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Title: Reed Anthony, Cowman: An Autobiography

Author: Andy Adams

Release date: July 11, 2004 [eBook #12884]
                Most recently updated: November 6, 2023

Language: English

Credits: the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REED ANTHONY, COWMAN: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***




[Illustration]




REED ANTHONY, COWMAN

An Autobiography

by ANDY ADAMS


1907


[Illustration] THE COWMAN




TO
CAPTAIN JOHN T. LYTLE
SECRETARY OF
THE TEXAS CATTLE RAISERS’ ASSOCIATION
FORT WORTH, TEXAS




Contents

 CHAPTER I IN RETROSPECT
 CHAPTER II MY APPRENTICESHIP
 CHAPTER III A SECOND TRIP TO FORT SUMNER
 CHAPTER IV A FATAL TRIP
 CHAPTER V SUMMER OF ’68
 CHAPTER VI SOWING WILD OATS
 CHAPTER VII “THE ANGEL”
 CHAPTER VIII THE “LAZY L”
 CHAPTER IX THE SCHOOL OF EXPERIENCE
 CHAPTER X THE PANIC OF ’73
 CHAPTER XI A PROSPEROUS YEAR
 CHAPTER XII CLEAR FORK AND SHENANDOAH
 CHAPTER XIII THE CENTENNIAL YEAR
 CHAPTER XIV ESTABLISHING A NEW RANCH
 CHAPTER XV HARVEST HOME
 CHAPTER XVI AN ACTIVE SUMMER
 CHAPTER XVII FORESHADOWS
 CHAPTER XVIII THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOM
 CHAPTER XIX THE CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHOE CATTLE COMPANY
 CHAPTER XX HOLDING THE FORT
 CHAPTER XXI THE FRUITS OF CONSPIRACY
 CHAPTER XXII IN CONCLUSIONORT
 CHAPTER XXI THE FRUITS OF CONSPIRACY CHAPTER XXII IN CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I
IN RETROSPECT


I can truthfully say that my entire life has been spent with cattle.
Even during my four years’ service in the Confederate army, the greater
portion was spent with the commissary department, in charge of its beef
supplies. I was wounded early in the second year of the war and
disabled as a soldier, but rather than remain at home I accepted a
menial position under a quartermaster. Those were strenuous times.
During Lee’s invasion of Pennsylvania we followed in the wake of the
army with over a thousand cattle, and after Gettysburg we led the
retreat with double that number. Near the close of the war we
frequently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than a
camp-follower.

I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840. My
father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, and as
early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the eastern
markets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was a
Scotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day, and
acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of the Shenandoah.
On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, but have good
cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother’s maiden name was
Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to trace their forbears
beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry of England. Generations of
good birth were reflected in my mother; and across a rough and eventful
life I can distinctly remember the refinement of her manners, her
courtesy to guests, her kindness to child and slave.

My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription school
several miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studies
were elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in my classes,
I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to play truant
when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intended any of
his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnest hope of my
mother that all of us should receive a college education. My elder
brother and I early developed business instincts, buying calves and
accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Once during a
vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, both of us
crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia, where he
bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back to our home
in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailing memory; over
fifty years have passed since that, my first trip from home, yet I
remember it vividly—can recall conversations between my father and the
sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember the money, gold and
silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carried by my father in
ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. As occasion demanded,
frequently the funds were carried by a negro man of ours, and at night,
when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bags were thrown into a
corner, every one aware of their contents.

But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There was no
railroad at the time, and as that was our market for fat cattle, it was
necessary to drive the entire way. My father had made the trip yearly
since I could remember, the distance being nearly two hundred miles,
and generally carrying as many as one hundred and fifty big beeves.
They traveled slowly, pasturing or feeding grain on the way, in order
that the cattle should arrive at the market in salable condition. One
horse was allowed with the herd, and on another my father rode, far in
advance, to engage pasture or feed and shelter for his men. When on the
road a boy always led a gentle ox in the lead of the beeves; negro men
walked on either flank, and the horseman brought up the rear. I used to
envy the boy leading the ox, even though he was a darky. The negro boys
on our plantation always pleaded with “Mars” John, my father, for the
privilege; and when one of them had made the trip to Baltimore as a
toll boy he easily outranked us younger whites. I must have made
application for the position when I was about seven years old, for it
seemed an age before my request was granted. My brother, only two years
older than I, had made the trip twice, and when I was twelve the great
opportunity came. My father had nearly two hundred cattle to go to
market that year, and the start was made one morning early in June. I
can distinctly see my mother standing on the veranda of our home as I
led the herd by with a big red ox, trembling with fear that at the
final moment her permission might be withdrawn and that I should have
to remain behind. But she never interfered with my father, who took
great pains to teach his boys everything practical in the cattle
business.

It took us twenty days to reach Baltimore. We always started early in
the morning, allowing the beeves to graze and rest along the road, and
securing good pastures for them at night. Several times it rained,
making the road soft, but I stripped off my shoes and took it
barefooted through the mud. The lead ox was a fine, big fellow, each
horn tipped with a brass knob, and he and I set the pace, which was
scarcely that of a snail. The days were long, I grew desperately hungry
between meals, and the novelty of leading that ox soon lost its
romance. But I was determined not to show that I was tired or hungry,
and frequently, when my father was with us and offered to take me up
behind him on his horse, I spurned his offer and trudged on till the
end of the day. The mere driving of the beeves would have been
monotonous, but the constant change of scene kept us in good spirits,
and our darkies always crooned old songs when the road passed through
woodlands. After the beeves were marketed we spent a day in the city,
and my father took my brother and me to the theatre. Although the world
was unfolding rather rapidly for a country boy of twelve, it was with
difficulty that I was made to understand that what we had witnessed on
the stage was but mimicry.

The third day after reaching the city we started on our return. The
proceeds from the sale of the cattle were sent home by boat. With only
two horses, each of which carried double, and walking turn about, we
reached home in seven days, settling all bills on the way. That year
was a type of others until I was eighteen, at which age I could guess
within twenty pounds of the weight of any beef on foot, and when I
bought calves and yearling steers I knew just what kind of cattle they
would make at maturity. In the mean time, one summer my father had gone
west as far as the State of Missouri, traveling by boat to Jefferson
City, and thence inland on horseback. Several of our neighbors had
accompanied him, all of them buying land, my father securing four
sections. I had younger brothers growing up, and the year my oldest
brother attained his majority my father outfitted him with teams,
wagons, and two trusty negro men, and we started for the nearest point
on the Ohio River, our destination being the new lands in the West. We
embarked on the first boat, drifting down the Ohio, and up the other
rivers, reaching the Ultima Thule of our hopes within a month. The land
was new; I liked it; we lived on venison and wild turkeys, and when
once we had built a log house and opened a few fields, we were at peace
with the earth.

But this happy existence was of short duration. Rumors of war reached
us in our western elysium, and I turned my face homeward, as did many
another son of Virginia. My brother was sensible enough to remain
behind on the new farm; but with nothing to restrain me I soon found
myself in St. Louis. There I met kindred spirits, eager for the coming
fray, and before attaining my majority I was bearing arms and wearing
the gray of the Confederacy. My regiment saw very little service during
the first year of the war, as it was stationed in the western division,
but early in 1862 it was engaged in numerous actions.

I shall never forget my first glimpse of the Texas cavalry. We had
moved out from Corinth, under cover of darkness, to attack Grant at
Pittsburg Landing. When day broke, orders were given to open out and
allow the cavalry to pass ahead and reconnoitre our front. I had always
felt proud of Virginian horsemanship, but those Texans were in a class
by themselves. Centaur-like they sat their horses, and for our
amusement, while passing at full gallop, swung from their saddles and
picked up hats and handkerchiefs. There was something about the Texans
that fascinated me, and that Sunday morning I resolved, if spared, to
make Texas my future home. I have good cause to remember the battle of
Shiloh, for during the second day I was twice wounded, yet saved from
falling into the enemy’s hands.

My recovery was due to youth and a splendid constitution. Within six
weeks I was invalided home, and inside a few months I was assigned to
the commissary department with the army in Virginia. It was while in
the latter service that I made the acquaintance of many Texans, from
whom I learned a great deal about the resources of their State,—its
immense herds of cattle, the cheapness of its lands, and its perpetual
summer. During the last year of the war, on account of their ability to
handle cattle, a number of Texans were detailed to care for the army’s
beef supply. From these men I received much information and a pressing
invitation to accompany them home, and after the parole at Appomattox I
took their address, promising to join them in the near future. On my
return to the old homestead I found the place desolate, with burnt
barns and fields laid waste. The Shenandoah Valley had experienced war
in its dread reality, for on every hand were the charred remains of
once splendid homes. I had little hope that the country would ever
recover, but my father, stout-hearted as ever, had already begun anew,
and after helping him that summer and fall I again drifted west to my
brother’s farm.

The war had developed a restless, vagabond spirit in me. I had little
heart to work, was unsettled as to my future, and, to add to my other
troubles, after reaching Missouri one of my wounds reopened. In the
mean time my brother had married, and had a fine farm opened up. He
offered me every encouragement and assistance to settle down to the
life of a farmer; but I was impatient, worthless, undergoing a
formative period of early manhood, even spurning the advice of father,
mother, and dearest friends. If to-day, across the lapse of years, the
question were asked what led me from the bondage of my discontent, it
would remain unanswered. Possibly it was the advantage of good birth;
surely the prayers of a mother had always followed me, and my feet were
finally led into the paths of industry. Since that day of uncertainty,
grandsons have sat upon my knee, clamoring for a story about Indians,
the war, or cattle trails. If I were to assign a motive for thus
leaving a tangible record of my life, it would be that my posterity—not
the present generation, absorbed in its greed of gain, but a more
distant and a saner one—should be enabled to glean a faint idea of one
of their forbears. A worthy and secondary motive is to give an idea of
the old West and to preserve from oblivion a rapidly vanishing type of
pioneers.

My personal appearance can be of little interest to coming generations,
but rather what I felt, saw, and accomplished. It was always a matter
of regret to me that I was such a poor shot with a pistol. The only two
exceptions worthy of mention were mere accidents. In my boyhood’s home,
in Virginia, my father killed yearly a large number of hogs for the
household needs as well as for supplying our slave families with bacon.
The hogs usually ran in the woods, feeding and thriving on the mast,
but before killing time we always baited them into the fields and
finished their fattening with peas and corn. It was customary to wait
until the beginning of winter, or about the second cold spell, to
butcher, and at the time in question there were about fifty large hogs
to kill. It was a gala event with us boys, the oldest of whom were
allowed to shoot one or more with a rifle. The hogs had been tolled
into a small field for the killing, and towards the close of the day a
number of them, having been wounded and requiring a second or third
shot, became cross. These subsequent shots were usually delivered from
a six-shooter, and in order to have it at hand in case of a miss I was
intrusted with carrying the pistol. There was one heavy-tusked
five-year-old stag among the hogs that year who refused to present his
head for a target, and took refuge in a brier thicket. He was left
until the last, when we all sallied out to make the final kill. There
were two rifles, and had the chance come to my father, I think he would
have killed him easily; but the opportunity came to a neighbor, who
overshot, merely causing a slight wound. The next instant the stag
charged at me from the cover of the thickety fence corner. Not having
sense enough to take to the nearest protection, I turned and ran like a
scared wolf across the field, the hog following me like a hound. My
father risked a running shot, which missed its target. The darkies were
yelling, “Run, chile! Run, Mars’ Reed! Shoot! Shoot!” when it occurred
to me that I had a pistol; and pointing it backward as I ran, I blazed
away, killing the big fellow in his tracks.

The other occasion was years afterward, when I was a trail foreman at
Abilene, Kansas. My herd had arrived at that market in bad condition,
gaunted from almost constant stampedes at night, and I had gone into
camp some distance from town to quiet and recuperate them. That day I
was sending home about half my men, had taken them to the depot with
our wagon, and intended hauling back a load of supplies to my camp.
After seeing the boys off I hastened about my other business, and near
the middle of the afternoon started out of town. The distance to camp
was nearly twenty miles, and with a heavy load, principally salt, I
knew it would be after nightfall when I reached there. About five miles
out of town there was a long, gradual slope to climb, and I had to give
the through team their time in pulling to its summit. Near the divide
was a small box house, the only one on the road if I remember rightly,
and as I was nearing it, four or five dogs ran out and scared my team.
I managed to hold them in the road, but they refused to quiet down,
kicking, rearing, and plunging in spite of their load; and once as they
jerked me forward, I noticed there was a dog or two under the wagon,
nipping at their heels. There was a six-shooter lying on the seat
beside me, and reaching forward I fired it downward over the end gate
of the wagon. By the merest accident I hit a dog, who raised a cry, and
the last I saw of him he was spinning like a top and howling like a
wolf. I quieted the team as soon as possible, and as I looked back,
there was a man and woman pursuing me, the latter in the lead. I had
gumption enough to know that they were the owners of the dog, and
whipped up the horses in the hope of getting away from them. But the
grade and the load were against me, and the next thing I knew, a big,
bony woman, with fire in her eye, was reaching for me. The wagon wheel
warded her off, and I leaned out of her reach to the far side, yet she
kept abreast of me, constantly calling for her husband to hurry up. I
was pouring the whip into the horses, fearful lest she would climb into
the wagon, when the hub of the front wheel struck her on the knee,
knocking her down. I was then nearing the summit of the divide, and on
reaching it, I looked back and saw the big woman giving her husband the
pommeling that was intended for me. She was altogether too near me yet,
and I shook the lines over the horses, firing a few shots to frighten
them, and we tore down the farther slope like a fire engine.

There are two events in my life that this chronicle will not fully
record. One of them is my courtship and marriage, and the other my
connection with a government contract with the Indian department.
Otherwise my life shall be as an open book, not only for my own
posterity, but that he who runs may read. It has been a matter of
observation with me that a plain man like myself scarcely ever refers
to his love affairs. At my time of life, now nearing my alloted span, I
have little sympathy with the great mass of fiction which exploits the
world-old passion. In no sense of the word am I a well-read man, yet I
am conscious of the fact that during my younger days the love story
interested me; but when compared with the real thing, the transcript is
usually a poor one. My wife and I have now walked up and down the paths
of life for over thirty-five years, and, if memory serves me right,
neither one of us has ever mentioned the idea of getting a divorce. In
youth we shared our crust together; children soon blessed and
brightened our humble home, and to-day, surrounded by every comfort
that riches can bestow, no achievement in life has given me such great
pleasure, I know no music so sweet, as the prattle of my own
grandchildren. Therefore that feature of my life is sacred, and will
not be disclosed in these pages.

I would omit entirely mention of the Indian contract, were it not that
old friends may read this, my biography, and wonder at the omission. I
have no apologies to offer for my connection with the transaction, as
its true nature was concealed from me in the beginning, and a scandal
would have resulted had I betrayed friends. Then again, before general
amnesty was proclaimed I was debarred from bidding on the many rich
government contracts for cattle because I had served in the Confederate
army. Smarting under this injustice at the time the Indian contract was
awarded, I question if I was thoroughly _reconstructed._ Before our
disabilities were removed, we ex-Confederates could do all the work,
run all the risk, turn in all the cattle in filling the outstanding
contracts, but the middleman got the profits. The contract in question
was a blanket one, requiring about fifty thousand cows for delivery at
some twenty Indian agencies. The use of my name was all that was
required of me, as I was the only cowman in the entire ring. My duty
was to bid on the contract; the bonds would be furnished by my
partners, of which I must have had a dozen. The proposals called for
sealed bids, in the usual form, to be in the hands of the Department of
the Interior before noon on a certain day, marked so and so, and to be
opened at high noon a week later. The contract was a large one, the
competition was ample. Several other Texas drovers besides myself had
submitted bids; but they stood no show—_I had been furnished the
figures of every competitor._ The ramifications of the ring of which I
was the mere figure-head can be readily imagined. I sublet the contract
to the next lowest bidder, who delivered the cattle, and we got a
rake-off of a clean hundred thousand dollars. Even then there was
little in the transaction for me, as it required too many people to
handle it, and none of them stood behind the door at the final “divvy.”
In a single year I have since cleared twenty times what my interest
amounted to in that contract and have done honorably by my fellowmen.
That was my first, last, and only connection with a transaction that
would need deodorizing if one described the details.

But I have seen life, have been witness to its poetry and pathos, have
drunk from the cup of sorrow and rejoiced as a strong man to run a
race. I have danced all night where wealth and beauty mingled, and
again under the stars on a battlefield I have helped carry a stretcher
when the wails of the wounded on every hand were like the despairing
cries of lost souls. I have seen an old demented man walking the
streets of a city, picking up every scrap of paper and scanning it
carefully to see if a certain ship had arrived at port—a ship which had
been lost at sea over forty years before, and aboard of which were his
wife and children. I was once under the necessity of making a payment
of twenty-five thousand dollars in silver at an Indian village. There
were no means of transportation, and I was forced to carry the specie
in on eight pack mules. The distance was nearly two hundred miles, and
as we neared the encampment we were under the necessity of crossing a
shallow river. It was summer-time, and as we halted the tired mules to
loosen the lash ropes, in order to allow them to drink, a number of
Indian children of both sexes, who were bathing in the river, gathered
naked on either embankment in bewilderment at such strange intruders.
In the innocence of these children of the wild there was no doubt
inspiration for a poet; but our mission was a commercial one, and we
relashed the mules and hurried into the village with the rent money.

I have never kept a diary. One might wonder that the human mind could
contain such a mass of incident and experiences as has been my portion,
yet I can remember the day and date of occurrences of fifty years ago.
The scoldings of my father, the kind words of an indulgent mother, when
not over five years of age, are vivid in my memory as I write to-day.
It may seem presumptuous, but I can give the year and date of starting,
arrival, and delivery of over one hundred herds of cattle which I drove
over the trail as a common hand, foreman, or owner. Yet the warnings of
years—the unsteady step, easily embarrassed, love of home and dread of
leaving it—bid me hasten these memoirs. Even my old wounds act as a
barometer in foretelling the coming of storms, as well as the change of
season, from both of which I am comfortably sheltered. But as I look
into the inquiring eyes of a circle of grandchildren, all anxious to
know my life story, it seems to sweeten the task, and I am encouraged
to go on with the work.




CHAPTER II
MY APPRENTICESHIP


During the winter of 1865-66 I corresponded with several of my old
comrades in Texas. Beyond a welcome which could not be questioned,
little encouragement was, with one exception, offered me among my old
friends. It was a period of uncertainty throughout the South, yet a
cheerful word reached me from an old soldier crony living some distance
west of Fort Worth on the Brazos River. I had great confidence in my
former comrade, and he held out a hope, assuring me that if I would
come, in case nothing else offered, we could take his ox teams the next
winter and bring in a cargo of buffalo robes. The plains to the
westward of Fort Griffin, he wrote, were swarming with buffalo, and
wages could be made in killing them for their hides. This caught my
fancy and I was impatient to start at once; but the healing of my
reopened wound was slow, and it was March before I started. My brother
gave me a good horse and saddle, twenty-five dollars in gold, and I
started through a country unknown to me personally. Southern Missouri
had been in sympathy with the Confederacy, and whatever I needed while
traveling through that section was mine for the asking. I avoided the
Indian Territory until I reached Fort Smith, where I rested several
days with an old comrade, who gave me instructions and routed me across
the reservation of the Choctaw Indians, and I reached Paris, Texas,
without mishap.

I remember the feeling that I experienced while being ferried across
Red River. That watercourse was the northern boundary of Texas, and
while crossing it I realized that I was leaving home and friends and
entering a country the very name of which to the outside world was a
synonym for crime and outlawry. Yet some of as good men as ever it was
my pleasure to know came from that State, and undaunted I held a true
course for my destination. I was disappointed on seeing Fort Worth, a
straggling village on the Trinity River, and, merely halting to feed my
mount, passed on. I had a splendid horse and averaged thirty to forty
miles a day when traveling, and early in April reached the home of my
friend in Paolo Pinto County. The primitive valley of the Brazos was
enchanting, and the hospitality of the Edwards ranch was typical of my
own Virginia. George Edwards, my crony, was a year my junior, a native
of the State, his parents having moved west from Mississippi the year
after Texas won her independence from Mexico. The elder Edwards had
moved to his present home some fifteen years previous, carrying with
him a stock of horses and cattle, which had increased until in 1866 he
was regarded as one of the substantial ranchmen in the Brazos valley.
The ranch house was a stanch one, built at a time when defense was to
be considered as well as comfort, and was surrounded by fine
cornfields. The only drawback I could see there was that there was no
market for anything, nor was there any money in the country. The
consumption of such a ranch made no impression on the increase of its
herds, which grew to maturity with no demand for the surplus.

I soon became impatient to do something. George Edwards had likewise
lost four years in the army, and was as restless as myself. He knew the
country, but the only employment in sight for us was as teamsters with
outfits, freighting government supplies to Fort Griffin. I should have
jumped at the chance of driving oxen, for I was anxious to stay in the
country, and suggested to George that we ride up to Griffin. But the
family interposed, assuring us that there was no occasion for engaging
in such menial work, and we folded our arms obediently, or rode the
range under the pretense of looking after the cattle. I might as well
admit right here that my anxiety to get away from the Edwards ranch was
fostered by the presence of several sisters of my former comrade. Miss
Gertrude was only four years my junior, a very dangerous age, and in
spite of all resolutions to the contrary, I felt myself constantly
slipping. Nothing but my poverty and the hopelessness of it kept me
from falling desperately in love.

But a temporary relief came during the latter part of May. Reports came
down the river that a firm of drovers were putting up a herd of cattle
for delivery at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Their headquarters were at
Belknap, a long day’s ride above, on the Brazos; and immediately, on
receipt of the news, George and I saddled, and started up the river.
The elder Edwards was very anxious to sell his beef-cattle and a
surplus of cow-horses, and we were commissioned to offer them to the
drovers at prevailing prices. On arriving at Belknap we met the pioneer
drover of Texas, Oliver Loving, of the firm of Loving & Goodnight, but
were disappointed to learn that the offerings in making up the herd
were treble the drover’s requirements; neither was there any chance to
sell horses. But an application for work met with more favor. Mr.
Loving warned us of the nature of the country, the dangers to be
encountered, all of which we waived, and were accordingly employed at
forty dollars a month in gold. The herd was to start early in June.
George Edwards returned home to report, but I was immediately put to
work, as the junior member of the firm was then out receiving cattle.
They had established a camp, and at the time of our employment were
gathering beef steers in Loving’s brand and holding the herd as it
arrived, so that I was initiated into my duties at once.

I was allowed to retain my horse, provided he did his share of the
work. A mule and three range horses were also allotted to me, and I was
cautioned about their care. There were a number of saddle mules in the
remuda, and Mr. Loving explained that the route was through a dry
country, and that experience had taught him that a mule could withstand
thirst longer than a horse. I was a new man in the country, and
absorbed every word and idea as a sponge does water. With the exception
of roping, I made a hand from the start. The outfit treated me
courteously, there was no concealment of my past occupation, and I soon
had the friendship of every man in the camp. It was some little time
before I met the junior partner, Charlie Goodnight, a strapping young
fellow of about thirty, who had served all through the war in the
frontier battalion of Texas Rangers. The Comanche Indians had been a
constant menace on the western frontier of the State, and during the
rebellion had allied themselves with the Federal side, and harassed the
settlements along the border. It required a regiment of mounted men to
patrol the frontier from Red River to the coast, as the Comanches
claimed the whole western half of the State as their hunting grounds.

Early in June the herd began to assume its required numbers. George
Edwards returned, and we naturally became bunkies, sharing our blankets
and having the same guard on night-herd. The drovers encouraged all the
men employed to bring along their firearms, and when we were ready to
start the camp looked like an arsenal. I had a six-shooter, and my
bunkie brought me a needle-gun from the ranch, so that I felt armed for
any emergency. Each of the men had a rifle of some make or other, while
a few of them had as many as four pistols,—two in their belts and two
in saddle holsters. It looked to me as if this was to be a military
expedition, and I began to wonder if I had not had enough war the past
few years, but kept quiet. The start was made June 10, 1866, from the
Brazos River, in what is now Young County, the herd numbering
twenty-two hundred big beeves. A chuck-wagon, heavily loaded with
supplies and drawn by six yoke of fine oxen, a remuda of eighty-five
saddle horses and mules, together with seventeen men, constituted the
outfit. Fort Sumner lay to the northwest, and I was mildly surprised
when the herd bore off to the southwest. This was explained by young
Goodnight, who was in charge of the herd, saying that the only route
then open or known was on our present course to the Pecos River, and
thence up that stream to our destination.

Indian sign was noticed a few days after starting. Goodnight and Loving
both read it as easily as if it had been print,—the abandoned camps,
the course of arrival and departure, the number of horses, indicating
who and what they were, war or hunting parties—everything apparently
simple and plain as an alphabet to these plainsmen. Around the
camp-fire at night the chronicle of the Comanche tribe for the last
thirty years was reviewed, and their overbearing and defiant attitude
towards the people of Texas was discussed, not for my benefit, as it
was common history. Then for the first time I learned that the
Comanches had once mounted ten thousand warriors, had frequently raided
the country to the coast, carrying off horses and white children, even
dictating their own terms of peace to the republic of Texas. At the
last council, called for the purpose of negotiating for the return of
captive white children in possession of the Comanches, the assembly had
witnessed a dramatic termination. The same indignity had been offered
before, and borne by the whites, too weak to resist the numbers of the
Comanche tribe. In this latter instance, one of the war chiefs, in
spurning the remuneration offered for the return of a certain white
girl, haughtily walked into the centre of the council, where an insult
could be seen by all. His act, a disgusting one, was anticipated, as it
was not the first time it had been witnessed, when one of the Texans
present drew a six-shooter and killed the chief in the act. The hatchet
of the Comanche was instantly dug up, and had not been buried at the
time we were crossing a country claimed by him as his hunting ground.

Yet these drovers seemed to have no fear of an inferior race. We held
our course without a halt, scarcely a day passing without seeing more
or less fresh sign of Indians. After crossing the South Fork of the
Brazos, we were attacked one morning just at dawn, the favorite hour of
the Indian for a surprise. Four men were on herd with the cattle and
one near by with the remuda, our night horses all securely tied to the
wagon wheels. A feint attack was made on the commissary, but under the
leadership of Goodnight a majority of us scrambled into our saddles and
rode to the rescue of the remuda, the chief objective of the surprise.
Two of the boys from the herd had joined the horse wrangler, and on our
arrival all three were wickedly throwing lead at the circling Indians.
The remuda was running at the time, and as we cut through between it
and the savages we gave them the benefit of our rifles and six-shooter
in passing. The shots turned the saddle stock back towards our camp and
the mounted braves continued on their course, not willing to try issues
with us, although they outnumbered us three to one. A few arrows had
imbedded themselves in the ground around camp at the first assault, but
once our rifles were able to distinguish an object clearly, the Indians
kept well out of reach. The cattle made a few surges, but once the
remuda was safe, there was an abundance of help in holding them, and
they quieted down before sunrise. The Comanches had no use for cattle,
except to kill and torture them, as they preferred the flesh of the
buffalo, and once our saddle stock and the contents of the wagon were
denied them, they faded into the dips of the plain.

The journey was resumed without the delay of an hour. Our first brush
with the noble red man served a good purpose, as we were doubly
vigilant thereafter whenever there was cause to expect an attack. There
was an abundance of water, as we followed up the South Fork and its
tributaries, passing through Buffalo Gap, which was afterward a
well-known landmark on the Texas and Montana cattle trail. Passing over
the divide between the waters of the Brazos and Concho, we struck the
old Butterfield stage route, running by way of Fort Concho to El Paso,
Texas, on the Rio Grande. This stage road was the original Staked
Plain, surveyed and located by General John Pope in 1846. The route was
originally marked by stakes, until it became a thoroughfare, from which
the whole of northwest Texas afterward took its name. There was a
ninety-six mile dry drive between the headwaters of the Concho and
Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos, and before attempting it we rested a
few days. Here Indians made a second attack on us, and although as
futile as the first, one of the horse wranglers received an arrow in
the shoulder. In attempting to remove it the shaft separated from the
steel arrowhead, leaving the latter imbedded in the lad’s shoulder. We
were then one hundred and twelve miles distant from Fort Concho, the
nearest point where medical relief might be expected. The drovers were
alarmed for the man’s welfare; it was impossible to hold the herd
longer, so the young fellow volunteered to make the ride alone. He was
given the best horse in the remuda, and with the falling of darkness
started for Fort Concho. I had the pleasure of meeting him afterward,
as happy as he was hale and hearty.

The start across the arid stretch was made at noon. Every hoof had been
thoroughly watered in advance, and with the heat of summer on us it
promised to be an ordeal to man and beast. But Loving had driven it
before, and knew fully what was before him as we trailed out under a
noonday sun. An evening halt was made for refreshing the inner man, and
as soon as darkness settled over us the herd was again started. We were
conscious of the presence of Indians, and deceived them by leaving our
camp-fire burning, but holding our effects closely together throughout
the night, the remuda even mixing with the cattle. When day broke we
were fully thirty miles from our noon camp of the day before, yet with
the exception of an hour’s rest there was never a halt. A second day
and night were spent in forging ahead, though it is doubtful if we
averaged much over a mile an hour during that time. About fifteen miles
out from the Pecos we were due to enter a cañon known as Castle
Mountain Gap, some three or four miles long, the exit of which was in
sight of the river. We were anxious to reach the entrance of this cañon
before darkness on the third day, as we could then cut the cattle into
bunches, the cliffs on either side forming a lane. Our horses were as
good as worthless during the third day, but the saddle mules seemed to
stand grief nobly, and by dint of ceaseless effort we reached the cañon
and turned the cattle loose into it. This was the turning-point in the
dry drive. That night two men took half the remuda and went through to
Horsehead Crossing, returning with them early the next morning, and we
once more had fresh mounts. The herd had been nursed through the cañon
during the night, and although it was still twelve miles to the river,
I have always believed that those beeves knew that water was at hand.
They walked along briskly; instead of the constant moaning, their heads
were erect, bawling loud and deep. The oxen drawing the wagon held
their chains taut, and the commissary moved forward as if drawn by a
fresh team. There was no attempt to hold the herd compactly, and within
an hour after starting on our last lap the herd was strung out three
miles. The rear was finally abandoned, and when half the distance was
covered, the drag cattle to the number of fully five hundred turned out
of the trail and struck direct for the river. They had scented the
water over five miles, and as far as control was concerned the herd was
as good as abandoned, except that the water would hold them.

Horsehead Crossing was named by General Pope. There is a difference of
opinion as to the origin of the name, some contending that it was due
to the meanderings of the river, forming a horse’s head, and others
that the surveying party was surprised by Indians and lost their stock.
None of us had slept for three nights, and the feeling of relief on
reaching the Pecos, shared alike by man and beast, is indescribable.
Unless one has endured such a trial, only a faint idea of its hardships
can be fully imagined—the long hours of patient travel at a snail’s
pace, enveloped by clouds of dust by day, and at night watching every
shadow for a lurking savage. I have since slept many a time in the
saddle, but in crossing that arid belt the one consuming desire to
reach the water ahead benumbed every sense save watchfulness.

All the cattle reached the river before the middle of the afternoon,
covering a front of five or six miles. The banks of the Pecos were
abrupt, there being fully one hundred and twenty-five feet of deep
water in the channel at the stage crossing. Entrance to the ford
consisted of a wagon-way, cut through the banks, and the cattle crowded
into the river above and below, there being but one exit on either
side. Some miles above, the beeves had found several passageways down
to the water, but in drifting up and down stream they missed these
entrances on returning. A rally was made late that afternoon to rout
the cattle out of the river-bed, one half the outfit going above, the
remainder working around Horsehead, where the bulk of the herd had
watered. I had gone upstream with Goodnight, but before we reached the
upper end of the cattle fresh Indian sign was noticed. There was enough
broken country along the river to shelter the redskins, but we kept in
the open and cautiously examined every brake within gunshot of an
entrance to the river. We succeeded in getting all the animals out of
the water before dark, with the exception of one bunch, where the exit
would require the use of a mattock before the cattle could climb it,
and a few head that had bogged in the quicksand below Horsehead
Crossing. There was little danger of a rise in the river, the loose
contingent had a dry sand-bar on which to rest, and as the Indians had
no use for them there was little danger of their being molested before
morning.

We fell back about a mile from the river and camped for the night.
Although we were all dead for sleep, extra caution was taken to prevent
a surprise, either Goodnight or Loving remaining on guard over the
outfit, seeing that the men kept awake on herd and that the guards
changed promptly. Charlie Goodnight owned a horse that he contended
could scent an Indian five hundred yards, and I have never questioned
the statement. He had used him in the Ranger service. The horse by
various means would show his uneasiness in the immediate presence of
Indians, and once the following summer we moved camp at midnight on
account of the warnings of that same horse. We had only a remuda with
us at the time, but another outfit encamped with us refused to go, and
they lost half their horses from an Indian surprise the next morning
and never recovered them. I remember the ridicule which was expressed
at our moving camp on the warnings of a horse. “Injun-bit,”
“Man-afraid-of-his-horses,” were some of the terms applied to us,—yet
the practical plainsman knew enough to take warning from his dumb
beast. Fear, no doubt, gives horses an unusual sense of smell, and I
have known them to detect the presence of a bear, on a favorable wind,
at an incredible distance.

The night passed quietly, and early the next morning we rode to recover
the remainder of the cattle. An effort was also made to rescue the
bogged ones. On approaching the river, we found the beeves still
resting quietly on the sand-bar. But we had approached them at an
angle, for directly over head and across the river was a brake
overgrown with thick brush, a splendid cover in which Indians might be
lurking in the hope of ambushing any one who attempted to drive out the
beeves. Two men were left with a single mattock to cut out and improve
the exit, while the rest of us reconnoitered the thickety motte across
the river. Goodnight was leery of the thicket, and suggested firing a
few shots into it. We all had long-range guns, the distance from bank
to bank was over two hundred yards, and a fusillade of shots was
accordingly poured into the motte. To my surprise we were rewarded by
seeing fully twenty Indians skulk out of the upper end of the cover.
Every man raised his sights and gave them a parting volley, but a
mesquite thicket, in which their horses were secreted, soon sheltered
them and they fell back into the hills on the western side of the
river. With the coast thus cleared, half a dozen of us rode down into
the river-bed and drove out the last contingent of about three hundred
cattle. Goodnight informed us that those Indians had no doubt been
watching us for days, and cautioned us never to give a Comanche an
advantage, advice which I never forgot.

On our return every one of the bogged cattle had been freed except two
heavy beeves. These animals were mired above the ford, in rather deep
water, and it was simply impossible to release them. The drovers were
anxious to cross the river that afternoon, and a final effort was made
to rescue the two steers. The oxen were accordingly yoked, and, with
all the chain available, were driven into the river and fastened on to
the nearest one. Three mounted drivers had charge of the team, and when
the word was given six yoke of cattle bowed their necks and threw their
weight against the yokes; but the quicksand held the steer in spite of
all their efforts. The chain was freed from it, and the oxen were
brought around and made fast again, at an angle and where the footing
was better for the team. Again the word was given, and as the six yoke
swung round, whips and ropes were plied amid a general shouting, and
the team brought out the steer, but with a broken neck. There were no
regrets, and our attention was at once given to the other steer. The
team circled around, every available chain was brought into use, in
order to afford the oxen good footing on a straight-away pull with the
position in which the beef lay bogged. The word was given for an easy
pull, the oxen barely stretched their chains, and were stopped.
Goodnight cautioned the drivers that unless the pull was straight ahead
another neck would be broken. A second trial was made; the oxen swung
and weaved, the chains fairly cried, the beef’s head went under water,
but the team was again checked in time to keep the steer from drowning.
After a breathing spell for oxen and victim, the call was made for a
rush. A driver was placed over every yoke and the word given, and the
oxen fell to their knees in the struggle, whips cracked over their
backs, ropes were plied by every man in charge, and, amid a din of
profanity applied to the struggling cattle, the team fell forward in a
general collapse. At first it was thought the chain had parted, but as
the latter came out of the water it held in its iron grasp the horns
and a portion of the skull of the dying beef. Several of us rode out to
the victim, whose brain lay bare, still throbbing and twitching with
life. Rather than allow his remains to pollute the river, we made a
last pull at an angle, and the dead beef was removed.

We bade Horsehead Crossing farewell that afternoon and camped for the
night above Dagger Bend. Our route now lay to the northwest, or up the
Pecos River. We were then out twenty-one days from Belknap, and
although only half way to our destination, the worst of it was
considered over. There was some travel up and down the Pecos valley,
the route was even then known as the Chisum trail, and afterward
extended as far north as Fort Logan in Colorado and other government
posts in Wyoming. This cattle trace should never be confounded with the
Chisholm trail, first opened by a half-breed named Jesse Chisholm,
which ran from Red River Station on the northern boundary of Texas to
various points in Kansas. In cutting across the bends of the Rio Pecos
we secured water each day for the herd, although we were frequently
under the necessity of sloping down the banks with mattocks to let the
cattle into the river. By this method it often took us three or four
hours to water the herd. Until we neared Fort Sumner precaution never
relaxed against an Indian surprise. Their sign was seen almost daily,
but as there were weaker outfits than ours passing through we escaped
any further molestation.

The methods of handling such a herd were a constant surprise to me, as
well as the schooling of these plainsmen drovers. Goodnight had come to
the plains when a boy of ten, and was a thorough master of their
secrets. On one occasion, about midway between Horsehead Crossing and
our destination, difficulty was encountered in finding an entrance to
the river on account of its abrupt banks. It was late in the day, and
in order to insure a quiet night with the cattle water became an urgent
necessity. Our young foreman rode ahead and found a dry, sandy creek,
its bed fully fifty yards wide, but no water, though the sand was damp.
The herd was held back until sunset, when the cattle were turned into
the creek bed and held as compactly as possible. The heavy beeves
naturally walked back and forth, up and down, the sand just moist
enough to aggravate them after a day’s travel under a July sun. But the
tramping soon agitated the sands, and within half an hour after the
herd had entered the dry creek the water arose in pools, and the cattle
drank to their hearts’ content. As dew falls at night, moisture
likewise rises in the earth, and with the twilight hour, the agitation
of the sands, and the weight of the cattle, a spring was produced in
the desert waste.

Fort Sumner was a six-company post and the agency of the Apaches and
Navajos. These two tribes numbered over nine thousand people, and our
herd was intended to supply the needs of the military post and these
Indians. The contract was held by Patterson & Roberts, eligible by
virtue of having cast their fortunes with the victor in “the late
unpleasantness,” and otherwise fine men. We reached the post on the
20th of July. There was a delay of several days before the cattle were
accepted, but all passed the inspection with the exception of about one
hundred head. These were cattle which had not recuperated from the dry
drive. Some few were footsore or thin in flesh, but taken as a whole
the delivery had every earmark of an honest one. Fortunately this
remnant was sold a few days later to some Colorado men, and we were
foot-loose and free. Even the oxen had gone in on the main delivery,
and harnesses were accordingly bought, a light tongue fitted to the
wagon, and we were ready to start homeward. Mules were substituted for
the oxen, and we averaged forty miles a day returning, almost itching
for an Indian attack, as we had supplied ourselves with ammunition from
the post sutler. The trip had been a financial success (the government
was paying ten cents a pound for beef on foot), friendly relations had
been established with the holders of the award, and we hastened home to
gather and drive another herd.




CHAPTER III
A SECOND TRIP TO FORT SUMNER


On the return trip we traveled mainly by night. The proceeds from the
sale of the herd were in the wagon, and had this fact been known it
would have been a tempting prize for either bandits or Indians. After
leaving Horsehead Crossing we had the advantage of the dark of the
moon, as it was a well-known fact that the Comanches usually choose
moonlight nights for their marauding expeditions. Another thing in our
favor, both going and returning, was the lightness of travel westward,
it having almost ceased during the civil war, though in ’66 it showed a
slight prospect of resumption. Small bands of Indians were still abroad
on horse-stealing forays, but the rich prizes of wagon trains bound for
El Paso or Santa Fé no longer tempted the noble red man in force. This
was favorable wind to our sail, but these plainsmen drovers predicted
that, once traffic westward was resumed, the Comanche and his ally
would be about the first ones to know it. The redskins were constantly
passing back and forth, to and from their reservation in the Indian
Territory, and news travels fast even among savages.

We reached the Brazos River early in August. As the second start was
not to be made until the latter part of the following month, a general
settlement was made with the men and all reëngaged for the next trip. I
received eighty dollars in gold as my portion, it being the first money
I ever earned as a citizen. The past two months were a splendid
experience for one going through a formative period, and I had returned
feeling that I was once more a man among men. All the uncertainty as to
my future had fallen from me, and I began to look forward to the day
when I also might be the owner of lands and cattle. There was no good
reason why I should not, as the range was as free as it was boundless.
There were any quantity of wild cattle in the country awaiting an
owner, and a good mount of horses, a rope, and a branding iron were all
the capital required to start a brand. I knew the success which my
father had made in Virginia before the war and had seen it repeated on
a smaller scale by my elder brother in Missouri, but here was a country
which discounted both of those in rearing cattle without expense. Under
the best reasoning at my command, I had reached the promised land, and
henceforth determined to cast my fortunes with Texas.

Rather than remain idle around the Loving headquarters for a month, I
returned with George Edwards to his home. Altogether too cordial a
welcome was extended us, but I repaid the hospitality of the ranch by
relating our experiences of trail and Indian surprise. Miss Gertrude
was as charming as ever, but the trip to Sumner and back had cooled my
ardor and I behaved myself as an acceptable guest should. The time
passed rapidly, and on the last day of the month we returned to
Belknap. Active preparations were in progress for the driving of the
second herd, oxen had been secured, and a number of extra fine horses
were already added to the saddle stock. The remuda had enjoyed a good
month’s rest and were in strong working flesh, and within a few days
all the boys reported for duty. The senior member of the firm was the
owner of a large number of range cattle, and it was the intention to
round up and gather as many of his beeves as possible for the coming
drive. We should have ample time to do this; by waiting until the
latter part of the month for starting, it was believed that few Indians
would be encountered, as the time was nearing for their annual buffalo
hunt for robes and a supply of winter meat. This was a gala occasion
with the tribes which depended on the bison for food and clothing; and
as the natural hunting grounds of the Comanches and Kiowas lay south of
Red River, the drovers considered that that would be an opportune time
to start. The Indians would no doubt confine their operations to the
first few tiers of counties in Texas, as the robes and dried meat would
tax the carrying capacity of their horses returning, making it an
object to kill their supplies as near their winter encampment as
possible.

Some twenty days were accordingly spent in gathering beeves along the
main Brazos and Clear Fork. Our herd consisted of about a thousand in
the straight ranch brand, and after receiving and road-branding five
hundred outside cattle we were ready to start. Sixteen men constituted
our numbers, the horses were culled down until but five were left to
the man, and with the previous armament the start was made. Never
before or since have I enjoyed such an outing as this was until we
struck the dry drive on approaching the Pecos River. The absence of the
Indians was correctly anticipated, and either their presence elsewhere,
preying on the immense buffalo herds, or the drift of the seasons, had
driven countless numbers of that animal across our pathway. There were
days and days that we were never out of sight of the feeding myriads of
these shaggy brutes, and at night they became a menace to our sleeping
herd. During the day, when the cattle were strung out in trail
formation, we had difficulty in keeping the two species separated, but
we shelled the buffalo right and left and moved forward. Frequently,
when they occupied the country ahead of us, several men rode forward
and scattered them on either hand until a right of way was effected for
the cattle to pass. While they remained with us we killed our daily
meat from their numbers, and several of the boys secured fine robes.
They were very gentle, but when occasion required could give a horse a
good race, bouncing along, lacking grace in flight.

