar, where he could notice any movement on the part of
his adversary as well as the faces of his guests, and smiling on them,
said in true hospitality, “What will you have, gentlemen?” There was a
forced effort on the part of the drinkers to appear indifferent to the
situation, but with the stranger sitting sullenly in their rear and an
iron-gray man standing at the farther end of the line, hungering for
an opportunity to settle differences with six-shooters, their
indifference was an empty mockery. Some of the players returned to
their games, while others sauntered into the street, yet Priest showed
no disposition to go. After a while the stranger walked over to the
bar and called for a glass of whiskey.

The Rebel stood at the end of the bar, calmly rolling a cigarette, and
as the stranger seemed not to notice him, Priest attracted his
attention and said, “I’m just passing through here, and shall
only be in town this afternoon; so if there’s anything between us that
demands settlement, don’t hesitate to ask for it.”

The stranger drained his glass at a single gulp, and with admirable
composure replied, “If there’s anything between us, we’ll settle it in
due time, and as men usually settle such differences in this country.
I have a friend or two in town, and as soon as I see them, you will
receive notice, or you may consider the matter dropped. That’s all I
care to say at present.”

He walked away to the rear of the room, Priest joined us, and we
strolled out of the place. In the street, a grizzled, gray-bearded
man, who had drunk with him inside, approached my bunkie and said,
“You want to watch that fellow. He claims to be from the Gallatin
country, but he isn’t, for I live there. There’s a pal with him, and
they’ve got some good horses, but I know every brand on the headwaters
of the Missouri, and their horses were never bred on any of its three
forks. Don’t give him any the best of you. Keep an eye on him,
comrade.” After this warning, the old man turned into the first open
door, and we crossed over to the wheelwright’s shop; and as the wheel
would not be finished for several hours yet, we continued our survey
of the town, and our next landing was at The Buffalo Bull. On entering
we found four of our men in a game of cards at the very first table,
while Officer was reported as being in the gambling room in the rear.
The only vacant table in the bar-room was the last one in the far
corner, and calling for a deck of cards, we occupied it. I sat with my
back to the log wall of the low one-story room, while on my left and
fronting the door, Priest took a seat with Flood for his pardner,
while Honeyman fell to me. After playing a few hands, Flood suggested
that Billy go forward and exchange seats with some of our outfit, so
as to be near the door, where he could see any one that entered, while
from his position the rear door would be similarly guarded. Under this
change, Rod Wheat came back to our table and took Honeyman’s place. We
had been playing along for an hour, with people passing in and out of
the gambling room, and expected shortly to start for camp, when
Priest’s long-haired adversary came in at the front door, and, walking
through the room, passed into the gambling department.

John Officer, after winning a few dollars in the card room, was
standing alongside watching our game; and as the stranger passed by,
Priest gave him the wink, on which Officer followed the stranger and a
heavy-set companion who was with him into the rear room. We had played
only a few hands when the heavy-set man came back to the bar, took a
drink, and walked over to watch a game of cards at the second table
from the front door. Officer came back shortly afterward, and
whispered to us that there were four of them to look out for, as he
had seen them conferring together. Priest seemed the least concerned
of any of us, but I noticed he eased the holster on his belt forward,
where it would be ready to his hand. We had called for a round of
drinks, Officer taking one with us, when two men came out of the
gambling hell, and halting at the bar, pretended to divide some money
which they wished to have it appear they had won in the card room.
Their conversation was loud and intended to attract attention, but
Officer gave us the wink, and their ruse was perfectly understood.
After taking a drink and attracting as much attention as possible over
the division of the money, they separated, but remained in the room.

I was dealing the cards a few minutes later, when the long-haired man
emerged from the gambling hell, and imitating the maudlin, sauntered
up to the bar and asked for a drink. After being served, he walked
about halfway to the door, then whirling suddenly, stepped to the end
of the bar, placed his hands upon it, sprang up and stood upright on
it. He whipped out two six-shooters, let loose a yell which caused a
commotion throughout the room, and walked very deliberately the length
of the counter, his attention centred upon the occupants of our table.
Not attracting the notice he expected in our quarter, he turned, and
slowly repaced the bar, hurling anathemas on Texas and Texans in
general.

I saw The Rebel’s eyes, steeled to intensity, meet Flood’s across the
table, and in that glance of our foreman he evidently read approval,
for he rose rigidly with the stealth of a tiger, and for the first
time that day his hand went to the handle of his six-shooter. One of
the two pretended winners at cards saw the movement in our quarter,
and sang out as a warning, “Cuidado, mucho.” The man on the bar
whirled on the word of warning, and blazed away with his two guns into
our corner. I had risen at the word and was pinned against the wall,
where on the first fire a rain of dirt fell from the chinking in the
wall over my head. As soon as the others sprang away from the table, I
kicked it over in clearing myself, and came to my feet just as The
Rebel fired his second shot. I had the satisfaction of seeing his
long-haired adversary reel backwards, firing his guns into the ceiling
as he went, and in falling crash heavily into the glassware on the
back bar.

The smoke which filled the room left nothing visible for a few
moments. Meantime Priest, satisfied that his aim had gone true,
turned, passed through the rear room, gained his horse, and was
galloping away to the herd before any semblance of order was restored.
As the smoke cleared away and we passed forward through the room, John
Officer had one of the three pardners standing with his hands to the
wall, while his six-shooter lay on the floor under Officer’s foot. He
had made but one shot into our corner, when the muzzle of a gun was
pushed against his ear with an imperative order to drop his arms,
which he had promptly done. The two others, who had been under the
surveillance of our men at the forward table, never made a move or
offered to bring a gun into action, and after the killing of their
picturesque pardner passed together out of the house. There had been
five or six shots fired into our corner, but the first double shot,
fired when three of us were still sitting, went too high for effect,
while the remainder were scattering, though Rod Wheat got a bullet
through his coat, close enough to burn the skin on his shoulder.

The dead man was laid out on the floor of the saloon; and through
curiosity, for it could hardly have been much of a novelty to the
inhabitants of Frenchman’s Ford, hundreds came to gaze on the corpse
and examine the wounds, one above the other through his vitals, either
of which would have been fatal. Officer’s prisoner admitted that the
dead man was his pardner, and offered to remove the corpse if
released. On turning his six-shooter over to the proprietor of the
place, he was given his freedom to depart and look up his friends.

