A New Venture.—Hard Times.—The Territory, Etc.
For three years, from 1879 to 1882, it seemed as if the very elements had
conspired to render the attempt at settling Western Kansas futile. The
continuous drouth, together with the hot winds, made any attempt at
farming discouraging. As a consequence a great many settlers sold their
holdings for what they could get for them, and returned to their former
place of abode. The gathering of buffalo bones, which had been their chief
source of subsistence during that trying time, was beginning to fail owing
to the great number engaged in the business, and the distance they had to
be hauled and the ever receding base of supply. Many abandoned the work
entirely, and the few that remained actively engaged in that occupation
found themselves daily meeting greater difficulties. The scarcity of the
supply became so great that they would often be compelled to go a hundred
miles or more to gather a load, haul them to the nearest trail, and then
transfer them to some freighter on the way to Dodge City, the only market
for them in the country. To make the exchange and have them taken to
market usually required a division of the profits, and one can easily
imagine what a small share was left for the original collector when the
goods were sold. No matter how small the profit, on this the gatherer had
to subsist as well as supply his family with necessaries during his
absence. There was hardly sufficient remuneration in the work to obtain
the plainest of provisions.
To the young people of America who may perhaps be reading this little
story of the early settlement of the West, in the comfortable surroundings
of their own cozy homes, I will say that they know little of the price
paid to make such conditions possible. I have frequently seen, on the top
of a wagon loaded with bones, a gunny sack containing the skeleton of a
man, that had been picked up by some freighter or some cowman or some
settler, and put in the sack to be taken to Dodge City for burial. That
gunny sack contained a sermon as well as a skeleton. It told of the
certainty of death as well as of the uncertainty of life. It told the
reason why father, mother, Mary, Ellen and Julia never received a reply to
their last letter, written to John, Jake or Jim, marked on the lower
left-hand corner, “In haste, please,” to be sure of prompt delivery. Quite
likely, when the poor old mother would be grieving over the long
disappointment, the girls would encourage her by saying, “Oh, that is one
of his pranks. He is just waiting until we are all quite lonesome, and
then he will come rushing in upon us to take us by surprise.” He has never
returned, but the family still keeps alive the glimmer of hope that
flickers in the human breast, that they will all meet again, somewhere.
Confronted with such conditions as mentioned above, with no indications of
any relaxation of the drouth that was compelling even the big ranchmen to
look around for water, we saw a very gloomy outlook for the future.
After weighing the matter carefully, I decided to make a change in my
business affairs. I took into my confidence a cow-puncher named Bill
Wagner, who is now living in Meade, Kans. Having fully discussed the
situation from all points, we determined to embark together on a course
that would at least promise us some profit from the undertaking. We made
up our minds to go down into the Territory and trade with the cattlemen
who were coming North with their herds from Texas, on their way to Montana
or Wyoming, either to sell or turn loose to graze on the Northern range.
We rounded up a few saddle horses, among which was my old favorite Jimmy,
and set out for Dodge City to purchase the supplies necessary for the
journey. I also wanted to deposit some money and dispose of some mules
that I would not need, on my trip. On my arrival at Dodge City I formed
the acquaintance of James Langton, who introduced me to a Mr. R. M.
Wright, of the firm of Wright, Beverly & Co., who were engaged in a
Wholesale Supply business. I found Mr. Wright one of the most genial men
with whom I ever did business. Having previously sold my mules, I
deposited my money with the firm I was introduced to. I told Mr. W. that I
intended to go down into the Territory on a trading expedition. I
explained to him that the cattlemen would be on the trail, and as there
were no stores to be found between the Red river on the North line of
Texas and where we were then standing, there would be a good opportunity
to trade provisions for some cattle that had become sore-footed on the
way, with a good profit for me. He agreed with me that it was a golden
opportunity, and added as an encouragement, “You will do well, if the
Indians do not scalp you in the meantime.” I replied that as conditions
existed on Crooked Creek, a man would be no worse off dead in the
Territory than living where I had been. I saw very little difference.
I loaded my wagon with what goods I thought would be most in demand by the
cattlemen. I selected a considerable quantity of tobacco, bacon, baking
powder, canned goods of several kinds, a coil of rope, cartridges of
different calibre, coffee, sugar, and some other things—all necessary on
the trail. I also bought a tent and cooking outfit. The latter consisted
of a coffee-pot, skillet, frying-pan, coffee-mill, six knives and forks,
six tin plates, six cups and saucers, the latter of tin, in order to
provide against the possibility of our having some company on the road. By
the time I had my trading done, Wagner was ready and waiting. We hitched
up and pulled across the river, where we encamped for the night. Part of
the horses we hobbled, and two we kept picketed in order to guard against
being left on foot the next morning if anything should stampede our stock
during the night. When the stock had been cared for, we proceeded to make
arrangements for ourselves, and while Wagner cooked the flapjacks I was
looking around for sleeping accommodations, as it was difficult to find a
place level enough to suit the purpose. The making of our beds did not
cost much effort, but one had to guard against sand-burrs, cactus,
tarantulas, rattlesnakes and centipedes.
The next morning found us up early after a good sound sleep, and hustling
around to get ready for the first day of our new venture. When we had
tended to the wants of the stock and ourselves, we hitched up and started
off at a slow pace, as the team was not accustomed to the heavy work, and
it would take some time for them to become inured to the hardship of the
trail. Out across Five Mile Creek and up the divide along the old Camp
Supply route until we reached the summit, we made our toilsome way. We
reached the apex about noon time and halted for dinner. After giving the
horses a good rest, we proceeded on our way, and as our route now lay down
grade we made better time. Evening found us at Mulberry Creek, where
Johnny Glenn and Dutch Pete kept a road ranch. This roadside caravansary
served as a halting place for the stage coach, and furnished refreshments
for passengers when needed. As there was a good camping ground there, we
unhitched and turned the horses out to graze and made preparations for our
own accommodation. When we had eaten supper, we brought the horses in for
the night, and then after chatting and smoking for some time we turned in
for a good night’s rest. Early morning found us on our way again towards
the South. We kept rumbling along until we reached the division point of
the stage line, where horses were changed by the driver, P. G. Reynolds.