Our cook was a negro. One day as we were nearing Buffalo Gap, a number
of big bulls, attracted by the covered wagon, approached the
commissary, the canvas sheet of which shone like a white flag. The
wagon was some distance in the rear, and as the buffalo began to
approach it they would scare and circle around, but constantly coming
nearer the object of their curiosity. The darky finally became alarmed
for fear they would gore his oxen, and unearthed an old Creedmoor rifle
which he carried in the wagon. The gun could be heard for miles, and
when the cook opened on the playful denizens of the plain, a number of
us hurried back, supposing it was an Indian attack. When within a
quarter-mile of the wagon and the situation became clear, we took it
more leisurely, but the fusillade never ceased until we rode up and it
dawned on the darky’s mind that rescue was at hand. He had halted his
team, and from a secure position in the front end of the wagon had shot
down a dozen buffalo bulls. Pure curiosity and the blood of their
comrades had kept them within easy range of the murderous Creedmoor;
and the frenzied negro, supposing that his team might be attacked any
moment, had mown down a circle of the innocent animals. We charged and
drove away the remainder, after which we formed a guard of honor in
escorting the commissary until its timid driver overtook the herd.

The last of the buffalo passed out of sight before we reached the
headwaters of the Concho. In crossing the dry drive approaching the
Pecos we were unusually fortunate. As before, we rested in advance of
starting, and on the evening of the second day out several showers
fell, cooling the atmosphere until the night was fairly chilly. The
rainfall continued all the following day in a gentle mist, and with
little or no suffering to man or beast early in the afternoon we
entered the cañon known as Castle Mountain Gap, and the dry drive was
virtually over. Horsehead Crossing was reached early the next morning,
the size of the herd making it possible to hold it compactly, and thus
preventing any scattering along that stream. There had been no freshets
in the river since June, and the sandy sediment had solidified, making
a safe crossing for both herd and wagon. After the usual rest of a few
days, the herd trailed up the Pecos with scarcely an incident worthy of
mention. Early in November we halted some distance below Fort Sumner,
where we were met by Mr. Loving,—who had gone on to the post in our
advance,—with the report that other cattle had just been accepted, and
that there was no prospect of an immediate delivery. In fact, the
outlook was anything but encouraging, unless we wintered ours and had
them ready for the first delivery in the spring.

The herd was accordingly turned back to Bosque Grande on the river, and
we went into permanent quarters. There was a splendid winter range all
along the Pecos, and we loose-herded the beeves or rode lines in
holding them in the different bends of the river, some of which were
natural inclosures. There was scarcely any danger of Indian molestation
during the winter months, and with the exception of a few severe
“northers” which swept down the valley, the cattle did comparatively
well. Tents were secured at the post; corn was purchased for our saddle
mules; and except during storms little or no privation was experienced
during the winter in that southern climate. Wood was plentiful in the
grove in which we were encamped, and a huge fireplace was built out of
clay and sticks in the end of each tent, assuring us comfort against
the elements.

The monotony of existence was frequently broken by the passing of
trading caravans, both up and down the river. There was a fair trade
with the interior of Mexico, as well as in various settlements along
the Rio Grande and towns in northern New Mexico. When other means of
diversion failed we had recourse to Sumner, where a sutler’s bar and
gambling games flourished. But the most romantic traveler to arrive or
pass during the winter was Captain Burleson, late of the Confederacy.
As a sportsman the captain was a gem of the first water, carrying with
him, besides a herd of nearly a thousand cattle, three race-horses,
several baskets of fighting chickens, and a pack of hounds. He had a
large Mexican outfit in charge of his cattle, which were in bad
condition on their arrival in March, he having drifted about all
winter, gambling, racing his horses, and fighting his chickens. The
herd represented his winnings. As we had nothing to match, all we could
offer was our hospitality. Captain Burleson went into camp below us on
the river and remained our neighbor until we rounded up and broke camp
in the spring. He had been as far west as El Paso during the winter,
and was then drifting north in the hope of finding a market for his
herd. We indulged in many hunts, and I found him the true gentleman and
sportsman in every sense of the word. As I recall him now, he was a
lovable vagabond, and for years afterward stories were told around Fort
Sumner of his wonderful nerve as a poker player.

Early in April an opportunity occurred for a delivery of cattle to the
post. Ours were the only beeves in sight, those of Captain Burleson not
qualifying, and a round-up was made and the herd tendered for
inspection. Only eight hundred were received, which was quite a
disappointment to the drovers, as at least ninety per cent of the
tender filled every qualification. The motive in receiving the few soon
became apparent, when a stranger appeared and offered to buy the
remaining seven hundred at a ridiculously low figure. But the drovers
had grown suspicious of the contractors and receiving agent, and,
declining the offer, went back and bought the herd of Captain Burleson.
Then, throwing the two contingents together, and boldly announcing
their determination of driving to Colorado, they started the herd out
past Fort Sumner with every field-glass in the post leveled on us. The
military requirements of Sumner, for its own and Indian use, were well
known to the drovers, and a scarcity of beef was certain to occur at
that post before other cattle could be bargained for and arrive. My
employers had evidently figured out the situation to a nicety, for
during the forenoon of the second day out from the fort we were
overtaken by the contractors. Of course they threw on the government
inspector all the blame for the few cattle received, and offered to buy
five or six hundred more out of the herd. But the shoe was on the other
foot now, the drovers acting as independently as the proverbial hog on
ice. The herd never halted, the contractors followed up, and when we
went into camp that evening a trade was closed on one thousand steers
at two dollars a head advance over those which were received but a few
days before. The oxen were even reserved, and after delivering the
beeves at Sumner we continued on northward with the remnant, nearly all
of which were the Burleson cattle.

The latter part of April we arrived at the Colorado line. There we were
halted by the authorities of that territory, under some act of
quarantine against Texas cattle. We went into camp on the nearest
water, expecting to prove that our little herd had wintered at Fort
Sumner, and were therefore immune from quarantine, when buyers arrived
from Trinidad, Colorado. The steers were a mixed lot, running from a
yearling to big, rough four and five year olds, and when Goodnight
returned from Sumner with a certificate, attested to by every officer
of that post, showing that the cattle had wintered north of latitude
34, a trade was closed at once, even the oxen going in at the
phenomenal figures of one hundred and fifty dollars a yoke. We
delivered the herd near Trinidad, going into that town to outfit before
returning. The necessary alterations were made to the wagon, mules were
harnessed in, and we started home in gala spirits. In a little over
thirty days my employers had more than doubled their money on the
Burleson cattle and were naturally jubilant.

The proceeds of the Trinidad sale were carried in the wagon returning,
though we had not as yet collected for the second delivery at Sumner.
The songs of the birds mixed with our own as we traveled homeward, and
the freshness of early summer on the primitive land, as it rolled away
in dips and swells, made the trip a delightful outing. Fort Sumner was
reached within a week, where we halted a day and then started on,
having in the wagon a trifle over fifty thousand dollars in gold and
silver. At Sumner two men made application to accompany us back to
Texas, and as they were well armed and mounted, and numbers were an
advantage, they were made welcome. Our winter camp at Bosque Grande was
passed with but a single glance as we dropped down the Pecos valley at
the rate of forty miles a day. Little or no travel was encountered en
route, nor was there any sign of Indians until the afternoon of our
reaching Horsehead Crossing. While passing Dagger Bend, four miles
above the ford, Goodnight and a number of us boys were riding several
hundred yards in advance of the wagon, telling stories of old
sweethearts. The road made a sudden bend around some sand-hills, and
the advance guard had passed out of sight of the rear, when a fresh
Indian trail was cut; and as we reined in our mounts to examine the
sign, we were fired on. The rifle-shots, followed by a flight of
arrows, passed over us, and we took to shelter like flushed quail. I
was riding a good saddle horse and bolted off on the opposite side of
the road from the shooting; but in the scattering which ensued a number
of mules took down the road. One of the two men picked up at the post
was a German, whose mule stampeded after his mates, and who received a
galling fire from the concealed Indians, the rest of us turning to the
nearest shelter. With the exception of this one man, all of us circled
back through the mesquite brush and reached the wagon, which had
halted. Meanwhile the shooting had attracted the men behind, who
charged through the sand-dunes, flanking the Indians, who immediately
decamped. Security of the remuda and wagon was a first consideration,
and danger of an ambush prevented our men from following up the
redskins. Order was soon restored, when we proceeded, and shortly met
the young German coming back up the road, who merely remarked on
meeting us, “Dem Injuns shot at me.”

The Indians had evidently not been expecting us. From where they turned
out and where the attack was made we back-trailed them in the road for
nearly a mile. They had simply heard us coming, and, supposing that the
advance guard was all there was in the party, had made the attack and
were in turn themselves surprised at our numbers. But the warning was
henceforth heeded, and on reaching the crossing more Indian sign was
detected. Several large parties had evidently crossed the river that
morning, and were no doubt at that moment watching us from the
surrounding hills. The cañon of Castle Mountain Gap was well adapted
for an Indian ambush; and as it was only twelve miles from the ford to
its mouth, we halted within a short distance of the entrance, as if
encamping for the night. All the horses under saddle were picketed
fully a quarter mile from the wagon,—easy marks for poor Lo,—and the
remuda was allowed to wander at will, an air of perfect carelessness
prevailing in the camp. From the sign which we had seen that day, there
was little doubt but there were in the neighborhood of five hundred
Indians in the immediate vicinity of Horsehead Crossing, and we did
everything we could to create the impression that we were tender-feet.
But with the falling of darkness every horse was brought in and we
harnessed up and started, leaving the fire burning to identify our
supposed camp. The drovers gave our darky cook instructions, in case of
an attack while passing through the Gap, never to halt his team, but
push ahead for the plain. About one third of us took the immediate lead
of the wagon, the remuda following closely, and the remainder of the
men bringing up the rear. The moon was on the wane and would not rise
until nearly midnight, and for the first few miles, or until we entered
the cañon, there was scarce a sound to disturb the stillness of the
night. The sandy road even muffled the noise of the wagon and the
tramping of horses; but once we entered that rocky cañon, the rattling
of our commissary seemed to summon every Comanche and his ally to come
and rob us. There was never a halt, the reverberations of our caravan
seeming to reëcho through the Gap, resounding forward and back, until
our progress must have been audible at Horsehead Crossing. But the
expected never happens, and within an hour we reached the summit of the
plain, where the country was open and clear and an attack could have
been easily repelled. Four fresh mules had been harnessed in for the
night, and striking a free gait, we put twenty miles of that arid
stretch behind us before the moon rose. A short halt was made after
midnight, for a change of teams and saddle horses, and then we
continued our hurried travel until near dawn.

Some indistinct objects in our front caused us to halt. It looked like
a caravan, and we hailed it without reply. Several of us dismounted and
crept forward, but the only sign of life was a dull, buzzing sound
which seemed to issue from an outfit of parked wagons. The report was
laid before the two drovers, who advised that we await the dawn, which
was then breaking, as it was possible that the caravan had been
captured and robbed by Indians. A number of us circled around to the
farther side, and as we again approached the wagons in the uncertain
light we hailed again and received in reply a shot, which cut off the
upper lobe of one of the boys’ ears. We hugged the ground for some
little time, until the presence of our outfit was discovered by the
lone guardian of the caravan, who welcomed us. He apologized, saying
that on awakening he supposed we were Indians, not having heard our
previous challenge, and fired on us under the impulse of the moment. He
was a well-known trader by the name of “Honey” Allen, and was then on
his way to El Paso, having pulled out on the dry stretch about
twenty-five miles and sent his oxen back to water. His present cargo
consisted of pecans, honey, and a large number of colonies of live
bees, the latter having done the buzzing on our first reconnoitre. At
his destination, so he informed us, the pecans were worth fifty cents a
quart, the honey a dollar a pound, and the bees one hundred dollars a
hive. After repairing the damaged ear, we hurried on, finding Allen’s
oxen lying around the water on our arrival. I met him several years
afterward in Denver, Colorado, dressed to kill, barbered, and highly
perfumed. He had just sold eighteen hundred two-year-old steers and had
twenty-five thousand dollars in the bank. “Son, let me tell you
something,” said he, as we were taking a drink together; “that Pecos
country was a dangerous region to pick up an honest living in. I’m
going back to God’s country,—back where there ain’t no Injuns.”

Yet Allen died in Texas. There was a charm in the frontier that held
men captive. I always promised myself to return to Virginia to spend
the declining years of my life, but the fulfillment never came. I can
now realize how idle was the expectation, having seen others make the
attempt and fail. I recall the experience of an old cowman, laboring
under a similar delusion, who, after nearly half a century in the
Southwest, concluded to return to the scenes of his boyhood. He had
made a substantial fortune in cattle, and had fought his way through
the vicissitudes of the frontier until success crowned his efforts. A
large family had in the mean time grown up around him, and under the
pretense of giving his children the advantages of an older and
established community he sold his holdings and moved back to his native
borough. Within six months he returned to the straggling village which
he had left on the plains, bringing the family with him. Shortly
afterwards I met him, and anxiously inquired the cause of his return.
“Well, Reed,” said he, “I can’t make you understand near as well as
though you had tried it yourself. You see I was a stranger in my native
town. The people were all right, I reckon, but I found out that it was
me who had changed. I tried to be sociable with them, but honest, Reed,
I just couldn’t stand it in a country where no one ever asked you to
take a drink.”

A week was spent in crossing the country between the Concho and Brazos
rivers. Not a day passed but Indian trails were cut, all heading
southward, and on a branch of the Clear Fork we nearly ran afoul of an
encampment of forty teepees and lean-tos, with several hundred horses
in sight. But we never varied our course a fraction, passing within a
quarter mile of their camp, apparently indifferent as to whether they
showed fight or allowed us to pass in peace. Our bluff had the desired
effect; but we made it an object to reach Fort Griffin near midnight
before camping. The Comanche and his ally were great respecters, not
only of their own physical welfare, but of the Henri and Spencer rifle
with which the white man killed the buffalo at the distance of twice
the flight of an arrow. When every advantage was in his favor—ambush
and surprise—Lo was a warrior bold; otherwise he used discretion.




CHAPTER IV
A FATAL TRIP


Before leaving Fort Sumner an agreement had been entered into between
my employers and the contractors for a third herd. The delivery was set
for the first week in September, and twenty-five hundred beeves were
agreed upon, with a liberal leeway above and below that number in case
of accident en route. Accordingly, on our return to Loving’s ranch
active preparations were begun for the next drive. Extra horses were
purchased, several new guns of the most modern make were secured, and
the gathering of cattle in Loving’s brand began at once, continuing for
six weeks. We combed the hills and valleys along the main Brazos, and
then started west up the Clear Fork, carrying the beeves with us while
gathering. The range was in prime condition, the cattle were fat and
indolent, and with the exception of Indian rumors there was not a cloud
in the sky.

Our last camp was made a few miles above Fort Griffin. Military
protection was not expected, yet our proximity to that post was
considered a security from Indian interference, as at times not over
half the outfit were with the herd. We had nearly completed our numbers
when, one morning early in July, the redskins struck our camp with the
violence of a cyclone. The attack occurred, as usual, about half an
hour before dawn, and, to add to the difficulty of the situation, the
cattle stampeded with the first shot fired. I was on last guard at the
time, and conscious that it was an Indian attack I unslung a new
Sharp’s rifle and tore away in the lead of the herd. With the rumbling
of over two thousand running cattle in my ears, hearing was out of the
question, while my sense of sight was rendered useless by the darkness
of the morning hour. Yet I had some very distinct visions; not from the
herd of frenzied beeves, thundering at my heels, but every shade and
shadow in the darkness looked like a pursuing Comanche. Once I leveled
my rifle at a shadow, but hesitated, when a flash from a six-shooter
revealed the object to be one of our own men. I knew there were four of
us with the herd when it stampeded, but if the rest were as badly
bewildered as I was, it was dangerous even to approach them. But I had
a king’s horse under me and trusted my life to him, and he led the run
until breaking dawn revealed our identity to each other.

The presence of two other men with the running herd was then
discovered. We were fully five miles from camp, and giving our
attention to the running cattle we soon turned the lead. The main body
of the herd was strung back for a mile, but we fell on the leaders
right and left, and soon had them headed back for camp. In the mean
time, and with the breaking of day, our trail had been taken up by both
drovers and half a dozen men, who overtook us shortly after sun-up. A
count was made and we had every hoof. A determined fight had occurred
over the remuda and commissary, and three of the Indians’ ponies had
been killed, while some thirty arrows had found lodgment in our wagon.
There were no casualties in the cow outfit, and if any occurred among
the redskins, the wounded or killed were carried away by their comrades
before daybreak. All agreed that there were fully one hundred warriors
in the attacking party, and as we slowly drifted the cattle back to
camp doubt was expressed by the drovers whether it was advisable to
drive the herd to its destination in midsummer with the Comanches out
on their old hunting grounds.

A report of the attack was sent into Griffin that morning, and a
company of cavalry took up the Indian trail, followed it until evening,
and returned to the post during the night. Approaching a government
station was generally looked upon as an audacious act of the redskins,
but the contempt of the Comanche and his ally for citizen and soldier
alike was well known on the Texas frontier and excited little comment.
Several years later, in broad daylight, they raided the town of
Weatherford, untied every horse from the hitching racks, and defiantly
rode away with their spoil. But the prevailing spirits in our camp were
not the kind to yield to an inferior race, and, true to their
obligation to the contractors, they pushed forward preparations to
start the herd. Within a week our numbers were completed, two extra men
were secured, and on the morning of July 14, 1867, we trailed out up
the Clear Fork with a few over twenty-six hundred big beeves. It was
the same old route to the southwest, there was a decided lack of
enthusiasm over the start, yet never a word of discouragement escaped
the lips of men or employers. I have never been a superstitious man,
have never had a premonition of impending danger, always rather felt an
enthusiasm in my undertakings, yet that morning when the flag over Fort
Griffin faded from our view, I believe there was not a man in the
outfit but realized that our journey would be disputed by Indians.

Nor had we long to wait. Near the juncture of Elm Creek with the main
Clear Fork we were again attacked at the usual hour in the morning. The
camp was the best available, and yet not a good one for defense, as the
ground was broken by shallow draws and dry washes. There were about one
hundred yards of clear space on three sides of the camp, while on the
exposed side, and thirty yards distant, was a slight depression of
several feet. Fortunately we had a moment’s warning, by several horses
snorting and pawing the ground, which caused Goodnight to quietly awake
the men sleeping near him, who in turn were arousing the others, when a
flight of arrows buried themselves in the ground around us and the
war-whoop of the Comanche sounded. Ever cautious, we had studied the
situation on encamping, and had tied our horses, cavalry fashion, to a
heavy rope stretched from the protected side of the wagon to a high
stake driven for the purpose. With the attack the majority of the men
flung themselves into their saddles and started to the rescue of the
remuda, while three others and myself, detailed in anticipation, ran
for the ravine and dropped into it about forty yards above the wagon.
We could easily hear the exultations of the redskins just below us in
the shallow gorge, and an enfilade fire was poured into them at short
range. Two guns were cutting the grass from underneath the wagon, and,
knowing the Indians had crept up the depression on foot, we began a
rapid fire from our carbines and six-shooters, which created the
impression of a dozen rifles on their flank, and they took to their
heels in a headlong rout.

Once the firing ceased, we hailed our men under the wagon and returned
to it. Three men were with the commissary, one of whom was a mere boy,
who was wounded in the head from an arrow during the first moment of
the attack, and was then raving piteously from his sufferings. The
darky cook, who was one of the defenders of the wagon, was consoling
the boy, so with a parting word of encouragement we swung into our
saddles and rode in the direction of dim firing up the creek. The
cattle were out of hearing, but the random shooting directed our
course, and halting several times, we were finally piloted to the scene
of activity. Our hail was met by a shout of welcome, and the next
moment we dashed in among our own and reported the repulse of the
Indians from the wagon. The remuda was dashing about, hither and yon, a
mob of howling savages were circling about, barely within gunshot,
while our men rode cautiously, checking and turning the frenzied saddle
horses, and never missing a chance of judiciously throwing a little
lead. There was no sign of daybreak, and, fearful for the safety of our
commissary, we threw a cordon around the remuda and started for camp.
Although there must have been over one hundred Indians in the general
attack, we were still masters of the situation, though they followed us
until the wagon was reached and the horses secured in a rope corral. A
number of us again sought the protection of the ravine, and scattering
above and below, we got in some telling shots at short range, when the
redskins gave up the struggle and decamped. As they bore off westward
on the main Clear Fork their hilarious shoutings could be distinctly
heard for miles on the stillness of the morning air.

An inventory of the camp was taken at dawn. The wounded lad received
the first attention. The arrowhead had buried itself below and behind
the ear, but nippers were applied and the steel point was extracted.
The cook washed the wound thoroughly and applied a poultice of meal,
which afforded almost instant relief. While horses were being saddled
to follow the cattle, I cast my eye over the camp and counted over two
hundred arrows within a radius of fifty yards. Two had found lodgment
in the bear-skin on which I slept. Dozens were imbedded in the
running-gear and box of the wagon, while the stationary flashes from
the muzzle of the cook’s Creedmoor had concentrated an unusual number
of arrows in and around his citadel. The darky had exercised caution
and corded the six ox-yokes against the front wheel of the wagon in
such a manner as to form a barrier, using the spaces between the spokes
as port-holes. As he never varied his position under the wagon, the
Indians had aimed at his flash, and during the rather brief fight
twenty arrows had buried themselves in that barricade of ox-yokes.

The trail of the beeves was taken at dawn. This made the fifth stampede
of the herd since we started, a very unfortunate thing, for stampeding
easily becomes a mania with range cattle. The steers had left the
bed-ground in an easterly direction, but finding that they were not
pursued, the men had gradually turned them to the right, and at
daybreak the herd was near Elm Creek, where it was checked. We rode the
circle in a free gallop, the prairie being cut into dust and the trail
as easy to follow as a highway. As the herd happened to land on our
course, after the usual count the commissary was sent for, and it and
the remuda were brought up. With the exception of wearing hobbles, the
oxen were always given their freedom at night. This morning one of them
was found in a dying condition from an arrow in his stomach. A humane
shot had relieved the poor beast, and his mate trailed up to the herd,
tied behind the wagon with a rope. There were several odd oxen among
the cattle and the vacancy was easily filled. If I am lacking in
compassion for my red brother, the lack has been heightened by his
fiendish atrocities to dumb animals. I have been witness to the ruin of
several wagon trains captured by Indians, have seen their ashes and
irons, and even charred human remains, and was scarce moved to pity
because of the completeness of the hellish work. Death is merciful and
humane when compared to the hamstringing of oxen, gouging out their
eyes, severing their ears, cutting deep slashes from shoulder to hip,
and leaving the innocent victim to a lingering death. And when dumb
animals are thus mutilated in every conceivable form of torment, as if
for the amusement of the imps of the evil one, my compassion for poor
Lo ceases.

It was impossible to send the wounded boy back to the settlements, so a
comfortable bunk was made for him in the wagon. Late in the evening we
resumed our journey, expecting to drive all night, as it was good
starlight. Fair progress was made, but towards morning a rainstorm
struck us, and the cattle again stampeded. In all my outdoor experience
I never saw such pitchy darkness as accompanied that storm; although
galloping across a prairie in a blustering rainfall, it required no
strain of the imagination to see hills and mountains and forests on
every hand. Fourteen men were with the herd, yet it was impossible to
work in unison, and when day broke we had less than half the cattle.
The lead had been maintained, but in drifting at random with the storm
several contingents of beeves had cut off from the main body,
supposedly from the rear. When the sun rose, men were dispatched in
pairs and trios, the trail of the missing steers was picked up, and by
ten o’clock every hoof was in hand or accounted for. I came in with the
last contingent and found the camp in an uproar over the supposed
desertion of one of the hands. Yankee Bill, a sixteen-year-old boy, and
another man were left in charge of the herd when the rest of us struck
out to hunt the missing cattle. An hour after sunrise the boy was seen
to ride deliberately away from his charge, without cause or excuse, and
had not returned. Desertion was the general supposition. Had he not
been mounted on one of the firm’s horses the offense might have been
overlooked. But the delivery of the herd depended on the saddle stock,
and two men were sent on his trail. The rain had freshened the ground,
and after trailing the horse for fifteen miles the boy was overtaken
while following cattle tracks towards the herd. He had simply fallen
asleep in the saddle, and the horse had wandered away. Yankee Bill had
made the trip to Sumner with us the fall before, and stood well with
his employers, so the incident was forgiven and forgotten.

From Elm Creek to the beginning of the dry drive was one continual
struggle with stampeding cattle or warding off Indians. In spite of
careful handling, the herd became spoiled, and would run from the howl
of a wolf or the snort of a horse. The dark hour before dawn was
usually the crucial period, and until the arid belt was reached all
hands were aroused at two o’clock in the morning. The start was timed
so as to reach the dry drive during the full of the moon, and although
it was a test of endurance for man and beast, there was relief in the
desert waste—from the lurking savage—which recompensed for its
severity. Three sleepless nights were borne without a murmur, and on
our reaching Horsehead Crossing and watering the cattle they were
turned back on the mesa and freed for the time being. The presence of
Indian sign around the ford was the reason for turning loose, but at
the round-up the next morning the experiment proved a costly one, as
three hundred and sixty-three beeves were missing. The cattle were
nervous and feverish through suffering from thirst, and had they been
bedded closely, stampeding would have resulted, the foreman choosing
the least of two alternatives in scattering the herd. That night we
slept the sleep of exhausted men, and the next morning even awaited the
sun on the cattle before throwing them together, giving the Indian
thieves full ten hours the start. The stealing of cattle by the
Comanches was something unusual, and there was just reason for
believing that the present theft was instigated by renegade Mexicans,
allies in the war of ’36. Three distinct trails left the range around
the Crossing, all heading south, each accompanied by fully fifty
horsemen. One contingent crossed the Pecos at an Indian trail about
twenty-five miles below Horsehead, another still below, while the third
continued on down the left bank of the river. Yankee Bill and “Mocho”
Wilson, a one-armed man, followed the latter trail, sighting them late
in the evening, but keeping well in the open. When the Comanches had
satisfied themselves that but two men were following them, small bands
of warriors dropped out under cover of the broken country and attempted
to gain the rear of our men. Wilson was an old plainsman, and once he
saw the hopelessness of recovering the cattle, he and Yankee Bill began
a cautious retreat. During the night and when opposite the ford where
the first contingent of beeves crossed, they were waylaid, while
returning, by the wily redskins. The nickering of a pony warned them of
the presence of the enemy, and circling wide, they avoided an ambush,
though pursued by the stealthy Comanches. Wilson was mounted on a good
horse, while Yankee Bill rode a mule, and so closely were they pursued,
that on reaching the first broken ground Bill turned into a coulee,
while Mocho bore off on an angle, firing his six-shooter to attract the
enemy after him. Yankee Bill told us afterward how he held the muzzle
of his mule for an hour on dismounting, to keep the rascal from bawling
after the departing horse. Wilson reached camp after midnight and
reported the hopelessness of the situation; but morning came, and with
it no Yankee Bill in camp. Half a dozen of us started in search of him,
under the leadership of the one-armed plainsman, and an hour afterward
Bill was met riding leisurely up the river. When rebuked by his comrade
for not coming in under cover of darkness, he retorted, “Hell, man, I
wasn’t going to run my mule to death just because there were a few
Comanches in the country!”

In trailing the missing cattle the day previous, I had accompanied Mr.
Loving to the second Indian crossing. The country opposite the ford was
broken and brushy, the trail was five or six hours old, and, fearing an
ambush, the drover refused to follow them farther. With the return of
Yankee Bill safe and sound to camp, all hope of recovering the beeves
was abandoned, and we crossed the Pecos and turned up that river. An
effort was now made to quiet the herd and bring it back to a normal
condition, in order to fit it for delivery. With Indian raids, frenzy
in stampeding, and an unavoidable dry drive, the cattle had gaunted
like rails. But with an abundance of water and by merely grazing the
remainder of the distance, it was believed that the beeves would
recover their old form and be ready for inspection at the end of the
month of August. Indian sign was still plentiful, but in smaller bands,
and with an unceasing vigilance we wormed our way up the Pecos valley.

When within a day’s ride of the post, Mr. Loving took Wilson with him
and started in to Fort Sumner. The heat of August on the herd had made
recovery slow, but if a two weeks’ postponement could be agreed on, it
was believed the beeves would qualify. The circumstances were
unavoidable; the government had been lenient before; so, hopeful of
accomplishing his mission, the senior member of the firm set out on his
way. The two men left camp at daybreak, cautioned by Goodnight to cross
the river by a well-known trail, keeping in the open, even though it
was farther, as a matter of safety. They were well mounted for the
trip, and no further concern was given to their welfare until the
second morning, when Loving’s horse came into camp, whinnying for his
mates. There were blood-stains on the saddle, and the story of a man
who was cautious for others and careless of himself was easily
understood. Conjecture was rife. The presence of the horse admitted of
several interpretations. An Indian ambush was the most probable, and a
number of men were detailed to ferret out the mystery. We were then
seventy miles below Sumner, and with orders to return to the herd at
night six of us immediately started. The searching party was divided
into squads, one on either side of the Pecos River, but no results were
obtained from the first day’s hunt. The herd had moved up fifteen miles
during the day, and the next morning the search was resumed, the work
beginning where it had ceased the evening before. Late that afternoon
and from the east bank, as Goodnight and I were scanning the opposite
side of the river, a lone man, almost naked, emerged from a cave across
the channel and above us. Had it not been for his missing arm it is
doubtful if we should have recognized him, for he seemed demented. We
rode opposite and hailed, when he skulked back into his refuge; but we
were satisfied that it was Wilson. The other searchers were signaled
to, and finding an entrance into the river, we swam it and rode up to
the cave. A shout of welcome greeted us, and the next instant Wilson
staggered out of the cavern, his eyes filled with tears.

He was in a horrible physical condition, and bewildered. We were an
hour getting his story. They had been ambushed by Indians and ran for
the brakes of the river, but were compelled to abandon their horses,
one of which was captured, the other escaping. Loving was wounded
twice, in the wrist and the side, but from the cover gained they had
stood off the savages until darkness fell. During the night Loving,
unable to walk, believed that he was going to die, and begged Wilson to
make his escape, and if possible return to the herd. After making his
employer as comfortable as possible, Wilson buried his own rifle,
pistols, and knife, and started on his return to the herd. Being
one-armed, he had discarded his boots and nearly all his clothing to
assist him in swimming the river, which he had done any number of
times, traveling by night and hiding during the day. When found in the
cave, his feet were badly swollen, compelling him to travel in the
river-bed to protect them from sandburs and thorns. He was taken up
behind one of the boys on a horse, and we returned to camp.

Wilson firmly believed that Loving was dead, and described the scene of
the fight so clearly that any one familiar with the river would have no
difficulty in locating the exact spot. But the next morning as we were
nearing the place we met an ambulance in the road, the driver of which
reported that Loving had been brought into Sumner by a freight outfit.
On receipt of this information Goodnight hurried on to the post, while
the rest of us looked over the scene, recovered the buried guns of
Wilson, and returned to the herd. Subsequently we learned that the next
morning after Wilson left Loving had crawled to the river for a drink,
and, looking upstream, saw some one a mile or more distant watering a
team. By firing his pistol he attracted attention to himself and so was
rescued, the Indians having decamped during the night. To his partner,
Mr. Loving corroborated Wilson’s story, and rejoiced to know that his
comrade had also escaped. Everything that medical science could do was
done by the post surgeons for the veteran cowman, but after lingering
twenty-one days he died. Wilson and the wounded boy both recovered, the
cattle were delivered in two installments, and early in October we
started homeward, carrying the embalmed remains of the pioneer drover
in a light conveyance. The trip was uneventful, the traveling was done
principally by night, and on the arrival at Loving’s frontier home, six
hundred miles from Fort Sumner, his remains were laid at rest with
Masonic honors.

Over thirty years afterward a claim was made against the government for
the cattle lost at Horsehead Crossing. Wilson and I were witnesses
before the commissioner sent to take evidence in the case. The hearing
was held at a federal court, and after it was over, Wilson, while
drinking, accused me of suspecting him of deserting his employer,—a
suspicion I had, in fact, entertained at the time we discovered him at
the cave. I had never breathed it to a living man, yet it was the
truth, slumbering for a generation before finding expression.




CHAPTER V
SUMMER OF ’68


The death of Mr. Loving ended my employment in driving cattle to Fort
Sumner. The junior member of the firm was anxious to continue the trade
then established, but the absence of any protection against the
Indians, either state or federal, was hopeless. Texas was suffering
from the internal troubles of Reconstruction, the paternal government
had small concern for the welfare of a State recently in arms against
the Union, and there was little or no hope for protection of life or
property under existing conditions. The outfit was accordingly paid
off, and I returned with George Edwards to his father’s ranch. The past
eighteen months had given me a strenuous schooling, but I had emerged
on my feet, feeling that once more I was entitled to a place among men.
The risk that had been incurred by the drovers acted like a physical
stimulant, the outdoor life had hardened me like iron, and I came out
of the crucible bright with the hope of youth and buoyant with health
and strength.

Meanwhile there had sprung up a small trade in cattle with the North.
Baxter Springs and Abilene, both in Kansas, were beginning to be
mentioned as possible markets, light drives having gone to those points
during the present and previous summers. The elder Edwards had been
investigating the new outlet, and on the return of George and myself
was rather enthusiastic over the prospects of a market. No Indian
trouble had been experienced on the northern route, and although demand
generally was unsatisfactory, the faith of drovers in the future was
unshaken. A railroad had recently reached Abilene, stockyards had been
built for the accommodation of shippers during the summer of 1861,
while a firm of shrewd, far-seeing Yankees made great pretensions of
having established a market and meeting-point for buyers and sellers of
Texas cattle. The promoters of the scheme had a contract with the
railroad, whereby they were to receive a bonus on all cattle shipped
from that point, and the Texas drovers were offered every inducement to
make Abilene their destination in the future. The unfriendliness of
other States against Texas cattle, caused by the ravages of fever
imparted by southern to domestic animals, had resulted in quarantine
being enforced against all stock from the South. Matters were in an
unsettled condition, and less than one per cent of the State’s holdings
of cattle had found an outside market during the year 1867, though
ranchmen in general were hopeful.

I spent the remainder of the month of October at the Edwards ranch. We
had returned in time for the fall branding, and George and I both made
acceptable hands at the work. I had mastered the art of handling a
rope, and while we usually corralled everything, scarcely a day passed
but occasion occurred to rope wild cattle out of the brush. Anxiety to
learn soon made me an expert, and before the month ended I had caught
and branded for myself over one hundred mavericks. Cattle were so
worthless that no one went to the trouble to brand completely; the
crumbs were acceptable to me, and, since no one else cared for them and
I did, the flotsam and jetsam of the range fell to my brand. Had I been
ambitious, double that number could have been easily secured, but we
never went off the home range in gathering calves to brand. All the
hands on the Edwards ranch, darkies and Mexicans, were constantly
throwing into the corrals and pointing out unclaimed cattle, while I
threw and indelibly ran the figures “44” on their sides. I was partial
to heifers, and when one was sighted there was no brush so thick or
animal so wild that it was not “fish” to my rope. In many instances a
cow of unknown brand was still followed by her two-year-old, yearling,
and present calf. Under the customs of the country, any unbranded
animal, one year old or over, was a maverick, and the property of any
one who cared to brand the unclaimed stray. Thousands of cattle thus
lived to old age, multiplied and increased, died and became food for
worms, unowned.

The branding over, I soon grew impatient to be doing something. There
would be no movement in cattle before the following spring, and a
winter of idleness was not to my liking. Buffalo hunting had lost its
charm with me, the contentious savages were jealous of any intrusion on
their old hunting grounds, and, having met them on numerous occasions
during the past eighteen months, I had no further desire to cultivate
their acquaintance. I still owned my horse, now acclimated, and had
money in my purse, and one morning I announced my intention of visiting
my other comrades in Texas. Protests were made against my going, and as
an incentive to have me remain, the elder Edwards offered to outfit
George and me the following spring with a herd of cattle and start us
to Kansas. I was anxious for employment, but assuring my host that he
could count on my services, I still pleaded my anxiety to see other
portions of the State and renew old acquaintances. The herd could not
possibly start before the middle of April, so telling my friends that I
would be on hand to help gather the cattle, I saddled my horse and took
leave of the hospitable ranch.

After a week of hard riding I reached the home of a former comrade on
the Colorado River below Austin. A hearty welcome awaited me, but the
apparent poverty of the family made my visit rather a brief one.
Continuing eastward, my next stop was in Washington County, one of the
oldest settled communities in the State. The blight of Reconstruction
seemed to have settled over the people like a pall, the frontier having
escaped it. But having reached my destination, I was determined to make
the best of it. At the house of my next comrade I felt a little more at
home, he having married since his return and being naturally of a
cheerful disposition. For a year previous to the surrender he and I had
wrangled beef for the Confederacy and had been stanch cronies. We had
also been in considerable mischief together; and his wife seemed to
know me by reputation as well as I knew her husband. Before the wire
edge wore off my visit I was as free with the couple as though they had
been my own brother and sister. The fact was all too visible that they
were struggling with poverty, though lightened by cheerfulness, and to
remain long a guest would have been an imposition; accordingly I began
to skirmish for something to do—anything, it mattered not what. The
only work in sight was with a carpet-bag dredging company, improving
the lower Brazos River, under a contract from the Reconstruction
government of the State. My old crony pleaded with me to have nothing
to do with the job, offering to share his last crust with me; but then
he had not had all the animosities of the war roughed out of him, and I
had. I would work for a Federal as soon as any one else, provided he
paid me the promised wage, and, giving rein to my impulse, I made
application at the dredging headquarters and was put in charge of a
squad of negroes.

I was to have sixty dollars a month and board. The company operated a
commissary store, a regular “pluck-me” concern, and I shortly
understood the incentive in offering me such good wages. All employees
were encouraged and expected to draw their pay in supplies, which were
sold at treble their actual value from the commissary. I had been
raised among negroes, knew how to humor and handle them, the work was
easy, and I drifted along with all my faculties alert. Before long I
saw that the improvement of the river was the least of the company’s
concern, the employment of a large number of men being the chief
motive, so long as they drew their wages in supplies. True, we
scattered a few lodgments of driftwood; with the aid of a flat-bottomed
scow we windlassed up and cut out a number of old snags, felled trees
into the river to prevent erosion of its banks, and we built a large
number of wind-dams to straighten or change the channel. It seemed to
be a blanket contract,—a reward to the faithful,—and permitted of any
number of extras which might be charged for at any figures the
contractors saw fit to make. At the end of the first month I naturally
looked for my wages. Various excuses were made, but I was cordially
invited to draw anything needed from the commissary.

A second month passed, during which time the only currency current was
in the form of land certificates. The Commonwealth of Texas, on her
admission into the Union, retained the control of her lands, over half
the entire area of the State being unclaimed at the close of the civil
war. The carpet-bag government, then in the saddle, was prodigal to its
favorites in bonuses of land to any and all kinds of public
improvement. Certificates were issued in the form of scrip calling for
sections of the public domain of six hundred and forty acres each, and
were current at from three to five cents an acre. The owner of one or
more could locate on any of the unoccupied lands of the present State
by merely surveying and recording his selection at the county seat. The
scrip was bandied about, no one caring for it, and on the termination
of my second month I was offered four sections for my services up to
date, provided I would remain longer in the company’s employ. I knew
the value of land in the older States, in fact, already had my eye on
some splendid valleys on the Clear Fork, and accepted the offered
certificates. The idea found a firm lodgment in my mind, and I traded
one of my six-shooters even for a section of scrip, and won several
more in card games. I had learned to play poker in the army,—knew the
rudiments of the game at least,—and before the middle of March I was
the possessor of certificates calling for thirty sections of land. As
the time was drawing near for my return to Palo Pinto County, I severed
my connection with the dredging company and returned to the home of my
old comrade. I had left my horse with him, and under the pretense of
paying for feeding the animal well for the return trip, had slipped my
crony a small gold piece several times during the winter. He ridiculed
me over my land scrip, but I was satisfied, and after spending a day
with the couple I started on my return.

Evidences of spring were to be seen on every hand. My ride northward
was a race with the season, but I outrode the coming grass, the budding
trees, the first flowers, and the mating birds, and reached the Edwards
ranch on the last day of March. Any number of cattle had already been
tendered in making up the herd, over half the saddle horses necessary
were in hand or promised, and they were only awaiting my return. I had
no idea what the requirements of the Kansas market were, and no one
else seemed to know, but it was finally decided to drive a mixed herd
of twenty-five hundred by way of experiment. The promoters of the
Abilene market had flooded Texas with advertising matter during the
winter, urging that only choice cattle should be driven, yet the
information was of little value where local customs classified all live
stock. A beef was a beef, whether he weighed eight or twelve hundred
pounds, a cow was a cow when over three years old, and so on to the end
of the chapter. From a purely selfish motive of wanting strong cattle
for the trip, I suggested that nothing under three-year-olds should be
used in making up the herd, a preference to be given matured beeves.
George Edwards also favored the idea, and as our experience in trailing
cattle carried some little weight, orders were given to gather nothing
that had not age, flesh, and strength for the journey.

I was to have fifty dollars a month and furnish my own mount. Horses
were cheap, but I wanted good ones, and after skirmishing about I
secured four to my liking in return for one hundred dollars in gold. I
still had some money left from my wages in driving cattle to Fort
Sumner, and I began looking about for oxen in which to invest the
remainder. Having little, I must be very careful and make my investment
in something staple; and remembering the fine prices current in
Colorado the spring before for work cattle, I offered to supply the
oxen for the commissary. My proposal was accepted, and accordingly I
began making inquiry for wagon stock. Finally I heard of a freight
outfit in the adjoining county east, the owner of which had died the
winter before, the administrator offering his effects for sale. I lost
no time in seeing the oxen and hunting up their custodian, who proved
to be a frontier surveyor at the county seat. There were two teams of
six yoke each, fine cattle, and I had hopes of being able to buy six or
eight oxen. But the surveyor insisted on selling both teams, offering
to credit me on any balance if I could give him security. I had never
mentioned my land scrip to any one, and wishing to see if it had any
value, I produced and tendered the certificates to the surveyor. He
looked them over, made a computation, and informed me that they were
worth in his county about five cents an acre, or nearly one thousand
dollars. He also offered to accept them as security, assuring me that
he could use some of them in locating lands for settlers. But it was
not my idea to sell the land scrip, and a trade was easily effected on
the twenty-four oxen, yokes, and chains, I paying what money I could
spare and leaving the certificates for security on the balance. As I
look back over an eventful life, I remember no special time in which I
felt quite as rich as the evening that I drove into the Edwards ranch
with twelve yoke of oxen chained together in one team. The darkies and
Mexicans gathered about, even the family, to admire the big fellows,
and I remember a thrill which shivered through me as Miss Gertrude
passed down the column, kindly patting each near ox as though she felt
a personal interest in my possessions.

We waited for good grass before beginning the gathering. Half a dozen
round-ups on the home range would be all that was necessary in
completing the numbers allotted to the Edwards ranch. Three other
cowmen were going to turn in a thousand head and furnish and mount a
man each, there being no occasion to road-brand, as every one knew the
ranch, brands which would go to make up the herd. An outfit of twelve
men was considered sufficient, as it was an open prairie country and
through civilized tribes between Texas and Kansas. All the darkies and
Mexicans from the home ranch who could be spared were to be taken
along, making it necessary to hire only three outside men. The drive
was looked upon as an experiment, there being no outlay of money, even
the meal and bacon which went into the commissary being supplied from
the Edwards household. The country contributed the horses and cattle,
and if the project paid out, well and good; if not there was small
loss, as they were worth nothing at home. The 20th of April was set for
starting. Three days’ work on the home range and we had two thousand
cattle under herd, consisting of dry or barren cows and steers three
years old or over, fully half the latter being heavy beeves. We culled
back and trimmed our allotment down to sixteen hundred, and when the
outside contingents were thrown in we had a few over twenty-eight
hundred cattle in the herd. A Mexican was placed in charge of the
remuda, a darky, with three yoke of oxen, looked after the commissary,
and with ten mounted men around the herd we started.