As it was after sundown, and our wheel was refilled and ready, we set
out for camp, where we found that Priest had taken a fresh horse and
started back over the trail. No one felt any uneasiness over his
absence, for he had demonstrated his ability to protect himself; and
truth compels me to say that the outfit to a man was proud of him.
Honeyman was substituted on our guard in The Rebel’s place, sleeping
with me that night, and after we were in bed, Billy said in his
enthusiasm: “If that horse thief had not relied on pot shooting, and
had been modest and only used one gun, he might have hurt some of you
fellows. But when I saw old Paul raising his gun to a level as he
shot, I knew he was cool and steady, and I’d rather died right there
than see him fail to get his man.”




CHAPTER XXII

OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE

By early dawn the next morning we were astir at our last camp on Sweet
Grass, and before the horses were brought in, we had put on the wagon
box and reloaded our effects. The rainy season having ended in the
mountain regions, the stage of water in the Yellowstone would present
no difficulties in fording, and our foreman was anxious to make a long
drive that day so as to make up for our enforced lay-over. We had
breakfasted by the time the horses were corralled, and when we
overtook the grazing herd, the cattle were within a mile of the river.
Flood had looked over the ford the day before, and took one point of
the herd as we went down into the crossing. The water was quite chilly
to the cattle, though the horses in the lead paid little attention to
it, the water in no place being over three feet deep. A number of
spectators had come up from Frenchman’s to watch the herd ford, the
crossing being about half a mile above the village. No one made any
inquiry for Priest, though ample opportunity was given them to see
that the gray-haired man was missing. After the herd had crossed, a
number of us lent a rope in assisting the wagon over, and when we
reached the farther bank, we waved our hats to the group on the south
side in farewell to them and to Frenchman’s Ford.

The trail on leaving the river led up Many Berries, one of the
tributaries of the Yellowstone putting in from the north side; and we
paralleled it mile after mile. It was with difficulty that riders
could be kept on the right hand side of the herd, for along it grew
endless quantities of a species of upland huckleberry, and, breaking
off branches, we feasted as we rode along. The grade up this creek was
quite pronounced, for before night the channel of the creek had
narrowed to several yards in width. On the second day out the wild
fruit disappeared early in the morning, and after a continued gradual
climb, we made camp that night on the summit of the divide within
plain sight of the Musselshell River. From this divide there was a
splendid view of the surrounding country as far as eye could see. To
our right, as we neared the summit, we could see in that rarefied
atmosphere the buttes, like sentinels on duty, as they dotted the
immense tableland between the Yellowstone and the mother Missouri,
while on our left lay a thousand hills, untenanted save by the deer,
elk, and a remnant of buffalo. Another half day’s drive brought us to
the shoals on the Musselshell, about twelve miles above the entrance
of Flatwillow Creek. It was one of the easiest crossings we had
encountered in many a day, considering the size of the river and the
flow of water. Long before the advent of the white man, these shoals
had been in use for generations by the immense herds of buffalo and
elk migrating back and forth between their summer ranges and winter
pasturage, as the converging game trails on either side indicated. It
was also an old Indian ford. After crossing and resuming our afternoon
drive, the cattle trail ran within a mile of the river, and had it not
been for the herd of northern wintered cattle, and possibly others,
which had passed along a month or more in advance of us, it would have
been hard to determine which were cattle and which were game trails,
the country being literally cut up with these pathways.

When within a few miles of the Flatwillow, the trail bore off to the
northwest, and we camped that night some distance below the junction
of the former creek with the Big Box Elder. Before our watch had been
on guard twenty minutes that night, we heard some one whistling in the
distance; and as whoever it was refused to come any nearer the herd, a
thought struck me, and I rode out into the darkness and hailed him.

“Is that you, Tom?” came the question to my challenge, and the next
minute I was wringing the hand of my old bunkie, The Rebel. I assured
him that the coast was clear, and that no inquiry had been even made
for him the following morning, when crossing the Yellowstone, by any
of the inhabitants of Frenchman’s Ford. He returned with me to the bed
ground, and meeting Honeyman as he circled around, was almost unhorsed
by the latter’s warmth of reception, and Officer’s delight on meeting
my bunkie was none the less demonstrative. For nearly half an hour he
rode around with one or the other of us, and as we knew he had had
little if any sleep for the last three nights, all of us begged him to
go on into camp and go to sleep. But the old rascal loafed around with
us on guard, seemingly delighted with our company and reluctant to
leave. Finally Honeyman and I prevailed on him to go to the wagon, but
before leaving us he said, “Why, I’ve been in sight of the herd for
the last day and night, but I’m getting a little tired of lying out
with the dry cattle these cool nights, and living on huckleberries and
grouse, so I thought I’d just ride in and get a fresh horse and a
square meal once more. But if Flood says stay, you’ll see me at my old
place on the point to-morrow.”

Had the owner of the herd suddenly appeared in camp, he could not have
received such an ovation as was extended Priest the next morning when
his presence became known. From the cook to the foreman, they gathered
around our bed, where The Rebel sat up in the blankets and held an
informal reception; and two hours afterward he was riding on the right
point of the herd as if nothing had happened. We had a fair trail up
Big Box Elder, and for the following few days, or until the source of
that creek was reached, met nothing to check our course. Our foreman
had been riding in advance of the herd, and after returning to us at
noon one day, reported that the trail turned a due northward course
towards the Missouri, and all herds had seemingly taken it. As we had
to touch at Fort Benton, which was almost due westward, he had
concluded to quit the trail and try to intercept the military road
running from Fort Maginnis to Benton. Maginnis lay to the south of us,
and our foreman hoped to strike the military road at an angle on as
near a westward course as possible.

Accordingly after dinner he set out to look out the country, and took
me with him. We bore off toward the Missouri, and within half an
hour’s ride after leaving the trail we saw some loose horses about
three miles distant, down in a little valley through which flowed a
creek towards the Musselshell. We reined in and watched the horses
several minutes, when we both agreed from their movements that they
were hobbled. We scouted out some five or six miles, finding the
country somewhat rough, but passable for a herd and wagon. Flood was
anxious to investigate those hobbled horses, for it bespoke the camp
of some one in the immediate vicinity. On our return, the horses were
still in view, and with no little difficulty, we descended from the
mesa into the valley and reached them. To our agreeable surprise, one
of them was wearing a bell, while nearly half of them were hobbled,
there being twelve head, the greater portion of which looked like pack
horses. Supposing the camp, if there was one, must be up in the hills,
we followed a bridle path up stream in search of it, and soon came
upon four men, placer mining on the banks of the creek.