This location, I believe, is not very far from where the present town of
Ashland, county seat of Clark county, is situated. Here we stopped and had
dinner at what was called the Widow Brown ranch. From this place we
proceeded down the Bear Creek trail and reached the Cimmaron River that
same evening. The river being up, we could not cross, and we camped on the
North bank not far from where an old German named Clem maintained a road
ranch. The river as I said was full and this may seem strange, as it had
not rained in this section for more than three months. The cause of the
rise lay in the fact that there had been considerable rain in Colorado.
This added to the snow melting on the mountains made the river rise to its
full capacity. Here we had to remain for three days, waiting till the
waters would subside enough to permit a crossing. We were not the only
ones that met with an obstacle in our progress by the river’s behavior,
but it proved a boon to us as well as adding to our store of knowledge. On
the other bank of the river were cowpunchers with their herds waiting to
cross also. It was amusing and instructive to us to watch them in their
efforts to induce the leaders of the herds to take to the water. When a
puncher succeeded in getting the leaders into the stream, he would ride or
swim his pony alongside of them to keep them from milling, or drifting
down the river. It was very exciting to watch those herds crossing the
swollen stream with the cowboys yelling and whooping among them. It seemed
as if pandemonium had taken a holiday. By the time the last of the herds
had crossed, the river had subsided somewhat, and we pulled over to the
opposite side without any great difficulty. It was with a sigh of relief
we reached the solid footing on the other bank.
Then we were in the Territory and bade farewell to civilization until we
returned to the North bank of Cimmaron River. We left the Camp Supply
trail and went Southward to the old Custer trail, which was being used by
the cowmen at that time. We did not stop at noon time, but kept on our
way, intending to make a short drive and camp where the grass had not been
eaten off by the trail herds, and where there was a supply of water for
our stock. About four o’clock in the afternoon we found a satisfactory
location and went into camp. We turned the horses loose to graze. They
needed it, as they had been living on rather short rations since we had
started on our jaunt. For ourselves, we built a fire of cow-chips and made
out a supper on bacon and flapjacks. This done, we looked over our outfit
and made what repairs were necessary for the next day’s drive. Everything
being attended to, as security demanded, we turned in for the night,
intending to make a permanent location the next day. As this was my first
night in the Territory, I must say that I felt very lonesome. It was a
fine moonlight night, and the stars seemed to flicker and dance for my
special benefit. I could see the handiwork of the Great Creator all over
the firmament as far as the eye could reach, and my admiration for the
beauty of the planetary system was unbounded. When I arose in the morning
and threw the saddle on my old favorite pony, Jimmie, to get an idea of
the lay of the land, things seemed to look different. When I had returned
to camp after my survey of the neighborhood, I had come to the conclusion
from the general appearance of the country and the great contrast with
what I had viewed from my bed at the wagon, that some Spirit of Evil had
been brooding over things in general, and while in that mood had laid the
country round about in waste, and Nature was doing her best to restore it
to its primitive beauty. We travelled that day until we discovered what we
considered an ideal spot to locate our store. It was not far from the
trail, and there was plenty of good grass and water for our stock. We set
to work to arrange things for our purpose, and it was not long before we
had things in shape to do business. Our tent-store was, fortunately,
placed about half a mile from where the cowmen used to halt and bed down
their herds for the night. The presence of those men served the purpose of
breaking the monotony of our surroundings, for it was a pleasure to hear
them singing as they rode around their herds at night to render them quiet
and keep them from drifting off during the night. Not only did they help
to pass away the time for us, but it gave us an opportunity to do a little
business also.
When we had located and arranged things to our satisfaction, we spent some
time riding around looking over the situation and conjecturing the
prospects. We found very few range cattle in our vicinity, which I
afterwards learned was due to the fact that the ranchers kept their cattle
away from the trail so that they would not become mixed with those on the
drive, or become infected with the Texas or splenic fever. For the purpose
of effecting this, they maintained men along the trail to turn back any
range cattle that showed a tendency to wander in the direction of the
through herds. During our ride we killed a brace of wild turkeys, and this
gave us a welcome change from the monotony of rusty bacon.
Things did not look very prosperous as yet, and began to think that I had
made my journey to no purpose, and would likely have to haul my load back
to Kansas again. While in this frame of mind, and not being very cheerful
over it, sitting in the shade of my tent, a man rode up to my emporium of
commerce. We passed the usual salutations and had a chat. In the midst of
our conversation he informed me that he had met a man who would likely
purchase some of my wares. I could hardly realize the gist of his remark,
as it was such a surprise, although I was there for the purpose of selling
goods. I managed to recover from the shock with considerable alacrity, and
invited him into my tent. He looked over my stock of goods, and before he
left me he had purchased more than half of it, and gave in payment an
order on Wright & Beverly. He said that his herd would be along in the
evening, and he would have the grub wagon load up the purchases.
That evening the herd came along, and as the place was the bedding ground
for the through herds, they made the necessary preparations for putting in
the night. When the cowpunchers had eaten supper, they came over to our
tent to purchase supplies of tobacco and cartridges. As there was nothing
else to do, and as we had been getting rather lonesome in our retired
place, we spent the evening agreeably, spinning yarns, relating
experiences of the trail, etc. In the meantime the grub wagon arrived and
was loaded with the goods purchased earlier in the day. Before bidding us
good night, the boys invited us to take breakfast with them on the
following morning. We accepted, and shortly after daybreak we heard the
cook’s cheerful announcement that “chuckaway” was ready. As the wagon was
near our tent we did not have far to go, and before we reached it all
hands were up and dressed and ready for the morning repast. We were
somewhat surprised to find that the cook had fried salt bacon for the
boys. In explanation of this he said that they were tired of fresh meat.
We were weary of salt bacon, but good manners forbade our saying so, and
we did our share with as much gusto as possible. A little fresh beef would
have been much to our liking just then. By the time breakfast was over,
the horse wrangler had arrived with the saddle stock. Ropes were
stretched, one from the front wheel and one from the rear wheel of the
wagon, and the horses driven in between them, where each man roped his
mount for the day. The cook and the wrangler then attended to their own
wants. After covering the camp-fires with soil to prevent the fire from
spreading over the prairie, they were ready to set out on their long jaunt
to Montana, or some other feeding ground. We bade the boys good-bye and
returned to our store to await new arrivals.