Five and six horses were allotted to the man, each one had one or two
six-shooters, while half a dozen rifles of different makes were carried
in the wagon. The herd moved northward by easy marches, open country
being followed until we reached Red River, where we had the misfortune
to lose George Edwards from sickness. He was the foreman from whom all
took orders. While crossing into the Chickasaw Nation it was necessary
to swim the cattle. We cut them into small bunches, and in fording and
refording a whole afternoon was spent in the water. Towards evening our
foreman was rendered useless from a chill, followed by fever during the
night. The next morning he was worse, and as it was necessary to move
the herd out to open country, Edwards took an old negro with him and
went back to a ranch on the Texas side. Several days afterward the
darky overtook us with the word that his master would be unable to
accompany the cattle, and that I was to take the herd through to
Abilene. The negro remained with us, and at the first opportunity I
picked up another man. Within a week we encountered a country trail,
bearing slightly northwest, over which herds had recently passed. This
trace led us into another, which followed up the south side of the
Washita River, and two weeks after reaching the Nation we entered what
afterward became famous as the Chisholm trail. The Chickasaw was one of
the civilized tribes; its members had intermarried with the whites
until their identity as Indians was almost lost. They owned fine homes
and farms in the Washita valley, were hospitable to strangers, and
where the aboriginal blood was properly diluted the women were
strikingly beautiful. In this same valley, fifteen years afterward, I
saw a herd of one thousand and seven head of corn-fed cattle. The grain
was delivered at feed-lots at ten cents a bushel, and the beeves had
then been on full feed for nine months. There were no railroads in the
country and the only outlet for the surplus corn was to feed it to
cattle and drive them to some shipping-point in Kansas.

Compared with the route to Fort Sumner, the northern one was a
paradise. No day passed but there was an abundance of water, while the
grass simply carpeted the country. We merely soldiered along, crossing
what was then one of the No-man’s lands and the Cherokee Outlet, never
sighting another herd until after entering Kansas. We amused ourselves
like urchins out for a holiday, the country was full of all kinds of
game, and our darky cook was kept busy frying venison and roasting
turkeys. A calf was born on the trail, the mother of which was quite
gentle, and we broke her for a milk cow, while “Bull,” the youngster,
became a great pet. A cow-skin was slung under the wagon for carrying
wood and heavy cooking utensils, and the calf was given a berth in the
hammock until he was able to follow. But when Bull became older he hung
around the wagon like a dog, preferring the company of the outfit to
that of his own mother. He soon learned to eat cold biscuit and
corn-pone, and would hang around at meal-time, ready for the scraps. We
always had to notice where the calf lay down to sleep, as he was a
black rascal, and the men were liable to stumble over him while
changing guards during the night. He never could be prevailed on to
walk with his mother, but followed the wagon or rode in his hammock,
and was always happy as a lark when the recipient of the outfit’s
attentions. We sometimes secured as much as two gallons of milk a day
from the cow, but it was pitiful to watch her futile efforts at coaxing
her offspring away from the wagon.

We passed to the west of the town of Wichita and reached our
destination early in June. There I found several letters awaiting me,
with instructions to dispose of the herd or to report what was the
prospect of effecting a sale. We camped about five miles from Abilene,
and before I could post myself on cattle values half a dozen buyers had
looked the herd over. Men were in the market anxious for beef cattle
with which to fill army and Indian contracts, feeders from Eastern
States, shippers and speculators galore, cowmen looking for she stuff
with which to start new ranches, while scarcely a day passed but
inquiry was made by settlers for oxen with which to break prairie. A
dozen herds had arrived ahead of us, the market had fairly opened, and,
once I got the drift of current prices, I was as busy as a farmer
getting ready to cut his buckwheat. Every yoke of oxen was sold within
a week, one ranchman took all the cows, an army contractor took one
thousand of the largest beeves, feeders from Iowa took the younger
steers, and within six weeks after arriving I did not have a hoof left.
In the mean time I kept an account of each sale, brands and numbers, in
order to render a statement to the owners of the cattle. As fast as the
money was received I sent it home by drafts, except the proceeds from
the oxen, which was a private matter. I bought and sold two whole
remudas of horses on speculation, clearing fifteen of the best ones and
three hundred dollars on the transactions.

The facilities for handling cattle at Abilene were not completed until
late in the season of ’67, yet twenty-five thousand cattle found a
market there that summer and fall. The drive of the present year would
triple that number, and every one seemed pleased with future prospects.
The town took on an air of frontier prosperity; saloons and gambling
and dance halls multiplied, and every legitimate line of business
flourished like a green bay tree. I made the acquaintance of every
drover and was generally looked upon as an extra good salesman, the
secret being in our cattle, which were choice. For instance, Northern
buyers could see three dollars a head difference in three-year-old
steers, but with the average Texan the age classified them all alike.
My boyhood knowledge of cattle had taught me the difference, but in
range dealing it was impossible to apply the principle. I made many
warm friends among both buyers and drovers, bringing them together and
effecting sales, and it was really a matter of regret that I had to
leave before the season was over. I loved the atmosphere of dicker and
traffic, had made one of the largest sales of the season with our
beeves, and was leaving, firm in the conviction that I had overlooked
no feature of the market of future value.

After selling the oxen we broke some of our saddle stock to harness,
altered the wagon tongue for horses, and started across the country for
home, taking our full remuda with us. Where I had gone up the trail
with five horses, I was going back with twenty; some of the oxen I had
sold at treble their original cost, while none of them failed to double
my money—on credit. Taking it all in all, I had never seen such good
times and made money as easily. On the back track we followed the
trail, but instead of going down the Washita as we had come, we
followed the Chisholm trail to the Texas boundary, crossing at what was
afterward known as Red River Station. From there home was an easy
matter, and after an absence of four months and five days the outfit
rode into the Edwards ranch with a flourish.




CHAPTER VI
SOWING WILD OATS


The results from driving cattle north were a surprise to every one. My
employers were delighted with their experiment, the general expense of
handling the herd not exceeding fifty cents a head. The enterprise had
netted over fifty-two thousand dollars, the saddle horses had returned
in good condition, while due credit was given me in the general
management. From my sale accounts I made out a statement, and once my
expenses were approved it was an easy matter to apportion each owner
his just dues in the season’s drive. This over I was free to go my way.
The only incident of moment in the final settlement was the waggish
contention of one of the owners, who expressed amazement that I ever
remitted any funds or returned, roguishly admitting that no one
expected it. Then suddenly, pretending to have discovered the governing
motive, he summoned Miss Gertrude, and embarrassed her with a profusion
of thanks, averring that she alone had saved him from a loss of four
hundred beeves.

The next move was to redeem my land scrip. The surveyor was anxious to
buy a portion of it, but I was too rich to part with even a single
section. During our conversation, however, it developed that he held
his commission from the State, and when I mentioned my intention of
locating land, he made application to do the surveying. The fact that I
expected to make my locations in another county made no difference to a
free-lance official, and accordingly we came to an agreement. The apple
of my eye was a valley on the Clear Fork, above its juncture with the
main Brazos, and from maps in the surveyor’s office I was able to point
out the locality where I expected to make my locations. He proved an
obliging official and gave me all the routine details, and an
appointment was made with him to report a week later at the Edwards
ranch. A wagon and cook would be necessary, chain carriers and flagmen
must be taken along, and I began skirmishing about for an outfit. The
three hired men who had been up the trail with me were still in the
country, and I engaged them and secured a cook. George Edwards loaned
me a wagon and two yoke of oxen, even going along himself for company.
The commissary was outfitted for a month’s stay, and a day in advance
of the expected arrival of the surveyor the outfit was started up the
Brazos. Each of the men had one or more private horses, and taking all
of mine along, we had a remuda of thirty odd saddle horses. George and
I remained behind, and on the arrival of the surveyor we rode by way of
Palo Pinto, the county seat, to which all unorganized territory to the
west was attached for legal purposes. Our chief motive in passing the
town was to see if there were any lands located near the juncture of
the Clear Fork with the mother stream, and thus secure an established
corner from which to begin our survey. But the records showed no land
taken up around the confluence of these watercourses, making it
necessary to establish a corner.

Under the old customs, handed down from the Spanish to the Texans,
corners were always established from natural landmarks. The union of
creeks arid rivers, mounds, lagoons, outcropping of rock, in fact
anything unchangeable and established by nature, were used as a point
of commencement. In the locating of Spanish land grants a century and a
half previous, sand-dunes were frequently used, and when these old
concessions became of value and were surveyed, some of the corners had
shifted a mile or more by the action of the wind and seasons on the
sand-hills. Accordingly, on overtaking our outfit we headed for the
juncture of the Brazos and Clear Fork, reaching our destination the
second day. The first thing was to establish a corner or commencement
point. Some heavy timber grew around the confluence, so, selecting an
old patriarch pin oak between the two streams, we notched the tree and
ran a line to low water at the juncture of the two rivers. Other
witness trees were established and notched, lines were run at angles to
the banks of either stream, and a hole was dug two feet deep between
the roots of the pin oak, a stake set therein, and the excavation
filled with charcoal and covered. A legal corner or commencement point
was thus established; but as the land that I coveted lay some distance
up the Clear Fork, it was necessary first to run due south six miles
and establish a corner, and thence run west the same distance and
locate another one.

The thirty sections of land scrip would entitle me to a block of ground
five by six miles in extent, and I concluded to locate the bulk of it
on the south side of the Clear Fork. A permanent camp was now
established, the actual work of locating the land requiring about ten
days, when the surveyor and Edwards set out on their return. They were
to touch at the county seat, record the established corners and file my
locations, leaving the other boys and me behind. It was my intention to
build a corral and possibly a cabin on the land, having no idea that we
would remain more than a few weeks longer. Timber was plentiful, and,
selecting a site well out on the prairie, we began the corral. It was
no easy task; palisades were cut twelve feet long and out of durable
woods, and the gate-posts were fourteen inches in diameter at the small
end, requiring both yoke of oxen to draw them to the chosen site. The
latter were cut two feet longer than the palisades, the extra length
being inserted in the ground, giving them a stability to carry the bars
with which the gateway was closed. Ten days were spent in cutting and
drawing timber, some of the larger palisades being split in two so as
to enable five men to load them on the wagon. The digging of the narrow
trench, five feet deep, in which the palisades were set upright, was a
sore trial; but the ground was sandy, and by dint of perseverance it
was accomplished. Instead of a few weeks, over a month was spent on the
corral, but when it was finished it would hold a thousand stampeding
cattle through the stormiest night that ever blew.

After finishing the corral we hunted a week. The country was alive with
game of all kinds, even an occasional buffalo, while wild and unbranded
cattle were seen daily. None of the men seemed anxious to leave the
valley, but the commissary had to be replenished, so two of us made the
trip to Belknap with a pack horse, returning the next day with meal,
sugar, and coffee. A cabin was begun and completed in ten days, a crude
but stable affair, with clapboard roof, clay floor, and ample
fireplace. It was now late in September, and as the usual branding
season was at hand, cow-hunting outfits might be expected to pass down
the valley. The advantage of corrals would naturally make my place
headquarters for cowmen, and we accordingly settled down until the
branding season was over. But the abundance of mavericks and wild
cattle was so tempting that we had three hundred under herd when the
first cow-hunting outfits arrived. At one lake on what is now known as
South Prairie, in a single moonlight night, we roped and tied down
forty head, the next morning finding thirty of them unbranded and
therefore unowned. All tame cattle would naturally water in the
daytime, and anything coming in at night fell a victim to our ropes. A
wooden toggle was fastened with rawhide to its neck, so it would trail
between its forelegs, to prevent running, when the wild maverick was
freed and allowed to enter the herd. After a week or ten days, if an
animal showed any disposition to quiet down, it was again thrown,
branded, and the toggle removed. We corralled the little herd every
night, adding to it daily, scouting far and wide for unowned or wild
cattle. But when other outfits came up or down the valley of the Clear
Fork we joined forces with them, tendering our corrals for branding
purposes, our rake-off being the mavericks and eligible strays. Many a
fine quarter of beef was left at our cabin by passing ranchmen, and
when the gathering ended we had a few over five hundred cattle for our
time and trouble.

Fine weather favored us and we held the mavericks under herd until late
in December. The wild ones gradually became gentle, and with constant
handling these wild animals were located until they would come in of
their own accord for the privilege of sleeping in a corral. But when
winter approached the herd was turned free, that the cattle might
protect themselves from storms, and we gathered our few effects
together and started for the settlements. It was with reluctance that I
left that primitive valley. Somehow or other, primal conditions
possessed a charm for me which, coupled with an innate love of the land
and the animals that inhabit it, seemed to influence and outline my
future course of life. The pride of possession was mine; with my own
hands and abilities had I earned the land, while the overflow from a
thousand hills stocked my new ranch. I was now the owner of lands and
cattle; my father in his palmiest days never dreamed of such
possessions as were mine, while youth and opportunity encouraged me to
greater exertions.

We reached the Edwards ranch a few days before Christmas. The boys were
settled with and returned to their homes, and I was once more adrift.
Forty odd calves had been branded as the increase of my mavericking of
the year before, and, still basking in the smile of fortune, I found a
letter awaiting me from Major Seth Mabry of Austin, anxious to engage
my services as a trail foreman for the coming summer. I had met Major
Seth the spring before at Abilene, and was instrumental in finding him
a buyer for his herd, and otherwise we became fast friends. There were
no outstanding obligations to my former employers, so when a protest
was finally raised against my going, I had the satisfaction of vouching
for George Edwards, to the manner born, and a better range cowman than
I was. The same group of ranchmen expected to drive another herd the
coming spring, and I made it a point to see each one personally, urging
that nothing but choice cattle should be sent up the trail. My long
acquaintance with the junior Edwards enabled me to speak emphatically
and to the point, and I lectured him thoroughly as to the requirements
of the Abilene market.

I notified Major Mabry that I would be on hand within a month. The
holiday season soon passed, and leaving my horses at the Edwards ranch,
I saddled the most worthless one and started south. The trip was
uneventful, except that I traded horses twice, reaching my destination
within a week, having seen no country en route that could compare with
the valley of the Clear Fork. The capital city was a straggling village
on the banks of the Colorado River, inert through political usurpation,
yet the home of many fine people. Quite a number of cowmen resided
there, owning ranches in outlying and adjoining counties, among them
being my acquaintance of the year before and present employer. It was
too early by nearly a month to begin active operations, and I contented
myself about town, making the acquaintance of other cowmen and their
foremen who expected to drive that year. New Orleans had previously
been the only outlet for beef cattle in southern Texas, and even in the
spring of ’69 very few had any confidence of a market in the north.
Major Mabry, however, was going to drive two herds to Abilene, one of
beeves and the other of younger steers, dry cows, and thrifty
two-year-old heifers, and I was to have charge of the heavy cattle.
Both herds would be put up in Llano County, it being the intention to
start with the grass. Mules were to be worked to the wagons, oxen being
considered too slow, while both outfits were to be mounted seven horses
to the man.

During my stay at Austin I frequently made inquiry for land scrip.
Nearly all the merchants had more or less, the current prices being
about five cents an acre. There was a clear distinction, however, in
case one was a buyer or seller, the former being shown every attention.
I allowed the impression to circulate that I would buy, which brought
me numerous offers, and before leaving the town I secured twenty
sections for five hundred dollars. I needed just that amount to cover a
four-mile bend of the Clear Fork on the west end of my new ranch,—a
possession which gave me ten miles of that virgin valley. My employer
congratulated me on my investment, and assured me that if the people
ever overthrew the Reconstruction usurpers the public domain would no
longer be bartered away for chips and whetstones. I was too busy to
take much interest in the political situation, and, so long as I was
prosperous and employed, gave little heed to politics.

Major Mabry owned a ranch and extensive cattle interests northwest in
Llano County. As we expected to start the herds as early as possible,
the latter part of February found us at the ranch actively engaged in
arranging for the summer’s work. There were horses to buy, wagons to
outfit, and hands to secure, and a busy fortnight was spent in getting
ready for the drive. The spring before I had started out in debt; now,
on permission being given me, I bought ten horses for my own use and
invested the balance of my money in four yoke of oxen. Had I remained
in Palo Pinto County the chances were that I might have enlarged my
holdings in the coming drive, as in order to have me remain several
offered to sell me cattle on credit. But so long as I was enlarging my
experience I was content, while the wages offered me were double what I
received the summer before.

We went into camp and began rounding up near the middle of March. All
classes of cattle were first gathered into one herd, after which the
beeves were cut separate and taken charge of by my outfit. We gathered
a few over fifteen hundred of the latter, all prairie-raised cattle,
four years old or over, and in the single ranch brand of my employer.
Major Seth had also contracted for one thousand other beeves, and it
became our duty to receive them. These outside contingents would have
to be road-branded before starting, as they were in a dozen or more
brands, the work being done in a chute built for that purpose. My
employer and I fully agreed on the quality of cattle to be received,
and when possible we both passed on each tender of beeves before
accepting them. The two herds were being held separate, and a friendly
rivalry existed between the outfits as to which herd would be ready to
start first. It only required a few days extra to receive and
road-brand the outside cattle, when all were ready to start. As Major
Seth knew the most practical route, in deference to his years and
experience I insisted that he should take the lead until after Red
River was crossed. I had been urging the Chisholm trail in preference
to more eastern ones, and with the compromise that I should take the
lead after passing Fort Worth, the two herds started on the last day of
March.

There was no particular trail to follow. The country was all open, and
the grass was coming rapidly, while the horses and cattle were shedding
their winter coats with the change of the season. Fine weather favored
us, no rains at night and few storms, and within two weeks we passed
Fort Worth, after which I took the lead. I remember that at the latter
point I wrote a letter to the elder Edwards, inclosing my land scrip,
and asking him to send a man out to my new ranch occasionally to see
that the improvements were not destroyed. Several herds had already
passed the fort, their destination being the same as ours, and from
thence onward we had the advantage of following a trail. As we neared
Red River, nearly all the herds bore off to the eastward, but we held
our course, crossing into the Chickasaw Nation at the regular Chisholm
ford. A few beggarly Indians, renegades from the Kiowas and Comanches
on the west, annoyed us for the first week, but were easily appeased
with a lame or stray beef. The two herds held rather close together as
a matter of mutual protection, as in some of the encampments were fully
fifty lodges with possibly as many able-bodied warriors. But after
crossing the Washita River no further trouble was encountered from the
natives, and we swept northward at the steady pace of an advancing
army. Other herds were seen in our rear and front, and as we neared the
Kansas line several long columns of cattle were sighted coming in over
the safer eastern routes.

The last lap of the drive was reached. A fortnight later we went into
camp within twelve miles of Abilene, having been on the trail two
months and eleven days. The same week we moved north of the railroad,
finding ample range within seven miles of town. Herds were coming in
rapidly, and it was important to secure good grazing grounds for our
cattle. Buyers were arriving from every territory in the Northwest,
including California, while the usual contingent of Eastern dealers,
shippers, and market-scalpers was on hand. It could hardly be said that
prices had yet opened, though several contracted herds had already been
delivered, while every purchaser was bearing the market and prophesying
a drive of a quarter million cattle. The drovers, on the other hand,
were combating every report in circulation, even offering to wager that
the arrivals of stock for the entire summer would not exceed one
hundred thousand head. Cowmen reported en route with ten thousand
beeves came in with one fifth the number, and sellers held the whip
hand, the market actually opening at better figures than the summer
before. Once prices were established, I was in the thick of the fight,
selling my oxen the first week to a freighter, constantly on the
skirmish for a buyer, and never failing to recognize one with whom I
had done business the summer before. In case Major Mabry had nothing to
suit, the herd in charge of George Edwards was always shown, and I
easily effected two sales, aggregating fifteen hundred head, from the
latter cattle, with customers of the year previous.

But my zeal for bartering in cattle came to a sudden end near the close
of June. A conservative estimate of the arrivals then in sight or known
to be en route for Abilene was placed at one hundred and fifty thousand
cattle. Yet instead of any weakening in prices, they seemed to
strengthen with the influx of buyers from the corn regions, as the
prospects of the season assured a bountiful new crop. Where States had
quarantined against Texas cattle the law was easily circumvented by a
statement that the cattle were immune from having wintered in the
north, which satisfied the statutes—as there was no doubt but they had
wintered somewhere. Steer cattle of acceptable age and smoothness of
build were in demand by feeders; all classes in fact felt a stimulus.
My beeves were sold for delivery north of Cheyenne, Wyoming, the
buyers, who were ranchmen as well as army contractors, taking the herd
complete, including the remuda and wagon. Under the terms, the cattle
were to start immediately and be grazed through. I was given until the
middle of September to reach my destination, and at once moved out on a
northwest course. On reaching the Republican River, we followed it to
the Colorado line, and then tacked north for Cheyenne. Reporting our
progress to the buyers, we were met and directed to pass to the
eastward of that village, where we halted a week, and seven hundred of
the fattest beeves were cut out for delivery at Fort Russell. By
various excuses we were detained until frost fell before we reached the
ranch, and a second and a third contingent of beeves were cut out for
other deliveries, making it nearly the middle of October before I was
finally relieved.

With the exception of myself, a new outfit of men had been secured at
Abilene. Some of them were retained at the ranch of the contractors,
the remainder being discharged, all of us returning to Cheyenne
together, whence we scattered to the four winds. I spent a week in
Denver, meeting Charlie Goodnight, who had again fought his way up the
Pecos route and delivered his cattle to the contractors at Fort Logan.
Continuing homeward, I took the train for Abilene, hesitating whether
to stop there or visit my brother in Missouri before returning to
Texas. I had twelve hundred dollars with me, as the proceeds of my
wages, horses, and oxen, and, feeling rather affluent, I decided to
stop over a day at the new trail town. I knew the market was virtually
over, and what evil influence ever suggested my stopping at Abilene is
unexplainable. But I did stop, and found things just as I
expected,—everybody sold out and gone home. A few trail foremen were
still hanging around the town under the pretense of attending to
unsettled business, and these welcomed me with a fraternal greeting.
Two of them who had served in the Confederate army came to me and
frankly admitted that they were broke, and begged me to help them out
of town by redeeming their horses and saddles. Feed bills had
accumulated and hotel accounts were unpaid; the appeals of the rascals
would have moved a stone to pity.

The upshot of the whole matter was that I bought a span of mules and
wagon and invited seven of the boys to accompany me overland to Texas.
My friends insisted that we could sell the outfit in the lower country
for more than cost, but before I got out of town my philanthropic
venture had absorbed over half my savings. As long as I had money the
purse seemed a public one, and all the boys borrowed just as freely as
if they expected to repay it. I am sure they felt grateful, and had I
been one of the needy no doubt any of my friends would have shared his
purse with me.

It was a delightful trip across the Indian Territory, and we reached
Sherman, Texas, just before the holidays. Every one had become tired of
the wagon, and I was fortunate enough to sell it without loss. Those
who had saddle horses excused themselves and hurried home for the
Christmas festivities, leaving a quartette of us behind. But before the
remainder of us proceeded to our destinations two of the boys
discovered a splendid opening for a monte game, in which we could
easily recoup all our expenses for the trip. I was the only dissenter
to the programme, not even knowing the game; but under the pressure
which was brought to bear I finally yielded, and became banker for my
friends. The results are easily told. The second night there was heavy
play, and before ten o’clock the monte bank closed for want of funds,
it having been tapped for its last dollar. The next morning I took
stage for Dallas, where I arrived with less than twenty dollars, and
spent the most miserable Christmas day of my life. I had written George
Edwards from Denver that I expected to go to Missouri, and asked him to
take my horses and go out to the little ranch and brand my calves.
There was no occasion now to contradict my advice of that letter,
neither would I go near the Edwards ranch, yet I hungered for that land
scrip and roundly cursed myself for being a fool. It would be two
months and a half before spring work opened, and what to do in the mean
time was the one absorbing question. My needs were too urgent to allow
me to remain idle long, and, drifting south, working when work was to
be had, at last I reached the home of my soldier crony in Washington
County, walking and riding in country wagons the last hundred miles of
the distance. No experience in my life ever humiliated me as that one
did, yet I have laughed about it since. I may have previously heard of
riches taking wings, but in this instance, now mellowed by time, no
injustice will be done by simply recording it as the parting of a fool
and his money.




CHAPTER VII
“THE ANGEL”


The winds of adversity were tempered by the welcome extended me by my
old comrade and his wife. There was no concealment as to my financial
condition, but when I explained the causes my former crony laughed at
me until the tears stood in his eyes. Nor did I protest, because I so
richly deserved it. Fortunately the circumstances of my friends had
bettered since my previous visit, and I was accordingly relieved from
any feeling of intrusion. In two short years the wheel had gone round,
and I was walking heavily on my uppers and continually felt like a
pauper or poor relation. To make matters more embarrassing, I could
appeal to no one, and, fortified by pride from birth, I ground my teeth
over resolutions that will last me till death. Any one of half a dozen
friends, had they known my true condition, would have gladly come to my
aid, but circumstances prevented me from making any appeal. To my
brother in Missouri I had previously written of my affluence; as for
friends in Palo Pinto County,—well, for the very best of reasons my
condition would remain a sealed book in that quarter; and to appeal to
Major Mabry might arouse his suspicions. I had handled a great deal of
money for him, accounting for every cent, but had he known of my
inability to take care of my own frugal earnings it might have aroused
his distrust. I was sure of a position with him again as trail foreman,
and not for the world would I have had him know that I could be such a
fool as to squander my savings thoughtlessly.

What little correspondence I conducted that winter was by roundabout
methods. I occasionally wrote my brother that I was wallowing in
wealth, always inclosing a letter to Gertrude Edwards with instructions
to remail, conveying the idea to her family that I was spending the
winter with relatives in Missouri. As yet there was no tacit
understanding between Miss Gertrude and me, but I conveyed that
impression to my brother, and as I knew he had run away with his wife,
I had confidence he would do my bidding. In writing my employer I
reported myself as busy dealing in land scrip, and begged him not to
insist on my appearance until it was absolutely necessary. He replied
that I might have until the 15th of March in which to report at Austin,
as my herd had been contracted for north in Williamson County. Major
Mabry expected to drive three herds that spring, the one already
mentioned and two from Llano County, where he had recently acquired
another ranch with an extensive stock of cattle. It therefore behooved
me to keep my reputation unsullied, a rather difficult thing to do when
our escapade at Sherman was known to three other trail foremen. They
might look upon it as a good joke, while to me it was a serious matter.

Had there been anything to do in Washington County, it was my intention
to go to work. The dredging company had departed for newer fields,
there was no other work in sight, and I was compelled to fold my hands
and bide my time. My crony and I blotted out the days by hunting deer
and turkeys, using hounds for the former and shooting the animals at
game crossings. By using a turkey-call we could entice the gobblers
within rifle-shot, and in several instances we were able to locate
their roosts. The wild turkey of Texas was a wary bird, and although I
have seen flocks of hundreds, it takes a crafty hunter to bag one. I
have always loved a gun and been fond of hunting, yet the time hung
heavy on my hands, and I counted the days like a prisoner until I could
go to work. But my sentence finally expired, and preparations were made
for my start to Austin. My friends offered their best wishes,—about all
they had,—and my old comrade went so far as to take me one day on
horseback to where he had an acquaintance living. There we stayed over
night, which was more than half way to my destination, and the next
morning we parted, he to his home with the horses, while I traveled on
foot or trusted to country wagons. I arrived in Austin on the appointed
day, with less than five dollars in my pocket, and registered at the
best hotel in the capital. I needed a saddle, having sold mine in
Wyoming the fall before, and at once reported to my employer.
Fortunately my arrival was being awaited to start a remuda and wagon to
Williamson County, and when I assured Major Mabry that all I lacked was
a saddle, he gave me an order on a local dealer, and we started that
same evening.

At last I was saved. With the opening of work my troubles lifted like a
night fog before the rising sun. Even the first view of the remuda
revived my spirits, as I had been allotted one hundred fine cow-horses.
They had been brought up during the winter, had run in a good pasture
for some time, and with the opening of spring were in fine condition.
Many trail men were short-sighted in regard to mounting their outfits,
and although we had our differences, I want to say that Major Mabry and
his later associates never expected a man to render an honest day’s
work unless he was properly supplied with horses. My allowance for the
spring of 1870 was again seven horses to the man, with two extra for
the foreman, which at that early day in trailing cattle was considered
the maximum where Kansas was the destination. Many drovers allowed only
five horses to the man, but their men were frequently seen walking with
the herd, their mounts mingling with the cattle, unable to carry their
riders longer.

The receiving of the herd in Williamson County was an easy matter. Four
prominent ranchmen were to supply the beeves to the number of three
thousand. Nearly every hoof was in the straight ranch brand of the
sellers, only some two hundred being mixed brands and requiring the
usual road-branding. In spite of every effort to hold the herd down to
the contracted number, we received one hundred and fifty extra; but
then they were cattle that no justifiable excuse could be offered in
refusing. The last beeves were received on the 22d of the month, and
after cutting separate all cattle of outside brands, they were sent to
the chute to receive the road-mark. Major Mabry was present, and a
controversy arose between the sellers and himself over our refusal to
road-brand, or at least vent the ranch brands, on the great bulk of the
herd. Too many brands on an animal was an objection to the shippers and
feeders of the North, and we were anxious to cater to their wishes as
far as possible. The sellers protested against the cattle leaving their
range without some mark to indicate their change of ownership. The
country was all open; in case of a stampede and loss of cattle within a
few hundred miles they were certain to drift back to their home range,
with nothing to distinguish them from their brothers of the same age.
Flesh marks are not a good title by which to identify one’s property,
where those possessions consist of range cattle, and the law recognized
the holding brand as the hall-mark of ownership. But a compromise was
finally agreed upon, whereby we were to run the beeves through the
chute and cut the brush from their tails. In a four or five year old
animal this tally-mark would hold for a year, and in no wise work any
hardship to the animal in warding off insect life. In case of any loss
on the trail my employer agreed to pay one dollar a head for
regathering any stragglers that returned within a year. The proposition
was a fair one, the ranchmen yielded, and we ran the whole herd through
the chute, cutting the brush within a few inches of the end of the
tail-bone. By tightly wrapping the brush once around the blade of a
sharp knife, it was quick work to thus vent a chuteful of cattle, both
the road-branding and tally-marking being done in two days.

The herd started on the morning of the 25th. I had a good outfit of
men, only four of whom were with me the year before. The spring could
not be considered an early one, and therefore we traveled slow for the
first few weeks, meeting with two bad runs, three days apart, but
without the loss of a hoof. These panics among the cattle were
unexplainable, as they were always gorged with grass and water at
bedding time, the weather was favorable, no unseemly noises were heard
by the men on guard, and both runs occurred within two hours of
daybreak. There was a half-breed Mexican in the outfit, a very quiet
man, and when the causes of the stampedes were being discussed around
the camp-fire, I noticed that he shrugged his shoulders in derision of
the reasons advanced. The half-breed was my horse wrangler, old in
years and experience, and the idea struck me to sound him as to his
version of the existing trouble among the cattle. He was inclined to be
distant, but I approached him cautiously, complimented him on his
handling of the remuda, rode with him several hours, and adroitly drew
out his opinion of what caused our two stampedes. As he had never
worked with the herd, his first question was, did we receive any blind
cattle or had any gone blind since we started? He then informed me that
the old Spanish rancheros would never leave a sightless animal in a
corral with sound ones during the night for fear of a stampede. He
cautioned me to look the herd over carefully, and if there was a blind
animal found to cut it out or the trouble would he repeated in spite of
all precaution. I rode back and met the herd, accosting every swing man
on one side with the inquiry if any blind animal had been seen, without
results until the drag end of the cattle was reached. Two men were at
the rear, and when approached with the question, both admitted
noticing, for the past week, a beef which acted as if he might be
crazy. I had them point out the steer, and before I had watched him ten
minutes was satisfied that he was stone blind. He was a fine, big
fellow, in splendid flesh, but it was impossible to keep him in the
column; he was always straggling out and constantly shying from
imaginary objects. I had the steer roped for three or four nights and
tied to a tree, and as the stampeding ceased we cut him out every
evening when bedding down the herd, and allowed him to sleep alone. The
poor fellow followed us, never venturing to leave either day or night,
but finally fell into a deep ravine and broke his neck. His affliction
had befallen him on the trail, affecting his nervous system to such an
extent that he would jump from imaginary objects and thus stampede his
brethren. I remember it occurred to me, then, how little I knew about
cattle, and that my wrangler and I ought to exchange places. Since that
day I have always been an attentive listener to the humblest of my
fellowmen when interpreting the secrets of animal life.

Another incident occurred on this trip which showed the observation and
insight of my half-breed wrangler. We were passing through some
cross-timbers one morning in northern Texas, the remuda and wagon far
in the lead. We were holding the herd as compactly as possible to
prevent any straying of cattle, when our saddle horses were noticed
abandoned in thick timber. It was impossible to leave the herd at the
time, but on reaching the nearest opening, about two miles ahead, I
turned and galloped back for fear of losing horses. I counted the
remuda and found them all there, but the wrangler was missing. Thoughts
of desertion flashed through my mind, the situation was unexplainable,
and after calling, shooting, and circling around for over an hour, I
took the remuda in hand and started after the herd, mentally preparing
a lecture in case my wrangler returned. While nooning that day some six
or seven miles distant, the half-breed jauntily rode into camp, leading
a fine horse, saddled and bridled, with a man’s coat tied to the
cantle-strings. He explained to us that he had noticed the trail of a
horse crossing our course at right angles. The freshness of the sign
attracted his attention, and trailing it a short distance in the dewy
morning he had noticed that something attached to the animal was
trailing. A closer examination was made, and he decided that it was a
bridle rein and not a rope that was attached to the wandering horse.
From the freshness of the trail, he felt positive that he would
overtake the animal shortly, but after finding him some difficulty was
encountered before the horse would allow himself to be caught. He
apologized for his neglect of duty, considering the incident as nothing
unusual, and I had not the heart even to scold him. There were letters
in the pocket of the coat, from which the owner was identified, and on
arriving at Abilene the pleasure was mine of returning the horse and
accoutrements and receiving a twenty-dollar gold piece for my wrangler.
A stampede of trail cattle had occurred some forty miles to the
northwest but a few nights before our finding the horse, during which
the herd ran into some timber, and a low-hanging limb unhorsed the
foreman, the animal escaping until captured by my man.

On approaching Fort Worth, still traveling slowly on account of the
lateness of the spring, I decided to pay a flying visit to Palo Pinto
County. It was fully eighty miles from the Fort across to the Edwards
ranch, and appointing one of my old men as segundo, I saddled my best
horse and set out an hour before sunset. I had made the same ride four
years previously on coming to the country, a cool night favored my
mount, and at daybreak I struck the Brazos River within two miles of
the ranch. An eventful day followed; I reeled off innocent white-faced
lies by the yard, in explaining the delightful winter I had spent with
my brother in Missouri. Fortunately the elder Edwards was not driving
any cattle that year, and George was absent buying oxen for a Fort
Griffin freighter. Good reports of my new ranch awaited me, my cattle
were increasing, and the smile of prosperity again shed its benediction
over me. No one had located any lands near my little ranch, and the
coveted addition on the west was still vacant and unoccupied. The
silent monitor within my breast was my only accuser, but as I rode away
from the Edwards ranch in the shade of evening, even it was silenced,
for I held the promise of a splendid girl to become my wife. A second
sleepless night passed like a pleasant dream, and early the next
morning, firmly anchored in resolutions that no vagabond friends could
ever shake, I overtook my herd.

After crossing Red River, the sweep across the Indian country was but a
repetition of other years, with its varying monotony. Once we were
waterbound for three days, severe drifts from storms at night were
experienced, delaying our progress, and we did not reach Abilene until
June 15. We were aware, however, of an increased drive of cattle to the
north; evidences were to be seen on every hand; owners were hanging
around the different fords and junctions of trails, inquiring if herds
in such and such brands had been seen or spoken. While we were crossing
the Nations, men were daily met hunting for lost horses or inquiring
for stampeded cattle, while the regular trails were being cut into
established thoroughfares from increasing use. Neither of the other
Mabry herds had reached their destination on our arrival, though Major
Seth put in an appearance within a week and reported the other two
about one hundred miles to the rear. Cattle were arriving by the
thousands, buyers from the north, east, and west were congregating, and
the prospect of good prices was flattering. I was fortunate in securing
my old camp-ground north of the town; a dry season had set in nearly a
month before, maturing the grass, and our cattle took on flesh rapidly.
Buyers looked them over daily, our prices being firm. Wintered cattle
were up in the pictures, a rate war was on between all railroad lines
east of the Mississippi River, cutting to the bone to secure the
Western live-stock traffic. Three-year-old steers bought the fall
before at twenty dollars and wintered on the Kansas prairies were
netting their owners as high as sixty dollars on the Chicago market.
The man with good cattle for sale could afford to be firm.

At this juncture a regrettable incident occurred, which, however,
proved a boon to me. Some busybody went to the trouble of telling Major
Mabry about my return to Abilene the fall before and my subsequent
escapade in Texas, embellishing the details and even intimating that I
had squandered funds not my own. I was thirty years old and as touchy
as gunpowder, and felt the injustice of the charge like a knife-blade
in my heart. There was nothing to do but ask for my release, place the
facts in the hands of my employer, and court a thorough investigation.
I had always entertained the highest regard for Major Mabry, and before
the season ended I was fully vindicated and we were once more fast
friends.

In the mean time I was not idle. By the first of July it was known that
three hundred thousand cattle would be the minimum of the summer’s
drive to Abilene. My extensive acquaintance among buyers made my
services of value to new drovers. A commission of twenty-five cents a
head was offered me for effecting sales. The first week after severing
my connection with Major Seth my earnings from a single trade amounted
to seven hundred and fifty dollars. Thenceforth I was launched on a
business of my own. Fortune smiled on me, acquaintances nicknamed me
“The Angel,” and instead of my foolishness reflecting on me, it made me
a host of friends. Cowmen insisted on my selling their cattle, shippers
consulted me, and I was constantly in demand with buyers, who wished my
opinion on young steers before closing trades. I was chosen referee in
a dozen disputes in classifying cattle, my decisions always giving
satisfaction. Frequently, on an order, I turned buyer. Northern men
seemed timid in relying on their own judgment of Texas cattle. Often,
after a trade was made, the buyer paid me the regular commission for
cutting and receiving, not willing to risk his judgment on range
cattle. During the second week in August I sold five thousand head and
bought fifteen hundred. Every man who had purchased cattle the year
before had made money and was back in the market for more. Prices were
easily advanced as the season wore on, whole herds were taken by three
or four farmers from the corn regions, and the year closed with a
flourish. In the space of four months I was instrumental in selling,
buying, cutting, or receiving a few over thirty thousand head, on all
of which I received a commission.

I established a camp of my own during the latter part of August. In
order to avoid night-herding his cattle the summer before, some one had
built a corral about ten miles northeast of Abilene. It was a temporary
affair, the abrupt, bluff banks of a creek making a perfect horseshoe,
requiring only four hundred feet of fence across the neck to inclose a
corral of fully eight acres. The inclosure was not in use, so I hired
three men and took possession of it for the time being. I had noticed
in previous years that when a drover had sold all his herd but a
remnant, he usually sacrificed his culls in order to reduce the expense
of an outfit and return home. I had an idea that there was money in
buying up these remnants and doing a small jobbing business. Frequently
I had as many as seven hundred cull cattle on hand. Besides, I was
constantly buying and selling whole remudas of saddle horses. So when a
drover had sold all but a few hundred cattle he would come to me, and I
would afford him the relief he wanted. Cripples and sore-footed animals
were usually thrown in for good measure, or accepted at the price of
their hides. Some buyers demanded quality and some cared only for
numbers. I remember effecting a sale of one hundred culls to a settler,
southeast on the Smoky River, at seven dollars a head. The terms were
that I was to cut out the cattle, and as many were cripples and cost me
little or nothing, they afforded a nice profit besides cleaning up my
herd. When selling my own, I always priced a choice of my cattle at a
reasonable figure, or offered to cull out the same number at half the
price. By this method my herd was kept trimmed from both ends and the
happy medium preserved.

I love to think of those good old days. Without either foresight or
effort I made all kinds of money during the summer of 1870. Our best
patrons that fall were small ranchmen from Kansas and Nebraska, every
one of whom had coined money on their purchases of the summer before.
One hundred per cent for wintering a steer and carrying him less than a
year had brought every cattleman and his cousin back to Abilene to
duplicate their former ventures. The little ranchman who bought five
hundred steers in the fall of 1869 was in the market the present summer
for a thousand head. Demand always seemed to meet supply a little over
half-way. The market closed firm, with every hoof taken and at prices
that were entirely satisfactory to drovers. It would seem an
impossibility were I to admit my profits for that year, yet at the
close of the season I started overland to Texas with fifty choice
saddle horses and a snug bank account. Surely those were the golden
days of the old West.

My last act before leaving Abilene that fall was to meet my enemy and
force a personal settlement. Major Mabry washed his hands by firmly
refusing to name my accuser, but from other sources I traced my defamer
to a liveryman of the town. The fall before, on four horses and
saddles, I paid a lien, in the form of a feed bill, of one hundred and
twenty dollars for my stranded friends. The following day the same man
presented me another bill for nearly an equal amount, claiming it had
been assigned to him in a settlement with other parties. I investigated
the matter, found it to be a disputed gambling account, and refused
payment. An attempt was made, only for a moment, to hold the horses,
resulting in my incurring the stableman’s displeasure. The outcome was
that on our return the next spring our patronage went to another
_bran_, and the story, born in malice and falsehood, was started
between employer and employee. I had made arrangements to return to
Texas with the last one of Major Mabry’s outfits, and the wagon and
remuda had already started, when I located my traducer in a well-known
saloon. I invited him to a seat at a table, determined to bring matters
to an issue. He reluctantly complied, when I branded him with every
vile epithet that my tongue could command, concluding by arraigning him
as a coward. I was hungering for him to show some resistance, expecting
to kill him, and when he refused to notice my insults, I called the
barkeeper and asked for two glasses of whiskey and a pair of
six-shooters. Not a word passed between us until the bartender brought
the drinks and guns on a tray. “Now take your choice,” said I. He
replied, “I believe a little whiskey will do me good.”




CHAPTER VIII
THE “LAZY L”


The homeward trip was a picnic. Counting mine, we had one hundred and
fifty saddle horses. All surplus men in the employ of Major Mabry had
been previously sent home until there remained at the close of the
season only the drover, seven men, and myself. We averaged forty miles
a day returning, sweeping down the plains like a north wind until Red
River Station was reached. There our ways parted, and cutting separate
my horses, we bade each other farewell, the main outfit heading for
Fort Worth, while I bore to the westward for Palo Pinto. Major Seth was
anxious to secure my services for another year, but I made no definite
promises. We parted the best of friends. There were scattering ranches
on my route, but driving fifty loose horses made traveling slow, and it
was nearly a week before I reached the Edwards ranch.

The branding season was nearly over. After a few days’ rest, an outfit
of men was secured, and we started for my little ranch on the Clear
Fork. Word was sent to the county seat, appointing a date with the
surveyor, and on arriving at the new ranch I found that the corrals had
been in active use by branding parties. We were soon in the thick of
the fray, easily holding our own, branding every maverick on the range
as well as catching wild cattle. My weakness for a good horse was the
secret of much of my success in ranching during the early days, for
with a remuda of seventy picked horses it was impossible for any
unowned animal to escape us. Our drag-net scoured the hills and
valleys, and before the arrival of the surveyor we had run the “44” on
over five hundred calves, mavericks, and wild cattle. Different outfits
came down the Brazos and passed up the Clear Fork, always using my
corrals when working in the latter valley. We usually joined in with
these cow-hunting parties, extending to them every possible courtesy,
and in return many a thrifty yearling was added to my brand. Except
some wild-cattle hunting which we had in view, every hoof was branded
up by the time the surveyor arrived at the ranch.

The locating of twenty sections of land was an easy matter. We had
established corners from which to work, and commencing on the west end
of my original location, we ran off an area of country, four miles west
by five south. New outside corners were established with buried
charcoal and stakes, while the inner ones were indicated by half-buried
rock, nothing divisional being done except to locate the land in
sections. It was a beautiful tract, embracing a large bend of the Clear
Fork, heavily timbered in several places, the soil being of a rich,
sandy loam and covered with grass. I was proud of my landed interest,
though small compared to modern ranches; and after the surveying ended,
we spent a few weeks hunting out several rendezvous of wild cattle
before returning to the Edwards ranch.