When we made our errand known, one of these placer miners, an elderly
man who seemed familiar with the country, expressed some doubts about
our leaving the trail, though he said there was a bridle path with
which he was acquainted across to the military road. Flood at once
offered to pay him well if he would pilot us across to the road, or
near enough so that we could find our way. The old placerman
hesitated, and after consulting among his partners, asked how we were
fixed for provision, explaining that they wished to remain a month or
so longer, and that game had been scared away from the immediate
vicinity, until it had become hard to secure meat. But he found Flood
ready in that quarter, for he immediately offered to kill a beef and
load down any two pack horses they had, if he would consent to pilot
us over to within striking distance of the Fort Benton road. The offer
was immediately accepted, and I was dispatched to drive in their
horses. Two of the placer miners accompanied us back to the trail,
both riding good saddle horses and leading two others under pack
saddles. We overtook the herd within a mile of the point where the
trail was to be abandoned, and after sending the wagon ahead, our
foreman asked our guests to pick out any cow or steer in the herd.
When they declined, he cut out a fat stray cow which had come into the
herd down on the North Platte, had her driven in after the wagon,
killed and quartered. When we had laid the quarters on convenient
rocks to cool and harden during the night, our future pilot timidly
inquired what we proposed to do with the hide, and on being informed
that he was welcome to it, seemed delighted, remarking, as I helped
him to stake it out where it would dry, that “rawhide was mighty handy
repairing pack saddles.”

Our visitors interested us, for it is probable that not a man in our
outfit had ever seen a miner before, though we had read of the life
and were deeply interested in everything they did or said. They were
very plain men and of simple manners, but we had great difficulty in
getting them to talk. After supper, while idling away a couple of
hours around our camp-fire, the outfit told stories, in the hope that
our guests would become reminiscent and give us some insight into
their experiences, Bob Blades leading off.

“I was in a cow town once up on the head of the Chisholm trail at a
time when a church fair was being pulled off. There were lots of old
long-horn cowmen living in the town, who owned cattle in that Cherokee
Strip that Officer is always talking about. Well, there’s lots of
folks up there that think a nigger is as good as anybody else, and
when you find such people set in their ways, it’s best not to argue
matters with them, but lay low and let on you think that way too.
That’s the way those old Texas cowmen acted about it.

“Well, at this church fair there was to be voted a prize of a nice
baby wagon, which had been donated by some merchant, to the prettiest
baby under a year old. Colonel Bob Zellers was in town at the time,
stopping at a hotel where the darky cook was a man who had once worked
for him on the trail. ‘Frog,’ the darky, had married when he quit the
colonel’s service, and at the time of this fair there was a pickaninny
in his family about a year old, and nearly the color of a new saddle.
A few of these old cowmen got funny and thought it would be a good
joke to have Frog enter his baby at the fair, and Colonel Bob being
the leader in the movement, he had no trouble convincing the darky
that that baby wagon was his, if he would only enter his youngster.
Frog thought the world of the old Colonel, and the latter assured him
that he would vote for his baby while he had a dollar or a cow left.
The result was, Frog gave his enthusiastic consent, and the Colonel
agreed to enter the pickaninny in the contest.

“Well, the Colonel attended to the entering of the baby’s name, and
then on the dead quiet went around and rustled up every cowman and
puncher in town, and had them promise to be on hand, to vote for the
prettiest baby at ten cents a throw. The fair was being held in the
largest hall in town, and at the appointed hour we were all on hand,
as well as Frog and his wife and baby. There were about a dozen
entries, and only one blackbird in the covey. The list of contestants
was read by the minister, and as each name was announced, there was a
vigorous clapping of hands all over the house by the friends of each
baby. But when the name of Miss Precilla June Jones was announced, the
Texas contingent made their presence known by such a deafening
outburst of applause that old Frog grinned from ear to ear--he saw
himself right then pushing that baby wagon.

“Well, on the first heat we voted sparingly, and as the vote was read
out about every quarter hour, Precilla June Jones on the first turn
was fourth in the race. On the second report, our favorite had moved
up to third place, after which the weaker ones were deserted, and all
the voting blood was centered on the two white leaders, with our
blackbird a close third. We were behaving ourselves nicely, and our
money was welcome if we weren’t. When the third vote was announced,
Frog’s pickaninny was second in the race, with her nose lapped on the
flank of the leader. Then those who thought a darky was as good as any
one else got on the prod in a mild form, and you could hear them
voicing their opinions all over the hall. We heard it all, but sat as
nice as pie and never said a word.

“When the final vote was called for, we knew it was the home stretch,
and every rascal of us got his weasel skin out and sweetened the
voting on Miss Precilla June Jones. Some of those old long-horns
didn’t think any more of a twenty-dollar gold piece than I do of a
white chip, especially when there was a chance to give those good
people a dose of their own medicine. I don’t know how many votes we
cast on the last whirl, but we swamped all opposition, and our
favorite cantered under the wire an easy winner. Then you should have
heard the kicking, but we kept still and inwardly chuckled. The
minister announced the winner, and some of those good people didn’t
have any better manners than to hiss and cut up ugly. We stayed until
Frog got the new baby wagon in his clutches, when we dropped out
casually and met at the Ranch saloon, where Colonel Zellers had taken
possession behind the bar and was dispensing hospitality in proper
celebration of his victory.”

Much to our disappointment, our guests remained silent and showed no
disposition to talk, except to answer civil questions which Flood
asked regarding the trail crossing on the Missouri, and what that
river was like in the vicinity of old Fort Benton. When the questions
had been answered, they again relapsed into silence. The fire was
replenished, and after the conversation had touched on several
subjects, Joe Stallings took his turn with a yarn.

“When my folks first came to Texas,” said Joe, “they settled in Ellis
County, near Waxahachie. My father was one of the pioneers in that
county at a time when his nearest neighbor lived ten miles from his
front gate. But after the war, when the country had settled up, these
old pioneers naturally hung together and visited and chummed with one
another in preference to the new settlers. One spring when I was about
fifteen years old, one of those old pioneer neighbors of ours died,
and my father decided that he would go to the funeral or burst a hame
string. If any of you know anything about that black-waxy, hog-wallow
land in Ellis County, you know that when it gets muddy in the spring a
wagon wheel will fill solid with waxy mud. So at the time of this
funeral it was impossible to go on the road with any kind of a
vehicle, and my father had to go on horseback. He was an old man at
the time and didn’t like the idea, but it was either go on horseback
or stay at home, and go he would.