As the business of the preceding day had been more than I expected from
the general survey of things when I first arrived, I soon saw that if I
had another customer of the same dimensions of the first one, I would have
very little with which to do business. I determined to send Bill to Dodge
City for another load of provisions. I made out a list of what I wanted,
greased the wagon and started him off. Under favorable conditions, he
should make the trip in about eight or ten days, but if the roads became
bad, it would require a much longer time. Before he left I had him make a
good store of biscuits for me, as I was not able to turn out an article of
the kind that would coincide with the digestive powers of any human being.
I gave him strict orders, among the other things, not to forget to bring
something to read, as there was nothing at hand for that purpose except a
Patent Medicine pamphlet, and I had read that so often and so thoroughly
that I had some of the symptoms of seven different maladies that were
therein pronounced fatal. If I had been in the neighborhood of a drug
store at the time I should have bought a supply of the cure-all regardless
of results. Living as I was at the time, alone, I escaped the consequences
of both the cure-all and the diseases mentioned in the pamphlet. When Bill
was well on his way, I meandered around into the tent and out again, down
to the creek and back again; in fact, I was just like a stray colt, did
not know where to go, nor what to do. I soon discovered what my malady
was. It was lonesomeness in its direst form. It settled on me like a fog
settling over a marsh. It penetrated my very being. Everywhere I went I
could feel it. Whatever I saw seemed tinged with it. I tried drinking
strong coffee to drive it out, but that was no avail, so I saddled old
Jimmie and took a ride over the prairie. On my way back to camp I killed a
wild gobbler, thus providing myself with fresh meat. The cleaning and
cooking of my prize relieved the monotony a trifle. I don’t know whether I
cooked him according to the recipe in the latest cook book published, but
in any case he tasted fine. My pony seemed to realize how lonely I was,
for whenever I went out of my tent he endeavored to come to me, and
strained at his rope to approach as near as possible. I went over to him
and he put his head on my shoulder and seemed to say, “It’s all right,
Dennis, Bill will be back in a few days and then you will have company. In
the meantime I shall try to keep you from becoming too lonesome.” Needless
to say, I put in considerable time with old Jimmie, currying him and
fixing his water and feed in the best manner possible. I loved old Jimmie,
for he was my friend. I knew not at what hour, nor what moment, my life
would depend on his fidelity, and I knew that I could rely upon him to the
last breath.
One day followed another without any perceptible difference between one
and the other. In my surroundings I lost track of the time. I was longing
for the return of my partner, and continued to picture the progress of his
journey, where he was, what he was doing, etc. I felt like Robinson
Crusoe, and in some respects his plight was more endurable than mine. He
declared himself the monarch of all he surveyed, and his right there was
none to dispute. Not so would he have issued his declaration if he were
living in the Territory at the time, as his right would likely be disputed
by the first man that came along, and as for there being a monarchy at the
time, it was not thinkable, at least under the conditions in which I was
living.
That was a time when every man was supposed to remain silent about what he
had heard, and have very little to say about what he saw. Horse stealing
had become quite an industry at the time, and was carried on by bands of
outlaws between Arkansas, Missouri and Colorado. As there was no
telephone, telegraph or mail facilities, they were comparatively free from
detection, especially as they travelled through the most unfrequented
parts of the country. Their route brought them through the section where I
was camped. One day I saw five of them coming in my direction, attracted
by the sight of my tent. When they arrived where I was sitting, I invited
them to dismount and come into my tent. They did so. They inquired if I
had any tobacco, and I told them that was one of the commodities I was
dealing in at the time. As that was all they wanted, they bought several
pounds and then prepared to depart. I invited them to remain to dinner and
they accepted the invitation. When they had consented to be my guests, I
told them I had everything to make a first-class meal, but was short on
biscuits, and could not make them as I did not know how, and I said I
would be pleased if one of them would make them. One of them remarked,
“Now, Jack, there is a job for you.” I pulled out a sack of flour, a can
of baking powder, gave one of them the coffee mill to grind some coffee,
took a bucket and started for the creek for a pail of fresh water. The
rest of them busied themselves building a fire of cowchips, and things
began to take on the appearance of home. When Jack had his biscuits ready,
I brought out my select assortment of tin-ware, passed around plates,
knives, forks and whatever else was necessary, and we all set to work with
a gusto. The gobbler, biscuits and other edibles did not last long, as
each of us seemed to have a first-class appetite. While eating and joking
at the same time, I told them of the reason of my asking them to remain
for dinner, namely, that I was out of biscuits and that I was tired of
living on crackers, and I knew there would be some one in the crowd who
would be able to make them. I saw, besides, that their horses were jaded,
and told them they might as well remain for a time to rest their stock. In
all my joking and talking with them I took particular care not to ask them
whence they came, nor whither they were going, nor what their business was
in that part of the country, as that would be the height of impropriety.
After we had chatted for a considerable time, they took the saddles off
their horses, picketed one or two, and turned the others loose to graze.
My loneliness was fast disappearing as the result of companionship of my
fellowmen, even if they were a gang of horse thieves, and as a result I
began to feel better and things began to wear a different aspect. I
recalled a statement made by some one that it was not good for man to be
alone, and I found it true, and made a resolution that I would never be
left alone again in the future.
That night I saddled up old Jimmie, and taking one of my visitors, went
out in search of some wild turkeys. I had previously seen a flock in the
neighborhood, and had a fairly good idea of where they were roosting. As
soon as the moon had come up we began looking around among the trees that
grew along the bank of the creek, and to our great delight discovered a
few. We secured two of them and returned to camp. Next morning, Jack, who
had been delegated to cook for us during his visit, was up and had the
game dressed in the most approved fashion, and had also turned out a new
supply of biscuits. When I rolled out of my blanket, I discovered that my
company was made up of early and energetic risers, and I was delighted to
know that the cook had done so well, and showed my appreciation later. The
rest of the group had gone off in search of their stock, and were then
returning. Breakfast was ready by that time, and we all set to without
much preliminary apology for poor appetites, for we had good ones. The
service was rather plain; a tomato can served the purpose of a sugar bowl,
a sardine can for a salt cellar, and other utensils were provided in the
same manner. During the meal one of the boys asked me which was the best
way, through No Man’s Land to Colorado. I divined immediately that they
were horse thieves, for I had only a suspicion of it before. I gave him
some kind of an answer, and I do not know whether it proved satisfactory
to them or not. Breakfast being attended to and the dishes washed and put
away, they made preparations for departure. They thanked me for my
kindness and assured me that they would be glad to meet me at any time or
place. When they had gone I began to feel the loss of company again, but I
also began to realize the danger I had encountered owing to their brief
stay, for if a posse of officers had happened along while they were my
guests, it would have been hard for me to explain my compromising
position. As it is usually the innocent bystander that gets hurt, I
suppose I should have been the one to suffer, as there would have been
some very warm work for a while. There was one thing impressed itself on
my mind very much during the stay of my visitors, and that was the absence
of vulgar or profane language. That went to prove that they had had good
training by good parents who would have been proud of their personality,
though they could not approve of their occupation.