I married during the holidays. The new ranch was abandoned during the
winter months, as the cattle readily cared for themselves, requiring no
attention. I now had a good working capital, and having established
myself by marriage into a respectable family of the country, I found
several avenues open before me. Among the different openings for
attractive investment was a brand of cattle belonging to an estate
south in Comanche County. If the cattle were as good as represented
they were certainly a bargain, as the brand was offered straight
through at four dollars and a half a head. It was represented that
nothing had been sold from the brand in a number of years, the estate
was insolvent, and the trustee was anxious to sell the entire stock
outright. I was impressed with the opportunity, and early in the winter
George Edwards and I rode down to look the situation over. By riding
around the range a few days we were able to get a good idea of the
stock, and on inquiry among neighbors and men familiar with the brand,
I was satisfied that the cattle were a bargain. A lawyer at the county
seat was the trustee, and on opening negotiations with him it was
readily to be seen that all he knew about the stock was that shown by
the books and accounts. According to the branding for the past few
years, it would indicate a brand of five or six thousand cattle. The
only trouble in trading was to arrange the terms, my offer being half
cash and the balance in six months, the cattle to be gathered early the
coming spring. A bewildering list of references was given and we
returned home. Within a fortnight a letter came from the trustee,
accepting my offer and asking me to set a date for the gathering. I
felt positive that the brand ought to run forty per cent steer cattle,
and unless there was some deception, there would be in the neighborhood
of two thousand head fit for the trail. I at once bought thirty more
saddle horses, outfitted a wagon with oxen to draw it, besides hiring
fifteen cow-hands. Early in March we started for Comanche County,
having in the mean time made arrangements with the elder Edwards to
supply one thousand head of trail cattle, intended for the Kansas
market.

An early spring favored the work. By the 10th of the month we were
actively engaged in gathering the stock. It was understood that we were
to have the assistance of the ranch outfit in holding the cattle, but
as they numbered only half a dozen and were miserably mounted, they
were of little use except as herders. All the neighboring ranches gave
us round-ups, and by the time we reached the home range of the brand I
was beginning to get uneasy on account of the numbers under herd. My
capital was limited, and if we gathered six thousand head it would
absorb my money. I needed a little for expenses on the trail, and too
many cattle would be embarrassing. There was no intention on my part to
act dishonestly in the premises, even if we did drop out any number of
yearlings during the last few days of the gathering. It was absolutely
necessary to hold the numbers down to five thousand head, or as near
that number as possible, and by keeping the ranch outfit on herd and my
men out on round-ups, it was managed quietly, though we let no steer
cattle two years old or over escape. When the gathering was finished,
to the surprise of every one the herd counted out fifty-six hundred and
odd cattle. But the numbers were still within the limits of my capital,
and at the final settlement I asked the privilege of cutting out and
leaving on the range one hundred head of weak, thin stock and cows
heavy in calf. I offered to tally-mark and send after them during the
fall branding, when the trustee begged me to make him an offer on any
remnant of cattle, making me full owner of the brand. I hesitated to
involve myself deeper in debt, but when he finally offered me the “Lazy
L” brand outright for the sum of one thousand dollars, and on a credit,
I never stuttered in accepting his proposal.

I culled back one hundred before starting, there being no occasion now
to tally-mark, as I was in full possession of the brand. This amount of
cattle in one herd was unwieldy to handle. The first day’s drive we
scarcely made ten miles, it being nearly impossible to water such an
unmanageable body of animals, even from a running stream. The second
noon we cut separate all the steers two years old and upward, finding a
few under twenty-three hundred in the latter class. This left three
thousand and odd hundred in the mixed herd, running from yearlings to
old range bulls. A few extra men were secured, and some progress was
made for the next few days, the steers keeping well in the lead, the
two herds using the same wagon, and camping within half a mile of each
other at night. It was fully ninety miles to the Edwards ranch; and
when about two thirds the distance was covered, a messenger met us and
reported the home cattle under herd and ready to start. It still lacked
two days of the appointed time for our return, but rather than
disappoint any one, I took seven men and sixty horses with the lead
herd and started in to the ranch, leaving the mixed cattle to follow
with the wagon. We took a day’s rations on a pack horse, touched at a
ranch, and on the second evening reached home. My contingent to the
trail herd would have classified approximately seven hundred twos, six
hundred threes, and one thousand four years old or over.

The next morning the herd started up the trail under George Edwards as
foreman. It numbered a few over thirty-three hundred head and had
fourteen men, all told, and ninety-odd horses, with four good mules to
a new wagon. I promised to overtake them within a week, and the same
evening rejoined the mixed herd some ten miles back down the country.
Calves were dropping at an alarming rate, fully twenty of them were in
the wagon, their advent delaying the progress of the herd. By dint of
great exertion we managed to reach the ranch the next evening, where we
lay over a day and rigged up a second wagon, purposely for calves. It
was the intention to send the stock cattle to my new ranch on the Clear
Fork, and releasing all but four men, the idle help about the home
ranch were substituted. In moving cattle from one range to another, it
should always be done with the coming of grass, as it gives them a full
summer to locate and become attached to their new range. When possible,
the coming calf crop should be born where the mothers are to be
located, as it strengthens the ties between an animal and its range by
making sacred the birthplace of its young. From instinctive warnings of
maternity, cows will frequently return to the same retreat annually to
give birth to their calves.

It was about fifty miles between the home and the new ranch. As it was
important to get the cattle located as soon as possible, they were
accordingly started with but the loss of a single day. Two wagons
accompanied them, every calf was saved, and by nursing the herd early
and late we managed to average ten miles between sunrise and sunset.
The elder Edwards, anxious to see the new ranch, accompanied us, his
patience with a cow being something remarkable. When we lacked but a
day’s drive of the Clear Fork it was considered advisable for me to
return. Once the cattle reached the new range, four men would
loose-herd them for a month, after which they would continue to ride
the range and turn back all stragglers. The veteran cowman assumed
control, and I returned to the home ranch, where a horse had been left
on which to overtake the trail herd. My wife caught several glimpses of
me that spring; with stocking a new ranch and starting a herd on the
trail I was as busy as the proverbial cranberry-merchant. Where a year
before I was moneyless, now my obligations were accepted for nearly
fourteen thousand dollars.

I overtook the herd within one day’s drive of Red River. Everything was
moving nicely, the cattle were well trail-broken, not a run had
occurred, and all was serene and lovely. We crossed into the Nations at
the regular ford, nothing of importance occurring until we reached the
Washita River. The Indians had been bothering us more or less, but we
brushed them aside or appeased their begging with a stray beef. At the
crossing of the Washita quite an encampment had congregated, demanding
six cattle and threatening to dispute our entrance to the ford. Several
of the boys with us pretended to understand the sign language, and this
resulted in an animosity being engendered between two of the outfit
over interpreting a sign made by a chief. After we had given the
Indians two strays, quite a band of bucks gathered on foot at the
crossing, refusing to let us pass until their demand had been
fulfilled. We had a few carbines, every lad had a six-shooter or two,
and, summoning every mounted man, we rode up to the ford. The braves
outnumbered us about three to one, and it was easy to be seen that they
had bows and arrows concealed under their blankets. I was determined to
give up no more cattle, and in the powwow that followed the chief of
the band became very defiant. I accused him and his band of being
armed, and when he denied it one of the boys jumped a horse against the
chief, knocking him down. In the mêlée, the leader’s blanket was thrown
from him, exposing a strung bow and quiver of arrows, and at the same
instant every man brought his carbine or six-shooter to bear on the
astonished braves. Not a shot was fired, nor was there any further
resistance offered on the part of the Indians; but as they turned to
leave the humiliated chief pointed to the sun and made a circle around
his head as if to indicate a threat of scalping.

It was in interpreting this latter sign that the dispute arose between
two of the outfit. One of the boys contended that I was to be scalped
before the sun set, while the other interpreted the threat that we
would all he scalped before the sun rose again. Neither version
troubled me, but the two fellows quarreled over the matter while
returning to the herd, until the lie was passed and their six-shooters
began talking. Fortunately they were both mounted on horses that were
gun-shy, and with the rearing and plunging the shots went wild. Every
man in the outfit interfered, the two fellows were disarmed, and we
started on with the cattle. No interference was offered by the Indians
at the ford, the guards were doubled that night, and the incident was
forgotten within a week. I simply mention this to give some idea of the
men of that day, willing to back their opinions, even on trivial
matters, with their lives. “I’m the quickest man on the trigger that
ever came over the trail,” said a cowpuncher to me one night in a
saloon in Abilene. “You’re a blankety blank liar,” said a quiet little
man, a perfect stranger to both of us, not even casting a glance our
way. I wrested a six-shooter from the hand of my acquaintance and
hustled him out of the house, getting roundly cursed for my
interference, though no doubt I saved human life.

On reaching Stone’s Store, on the Kansas line, I left the herd to
follow, and arrived at Abilene in two days and a half. Only some
twenty-five herds were ahead of ours, though I must have passed a dozen
or more in my brief ride, staying over night with them and scarcely
ever missing a meal on the road. My motive in reaching Abilene in
advance of our cattle was to get in touch with the market, secure my
trading-corrals again, and perfect my arrangements to do a commission
business. But on arriving, instead of having the field to myself, I
found the old corrals occupied by a trio of jobbers, while two new ones
had been built within ten miles of town, and half a dozen firms were
offering their services as salesmen. There was a lack of actual buyers,
at least among my acquaintances, and the railroads had adjusted their
rates, while a largely increased drive was predicted. The spring had
been a wet one, the grass was washy and devoid of nutriment, and there
was nothing in the outlook of an encouraging nature. Yet the majority
of the drovers were very optimistic of the future, freely predicting
better prices than ever before, while many declared their intention of
wintering in case their hopes were not realized. By the time our herd
arrived, I had grown timid of the market in general and was willing to
sell out and go home. I make no pretension to having any extra
foresight, probably it was my outstanding obligations in Texas that
fostered my anxiety, but I was prepared to sell to the first man who
talked business.

Our cattle arrived in good condition. The weather continued wet and
stormy, the rank grass harbored myriads of flies and mosquitoes, and
the through cattle failed to take on flesh as in former years. Rival
towns were competing for the trail business, wintered cattle were
lower, and a perfect chaos existed as to future prices, drovers
bolstering and pretended buyers depressing them. Within a week after
their arrival I sold fifteen hundred of our heaviest beeves to an army
contractor from Fort Russell in Dakota. He had brought his own outfit
down to receive the cattle, and as his contract called for a million
and a half pounds on foot, I assisted him in buying sixteen hundred
more. The contractor was a shrewd Yankee, and although I admitted
having served in the Confederate army, he offered to form a partnership
with me for supplying beef to the army posts along the upper Missouri
River. He gave me an insight into the profits in that particular trade,
and even urged the partnership, but while the opportunity was a golden
one, I was distrustful of a Northern man and declined the alliance.
Within a year I regretted not forming the partnership, as the
government was a stable patron, and my adopted State had any quantity
of beef cattle.

My brother paid me a visit during the latter part of June. We had not
seen each other in five years, during which time he had developed into
a prosperous stockman, feeding cattle every winter on his Missouri
farm. He was anxious to interest me in corn-feeding steers, but I had
my hands full at home, and within a week he went on west and bought two
hundred Colorado natives, shipping them home to feed the coming winter.
Meanwhile a perfect glut of cattle was arriving at Abilene, fully six
hundred thousand having registered at Stone’s Store on passing into
Kansas, yet prices remained firm, considering the condition of the
stock. Many drovers halted only a day or two, and turned westward
looking for ranges on which to winter their herds. Barely half the
arrivals were even offered, which afforded fair prices to those who
wished to sell. Before the middle of July the last of ours was closed
out at satisfactory prices, and the next day the outfit started home,
leaving me behind. I was anxious to secure an extra remuda of horses,
and, finding no opposition in that particular field, had traded
extensively in saddle stock ever since my arrival at Abilene. Gentle
horses were in good demand among shippers and ranchmen, and during my
brief stay I must have handled a thousand head, buying whole remudas
and retailing in quantities to suit, not failing to keep the choice
ones for my own use. Within two weeks after George Edwards started
home, I closed up my business, fell in with a returning outfit, and
started back with one hundred and ten picked saddle horses. After
crossing Red River, I hired a boy to assist me in driving the remuda,
and I reached home only ten days behind the others.

I was now the proud possessor of over two hundred saddle horses which
had actually cost me nothing. To use a borrowed term, they were the
“velvet” of my trading operations. I hardly feel able to convey an idea
of the important rôle that the horses play in the operations of a
cowman. Whether on the trail or on the ranch, there is a complete
helplessness when the men are not properly mounted and able to cope
with any emergency that may arise. On the contrary, and especially in
trail work, when men are well mounted, there is no excuse for not
riding in the lead of any stampede, drifting with the herd on the
stormiest night, or trailing lost cattle until overtaken. Owing to the
nature of the occupation, a man may be frequently wet, cold, and
hungry, and entitled to little sympathy; but once he feels that he is
no longer mounted, his grievance becomes a real one. The cow-horse
subsisted on the range, and if ever used to exhaustion was worthless
for weeks afterward. Hence the value of a good mount in numbers, and
the importance of frequent changes when the duties were arduous. The
importance of good horses was first impressed on me during my trips to
Fort Sumner, and I then resolved that if fortune ever favored me to
reach the prominence of a cowman, the saddle stock would have my first
consideration.

On my return it was too early for the fall branding. I made a trip out
to the new ranch, taking along ample winter supplies, two extra lads,
and the old remuda of sixty horses. The men had located the new cattle
fairly well, the calf crop was abundant, and after spending a week I
returned home. I had previously settled my indebtedness in Comanche
County by remittances from Abilene, and early in the fall I made up an
outfit to go down and gather the remnant of “Lazy L” cattle. Taking
along the entire new remuda, we dropped down in advance of the branding
season, visited among the neighboring ranches, and offered a dollar a
head for solitary animals that had drifted any great distance from the
range of the brand. A camp was established at some corrals on the
original range, extra men were employed with the opening of the
branding season, and after twenty days’ constant riding we started home
with a few over nine hundred head, not counting two hundred and odd
calves. Little wonder the trustee threatened to sue me; but then it was
his own proposition.

On arriving at the Edwards ranch, we halted a few days in order to
gather the fruits of my first mavericking. The fall work was nearly
finished, and having previously made arrangements to put my brand under
herd, we received two hundred and fifty more, with seventy-five thrifty
calves, before proceeding on to the new ranch on the Clear Fork. On
arriving there we branded the calves, put the two brands under herd,
corralling them at night and familiarizing them with their new home,
and turning them loose at the end of two weeks. Moving cattle in the
fall was contrary to the best results, but it was an idle time, and
they were all young stuff and easily located. During the interim of
loose-herding this second contingent of stock cattle, the branding had
been finished on the ranch, and I was able to take an account of my
year’s work. The “Lazy L” was continued, and from that brand alone
there was an increase of over seventeen hundred calves. With all the
expenses of the trail deducted, the steer cattle alone had paid for the
entire brand, besides adding over five thousand dollars to my cash
capital. Who will gainsay my statement that Texas was a good country in
the year 1871?




CHAPTER IX
THE SCHOOL OF EXPERIENCE


Success had made me daring. And yet I must have been wandering
aimlessly, for had my ambition been well directed, there is no telling
to what extent I might have amassed a fortune. Opportunity was knocking
at my gate, a giant young commonwealth was struggling in the throes of
political revolution, while I wandered through it all like a blind man
led by a child. Precedent was of little value, as present environment
controlled my actions. The best people in Texas were doubtful of ever
ridding themselves of the baneful incubus of Reconstruction. Men on
whose judgment I relied laughed at me for acquiring more land than a
mere homestead. Stock cattle were in such disrepute that they had no
cash value. Many a section of deeded land changed owners for a milk
cow, while surveyors would no longer locate new lands for the customary
third, but insisted on a half interest. Ranchmen were so indifferent
that many never went off their home range in branding the calf crop,
not considering a ten or twenty per cent loss of any importance. Yet
through it all—from my Virginia rearing—there lurked a wavering belief
that some day, in some manner, these lands and cattle would have a
value. But my faith was neither the bold nor the assertive kind, and I
drifted along, clinging to any passing straw of opinion.

The Indians were still giving trouble along the Texas frontier. A line
of government posts, extending from Red River on the north to the Rio
Grande on the south, made a pretense of holding the Comanches and their
allies in check, while this arm of the service was ably seconded by the
Texas Rangers. Yet in spite of all precaution, the redskins raided the
settlements at their pleasure, stealing horses and adding rapine and
murder to their category of crimes. Hence for a number of years after
my marriage we lived at the Edwards ranch as a matter of precaution
against Indian raids. I was absent from home so much that this
arrangement suited me, and as the new ranch was distant but a day’s
ride, any inconvenience was more than recompensed in security. It was
my intention to follow the trail and trading, at the same time running
a ranch where anything unfit for market might be sent to mature or
increase. As long as I could add to my working capital, I was content,
while the remnants of my speculations found a refuge on the Clear Fork.

During the winter of 1871-72 very little of importance transpired.
Several social letters passed between Major Mabry and myself, in one of
which he casually mentioned the fact that land scrip had declined until
it was offered on the streets of the capital as low as twenty dollars a
section. He knew I had been dabbling in land certificates, and in a
friendly spirit wanted to post me on their decline, and had
incidentally mentioned the fact for my information. Some inkling of
horse sense told me that I ought to secure more land, and after
thinking the matter over, I wrote to a merchant in Austin, and had him
buy me one hundred sections. He was very anxious to purchase a second
hundred at the same figure, but it would make too serious an inroad
into my trading capital, and I declined his friendly assistance. My
wife was the only person whom I took into confidence in buying the
scrip, and I even had her secrete it in the bottom of a trunk, with
strict admonitions never to mention it unless it became of value. It
was not taxable, the public domain was bountiful, and I was young
enough man those days to bide my time.

The winter proved a severe one in Kansas. Nearly every drover who
wintered his cattle in the north met with almost complete loss. The
previous summer had been too wet for cattle to do well, and they had
gone into winter thin in flesh. Instead of curing like hay, the buffalo
grass had rotted from excessive rains, losing its nutritive qualities,
and this resulted in serious loss among all range cattle. The result
was financial ruin to many drovers, and even augured a lighter drive
north the coming spring. Early in the winter I bought two brands of
cattle in Erath County, paying half cash and getting six months’ time
on the remainder. Both brands occupied the same range, and when we
gathered them in the early spring, they counted out a few over six
thousand animals. These two contingents were extra good cattle, costing
me five dollars a head, counting yearlings up, and from them I selected
two thousand steer cattle for the trail. The mixed stuff was again sent
to my Clear Fork ranch, and the steers went into a neighborhood herd
intended for the Kansas market. But when the latter was all ready to
start, such discouraging reports came down from the north that my
friends weakened, and I bought their cattle outright.

My reputation as a good trader was my capital. I had the necessary
horses, and, straining my credit, the herd started thirty-one hundred
strong. The usual incidents of flood and storm, of begging Indians and
caravans like ourselves, formed the chronicle of the trip. Before
arriving at the Kansas line we were met by solicitors of rival towns,
each urging the advantages of their respective markets for our cattle.
The summer before a small business had sprung up at Newton, Kansas, it
being then the terminal of the Santa Fé Railway. And although Newton
lasted as a trail town but a single summer, its reputation for
bloodshed and riotous disorder stands notoriously alone among its
rivals. In the mean time the Santa Fé had been extended to Wichita on
the Arkansas River, and its representatives were now bidding for our
patronage. Abilene was abandoned, yet a rival to Wichita had sprung up
at Ellsworth, some sixty-five miles west of the former market, on the
Kansas Pacific Railway. The railroads were competing for the cattle
traffic, each one advertising its superior advantages to drovers,
shippers, and feeders. I was impartial, but as Wichita was fully one
hundred miles the nearest, my cattle were turned for that point.

Wichita was a frontier village of about two thousand inhabitants. We
found a convenient camp northwest of town, and went into permanent
quarters to await the opening of the market. Within a few weeks a light
drive was assured, and prices opened firm. Fully a quarter-million less
cattle would reach the markets within the State that year, and buyers
became active in securing their needed supply. Early in July I sold the
last of my herd and started my outfit home, remaining behind to await
the arrival of my brother. The trip was successful; the purchased
cattle had afforded me a nice profit, while the steers from the two
brands had more than paid for the mixed stuff left at home on the
ranch. Meanwhile I renewed old acquaintances among drovers and dealers,
Major Mabry among the former. In a confidential mood I confessed to him
that I had bought, on the recent decline, one hundred certificates of
land scrip, when he surprised me by saying that there had been a later
decline to sixteen dollars a section. I was unnerved for an instant,
but Major Mabry agreed with me that to a man who wanted the land the
price was certainly cheap enough,—two and a half cents an acre. I
pondered over the matter, and as my nerve returned I sent my merchant
friend at Austin a draft and authorized him to buy me two hundred
sections more of land scrip. I was actually nettled to think that my
judgment was so short-sighted as to buy anything that would depreciate
in value.

My brother arrived and reported splendid success in feeding Colorado
cattle. He was anxious to have me join forces with him and corn-feed an
increased number of beeves the coming winter on his Missouri farm. My
judgment hardly approved of the venture, but when he urged a promised
visit of our parents to his home, I consented and agreed to furnish the
cattle. He also encouraged me to bring as many as my capital would
admit of, assuring me that I would find a ready sale for any surplus
among his neighbors. My brother returned to Missouri, and I took the
train for Ellsworth, where I bought a carload of picked cow-horses,
shipping them to Kit Carson, Colorado. From there I drifted into the
Fountain valley at the base of the mountains, where I made a trade for
seven hundred native steers, three and four years old. They were fine
cattle, nearly all reds and roans. While I was gathering them a number
of amusing incidents occurred. The round-ups carried us down on to the
main Arkansas River, and in passing Pueblo we discovered a number of
range cattle impounded in the town. I cannot give it as a fact, but the
supposition among the cowmen was that the object of the officials was
to raise some revenue by distressing the cattle. The result was that an
outfit of men rode into the village during the night, tore down the
pound, and turned the cattle back on the prairie. The prime movers in
the raid were suspected, and the next evening when a number of us rode
into town an attempt was made to arrest us, resulting in a fight, in
which an officer was killed and two cowboys wounded. The citizens
rallied to the support of the officers, and about thirty range men,
including myself, were arrested and thrown into jail. We sent for a
lawyer, and the following morning the majority of us were acquitted.
Some three or four of the boys were held for trial, bonds being
furnished by the best men in the town, and that night a party of
cowboys reëntered the village, carried away the two wounded men and
spirited them out of the country.

Pueblo at that time was a unique town. Live-stock interests were its
main support, and I distinctly remember Gann’s outfitting store. At
night one could find anywhere from ten to thirty cowboys sleeping on
the counters, the proprietor turning the keys over to them at closing
time, not knowing one in ten, and sleeping at his own residence. The
same custom prevailed at Gallup the saddler’s, never an article being
missed from either establishment, and both men amassing fortunes out of
the cattle trade in subsequent years. The range man’s patronage had its
peculiarities; the firm of Wright, Beverly & Co. of Dodge City, Kansas,
accumulated seven thousand odd vests during the trail days. When a
cow-puncher bought a new suit he had no use for an unnecessary garment
like a vest and left it behind. It was restored to the stock, where it
can yet be found.

Early in August the herd was completed. I accepted seven hundred and
twenty steers, investing every cent of spare money, reserving only
sufficient to pay my expenses en route. It was my intention to drive
the cattle through to Missouri, the distance being a trifle less than
six hundred miles or a matter of six weeks’ travel. Four men were
secured, a horse was packed with provisions and blankets, and we
started down the Arkansas River. For the first few days I did very
little but build air castles. I pictured myself driving herds from
Texas in the spring, reinvesting the proceeds in better grades of
cattle and feeding them corn in the older States, selling in time to
again buy and come up the trail. I even planned to send for my wife and
baby, and looked forward to a happy reunion with my parents during the
coming winter, with not a cloud in my roseate sky. But there were
breakers ahead.

An old military trail ran southeast from Fort Larned to other posts in
the Indian Territory. Over this government road had come a number of
herds of Texas cattle, all of them under contract, which, in reaching
their destination, had avoided the markets of Wichita and Ellsworth. I
crossed their trail with my Colorado natives,—the through cattle having
passed a month or more before,—never dreaming of any danger. Ten days
afterward I noticed a number of my steers were ailing; their ears
drooped, they refused to eat, and fell to the rear as we grazed
forward. The next morning there were forty head unable to leave the
bed-ground, and by noon a number of them had died. I had heard of Texas
fever, but always treated it as more or less a myth, and now it held my
little herd of natives in its toils. By this time we had reached some
settlement on the Cottonwood, and the pioneer settlers in Kansas arose
in arms and quarantined me. No one knew what the trouble was, yet the
cattle began dying like sheep; I was perfectly helpless, not knowing
which way to turn or what to do. Quarantine was unnecessary, as within
a few days half the cattle were sick, and it was all we could do to
move away from the stench of the dead ones.

A veterinary was sent for, who pronounced it Texas fever. I had
previously cut open a number of dead animals, and found the contents of
their stomachs and manifolds so dry that they would flash and burn like
powder. The fever had dried up their very internals. In the hope of
administering a purgative, I bought whole fields of green corn, and
turned the sick and dying cattle into them. I bought oils by the
barrel, my men and myself worked night and day, inwardly drenching
affected animals, yet we were unable to stay the ravages of death. Once
the cause of the trouble was located,—crossing ground over which Texas
cattle had passed,—the neighbors became friendly, and sympathized with
me. I gave them permission to take the fallen hides, and in return
received many kindnesses where a few days before I had been confronted
by shotguns. This was my first experience with Texas fever, and the
lessons that I learned then and afterward make me skeptical of all
theories regarding the transmission of the germ.

The story of the loss of my Colorado herd is a ghastly one. This fever
is sometimes called splenic, and in the present case, where animals
lingered a week or ten days, while yet alive, their skins frequently
cracked along the spine until one could have laid two fingers in the
opening. The whole herd was stricken, less than half a dozen animals
escaping attack, scores dying within three days, the majority lingering
a week or more. In spite of our every effort to save them, as many as
one hundred died in a single day. I stayed with them for six weeks, or
until the fever had run through the herd, spent my last available
dollar in an effort to save the dumb beasts, and, having my hopes
frustrated, sold the remnant of twenty-six head for five dollars
apiece. I question if they were worth the money, as three fourths of
them were fever-burnt and would barely survive a winter, the only
animals of value being some half dozen which had escaped the general
plague. I gave each of my men two horses apiece, and divided my money
with them, and they started back to Colorado, while I turned homeward a
wiser but poorer man. Whereas I had left Wichita three months before
with over sixteen thousand dollars clear cash, I returned with eighteen
saddle horses and not as many dollars in money.

My air-castles had fallen. Troubles never come singly, and for the last
two weeks, while working with the dying cattle, I had suffered with
chills and fever. The summer had been an unusually wet one, vegetation
had grown up rankly in the valley of the Arkansas, and after the first
few frosts the very atmosphere reeked with malaria. I had been sleeping
on the ground along the river for over a month, drinking impure water
from the creeks, and I fell an easy victim to the prevailing miasma.
Nearly all the Texas drovers had gone home, but, luckily for me, Jim
Daugherty had an outfit yet at Wichita and invited me to his wagon. It
might be a week or ten days before he would start homeward, as he was
holding a herd of cows, sold to an Indian contractor, who was to
receive the same within two weeks. In the interim of waiting, still
suffering from fever and ague, I visited around among the few other
cow-camps scattered up and down the river. At one of these I met a
stranger, a quiet little man, who also had been under the weather from
malaria, but was then recovering. He took an interest in my case and
gave me some medicine to break the chills, and we visited back and
forth. I soon learned that he had come down with some of his neighbors
from Council Grove; that they expected to buy cattle, and that he was
banker for the party. He was much interested in everything pertaining
to Texas; and when I had given him an idea of the cheapness of lands
and live stock in my adopted State, he expressed himself as anxious to
engage in trailing cattle north. A great many Texas cattle had been
matured in his home county, and he thoroughly understood the advantages
of developing southern steers in a northern climate. Many of his
neighbors had made small fortunes in buying young stock at Abilene,
holding them a year or two, and shipping them to market as fat cattle.

The party bought six hundred two-year-old steers, and my new-found
friend, the banker, invited me to assist in the receiving. My knowledge
of range cattle was a decided advantage to the buyers, who no doubt
were good farmers, yet were sadly handicapped when given pick and
choice from a Texas herd and confined to ages. I cut, counted, and
received the steers, my work giving such satisfaction that the party
offered to pay me for my services. It was but a neighborly act,
unworthy of recompense, yet I won the lasting regard of the banker in
protecting the interests of his customers. The upshot of the
acquaintance was that we met in town that evening and had a few drinks
together. Neither one ever made any inquiry of the other’s past or
antecedents, both seeming to be satisfied with a soldier’s
acquaintance. At the final parting, I gave him my name and address and
invited him to visit me, promising that we would buy a herd of cattle
together and drive them up the trail the following spring. He accepted
the invitation with a hearty grasp of the hand, and the simple promise
“I’ll come.” Those words were the beginning of a partnership which
lasted eighteen years, and a friendship that death alone will
terminate.

The Indian contractor returned on time, and the next day I started home
with Daugherty’s outfit. And on the way, as if I were pursued by some
unrelenting Nemesis, two of my horses, with others, were stolen by the
Indians one night when we were encamped near Red River. We trailed them
westward nearly fifty miles, but, on being satisfied they were
traveling night and day, turned back and continued our journey. I
reached home with sixteen horses, which for years afterwards, among my
hands and neighbors, were pointed out as Anthony’s thousand-dollar
cow-ponies. There is no denying the fact that I keenly felt the loss of
my money, as it crippled me in my business, while my ranch expenses,
amounting to over one thousand dollars, were unpaid. I was rich in
unsalable cattle, owned a thirty-two-thousand-acre ranch, saddle horses
galore, and was in debt. My wife’s trunk was half full of land scrip,
and to have admitted the fact would only have invited ridicule. But my
tuition was paid, and all I asked was a chance, for I knew the ropes in
handling range cattle. Yet this was the second time that I had lost my
money and I began to doubt myself. “You stick to cows,” said Charlie
Goodnight to me that winter, “and they’ll bring you out on top some
day. I thought I saw something in you when you first went to work for
Loving and me. Reed, if you’ll just imbibe a little caution with your
energy, you’ll make a fortune out of cattle yet.”




CHAPTER X
THE PANIC OF ’73


I have never forgotten those encouraging words of my first employer.
Friends tided my finances over, and letters passed between my banker
friend and myself, resulting in an appointment to meet him at Fort
Worth early in February. There was no direct railroad at the time, the
route being by St. Louis and Texarkana, with a long trip by stage to
the meeting point. No definite agreement existed between us; he was
simply paying me a visit, with the view of looking into the cattle
trade then existing between our respective States. There was no
obligation whatever, yet I had hopes of interesting him sufficiently to
join issues with me in driving a herd of cattle. I wish I could
describe the actual feelings of a man who has had money and lost it.
Never in my life did such opportunities present themselves for
investment as were tendered to me that winter. No less than half a
dozen brands of cattle were offered to me at the former terms of half
cash and the balance to suit my own convenience. But I lacked the means
to even provision a wagon for a month’s work, and I was compelled to
turn my back on all bargains, many of which were duplicates of my
former successes. I was humbled to the very dust; I bowed my neck to
the heel of circumstances, and looked forward to the coming of my
casual acquaintance.

I have read a few essays on the relation of money to a community. None
of our family were ever given to theorizing, yet I know how it feels to
be moneyless, my experience with Texas fever affording me a
post-graduate course. Born with a restless energy, I have lived in the
pit of despair for the want of money, and again, with the use of it,
have bent a legislature to my will and wish. All of which is foreign to
my tale, and I hasten on. During the first week in February I drove in
to Fort Worth to await the arrival of my friend, Calvin Hunter, banker
and stockman of Council Grove, Kansas. Several letters were awaiting me
in the town, notifying me of his progress, and in due time he arrived
and was welcomed. The next morning we started, driving a good span of
mules to a buckboard, expecting to cover the distance to the Brazos in
two days. There were several ranches at which we could touch, en route,
but we loitered along, making wide detours in order to drive through
cattle, not a feature of the country escaping the attention of my quiet
little companion. The soil, the native grasses, the natural waters, the
general topography of the country, rich in its primal beauty, furnished
a panorama to the eye both pleasing and exhilarating. But the main
interest centred in the cattle, thousands of which were always in
sight, lingering along the watercourses or grazing at random.

We reached the Edwards ranch early the second evening. In the two days’
travel, possibly twenty thousand cattle came under our immediate
observation. All the country was an open range, brands intermingling,
all ages and conditions, running from a sullen bull to seven-year-old
beeves, or from a yearling heifer to the grandmother of younger
generations. My anxiety to show the country and its cattle met a hearty
second in Mr. Hunter, and abandoning the buckboard, we took horses and
rode up the Brazos River as far as old Fort Belknap. All cattle were
wintering strong. Turning south, we struck the Clear Fork above my
range and spent a night at the ranch, where my men had built a second
cabin, connecting the two by a hallway. After riding through my stock
for two days, we turned back for the Brazos. My ranch hands had branded
thirty-one hundred calves the fall before, and while riding over the
range I was delighted to see so many young steers in my different
brands. But our jaunt had only whetted the appetite of my guest to see
more of the country, and without any waste of time we started south
with the buckboard, going as far as Comanche County. Every day’s travel
brought us in contact with cattle for sale; the prices were an
incentive, but we turned east and came back up the valley of the
Brazos. I offered to continue our sightseeing, but my guest pleaded for
a few days’ time until he could hear from his banking associates. I
needed a partner and needed one badly, and was determined to interest
Mr. Hunter if it took a whole month. And thereby hangs a tale.

The native Texan is not distinguished for energy or ambition. His
success in cattle is largely due to the fact that nearly all the work
can be done on horseback. Yet in that particular field he stands at the
head of his class; for whether in Montana or his own sunny Texas, when
it comes to handling cattle, from reading brands to cutting a trainload
of beeves, he is without a peer. During the palmy days of the Cherokee
Strip, a Texan invited Captain Stone, a Kansas City man, to visit his
ranch in Tom Green County and put up a herd of steers to be driven to
Stone’s beef ranch in the Cherokee Outlet. The invitation was accepted,
and on the arrival of the Kansas City man at the Texan’s ranch, host
and guest indulged in a friendly visit of several days’ duration. It
was the northern cowman’s first visit to the Lone Star State, and he
naturally felt impatient to see the cattle which he expected to buy.
But the host made no movement to show the stock until patience ceased
to be a virtue, when Captain Stone moved an adjournment of the social
session and politely asked to be shown a sample of the country’s
cattle. The two cowmen were fast friends, and no offense was intended
or taken; but the host assured his guest there was no hurry, offering
to get up horses and show the stock the following day. Captain Stone
yielded, and the next morning they started, but within a few miles met
a neighbor, when all three dismounted in the shade of a tree.
Commonplace chat of the country occupied the attention of the two
Texans until hunger or some other warning caused one of them to look at
his watch, when it was discovered to be three o’clock in the afternoon.
It was then too late in the day to make an extensive ride, and the
ranchman invited his neighbor and guest to return to the ranch for the
night. Another day was wasted in entertaining the neighbor, the
northern cowman, in the meantime, impatient and walking on nettles
until a second start was made to see the cattle. It was a foggy
morning, and they started on a different route from that previously
taken, the visiting ranchman going along. Unnoticed, a pack of hounds
followed the trio of horsemen, and before the fog lifted a cougar trail
was struck and the dogs opened in a brilliant chorus. The two Texans
put spurs to their horses in following the pack, the cattle buyer of
necessity joining in, the chase leading into some hills, from which
they returned after darkness, having never seen a cow during the day.
One trivial incident after another interfered with seeing the cattle
for ten days, when the guest took his host aside and kindly told him
that he must be shown the cattle or he would go home.

“You’re not in a hurry, are you, captain?” innocently asked the Texan.
“All right, then; no trouble to show the cattle. Yes, they run right
around home here within twenty-five miles of the ranch. Show you a
sample of the stock within an hour’s ride. You can just bet that old
Tom Green County has got the steers! Sugar, if I’d a-known that you was
in a hurry, I could have shown you the cattle the next morning after
you come. Captain, you ought to know me well enough by this time to
speak your little piece without any prelude. You Yankees are so
restless and impatient that I seriously doubt if you get all the
comfort and enjoyment out of life that’s coming to you. Make haste,
some of you boys, and bring in a remuda; Captain Stone and I are going
to ride over on the Middle Fork this morning. Make haste, now; we’re in
a hurry.”

In due time I suppose I drifted into the languorous ways of the Texan;
but on the occasion of Mr. Hunter’s first visit I was in the need of a
moneyed partner, and accordingly danced attendance. Once communication
was opened with his Northern associates, we made several short rides
into adjoining counties, never being gone over two or three days. When
we had looked at cattle to his satisfaction, he surprised me by
offering to put fifty thousand dollars into young steers for the Kansas
trade. I never fainted in my life, but his proposition stunned me for
an instant, or until I could get my bearings. The upshot of the
proposal was that we entered into an agreement whereby I was to
purchase and handle the cattle, and he was to make himself useful in
selling and placing the stock in his State. A silent partner was
furnishing an equal portion of the means, and I was to have a third of
the net profits. Within a week after this agreement was perfected,
things were moving. I had the horses and wagons, men were plentiful,
and two outfits were engaged. Early in March a contract was let in
Parker County for thirty-one hundred two-year-old steers, and another
in Young for fourteen hundred threes, the latter to be delivered at my
ranch. George Edwards was to have the younger cattle, and he and Mr.
Hunter received the same, after which the latter hurried west, fully
ninety miles, to settle for those bought for delivery on the Clear
Fork. In the mean time my ranch outfit had gathered all our steer
cattle two years old and over, having nearly twenty-five hundred head
under herd on my arrival to receive the three-year-olds. This amount
would make an unwieldy herd, and I culled back all short-aged twos and
thin steers until my individual contingent numbered even two thousand.
The contracted steers came in on time, fully up to the specifications,
and my herd was ready to start on the appointed day.

Every dollar of the fifty thousand was invested in cattle, save enough
to provision the wagons en route. My ranch outfit, with the exception
of two men and ten horses, was pressed into trail work as a matter of
economy, for I was determined to make some money for my partners. Both
herds were to meet and cross at Red River Station. The season was
favorable, and everything augured for a prosperous summer. At the very
last moment a cloud arose between Mr. Hunter and me, but happily passed
without a storm. The night before the second herd started, he and I sat
up until a late hour, arranging our affairs, as it was not his
intention to accompany the herds overland. After all business matters
were settled, lounging around a camp-fire, we grew reminiscent, when
the fact developed that my quiet little partner had served in the Union
army, and with the rank of major. I always enjoy a joke, even on
myself, but I flashed hot and cold on this confession. What! Reed
Anthony forming a partnership with a Yankee major? It seemed as though
I had. Fortunately I controlled myself, and under the excuse of
starting the herd at daybreak, I excused myself and sought my blankets.
But not to sleep. On the one hand, in the stillness of the night and
across the years, came the accusing voices of old comrades. My very
wounds seemed to reopen and curse me. Did my sufferings after Pittsburg
Landing mean nothing? A vision of my dear old mother in Virginia,
welcoming me, the only one of her three sons who returned from the war,
arraigned me sorely. And yet, on the other hand, this man was my guest.
On my invitation he had eaten my salt. For mutual benefit we had
entered into a partnership, and I expected to profit from the
investment of his money. More important, he had not deceived me nor
concealed anything; neither did he know that I had served in the
Confederate army. The man was honest. I was anxious to do right.
Soldiers are generous to a foe. While he lay asleep in my camp, I
reviewed the situation carefully, and judged him blameless. The next
morning, and ever afterward, I addressed him by his military title.
Nearly a year passed before Major Hunter knew that he and his Texas
partner had served in the civil war under different flags.

My partner returned to the Edwards ranch and was sent in to Fort Worth,
where he took stage and train for home. The straight two-year-old herd
needed road-branding, as they were accepted in a score or more brands,
which delayed them in starting. Major Hunter expected to sell to
farmers, to whom brands were offensive, and was therefore opposed to
more branding than was absolutely necessary. In order to overcome this
objection, I tally-marked all outside cattle which went into my herd by
sawing from each steer about two inches from the right horn. As fast as
the cattle were received this work was easily done in a chute, while in
case of any loss by stampede the mark would last for years. The grass
was well forward when both herds started, but on arriving at Red River
no less than half a dozen herds were waterbound, one of which was
George Edwards’s. A delay of three days occurred, during which two
other herds arrived, when the river fell, permitting us to cross. I
took the lead thereafter, the second herd half a day to the rear, with
the almost weekly incident of being waterbound by intervening rivers.
But as we moved northward the floods seemed lighter, and on our arrival
at Wichita the weather settled into well-ordered summer.

I secured my camp of the year before. Major Hunter came down by train,
and within a week after our arrival my outfit was settled with and sent
home. It was customary to allow a man half wages returning, my partner
approving and paying the men, also taking charge of all the expense
accounts. Everything was kept as straight as a bank, and with one
outfit holding both herds separate, expenses were reduced to a minimum.
Major Hunter was back and forth, between his home town and Wichita, and
on nearly every occasion brought along buyers, effecting sales at extra
good prices. Cattle paper was considered gilt-edge security among
financial men, and we sold to worthy parties a great many cattle on
credit, the home bank with which my partners were associated taking the
notes at their face. Matters rocked along, we sold when we had an
opportunity, and early in August the remnant of each herd was thrown
together and half the remaining outfit sent home. A drive of fully half
a million cattle had reached Kansas that year, the greater portion of
which had centred at Wichita. We were persistent in selling, and,
having strong local connections, had sold out all our cattle long
before the financial panic of ’73 even started. There was a profitable
business, however, in buying herds and selling again in small
quantities to farmers and stockmen. My partners were anxious to have me
remain to the end of the season, doing the buying, maintaining the
camp, and holding any stock on hand. In rummaging through the old musty
account-books, I find that we handled nearly seven thousand head
besides our own drive, fifteen hundred being the most we ever had on
hand at any one time.

My active partner proved a shrewd man in business, and in spite of the
past our friendship broadened and strengthened. Weeks before the
financial crash reached us he knew of its coming, and our house was set
in order. When the panic struck the West we did not own a hoof of
cattle, while the horses on hand were mine and not for sale; and the
firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co. rode the gale like a seaworthy ship. The
panic reached Wichita with over half the drive of that year unsold. The
local banks began calling in money advanced to drovers, buyers deserted
the market, and prices went down with a crash. Shipments of the best
through cattle failed to realize more than sufficient to pay commission
charges and freight. Ruin stared in the face every Texan drover whose
cattle were unsold. Only a few herds were under contract for fall
delivery to Indian and army contractors. We had run from the
approaching storm in the nick of time, even settling with and sending
my outfit home before the financial cyclone reached the prairies of
Kansas. My last trade before the panic struck was an individual
account, my innate weakness for an abundance of saddle horses asserting
itself in buying ninety head and sending them home with my men.

I now began to see the advantages of shrewd and far-seeing business
associates. When the crash came, scarce a dozen drovers had sold out,
while of those holding cattle at Wichita nearly every one had locally
borrowed money or owed at home for their herds. When the banks,
panic-stricken themselves, began calling in short-time loans, their
frenzy paralyzed the market, many cattle being sacrificed at forced
sale and with scarce a buyer. In the depreciation of values from the
prices which prevailed in the early summer, the losses to the Texas
drovers, caused by the panic, would amount to several million dollars.
I came out of the general wreck and ruin untouched, though personally
claiming no credit, as that must be given my partners. The year before,
when every other drover went home prosperous and happy, I returned
“broke,” while now the situation was reversed.