“They raise good horses in Ellis County, and my father had raised some
of the best of them--brought the stock from Tennessee. He liked good
blood in a horse, and was always opposed to racing, but he raised some
boys who weren’t. I had a number of brothers older than myself, and
they took a special pride in trying every colt we raised, to see what
he amounted to in speed. Of course this had to be done away from home;
but that was easy, for these older brothers thought nothing of riding
twenty miles to a tournament, barbecue, or round-up, and when away
from home they always tried their horses with the best in the country.
At the time of this funeral, we had a crackerjack five year old
chestnut sorrel gelding that could show his heels to any horse in the
country. He was a peach,--you could turn him on a saddle blanket and
jump him fifteen feet, and that cow never lived that he couldn’t cut.

“So the day of the funeral my father was in a quandary as to which
horse to ride, but when he appealed to his boys, they recommended the
best on the ranch, which was the chestnut gelding. My old man had some
doubts as to his ability to ride the horse, for he hadn’t been on a
horse’s back for years; but my brothers assured him that the chestnut
was as obedient as a kitten, and that before he had been on the road
an hour the mud would take all the frisk and frolic out of him. There
was nearly fifteen miles to go, and they assured him that he would
never get there if he rode any other horse. Well, at last he consented
to ride the gelding, and the horse was made ready, properly groomed,
his tail tied up, and saddled and led up to the block. It took every
member of the family to get my father rigged to start, but at last he
announced himself as ready. Two of my brothers held the horse until he
found the off stirrup, and then they turned him loose. The chestnut
danced off a few rods, and settled down into a steady clip that was
good for five or six miles an hour.

“My father reached the house in good time for the funeral services,
but when the procession started for the burial ground, the horse was
somewhat restless and impatient from the cold. There was quite a
string of wagons and other vehicles from the immediate neighborhood
which had braved the mud, and the line was nearly half a mile in
length between the house and the graveyard. There were also possibly a
hundred men on horseback bringing up the rear of the procession; and
the chestnut, not understanding the solemnity of the occasion, was
right on his mettle. Surrounded as he was by other horses, he kept his
weather eye open for a race, for in coming home from dances and
picnics with my brothers, he had often been tried in short dashes of
half a mile or so. In order to get him out of the crowd of horses, my
father dropped back with another pioneer to the extreme rear of the
funeral line.

“When the procession was nearing the cemetery, a number of horsemen,
who were late, galloped up in the rear. The chestnut, supposing a race
was on, took the bit in his teeth and tore down past the procession as
though it was a free-for-all Texas sweepstakes, the old man’s white
beard whipping the breeze in his endeavor to hold in the horse. Nor
did he check him until the head of the procession had been passed.
When my father returned home that night, there was a family round-up,
for he was smoking under the collar. Of course, my brothers denied
having ever run the horse, and my mother took their part; but the old
gent knew a thing or two about horses, and shortly afterwards he got
even with his boys by selling the chestnut, which broke their hearts
properly.”

The elder of the two placer miners, a long-whiskered, pock-marked man,
arose, and after walking out from the fire some distance returned and
called our attention to signs in the sky, which he assured us were a
sure indication of a change in the weather. But we were more anxious
that he should talk about something else, for we were in the habit of
taking the weather just as it came. When neither one showed any
disposition to talk, Flood said to them,--

“It’s bedtime with us, and one of you can sleep with me, while I’ve
fixed up an extra bed for the other. I generally get out about
daybreak, but if that’s too early for you, don’t let my getting up
disturb you. And you fourth guard men, let the cattle off the bed
ground on a due westerly course and point them up the divide. Now get
to bed, everybody, for we want to make a big drive tomorrow.”




CHAPTER XXIII

DELIVERY

I shall never forget the next morning,--August 26, 1882. As we of the
third guard were relieved, about two hours before dawn, the wind
veered around to the northwest, and a mist which had been falling
during the fore part of our watch changed to soft flakes of snow. As
soon as we were relieved, we skurried back to our blankets, drew the
tarpaulin over our heads, and slept until dawn, when on being awakened
by the foreman, we found a wet, slushy snow some two inches in depth
on the ground. Several of the boys in the outfit declared it was the
first snowfall they had ever seen, and I had but a slight recollection
of having witnessed one in early boyhood in our old Georgia home. We
gathered around the fire like a lot of frozen children, and our only
solace was that our drive was nearing an end. The two placermen paid
little heed to the raw morning, and our pilot assured us that this was
but the squaw winter which always preceded Indian summer.

We made our customary early start, and while saddling up that morning,
Flood and the two placer miners packed the beef on their two pack
horses, first cutting off enough to last us several days. The cattle,
when we overtook them, presented a sorry spectacle, apparently being
as cold as we were, although we had our last stitch of clothing on,
including our slickers, belted with a horse hobble. But when Flood and
our guide rode past the herd, I noticed our pilot’s coat was not even
buttoned, nor was the thin cotton shirt which he wore, but his chest
was exposed to that raw morning air which chilled the very marrow in
our bones. Our foreman and guide kept in sight in the lead, the herd
traveling briskly up the long mountain divide, and about the middle of
the forenoon the sun came out warm and the snow began to melt. Within
an hour after starting that morning, Quince Forrest, who was riding in
front of me in the swing, dismounted, and picking out of the snow a
brave little flower which looked something like a pansy, dropped back
to me and said, “My weather gauge says it’s eighty-eight degrees below
freezo. But I want you to smell this posy, Quirk, and tell me on the
dead thieving, do you ever expect to see your sunny southern home
again? And did you notice the pock-marked colonel, baring his brisket
to the morning breeze?”

Two hours after the sun came out, the snow had disappeared, and the
cattle fell to and grazed until long after the noon hour. Our pilot
led us up the divide between the Missouri and the headwaters of the
Musselshell during the afternoon, weaving in and out around the heads
of creeks putting into either river; and towards evening we crossed
quite a creek running towards the Missouri, where we secured ample
water for the herd. We made a late camp that night, and our guide
assured us that another half day’s drive would put us on the Judith
River, where we would intercept the Fort Benton road.

The following morning our guide led us for several hours up a gradual
ascent to the plateau, till we reached the tableland, when he left us
to return to his own camp. Flood again took the lead, and within a
mile we turned on our regular course, which by early noon had
descended into the valley of the Judith River, and entered the Fort
Maginnis and Benton military road. Our route was now clearly defined,
and about noon on the last day of the month we sighted, beyond the
Missouri River, the flag floating over Fort Benton. We made a crossing
that afternoon below the Fort, and Flood went into the post, expecting
either to meet Lovell or to receive our final instructions regarding
the delivery.

