The Log of a Cowboy
by
Andy Adams
Part 2 out of 5
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 bask 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 Bangers 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 debris 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 he
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 _manana_, 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
hog. 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 _eclat_. 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
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