I spent a week at Council Grove, visiting with my business associates.
After a settlement of the year’s business, I was anxious to return
home, having agreed to drive cattle the next year on the same terms and
conditions. My partners gave me a cash settlement, and outside of my
individual cattle, I cleared over ten thousand dollars on my summer’s
work. Major Hunter, however, had an idea of reëntering the market,—with
the first symptom of improvement in the financial horizon in the
East,—and I was detained. The proposition of buying a herd of cattle
and wintering them on the range had been fully discussed between us,
and prices were certainly an incentive to make the venture. In an
ordinary open winter, stock subsisted on the range all over western
Kansas, especially when a dry fall had matured and cured the
buffalo-grass like hay. The range was all one could wish, and Major
Hunter and I accordingly dropped down to Wichita to look the situation
over. We arrived in the midst of the panic and found matters in a
deplorable condition. Drovers besought and even begged us to make an
offer on their herds, while the prevailing prices of a month before had
declined over half. Major Hunter and I agreed that at present figures,
even if half the cattle were lost by a severe winter, there would still
be money in the venture. Through financial connections East my partners
knew of the first signs of improvement in the money-centres of the
country. As I recall the circumstances, the panic began in the East
about the middle of September, and it was the latter part of October
before confidence was restored, or there was any noticeable change for
the better in the monetary situation. But when this came, it found us
busy buying saddle horses and cattle. The great bulk of the unsold
stock consisted of cows, heifers, and young steers unfit for beef. My
partners contended that a three-year-old steer ought to winter anywhere
a buffalo could, provided he had the flesh and strength to withstand
the rigors of the climate. I had no opinions, except what other cowmen
had told me, but was willing to take the chances where there was a
reasonable hope of success.

The first move was to buy an outfit of good horses. This was done by
selecting from half a dozen remudas, a trail wagon was picked up, and a
complement of men secured. Once it was known that we were in the market
for cattle, competition was brisk, the sellers bidding against each
other and fixing the prices at which we accepted the stock. None but
three-year-old steers were taken, and in a single day we closed trades
on five thousand head. I received the cattle, confining my selections
to five road and ten single-ranch brands, as it was not our intention
to rebrand so late in the season. There was nothing to do but cut,
count, and accept, and on the evening of the third day the herd was all
ready to start for its winter range. The wagon had been well
provisioned, and we started southwest, expecting to go into winter
quarters on the first good range encountered. I had taken a third
interest in the herd, paying one sixth of its purchase price, the
balance being carried for me by my partners. Major Hunter accompanied
us, the herd being altogether too large and unwieldy to handle well,
but we grazed it forward with a front a mile wide. Delightful fall
weather favored the cattle, and on the tenth day we reached the
Medicine River, where, by the unwritten law of squatter’s rights, we
preëmpted ten miles of its virgin valley. The country was fairly
carpeted with well-cured buffalo-grass; on the north and west was a
range of sand-dunes, while on the south the country was broken by deep
coulees, affording splendid shelter in case of blizzards or wintry
storms.

A dugout was built on either end of the range. Major Hunter took the
wagon and team and went to the nearest settlement, returning with a
load of corn, having contracted for the delivery of five hundred
bushels more. Meanwhile I was busy locating the cattle, scattering them
sparsely over the surrounding country, cutting them into bunches of not
more than ten to twenty head. Corrals and cosy shelters were built for
a few horses, comfortable quarters for the men, and we settled down for
the winter with everything snug and secure. By the first of December
the force was reduced to four men at each camp, all of whom were
experienced in holding cattle in the winter. Lines giving ample room to
our cattle were established, which were to be ridden both evening and
morning in any and all weather. Two Texans, both experts as trailers,
were detailed to trail down any cattle which left the boundaries of the
range. The weather continued fine, and with the camps well provisioned,
the major and I returned to the railroad and took train for Council
Grove. I was impatient to go home, and took the most direct route then
available. Railroads were just beginning to enter the West, and one had
recently been completed across the eastern portion of the Indian
Territory, its destination being south of Red River. With nothing but
the clothes on my back and a saddle, I started home, and within
twenty-four hours arrived at Denison, Texas. Connecting stages carried
me to Fort Worth, where I bought a saddle horse, and the next evening I
was playing with the babies at the home ranch. It had been an active
summer with me, but success had amply rewarded my labors, while every
cloud had disappeared and the future was rich in promise.




CHAPTER XI
A PROSPEROUS YEAR


An open winter favored the cattle on the Medicine River. My partners in
Kansas wrote me encouragingly, and plans were outlined for increasing
our business for the coming summer. There was no activity in live stock
during the winter in Texas, and there would be no trouble in putting up
herds at prevailing prices of the spring before. I spent an inactive
winter, riding back and forth to my ranch, hunting with hounds, and
killing an occasional deer. While visiting at Council Grove the fall
before, Major Hunter explained to our silent partner the cheapness of
Texas lands. Neither one of my associates cared to scatter their
interests beyond the boundaries of their own State, yet both urged me
to acquire every acre of cheap land that my means would permit. They
both recited the history and growth in value of the lands surrounding
The Grove, telling me how cheaply they could have bought the same ten
years before,—at the government price of a dollar and a quarter an
acre,—and that already there had been an advance of four to five
hundred per cent. They urged me to buy scrip and locate land, assuring
me that it was only a question of time until the people of Texas would
arise in their might and throw off the yoke of Reconstruction.

At home general opinion was just the reverse. No one cared for more
land than a homestead or for immediate use. No locations had been made
adjoining my ranch on the Clear Fork, and it began to look as if I had
more land than I needed. Yet I had confidence enough in the advice of
my partners to reopen negotiations with my merchant friend at Austin
for the purchase of more land scrip. The panic of the fall before had
scarcely affected the frontier of Texas, and was felt in only a few
towns of any prominence in the State. There had been no money in
circulation since the war, and a financial stringency elsewhere made
little difference among the local people. True, the Kansas cattle
market had sent a little money home, but a bad winter with drovers
holding cattle in the North, followed by a panic, had bankrupted nearly
every cowman, many of them with heavy liabilities in Texas. There were
very few banks in the State, and what little money there was among the
people was generally hoarded to await the dawn of a brighter day.

My wife tells a story about her father, which shows similar conditions
prevailing during the civil war. The only outlet for cotton in Texas
during the rebellion was by way of Mexico. Matamoros, near the mouth of
the Rio Grande, waxed opulent in its trade of contrabrand cotton, the
Texas product crossing the river anywhere for hundreds of miles above
and being freighted down on the Mexican side to tide-water. The town
did an immense business during the blockade of coast seaports,
twenty-dollar gold pieces being more plentiful then than nickels are
to-day, the cotton finding a ready market at war prices and safe
shipment under foreign flags. My wife’s father was engaged in the trade
of buying cotton at interior points, freighting it by ox trains over
the Mexican frontier, and thence down the river to Matamoros. Once the
staple reached neutral soil, it was palmed off as a local product, and
the Federal government dared not touch it, even though they knew it to
be contrabrand of war. The business was transacted in gold, and it was
Mr. Edwards’s custom to bury the coin on his return from each trading
trip. My wife, then a mere girl and the oldest of the children at home,
was taken into her father’s confidence in secreting the money. The
country was full of bandits, either government would have confiscated
the gold had they known its whereabouts, and the only way to insure its
safety was to bury it. After several years trading in cotton, Mr.
Edwards accumulated considerable money, and on one occasion buried the
treasure at night between two trees in an adjoining wood. Unexpectedly
one day he had occasion to use some money in buying a cargo of cotton,
the children were at a distant neighbor’s, and he went into the woods
alone to unearth the gold. But hogs, running in the timber, had rooted
up the ground in search of edible roots, and Edwards was unable to
locate the spot where his treasure lay buried. Fearful that possibly
the money had been uprooted and stolen, he sent for the girl, who
hastily returned. As my wife tells the story, great beads of
perspiration were dripping from her father’s brow as the two entered
the woods. And although the ground was rooted up, the girl pointed out
the spot, midway between two trees, and the treasure was recovered
without a coin missing. Mr. Edwards lost confidence in himself, and
thereafter, until peace was restored, my wife and a younger sister
always buried the family treasure by night, keeping the secret to
themselves, and producing the money on demand.

The merchant at Austin reported land scrip plentiful at fifteen to
sixteen dollars a section. I gave him an order for two hundred
certificates, and he filled the bill so promptly that I ordered another
hundred, bringing my unlocated holdings up to six hundred sections. My
land scrip was a standing joke between my wife and me, and I often
promised her that when we built a house and moved to the Clear Fork, if
the scrip was still worthless she might have the certificates to paper
a room with. They were nicely lithographed, the paper was of the very
best quality, and they went into my wife’s trunk to await their
destiny. Had it been known outside that I held such an amount of scrip,
I would have been subjected to ridicule, and no doubt would have given
it to some surveyor to locate on shares. Still I had a vague idea that
land at two and a half cents an acre would never hurt me. Several times
in the past I had needed the money tied up in scrip, and then I would
regret having bought it. After the loss of my entire working capital by
Texas fever, I was glad I had foresight enough to buy a quantity that
summer. And thus I swung like a pendulum between personal necessities
and public opinion; but when those long-headed Yankee partners of mine
urged me to buy land, I felt once more that I was on the right track
and recovered my grasp. I might have located fifty miles of the valley
of the Clear Fork that winter, but it would have entailed some little
expense, the land would then have been taxable, and I had the use of it
without outlay or trouble.

An event of great importance to the people of Texas occurred during the
winter of 1873-74. The election the fall before ended in dispute, both
great parties claiming the victory. On the meeting of the legislature
to canvass the vote, all the negro militia of the State were
concentrated in and around the capitol building. The Reconstruction
régime refused to vacate, and were fighting to retain control; the best
element of the people were asserting in no unmistakable terms their
rights and bloodshed seemed inevitable. The federal government was
appealed to, but refused to interfere. The legislature was with the
people, and when the latter refused to be intimidated by a display of
force, those in possession yielded the reins, and Governor Coke was
inaugurated January 15, 1874; and thus the prediction of my partners,
uttered but a few mouths before, became history.

Major Hunter came down again about the last of February. Still unshaken
in his confidence in the future of Texas, he complimented me on
securing more land scrip. He had just returned from our camps on the
Medicine River, and reported the cattle coming through in splendid
condition. Gray wolves had harassed the herd during the early winter;
but long-range rifles and poison were furnished, and our men waged a
relentless war on these pirates along the Medicine. Cattle in Texas had
wintered strong, which would permit of active operations beginning
earlier than usual, and after riding the range for a week we were ready
for business. It was well known in all the surrounding country that we
would again be in the market for trail cattle, and offerings were
plentiful. These tenders ran anywhere from stock cattle to heavy
beeves; but the market which we were building up with farmers at
Council Grove required young two and three year old steers. It again
fell to my province to do the buying, and with the number of brands for
sale in the country I expected, with the consent of my partners, to
make a new departure. I was beginning to understand the advantages of
growing cattle. My holdings of mixed stock on the Clear Fork had
virtually cost me nothing, and while they may have been unsalable, yet
there was a steady growth and they were a promising source of income.
From the results of my mavericking and my trading operations I had been
enabled to send two thousand young steers up the trail the spring
before, and the proceeds from their sale had lifted me from the slough
of despond and set me on a financial rock. Therefore my regard for the
eternal cow was enhancing.

Home prices were again ten dollars for two-year-old steers and twelve
for threes. Instead of buying outright at these figures, my proposition
was to buy individually brands of stock cattle, and turn over all
steers of acceptable ages at prevailing prices to the firm of Hunter,
Anthony & Co. in making up trail herds. We had already agreed to drive
ten thousand head that spring, and my active partner readily saw the
advantages that would accrue where one had the range and outfit to take
care of the remnants of mixed stock. My partners were both straining
their credit at home, and since it was immaterial to them, I was given
permission to go ahead. This method of buying might slightly delay the
starting of herds, and rather than do so I contracted for three
thousand straight threes in Erath County. This herd would start ten
days in advance of any other, which would give us cattle on the market
at Wichita with the opening of the season. My next purchase was two
brands whose range was around the juncture of the main Brazos and Clear
Fork, adjoining my ranch. These cattle were to be delivered at our
corrals, as, having received the three-year-olds from both brands the
spring before, I had a good idea how the stock ought to classify. A
third brand was secured up the Clear Fork, adjacent to my range,
supposed to number about three thousand, from which nothing had been
sold in four years. This latter contingent cost me five dollars a head,
but my boys knew the brand well enough to know that they would run
forty per cent steer cattle. In all three cases I bought all right and
title to the brand, giving them until the last day of March to gather,
and anything not tendered for count on receiving, the tail went with
the hide.

From these three brands I expected to make up the second herd easily.
With no market for cattle, it was safe to count on a brand running one
third steers or better, from which I ought to get twenty-five per cent
of age for trail purposes. Long before any receiving began I bought
four more brands outright in adjoining counties, setting the day for
receiving on the 5th of April, everything to be delivered on my ranch
on the Clear Fork. There were fully twenty-five thousand cattle in
these seven brands, and as I had bought them all half cash and the
balance on six months’ time, it behooved me to be on the alert and
protect my interests. A trusty man was accordingly sent from my ranch
to assist in the gathering of each of the four outside brands, to be
present at all round-ups, to see that no steer cattle were held back,
and that the dropping calves were cared for and saved. This precaution
was not taken around my ranch, for any animal which failed to be
counted my own men would look out for by virtue of ownership of the
brand. My saddle horses were all in fine condition, and were cut into
remudas of ninety head each, two new wagons were fitted up, and all was
ready to move.

The Erath County herd was to be delivered to us on the 20th of March.
George Edwards was to have charge, and he and Major Hunter started in
ample time to receive the cattle, the latter proving an apt scholar,
while the former was a thorough cowman. In the mean time I had made up
a second outfit, putting a man who had made a number of trips with me
as foreman in charge, and we moved out to the Clear Fork. The first
herd started on the 22d, Major Hunter accompanying it past the Edwards
ranch and then joining us on my range. We had kept in close touch with
the work then in progress along the Brazos and Clear Fork, and it was
probable that we might be able to receive in advance of the appointed
day. Fortunately this happened in two cases, both brands overrunning
all expectations in general numbers and the quantity of steer cattle.
These contingents were met, counted, and received ten miles from the
ranch, nothing but the steers two years old and upward being brought in
to the corrals. The third brand, from west on the Clear Fork, came in
on the dot, and this also surprised me in its numbers of heavy steer
cattle. From the three contingents I received over thirteen thousand
head, nearly four thousand of which were steers of trail age. On the
first day of April we started the second herd of thirty-five hundred
twos and threes, the latter being slightly in the majority, but we
classified them equally. Major Hunter was pleased with the quality of
the cattle, and I was more than satisfied with results, as I had nearly
five hundred heavy steers left which would easily qualify as beeves.
Estimating the latter at what they ought to net me at Wichita, the
remnants of stock cattle cost me about a dollar and a half a head,
while I had received more cash than the amount of the half payment.

The beef steers were held under herd to await the arrival of the other
contingents. If they fell short in twos and threes, I had hopes of
finding an outlet for my beeves with the last herd. The young stuff and
stock cattle were allowed to drift back on their own ranges, and we
rested on our oars. We had warning of the approach of outside brands,
several arriving in advance of appointment, and they were received at
once. As before, every brand overran expectations, with no shortage in
steers. My men had been wide awake, any number of mature beeves coming
in with the mixed stock. As fast as they arrived we cut all steers of
desirable age into our herd of beeves, sending the remnant up the river
about ten miles to be put under loose herd for the first month.
Fifteen-thousand cattle were tendered in the four brands, from which we
cut out forty-six hundred steers of trail age. The numbers were
actually embarrassing, not in stock cattle, but in steers, as our trail
herd numbered now over five thousand. The outside outfits were all
detained a few days for a settlement, lending their assistance, as we
tally-marked all the stock cattle before sending them up the river to
be put under herd. This work was done in a chute with branding irons,
running a short bar over the holding-brand, the object being to
distinguish animals received then from what might be gathered
afterward. There were nearly one hundred men present, and with the
amount of help available the third herd was ready to start on the
morning of the 6th. It numbered thirty-five hundred, again nearly equal
in twos and threes, my ranch foreman having charge. With the third herd
started, the question arose what to do with the remnant of a few over
sixteen hundred beeves. To turn them loose meant that with the first
norther that blew they would go back to their own range. Major Hunter
suggested that I drive an individual herd. I tried to sell him an
interest in the cattle, but as their ages were unsuited to his market,
he pleaded bankruptcy, yet encouraged me to fill up the herd and drive
them on my own account.

Something had to be done. I bought sixty horses from the different
outfits then waiting for a settlement, adding thirty of my own to the
remuda, made up an outfit from the men present, rigged a wagon, and
called for a general round-up of my range. Two days afterward we had
fifteen hundred younger steers of my own raising in the herd, and on
the 10th of the month the fourth one moved out. A day was lost in
making a general settlement, after which Major Hunter and I rode
through the mixed cattle under herd, finding them contentedly occupying
nearly ten miles of the valley of the Clear Fork. Calves were dropping
at the rate of one hundred a day, two camps of five men each held them
on an ample range, riding lines well back from the valley. The next
morning we turned homeward, passing my ranch and corrals, which but a
few days before were scenes of activity, but now deserted even by the
dogs. From the Edwards ranch we were driven in to Fort Worth, and by
the middle of the month reached Wichita.

No herds were due to arrive for a month. My active partner continued on
to his home at The Grove, and I started for our camps on the Medicine
River. The grass was coming with a rush, the cattle were beginning to
shed their winter coats, and our men assured me that the known loss
amounted to less than twenty head. The boys had spent an active winter,
only a few storms ever bunching the cattle, with less than half a dozen
contingents crossing the established lines. Even these were followed by
our trailers and brought back to their own range; and together with
wolfing the time had passed pleasantly. An incident occurred at the
upper camp that winter which clearly shows the difference between the
cow-hand of that day and the modern bronco-buster. In baiting for
wolves, many miles above our range, a supposed trail of cattle was cut
by one of the boys, who immediately reported the matter to our Texas
trailer at camp. They were not our cattle to a certainty, yet it was
but a neighborly act to catch them, so the two men took up the trail.
From appearances there were not over fifteen head in the bunch, and
before following them many miles, the trailer became suspicious that
they were buffalo and not cattle. He trailed them until they bedded
down, when he dismounted and examined every bed. No cow ever lay down
without leaving hair on its bed, so when the Texan had examined the
ground where half a dozen had slept, his suspicions were confirmed.
Declaring them buffalo, the two men took up the trail in a gallop,
overtaking the band within ten miles and securing four fine robes.
There is little or no difference in the tracks of the two animals. I
simply mention this, as my patience has been sorely tried with the
modern picturesque cowboy, who is merely an amateur when compared with
the men of earlier days.

I spent three weeks riding the range on the Medicine. The cattle had
been carefully selected, now four and five years old, and if the season
was favorable they would be ready for shipment early in the fall. The
lower camp was abandoned in order to enlarge the range nearly one
third, and after providing for the wants of the men, I rode away to the
southeast to intercept the Chisholm trail where it crossed the Kansas
line south of Wichita. The town of Caldwell afterward sprang up on the
border, but at this time among drovers it was known as Stone’s Store, a
trading-post conducted by Captain Stone, afterward a cowman, and
already mentioned in these memoirs. Several herds had already passed on
my arrival; I watched the trail, meeting every outfit for nearly a
week, and finally George Edwards came snailing along. He reported our
other cattle from seven to ten days behind, but was not aware that I
had an individual herd on the trail. Edwards moved on to Wichita, and I
awaited the arrival of our second outfit. A brisk rivalry existed
between the solicitors for Ellsworth and Wichita, every man working
faithfully for his railroad or town, and at night they generally met in
social session over a poker game. I never played a card for money now,
not that my morals were any too good, but I was married and had
partners, and business generally absorbed me to such an extent that I
neglected the game.

I met the second herd at Pond Creek, south in the Cherokee Outlet, and
after spending a night with them rode through to Wichita in a day and
night. We went into camp that year well up the Arkansas River, as two
outfits would again hold the four herds. Our second outfit arrived at
the chosen grazing grounds on time, the men were instantly relieved,
and after a good carouse in town they started home. The two other herds
came in without delay, the beeves arriving on the last of the month.
Barely half as many cattle would arrive from Texas that summer, as many
former drovers from that section were bankrupt on account of the panic
of the year before. Yet the market was fairly well supplied with
offerings of wintered Texans, the two classes being so distinct that
there was very little competition between them. My active partner was
on hand early, reporting a healthy inquiry among former customers, all
of whom were more than pleased with the cattle supplied them the year
before. By being in a position to extend a credit to reliable men, we
were enabled to effect sales where other drovers dared not venture.

Business opened early with us. I sold fifteen hundred of my heaviest
beeves to an army contractor from Wyoming. My active partner sold the
straight three-year-old herd from Erath County to an ex-governor from
Nebraska, and we delivered it on the Republican River in that State.
Small bunches of from three to five hundred were sold to farmers, and
by the first of August we had our holdings reduced to two herds in
charge of one outfit. When the hipping season began with our customers
at The Grove, trade became active with us at Wichita. Scarcely a week
passed but Major Hunter sold a thousand or more to his neighbors, while
I skirmished around in the general market. When the outfit returned
from the Republican River, I took it in charge, went down on the
Medicine, and cut out a thousand beeves, bringing them to the railroad
and shipping them to St. Louis. I never saw fatter cattle in my life.
When we got the returns from the first consignment, we shipped two
trainloads every fortnight until our holding’s on the Medicine were
reduced to a remnant. A competent bookkeeper was employed early in the
year, and in keeping our accounts at Wichita, looking after our
shipments, keeping individual interests, by brands, separate from the
firm’s, he was about the busiest man connected with the summer’s
business. Aside from our drive of over thirteen thousand head, we
bought three whole herds, retailing them in small quantities to our
customers, all of which was profitable. I bought four whole remudas on
personal account, culled out one hundred and fifty head and sold them
at a sacrifice, sending home the remaining two hundred saddle horses. I
found it much cheaper and more convenient to buy my supply of saddle
stock at trail terminals than at home. Once railroad connections were
in operation direct between Kansas and Texas, every outfit preferred to
go home by rail, but I adhered to former methods for many years.

In summing up the year’s business, never were three partners more
surprised. With a remnant of nearly one hundred beeves unfit for
shipment, the Medicine River venture had cleared us over two hundred
per cent, while the horses on hand were worth ten dollars a head more
than what they had cost, owing to their having wintered in the North.
The ten thousand trail cattle paid splendidly, while my individual herd
had sold out in a manner, leaving the stock cattle at home clear
velvet. A programme was outlined for enlarging our business for the
coming year, and every dollar of our profits was to be reinvested in
wintering and trailing cattle from Texas. Next to the last shipment,
the through outfit went home, taking the extra two hundred saddle
horses with it, the final consignment being brought in to Wichita for
loading out by our ranch help. The shipping ended in October. My last
work of the year was the purchase of seven thousand three-year-old
steers, intended for our Medicine River range. We had intentionally
held George Edwards and his outfit for this purpose, and cutting the
numbers into two herds, the Medicine River lads led off for winter
quarters. We had bought the cattle worth the money, but not at a
sacrifice like the year before, neither would we expect such profits.
It takes a good nerve, but experience has taught me that in land and
cattle the time of the worst depression is the time to buy. Major
Hunter accompanied the herds to their winter quarters, sending Edwards
with his outfit, after their arrival on the Medicine, back to Texas,
while I took the train and reached home during the first week in
November.




CHAPTER XII
CLEAR FORK AND SHENANDOAH


I arrived home in good time for the fall work. The first outfit
relieved at Wichita had instructions to begin, immediately on reaching
the ranch, a general cow-hunt for outside brands. It was possible that
a few head might have escaped from the Clear Fork range and returned to
their old haunts, but these would bear a tally-mark distinguishing them
from any not gathered at the spring delivery. My regular ranch hands
looked after the three purchased brands adjoining our home range, but
an independent outfit had been working the past four months gathering
strays and remnants in localities where I had previously bought brands.
They went as far south as Comanche County and picked up nearly one
hundred “Lazy L’s,” scoured the country where I had purchased the two
brands in the spring of 1872, and afterward confined themselves to
ranges from which the outside cattle were received that spring. They
had made one delivery on the Clear Fork of seven hundred head before my
return, and were then away on a second cow-hunt.

On my reaching the ranch the first contingent of gathered cattle were
under herd. They were a rag-tag lot, many of them big steers, while
much of the younger stuff was clear of earmark or brand until after
their arrival at the home corrals. The ranch help herded them by day
and penned them at night, but on the arrival of the independent outfit
with another contingent of fifteen hundred the first were freed and the
second put under herd. Counting both bunches, the strays numbered
nearly a thousand head, and cattle bearing no tally-mark fully as many
more, while the remainder were mavericks and would have paid the
expenses of the outfit for the past four months. I now had over thirty
thousand cattle on the Clear Fork, holding them in eleven brands, but
decided thereafter to run all the increase in the original “44.” This
rule had gone into effect the fall previous, and I now proposed to run
it on all calves branded. Never before had I felt the necessity of
increasing my holdings in land, but with the number of cattle on hand
it behooved me to possess a larger acreage of the Clear Fork valley. A
surveyor was accordingly sent for, and while the double outfit was
branding the home calf crop, I located on the west end of my range a
strip of land ten miles long by five wide. At the east end of my ranch
another tract was located, five by ten miles, running north and taking
in all that country around the junction of the Clear Fork with the
mother Brazos. This gave me one hundred and fifty sections of land,
lying in the form of an immense Lazy L, and I felt that the expense was
justified in securing an ample range for my stock cattle.

My calf crop that fall ran a few over seven thousand head. They were
good northern Texas calves, and it would cost but a trifle to run them
until they were two-year-olds; and if demand continued in the upper
country, some day a trail herd of steers could easily be made up from
their numbers. I was beginning to feel rather proud of my land and
cattle; the former had cost me but a small outlay, while the latter
were clear velvet, as I had sold thirty-five hundred from their
increase during the past two years. Once the surveying and branding was
over, I returned to the Edwards ranch for the winter. The general
outlook in Texas was for the better; quite a mileage of railroad had
been built within the State during the past year, and new and
prosperous towns had sprung up along their lines. The political
situation had quieted down, and it was generally admitted that a
Reconstruction government could never again rear its head on Texas
soil. The result was that confidence was slowly being restored among
the local people, and the press of the State was making a fight for
recognition, all of which augured for a brighter future. Living on the
frontier and absent the greater portion of the time, I took little
interest in local politics, yet could not help but feel that the
restoration of self-government to the best elements of our people would
in time reflect on the welfare of the State. Since my advent in Texas I
had been witness to the growth of Fort Worth from a straggling village
in the spring of 1866 to quite a pretentious town in the fall of 1874.

Ever since the partnership was formed I had been aware of and had
fostered the political ambitions of the firm’s silent member. He had
been prominently identified with the State of Kansas since it was a
territory, had held positions of trust, and had been a representative
in Congress, and all three of us secretly hoped to see him advanced to
the United States Senate. We had fully discussed the matter on various
occasions, and as the fall elections had gone favorably, the present
was considered the opportune time to strike. The firm mutually agreed
to stand the expense of the canvass, which was estimated on a
reasonable basis, and the campaign opened with a blare of trumpets.
Assuming the rôle of a silent partner, I had reports furnished me
regularly, and it soon developed that our estimate on the probable
expense was too low. We had boldly entered the canvass, our man was
worthy, and I wrote back instructing my partners to spare no expense in
winning the fight. There were a number of candidates in the race and
the legislature was in session, when an urgent letter reached me,
urging my presence at the capital of Kansas. The race was narrowing to
a close, a personal consultation was urged, and I hastened north as
fast as a relay of horses and railroad trains could carry me. On my
arrival at Topeka the fight had almost narrowed to a financial one, and
we questioned if the game were worth the candle. Yet we were already
involved in a considerable outlay, and the consultation resulted in our
determination to win, which we did, but at an expense of a little over
four times the original estimate, which, however, afterward proved a
splendid investment.

I now had hopes that we might enlarge our operations in handling
government contracts. Major Hunter saw possibilities along the same
line, and our silent partner was awakened to the importance of
maintaining friendly relations with the Interior and War departments,
gathering all the details in contracting beef with the government for
its Indian agencies and army posts in the West. Up to date this had
been a lucrative field which only a few Texas drovers had ventured
into, most of the contractors being Northern and Eastern men, and
usually buying the cattle with which to fill the contracts near the
point of delivery. I was impatient to get into this trade, as the
Indian deliveries generally took cows, and the army heavy beef, two
grades of cattle that at present our firm had no certain demand for.
Also the market was gradually moving west from Wichita, and it was only
a question of a few years until the settlements of eastern Kansas would
cut us off from our established trade around The Grove. I had seen
Abilene pass away as a market, Wichita was doomed by the encroachments
of agriculture, and it behooved us to be alert for a new outlet.

I made up my mind to buy more land scrip. Not that there had been any
perceptible improvement in wild lands, but the general outlook
justified its purchase. My agent at Austin reported scrip to be had in
ordinary quantities at former prices, and suggested that I supply
myself fully, as the new administration was an economical one, and once
the great flood of certificates issued by the last Reconstruction
régime were absorbed, an advance in land scrip was anticipated. I
accordingly bought three hundred sections more, hardly knowing what to
do with it, yet I knew there was an empire of fine grazing country
between my present home and the Pecos River. If ever the Comanches were
brought under subjection there would be ranches and room for all; and
our babies were principally boys.

Major Hunter came down earlier than usual. He reported a clear, cold
winter on the Medicine and no serious drift of cattle, and expressed
the belief that we would come through with a loss not exceeding one per
cent. This was encouraging, as it meant fat cattle next fall, fit for
any market in the country. It was yet too early to make any move
towards putting up herds for the trail, and we took train and went down
the country as far as Austin. There was always a difference in cattle
prices, running from one to two dollars a head, between the northern
and southern parts of the State. Both of us were anxious to acquaint
ourselves with the different grades, and made stops in several
intervening counties, looking at cattle on the range and pricing them.
We spent a week at the capital city and met all the trail drovers
living there, many of whom expected to put up herds for that year
southeast on the Colorado River. “Shanghai” Pierce had for some time
been a prominent figure in the markets of Abilene and Wichita, driving
herds of his own from the extreme coast country. But our market
required a better quality than coasters and Mexican cattle, and we
turned back up the country. Before leaving the capital, Major Hunter
and I had a long talk with my merchant friend over the land scrip
market, and the latter urged its purchase at once, if wanted, as the
issue afloat was being gradually absorbed. Already there had been a
noticeable advance in the price, and my partner gave me no peace until
I bought, at eighteen dollars a section, two hundred certificates more.
Its purchase was making an inroad on my working capital, but the major
frowned on my every protest, and I yielded out of deference to his
superior judgment.

Returning, we stopped in Bell County, where we contracted for fifteen
thousand two and three year old steers. They were good prairie-raised
cattle, and we secured them at a dollar a head less than the prices
prevailing in the first few counties south of Red River. Major Hunter
remained behind, arranging his banking facilities, and I returned home
after my outfits. Before leaving Bell County, I left word that we could
use fifty good men for the trail, but they would have to come
recommended by the ranchmen with whom we were dealing. We expected to
make up five herds, and the cattle were to be ready for delivery to us
between the 15th and 30th of March. I hastened home and out to the
ranch, gathered our saddle stock, outfitted wagons, and engaged all my
old foremen and twenty trusty men, and we started with a remuda of five
hundred horses to begin the operations of the coming summer. Receiving
cattle with me was an old story by this time, and frequently matters
came to a standstill between the sellers and ourselves. We paid no
attention to former customs of the country; all cattle had to come up
full-aged or go into the younger class, while inferior or knotty stags
were turned back as not wanted. Scarcely a day passed but there was
more or less dispute; but we proposed paying for them, and insisted
that all cattle tendered must come up to the specifications of the
contract. We stood firm, and after the first two herds were received,
all trouble on that score passed, and in making up the last three herds
there was actually a surplus of cattle tendered. We used a road brand
that year on all steers purchased, and the herds moved out from two to
three days apart, the last two being made up in Coryell, the adjoining
county north.

George Edwards had charge of the rear herd. There were fourteen days
between the first and the last starts, a fortnight of hard work, and we
frequently received from ten to thirty miles distant from the branding
pens. I rode almost night and day, and Edwards likewise, while Major
Hunter kept all the accounts and settled with the sellers. As fast as
one herd was ready, it moved out under a foreman and fourteen men, one
hundred saddle horses, and a well-stocked commissary. We did our
banking at Belton, the county seat, and after the last herd started we
returned to town and received quite an ovation from the business men of
the village. We had invested a little over one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars in cattle in that community, and a banquet was even
suggested in our honor by some of the leading citizens. Most of the
contracts were made with merchants, many of whom did not own a hoof of
cattle, but depended on their customers to deliver the steers. The
business interests of the town were anxious to have us return next
year. We declined the proposed dinner, as neither Major Hunter nor
myself would have made a presentable guest. A month or more had passed
since I had left the ranch on the Clear Fork, the only clothes I had
were on my back, and they were torn in a dozen places from running
cattle in the brush. My partner had been living in cow-camps for the
past three weeks, and preferred to be excused from receiving any social
attentions. So we thanked our friends and started for the railroad.

Major Hunter went through to The Grove, while I stopped at Fort Worth.
A buckboard from home was awaiting me, and the next morning I was at
the Edwards ranch. A relay team was harnessed in, and after counting
the babies I started for the Clear Fork. By early evening I was in
consultation with my ranch foreman, as it was my intention to drive an
individual herd if everything justified the venture. I never saw the
range on the Clear Fork look better, and the books showed that we could
easily gather two thousand twos and threes, while the balance of the
herd could be made up of dry and barren cows. All we lacked was about
thirty horses, and my ranch hands were anxious to go up the trail; but
after riding the range one day I decided that it would be a pity to
disturb the pastoral serenity of the valley. It was fairly dotted with
my own cattle; month-old calves were playing in groups, while my horse
frequently shied at new-born ones, lying like fawns in the tall grass.
A round-up at that time meant the separation of mothers from their
offspring and injury to cows approaching maternity, and I decided that
no commercial necessity demanded the sacrifice. Then again it seemed a
short-sighted policy to send half-matured steers to market, when no man
could bring the same animals to a full development as cheaply as I
could. Barring contagious diseases, cattle are the healthiest creatures
that walk the earth, and even on an open range seldom if ever does one
voluntarily forsake its birthplace.

I spent two weeks on the ranch and could have stayed the summer
through, for I love cattle. Our lead herd was due on the Kansas state
line early in May, so remaining at the Edwards ranch until the last
possible hour, I took train and reached Wichita, where my active
partner was awaiting me. He had just returned from the Medicine River,
and reported everything serene. He had made arrangements to have the
men attend all the country round-ups within one hundred miles of our
range. Several herds had already reached Wichita, and the next day I
started south on horseback to meet our cattle at Caldwell on the line,
or at Pond Creek in the Cherokee Outlet. It was going to be difficult
to secure range for herds within fifteen miles of Wichita, and the
opinion seemed general that this would be the last year that town could
hope to hold any portion of the Texas cattle trade. On arriving at Pond
Creek I found that fully half the herds were turning up that stream,
heading for Great Bend, Ellsworth, Ellis, and Nickerson, all markets
within the State of Kansas. The year before nearly one third the drive
had gone to the two first-named points, and now other towns were
offering inducements and bidding for a share of the present cattle
exodus.

Our lead herd arrived without an incident en route. The second one came
in promptly, both passing on and picking their way through the border
settlements to Wichita. I waited until the third one put in an
appearance, leaving orders for it and the two rear ones to camp on some
convenient creek in the Outlet near Caldwell. Arrangements were made
with Captain Stone for supplying the outfits, and I hurried on to
overtake the lead herds, then nearing Wichita. An ample range was found
but twenty miles up the Arkansas River, and the third day all the Bell
County men in the two outfits were sent home by train. The market was
much the same as the year before: one herd of three thousand
two-year-olds was our largest individual sale. Early in August the last
herd was brought from the state line and the through help reduced to
two outfits, one holding cattle at Wichita and the other bringing in
shipments of beeves from the Medicine River range. The latter were
splendid cattle, fatted to a finish for grass animals, and brought top
prices in the different markets to which they were consigned. Omitting
details, I will say it was an active year, as we bought and sold fully
as many more as our drive amounted to, while I added to my stock of
saddle horses an even three hundred head.

An amusing incident occurred with one of my men while holding cattle
that fall at Wichita. The boys were in and out of town frequently, and
one of them returned to camp one evening and informed me that he wanted
to quit work, as he intended to return to Wichita and kill a man. He
was a good hand and I tried to persuade him out of the idea, but he
insisted that it was absolutely necessary to preserve his honor. I
threatened to refuse him a horse, but seeing that menace and persuasion
were useless, I ordered him to pick my holdings of saddle stock, gave
him his wages due, and told him to be sure and shoot first. He bade us
all good-by, and a chum of his went with him. About an hour before
daybreak they returned and awoke me, when the aggrieved boy said: “Mr.
Anthony, I didn’t kill him. No, I didn’t kill him. He’s a good man. You
bet he’s a game one. Oh, he’s a good man all right.” That morning when
I awoke both lads were out on herd, and I had an early appointment to
meet parties in town. Major Hunter gave me the story immediately on my
arrival. The boys had located the offender in a store, and he
anticipated the fact that they were on his trail. As our men entered
the place, the enemy stepped from behind a pile of clothing with two
six-shooters leveled in their faces, and ordered a clerk to relieve the
pair of their pistols, which was promptly done. Once the particulars
were known at camp, it was looked upon as a good joke on the lad, and
whenever he was asked what he thought of Mr. Blank, his reply
invariably was, “He’s a good man.”

The drive that year to the different markets in Kansas amounted to
about five hundred thousand cattle. One half this number were handled
at Wichita, the surrounding country absorbing them to such an extent
that when it came time to restock our Medicine River range I was
compelled to go to Great Bend to secure the needed cattle. All saddle
horses, both purchased and my own remudas, with wagons, were sent to
our winter camps by the shipping crew, so that the final start for
Texas would be made from the Medicine River. It was the last of October
that the last six trains of beeves were brought in to the railroad for
shipment, the season’s work drawing to an end. Meanwhile I had closed
contracts on ten thousand three-year-old steers at “The Bend,” so as
fast as the three outfits were relieved of their consignment of beeves
they pulled out up the Arkansas River to receive the last cattle of the
year. It was nearly one hundred miles from Wichita, and on the arrival
of the shipping crews the herds were received and started south for
their winter range. Major Hunter and I accompanied the herds to the
Medicine, and within a week after reaching the range the two through
outfits started home with five wagons and eight hundred saddle horses.

It was the latter part of November when we left our winter camps and
returned to The Grove for the annual settlement. Our silent partner was
present, and we broke the necks of a number of champagne bottles in
properly celebrating the success of the year’s work. The wintered
cattle had cleared the Dutchman’s one per cent, while every hoof in the
through and purchased herds was a fine source of profit. Congress would
convene within a week, and our silent partner suggested that all three
of us go down to Washington and attend the opening exercises. He had
already looked into the contracting of beef to the government, and was
particularly anxious to have my opinion on a number of contracts to be
let the coming winter. It had been ten years since I left my old home
in the Shenandoah Valley, my parents were still living, and all I asked
was time enough to write a letter to my wife, and buy some decent
clothing. The trio started in good time for the opening of Congress,
but once we sighted the Potomac River the old home hunger came on me
and I left the train at Harper’s Ferry. My mother knew and greeted me
just as if I had left home that morning on an errand, and had now
returned. My father was breaking with years, yet had a mental alertness
that was remarkable and a commercial instinct that understood the value
of a Texas cow or a section of land scrip. The younger members of the
family gathered from their homes to meet “Texas” Anthony, and for ten
continuous days I did nothing but answer questions, running from the
color of the baby’s eyes to why we did not drive the fifteen thousand
cattle in one herd, or how big a section of country would one thousand
certificates of land scrip cover. My visit was broken by the necessity
of conferring with my partners, so, promising to spend Christmas with
my mother, I was excused until that date.

At the War and Interior departments I made many friends. I understood
cattle so thoroughly that there was no feature of a delivery to the
government that embarrassed me in the least. A list of contracts to be
let from each department was courteously furnished us, but not wishing
to scatter our business too wide, we submitted bids for six Indian
contracts and four for delivery to army posts on the upper Missouri
River. Two of the latter were to be northern wintered cattle, and we
had them on the Medicine River; but we also had a sure market on them,
and it was a matter of indifference whether we secured them or not. The
Indian contracts called for cows, and I was anxious to secure as many
as possible, as it meant a market for the aging she stuff on my ranch.
Heretofore this class had fulfilled their mission in perpetuating their
kind, had lived their day, and the weeds grew rankly where their
remains enriched the soil. The bids would not be opened until the
middle of January, and we should have notice at once if fortunate in
securing any of the awards. The holiday season was approaching, Major
Hunter was expected at home, and the firm separated for the time being.




CHAPTER XIII
THE CENTENNIAL YEAR


I returned to Texas early in January. Quite a change had come over the
situation since my leaving home the spring before. Except on the
frontier, business was booming in the new towns, while a regular
revolution had taken place within the past month in land values. The
cheapness of wild lands had attracted outside capital, resulting in a
syndicate being formed by Northern capitalists to buy up the
outstanding issue of land scrip. The movement had been handled
cautiously, and had possibly been in active operation for a year or
more, as its methods were conducted with the utmost secrecy. Options
had been taken on all scrip voted to corporations in the State and
still in their possession, agents of the syndicate were stationed at
all centres where any amount was afloat, and on a given day throughout
the State every certificate on the market was purchased. The next
morning land scrip was worth fifty dollars a section, and on my return
one hundred dollars a certificate was being freely bid, while every
surveyor in the State was working night and day locating lands for
individual holders of scrip.

This condition of affairs was largely augmented by a boom in sheep. San
Antonio was the leading wool market in the State, many clips having
sold as high as forty cents a pound for several years past on the
streets of that city. Free range and the high price of wool was
inviting every man and his cousin to come to Texas and make his
fortune. Money was feverish for investment in sheep, flock-masters were
buying land on which to run their bands, and a sheepman was an envied
personage. Up to this time there had been little or no occasion to own
the land on which the immense flocks grazed the year round, yet under
existing cheap prices of land nearly all the watercourses in the
immediate country had been taken up. Personally I was dumfounded at the
sudden and unexpected change of affairs, and what nettled me most was
that all the land adjoining my ranch had been filed on within the past
month. The Clear Fork valley all the way up to Fort Griffin had been
located, while every vacant acre on the mother Brazos, as far north as
Belknap, was surveyed and recorded. I was mortified to think that I had
been asleep, but then the change had come like a thief in the night. My
wife’s trunk was half full of scrip, I had had a surveyor on the ground
only a year before, and now the opportunity had passed.

But my disappointment was my wife’s delight, as there was no longer any
necessity for keeping secret our holdings in land scrip. The little tin
trunk held a snug fortune, and next to the babies, my wife took great
pride in showing visitors the beautiful lithographed certificates. My
ambition was land and cattle, but now that the scrip had a cash value,
my wife took as much pride in those vouchers as if the land had been
surveyed, recorded, and covered with our own herds. I had met so many
reverses that I was grateful for any smile of fortune, and bore my
disappointment with becoming grace. My ranch had branded over eight
thousand calves that fall, and as long as it remained an open range I
had room for my holdings of cattle. There was no question but that the
public domain was bountiful, and if it were necessary I could go
farther west and locate a new ranch. But it secretly grieved me to
realize that what I had so fondly hoped for had come without warning
and found me unprepared. I might as well have held title to half a
million acres of the Clear Fork Valley as a paltry hundred and fifty
sections.