After crossing the Missouri, we grazed the herd over to the Teton
River, a stream which paralleled the former watercourse,--the military
post being located between the two. We had encamped for the night when
Flood returned with word of a letter he had received from our employer
and an interview he had had with the commanding officer of Fort
Benton, who, it seemed, was to have a hand in the delivery of the
herd. Lovell had been detained in the final settlement of my brother
Bob’s herd at the Crow Agency by some differences regarding weights.
Under our present instructions, we were to proceed slowly to the
Blackfoot Agency, and immediately on the arrival of Lovell at Benton,
he and the commandant would follow by ambulance and overtake us. The
distance from Fort Benton to the agency was variously reported to be
from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty miles, six or
seven days’ travel for the herd at the farthest, and then good-by,
Circle Dots!

A number of officers and troopers from the post overtook us the next
morning and spent several hours with us as the herd trailed out up the
Teton. They were riding fine horses, which made our through saddle
stock look insignificant in comparison, though had they covered
twenty-four hundred miles and lived on grass as had our mounts, some
of the lustre of their glossy coats would have been absent. They
looked well, but it would have been impossible to use them or any
domestic bred horses in trail work like ours, unless a supply of grain
could be carried with us. The range country produced a horse suitable
to range needs, hardy and a good forager, which, when not overworked
under the saddle, met every requirement of his calling, as well as
being self-sustaining. Our horses, in fact, were in better flesh when
we crossed the Missouri than they were the day we received the herd on
the Rio Grande. The spectators from the fort quitted us near the
middle of the forenoon, and we snailed on westward at our leisurely
gait.

There was a fair road up the Teton, which we followed for several days
without incident, to the forks of that river, where we turned up Muddy
Creek, the north fork of the Teton. That noon, while catching saddle
horses, dinner not being quite ready, we noticed a flurry amongst the
cattle, then almost a mile in our rear. Two men were on herd with them
as usual, grazing them forward up the creek and watering as they came,
when suddenly the cattle in the lead came tearing out of the creek,
and on reaching open ground turned at bay. After several bunches had
seemingly taken fright at the same object, we noticed Bull Durham, who
was on herd, ride through the cattle to the scene of disturbance. We
saw him, on nearing the spot, lie down on the neck of his horse, watch
intently for several minutes, then quietly drop back to the rear,
circle the herd, and ride for the wagon. We had been observing the
proceedings closely, though from a distance, for some time. Daylight
was evidently all that saved us from a stampede, and as Bull Durham
galloped up he was almost breathless. He informed us that an old
cinnamon bear and two cubs were berrying along the creek, and had
taken the right of way. Then there was a hustling and borrowing of
cartridges, while saddles were cinched on to horses as though human
life depended on alacrity. We were all feeling quite gala anyhow, and
this looked like a chance for some sport. It was hard to hold the
impulsive ones in check until the others were ready. The cattle
pointed us to the location of the quarry as we rode forward. When
within a quarter of a mile, we separated into two squads, in order to
gain the rear of the bears, cut them off from the creek, and force
them into the open. The cattle held the attention of the bears until
we had gained their rear, and as we came up between them and the
creek, the old one reared up on her haunches and took a most
astonished and innocent look at us.

A single “woof” brought one of the cubs to her side, and she dropped
on all fours and lumbered off, a half dozen shots hastening her pace
in an effort to circle the horsemen who were gradually closing in. In
making this circle to gain the protection of some thickets which
skirted the creek, she was compelled to cross quite an open space, and
before she had covered the distance of fifty yards, a rain of ropes
came down on her, and she was thrown backward with no less than four
lariats fastened over her neck and fore parts. Then ensued a lively
scene, for the horses snorted and in spite of rowels refused to face
the bear. But ropes securely snubbed to pommels held them to the
quarry. Two minor circuses were meantime in progress with the two
cubs, but pressure of duty held those of us who had fastened on to the
old cinnamon. The ropes were taut and several of them were about her
throat; the horses were pulling in as many different directions, yet
the strain of all the lariats failed to choke her as we expected. At
this juncture, four of the loose men came to our rescue, and proposed
shooting the brute. We were willing enough, for though we had better
than a tail hold, we were very ready to let go. But while there were
plenty of good shots among us, our horses had now become wary, and
could not, when free from ropes, be induced to approach within twenty
yards of the bear, and they were so fidgety that accurate aim was
impossible. We who had ropes on the old bear begged the boys to get
down and take it afoot, but they were not disposed to listen to our
reasons, and blazed away from rearing horses, not one shot in ten
taking effect. There was no telling how long this random shooting
would have lasted; but one shot cut my rope two feet from the noose,
and with one rope less on her the old bear made some ugly surges, and
had not Joe Stallings had a wheeler of a horse on the rope, she would
have done somebody damage.

The Rebel was on the opposite side from Stallings and myself, and as
soon as I was freed, he called me around to him, and shifting his rope
to me, borrowed my six-shooter and joined those who were shooting.
Dismounting, he gave the reins of his horse to Flood, walked up to
within fifteen steps of mother bruin, and kneeling, emptied both
six-shooters with telling accuracy. The old bear winced at nearly
every shot, and once she made an ugly surge on the ropes, but the
three guy lines held her up to Priest’s deliberate aim. The vitality
of that cinnamon almost staggers belief, for after both six-shooters
had been emptied into her body, she floundered on the ropes with all
her former strength, although the blood was dripping and gushing from
her numerous wounds. Borrowing a third gun, Priest returned to the
fight, and as we slacked the ropes slightly, the old bear reared,
facing her antagonist. The Rebel emptied his third gun into her before
she sank, choked, bleeding, and exhausted, to the ground; and even
then no one dared to approach her, for she struck out wildly with all
fours as she slowly succumbed to the inevitable.

One of the cubs had been roped and afterwards shot at close quarters,
while the other had reached the creek and climbed a sapling which grew
on the bank, when a few shots brought him to the ground. The two cubs
were about the size of a small black bear, though the mother was a
large specimen of her species. The cubs had nice coats of soft fur,
and their hides were taken as trophies of the fight, but the robe of
the mother was a summer one and worthless. While we were skinning the
cubs, the foreman called our attention to the fact that the herd had
drifted up the creek nearly opposite the wagon. During the encounter
with the bears he was the most excited one in the outfit, and was the
man who cut my rope with his random shooting from horseback. But now
the herd recovered his attention, and he dispatched some of us to ride
around the cattle. When we met at the wagon for dinner, the excitement
was still on us, and the hunt was unanimously voted the most exciting
bit of sport and powder burning we had experienced on our trip.