When they had gone over the hill on their way, I thought I would improve
my time by writing a few letters. I improvised a table for the purpose by
bringing into service a cracker-box. The remainder of my office fixtures
were in keeping with my desk. However, I was not ashamed of my
surroundings, and sat down to write with all the dignity of an Indian
chief sitting in council. It dawned upon me suddenly that it might be
weeks before I would have an opportunity to post them, and as I was doing
it to ward off another attack of lonesomeness, I decided that a good walk
over the surrounding neighborhood would serve the purpose as well. In my
travels I discovered a cloud of dust rising on the horizon, and came to
the conclusion that there was another herd coming along the trail, and it
would only be a matter of a few hours before they would arrive at the
regular halting place. I returned to camp and made out a lunch from the
remnants of the breakfast, and then saddled old Jimmie and set out to meet
the oncoming herd. I wanted to get acquainted with them as much as
circumstances would permit, find out if they had any lame cattle they
thought would be unable to make the journey to Dakota, Montana, or
wherever they were going, and what would be the possibilities of a trade.
If they would not ask too much I felt that I could make a little money by
doctoring them myself and disposing of them afterward. When I came up to
the cowmen they seemed to look at me with suspicion, as they did not
expect to find a white man in that section of the country. When I
explained to the foreman the nature of my business in that part of the
Territory, he seemed very much pleased to meet me, and to know that I was
selling goods that he needed, as he had not had a chew of tobacco since
he had left the Red River, nor lard enough to grease a skillet. I looked
over the herd and made an estimate of the number of lame cattle they had.
I rode back to my camp thinking over the situation, and when they arrived
later I figured up what I was willing to pay for the lame and footsore
cattle they had in the group. As soon as they arrived, the foreman rode
over to my tent to look at the goods I had in stock. He purchased about
what I had remaining after the previous sale. While talking on things in
general he remarked that he would have to remain where he was for a day or
so in order to let the stock rest, as he had driven them rather rapidly
owing to the fact that the Comanches were troublesome to him while he was
passing through their reservation, and he had to hasten along in order to
get away from them. That determination to rest was as pleasing to me as it
was to the cowpunchers, and the cattle showed it was agreeable to them, as
they looked exhausted, which was inevitable after a long and furious
drive. I sauntered over to where the cowboys were gathered around the grub
wagon, and soon was on friendly terms with them as far as short
acquaintance would permit. I heard the cook complaining about the dog,
saying he would have to get rid of him as he was always nosing into
everything, and had become a nuisance. I told him that I would gladly take
him for the sake of his company, and he was handed over to me. I did not
know that I was adding to my misfortunes or afflictions when I received
him, though I might have suspected it from the ease with which the cook
parted with him.
Next morning found me riding around the herd in company with the foreman,
looking over the lame cattle, or drags, as they called them. I examined
them very carefully, and made a dicker for about fifteen head. He agreed
to have his men help me rope and brand them, to cross out the road brand,
and also hobble them and help me doctor their sore feet. We built a fire
to heat the branding irons, and soon everything was ready for the
operation. I placed my brand upon them, a ladder on the left side and a
crop off the left ear. While the irons were hot, I cauterized their sore
feet, and applying tar and turpentine, wrapped them up in gunny sacks and
turned them away from the herd to graze along the creek. Many hands make
light work, and we were through with our task before noon. To complete the
transaction, the foreman wrote out a bill of sale for me, giving a general
description of the cattle and the road brands, signed it in the presence
of witnesses, and turned it over to me to secure me against all claims for
the stock I had purchased. This being done, I wrote out a check for him,
and the sale was complete. I began to feel as though I were somewhat of a
cowman myself when I looked down toward the creek to where my stock was
grazing. I soon found out that I had much to learn.
A Bill of Sale was necessary in a cow country, and it was my only
protection against the claim of some other cowman who might assert that
the stock had broken away from his herd in a storm, and might say that I
had caught and branded them. If the case were so, I might not only have
the cattle taken away from me, but I would be lucky if they did not treat
me as a cattle thief. But with the Bill of Sale safely tucked away in the
safety deposit vault, which in this case was a cracker box, I felt easy
about the matter.
Our business being completed, we sat around chatting and narrating
experiences on the plains. Even this palled on us after a time, and one of
the boys, in order to relieve the tedium of the delay, proposed a horse
race. That suggestion seemed to please them generally. The proposal was
greeted with enthusiasm, but it was a difficult matter to arrange the
proper distance, or the amount of the wager. I was asked if I would care
to take part in the race, and I replied that I could not say until I had
seen who and what I was to compete with. That morning I had noticed on my
trip around the herd that their horses seemed pretty well jaded from
their long trip from San Antonio to the North side of the Territory, and
did not seem equal to a very long race. Just then one of the boys came up
with a bunch of horses, and one of them was roped. They began to saddle
him and one of the boys asked, “Are you going to run old Pinkeye? If you
are, I am willing to bet a dollar on him if Slim Jim rides him.” The boys
continued to parley about what they would and would not do, and finally
they asked me to match my horse against Pinkeye with Slim Jim for rider. I
consented to make the match if we could arrange the preliminaries. I said
I would ride a half mile or a quarter mile dash, whichever they preferred.