Little time was given me to lament over spilt milk. On the return from
my first trip to the Clear Fork, reports from the War and Interior
departments were awaiting me. Two contracts to the army and four to
Indian agencies had been awarded us, all of which could be filled with
through cattle. The military allotments would require six thousand
heavy beeves for delivery on the upper Missouri River in Dakota, while
the nation’s wards would require thirteen thousand cows at four
different agencies in the Indian Territory. My active partner was due
in Fort Worth within a week, while bonds for the faithful fulfillment
of our contracts would be executed by our silent partner at Washington,
D.C. These awards meant an active year to our firm, and besides there
was our established trade around The Grove, which we had no intention
of abandoning. The government was a sure market, and as long as a
healthy demand continued in Kansas for young cattle, the firm of
Hunter, Anthony & Co. would be found actively engaged in supplying the
same.

Major Hunter arrived under a high pressure of enthusiasm. By
appointment we met in Fort Worth, and after carefully reviewing the
situation we took train and continued on south to San Antonio. I had
seen a herd of beeves, a few years before, from the upper Nueces River,
and remembered them as good heavy cattle. There were two dollars a head
difference, even in ages among younger stock, between the lower and
upper counties in the State, and as it was pounds quantity that we
wanted for the army, it was our intention to look over the cattle along
the Nueces River before buying our supply of beeves. We met a number of
acquaintances in San Antonio, all of whom recommended us to go west if
in search of heavy cattle, and a few days later we reached Uvalde
County. This was the section from which the beeves had come that
impressed me so favorably; I even remembered the ranch brands, and
without any difficulty we located the owners, finding them anxious to
meet buyers for their mature surplus cattle. We spent a week along the
Frio, Leona, and Nueces rivers, and closed contracts on sixty-one
hundred five to seven year old beeves. The cattle were not as good a
quality as prairie-raised north Texas stock, but the pounds avoirdupois
were there, the defects being in their mongrel colors, length of legs,
and breadth of horns, heritages from the original Spanish stock.
Otherwise they were tall as a horse, clean-limbed as a deer, and active
on their feet, and they looked like fine walkers. I estimated that two
bits a head would drive them to Red River, and as we bought them at
three dollars a head less than prevailing prices for the same-aged
beeves north of or parallel to Fort Worth, we were well repaid for our
time and trouble.

We returned to San Antonio and opened a bank account. The 15th of March
was agreed on to receive. Two remudas of horses would have to be
secured, wagons fitted up, and outfits engaged. Heretofore I had
furnished all horses for trail work, but now, with our enlarging
business, it would be necessary to buy others, which would be done at
the expense of the firm. George Edwards was accordingly sent for, and
met us at Waco. He was furnished a letter of credit on our San Antonio
bank, and authorized to buy and equip two complete outfits for the
Uvalde beeves. Edwards was a good judge of horses, there was an
abundance of saddle stock in the country, and he was instructed to buy
not less than one hundred and twenty-five head for each remuda, to
outfit his wagons with four-mule teams, and announce us as willing to
engage fourteen men to the herd. Once these details were arranged for,
Major Hunter and myself bought two good horses and struck west for
Coryell County, where we had put up two herds the spring before. Our
return met with a flood of offerings, prices of the previous year still
prevailed, and we let contracts for sixty-five hundred three-year-old
steers and an equal number of dry and barren cows. We paid seven
dollars a head for the latter, and in order to avoid any dispute at the
final tender it was stipulated that the offerings must be in good
flesh, not under five nor over eight years old, full average in weight,
and showing no evidence of pregnancy. Under local customs, “a cow was a
cow,” and we had to be specific.

We did our banking at Waco for the Coryell herds. Hastening north, our
next halt was in Hood County, where we bought thirty-three hundred
two-year-old steers and three thousand and odd cows. This completed
eight herds secured—three of young steers for the agricultural regions,
and five intended for government delivery. We still lacked one for the
Indian Bureau, and as I offered to make it up from my holdings, and on
a credit, my active partner consented. I was putting in every dollar at
my command, my partners were borrowing freely at home, and we were
pulling together like a six-mule team to make a success of the coming
summer’s work. It was now the middle of February, and my active partner
went to Fort Worth, where I did my banking, to complete his financial
arrangements, while I returned to the ranch to organize the forces for
the coming campaign. All the latter were intrusted to me, and while I
had my old foremen at my beck and call, it was necessary to employ five
or six new ones. With our deliveries scattered from the Indian
Territory to the upper Missouri River, as well as our established trade
at The Grove, two of us could not cover the field, and George Edwards
had been decided on as the third and trusted man. In a practical way he
was a better cowman than I was, and with my active Yankee partner for a
running mate they made a team that would take care of themselves in any
cow country.

A good foreman is a very important man in trail work. The drover or
firm may or may not be practical cowmen, but the executive in the field
must be the master of any possible situation that may arise, combining
the qualities of generalship with the caution of an explorer. He must
be a hail-fellow among his men, for he must command by deserving
obedience; he must know the inmost thoughts of his herd, noting every
sign of alarm or distress, and willingly sacrifice any personal comfort
in the interest of his cattle or outfit. I had a few such men, boys who
had grown up in my employ, several of whom I would rather trust in a
dangerous situation with a herd than take active charge myself. No
concern was given for their morals, but they must be capable,
trustworthy, and honest, as they frequently handled large sums of
money. All my old foremen swore by me, not one of them would accept a
similar situation elsewhere, and in selecting the extra trail bosses
their opinion was valued and given due consideration.

Not having driven anything from my ranch the year before, a fine herd
of twos, threes, and four-year-old steers could easily be made up. It
was possible that a tenth and individual herd might be sent up the
country, but no movement to that effect was decided on, and my regular
ranch hands had orders only to throw in on the home range and gather
outside steer cattle and dry cows. I had wintered all my saddle horses
on the Clear Fork, and once the foremen were decided on, they repaired
to the ranch and began outfitting for the start. The Coryell herds were
to be received one week later than the beef cattle, and the outfits
would necessarily have to start in ample time to meet us on our return
from the upper Nueces River country. The two foremen allotted to Hood
County would start a week later still, so that we would really move
north with the advance of the season in receiving the cattle under
contract. Only a few days were required in securing the necessary
foremen, a remuda was apportioned to each, and credit for the
commissary supplies arranged for, the employment of the men being left
entirely to the trail bosses. Taking two of my older foremen with me, I
started for Fort Worth, where an agreeable surprise awaited me. We had
been underbidden at the War Department on both our proposals for
northern wintered beeves. The fortunate bidder on one contract was
refused the award,—for some duplicity in a former transaction, I
learned later,—and the Secretary of War had approached our silent
partner to fill the deficiency. Six weeks had elapsed, there was no
obligation outstanding, and rather than advertise and relet the
contract, the head of the War Department had concluded to allot the
deficiency by private award. Major Hunter had been burning the wires
between Fort Worth and Washington, in order to hold the matter open
until I came in for a consultation. The department had offered half a
cent a pound over and above our previous bid, and we bribed an operator
to reopen his office that night and send a message of acceptance. We
had ten thousand cattle wintering on the Medicine River, and it would
just trim them up nicely to pick out all the heavy, rough beeves for
filling an army contract.

When we had got a confirmation of our message, we proceeded on south,
accompanied by the two foremen, and reached Uvalde County within a week
of the time set for receiving. Edwards had two good remudas in
pastures, wagons and teams secured, and cooks and wranglers on hand,
and it only remained to pick the men to complete the outfits. With
three old trail foremen on the alert for good hands while the gathering
and receiving was going on, the help would be ready in ample time to
receive the herds. Gathering the beeves was in active operation on our
arrival, a branding chute had been built to facilitate the work, and
all five of us took to the saddle in assisting ranchmen in holding
under herd, as we permitted nothing to be corralled night or day. The
first herd was completed on the 14th, and the second a day later, both
moving out without an hour’s delay, the only instructions being to
touch at Great Bend, Kansas, for final orders. The cattle more than
came up to expectations, three fourths of them being six and seven
years old, and as heavy as oxen. There was something about the days of
the open range that left its impression on animals, as these two herds
were as uniform in build as deer, and I question if the same country
to-day has as heavy beeves.

Three days were lost in reaching Coryell County, where our outfits were
in waiting and twenty others were at work gathering cattle. The herds
were made up and started without a hitch, and we passed on to Hood
County, meeting every date promptly and again finding the trail outfits
awaiting us. Leaving my active partner and George Edwards to receive
the two herds, I rode through to the Clear Fork in a single day. A
double outfit had been at work for the past two weeks gathering outside
cattle and had over a thousand under herd on my arrival. Everything had
worked out so nicely in receiving the purchased herds that I finally
concluded to send out my steers, and we began gathering on the home
range. By making small round-ups, we disturbed the young calves as
little as possible. I took charge of the extra outfit and my ranch
foreman of his own, one beginning on the west end of my range, the
other going north and coming down the Brazos. At the end of a week the
two crews came together with nearly eight thousand cattle under herd.
The next day we cut out thirty-five hundred cows and started them on
the trail, turning free the remnant of she stuff, and began shaping up
the steers, using only the oldest in making up thirty-two hundred head.
There were fully two thousand threes, the remainder being nearly
equally divided between twos and fours. No road branding was necessary;
the only delay in moving out was in provisioning a wagon and securing a
foreman. Failing in two or three quarters, I at last decided on a young
fellow on my ranch, and he was placed in charge of the last herd. Great
Bend was his destination, I instructed him where to turn off the
Chisholm trail,—north of the Salt Fork in the Cherokee Outlet,—and he
started like an army with banners.

I rejoined my active partner at Fort Worth. The Hood County cattle had
started a week before, so taking George Edwards with us, we took train
for Kansas. Major Hunter returned to his home, while Edwards and I lost
no time in reaching the Medicine River. A fortnight was spent in riding
our northern range, when we took horses and struck out for Pond Creek
in the Outlet. The lead herds were due at this point early in May, and
on our arrival a number had already passed. A road house and stage
stand had previously been established, the proprietor of which kept a
register of passing herds for the convenience of owners. None of ours
were due, yet we looked over the “arrivals” with interest, and
continued on down the trail to Red Fork. The latter was a branch of the
Arkansas River, and at low water was inclined to be brackish, and hence
was sometimes called the Salt Fork, with nothing to differentiate it
from one of the same name sixty miles farther north. There was an old
Indian trading post at Red Fork, and I lay over there while Edwards
went on south to meet the cows. His work for the summer was to oversee
the deliveries at the Indian agencies, Major Hunter was to look after
the market at The Bend, and I was to attend to the contracts at army
posts on the upper Missouri. Our first steer herd to arrive was from
Hood County, and after seeing them safely on the Great Bend trail at
Pond Creek, I waited for the other steer cattle from Coryell to arrive.
Both herds came in within a day of each other, and I loitered along
with them, finally overtaking the lead one when within fifty miles of
The Bend. In fair weather it was a delightful existence to loaf along
with the cattle; but once all three herds reached their destination,
two outfits held them, and I took the Hood County lads and dropped back
on the Medicine. Our ranch hands had everything shaped up nicely, and
by working a double outfit and making round-ups at noon, when the
cattle were on water, we quietly cut out three thousand head of our
biggest beeves without materially disturbing our holdings on that
range. These northern wintered cattle were intended for delivery at
Fort Abraham Lincoln on the Missouri River in what is now North Dakota.
The through heavy beeves from Uvalde County were intended for Fort
Randall and intermediate posts, some of them for reissue to various
Indian agencies. The reservations of half a dozen tribes were tributary
to the forts along the upper Missouri, and the government was very
liberal in supplying its wards with fresh beef.

The Medicine River beeves were to be grazed up the country to Fort
Lincoln. We passed old Fort Larned within a week, and I left the outfit
there and returned to The Bend. The outfit in charge of the wintered
cattle had orders to touch at and cross the Missouri River at Fort
Randall, where I would meet them again near the middle of July. The
market had fairly opened at Great Bend, and I was kept busy assisting
Major Hunter until the arrival of the Uvalde beef herds. Both came
through in splendid condition, were admired by every buyer in the
market, and passed on north under orders to graze ten miles a day until
reaching their destination. By this time the whereabouts of all the
Indian herds were known, yet not a word had reached me from the foreman
of my individual cattle after crossing into the Nations. It was now the
middle of June, and there were several points en route from which he
might have mailed a letter, as did all the other foremen. Herds, which
crossed at Red River Station a week after my steers, came into The Bend
and reported having spoken no “44” cattle en route. I became uneasy and
sent a courier as far south as the state line, who returned with a
comfortless message. Finally a foreman in the employ of Jess Evens came
to me and reported having taken dinner with a “44” outfit on the South
Canadian; that the herd swam the river that afternoon, after which he
never hailed them again. They were my own dear cattle, and I was
worrying; I was overdue at Fort Randall, and in duty bound to look
after the interests of the firm. Major Hunter came to the rescue, in
his usual calm manner, and expressed his confidence that all would come
out right in the end; that when the mystery was unraveled the foreman
would be found blameless.

I took a night train for the north, connected with a boat on the
Missouri River, and by finally taking stage reached Fort Randall. The
mental worry of those four days would age an ordinary man, but on my
arrival at the post a message from my active partner informed me that
my cattle had reached Dodge City two weeks before my leaving. Then the
scales fell from my eyes, as I could understand that when inquiries
were made for the Salt Fork, some wayfarer had given that name to the
Red Fork; and the new Dodge trail turned to the left, from the
Chisholm, at Little Turkey, the first creek crossed after leaving the
river. The message was supplemented a few days later by a letter,
stating that Dodge City would possibly be a better market than the
Bend, and that my interests would be looked after as well as if I were
present. A load was lifted from my shoulders, and when the wintered
cattle passed Randall, the whole post turned out to see the beef herd
on its way up to Lincoln. The government line of forts along the
Missouri River had the whitest lot of officers that it was ever my good
fortune to meet. I was from Texas, my tongue and colloquialisms of
speech proclaimed me Southern-born, and when I admitted having served
in the Confederate army, interest and attention was only heightened,
while every possible kindness was simply showered on me.

The first delivery occurred at Fort Lincoln. It was a very simple
affair. We cut out half a dozen average beeves, killed, dressed, and
weighed them, and an honest average on the herd was thus secured. The
contract called for one and a half million pounds on foot; our tender
overran twelve per cent; but this surplus was accepted and paid for.
The second delivery was at Fort Pierre and the last at Randall, both of
which passed pleasantly, the many acquaintances among army men that
summer being one of my happiest memories. Leaving Randall, we put in to
the nearest railroad point returning, where thirty men were sent home,
after which we swept down the country and arrived at Great Bend during
the last week in September. My active partner had handled his
assignment of the summer’s work in a masterly manner, having wholesaled
my herd at Dodge City at as good figures as our other cattle brought in
retail quantities at The Bend. The former point had received three
hundred and fifty thousand Texas cattle that summer, while every one
conceded that Great Bend’s business as a trail terminal would close
with that season. The latter had handled nearly a quarter-million
cattle that year, but like Abilene, Wichita, and other trail towns in
eastern Kansas, it was doomed to succumb to the advance guard of
pioneer settlers.

The best sale of the year fell to my active partner. Before the
shipping season opened, he sold, range count, our holdings on the
Medicine River, including saddle stock, improvements, and good will.
The cattle might possibly have netted us more by marketing them, but it
was only a question of time until the flow of immigration would demand
our range, and Major Hunter had sold our squatter’s rights while they
had a value. A new foreman had been installed on our giving up
possession, and our old one had been skirmishing the surrounding
country the past month for a new range, making a favorable report on
the Eagle Chief in the Outlet. By paying a trifling rental to the
Cherokee Nation, permission could be secured to hold cattle on these
lands, set aside as a hunting ground. George Edwards had been rotting
all summer in issuing cows at Indian agencies, but on the first of
October the residue of his herds would be put in pastures or turned
free for the winter. Major Hunter had wound up his affairs at The Bend,
and nothing remained but a general settlement of the summer’s work.
This took place at Council Grove, our silent partner and Edwards both
being present. The profits of the year staggered us all. I was anxious
to go home, the different outfits having all gone by rail or overland
with the remudas, with the exception of the two from Uvalde, which were
property of the firm. I had bought three hundred extra horses at The
Bend, sending them home with the others, and now nothing remained but
to stock the new range in the Cherokee Outlet. Edwards and my active
partner volunteered for this work, it being understood that the Uvalde
remudas would be retained for ranch use, and that not over ten thousand
cattle were to be put on the new range for the winter. Our silent
partner was rapidly awakening to the importance of his usefulness in
securing future contracts with the War and Indian departments, and
vaguely outlining the future, we separated to three points of the
compass.




CHAPTER XIV
ESTABLISHING A NEW RANCH


I hardly knew Fort Worth on my return. The town was in the midst of a
boom. The foundations of many store buildings were laid on Monday
morning, and by Saturday night they were occupied and doing a
land-office business. Lots that could have been bought in the spring
for one hundred dollars were now commanding a thousand, while land
scrip was quoted as scarce at twenty-five cents an acre. I hurried
home, spoke to my wife, and engaged two surveyors to report one week
later at my ranch on the Clear Fork. Big as was the State and boundless
as was her public domain, I could not afford to allow this advancing
prosperity to catch me asleep again, and I firmly concluded to empty
that little tin trunk of its musty land scrip. True enough, the present
boom was not noticeable on the frontier, yet there was a buoyant
feeling in the air that betokened a brilliant future. Something
enthused me, and as my creed was land and cattle, I made up my mind to
plunge into both to my full capacity.

The last outfit to return from the summer’s drive was detained on the
Clear Fork to assist in the fall branding. Another one of fifteen men
all told was chosen from the relieved lads in making up a surveying
party, and taking fifty saddle horses and a well-stocked commissary
with us, we started due west. I knew the country for some distance
beyond Fort Griffin, and from late maps in possession of the surveyors,
we knew that by holding our course, we were due to strike a fork of the
mother Brazos before reaching the Staked Plain. Holding our course
contrary to the needle, we crossed the Double Mountain Fork, and after
a week out from the ranch the brakes which form the border between the
lowlands and the Llano Estacado were sighted. Within view of the
foothills which form the approach of the famous plain, the Salt and
Double Mountain forks of the Brazos are not over twelve miles apart. We
traveled up the divide between these two rivers, and when within thirty
miles of the low-browed borderland a halt was called and we went into
camp. From the view before us one could almost imagine the feelings of
the discoverer of this continent when he first sighted land; for I
remember the thrill which possessed our little party as we looked off
into either valley or forward to the menacing Staked Plain in our
front. There was something primal in the scene,—something that brought
back the words, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the
earth.” Men who knew neither creed nor profession of faith felt
themselves drawn very near to some great creative power. The
surrounding view held us spellbound by its beauty and strength. It was
like a rush of fern-scents, the breath of pine forests, the music of
the stars, the first lovelight in a mother’s eye; and now its pristine
beauty was to be marred, as covetous eyes and a lust of possession
moved an earth-born man to lay hands on all things created for his use.

Camp was established on the Double Mountain Fork. Many miles to the
north, a spur of the Plain extended eastward, in the elbow of which it
was my intention to locate the new ranch. A corner was established, a
meridian line was run north beyond the Salt Fork and a random one west
to the foothills. After a few days one surveyor ran the principal lines
while the other did the cross-sectioning and correcting back, both
working from the same camp, the wagon following up the work. Antelope
were seen by the thousands, frequently buffaloes were sighted, and
scarcely a day passed but our rifles added to the larder of our
commissary supplies. Within a month we located four hundred sections,
covering either side of the Double Mountain Fork, and embracing a
country ten miles wide by forty long. Coming back to our original
meridian line across to the Salt Fork, the work of surveying that
valley was begun, when I was compelled to turn homeward. A list of
contracts to be let by the War and Interior departments would be ready
by December 1, and my partners relied on my making all the estimates.
There was a noticeable advance of fully one dollar a head on steer
cattle since the spring before, and I was supposed to have my finger on
the pulse of supply and prices, as all government awards were let far
in advance of delivery. George Edwards had returned a few days before
and reported having stocked the new ranch in the Outlet with twelve
thousand steers. The list of contracts to be let had arrived, and the
two of us went over them carefully. The government was asking for bids
on the delivery of over two hundred thousand cattle at various posts
and agencies in the West, and confining ourselves to well-known
territory, we submitted bids on fifteen awards, calling for forty-five
thousand cattle in their fulfillment.

Our estimates were sent to Major Hunter for his approval, who in turn
forwarded them to our silent partner at Washington, to be submitted to
the proper departments. As the awards would not be made until the
middle of January, nothing definite could be done until then, so,
accompanied by George Edwards, I returned to the surveying party on the
Salt Fork of the Brazos. We found them busy at their work, the only
interruption having been an Indian scare, which only lasted a few days.
The men still carried rifles against surprise, kept a scout on the
lookout while at work, and maintained a guard over the camp and remuda
at night. During my absence they had located a strip of country ten by
thirty miles, covering the valley of the Salt Fork, and we still lacked
three hundred sections of using up the scrip. The river, along which
they were surveying, made an abrupt turn to the north, and offsetting
by sections around the bend, we continued on up the valley for twenty
miles or until the brakes of the Plain made the land no longer
desirable. Returning to our commencement point with still one hundred
certificates left, we extended the survey five miles down both rivers,
using up the last acre of scrip. The new ranch was irregular in form,
but it controlled the waters of fully one million acres of fine grazing
land and was clothed with a carpet of nutritive grasses. This was the
range of the buffalo, and the instinct of that animal could be relied
on in choosing a range for its successor, the Texas cow.

The surveying over, nothing remained but the recording of the locations
at the county seat to which for legal purposes this unorganized country
was attached. All of us accompanied the outfit returning, and a gala
week we spent, as no less than half a dozen buffalo robes were secured
before reaching Fort Griffin. Deer and turkey were plentiful, and it
was with difficulty that I restrained the boys from killing wantonly,
as they were young fellows whose very blood yearned for the chase or
any diverting excitement. We reached the ranch on the Clear Fork during
the second week in January, and those of the outfit who had no regular
homes were made welcome guests until work opened in the spring. My calf
crop that fall had exceeded all expectations, nearly nine thousand
having been branded, while the cattle were wintering in splendid
condition. There was little or nothing to do, a few hunts with the
hounds merely killing time until we got reports from Washington. In
spite of all competition we secured eight contracts, five with the army
and the remainder with the Indian Bureau.

Then the work opened in earnest. My active partner was due the first of
February, and during the interim George Edwards and I rode a circle of
five counties in search of brands of cattle for sale. In the course of
our rounds a large number of whole stocks were offered us, but at
firmer prices, yet we closed no trades, though many brands were
bargains. It was my intention to stock the new ranch on the Double
Mountain Fork the coming summer, and if arrangements could be agreed on
with Major Hunter, I might be able to repeat my success of the summer
of ’74. Emigration to Texas was crowding the ranches to the frontier,
many of them unwillingly, and it appealed to me strongly that the time
was opportune for securing an ample holding of stock cattle. The
appearance of my active partner was the beginning of active operations,
and after we had outlined the programme for the summer and gone through
all the details thoroughly, I asked for the privilege of supplying the
cows on the Indian contracts. Never did partners stand more willingly
by each other than did the firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co., and I only
had to explain the opportunity of buying brands at wholesale, sending
the young steers up the trail and the aging, dry, and barren cows to
Indian agencies, to gain the hearty approval of the little Yankee
major. He was entitled to a great deal of credit for my holdings in
land, for from his first sight of Texas, day after day, line upon line,
precept upon precept, he had urged upon me the importance of securing
title to realty, while its equivalent in scrip was being hawked about,
begging a buyer. Now we rejoiced together in the fulfillment of his
prophecy, as I can lay little claim to any foresight, but am
particularly anxious to give credit where credit is due.

With an asylum for any and all remnants of stock cattle, we authorized
George Edwards to close trades on a number of brands. Taking with us
the two foremen who had brought beef herds out of Uvalde County the
spring before, the major and I started south on the lookout for beeves.
The headwaters of the Nueces and its tributaries were again our
destination, and the usual welcome to buyers was extended with that
hospitality that only the days of the open range knew and practiced. We
closed contracts with former customers without looking at their cattle.
When a ranchman gave us his word to deliver us as good or better beeves
than the spring before, there was no occasion to question his ability,
and the cattle never deceived. There might arise petty wrangles over
trifles, but the general hungering for a market among cowmen had not
yet been satiated, and they offered us their best that we might come
again. We placed our contracts along three rivers and over as many
counties, limiting the number to ten thousand beeves of the same ages
and paying one dollar a head above the previous spring. One of our
foremen was provided with a letter of credit, and the two were left
behind to make up three new and complete outfits for the trail.

This completed the purchase of beef cattle. Two of our contracts called
for northern wintered beeves, which would be filled out of our holdings
in the Cherokee Outlet. We again stopped in central Texas, but prices
were too firm, and we passed on west to San Saba and Lampasas counties,
where we effected trades on nine thousand five hundred three-year-old
steers. My own outfits would drop down from the Clear Fork to receive
these cattle, and after we had perfected our banking arrangements the
major returned to San Antonio and I started homeward. George Edwards
had in the mean time bargained for ten brands, running anywhere from
one to five thousand head, paying straight through five to seven
dollars, half cash and the balance in eight months, everything to be
delivered on the Clear Fork. We intentionally made these deliveries
late—during the last week in March and the first one in April—in order
that Major Hunter might approve of the three herds of cows for Indian
delivery. Once I had been put in possession of all necessary details,
Edwards started south to join Major Hunter, as the receiving of the
Nueces River beeves was set for from the 10th to the 15th of March.

I could see a busy time ahead. There was wood to haul for the branding,
three complete outfits to start for the central part of the State, new
wagons to equip for the trail, and others to care for the calf crop
while en route to the Double Mountain Fork. There were oxen to buy in
equipping teams to accompany the stock cattle to the new ranch, two
yoke being allowed to each wagon, as it was strength and not speed that
was desired. My old foremen rallied at a word and relieved me of the
lesser details of provisioning the commissaries and engaging the help.
Trusty men were sent to oversee and look out for my interests in
gathering the different brands, the ranges of many of them being fifty
to one hundred miles distant. The different brands were coming from six
separate counties along the border, and on their arrival at my ranch we
must be ready to receive, brand, and separate the herds into their
respective classes, sending two grades to market and the remnant to
their new home at the foot of the Staked Plain. The condition of the
mules must be taken into consideration before the army can move, and in
cattle life the same reliance is placed on the fitness for duty of the
saddle horses. I had enough picked ones to make up a dozen remudas if
necessary, and rested easy on that score. The date for receiving
arrived and found us all ready and waiting.

The first herd was announced to arrive on the 25th of March. I met it
ten miles from the ranch. My man assured me that the brand as gathered
was intact and that it would run fifty per cent dry cows and steers
over two years old. A number of mature beeves even were noticeable and
younger steers were numerous, while the miscellany of the herd ran to
every class and condition of the bovine race. Two other brands were
expected the next day, and that evening the first one to arrive was
counted and accepted. The next morning the entire herd was run through
a branding chute and classified, all steers above a yearling and dry
and aging cows going into one contingent and the mixed cattle into
another. In order to save horseflesh, this work was easily done in the
corrals. By hanging a gate at the exit of the branding chute, a man sat
overhead and by swinging it a variation of two feet, as the cattle
trailed through the trough in single file, the herd was cut into two
classes. Those intended for the trail were put under herd, while the
stock cattle were branded into the “44” and held separate. The second
and third herds were treated in a similar manner, when we found
ourselves with over eleven thousand cattle on hand, with two other
brands due in a few days. But the evening of the fourth day saw a herd
of thirty-three hundred steers on its way to Kansas, while a second
one, numbering two hundred more than the first, was lopped off from the
mixed stuff and started west for the Double Mountain Fork.

The situation was eased. A conveyance had been sent to the railroad to
meet my partner, and before he and Edwards arrived two other brands had
been received. A herd of thirty-five hundred dry cows was approved and
started at once for the Indian Territory, while a second one moved out
for the west, cleaning up the holdings of mixed stuff. The congestion
was again relieved, and as the next few brands were expected to run
light in steers, everything except cows was held under herd until all
had been received. The final contingent came in from Wise County and
were shaped up, and the last herd of cows, completing ten thousand five
hundred, started for the Washita agency. I still had nearly sixty-five
hundred steers on hand, and cutting back all of a small overplus of
thin light cows, I had three brands of steers cut into one herd and
four into another, both moving out for Dodge City. This left me with
fully eight thousand miscellany on hand, with nothing but my ranch
outfit to hold them, close-herding by day and bedding down and guarding
them by night. Settlements were made with the different sellers, my
outstanding obligations amounting to over one hundred thousand dollars,
which the three steer herds were expected to liquidate. My active
partner and George Edwards took train for the north. The only change in
the programme was that Major Hunter was to look after our deliveries at
army posts, while I was to meet our herds on their arrival in Dodge
City. The cows were sold to the firm, and including my individual
cattle, we had twelve herds on the trail, or a total of thirty-nine
thousand five hundred head.

On the return of the first outfit from the west, some three weeks after
leaving, the herd of stock cattle was cut in two and started. But a
single man was left on the Clear Fork, my ranch foreman taking one
herd, while I accompanied the other. It requires the patience of a
saint to handle cows and calves, two wagons to the herd being
frequently taxed to their capacity in picking up the youngsters. It was
a constant sight to see some of the boys carrying a new-born calf
across the saddle seat, followed by the mother, until camp or the wagon
was reached. I was ashamed of my own lack of patience on that trip,
while irritable men could while away the long hours, nursing along the
drag end of a herd of cows and their toddling offspring. We averaged
only about ten miles a day, the herds were large and unwieldy, and
after twelve days out both were scattered along the Salt Fork and given
their freedom. Leaving one outfit to locate the cattle on the new
range, the other two hastened back to the Clear Fork and gathered two
herds, numbering thirty-five hundred each, of young cows and heifers
from the ranch stock. But a single day was lost in rounding-up, when
they were started west, half a day apart, and I again took charge of an
outfit, the trip being an easy one and made in ten days, as the calves
were large enough to follow and there were no drag cattle among them.
On our arrival at the new ranch, the cows and heifers were scattered
among the former herds, and both outfits started back, one to look
after the Clear Fork and the other to bring through the last herd in
stocking my new possessions. This gave me fully twenty-five thousand
mixed cattle on my new range, relieving the old ranch of a portion of
its she stuff and shaping up both stocks to better advantage.

It was my intention to make my home on the Clear Fork thereafter, and
the ranch outfit had orders to build a comfortable house during the
summer. The frontier was rapidly moving westward, the Indian was no
longer a dread, as it was only a question of time until the Comanche
and his ally would imitate their red brethren and accept the dole of
the superior race. I was due in Dodge City the first of June, the
ranches would take care of themselves, and touching at the Edwards
ranch for a day, I reached “Dodge” before any of the herds arrived.
Here was a typical trail town, a winter resort for buffalo hunters, no
settlement for fifty miles to the east, and an almost boundless range
on which to hold through Texas cattle. The business was bound to
concentrate at this place, as all other markets were abandoned within
the State, while it was easily accessible to the mountain regions on
the west. It was the logical meeting point for buyers and drovers; and
while the town of that day has passed into history as “wicked Dodge,”
it had many redeeming features. The veneer of civilization may have
fallen, to a certain extent, from the wayfaring man who tarried in this
cow town, yet his word was a bond, and he reverenced the pure in
womanhood, though to insult him invited death.

George Edwards and Major Hunter had become such great chums that I was
actually jealous of being supplanted in the affections of the Yankee
major. The two had been inseparable for months, visiting at The Grove,
spending a fortnight together at the beef ranch in the Outlet, and
finally putting in an appearance at Dodge. Headquarters for the summer
were established at the latter point, our bookkeeper arrived, and we
were ready for business. The market opened earlier than at more eastern
points. The bulk of the sales were made to ranchmen, who used whole
herds where the agricultural regions only bought cattle by the
hundreds. It was more satisfactory than the retail trade; credit was
out of the question, and there was no haggling over prices. Cattle
companies were forming and stocking new ranges, and an influx of
English and Scotch capital was seeking investment in ranches and live
stock in the West,—a mere forerunner of what was to follow in later
years.

Our herds began arriving, and as soon as an outfit could be freed it
was started for the beef ranch under George Edwards, where a herd of
wintered beeves was already made up to start for the upper Missouri
River. Major Hunter followed a week later with the second relieved
outfit, and our cattle were all moving for their destinations. The
through beef herds from the upper Nueces River had orders to touch at
old Fort Larned to the eastward, Edwards drifted on to the Indian
agencies, and I bestirred myself to the task of selling six herds of
young cattle at Dodge. Once more I was back in my old element, except
that every feature of the latter market was on an enlarged scale. Two
herds were sold to one man in Colorado, three others went under
contract to the Republican River in Nebraska, and the last one was cut
into blocks and found a market with feeders in Kansas. Long before
deliveries were concluded to the War or Interior departments,
headquarters were moved back to The Grove, my work being done. In the
interim of waiting for the close of the year’s business, our bookkeeper
looked after two shipments of a thousand head each from the beef ranch,
while I visited my brother in Missouri and surprised him by buying a
carload of thoroughbred bulls. Arrangements were made for shipping them
to Fort Worth during the last week in November, and promising to call
for them, I returned to The Grove to meet my partners and adjust all
accounts for the year.




CHAPTER XV
HARVEST HOME


The firm’s profits for the summer of ’77 footed up over two hundred
thousand dollars. The government herds from the Cherokee Outlet paid
the best, those sent to market next, while the through cattle
remunerated us in the order of beeves, young steers, and lastly cows.
There was a satisfactory profit even in the latter, yet the same
investment in other classes paid a better per cent profit, and the
banking instincts of my partners could be relied on to seek the best
market for our capital. There was nothing haphazard about our business;
separate accounts were kept on every herd, and at the end of the season
the percentage profit on each told their own story. For instance, in
the above year it cost us more to deliver a cow at an agency in the
Indian Territory than a steer at Dodge City, Kansas. The herds sold in
Colorado had been driven at an expense of eighty-five cents a head,
those delivered on the Republican River ninety, and every cow driven
that year cost us over one dollar a head in general expense. The
necessity of holding the latter for a period of four months near
agencies for issuing purposes added to the cost, and was charged to
that particular department of our business.

George Edwards and my active partner agreed to restock our beef ranch
in the Outlet, and I returned to Missouri. I make no claim of being the
first cowman to improve the native cattle of Texas, yet forty years’
keen observation has confirmed my original idea,—that improvement must
come through the native and gradually. Climatic conditions in Texas are
such that the best types of the bovine race would deteriorate if
compelled to subsist the year round on the open range. The strongest
point in the original Spanish cattle was their inborn ability as
foragers, being inured for centuries to drouth, the heat of summer, and
the northers of winter, subsisting for months on prickly pear, a
species of the cactus family, or drifting like game animals to more
favored localities in avoiding the natural afflictions that beset an
arid country. In producing the ideal range animal it was more important
to retain those rustling qualities than to gain a better color, a few
pounds in weight, and a shortening of horns and legs, unless their
possessor could withstand the rigors of a variable climate. Nature
befriends the animal race. The buffalo of Montana could face the
blizzard, while his brother on the plains of Texas sought shelter from
the northers in cañons and behind sand-dunes, guided by an instinct
that foretold the coming storm.

I accompanied my car of thoroughbred bulls and unloaded them at the
first station north of Fort Worth. They numbered twenty-five, all
two-year-olds past, and were representative of three leading beef
brands of established reputation. Others had tried the experiment
before me, the main trouble being in acclimation, which affects animals
the same as the human family. But by wintering them at their
destination, I had hopes of inuring the importation so that they would
withstand the coming summer, the heat of which was a sore trial to a
northern-bred animal. Accordingly I made arrangements with a farmer to
feed my car of bulls during the winter, hay and grain both being
plentiful. They had cost me over five thousand dollars, and rather than
risk the loss of a single one by chancing them on the range, an
additional outlay of a few hundred dollars was justified. Limiting the
corn fed to three barrels to the animal a month, with plenty of rough
feed, ought to bring them through the winter in good, healthy form. The
farmer promised to report monthly on their condition, and agreeing to
send for them by the first of April, I hastened on home.

My wife had taken a hand in the building of the new house on the Clear
Fork. It was quite a pretentious affair, built of hewed logs, and
consisted of two large rooms with a hallway between, a gallery on three
sides, and a kitchen at the rear. Each of the main rooms had an ample
fireplace, both hearths and chimneys built from rock, the only material
foreign to the ranch being the lumber in the floors, doors, and
windows. Nearly all the work was done by the ranch hands, even the
clapboards were riven from oak that grew along the mother Brazos, and
my wife showed me over the house as though it had been a castle that
she had inherited from some feudal forbear. I was easily satisfied; the
main concern was for the family, as I hardly lived at home enough to
give any serious thought to the roof that sheltered me. The original
buildings had been improved and enlarged for the men, and an air of
prosperity pervaded the Anthony ranch consistent with the times and the
success of its owner.

The two ranches reported a few over fifteen thousand calves branded
that fall. A dim wagon road had been established between the ranches,
by going and returning outfits during the stocking of the new ranch the
spring before, and the distance could now be covered in two days by
buckboard. The list of government contracts to be let was awaiting my
attention, and after my estimates had been prepared, and forwarded to
my active partner, it was nearly the middle of December before I found
time to visit the new ranch. The hands at Double Mountain had not been
idle, snug headquarters were established, and three line camps on the
outskirts of the range were comfortably equipped to shelter men and
horses. The cattle had located nicely, two large corrals had been built
on each river, and the calves were as thrifty as weeds. Gray wolves
were the worst enemy encountered, running in large bands and finding
shelter in the cedar brakes in the cañons and foothills which border on
the Staked Plain. My foreman on the Double Mountain ranch was using
poison judiciously, all the line camps were supplied with the same, and
an active winter of poisoning wolves was already inaugurated before my
arrival. Long-range rifles would supplement the work, and a few years
of relentless war on these pests would rid the ranch of this enemy of
live stock.

Together my foreman and I planned for starting an improved herd of
cattle. A cañon on the west was decided on as a range, as it was well
watered from living springs, having a valley several miles wide,
forming a park with ample range for two thousand cattle. The bluffs on
either side were abrupt, almost an in closure, making it an easy matter
for two men to loose-herd a small amount of stock, holding them
adjoining my deeded range, yet separate. The survival of the fittest
was adopted as the rule in beginning the herd, five hundred choice cows
were to form the nucleus, to be the pick of the new ranch, thrift and
formation to decide their selection. Solid colors only were to be
chosen, every natural point in a cow was to be considered, with the
view of reproducing the race in improved form. My foreman—an
intelligent young fellow—was in complete sympathy, and promised me that
he would comb the range in selecting the herd. The first appearance of
grass in the spring was agreed on as the time for gathering the cows,
when he would personally come to the Clear Fork and receive the
importation of bulls, thus fully taking all responsibility in
establishing the improved herd. By this method, unless our plans
miscarried, in the course of a few years we expected to be raising
quarter-bloods in the main ranch stock, and at the same time retaining
all those essential qualities that distinguish the range-raised from
the domestic-bred animal.

On my return to the Clear Fork, which was now my home, a letter from my
active partner was waiting, informing me that he and Edwards would
reach Texas about the time the list of awards would arrive. They had
been unsuccessful in fully stocking our beef ranch, securing only three
thousand head, as prices were against them, and the letter intimated
that something must be done to provide against a repetition of this
unforeseen situation. The ranch in the Outlet had paid us a higher per
cent on the investment than any of our ventures, and to neglect fully
stocking it was contrary to the creed of Hunter, Anthony & Co. True, we
were double-wintering some four thousand head of cattle on our Cherokee
range, but if a fair allowance of awards was allotted the firm,
requiring northern wintered cattle in filling, it might embarrass us to
supply the same when we did not have the beeves in hand; it was our
business to have the beef.

At the appointed time the buckboard was sent to Fort Worth, and a few
days later Major Hunter and our main segundo drove up to the Clear
Fork. Omitting all preludes, atmosphere, and sunsets, we got down to
business at once. If we could drive cattle to Dodge City and market
them for eighty-five cents, we ought to be able to deliver them on our
northern range for six bits, and the horses could be returned or sold
at a profit. If any of our established trade must be sacrificed, why,
drop what paid the least; but half stock our beef ranch? Never again!
This was to be the slogan for the coming summer, and, on receiving the
report from Washington, we were enabled to outline a programme for the
year. The gradually advancing prices in cattle were alarming me, as it
was now perceptible in cows, and in submitting our bids on Indian
awards I had made the allowance of one dollar a head advance over the
spring before. In spite of this we were allotted five contracts from
the Interior Department and seven to the Army, three of the latter
requiring ten thousand northern wintered beeves,—only oversold three
thousand head. Major Hunter met my criticisms by taking the ground that
we virtually had none of the cattle on hand, and if we could buy
Southern stock to meet our requirements, why not the three thousand
that we lacked in the North. Our bids had passed through his hands
last; he knew our northern range was not fully stocked, and had
forwarded the estimates to our silent partner at Washington, and now
the firm had been assigned awards in excess of their holdings. But he
was the kind of a partner I liked, and if he could see his way clear,
he could depend on my backing him to the extent of my ability and
credit.

The business of the firm had grown so rapidly that it was deemed
advisable to divide it into three departments,—the Army, the Indian,
the beef ranch and general market. Major Hunter was specially qualified
to handle the first division, the second fell to Edwards, and the last
was assumed by myself. We were to consult each other when convenient,
but each was to act separately for the firm, my commission requiring
fifteen thousand cattle for our ranch in the Outlet, and three herds
for the market at Dodge City. Our banking points were limited to Fort
Worth and San Antonio, so agreeing to meet at the latter point on the
1st of February for a general consultation, we separated with a view to
feeling the home market. Our man Edwards dropped out in the central
part of the State, my active partner wished to look into the situation
on the lower Nueces River, and I returned to the headwaters of that
stream. During the past two summers we had driven five herds of heavy
beeves from Uvalde and adjoining counties, and while we liked the
cattle of that section, it was considered advisable to look elsewhere
for our beef supply. Within a week I let contracts for five herds of
two and three year old steers, then dropped back to the Colorado River
and bought ten thousand more in San Saba and McCulloch counties. This
completed the purchases in my department, and I hastened back to San
Antonio for the expected consultation. Neither my active partner nor my
trusted man had arrived, nor was there a line to indicate where they
were or when they might be expected, though Major Hunter had called at
our hotel a few days previously for his mail. The designated day was
waning, and I was worried by the non-appearance of either, when I
received a wire from Austin, saying they had just sublet the Indian
contracts.

The next morning my active partner and Edwards arrived. The latter had
met some parties at the capital who were anxious to fill our Indian
deliveries, and had wired us in the firm’s name, and Major Hunter had
taken the first train for Austin. Both returned wreathed in smiles,
having sublet our awards at figures that netted us more than we could
have realized had we bought and delivered the cattle at our own risk.
It was clear money, requiring not a stroke of work, while it freed a
valuable man in outfitting, receiving, and starting our other herds, as
well as relieving a snug sum for reinvestment. Our capital lay idle
half the year, the spring months were our harvest, and, assigning
Edwards full charge of the cattle bought on the Colorado River, we
instructed him to buy for the Dodge market four herds more in adjoining
counties, bringing down the necessary outfits to handle them from my
ranch on the Clear Fork. Previous to his return to San Antonio my
active partner had closed contracts on thirteen thousand heavy beeves
on the Frio River and lower Nueces, thus completing our purchases. A
healthy advance was noticeable all around in steer cattle, though
hardly affecting cows; but having anticipated a growing appreciation in
submitting our bids, we suffered no disappointment. A week was lost in
awaiting the arrival of half a dozen old foremen. On their arrival we
divided them between us and intrusted them with the buying of horses
and all details in making up outfits.