Late that afternoon a forage wagon from Fort Benton passed us with
four loose ambulance mules in charge of five troopers, who were going
on ahead to establish a relay station in anticipation of the trip of
the post commandant to the Blackfoot Agency. There were to be two
relay stations between the post and the agency, and this detachment
expected to go into camp that night within forty miles of our
destination, there to await the arrival of the commanding officer and
the owner of the herd at Benton. These soldiers were out two days from
the post when they passed us, and they assured us that the ambulance
would go through from Benton to Blackfoot without a halt, except for
the changing of relay teams. The next forenoon we passed the last
relay camp, well up the Muddy, and shortly afterwards the road left
that creek, turning north by a little west, and we entered on the last
tack of our long drive. On the evening of the 6th of September, as we
were going into camp on Two Medicine Creek, within ten miles of the
agency, the ambulance overtook us, under escort of the troopers whom
we had passed at the last relay station. We had not seen Don Lovell
since June, when we passed Dodge, and it goes without saying that we
were glad to meet him again. On the arrival of the party, the cattle
had not yet been bedded, so Lovell borrowed a horse, and with Flood
took a look over the herd before darkness set in, having previously
prevailed on the commanding officer to rest an hour and have supper
before proceeding to the agency.

When they returned from inspecting the cattle, the commandant and
Lovell agreed to make the final delivery on the 8th, if it were
agreeable to the agent, and with this understanding continued their
journey. The next morning Flood rode into the agency, borrowing
McCann’s saddle and taking an extra horse with him, having left us
instructions to graze the herd all day and have them in good shape
with grass and water, in case they were inspected that evening on
their condition. Near the middle of the afternoon quite a cavalcade
rode out from the agency, including part of a company of cavalry
temporarily encamped there. The Indian agent and the commanding
officer from Benton were the authorized representatives of the
government, it seemed, as Lovell took extra pains in showing them over
the herd, frequently consulting the contract which he held, regarding
sex, age, and flesh of the cattle.

The only hitch in the inspection was over a number of sore-footed
cattle, which was unavoidable after such a long journey. But the
condition of these tender-footed animals being otherwise satisfactory,
Lovell urged the agent and commandant to call up the men for
explanations. The agent was no doubt a very nice man, and there may
have been other things that he understood better than cattle, for he
did ask a great many simple, innocent questions. Our replies, however,
might have been condensed into a few simple statements. We had, we
related, been over five months on the trail; after the first month,
tender-footed cattle began to appear from time to time in the herd, as
stony or gravelly portions of the trail were encountered,--the number
so affected at any one time varying from ten to forty head. Frequently
well-known lead cattle became tender in their feet and would drop back
to the rear, and on striking soft or sandy footing recover and resume
their position in the lead; that since starting, it was safe to say,
fully ten per cent of the entire herd had been so affected, yet we had
not lost a single head from this cause; that the general health of the
animal was never affected, and that during enforced layovers nearly
all so affected recovered. As there were not over twenty-five
sore-footed animals in the herd on our arrival, our explanation was
sufficient and the herd was accepted. There yet remained the counting
and classification, but as this would require time, it went over until
the following day. The cows had been contracted for by the head, while
the steers went on their estimated weight in dressed beef, the
contract calling for a million pounds with a ten per cent leeway over
that amount.

I was amongst the first to be interviewed by the Indian agent, and on
being excused, I made the acquaintance of one of two priests who were
with the party. He was a rosy-cheeked, well-fed old padre, who
informed me that he had been stationed among the Blackfeet for over
twenty years, and that he had labored long with the government to
assist these Indians. The cows in our herd, which were to be
distributed amongst the Indian families for domestic purposes, were
there at his earnest solicitation. I asked him if these cows would not
perish during the long winter--my recollection was still vivid of the
touch of squaw winter we had experienced some two weeks previous. But
he assured me that the winters were dry, if cold, and his people had
made some progress in the ways of civilization, and had provided
shelter and forage against the wintry weather. He informed me that
previous to his labors amongst the Blackfeet their ponies wintered
without loss on the native grasses, though he had since taught them to
make hay, and in anticipation of receiving these cows, such families
as were entitled to share in the division had amply provided for the
animals’ sustenance.

Lovell returned with the party to the agency, and we were to bring up
the herd for classification early in the morning. Flood informed us
that a beef pasture had been built that summer for the steers, while
the cows would be held under herd by the military, pending their
distribution. We spent our last night with the herd singing songs,
until the first guard called the relief, when realizing the lateness
of the hour, we burrowed into our blankets.

“I don’t know how you fellows feel about it,” said Quince Forrest,
when the first guard were relieved and they had returned to camp, “but
I bade those cows good-by on their beds to-night without a regret or a
tear. The novelty of night-herding loses its charm with me when it’s
drawn out over five months. I might be fool enough to make another
such trip, but I’d rather be the Indian and let the other fellow
drive the cows to me--there’s a heap more comfort in it.”

The next morning, before we reached the agency, a number of gaudily
bedecked bucks and squaws rode out to meet us. The arrival of the herd
had been expected for several weeks, and our approach was a delight to
the Indians, who were flocking to the agency from the nearest
villages. Physically, they were fine specimens of the aborigines. But
our Spanish, which Quarternight and I tried on them, was as
unintelligible to them as their guttural gibberish was to us.

Lovell and the agent, with a detachment of the cavalry, met us about a
mile from the agency buildings, and we were ordered to cut out the
cows. The herd had been grazed to contentment, and were accordingly
rounded in, and the task begun at once. Our entire outfit were turned
into the herd to do the work, while an abundance of troopers held the
herd and looked after the cut. It took about an hour and a half,
during which time we worked like Trojans. Cavalrymen several times
attempted to assist us, but their horses were no match for ours in the
work. A cow can turn on much less space than a cavalry horse, and
except for the amusement they afforded, the military were of very
little effect.