They asked me who would ride my horse, and I remarked that I thought I
would perform that duty myself. A knowing look and an incipient smile
lighted up their countenances when I volunteered my information. One of
the wise ones asked me where I came from, and I told him Maidstone Cross,
Canada. Right there he set me down for a tenderfoot, and was out to have
some sport with me. As far as they were concerned the race was as good as
won, and all that remained was the shouting. Of course, we should have to
go through the formality of a race, but that was of minor importance as
far as the wager was concerned. If ignorance is bliss, they had a right to
be supremely happy. They did not know that my pony, Old Jimmie, had not
missed a feed of grain during the past six months, and likewise they were
not aware of the fact that I had handled horses all my life and had spent
the preceding four years on the plains. Yes, Jimmie was the dark horse of
the race, as he was in prime condition, and had just enough exercise for
the past few weeks to keep him in splendid shape. Of course the race
looked bad for me, as I weighed two hundred pounds and Slim about one
hundred and thirty. The odds seemed so much in favor of Slim, that I
demanded twenty-five yards start for a quarter of a mile race, and I
wagered a side of bacon against a three-year-old steer. We finally
compromised the matter by my being allowed twenty yards start, and the
bet to remain as it was. I saddled up Old Jimmie and we then made the
necessary measurements, starting point, etc., in proper form. The signal
for starting was to be a shot from the foreman’s gun. The crowd would
decide the winner, as they were to congregate at the winning post. We drew
up to the mark and announced that all was ready. The gun flashed and we
were off. When about half the distance was traversed, I looked back and
discovered that Pinkeye was not making as good a run as I expected, so I
slackened my pace a trifle and crossed the line a winner by about five
yards, which would show that Jim and Pinkeye had gained about fifteen
yards in the struggle. Then the air was rent with shouts and whoops for
the victor. Roars of laughter followed one another at Jim’s discomfiture,
and he came in for some real joshing. “Oh, shucks! Jim, you can’t ride and
Pinkeye can’t run fast enough to catch a milch cow. Next time you ought to
race with a bull train.”
After the first round of excitement and merriment had subsided, they
proposed another race for the same wager. They wanted to make it an even
start, but I would not agree to that, but they finally consented to give
me ten yards start. Back we went to try it over again. By this time Old
Jimmie began to do some fancy side-stepping and prancing, just to show
that he had imbibed enough of the spirit of the race to make him feel
good, and I was satisfied that he was in better fettle than at the opening
of the first heat. The foreman called, “All ready,” fired his gun and away
we went again, Slim Jim pouring the rawhide into Pinkeye. This time I did
not hold back, especially as I heard Jim urging his pony by words and
quirt, but I had no fears about the outcome, as Old Jimmie would not
permit anything to pass him as long as he was able to throw a hoof
forward. When we reached the line, we were in about the same relative
positions as when we started. He had not gained a yard on Jimmie. The
usual whooping and yelling took place again. As it was getting late, I
thought it best to get my two steers, brand and hobble them and put them
with the rest of the little bunch I had bought earlier in the day. The
boys good-humoredly branded them and the foreman wrote out another Bill of
Sale which I tucked away with the other. As there was nothing else to do
after the racing was over, I took a couple of the boys and we went out and
brought in a few wild turkeys which the cook dressed and cooked for the
evening meal. The rest of the evening we spent in chatting about life on
the trail.
Next morning they set out on their long drive to Montana. I rode with them
a few miles, bade them farewell, and returned to my duties at the camp.
When I reached my tent, I found that the old dog, Nero, had declared
himself dictator, and positively refused to let me enter. I could hardly
blame him, as there had been so many around since I acquired possession of
him that he could not figure out to whom he belonged. I went to my saddle
and took down my lariat rope and gave him a liberal application of it, and
established order once more on the premises. To rehabilitate myself in his
affection I brought him out a good meal of bread and cold turkey. With
nothing else at hand to require my attention at the tent, I rode down to
where my herd was feeding to see if any of them had wandered off. They
were all there and I felt satisfied.
On my arrival at the camp on my return, I found a man sitting on his horse
awaiting my coming. He introduced himself as a line-rider of the Y. L.
ranch. I invited him to come in and make himself at home. He gave me his
name as Jack Jernigan, and said that he had been an employee of the ranch
for some time. I asked him to remain for dinner and he accepted the
invitation. I apologized for my inability to make bread. He assured me
that I need not apologize as he would attend to that part of the matter if
I would attend to the business of making a fire and getting the coffee
prepared. His visit was a welcome one as it dispelled an idea that was
forcing itself on me that I was likely to be alone for some time. His
visit was short, but as he lived in the neighborhood, he promised to come
frequently to see me, and he lived up to his promise, frequently bringing
turkey or venison with him as a proof of his marksmanship and
thoughtfulness of me in my lonesome condition. In this way our friendship
was cemented. When my visitor left me, I often experienced touches of
lonesomeness that not even the presence of Nero could abate. Instead of
being companion and comfort to me, he was just the reverse. He spent his
days chasing rabbits, and made the nights hideous with the howls he
emitted in answer to the call of the denizens of the wild. One night as I
felt very tired from a long jaunt I had taken, I decided as there was no
business to attend to, that I would have a good night’s rest. I spread my
blankets and settled down to slumber. I had turned the dog loose to take a
run at leisure over the plain. I was just dozing off into slumberland when
I heard a noise approaching. I could not distinguish what it was. It
sounded like a cross between a fog-horn and a calliope. Before I could get
dressed, in fact, before I got my hat on, Nero came tearing over the plain
like a miniature cyclone. He rushed up to me and got between my legs for
protection. I grabbed my six-shooter and went on a tour of investigation.
I had hardly gone a hundred yards when I heard a coyote, and there never
crossed the Atlantic a bagpiper who could emit such a variety of sounds as
that coyote worked out of his system. He had been the cause of my dog’s
commotion. I returned to the tent for my winchester, hoping to get a shot
at him, but it was of no use, he had gone away. One thing I discovered in
my midnight ramble was the fact that a mother skunk had moved into the
neighborhood with her whole family. There is one thing that a cowman
dreads very much and that is the bite of a skunk. I knew personally two
cases where men had died of hydrophobia after being bitten by the
malodorous brutes. In my state of mind, sleep was out of the question
until I had destroyed or driven away the newcomers. When I reached the
neighborhood of the late arrivals, I walked very cautiously, as a skunk is
constructed very much on the principal of a “Queen Anne” musket, there was
danger at either end, but it was hard to determine which end had the
greater executionary power. As there was very little moonlight, I could
not get a very good aim at them. When I thought I had located them
properly I began to blaze away with my winchester, and kept up the
fusilade until the chamber of the gun was empty. Next morning I was
delighted to find that I had killed four of my unsavory visitors, and at
the same time felt proud of my marksmanship in the dark. However, I had
little rest during the night as I was not sure of my shots, and I did not
like to take risks with them, so I spent the remainder of the night
soliloquizing on things in general and nothing in particular. During my
vigil I heard the wheels of a wagon rumbling along the trail and I knew it
was Bill returning with more goods. I built a fire and made some coffee
for him as I knew he must be tired after his long journey. After arranging
matters in a sufficiently satisfactory manner for the rest of the night,
we sat and talked over our experiences since we parted. We spent an hour
or so in this manner and then turned in for a good solid sleep. Morning
came and we put things in shape for business and awaited our next
customer. We went down to the creek to take a look at the stock, and it
was well we did so as some of them needed such medical attention as we
could give them. As Bill had brought some books and papers, I felt much
relieved. I discovered that, on consulting the almanac, we had done our
horse racing and trading on Sunday. However, as I was in complete
ignorance of the day, I hope it will not be held against me.