The trails leading out of southern Texas were purely local ones, the
only established trace running from San Antonio north, touching at Fort
Griffin, and crossing into the Nations at Red River Station in Montague
County. All our previous herds from the Uvalde regions had turned
eastward to intercept this main thoroughfare, though we had been
frequently advised to try a western outlet known as the Nueces Cañon
route. The latter course would bring us out on high tablelands, but
before risking our herds through it, I decided to ride out the country
in advance. The cañon proper was about forty miles long, through which
ran the source of the Nueces River, and if the way were barely possible
it looked like a feasible route. Taking a pack horse and guide with me,
I rode through and out on the mesa beyond. General McKinzie had used
this route during his Indian campaigns, and had even built mounds of
rock on the hills to guide the wayfarer, from the exit of the cañon
across to the South Llano River. The trail was a rough one, but there
was grass sufficient to sustain the herds and ample bed-grounds in the
valleys, and I decided to try the western outlet from Uvalde. An early,
seasonable spring favored us with fine grass on which to put up and
start the herds, all five moving out within a week of each other. I
promised my foremen to accompany them through the cañon, knowing that
the passage would be a trial to man and beast, and asked the old bosses
to loiter along, so that there would be but a few hours’ difference
between the rear and lead herds.

I received sixteen thousand cattle, and the four days required in
passing through Nueces Cañon and reaching water beyond were the supreme
physical test of my life. It was a wild section, wholly unsettled,
between low mountains, the river-bed constantly shifting from one flank
of the valley to the other, while cliffs from three to five hundred
feet high alternated from side to side. In traveling the first
twenty-five miles we crossed the bed of the river twenty-one times; and
besides the river there were a great number of creeks and dry arroyos
putting in from the surrounding hills, so that we were constantly
crossing rough ground. The beds of the streams were covered with
smooth, water-worn pebbles, white as marble, and then again we
encountered limestone in lava formation, honeycombed with millions of
sharp, up-turned cells. Some of the descents were nearly impossible for
wagons, but we locked both hind wheels and just let them slide down and
bounce over the boulders at the bottom. Half-way through the cañon the
water failed us, with the south fork of the Llano forty miles distant
in our front. We were compelled to allow the cattle to pick their way
over the rocky trail, the herds not over a mile apart, and scarcely
maintaining a snail’s pace. I rode from rear to front and back again a
dozen times in clearing the defile, and noted that splotches of blood
from tender-footed cattle marked the white pebbles at every crossing of
the river-bed. On the evening of the third day, the rear herd passed
the exit of the cañon, the others having turned aside to camp for the
night. Two whole days had now elapsed without water for the cattle.

I had not slept a wink the two previous nights. The south fork of the
Llano lay over twenty miles distant, and although it had ample water
two weeks before, one of the foremen and I rode through to it that
night to satisfy ourselves. The supply was found sufficient, and before
daybreak we were back in camp, arousing the outfits and starting the
herds. In the spring of 1878 the old military trail, with its rocky
sentinels, was still dimly defined from Nueces Cañon north to the
McKinzie water-hole on the South Llano. The herds moved out with the
dawn. Thousands of the cattle were travel-sore, while a few hundred
were actually tender-footed. The evening before, as we came out into
the open country, we had seen quite a local shower of rain in our
front, which had apparently crossed our course nearly ten miles
distant, though it had not been noticeable during our night’s ride. The
herds fell in behind one another that morning like columns of cavalry,
and after a few miles their stiffness passed and they led out as if
they had knowledge of the water ahead. Within two hours after starting
we crossed a swell of the mesa, when the lead herd caught a breeze from
off the damp hills to the left where the shower had fallen the evening
before. As they struck this rise, the feverish cattle raised their
heads and pulled out as if that vagrant breeze had brought them a
message that succor and rest lay just beyond. The point men had orders
to let them go, and as fast as the rear herds came up and struck this
imaginary line or air current, a single moan would surge back through
the herd until it died out at the rear. By noon there was a solid
column of cattle ten miles long, and two hours later the drag and point
men had trouble in keeping the different herds from mixing. Without a
halt, by three o’clock the lead foremen were turning their charges
right and left, and shortly afterward the lead cattle were plunging
into the purling waters of the South Llano. The rear herds turned off
above and below, filling the river for five miles, while the
hollow-eyed animals gorged themselves until a half dozen died that
evening and night.

Leaving orders with the foremen to rest their herds well and move out
half a day apart, I rode night and day returning to Uvalde. Catching
the first stage out, I reached San Antonio in time to overtake Major
Hunter, who was awaiting the arrival of the last beef herd from the
lower country, the three lead ones having already passed that point.
All trail outfits from the south then touched at San Antonio to
provision the wagons, and on the approach of our last herd I met it and
spent half a day with it,—my first, last, and only glimpse of our heavy
beeves. They were big rangy fellows many of them six and seven years
old, and from the general uniformity of the herd, I felt proud of the
cowman that my protégé and active partner had developed into. Major
Hunter was anxious to reach home as soon as possible, in order to buy
in our complement of northern wintered cattle; so, settling our
business affairs in southern Texas, the day after the rear beeves
passed we took train north. I stopped in the central part of the State,
joining Edwards riding night and day in covering his appointments to
receive cattle; and when the last trail herd moved out from the
Colorado River there were no regrets.

Hastening on home, on my arrival I was assured by my ranch foreman that
he could gather a trail herd in less than a week. My saddle stock now
numbered over a thousand head, one hundred of which were on the Double
Mountain ranch, seven remudas on the trail, leaving available over two
hundred on the Clear Fork. I had the horses and cattle, and on the word
being given my ranch foreman began gathering our oldest steers, while I
outfitted and provisioned a commissary and secured half a dozen men. On
the morning of the seventh day after my arrival, an individual herd,
numbering thirty-five hundred, moved out from the Clear Fork, every
animal in the straight ranch brand. An old trail foreman was given
charge, Dodge City was the destination, and a finer herd of
three-year-olds could not have been found in one brand within the
boundaries of the State. This completed our cattle on the trail, and a
breathing spell of a few weeks might now be indulged in, yet there was
little rest for a cowman. Not counting the contracts to the Indian
Bureau, sublet to others, and the northern wintered beeves, we had, for
the firm and individually, seventeen herds, numbering fifty-four
thousand five hundred cattle on the trail. In order to carry on our
growing business unhampered for want of funds, the firm had borrowed on
short time nearly a quarter-million dollars that spring, pledging the
credit of the three partners for its repayment. We had been making
money ever since the partnership was formed, and we had husbanded our
profits, yet our business seemed to outgrow our means, compelling us to
borrow every spring when buying trail herds.

In the mean time and while we were gathering the home cattle, my
foreman and two men from the Double Mountain ranch arrived on the Clear
Fork to receive the importation of bulls. The latter had not yet
arrived, so pressing the boys into work, we got the trail herd away
before the thoroughbreds put in an appearance. A wagon and three men
from the home ranch had gone after them before my return, and they were
simply loafing along, grazing five to ten miles a day, carrying corn in
the wagon to feed on the grass. Their arrival found the ranch at
leisure, and after resting a few days they proceeded on to their
destination at a leisurely gait. The importation had wintered
finely,—now all three-year-olds,—but hereafter they must subsist on the
range, as corn was out of the question, and the boys had brought
nothing but a pack horse from the western ranch. This was an experiment
with me, but I was ably seconded by my foreman, who had personally
selected every cow over a month before, and this was to make up the
beginning of the improved herd. I accompanied them beyond my range and
urged seven miles a day as the limit of travel. I then started for
home, and within a week reached Dodge City, Kansas.

Headquarters were again established at Dodge. Fortunately a new market
was being developed at Ogalalla on the Platte River in Nebraska, and
fully one third the trail herds passed on to the upper point. Before my
arrival Major Hunter had bought the deficiency of northern wintered
beeves, and early in June three herds started from our range in the
Outlet for the upper Missouri River army posts. We had wintered all
horses belonging to the firm on the beef ranch, and within a fortnight
after its desertion, the young steers from the upper Nueces River began
arriving and were turned loose on the Eagle Chief, preempting our old
range. One outfit was retained to locate the cattle, the remaining ones
coming in to Dodge and returning home by train. George Edwards lent me
valuable assistance in handling our affairs economically, but with the
arrival of the herds at Dodge he was compelled to look after our
sub-contracts at Indian agencies. The latter were delivered in our
name, all money passed through our hands in settlement, so it was
necessary to have a man on the ground to protect our interests. With
nothing but the selling of eight herds of cattle in an active market
like Dodge, I felt that the work of the summer was virtually over. One
cattle company took ten thousand three-year-old steers, two herds were
sold for delivery at Ogalalla, and the remaining three were placed
within a month after their arrival. The occupation of the West was on
with a feverish haste, and money was pouring into ranches and cattle,
affording a ready market to the drover from Texas.

Nothing now remained for me but to draw the threads of our business
together and await the season’s settlement in the fall. I sold all the
wagons and sent the remudas to our range in the Outlet, while from the
first cattle sold the borrowed money was repaid. I visited Ogalalla to
acquaint myself with its market, looked over our beef ranch in the
Cherokee Strip during the lull, and even paid the different Indian
agencies my respects to perfect my knowledge of the requirements of our
business. Our firm was a strong one, enlarging its business year by
year; and while we could not foresee the future, the present was a
Harvest Home to Hunter, Anthony & Co.




CHAPTER XVI
AN ACTIVE SUMMER


The summer of 1878 closed with but a single cloud on the horizon. Like
ourselves, a great many cattlemen had established beef ranches in the
Cherokee Outlet, then a vacant country, paying a trifling rental to
that tribe of civilized Indians. But a difference of opinion arose,
some contending that the Cherokees held no title to the land; that the
strip of country sixty miles wide by two hundred long set aside by
treaty as a hunting ground, when no longer used for that purpose by the
tribe, had reverted to the government. Some refused to pay the rent
money, the council of the Cherokee Nation appealed to the general
government, and troops were ordered in to preserve the peace. We felt
no uneasiness over our holdings of cattle on the Strip, as we were
paying a nominal rent, amounting to two bits a head a year, and were
otherwise fortified in possession of our range. If necessary we could
have secured a permit from the War Department, on the grounds of being
government contractors and requiring a northern range on which to hold
our cattle. But rather than do this, Major Hunter hit upon a happy
solution of the difficulty by suggesting that we employ an Indian
citizen as foreman, and hold the cattle in his name. The major had an
old acquaintance, a half-breed Cherokee named LaFlors, who was promptly
installed as owner of the range, but holding beeves for Hunter, Anthony
& Co., government beef contractors.

I was unexpectedly called to Texas before the general settlement that
fall. Early in the summer, at Dodge, I met a gentleman who was
representing a distillery in Illinois. He was in the market for a
thousand range bulls to slop-feed, and as no such cattle ever came over
the trail, I offered to sell them to him delivered at Fort Worth. I
showed him the sights around Dodge and we became quite friendly, but I
was unable to sell him his requirements unless I could show the stock.
It was easily to be seen that he was not a range cattleman, and I
humored him until he took my address, saying that if he were unable to
fill his wants in other Western markets he would write me later. The
acquaintance resulted in several letters passing between us that
autumn, and finally an appointment was made to meet in Kansas City and
go down to Texas together. I had written home to have the buckboard
meet us at Fort Worth on October 1, and a few days later we were riding
the range on the Brazos and Clear Fork. In the past there never had
been any market for this class of drones, old age and death being the
only relief, and from the great number of brands that I had purchased
during my ranching and trail operations, my range was simply cluttered
with these old cumberers. Their hides would not have paid freighting
and transportation to a market, and they had become an actual drawback
to a ranch, when the opportunity occurred and I sold twelve hundred
head to the Illinois distillery. The buyer informed me that they
fattened well; that there was a special demand for this quality in the
export trade of dressed beef, and that owing to their cheapness and
consequent profit they were in demand for distillery feeding.

Fifteen dollars a head was agreed on as the price, and we earned it a
second time in delivering that herd at Fort Worth. Many of the animals
were ten years old, surly when irritated, and ready for a fight when
their day-dreams were disturbed. There was no treating them humanely,
for every effort in that direction was resented by the old rascals,
individually and collectively. The first day we gathered two hundred,
and the attempt to hold them under herd was a constant fight, resulting
in every hoof arising on the bed-ground at midnight and escaping to
their old haunts. I worked as good a ranch outfit of men as the State
ever bred, I was right there in the saddle with them, yet, in spite of
every effort, to say nothing of the profanity wasted, we lost the herd.
The next morning every lad armed himself with a prod-pole long as a
lance and tipped with a sharp steel brad, and we commenced regathering.
Thereafter we corralled them at night, which always called for a free
use of ropes, as a number usually broke away on approaching the pens.
Often we hog-tied as many as a dozen, letting them lie outside all
night and freeing them back into the herd in the morning. Even the
day-herding was a constant fight, as scarcely an hour passed but some
old resident would scorn the restraint imposed upon his liberties and
deliberately make a break for freedom. A pair of horsemen would double
on the deserter, and with a prod-pole to his ear and the pressure of a
man and horse bearing their weight on the same, a circle would be
covered and Toro always reëntered the day-herd. One such lesson was
usually sufficient, and by reaching corrals every night and penning
them, we managed, after two weeks’ hard work, to land them in the
stockyards at Fort Worth. The buyer remained with and accompanied us
during the gathering and en route to the railroad, evidently enjoying
the continuous performance. He proved a good mixer, too, and returned
annually thereafter. For years following I contracted with him, and
finally shipped on consignment, our business relations always pleasant
and increasing in volume until his death.

Returning with the outfit, I continued on west to the new ranch, while
the men began the fall branding at home. On arriving on the Double
Mountain range, I found the outfit in the saddle, ironing up a big calf
crop, while the improved herd was the joy and pride of my foreman. An
altitude of about four thousand feet above sea-level had proved
congenial to the thoroughbreds, who had acclimated nicely, the only
loss being one from lightning. Two men were easily holding the isolated
herd in their cañon home, the sheltering bluffs affording them ample
protection from wintry weather, and there was nothing henceforth to
fear in regard to the experiment. I spent a week with the outfit; my
ranch foreman assured me that the brand could turn out a trail herd of
three-year-old steers the following spring and a second one of twos, if
it was my wish to send them to market. But it was too soon to
anticipate the coming summer; and then it seemed a shame to move young
steers to a northern climate to be matured, yet it was an economic
necessity. Ranch headquarters looked like a trapper’s cave with
wolf-skins and buffalo-robes taken the winter before, and it was with
reluctance that I took my leave of the cosy dugouts on the Double
Mountain Fork.

On returning home I found a statement for the year and a pressing
invitation awaiting me to come on to the national capital at once. The
profits of the summer had exceeded the previous one, but some bills for
demurrage remained to be adjusted with the War and Interior
departments, and my active partner and George Edwards had already
started for Washington. It was urged on me that the firm should make
themselves known at the different departments, and the invitation was
supplemented by a special request from our silent partner, the Senator,
to spend at least a month at the capital. For years I had been
promising my wife to take her on a visit to Virginia, and now when the
opportunity offered, womanlike, she pleaded her nakedness in the midst
of plenty. I never had but one suit at a time in my life, and often I
had seen my wife dressed in the best the frontier of Texas afforded,
which was all that ought to be expected. A day’s notice was given her,
the eldest children were sent to their grandparents, and taking the two
youngest with us, we started for Fort Worth. I was anxious that my wife
should make a favorable impression on my people, and in turn she was
fretting about my general appearance. Out of a saddle a cowman never
looks well, and every effort to improve his personal appearance only
makes him the more ridiculous. Thus with each trying to make the other
presentable, we started. We stopped a week at my brother’s in Missouri,
and finally reached the Shenandoah Valley during the last week in
November. Leaving my wife to speak for herself and the remainder of the
family, I hurried on to Washington and found the others quartered at a
prominent hotel. A less pretentious one would have suited me, but then
a United States senator must befittingly entertain his friends. New men
had succeeded to the War and Interior departments, and I was properly
introduced to each as the Texas partner of the firm of Hunter, Anthony
& Co. Within a week, several little dinners were given at the hotel, at
which from a dozen to twenty men sat down, all feverish to hear about
the West and the cattle business in particular. Already several
companies had been organized to engage in ranching, and the capital had
been over-subscribed in every instance; and actually one would have
supposed from the chat that we were holding a cattle convention in the
West instead of dining with a few representatives and government
officials at Washington.

I soon became the object of marked attention. Possibly it was my
vocabulary, which was consistent with my vocation, together with my
ungainly appearance, that differentiated me from my partners. George
Edwards was neat in appearance, had a great fund of Western stories and
experiences, and the two of us were constantly being importuned for
incidents of a frontier nature. Both my partners, especially the
Senator, were constantly introducing me and referring to me as a man
who, in the course of ten years, had accumulated fifty thousand cattle
and acquired title to three quarters of a million acres of land. I was
willing to be a sociable fellow among my friends, but notoriety of this
character was offensive, and in a private lecture I took my partners to
task for unnecessary laudation. The matter was smoothed over, our
estimates for the coming year were submitted, and after spending the
holidays with my parents in Virginia, I returned to the capital to
await the allotments for future delivery of cattle to the Army and
Indian service. Pending the date of the opening of the bids a dinner
was given by a senator from one of the Southern States, to which all
members of our firm were invited, when the project was launched of
organizing a cattle company with one million dollars capital. The many
advantages that would accrue where government influence could be
counted on were dwelt upon at length, the rapid occupation of the West
was cited, the concentration of all Indian tribes on reservations, and
the necessary requirements of beef in feeding the same was openly
commented on as the opportunity of the hour. I took no hand in the
general discussion, except to answer questions, but when the management
of such a company was tendered me, I emphatically declined. My partners
professed surprise at my refusal, but when the privacy of our rooms was
reached I unburdened myself on the proposition. We had begun at the
foot of the hill, and now having established ourselves in a profitable
business, I was loath to give it up or share it with others. I argued
that our trade was as valuable as realty or cattle in hand; that no
blandishments of salary as manager could induce me to forsake
legitimate channels for possibilities in other fields. “Go slow and
learn to peddle,” was the motto of successful merchants; I had got out
on a limb before and met with failure, and had no desire to rush in
where angels fear for their footing. Let others organize companies and
we would sell them the necessary cattle; the more money seeking
investment the better the market.

Major Hunter was Western in his sympathies and coincided with my views,
the Senator was won over from the enterprise, and the project failed to
materialize. The friendly relations of our firm were slightly strained
over the outcome, but on the announcement of the awards we pulled
together again like brothers. In the allotment for delivery during the
summer and fall of 1879, some eighteen contracts fell to us,—six in the
Indian Bureau and the remainder to the Army, four of the latter
requiring northern wintered beeves. A single award for Fort Buford in
Dakota called for five million pounds on foot and could be filled with
Southern cattle. Others in the same department ran from one and a half
to three million pounds, varying, as wanted for future or present use,
to through or wintered beeves. The latter fattened even on the trail
and were ready for the shambles on their arrival, while Southern stock
required a winter and time to acclimate to reach the pink of condition.
The government maintained several distributing points in the new
Northwest, one of which was Fort Buford, where for many succeeding
years ten thousand cattle were annually received and assigned to lesser
posts. This was the market that I knew. I had felt every throb of its
pulse ever since I had worked as a common hand in driving beef to Fort
Sumner in 1866. The intervening years had been active ones, and I had
learned the lessons of the trail, knew to a fraction the cost of
delivering a herd, and could figure on a contract with any other
cowman.

Leaving the arrangement of the bonds to our silent partner, the next
day after the awards were announced we turned our faces to the
Southwest. February 1 was agreed on for the meeting at Fort Worth, so
picking up the wife and babies in Virginia, we embarked for our Texas
home. My better half was disappointed in my not joining in the proposed
cattle company, with its officers, its directorate, annual meeting, and
other high-sounding functions. I could have turned into the company my
two ranches at fifty cents an acre, could have sold my brand outright
at a fancy figure, taking stock in lieu for the same, but I preferred
to keep them private property. I have since known other cowmen who put
their lands and cattle into companies, and after a few years’
manipulation all they owned was some handsome certificates, possibly
having drawn a dividend or two and held an honorary office. I did not
then have even the experience of others to guide my feet, but some
silent monitor warned me to stick to my trade, cows.

Leaving the family at the Edwards ranch, I returned to Fort Worth in
ample time for the appointed meeting. My active partner and our segundo
had become as thick as thieves, the two being inseparable at idle
times, and on their arrival we got down to business at once. The
remudas were the first consideration. Besides my personal holdings of
saddle stock, we had sent the fall before one thousand horses belonging
to the firm back to the Clear Fork to winter. Thus equipped with
eighteen remudas for the trail, we were fairly independent in that
line. Among the five herds driven the year before to our beef ranch in
the Outlet, the books showed not over ten thousand coming four years
old that spring, leaving a deficiency of northern wintered beeves to be
purchased. It was decided to restock the range with straight threes,
and we again divided the buying into departments, each taking the same
division as the year before. The purchase of eight herds of heavy
beeves would thus fall to Major Hunter. Austin and San Antonio were
decided on as headquarters and banking points, and we started out on a
preliminary skirmish. George Edwards had an idea that the Indian awards
could again be relet to advantage, and started for the capital, while
the major and I journeyed on south. Some former sellers whom we
accidentally met in San Antonio complained that we had forsaken them
and assured us that their county, Medina, had not less than fifty
thousand mature beeves. They offered to meet any one’s prices, and
Major Hunter urged that I see a sample of the cattle while en route to
the Uvalde country. If they came up to requirements, I was further
authorized to buy in sufficient to fill our contract at Fort Buford,
which would require three herds, or ten thousand head. It was an
advantage to have this delivery start from the same section, hold
together en route, and arrive at their destination as a unit. I was
surprised at both the quality and the quantity of the beeves along the
tributaries of the Frio River, and readily let a contract to a few
leading cowmen for the full allotment. My active partner was notified,
and I went on to the headwaters of the Nueces River. I knew the cattle
of this section so well that there was no occasion even to look at
them, and in a few days contracted for five herds of straight threes.
While in the latter section, word reached me that Edwards had sublet
four of our Indian contacts, or those intended for delivery at agencies
in the Indian Territory. The remaining two were for tribes in Colorado,
and notifying our segundo to hold the others open until we met, I took
stage back to San Antonio. My return was awaited by both Major Hunter
and Edwards, and casting up our purchases on through cattle, we found
we lacked only two herds of cows and the same of beeves. I offered to
make up the Indian awards from my ranches, the major had unlimited
offerings from which to pick, and we turned our attention to securing
young steers for the open market. Our segundo was fully relieved and
ordered back to his old stamping-ground on the Colorado River to
contract for six herds of young cattle. It was my intention to bring
remudas down from the Clear Fork to handle the cattle from Uvalde and
Medina counties, but my active partner would have to look out for his
own saddle stock for the other beef herds. Hurrying home, I started
eight hundred saddle horses belonging to the firm to the lower country,
assigned two remudas to leave for the Double Mountain ranch, detailed
the same number for the Clear Fork, and authorized the remaining six to
report to Edwards on the Colorado River.

This completed the main details for moving the herds. There was an
increase in prices over the preceding spring throughout the State,
amounting on a general average to fully one dollar a head. We had
anticipated the advance in making our contracts, there was an abundance
of water everywhere, and everything promised well for an auspicious
start. Only a single incident occurred to mar the otherwise pleasant
relations with our ranchmen friends. In contracting for the straight
threes from Uvalde County, I had stipulated that every animal tendered
must be full-aged at the date of receiving; we were paying an extra
price and the cattle must come up to specifications. Major Hunter had
moved his herds out in time to join me in receiving the last one of the
younger cattle, and I had pressed him into use as a tally clerk while
receiving. Every one had been invited to turn in stock in making up the
herd, but at the last moment we fell short of threes, when I offered to
fill out with twos at the customary difference in price. The sellers
were satisfied. We called them by ages as they were cut out, when a row
threatened over a white steer. The foreman who was assisting me cut the
animal in question for a two-year-old, Major Hunter repeated the age in
tallying the steer, when the owner of the brand, a small ranchman,
galloped up and contended that the steer was a three-year-old, though
he lacked fully two months of that age. The owner swore the steer had
been raised a milk calf; that he knew his age to a day; but Major
Hunter firmly yet kindly told the man that he must observe the letter
of the contract and that the steer must go as a two-year-old or not at
all. In reply a six-shooter was thrown in the major’s face, when a
number of us rushed in on our horses and the pistol was struck from the
man’s hand. An explanation was demanded, but the only intelligent reply
that could be elicited from the owner of the white steer was, “No G——
d—— Yankee can classify my cattle.” One of the ranchmen with whom we
were contracting took the insult off my hands and gave the man his
choice,—to fight or apologize. The seller cooled down, apologies
followed, and the unfortunate incident passed and was forgotten with
the day’s work.

A week later the herds on the Colorado River moved out. Major Hunter
and I looked them over before they got away, after which he continued
on north to buy in the deficiency of three thousand wintered beeves,
while I returned home to start my individual cattle. The ranch outfit
had been at work for ten days previous to my arrival gathering the
three-year-old steers and all dry and barren cows. On my return they
had about eight thousand head of mixed stock under herd and two trail
outfits were in readiness, so cutting them separate and culling them
down, we started them, the cows for Dodge and the steers for Ogalalla,
each thirty-five hundred strong. Two outfits had left for the Double
Mountain range ten days before, and driving night and day, I reached
the ranch to find both herds shaped up and ready for orders. Both
foremen were anxious to strike due north, several herds having crossed
Red River as far west as Doan’s Store the year before; but I was afraid
of Indian troubles and routed them northeast for the old ford on the
Chisholm trail. They would follow down the Brazos, cross over to the
Wichita River, and pass about sixty miles to the north of the home
ranch on the Clear Fork. I joined them for the first few days out,
destinations were the same as the other private herds, and promising to
meet them in Dodge, I turned homeward. The starting of these last two
gave the firm and me personally twenty-three herds, numbering
seventy-six thousand one hundred cattle on the trail.

An active summer followed. Each one was busy in his department. I met
Major Hunter once for an hour during the spring months, and we never
saw each other again until late fall. Our segundo again rendered
valuable assistance in meeting outfits on their arrival at the beef
ranch, as it was deemed advisable to hold the through and wintered
cattle separate for fear of Texas fever. All beef herds were routed to
touch at headquarters in the Outlet, and thence going north, they
skirted the borders of settlement in crossing Kansas and Nebraska.
Where possible, all correspondence was conducted by wire, and with the
arrival of the herds at Dodge I was kept in the saddle thenceforth. The
demand for cattle was growing with each succeeding year, prices were
firmer, and a general advance was maintained in all grades of trail
stock. On the arrival of the cattle from the Colorado River, I had them
reclassed, sending three herds of threes on to Ogalalla. The upper
country wanted older stock, believing that it withstood the rigors of
winter better, and I trimmed my sail to catch the wind. The cows came
in early and were started west for their destination, the rear herds
arrived and were located, while Dodge and Ogalalla howled their
advantages as rival trail towns. The three herds of two-year-olds were
sold and started for the Cherokee Strip, and I took train for the west
and reached the Platte River, to find our cattle safely arrived at
Ogalalla. Near the middle of July a Wyoming cattle company bought all
the central Texas steers for delivery a month later at Cheyenne, and we
grazed them up the South Platte and counted them out to the buyers, ten
thousand strong. My individual herds classed as Pan-Handle cattle,
exempt from quarantine, netted one dollar a head above the others, and
were sold to speculators from the corn regions on the western borders
of Nebraska. One herd of cows was intended for the Southern and the
other for the Uncompahgre Utes, and they had been picking their way
through and across the mountains to those agencies during the summer
mouths. Late in August both deliveries were made wholesale to the
agents of the different tribes, and my work was at an end. All unsold
remudas returned to Dodge, the outfits were sent home, and the saddle
stock to our beef ranch, there to await the close of the summer’s
drive.




CHAPTER XVII
FORESHADOWS


I returned to Texas early in September. My foreman on the Double
Mountain ranch had written me several times during the summer,
promising me a surprise on the half-blood calves. There was nothing of
importance in the North except the shipping of a few trainloads of
beeves from our ranch in the Outlet, and as the bookkeeper could attend
to that, I decided to go back. I offered other excuses for going, but
home-hunger and the improved herd were the main reasons. It was a
fortunate thing that I went home, for it enabled me to get into touch
with the popular feeling in my adopted State over the outlook for live
stock in the future. Up to this time there had been no general movement
in cattle, in sympathy with other branches of industry, notably in
sheep and wool, supply always far exceeding demand. There had been a
gradual appreciation in marketable steers, first noticeable in 1876,
and gaining thereafter about one dollar a year per head on all grades,
yet so slowly as not to disturb or excite the trade. During the fall of
1879, however, there was a feeling of unrest in cattle circles in
Texas, and predictions of a notable advance could be heard on every
side. The trail had been established as far north as Montana, capital
by the millions was seeking investment in ranching, and everything
augured for a brighter future. That very summer the trail had absorbed
six hundred and fifty thousand cattle, or possibly ten per cent of the
home supply, which readily found a market at army posts, Indian
agencies, and two little cow towns in the North. Investment in Texas
steers was paying fifty to one hundred per cent annually, the whole
Northwest was turning into one immense pasture, and the feeling was
general that the time had come for the Lone Star State to expect a fair
share in the profits of this immense industry.

Cattle associations, organized for mutual protection and the promotion
of community interests, were active agencies in enlarging the Texas
market. National conventions were held annually, at which every
live-stock organization in the West was represented, and buyer and
seller met on common ground. Two years before the Cattle Raisers’
Association of Texas was formed, other States and Territories founded
similar organizations, and when these met in national assembly the
cattle on a thousand hills were represented. No one was more anxious
than myself that a proper appreciation should follow the enlargement of
our home market, yet I had hopes that it would come gradually and not
excite or disturb settled conditions. In our contracts with the
government, we were under the necessity of anticipating the market ten
months in advance, and any sudden or unseen change in prices in the
interim between submitting our estimates and buying in the cattle to
fill the same would be ruinous. Therefore it was important to keep a
finger on the pulse of the home market, to note the drift of straws,
and to listen for every rumor afloat. Lands in Texas were advancing in
value, a general wave of prosperity had followed self-government and
the building of railroads, and cattle alone was the only commodity that
had not proportionally risen in value.

In spite of my hopes to the contrary, I had a well-grounded belief that
a revolution in cattle prices was coming. Daily meeting with men from
the Northwest, at Dodge and Ogalalla, during the summer just passed, I
had felt every throb of the demand that pulsated those markets. There
was a general inquiry for young steers, she stuff with which to start
ranches was eagerly snapped up, and it stood to reason that if this
reckless Northern demand continued, its influence would soon be felt on
the plains of Texas. Susceptible to all these influences, I had
returned home to find both my ranches littered with a big calf crop,
the brand actually increasing in numbers in spite of the drain of trail
herds annually cut out. But the idol of my eye was those half-blood
calves. Out of a possible five hundred, there were four hundred and
fifty odd by actual count, all big as yearlings and reflecting the
selection of their parents. I loafed away a week at the cañon camp,
rode through them daily, and laughed at their innocent antics as they
horned the bluffs or fought their mimic fights. The Double Mountain
ranch was my pride, and before leaving, the foreman and I outlined some
landed additions to fill and square up my holdings, in case it should
ever be necessary to fence the range.

On my return to the Clear Fork, the ranch outfit had just finished
gathering from my own and adjoining ranges fifteen hundred bulls for
distillery feeding. The sale had been effected by correspondence with
my former customer, and when the herd started the two of us drove on
ahead into Fort Worth. The Illinois man was an extensive dealer in
cattle and had followed the business for years in his own State, and in
the week we spent together awaiting the arrival of his purchase, I
learned much of value. There was a distinct difference between a range
cowman and a stockman from the older Western States; but while the
occupations were different, there was much in common between the two.
Through my customer I learned that Western range cattle, when well
fatted, were competing with grass beeves from his own State; that they
dressed more to their gross weight than natives, and that the quality
of their flesh was unsurpassed. As to the future, the Illinois buyer
could see little to hope for in his own country, but was enthusiastic
over the outlook for us ranchmen in the Southwest. All these things
were but straws which foretold the course of the wind, yet neither of
us looked for the cyclone which was hovering near.

I accompanied the last train of the shipment as far as Parsons, Kansas,
where our ways parted, my customer going to Peoria, Illinois, while I
continued on to The Grove. Both my partners and our segundo were
awaiting me, the bookkeeper had all accounts in hand, and the profits
of the year were enough to turn ordinary men’s heads. But I sounded a
note of warning,—that there were breakers ahead,—though none of them
took me seriously until I called for the individual herd accounts. With
all the friendly advantages shown us by the War and Interior
departments, the six herds from the Colorado River, taking their
chances in the open market, had cleared more money per head than had
the heavy beeves requiring thirty-three per cent a larger investment.
In summing up my warning, I suggested that now, while we were winners,
would be a good time to drop contracting with the government and
confine ourselves strictly to the open market. Instead of ten months
between assuming obligations and their fulfillment, why not reduce the
chances to three or four, with the hungry, clamoring West for our
market?

The powwow lasted several days. Finally all agreed to sever our
dealings with the Interior Department, which required cows for Indian
agencies, and confine our business to the open market and supplying the
Army with beef. Our partner the Senator reluctantly yielded to the
opinions of Major Hunter and myself, urging our loss of prestige and
its reflection on his standing at the national capital. But we
countered on him, arguing that as a representative of the West the
opportunity of the hour was his to insist on larger estimates for the
coming year, and to secure proportionate appropriations for both the
War and Interior departments, if they wished to attract responsible
bidders. If only the ordinary estimates and allowances were made, it
would result in a deficiency in these departments, and no one cared for
vouchers, even against the government, when the funds were not
available to meet the same on presentation. Major Hunter suggested to
our partner that as beef contractors we be called in consultation with
the head of each department, and allowed to offer our views for the
general benefit of the service. The Senator saw his opportunity,
promising to hasten on to Washington at once, while the rest of us
agreed to hold ourselves in readiness to respond to any call.

Edwards and I returned to Texas. The former was stationed for the
winter at San Antonio, under instructions to keep in touch with the
market, while I loitered between Fort Worth and the home ranch. The
arrival of the list of awards came promptly as usual, but beyond a
random glance was neglected pending state developments. An advance of
two dollars and a half a head was predicted on all grades, and buyers
and superintendents of cattle companies in the North and West were
quietly dropping down into Texas for the winter, inquiring for and
offering to contract cattle for spring delivery at Dodge and Ogalalla.
I was quietly resting on my oars at the ranch, when a special messenger
arrived summoning me to Washington. The motive was easily understood,
and on my reaching Fort Worth the message was supplemented by another
one from Major Hunter, asking me to touch at Council Grove en route.
Writing Edwards fully what would be expected of him during my absence,
I reached The Grove and was joined by my partner, and we proceeded on
to the national capital. Arriving fully two weeks in advance of the
closing day for bids, all three of us called and paid our respects to
the heads of the War and Interior departments. On special request of
the Secretaries, an appointment was made for the following day, when
the Senator took Major Hunter and me under his wing and coached us in
support of his suggestions to either department. There was no occasion
to warn me, as I had just come from the seat of beef supply, and knew
the feverish condition of affairs at home.

The appointments were kept promptly. At the Interior Department we
tarried but a few minutes after informing the Secretary that we were
submitting no bids that year in his division, but allowed ourselves to
be drawn out as to the why and wherefore. Major Hunter was a man of
moderate schooling, apt in conversation, and did nearly all the
talking, though I put in a few general observations. We were cordially
greeted at the War Office, good cigars were lighted, and we went over
the situation fully. The reports of the year before were gone over, and
we were complimented on our different deliveries to the Army. We
accepted all flatteries as a matter of course, though the past is poor
security for the future. When the matter of contracting for the present
year was broached, we confessed our ability to handle any awards in our
territory to the number of fifty to seventy-five thousand beeves, but
would like some assurance that the present or forthcoming
appropriations would be ample to meet all contracts. Our doubts were
readily removed by the firmness of the Secretary when as we arose to
leave, Major Hunter suggested, by way of friendly advice, that the
government ought to look well to the bonds of contractors, saying that
the beef-producing regions of the West and South had experienced an
advance in prices recently, which made contracting cattle for future
delivery extremely hazardous. At parting regret was expressed that the
sudden change in affairs would prevent our submitting estimates only so
far as we had the cattle in hand.

Three days before the limit expired, we submitted twenty bids to the
War Department. Our figures were such that we felt fully protected, as
we had twenty thousand cattle on our Northern range, while advice was
reaching us daily from the beef regions of Texas. The opening of
proposals was no surprise, only seven falling to us, and all admitting
of Southern beeves. Within an hour after the result was known, a wire
was sent to Edwards, authorizing him to contract immediately for
twenty-two thousand heavy steer cattle and advance money liberally on
every agreement. Duplicates of our estimates had been sent him the same
day they were submitted at the War Office. Our segundo had triple the
number of cattle in sight, and was then in a position to act
intelligently. The next morning Major Hunter and I left the capital for
San Antonio, taking a southern route through Virginia, sighting old
battlefields where both had seen service on opposing sides, but now
standing shoulder to shoulder as trail drovers and army contractors. We
arrived at our destination promptly. Edwards was missing, but inquiry
among our bankers developed the fact that he had been drawing heavily
the past few days, and we knew that all was well. A few nights later he
came in, having secured our requirements at an advance of two to three
dollars a head over the prices of the preceding spring.

The live-stock interests of the State were centring in the coming
cattle convention, which would be held at Fort Worth in February. At
this meeting heavy trading was anticipated for present and future
delivery, and any sales effected would establish prices for the coming
spring. From the number of Northern buyers that were in Texas, and
others expected at the convention, Edwards suggested buying, before the
meeting, at least half the requirements for our beef ranch and trail
cattle. Major Hunter and I both fell in with the idea of our segundo,
and we scattered to our old haunts under agreement to report at Fort
Worth for the meeting of the clans. I spent two weeks among my ranchmen
friends on the headwaters of the Frio and Nueces rivers, and while they
were fully awake to the advance in prices, I closed trades on
twenty-one thousand two and three year old steers for March delivery.
It was always a weakness in me to overbuy, and in receiving I could
never hold a herd down to the agreed numbers, but my shortcomings in
this instance proved a boon. On arriving at Fort Worth, the other two
reported having combed their old stamping-grounds of half a dozen
counties along the Colorado River, and having secured only fifteen
thousand head. Every one was waiting until after the cattle convention,
and only those who had the stock in hand could be induced to talk
business or enter into agreements.

The convention was a notable affair. Men from Montana and intervening
States and Territories rubbed elbows and clinked their glasses with the
Texans to “Here’s to a better acquaintance.” The trail drovers were
there to a man, the very atmosphere was tainted with cigar smoke, the
only sounds were cattle talk, and the nights were wild and sleepless.
“I’ll sell ten thousand Pan-Handle three-year-old steers for delivery
at Ogalalla,” spoken in the lobby of a hotel or barroom, would
instantly attract the attention of half a dozen men in fur overcoats
and heavy flannel. “What are your cattle worth laid down on the
Platte?” was the usual rejoinder, followed by a drink, a cigar, and a
conference, sometimes ending in a deal or terminating in a friendly
acquaintance. I had met many of these men at Abilene, Wichita, and
Great Bend, and later at Dodge City and Ogalalla, and now they had
invaded Texas, and the son of a prophet could not foretell the future.
Our firm never offered a hoof, but the three days of the convention
were forewarnings of the next few years to follow. I was personally
interested in the general tendency of the men from the upper country to
contract for heifers and young cows, and while the prices offered for
Northern delivery were a distinct advance over those of the summer
before, I resisted all temptations to enter into agreements. The
Northern buyers and trail drovers selfishly joined issues in bearing
prices in Texas; yet, in spite of their united efforts, over two
hundred thousand cattle were sold during the meeting, and at figures
averaging fully three dollars a head over those of the previous spring.

The convention adjourned, and those in attendance scattered to their
homes and business. Between midnight and morning of the last day of the
meeting, Major Hunter and I closed contracts for two trail herds of
sixty-five hundred head in Erath and Comanche counties. Within a week
two others of straight three-year-olds were secured,—one in my home
county and the other fifty miles northwest in Throckmorton. This
completed our purchases for the present, giving us a chain of cattle to
receive from within one county of the Rio Grande on the south to the
same distance from Red River on the north. The work was divided into
divisions. One thousand extra saddle horses were needed for the beef
herds and others, and men were sent south, to secure them. All private
and company remudas had returned to the Clear Fork to winter, and from
there would be issued wherever we had cattle to receive. A carload of
wagons was bought at the Fort, teams were sent in after them, and a
busy fortnight followed in organizing the forces. Edwards was assigned
to assist Major Hunter in receiving the beef cattle along the lower
Frio and Nueces, starting in ample time to receive the saddle stock in
advance of the beeves. There was three weeks’ difference in the
starting of grass between northern and southern Texas, and we made our
dates for receiving accordingly, mine for Medina and Uvalde counties
following on the heels of the beef herds from the lower country.

From the 12th of March I was kept in the saddle ten days, receiving
cattle from the headwaters of the Frio and Nueces rivers. All my old
foremen rendered valuable assistance, two and three herds being in the
course of formation at a time, and, as usual, we received eleven
hundred over and above the contracts. The herds moved out on good grass
and plenty of water, the last of the heavy beeves had passed north on
my return to San Antonio, and I caught the first train out to join the
others in central Texas. My buckboard had been brought down with the
remudas and was awaiting me at the station, the Colorado River on the
west was reached that night, and by noon the next day I was in the
thick of the receiving. When three herds had started, I reported in
Comanche and Erath counties, where gathering for our herds was in
progress; and fixing definite dates that would allow Edwards and my
partner to arrive, I drove on through to the Clear Fork. Under previous
instructions, a herd of thirty-five hundred two-year-old heifers was
ready to start, while nearly four thousand steers were in hand, with
one outfit yet to come in from up the Brazos. We were gathering close
that year, everything three years old or over must go, and the outfits
were ranging far and wide. The steer herd was held down to thirty-two
hundred, both it and the heifers moving out the same day, with a
remnant of over a thousand three-year-old steers left over.

The herd under contract to the firm in the home county came up full in
number, and was the next to get away. A courier arrived from the Double
Mountain range and reported a second contingent of heifers ready, but
that the steers would overrun for a wieldy herd. The next morning the
overplus from the Clear Fork was started for the new ranch, with orders
to make up a third steer herd and cross Red River at Doan’s. This
cleaned the boards on my ranches, and the next day I was in
Throckmorton County, where everything was in readiness to pass upon.
This last herd was of Clear Fork cattle, put up within twenty-five
miles of Fort Griffin, every brand as familiar as my own, and there was
little to do but count and receive. Road-branding was necessary,
however; and while this work was in progress, a relay messenger arrived
from the ranch, summoning me to Fort Worth posthaste. The message was
from Major Hunter, and from the hurried scribbling I made out that
several herds were tied up when ready to start, and that they would be
thrown on the market. I hurried home, changed teams, and by night and
day driving reached Fort Worth and awakened my active partner and
Edwards out of their beds to get the particulars. The responsible man
of a firm of drovers, with five herds on hand, had suddenly died, and
the banks refused to advance the necessary funds to complete their
payments. The cattle were under herd in Wise and Cook counties, both
Major Hunter and our segundo had looked them over, and both pronounced
the herds gilt-edged north Texas steers. It would require three hundred
thousand dollars to buy and clear the herds, and all our accounts were
already overdrawn, but it was decided to strain our credit. The
situation was fully explained in a lengthy message to a bank in Kansas
City, the wires were kept busy all day answering questions; but before
the close of business we had authority to draw for the amount needed,
and the herds, with remudas and outfits complete, passed into our hands
and were started the next day. This gave the firm and me personally
thirty-three herds, requiring four hundred and ninety-odd men and over
thirty-five hundred horses, while the cattle numbered one hundred and
four thousand head.

Two thirds of the herds were routed by way of Doan’s Crossing in
leaving Texas, while all would touch at Dodge in passing up the
country. George Edwards accompanied the north Texas herds, and Major
Hunter hastened on to Kansas City to protect our credit, while I hung
around Doan’s Store until our last cattle crossed Red River. The annual
exodus from Texas to the North was on with a fury, and on my arrival at
Dodge all precedents in former prices were swept aside in the eager
rush to secure cattle. Herds were sold weeks before their arrival,
others were met as far south as Camp Supply, and it was easily to be
seen that it was a seller’s market. Two thirds of the trail herds
merely took on new supplies at Dodge and passed on to the Platte. Once
our heavy beeves had crossed the Arkansas, my partner and I swung round
to Ogalalla and met our advance herd, the foreman of which reported
meeting buyers as far south as the Republican River. It was actually
dangerous to price cattle for fear of being under the market; new
classifications were being introduced, Pan-Handle and north Texas
steers commanding as much as three dollars a head over their brethren
from the coast and far south.