After we had retrimmed the cut, the beeves were started for their
pasture, and nothing now remained but the counting to complete the
receiving. Four of us remained behind with the cows, but for over two
hours the steers were in plain sight, while the two parties were
endeavoring to make a count. How many times they recounted them before
agreeing on the numbers I do not know, for the four of us left with
the cows became occupied by a controversy over the sex of a young
Indian--a Blackfoot--riding a cream-colored pony. The controversy
originated between Fox Quarternight and Bob Blades, who had discovered
this swell among a band who had just ridden in from the west, and John
Officer and myself were appealed to for our opinions. The Indian was
pointed out to us across the herd, easily distinguished by beads and
beaver fur trimmings in the hair, so we rode around to pass our
judgment as experts on the beauty. The young Indian was not over
sixteen years of age, with remarkable features, from which every trace
of the aborigine seemed to be eliminated. Officer and myself were in a
quandary, for we felt perfectly competent when appealed to for our
opinions on such a delicate subject, and we made every endeavor to
open a conversation by signs and speech. But the young Blackfoot paid
no attention to us, being intent upon watching the cows. The neatly
moccasined feet and the shapely hand, however, indicated the feminine,
and when Blades and Quarter-night rode up, we rendered our decision
accordingly. Blades took exception to the decision and rode alongside
the young Indian, pretending to admire the long plaits of hair, toyed
with the beads, pinched and patted the young Blackfoot, and finally,
although the rest of us, for fear the Indian might take offense and
raise trouble, pleaded with him to desist, he called the youth his
“squaw,” when the young blood, evidently understanding the
appellation, relaxed into a broad smile, and in fair English said, “Me
buck.”

Blades burst into a loud laugh at his success, at which the Indian
smiled but accepted a cigarette, and the two cronied together, while
we rode away to look after our cows. The outfit returned shortly
afterward, when The Rebel rode up to me and expressed himself rather
profanely at the inability of the government’s representatives to
count cattle in Texas fashion. On the arrival of the agent and others,
the cows were brought around; and these being much more gentle, and
being under Lovell’s instruction fed between the counters in the
narrowest file possible, a satisfactory count was agreed upon at the
first trial. The troopers took charge of the cows after counting, and,
our work over, we galloped away to the wagon, hilarious and care free.

McCann had camped on the nearest water to the agency, and after dinner
we caught out the top horses, and, dressed in our best, rode into the
agency proper. There was quite a group of houses for the attachés, one
large general warehouse, and several school and chapel buildings. I
again met the old padre, who showed us over the place. One could not
help being favorably impressed with the general neatness and
cleanliness of the place. In answer to our questions, the priest
informed us that he had mastered the Indian language early in his
work, and had adopted it in his ministry, the better to effect the
object of his mission. There was something touching in the zeal of
this devoted padre in his work amongst the tribe, and the recognition
of the government had come as a fitting climax to his work and
devotion.

As we rode away from the agency, the cows being in sight under herd of
a dozen soldiers, several of us rode out to them, and learned that
they intended to corral the cows at night, and within a week
distribute them to Indian families, when the troop expected to return
to Fort Benton. Lovell and Flood appeared at the camp about
dusk--Lovell in high spirits. This, he said, was the easiest delivery
of the three herds which he had driven that year. He was justified in
feeling well over the year’s drive, for he had in his possession a
voucher for our Circle Dots which would crowd six figures closely. It
was a gay night with us, for man and horse were free, and as we made
down our beds, old man Don insisted that Flood and he should make
theirs down alongside ours. He and The Rebel had been joking each
other during the evening, and as we went to bed were taking an
occasional fling at one another as opportunity offered.

“It’s a strange thing to me,” said Lovell, as he was pulling off his
boots, “that this herd counted out a hundred and twelve head more than
we started with, while Bob Quirk’s herd was only eighty-one long at
the final count;”

“Well, you see,” replied The Rebel, “Quirk’s was a steer herd, while
ours had over a thousand cows in it, and you must make allowance for
some of them to calve on the way. That ought to be easy figuring for a
foxy, long-headed Yank like you.”




CHAPTER XXIV

BACK TO TEXAS

The nearest railroad point from the Blackfoot Agency was Silver Bow,
about a hundred and seventy-five miles due south, and at that time the
terminal of the Utah Northern Railroad. Everything connected with the
delivery having been completed the previous day, our camp was astir
with the dawn in preparation for departure on our last ride together.
As we expected to make not less than forty miles a day on the way to
the railroad, our wagon was lightened to the least possible weight.
The chuck-box, water kegs, and such superfluities were dropped, and
the supplies reduced to one week’s allowance, while beds were
overhauled and extra wearing apparel of the outfit was discarded. Who
cared if we did sleep cold and hadn’t a change to our backs? We were
going home and would have money in our pockets.

“The first thing I do when we strike that town of Silver Bow,” said
Bull Durham, as he was putting on his last shirt, “is to discard to
the skin and get me new togs to a finish. I’ll commence on my little
pattering feet, which will require fifteen-dollar moccasins, and then
about a six-dollar checked cottonade suit, and top off with a
seven-dollar brown Stetson. Then with a few drinks under my belt and a
rim-fire cigar in my mouth, I’d admire to meet the governor of Montana
if convenient.”

Before the sun was an hour high, we bade farewell to the Blackfoot
Agency and were doubling back over the trail, with Lovell in our
company. Our first night’s camp was on the Muddy and the second on the
Sun River. We were sweeping across the tablelands adjoining the main
divide of the Rocky Mountains like the chinook winds which sweep that
majestic range on its western slope. We were a free outfit; even the
cook and wrangler were relieved; their little duties were divided
among the crowd and almost disappeared. There was a keen rivalry over
driving the wagon, and McCann was transferred to the hurricane deck of
a cow horse, which he sat with ease and grace, having served an
apprenticeship in the saddle in other days. There were always half a
dozen wranglers available in the morning, and we traveled as if under
forced marching orders. The third night we camped in the narrows
between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains, and on the evening
of the fourth day camped several miles to the eastward of Helena, the
capital of the territory.

Don Lovell had taken the stage for the capital the night before; and
on making camp that evening, Flood took a fresh horse and rode into
town. The next morning he and Lovell returned with the superintendent
of the cattle company which had contracted for our horses and outfit
on the Republican. We corralled the horses for him, and after roping
out about a dozen which, as having sore backs or being lame, he
proposed to treat as damaged and take at half price, the _remuda_ was
counted out, a hundred and forty saddle horses, four mules, and a
wagon constituting the transfer. Even with the loss of two horses and
the concessions on a dozen others, there was a nice profit on the
entire outfit over its cost in the lower country, due to the foresight
of Don Lovell in mounting us well. Two of our fellows who had borrowed
from the superintendent money to redeem their six-shooters after the
horse race on the Republican, authorized Lovell to return him the
loans and thanked him for the favor. Everything being satisfactory
between buyer and seller, they returned to town together for a
settlement, while we moved on south towards Silver Bow, where the
outfit was to be delivered.