It may be of interest to the reader to know that the Comanche Indians and
Texans had not been very friendly since Texas had gained her independence
from Mexico. The Comanches claimed that the Texans had been stealing their
horses, and also their cattle, and the Texans put in a counter claim of
the same nature, and in addition to the stock the Indians were said to
have taken, they kidnapped their children whenever an opportunity
presented itself. As a proof that there was some truth in the statement of
the Texans, I will say that Quanah Parker, the late chief of the Comanches
was the son of a white mother who had been kidnapped when a child from a
Texan family. He was a good chief and held in high repute by the whites as
well as by the members of his own tribe. The result of the habit of
carrying off the white children may be seen in the features of many of the
tribesmen today. The unfriendly feeling caused by those savage incursions
exists today, and will continue to do so for ages to come. It is true they
do a little business with each other, but a close observer can readily see
that it would take a very small spark to set the flames of hatred and
vengeance aglow once more. The Texans in driving their cattle northwards
were compelled to pass through the Comanche country, and the Comanche had
advanced far enough in the white man’s ways to levy tribute from them. It
was not long after a herd had passed the Red River until an Indian, or
perhaps several of them, made a visit to the cowmen and demanded “wohaw,”
or in other words, beef. That meant the delivering over of one or more
steers. The Texan understood the situation well enough to make no refusal
to demand. If he failed to comply with the demand, that night, the same
Indian would likely appear among the herd in the guise of a gray wolf, or
a cougar, and stampede the herd. Such a movement, would cost more than the
price of a brace of steers, as it would take days to collect the cattle
once they scattered, and some of the stock they might never see again.
Without much parley they turned over the stock to them and the Indian went
on his way rejoicing. The first demand did not always settle the
difficulty, as they were likely to appear again in a day or so and demand
more. Such a course of proceedings was very expensive and aggravating to
the cowmen, and as a consequence they pushed on as rapidly as possible to
get away from the dark shadow of the trail, and get over into Chickasaw,
or Caddo country to avoid further trouble. By the time they arrived at the
Cherokee Strip, where I was located, they had several lame, or sorefooted
cattle which they were willing to dispose of at a very reduced price. As I
was the only man on the ground who would take them off their hands, I came
into possession of several head of cattle. After a few weeks rest and some
surgical attention, they would again be in good condition and ready to
forward to the market. Usually I sent them to my ranch in Kansas where I
kept them until I could dispose of them to good advantage.
A few days after Bill’s return, another herd happened along and I did
considerable business with them, selling what goods they needed, and
buying several head of injured cattle which I tended to in the customary
manner. It happened that they had an extra man with them and I hired him.
I put him on the wagon and sent him after more supplies. I kept Bill with
me as I was determined not to remain alone in that locality. When the herd
had gone forward on the drive, we went out to look after our own stock,
and found them as well as could be expected. Shortly after our return to
camp, we saw a horseman coming towards us, and I concluded we were going
to have some more company. When he rode up, I invited him to dismount, as
that was the custom of the country. He thanked me, but declined, saying
that he was in a hurry, that he had had some trouble with the Comanche
Indians, in which there was some shooting done, that he would like to get
a fresh horse to push on his way. I saw that he was pretty well
upholstered in the matter of armament, as he had two six-shooters in his
belt and a winchester in his scabbard and looked, as though he would be
able to protect himself. I asked him no questions as the condition of his
horse told the story as plainly as any words he might use. The spur marks
on the pony’s sides showed that his vitality was about expended and that
he would not be able to go much farther. When he asked if I could supply
him with a new mount, I told him I could furnish one. I asked Bill to
change his saddle for him, and gave him some directions to guide him
towards a cow ranch. He proposed leaving his horse with me as a guaranty
that he would return mine to me. I told him that was out of the question,
that if the Comanches came along and found his horse with me they would
conclude that I had hidden him somewhere, which would mean trouble for me,
a thing I did not want just then, especially with the Indians. I told him
to take his pony along with him and if he could not keep up with the fresh
one, to turn him loose upon the prairie and some cow-puncher would take
him in and care for him until called for. He put a hackamaw on his jaded
steed, mounted his fresh pony and made ready to start. I told him not to
spare the quirt, as the horse could stand a good dash, and that he would
be at the ranch in a little over an hour if he rode steadily. He was off
in the direction I gave him, and Bill and I set in to make a checker board
to while away our idle hours. Something shortly afterward attracted our
attention, and on looking up we beheld three Comanche Indians riding
towards our tent, with their rifles across their saddles, which meant
business. I spoke to Bill and he stepped into the tent and buckled on a
pair of six-shooters. I happened to have my winchester near at hand. When
they rode up close enough for us to see plainly what they were doing, they
stopped and began to make signs. I could not understand the Comanche sign
language, so they had to resort to some other means of communication. They
drew closer and one of them said ‘How,’ the second one grunted something
and the third remained silent. Bill and I went on making our checker
board apparently oblivious of their presence, but all the while I kept my
eye on the rifle with an occasional glance out of the corner of my eye at
the Indians. Finally one of them spoke in broken English and asked if a
white man had been there. I told them a white man had stopped for a short
time, but went north, and I pointed out the trail. After they had sat in
silence for some time, they wheeled their ponies around and galloped off.
It would not take much of a genius to see that their visit was not a
friendly one, and that they were looking for trouble, and particularly
wanted to see a certain white man that had passed that way shortly before.