Another day’s easy travel brought us to within a mile of the railroad
terminus; but it also brought us to one of the hardest experiences of
our trip, for each of us knew, as we unsaddled our horses, that we
were doing it for the last time. Although we were in the best of
spirits over the successful conclusion of the drive; although we were
glad to be free from herd duty and looked forward eagerly to the
journey home, there was still a feeling of regret in our hearts which
we could not dispel. In the days of my boyhood I have shed tears when
a favorite horse was sold from our little ranch on the San Antonio,
and have frequently witnessed Mexican children unable to hide their
grief when need of bread had compelled the sale of some favorite horse
to a passing drover. But at no time in my life, before or since, have
I felt so keenly the parting between man and horse as I did that
September evening in Montana. For on the trail an affection springs up
between a man and his mount which is almost human. Every privation
which he endures his horse endures with him,--carrying him through
falling weather, swimming rivers by day and riding in the lead of
stampedes by night, always faithful, always willing, and always
patiently enduring every hardship, from exhausting hours under saddle
to the sufferings of a dry drive. And on this drive, covering nearly
three thousand miles, all the ties which can exist between man and
beast had not only become cemented, but our _remuda_ as a whole had
won the affection of both men and employer for carrying without
serious mishap a valuable herd all the way from the Rio Grande to the
Blackfoot Agency. Their bones may be bleaching in some coulee by now,
but the men who knew them then can never forget them or the part they
played in that long drive.

Three men from the ranch rode into our camp that evening, and the next
morning we counted over our horses to them and they passed into
strangers’ hands. That there might be no delay, Flood had ridden into
town the evening before and secured a wagon and gunny bags in which to
sack our saddles; for while we willingly discarded all other effects,
our saddles were of sufficient value to return and could be checked
home as baggage. Our foreman reported that Lovell had arrived by stage
and was awaiting us in town, having already arranged for our
transportation as far as Omaha, and would accompany us to that city,
where other transportation would have to be secured to our
destination. In our impatience to get into town, we were trudging in
by twos and threes before the wagon arrived for our saddles, and had
not Flood remained behind to look after them, they might have been
abandoned.

There was something about Silver Bow that reminded me of Frenchman’s
Ford on the Yellowstone. Being the terminal of the first railroad into
Montana, it became the distributing point for all the western portion
of that territory, and immense ox trains were in sight for the
transportation of goods to remoter points in the north and west. The
population too was very much the same as at Frenchman’s, though the
town in general was an improvement over the former, there being some
stability to its buildings. As we were to leave on an eleven o’clock
train, we had little opportunity to see the town, and for the short
time at our disposal, barber shops and clothing stores claimed our
first attention. Most of us had some remnants of money, while my
bunkie was positively rich, and Lovell advanced us fifty dollars
apiece, pending a final settlement on reaching our destination.

Within an hour after receiving the money, we blossomed out in new
suits from head to heel. Our guard hung together as if we were still
on night herd, and in the selection of clothing the opinion of the
trio was equal to a purchase. The Rebel was very easily pleased in his
selection, but John Officer and myself were rather fastidious. Officer
was so tall it was with some little difficulty that a suit could be
found to fit him, and when he had stuffed his pants in his boots and
thrown away the vest, for he never wore either vest or suspenders, he
emerged looking like an Alpine tourist, with his new pink shirt and
nappy brown beaver slouch hat jauntily cocked over one ear. As we
sauntered out into the street, Priest was dressed as became his years
and mature good sense, while my costume rivaled Officer’s in
gaudiness, and it is safe to assert two thirds of our outlay had gone
for boots and hats.

Flood overtook us in the street, and warned us to be on hand at the
depot at least half an hour in advance of train time, informing us
that he had checked our saddles and didn’t want any of us to get left
at the final moment. We all took a drink together, and Officer assured
our foreman that he would be responsible for our appearance at the
proper time, “sober and sorry for it.” So we sauntered about the
straggling village, drinking occasionally, and on the suggestion of
The Rebel, made a cow by putting in five apiece and had Officer play
it on faro, he claiming to be an expert on the game. Taking the purse
thus made up, John sat into a game, while Priest and myself, after
watching the play some minutes, strolled out again and met others of
our outfit in the street, scarcely recognizable in their killing rigs.
The Rebel was itching for a monte game, but this not being a cow town
there was none, and we strolled next into a saloon, where a piano was
being played by a venerable-looking individual,--who proved quite
amiable, taking a drink with us and favoring us with a number of
selections of our choosing. We were enjoying this musical treat when
our foreman came in and asked us to get the boys together. Priest and
I at once started for Officer, whom we found quite a winner, but
succeeded in choking him off on our employer’s order, and after the
checks had been cashed, took a parting drink, which made us the last
in reaching the depot. When we were all assembled, our employer
informed us that he only wished to keep us together until embarking,
and invited us to accompany him across the street to Tom Robbins’s
saloon.

On entering the saloon, Lovell inquired of the young fellow behind the
bar, “Son, what will you take for the privilege of my entertaining
this outfit for fifteen minutes?”

“The ranch is yours, sir, and you can name your own figures,”
smilingly and somewhat shrewdly replied the young fellow, and promptly
vacated his position.

“Now, two or three of you rascals get in behind there,” said old man
Don, as a quartet of the boys picked him up and set him on one end of
the bar, “and let’s see what this ranch has in the way of
refreshment.”

McCann, Quarternight, and myself obeyed the order, but the fastidious
tastes of the line in front soon compelled us to call to our
assistance both Robbins and the young man who had just vacated the bar
in our favor.

“That’s right, fellows,” roared Lovell from his commanding position,
as he jingled a handful of gold coins, “turn to and help wait on these
thirsty Texans; and remember that nothing’s too rich for our blood
to-day. This outfit has made one of the longest cattle drives on
record, and the best is none too good for them. So set out your best,
for they can’t cut much hole in the profits in the short time we have
to stay. The train leaves in twenty minutes, and see that every rascal
is provided with an extra bottle for the journey. And drop down this
way when you get time, as I want a couple of boxes of your best cigars
to smoke on the way. Montana has treated us well, and we want to leave
some of our coin with you.”






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