If they could not find the object of their desires, they would likely make
some trouble for some innocent party. As they saw that Bill and I were
pretty well furnished with fire arms, they thought it better to pursue the
object of the search. I knew that, by this time, the pursued was beyond
the reach of the pursuers and was likely safe among the cowboys of some
neighboring ranch, where the Indian would not follow him. The Indian had a
wholesome respect for cow-ranches and did not care to go prowling around
that locality, for at that particular time the cowman had lost all respect
for the Indian’s feelings. As we did not know at what time they would
return, if they ever did, nor did we know what humor they would be in,
though we could give a shrewd guess, Bill and I thought it better to make
what efforts were necessary to protect ourselves and our stock in the
event of their returning with designs, upon us, or our cattle. We took our
blankets and guns and spent the night on the prairie near our horses.
During the vigil we were keeping we heard some horsemen passing and
concluded the Indians were returning from their white-man hunt.
Next forenoon a line rider came over to see us, bringing with him the
horse we had loaned the visitor who was in such a hurry. He said that he
had seen nothing of the Indians at the ranch. He said that the fugitive
horseman had received a new mount at his ranch and had gone on his way,
but did not fail to send back his compliments saying that he was grateful
for the kindness we had shown him and hoped some day to be able to repay
it.
That afternoon, the herd, from which the fugitive above mentioned had
taken his departure, arrived in our neighborhood, and from the boys of the
outfit I learned the particulars of the whole occurance. The foreman gave
me all the information in the case, and I shall detail it here. He said
that the Indians had met them over in the Comanche country and had made
their usual demand for “Wohaw.” As he had given one steer already down in
the Red River district, he did not feel obliged to yield to their demands
for a second contribution. In order to get rid of them, and at the same
time to make a peace-offering he said he would let them have another. That
did not satisfy the Indians and they started for the herd to cut out what
they wanted. That was the thing that brought matters to a focus. They
might have known that their presence in the herd would cause a stampede.
When they persisted in doing so in spite of the warning to desist, then
came the signal for the disturbance which followed.
The first steer they cut out from the herd was met and driven back by a
young fellow by the name of McRay. An Indian tried to prevent his driving
the steer back to the herd. That spelled disaster for the Indian, for the
young fellow drew his forty-five and shot the Indian off his pony. All was
confusion for a brief space, but no more shooting took place. The Indians
picked up their wounded comrade and bore him away as fast as they could,
and then the herd moved on. McRay, acting on the advice of the foreman,
sought safety in flight towards the north. That was the fugitive that came
to my tent in search of a fresh pony. If he had remained with the herd,
serious trouble would have resulted, and if they had caught him in his
flight, he would likely have been scalped, if not subjected to other
barbarities.
I am not going to say anything about the merits of the case as it stood,
but will say that if the same conditions existed today, the same would
occur again.
As on the arrival of the former herds, we made another bargain for some of
the foot-sore cattle, and after doctoring them to the best of our ability,
we turned them in with the rest of our stock.
We did considerable business with the foreman of the outfit. After getting
what goods he wanted, he moved onward with his herd.
When they had gone, I saddled Old Jimmie and took a ride down to where our
stock was feeding along the creek, to look them over and see if they
needed any attention. They seemed in good condition, so I rode on, more
for pastime than with any object in view. When I had passed a mile or so
beyond where our herd was grazing peacefully, I saw something that I could
not account for, and proceeded to make an investigation. As I drew nearer
to the object of my curiosity I found an Indian sitting on the bank of the
creek. I was rather surprised to see that he had no pony in sight, nor
were there any other Indians in view. I approached him with the purpose of
making a closer scrutiny of this lone denizen of the plains. His wardrobe
consisted of a breech-clout, a pair of moccasins, and three feathers in
his hair. I rode up to him and saluted him with the customary Indian
“How.” He made no reply, did not give even a grunt of recognition. I
studied him carefully for awhile. I noted that his hair was well braided
and hung down his back, and was tipped with strips of Beaver fur. I rode
on a short distance, and returned again to take another look at him. I
addressed him as before, with the same result. He set me thinking very
seriously as he had no fire-arms and no pony. I thought that, perhaps, he
might be one of the three that had visited me the day they chased the
cowboy.
When I returned to camp I found a visitor, a line-rider. I explained to
him and Bill what I had seen, and the line-rider volunteered the
explanation that the Indian was a runner, or what one would call a
mail-carrier and was likely carrying some message to the Caddos, perhaps,
an invitation to a green corn dance, or some other festivity. His
appearance there had no further significance, so I let the matter drop. In
the meantime, Bill was busying himself cooking some venison the cowboy had
killed, getting ready for our next repast, which was about due. While
waiting for Bill to put the finishing touches on his work of art, we
amused ourselves with a game of checkers. When luncheon was ready we
abandoned the checker board with alacrity and threw ourselves very
earnestly into the work of demolishing what Bill had taken so much care to
prepare.
A strong friendship had sprung up between Bill and Nero. It was very much
like the story of Mary and her little lamb, wherever Bill went, there was
Nero at his heels. Such devotion was very touching, but in Bill’s case it
was almost too touching for it nearly cost him his life. As my partner was
not much given to riding horseback, any more than he could help, he used
to divert himself by taking a stroll over the prairie, and of course, the
dog was at his heels. It amused Bill to see the dog chasing jack rabbits,
or diving at prairie dogs, but both species seemed to have an uncanny way
of avoiding his onslaughts. He never caught any of them. One day as he was
tearing around after a rabbit, a herd of wild cattle came over the brow of
the hill. The dog was heading for them straight as an arrow; barking and
cavorting in a fashion wonderful to see. Any man who has had any
experience with wild cattle will know what danger my friend and partner
encountered at that point. Wild cattle are curious, and when they see a
man afoot, they begin to investigate immediately, and therein lies the
danger. If anything were to excite them at the moment they would trample
him to death. That was just about what was due to happen to Bill as the
dog had excited them and they were coming toward the man afoot. The idea
of self-preservation struck Nero about the same time as the cattle began
to move toward Bill, and he rushed to his master to save him. The cowboys
added to the pandemonium already turned loose, by trying to shoot Nero. I
always kept a horse saddled at the camp for an emergency, and when I heard
the commotion, I mounted and set out at full gallop to the scene of
action. I was just in time, for there was Bill hitting only the high
places in his flight for safety. I met him and he needed no invitation to
mount behind me, but caught the horn of the saddle and swung himself up
with alacrity and away we went at top speed. The danger was not entirely
passed, for there right behind us was Nero, the cause of a great part of
the trouble. Bill pulled his gun and shot the dog. That itself seemed to
check the herd, but we had a narrow escape. One stumble of the horse, and
we would both have been trampled into such small pieces that there would
be left only a damp spot on the ground where we had fallen. However, we
were safe and that was the chief thing for us. We saddled our ponies and
went to help the cowboys round up the herd that had become scattered
through the playful antics of Nero. As it was time to eat when we had got
the cattle back on the trail and quieted down, we joined the cowmen in
their meal. There was considerable joking and laughing over our
predicament, but they said not one word about the danger we encountered in
our flight before the stampede.
As this was an opportunity for us to do business again, we took advantage
of it. Bill bought some of the footsore stock, and I sold them provisions
to last them until they could find a more convenient market.
When the outfit had gone northwards, things began to assume the monotonous
routine of dull times. We did the best we could to entertain ourselves
with checkers and talking over prospects, but it was not very exciting at
best. From a business point of view it seemed a success, and we thought it
advisable to establish ourselves in a dugout and make a lengthy stay of
it. The prospects were good, the success of the past argued well for the
future, but “The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglee.”
Next morning I rode down to take a look at our growing herd and had not
gone very far when I found that one of my cattle had been killed. I
dismounted to examine the carcass more closely and found evidence that the
cow had been killed by some wild animal. I could not say what animal had
killed her as the manner of attack was entirely different from any I have
ever seen. It was not a gray wolf, as I was familiar with their mode of
destruction. I examined the ground and found the foot-prints of two
animals, one large and one small. I followed their trail for some distance
and found where they had been rolling in the sand after their feast. I
endeavored to follow it farther, but it was soon lost in the long buffalo
grass, and I had to give up the task.
I returned to camp and reported the matter to my partner, and he said that
he would fix things for them. He concluded that if he put strychnine in
the carcass they had already killed, they would come again, and in that
way he would rid us of the intruders. We applied the strychnine in the
most approved fashion laid down by old hunters and trappers, but it was in
vain. Next night they returned and killed another steer, but did not go
near the one they had killed before. As we were looking over the result of
the night’s work, a line-rider came by, and we explained the situation to
him. He said the mischief had been wrought by a cougar, or Mexican lion,
and that it was useless to try to poison him as he would not eat anything
in the nature of flesh except what had been freshly killed by himself.
Furthermore, he said, they had been attracted by our cattle because, being
footsore, they could not put up a fight to defend themselves, and thus
fell an easy prey to the marauders. We saw at once that there was only one
way out of the difficulty and that was to shoot the lions, as they seemed
to wary to be taken by poison. If we did not take that course, we would
soon be out of cattle. With that end in view we moved them up in the
neighborhood of our tent. We made a temporary corral for them, and awaited
an opportunity to send a bullet into the expected visitor. He came as
usual, but we did not get a shot at him, as he did not give us a chance. I
wish to say that in all my experience I have never met, in Canada or in
the West, another animal so cowardly and treacherous as the Mexican lion.
I have known them to kill an animal not more than four rods from where I
was sitting, and before I could reach the corral, he would be out of
sight. I could not shoot towards the corral for fear of killing or
crippling some of the stock. I have known them to kill a two-year-old
steer, and by the time I could get there the cougar was gone, but the
attack was so swift and sure that the poor beast would be still standing
with his entrails hanging on the ground. That gives some idea of how short
a time it takes a cougar to kill a cow. In spite of all his great
strength, he is a great coward, as he will not face a man. I tried to rid
myself of the pest that was thinning out my herd, and devoted a good deal
of time in trying to find his den, to get a shot at him, but my efforts
were to no purpose. I had to do the best I could, watch and wait, in the
hope of success.
While engaged in the hunt for the cougar one afternoon, I saw, at some
distance, a horse grazing along the creek. He had a saddle and bridle on
him, but no rider. I thought he had run away from some outfit, and went
down to where he was to secure him and bring him to my tent, so that the
owner could call for him when he had time. Upon reaching the place where
the pony was grazing, I saw a strange sight. There sat an Indian on a
knoll, wearing a Navajoe blanket, ear-rings that hung down like small
sleigh bells, his hair plaited and hanging down his back, his head
decorated with eagle feathers, all of which made me think I had met a very
distinguished gentleman. As a neighbor I greeted him with the customary,
“How.” To my greeting he made no sign of recognition, did not even move a
muscle. I rode past him for some distance and then returned on the
opposite side of him, and then I discovered the cause of his sullen
dignity. He had fastened to his blanket a small-sized pewter plate
polished as bright as a new dollar fresh from the mint, and around the rim
of it was inscribed the letters of the alphabet. I saw that he had left
his rifle in the scabbard of his saddle, and if he made any move of a
warlike nature, I could do a lot of business before he could get organized
for battle. This condition made me bolder and encouraged me to make a more
critical inspection of his wardrobe than I would have done if he had his
winchester near at hand. He wore a pair of moccasins highly ornamented
with beads of all colors. Whether he had any under garments I was not in
position to know, but he looked to be clothed in the highest degree of
cool, calm, unruffled dignity. As I had seen no cartridge belt on the
saddle, I was satisfied that he wore one around his waist, with the
customary pair of six shooters for ornaments and use. As he remained
stolid in his attitude towards me, I gave up any hope of finding out
anything about him, and rode home. I related my experience to Bill,
laughing over the dignity displayed by the Indian, based on the possession
of a pewter breast-plate that once belonged to some white child, and which
he had found on his meanderings over the plains.
After a quarter of a century has elapsed, and taking a retrospective view
of the situation at that time, I can see what a trifle it would have taken
to send one of us, if not both, over the Great Divide to the Happy Hunting
Grounds.
Bill had been out in another direction in search of the cougar, but met
with as little success as I had. It became a question of sitting up
nights guarding the herd, with the hope of being able to get a shot at the
cause of our misfortunes, but it was in vain. Every morning brought us
evidence of further devastation wrought by the bloodthirsty brute. Things
came to such a pass that we had to choose between losing the whole herd,
or moving to Kansas, and we chose the latter.