The boom in cattle of the early ’80’s was on with a vengeance. There
was no trouble to sell herds that year. One morning, while I was
looking for a range on the north fork of the Platte, Major Hunter sold
my seven thousand heifers at twenty-five dollars around, commanding two
dollars and a half a head over steers of the same age. Edwards had been
left in charge at Dodge, and my active partner reluctantly tore himself
away from the market at Ogalalla to attend our deliveries of beef at
army posts. Within six weeks after arriving at Dodge and Ogalalla the
last of our herds had changed owners, requiring another month to
complete the transfers at different destinations. Many of the steers
went as far north as the Yellowstone River, and Wyoming and Nebraska
were liberal buyers at the upper market, while Colorado, Kansas, and
the Indian Territory absorbed all offerings at the lower point. Horses
were even in demand, and while we made no effort to sell our remudas,
over half of them changed owners with the herds they had accompanied
into the North.

The season closed with a flourish. After we had wound up our affairs,
Edwards and I drifted down to the beef ranch with the unsold saddle
stock, and the shipping season opened. The Santa Fé Railway had built
south to Caldwell that spring, affording us a nearer shipping point,
and we moved out five to ten trainloads a week of single and double
wintered beeves. The through cattle for restocking the range had
arrived early and were held separate until the first frost, when
everything would be turned loose on the Eagle Chief. Trouble was still
brewing between the Cherokee Nation and the government on the one side
and those holding cattle in the Strip, and a clash occurred that fall
between a lieutenant of cavalry and our half-breed foreman LaFlors. The
troops had been burning hay and destroying improvements belonging to
cattle outfits, and had paid our range a visit and mixed things with
our foreman. The latter stood firm on his rights as a Cherokee citizen
and cited his employers as government beef contractors, but the young
lieutenant haughtily ignored all statements and ordered the hay,
stabling, and dug-outs burned. Like a flash of light, LaFlors aimed a
six-shooter at the officer’s breast, and was instantly covered by a
dozen carbines in the hands of troopers.

“Order them to shoot if you dare,” smilingly said the Cherokee to the
young lieutenant, a cocked pistol leveled at the latter’s heart, “and
she goes double. There isn’t a man under you can pull a trigger quicker
than I can.” The hay was not burned, and the stabling and dug-outs
housed our men and horses for several winters to come.




CHAPTER XVIII
THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOM


The great boom in cattle which began in 1880 and lasted nearly five
years was the beginning of a ruinous end. The frenzy swept all over the
northern and western half of the United States, extended into the
British possessions in western Canada, and in the receding wave the
Texan forgot the pit from which he was lifted and bowed down and
worshiped the living calf. During this brief period the great breeding
grounds of Texas were tested to their utmost capacity to supply the
demand, the canebrakes of Arkansas and Louisiana were called upon for
their knotty specimens of the bovine race, even Mexico responded, and
still the insatiable maw of the early West called for more cattle. The
whirlpool of speculation and investment in ranches and range stock
defied the deserts on the west, sweeping across into New Mexico and
Arizona, where it met a counter wave pushing inland from California to
possess the new and inviting pastures. Naturally the Texan was the last
to catch the enthusiasm, but when he found his herds depleted to a
remnant of their former numbers, he lost his head and plunged into the
vortex with the impetuosity of a gambler. Pasture lands that he had
scorned at ten cents an acre but a decade before were eagerly sought at
two and three dollars, and the cattle that he had bartered away he
bought back at double and triple their former prices.

How I ever weathered those years without becoming bankrupt is
unexplainable. No credit or foresight must be claimed, for the opinions
of men and babes were on a parity; yet I am inclined to think it was my
dread of debt, coupled with an innate love of land and cattle, that
saved me from the almost universal fate of my fellow cowmen. Due
acknowledgment must be given my partners, for while I held them in
check in certain directions, the soundness of their advice saved my
feet from many a stumble. Major Hunter was an unusually shrewd man, a
financier of the rough and ready Western school; and while we made our
mistakes, they were such as human foresight could not have avoided. Nor
do I withhold a word of credit from our silent partner, the Senator,
who was the keystone to the arch of Hunter, Anthony & Co., standing in
the shadow in our beginning as trail drovers, backing us with his means
and credit, and fighting valiantly for our mutual interests when the
firm met its Waterloo.

The success of our drive for the summer of 1880 changed all plans for
the future. I had learned that percentage was my ablest argument in
suggesting a change of policy, and in casting up accounts for the year
we found that our heavy beeves had paid the least in the general
investment. The banking instincts of my partners were unerring, and in
view of the open market that we had enjoyed that summer it was decided
to withdraw from further contracting with the government. Our profits
for the year were dazzling, and the actual growth of our beeves in the
Outlet was in itself a snug fortune, while the five herds bought at the
eleventh hour cleared over one hundred thousand dollars, mere
pin-money. I hurried home to find that fortune favored me personally,
as the Texas and Pacific Railway had built west from Fort Worth during
the summer as far as Weatherford, while the survey on westward was
within easy striking distance of both my ranches. My wife was dazed and
delighted over the success of the summer’s drive, and when I offered
her the money with which to build a fine house at Fort Worth, she
balked, but consented to employ a tutor at the ranch for the children.

I had a little leisure time on my hands that fall. Activity in wild
lands was just beginning to be felt throughout the State, and the heavy
holders of scrip were offering to locate large tracts to suit the
convenience of purchasers. Several railroads held immense quantities of
scrip voted to them as bonuses, all the charitable institutions of the
State were endowed with liberal grants, and the great bulk of
certificates issued during the Reconstruction régime for minor purposes
had fallen into the hands of shrewd speculators. Among the latter was a
Chicago firm, who had opened an office at Fort Worth and employed a
corps of their own surveyors to locate lands for customers. They held
millions of acres of scrip, and I opened negotiations with them to
survey a number of additions to my Double Mountain range. Valuable
water-fronts were becoming rather scarce, and the legislature had
recently enacted a law setting apart every alternate section of land
for the public schools, out of which grew the State’s splendid system
of education. After the exchange of a few letters, I went to Fort Worth
and closed a contract with the Chicago firm to survey for my account
three hundred thousand acres adjoining my ranch on the Salt and Double
Mountain forks of the Brazos. In my own previous locations, the
water-front and valley lands were all that I had coveted, the tracts
not even adjoining, the one on the Salt Fork lying like a boot, while
the lower one zigzagged like a stairway in following the watercourse.
The prices agreed on were twenty cents an acre for arid land, forty for
medium, and sixty for choice tracts, every other section to be set
aside for school purposes in compliance with the law. My foreman would
designate the land wanted, and the firm agreed to put an outfit of
surveyors into the field at once.

My two ranches were proving a valuable source of profit. After starting
five herds of seventeen thousand cattle on the trail that spring, and
shipping on consignment fifteen hundred bulls to distilleries that
fall, we branded nineteen thousand five hundred calves on the two
ranges. In spite of the heavy drain, the brand was actually growing in
numbers, and as long as it remained an open country I had ample room
for my cattle even on the Clear Fork. Each stock was in splendid shape,
as the culling of the aging and barren of both sexes to Indian agencies
and distilleries had preserved the brand vigorous and productive. The
first few years of its establishment I am satisfied that the Double
Mountain ranch increased at the rate of ninety calves to the hundred
cows, and once the Clear Fork range was rid of its drones, a similar
ratio was easily maintained on that range. There was no such thing as
counting one’s holdings; the increase only was known, and these
conclusions, with due allowance for their selection, were arrived at
from the calf crop of the improved herd. Its numbers were known to an
animal, all chosen for their vigor and thrift, the increase for the
first two years averaging ninety-four per cent.

There is little rest for the wicked and none for a cowman. I was
planning an enjoyable winter, hunting with my hounds, when the former
proposition of organizing an immense cattle company was revived at
Washington. Our silent partner was sought on every hand by capitalists
eager for investment in Western enterprises, and as cattle were
absorbing general attention at the time, the tendency of speculation
was all one way. The same old crowd that we had turned down two winters
before was behind the movement, and as certain predictions that were
made at that time by Major Hunter and myself had since come true, they
were all the more anxious to secure our firm as associates. Our
experience and resultant profits from wintering cattle in southern
Kansas and the Cherokee Strip were well known to the Senator, and, to
judge from his letters and frequent conversations, he was envied by his
intimate acquaintances in Congress. In the revival of the original
proposition it was agreed that our firm might direct the management of
the enterprise, all three of us to serve on the directorate and to have
positions on the executive committee. This sounded reasonable, and as
there was a movement on foot to lease the entire Cherokee Outlet from
that Nation, if an adequate range could be secured, such a cattle
company as suggested ought to be profitable.

Major Hunter and I were a unit in business matters, and after an
exchange of views by letter, it was agreed to run down to the capital
and hold a conference with the promoters of the proposed company. My
parents were aging fast, and now that I was moderately wealthy it was a
pleasure to drop in on them for a week and hearten their declining
years. Accordingly with the expectation of combining filial duty and
business, I took Edwards with me and picked up the major at his home,
and the trio of us journeyed eastward. I was ten days late in reaching
Washington. It was the Christmas season in the valley; every darky that
our family ever owned renewed his acquaintance with Mars’ Reed, and was
remembered in a way befitting the season. The recess for the holidays
was over on my reaching the capital, yet in the mean time a crude
outline of the proposed company was under consideration. On the advice
of our silent partner, who well knew that his business associates were
slightly out of their element at social functions and might take alarm,
all banquets were cut out, and we met in little parties at cafés and
swell barrooms. In the course of a few days all the preliminaries were
agreed on, and a general conference was called.

Neither my active partner nor myself was an orator, but we had coached
the silent member of the firm to act in our behalf. The Senator was a
flowery talker, and in prefacing his remarks he delved into antiquity,
mentioning the Aryan myth wherein the drifting clouds were supposed to
be the cows of the gods, driven to and from their feeding grounds.
Coming down to a later period, he referred to cattle being figured on
Egyptian monuments raised two thousand years before the Christian era,
and to the important part they were made to play in Greek and Roman
mythology. Referring to ancient biblical times, he dwelt upon the
pastoral existence of the old patriarchs, as they peacefully led their
herds from sheltered nook to pastures green. Passing down and through
the cycles of change from ancient to modern times, he touched upon the
relation of cattle to the food supply of the world, and finally the
object of the meeting was reached. In few and concise words, an outline
of the proposed company was set forth, its objects and limitations. A
pound of beef, it was asserted, was as staple as a loaf of bread, the
production of the one was as simple as the making of the other, and
both were looked upon equally as the staff of life. Other remarks of a
general nature followed. The capital was limited to one million
dollars, though double the capitalization could have been readily
placed at the first meeting. Satisfactory committees were appointed on
organization and other preliminary steps, and books were opened for
subscriptions. Deference was shown our firm, and I subscribed the same
amount as my partners, except that half my subscription was made in the
name of George Edwards, as I wanted him on the executive committee if
the company ever got beyond its present embryo state. The trio of us
taking only one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, there was a general
scramble for the remainder.

The preliminary steps having been taken, nothing further could be done
until a range was secured. My active partner, George Edwards, and
myself were appointed on this committee, and promising to report at the
earliest convenience, we made preparations for returning West. A change
of administration was approaching, and before leaving the capital,
Edwards, my partners, and myself called on Secretaries Schurz of the
Interior Department and Ramsey of the War Department. We had done an
extensive business with both departments in the past, and were anxious
to learn the attitude of the government in regard to leasing lands from
the civilized Indian nations. A lease for the Cherokee Outlet was
pending, but for lack of precedent the retiring Secretary of the
Interior, for fear of reversal by the succeeding administration, lent
only a qualified approval of the same. There were six million acres of
land in the Outlet, a splendid range for maturing beef, and if an
adequate-sized ranch could be secured the new company could begin
operations at once. The Cherokee Nation was anxious to secure a just
rental, an association had offered $200,000 a year for the Strip, and
all that was lacking was a single word of indorsement from the paternal
government.

Hoping that the incoming administration would take favorable action
permitting civilized Indian tribes to lease their surplus lands, we
returned to our homes. The Cherokee Strip Cattle Association had been
temporarily organized some time previous,—not being chartered, however,
until March, 1883,—and was the proposed lessee of the Outlet in which
our beef ranch lay. The organization was a local one, created for the
purpose of removing all friction between the Cherokees and the
individual holders of cattle in the Strip. The officers and directors
of the association were all practical cattlemen, owners of herds and
ranges in the Outlet, paying the same rental as others into the general
treasury of the organization. Major Hunter was well acquainted with the
officers, and volunteered to take the matter up at once, by making
application in person for a large range in the Cherokee Strip. There
was no intention on the part of our firm to forsake the trail, this
cattle company being merely a side issue, and active preparations were
begun for the coming summer.

The annual cattle convention would meet again in Fort Worth in
February. With the West for our market and Texas the main source of
supply, there was no occasion for any delay in placing our contracts
for trail stock. The closing figures obtainable at Dodge and Ogalalla
the previous summer had established a new scale of prices for Texas,
and a buyer must either pay the advance or let the cattle alone.
Edwards and I were in the field fully three weeks before the convention
met, covering our old buying grounds and venturing into new ones,
advancing money liberally on all contracts, and returning to the
meeting with thirty herds secured. Major Hunter met us at the
convention, and while nothing definite was accomplished in securing a
range, a hopeful word had reached us in regard to the new
administration. Starting the new company that spring was out of the
question, and all energies were thrown into the forthcoming drive.
Representatives from the Northwest again swept down on the convention,
all Texas was there, and for three days and nights the cattle interests
carried the keys of the city. Our firm offered nothing, but, on the
other hand, bought three herds of Pan-Handle steers for acceptance
early in April. Three weeks of active work were required to receive the
cattle, the herds starting again with the grass. My individual
contingent included ten thousand three-year-old steers, two full herds
of two-year-old heifers, and seven thousand cows. The latter were
driven in two herds; extra wagons with oxen attached accompanied each
in order to save the calves, as a youngster was an assistance in
selling an old cow. Everything was routed by Doan’s Crossing, both
Edwards and myself accompanying the herds, while Major Hunter returned
as usual by rail. The new route, known as the Western trail, was more
direct than the Chisholm though beset by Comanche and Kiowa Indians
once powerful tribes, but now little more than beggars. The trip was
nearly featureless, except that during a terrible storm on Big Elk, a
number of Indians took shelter under and around one of our wagons and a
squaw was killed by lightning. For some unaccountable reason the old
dame defied the elements and had climbed up on a water barrel which was
ironed to the side of the commissary wagon, when the bolt struck her
and she tumbled off dead among her people. The incident created quite a
commotion among the Indians, who set up a keening, and the husband of
the squaw refused to be comforted until I gave him a stray cow, when he
smiled and asked for a bill of sale so that he could sell the hide at
the agency. I shook my head, and the cook told him in Spanish that no
one but the owner could give a bill of sale, when he looked
reproachfully at me and said, “Mebby so you steal him.”

I caught a stage at Camp Supply and reached Dodge a week in advance of
the herds. Major Hunter was awaiting me with the report that our
application for an extra lease in the Cherokee Strip had been refused.
Those already holding cattle in the Outlet were to retain their old
grazing grounds, and as we had no more range than we needed for the
firm’s holding of stock, we must look elsewhere to secure one for the
new company. A movement was being furthered in Washington, however, to
secure a lease from the Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes, blanket Indians,
whose reservation lay just south of the Strip, near the centre of the
Territory and between the Chisholm and Western trails. George Edwards
knew the country, having issued cows at those agencies for several
summers, and reported the country well adapted for ranging cattle. We
had a number of congressmen and several distinguished senators in our
company, and if there was such a thing as pulling the wires with the
new administration, there was little doubt but it would be done.
Kirkwood of Iowa had succeeded Schurz in the Interior Department, and
our information was that he would at least approve of any lease
secured. We were urged at the earliest opportunity to visit the
Cheyenne and Arapahoe agency, and open negotiations with the ruling
chiefs of those tribes. This was impossible just at present, for with
forty herds, numbering one hundred and twenty-six thousand cattle, on
the trail and for our beef ranch, a busy summer lay before us. Edwards
was dispatched to meet and turn off the herds intended for our range in
the Outlet, Major Hunter proceeded on to Ogalalla, while I remained at
Dodge until the last cattle arrived or passed that point.

The summer of 1881 proved a splendid market for the drover. Demand far
exceeded supply and prices soared upward, while she stuff commanded a
premium of three to five dollars a head over steers of the same age.
Pan-Handle and north Texas cattle topped the market, their quality
easily classifying them above Mexican, coast, and southern breeding.
Herds were sold and cleared out for their destination almost as fast as
they arrived; the Old West wanted the cattle and had the range and to
spare, all of which was a tempered wind to the Texas drover. I spent
several months in Dodge, shaping up our herds as they arrived, and
sending the majority of them on to Ogalalla. The cows were the last to
arrive on the Arkansas, and they sold like pies to hungry boys, while
all the remainder of my individual stock went on to the Platte and were
handled by our segundo and my active partner. Near the middle of the
summer I closed up our affairs at Dodge, and, taking the assistant
bookkeeper with me, moved up to Ogalalla. Shortly after my arrival
there, it was necessary to send a member of the firm to Miles City, on
the Yellowstone River in Montana, and the mission fell to me. Major
Hunter had sold twenty thousand threes for delivery at that point, and
the cattle were already en route to their destination on my arrival. I
took train and stage and met the herds on the Yellowstone.

On my return to Ogalalla the season was drawing to a feverish close.
All our cattle were sold, the only delay being in deliveries and
settlements. Several of our herds were received on the Platte, but, as
it happened, nearly all our sales were effected with new cattle
companies, and they had too much confidence in the ability of the Texas
outfits to deliver to assume the risk themselves. Everything was fish
to our net, and if a buyer had insisted on our delivering in Canada, I
think Major Hunter would have met the request had the price been
satisfactory. We had the outfits and horses, and our men were plainsmen
and were at home as long as they could see the north star. Edwards
attended a delivery on the Crazy Woman in Wyoming, Major Hunter made a
trip for a similar purpose to the Niobrara in Nebraska, and various
trail foremen represented the firm at minor deliveries. All trail
business was closed before the middle of September, the bookkeepers
made up their final statements, and we shook hands all round and broke
the necks of a few bottles.

But the climax of the year’s profits came from the beef ranch in the
Outlet. The Eastern markets were clamoring for well-fatted Western
stock, and we sent out train after train of double wintered beeves that
paid one hundred per cent profit on every year we had held them. The
single wintered cattle paid nearly as well, and in making ample room
for the through steers we shipped out eighteen thousand head from our
holdings on the Eagle Chief. The splendid profits from maturing beeves
on Northern ranges naturally made us anxious to start the new company.
We were doing fairly well as a firm and personally, and with our
mastery of the business it was but natural that we should enlarge
rather than restrict our operations. There had been no decrease of the
foreign capital, principally Scotch and English, for investment in
ranges and cattle in the West during the summer just past, and it was
contrary to the policy of Hunter, Anthony & Co. to take a backward
step. The frenzy for organizing cattle companies was on with a fury,
and half-breed Indians and squaw-men, with rights on reservations, were
in demand as partners in business or as managers of cattle syndicates.

An amusing situation developed during the summer of 1881 at Dodge. The
Texas drovers formed a social club and rented and furnished quarters,
which immediately became the rendezvous of the wayfaring mavericks.
Cigars and refreshments were added, social games introduced, and in
burlesque of the general craze of organizing stock companies to engage
in cattle ranching, our club adopted the name of The Juan-Jinglero
Cattle Company, Limited. The capital stock was placed at five million,
full-paid and non-assessable, with John T. Lytle as treasurer, E.G.
Head as secretary, Jess Pressnall as attorney, Captain E.G. Millet as
fiscal agent for placing the stock, and a dozen leading drovers as
vice-presidents, while the presidency fell to me. We used the best of
printed stationery, and all the papers of Kansas City and Omaha
innocently took it up and gave the new cattle company the widest
publicity. The promoters of the club intended it as a joke, but the
prominence of its officers fooled the outside public, and applications
began to pour in to secure stock in the new company. No explanation was
offered, but all applications were courteously refused, on the ground
that the capital was already over-subscribed. All members were freely
using the club stationery, thus daily advertising us far and wide,
while no end of jokes were indulged in at the expense of the burlesque
company. For instance, Major Seth Mabry left word at the club to
forward his mail to Kansas City, care of Armour’s Bank, as he expected
to be away from Dodge for a week. No sooner had he gone than every
member of the club wrote him a letter, in care of that popular bank,
addressing him as first vice-president and director of The
Juan-Jinglero Cattle Company. While attending to business Major Mabry
was hourly honored by bankers and intimate friends desiring to secure
stock in the company, to all of whom he turned a deaf ear, but kept the
secret. “I told the boys,” said Major Seth on his return, “that our
company was a close corporation, and unless we increased the capital
stock, there was no hope of them getting in on the ground floor.”

In Dodge practical joking was carried to the extreme, both by citizens
and cowmen. One night a tipsy foreman, who had just arrived over the
trail, insisted on going the rounds with a party of us, and in order to
shake him we entered a variety theatre, where my maudlin friend soon
fell asleep in his seat. The rest of us left the theatre, and after
seeing the sights I wandered back to the vaudeville, finding the
performance over and my friend still sound asleep. I awoke him, never
letting him know that I had been absent for hours, and after rubbing
his eyes open, he said: “Reed, is it all over? No dance or concert?
They give a good show here, don’t they?”




CHAPTER XIX
THE CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHOE CATTLE COMPANY


The assassination of President Garfield temporarily checked our plans
in forming the new cattle company. Kirkwood of the Interior Department
was disposed to be friendly to all Western enterprises, but our advices
from Washington anticipated a reorganization of the cabinet under
Arthur. Senator Teller was slated to succeed Kirkwood, and as there was
no question about the former being fully in sympathy with everything
pertaining to the West, every one interested in the pending project
lent his influence in supporting the Colorado man for the Interior
portfolio. Several senators and any number of representatives were
subscribers to our company, and by early fall the outlook was so
encouraging that we concluded at least to open negotiations for a lease
on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe reservation. A friendly acquaintance was
accordingly to be cultivated with the Indian agent of these tribes.
George Edwards knew him personally, and, well in advance of Major
Hunter and myself, dropped down to the agency and made known his
errand. There were already a number of cattle being held on the
reservation by squaw-men, sutlers, contractors, and other army
followers stationed at Fort Reno. The latter ignored all rights of the
tribes, and even collected a rental from outside cattle for grazing on
the reservation, and were naturally antagonistic to any interference
with their personal plans. There had been more or less friction between
the Indian agent and these usurpers of the grazing privileges, and a
proposition to lease a million acres at an annual rental of fifty
thousand dollars at once met with the sanction of the agent. Major
Hunter and I were notified of the outlook, and at the close of the
beef-shipping season we took stage for the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Agency. Our segundo had thoroughly ridden over the country, the range
was a desirable one, and we soon came to terms with the agent. He was
looked upon as a necessary adjunct to the success of our company, a
small block of stock was set aside for his account, while his
usefulness in various ways would entitle his name to grace the salary
list. For the present the opposition of the army followers was to be
ignored, as no one gave them credit for being able to thwart our plans.

The Indian agent called the head men of the two tribes together. The
powwow was held at the summer encampment of the Cheyennes, and the
principal chiefs of the Arapahoes were present. A beef was barbecued at
our expense, and a great deal of good tobacco was smoked. Aside from
the agent, we employed a number of interpreters; the council lasted two
days, and on its conclusion we held a five years’ lease, with the
privilege of renewal, on a million acres of as fine grazing land as the
West could boast. The agreement was signed by every chief present, and
it gave us the privilege to fence our range, build shelter and stabling
for our men and horses, and otherwise equip ourselves for ranching. The
rental was payable semiannually in advance, to begin with the
occupation of the country the following spring, and both parties to the
lease were satisfied with the terms and conditions. In the territory
allotted to us grazed two small stocks of cattle, one of which had
comfortable winter shelters on Quartermaster Creek. Our next move was
to buy both these brands and thus gain the good will of the only
occupants of the range. Possession was given at once, and leaving
Edwards and a few men to hold the range, the major and I returned to
Kansas and reported our success to Washington.

The organization was perfected, and The Cheyenne and Arapahoe Cattle
Company began operations with all the rights and privileges of an
individual. One fourth of the capital stock was at once paid into the
hands of the treasurer, the lease and cattle on hand were transferred
to the new company, and the executive committee began operations for
the future. Barbed wire by the carload was purchased sufficient to
build one hundred miles of four-strand fence, and arrangements were
made to have the same freighted one hundred and fifty miles inland by
wagon from the railway terminal to the new ranch on Quartermaster
Creek. Contracts were let to different men for cutting the posts and
building the fence, and one of the old trail bosses came on from Texas
and was installed as foreman of the new range. The first meeting of
stockholders—for permanent organization—was awaiting the convenience of
the Western contingent; and once Edwards was relieved, he and Major
Hunter took my proxy and went on to the national capital. Every
interest had been advanced to the farthest possible degree: surveyors
would run the lines, the posts would be cut and hauled during the
winter, and by the first of June the fences would be up and the range
ready to receive the cattle.

I returned to Texas to find everything in a prosperous condition. The
Texas and Pacific railway had built their line westward during the past
summer, crossing the Colorado River sixty miles south of headquarters
on the Double Mountain ranch and paralleling my Clear Fork range about
half that distance below. Previous to my return, the foreman on my
Western ranch shipped out four trains of sixteen hundred bulls on
consignment to our regular customer in Illinois, it being the largest
single shipment made from Colorado City since the railway reached that
point. Thrifty little towns were springing up along the railroad, land
was in demand as a result of the boom in cattle, and an air of
prosperity pervaded both city and hamlet and was reflected in a general
activity throughout the State. The improved herd was the pride of the
Double Mountain ranch, now increased by over seven hundred half-blood
heifers, while the young males were annually claimed for the
improvement of the main ranch stock. For fear of in-and-in breeding,
three years was the limit of use of any bulls among the improved
cattle, the first importation going to the main stock, and a second
consignment supplanting them at the head of the herd.

In the permanent organization of The Cheyenne and Arapahoe Cattle
Company, the position of general manager fell to me. It was my wish
that this place should have gone to Edwards, as he was well qualified
to fill it, while I was busy looking after the firm and individual
interests. Major Hunter likewise favored our segundo, but the Eastern
stockholders were insistent that the management of the new company
should rest in the hands of a successful cowman. The salary contingent
with the position was no inducement to me, but, with the pressure
brought to bear and in the interests of harmony, I was finally
prevailed on to accept the management. The proposition was a simple
one,—the maturing and marketing of beeves; we had made a success of the
firm’s beef ranch in the Cherokee Outlet, and as far as human foresight
went, all things augured for a profitable future.

There was no intention on the part of the old firm to retire from the
enviable position that we occupied as trail drovers. Thus enlarging the
scope of our operations as cowmen simply meant that greater
responsibility would rest on the shoulders of the active partners and
our trusted men. Accepting the management of the new company meant, to
a certain extent, a severance of my personal connection with the firm,
yet my every interest was maintained in the trail and beef ranch. One
of my first acts as manager of the new company was to serve a notice
through our secretary-treasurer calling for the capital stock to be
paid in on or before February 1, 1882. It was my intention to lay the
foundation of the new company on a solid basis, and with ample capital
at my command I gave the practical experiences of my life to the
venture. During the winter I bought five hundred head of choice saddle
horses, all bred in north Texas and the Pan-Handle, every one of which
I passed on personally before accepting.

Thus outfitted, I awaited the annual cattle convention. Major Hunter
and our segundo were present, and while we worked in harmony, I was as
wide awake for a bargain in the interests of the new company as they
were in that of the old firm. I let contracts for five herds of fifteen
thousand Pan-Handle three-year-old steers for delivery on the new range
in the Indian Territory, and bought nine thousand twos to be driven on
company account. There was the usual whoop and hurrah at the
convention, and when it closed I lacked only six thousand head of my
complement for the new ranch. I was confining myself strictly to north
Texas and Pan-Handle cattle, for through Montana cowmen I learned that
there was an advantage, at maturity, in the northern-bred animal. Major
Hunter and our segundo bought and contracted in a dozen counties from
the Rio Grande to Red River during the convention, and at the close we
scattered to the four winds in the interests of our respective work. In
order to give my time and attention to the new organization, I assigned
my individual cattle to the care of the firm, of which I was sending
out ten thousand three-year-old steers and two herds of aging and dry
cows. They would take their chances in the open market, though I would
have dearly loved to take over the young steers for the new company
rather than have bought their equivalent in numbers. I had a dislike to
parting with an animal of my own breeding, and to have brought these to
a ripe maturity under my own eye would have been a pleasure and a
satisfaction. But such an action might have caused distrust of my
management, and an honest name is a valuable asset in a cowman’s
capital.

My ranch foremen made up the herds and started my individual cattle on
the trail. I had previously bought the two remaining herds in Archer
and Clay counties, and in the five that were contracted for and would
be driven at company risk and account, every animal passed and was
received under my personal inspection. Three of the latter were routed
by way of the Chisholm trail, and two by the Western, while the cattle
under contract for delivery at the company ranch went by any route that
their will and pleasure saw fit. I saw very little of my old associates
during the spring months, for no sooner had I started the herds than I
hastened to overtake the lead one so as to arrive with the cattle at
their new range. I had kept in touch with the building of fences, and
on our arrival, near the middle of May, the western and southern
strings were completed. It was not my intention to inclose the entire
range, only so far as to catch any possible drift of cattle to the
south or west. A twenty-mile spur of fence on the east, with half that
line and all the north one open, would be sufficient until further
encroachments were made on our range. We would have to ride the fences
daily, anyhow, and where there was no danger of drifting, an open line
was as good as a fence.

As fast as the cattle arrived they were placed under loose herd for the
first two weeks. Early in June the last of the contracted herds arrived
and were scattered over the range, the outfits returning to Texas. I
reduced my help gradually, as the cattle quieted down and became
located, until by the middle of summer we were running the ranch with
thirty men, which were later reduced to twenty for the winter. Line
camps were established on the north and east, comfortable quarters were
built for fence-riders and their horses, and aside from headquarters
camp, half a dozen outposts were maintained. Hay contracts were let for
sufficient forage to winter forty horses, the cattle located nicely
within a month, and time rolled by without a cloud on the horizon of
the new cattle company. I paid a flying visit to Dodge and Ogalalla,
but, finding the season drawing to a close and the firm’s cattle all
sold, I contentedly returned to my accepted task. I had been buried for
several months in the heart of the Indian Territory, and to get out
where one could read the daily papers was a treat. During my
banishment, Senator Teller had been confirmed as Secretary of the
Interior, an appointment that augured well for the future of the
Cheyenne and Arapahoe Cattle Company. Advices from Washington were
encouraging, and while the new secretary lacked authority to sanction
our lease, his tacit approval was assured.

The firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co. made a barrel of money in trailing
cattle and from their beef ranch during the summer of 1882. I actually
felt grieved over my portion of the season’s work for while I had
established a promising ranch, I had little to show, the improvement
account being heavy, owing to our isolation. It was doubtful if we
could have sold the ranch and cattle at a profit, yet I was
complimented on my management, and given to understand that the
stockholders were anxious to double the capitalization should I
consent. Range was becoming valuable, and at a meeting of the directors
that fall a resolution was passed, authorizing me to secure a lease
adjoining our present one. Accordingly, when paying the second
installment of rent money, I took the Indian agent of the two tribes
with me. The leading chiefs were pleased with my punctuality in meeting
the rental, and a proposition to double their income of “grass” money
met with hearty grunts of approval. I made the council a little
speech,—my maiden endeavor,—and when it was interpreted to the
squatting circle I had won the confidence of these simple aborigines. A
duplicate of our former lease in acreage and terms was drawn up and
signed; and during the existence of our company the best teepee in the
winter or summer encampments, of either the Cheyennes or Arapahoes, was
none too good for Reed Anthony when he came with the rent money or on
other business.

Our capital stock was increased to two million dollars, in the latter
half of which, one hundred thousand was asked for and allotted to me. I
stayed on the range until the first of December, freighting in a
thousand bushels of corn for the horses and otherwise seeing that the
camps were fully provisioned before returning to my home in Texas. The
winter proved dry and cold, the cattle coming through in fine
condition, not one per cent of loss being sustained, which is a good
record for through stock. Spring came and found me on the trail, with
five herds on company account and eight herds under contract,—a total
of forty thousand cattle intended for the enlarged range. All these had
been bought north of the quarantine line in Texas, and were turned
loose with the wintered ones, fever having been unknown among our
holdings of the year before. In the mean time the eastern spur of fence
had been taken down and the southern line extended forty miles eastward
and north the same distance. The northern line of our range was left
open, the fences being merely intended to catch any possible drift from
summer storms or wintry blizzards. Yet in spite of this precaution, two
round-up outfits were kept in the field through the early summer, one
crossing into the Chickasaw Nation and the other going as far south as
Red River, gathering any possible strays from the new range.

I was giving my best services to the new company. Save for the fact
that I had capable foremen on my individual ranches in Texas, my
absence was felt in directing the interests of the firm and personally.
Major Hunter had promoted an old foreman to a trusted man, and the firm
kept up the volume of business on the trail and ranch, though I was
summoned once to Dodge and twice to Ogalalla during the summer of 1883.
Issues had arisen making my presence necessary, but after the last
trail herd was sold I returned to my post. The boom was still on in
cattle at the trail markets, and Texas was straining every energy to
supply the demand, yet the cry swept down from the North for more
cattle. I was branding twenty thousand calves a year on my two ranches,
holding the increase down to that number by sending she stuff up the
country on sale, and from half a dozen sources of income I was coining
money beyond human need or necessity. I was then in the physical prime
of my life and was master of a profitable business, while vistas of a
brilliant future opened before me on every hand.

When the round-up outfits came in for the summer, the beef shipping
began. In the first two contingents of cattle purchased in securing the
good will of the original range, we now had five thousand double
wintered beeves. It was my intention to ship out the best of the single
wintered ones, and five separate outfits were ordered into the saddle
for that purpose. With the exception of line and fence riders,—for two
hundred and forty miles were ridden daily, rain or shine, summer or
winter,—every man on the ranch took up his abode with the wagons.
Caldwell and Hunnewell, on the Kansas state line were the nearest
shipping points, requiring fifteen days’ travel with beeves, and if
there was no delay in cars, an outfit could easily gather the cattle
and make a round trip in less than a month. Three or four trainloads,
numbering from one thousand and fifty to fourteen hundred head, were
cut out at a time and handled by a single outfit. I covered the country
between the ranch and shipping points, riding night and day ahead in
ordering cars, and dropping back to the ranch to superintend the
cutting out of the next consignment of cattle. Each outfit made three
trips, shipping out fifteen thousand beeves that fall, leaving sixty
thousand cattle to winter on the range.

Several times that fall, when shipping beeves from Caldwell, we met up
with the firm’s outfits from the Eagle Chief in the Cherokee Outlet.
Naturally the different shipping crews looked over each other’s cattle,
and an intense rivalry sprang up between the different foremen and men.
The cattle of the new company outshone those of the old firm, and were
outselling them in the markets, while the former’s remudas were in a
class by themselves, all of which was salt to open wounds and magnified
the jealousy between our own outfits. The rivalry amused me, and until
petty personalities were freely indulged in, I encouraged and widened
the breach between the rival crews. The outfits under my direction had
accumulated a large supply of saddle and sleeping blankets procured
from the Indians, gaudy in color, manufactured in sizes for papoose,
squaw, and buck. These goods were of the finest quality, but during the
annual festivals of the tribe Lo’s hunger for gambling induced him to
part, for a mere song, with the blanket that the paternal government
intended should shelter him during the storms of winter. Every man in
my outfits owned from six to ten blankets, and the Eagle Chief lads
rechristened the others, including myself, with the most odious of
Indian names. In return, we refused to visit or eat at their wagons,
claiming that they lived slovenly and were lousy. The latter had an
educated Scotchman with them, McDougle by name, the ranch bookkeeper,
who always went into town in advance to order cars. McDougle had a
weakness for the cup, and on one occasion he fell into the hands of my
men, who humored his failing, marching him through the streets,
saloons, and hotels shouting at the top of his voice, “Hunter, Anthony
& Company are going to ship!” The expression became a byword among the
citizens of the town, and every reappearance of McDougle was accepted
as a herald that our outfits from the Eagle Chief were coming in with
cattle.

A special meeting of the stockholders was called at Washington that
fall, which all the Western members attended. Reports were submitted by
the secretary-treasurer and myself, the executive committee made
several suggestions, the proposition, to pay a dividend was
overwhelmingly voted down, and a further increase of the capital stock
was urged by the Eastern contingent. I sounded a note of warning,
called attention to the single cloud on the horizon, which was the
enmity that we had engendered in a clique of army followers in and
around Fort Reno. These men had in the past, were even then, collecting
toll from every other holder of cattle on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
reservation. That this coterie of usurpers hated the new company and me
personally was a well-known fact, while its influence was proving much
stronger than at first anticipated, and I cheerfully admitted the same
to the stockholders assembled. The Eastern mind, living under
established conditions, could hardly realize the chaotic state of
affairs in the West, with its vicious morals, and any attempt to levy
tribute in the form of blackmail was repudiated by the stockholders in
assembly. Major Hunter understood my position and delicately suggested
coming to terms with the company’s avowed enemies as the only feasible
solution of the impending trouble. To further enlarge our holdings of
cattle and leased range, he urged, would be throwing down the gauntlet
in defiance of the clique of army attaches. Evidently no one took us
seriously, and instead, ringing resolutions passed, enlarging the
capital stock by another million, with instructions to increase our
leases accordingly.

The Western contingent returned home with some misgivings as to the
future. Nothing was to be feared from the tribes from whom we were
leasing, nor the Comanche and his allies on the southwest, though there
were renegades in both; but the danger lay in the flotsam of the
superior race which infested the frontier. I felt no concern for my
personal welfare, riding in and out from Fort Reno at my will and
pleasure, though I well knew that my presence on the reservation was a
thorn in the flesh of my enemies. There was little to fear, however, as
the latter class of men never met an adversary in the open, but by
secret methods sought to accomplish their objects. The breach between
the Indian agent and these parasites of the army was constantly
widening, and an effort had been made to have the former removed, but
our friends at the national capital took a hand, and the movement was
thwarted. Fuel was being constantly added to the fire, and on our
taking a third lease on a million acres, the smoke gave way to flames.
Our usual pacific measures were pursued, buying out any cattle in
conflict, but fencing our entire range. The last addition to our
pasture embraced a strip of country twenty miles wide, lying north of
and parallel to the two former leases, and gave us a range on which no
animal need ever feel the restriction of a fence. Ten to fifteen acres
were sufficient to graze a steer the year round, but owing to the fact
that we depended entirely on running water, much of the range would be
valueless during the dry summer months. I readily understood the
advantages of a half-stocked range, and expected in the future to allow
twenty-five acres in the summer and thirty in the winter to the
pasture’s holdings. Everything being snug for the winter, orders were
left to ride certain fences twice a day,—lines where we feared
fence-cutting,—and I took my departure for home.




CHAPTER XX
HOLDING THE FORT


As in many other lines of business, there were ebb and flood tides in
cattle. The opening of the trail through to the extreme Northwest gave
the range live stock industry its greatest impetus. There have always
been seasons of depression and advances, the cycles covering periods of
ten to a dozen years, the duration of the ebb and stationary tides
being double that of the flood. Outside influences have had their
bearing, and the wresting of an empire from its savage possessors in
the West, and its immediate occupancy by the dominant race in ranching,
stimulated cattle prices far beyond what was justified by the laws of
supply and demand. The boom in live stock in the Southwest which began
in the early ’80’s stands alone in the market variations of the last
half-century. And as if to rebuke the folly of man and remind him that
he is but grass, Nature frowned with two successive severe winters,
humbling the kings and princes of the range.

Up to and including the winter of 1883-84 the loss among range cattle
was trifling. The country was new and open, and when the stock could
drift freely in advance of storms, their instincts carried them to the
sheltering coulees, cut banks, and broken country until the blizzard
had passed. Since our firm began maturing beeves ten years before, the
losses attributable to winter were never noticed, nor did they in the
least affect our profits. On my ranches in Texas the primitive law of
survival of the fittest prevailed, the winter-kill falling sorest among
the weak and aging cows. My personal loss was always heavier than that
of the firm, owing to my holdings being mixed stock, and due to the
fact that an animal in the South never took on tallow enough to assist
materially in resisting a winter. The cattle of the North always had
the flesh to withstand the rigors of the wintry season, dry, cold, zero
weather being preferable to rain, sleet, and the northers that swept
across the plains of Texas. The range of the new company was
intermediate between the extremes of north and south, and as we handled
all steer cattle, no one entertained any fear from the climate.

I passed a comparatively idle winter at my home on the Clear Fork.
Weekly reports reached me from the new ranch, several of which caused
uneasiness, as our fences were several times cut on the southwest, and
a prairie fire, the work of an incendiary, broke out at midnight on our
range. Happily the wind fell, and by daybreak the smoke arose in
columns, summoning every man on the ranch, and the fire was soon
brought under control. As a precaution to such a possibility we had
burned fire-guards entirely around the range by plowing furrows one
hundred feet apart and burning out the middle. Taking advantage of
creeks and watercourses, natural boundaries that a prairie fire could
hardly jump, we had cut and quartered the pasture with fire-guards in
such a manner that, unless there was a concerted action on the part of
any hirelings of our enemies, it would have been impossible to have
burned more than a small portion of the range at any one time. But
these malicious attempts at our injury made the outfit doubly vigilant,
and cutting fences and burning range would have proven unhealthful
occupations had the perpetrators, red or white, fallen into the hands
of the foreman and his men. I naturally looked on the bright side of
the future, and in the hope that, once the entire range was fenced, we
could keep trespassers out, I made preparations for the spring drive.

With the first appearance of grass, all the surplus horses were ordered
down to Texas from the company ranch. There was a noticeable lull at
the cattle convention that spring, and an absence of buyers from the
Northwest was apparent, resulting in little or no trouble in
contracting for delivery on the ranch, and in buying on company account
at the prevailing prices of the spring before. Cattle were high enough
as it was; in fact the market was top-heavy and wobbling on its feet,
though the brightest of us cowmen naturally supposed that current
values would always remain up in the pictures. As manager of the new
company, I bought and contracted for fifty thousand steers, ten herds
of which were to be driven on company account. All the cattle came from
the Pan-Handle and north Texas, above the quarantine line, the latter
precaution being necessary in order to avoid any possibility of fever,
in mixing through and northern wintered stock. With the opening of
spring two of my old foremen were promoted to assist in the receiving,
as my contracts called for everything to be passed upon on the home
range before starting the herds. Some little friction had occurred the
summer before with the deliveries at the company ranch in an effort to
turn in short-aged cattle. All contracts this year and the year before
called for threes, and frequently several hundred long twos were found
in a single herd, and I refused to accept them unless at the customary
difference in price. More or less contention arose, and, for the
present spring, I proposed to curb all friction at home, allotting to
my assistants the receiving of the herds for company risk, and
personally passing on seven under contract.

The original firm was still in the field, operating exclusively in
central Texas and Pan-Handle cattle. Both my ranches sent out their
usual contribution of steers and cows, consigned to the care of the
firm, which was now giving more attention to quality than quantity. The
absence of the men from the Northwest at the cattle convention that
spring was taken as an omen that the upper country would soon be
satiated, a hint that retrenchment was in order, and a better class of
stock was to receive the firm’s attention in its future operations. My
personal contingent of steers would have passed muster in any country,
and as to my consignment of cows, they were pure velvet, and could defy
competition in the upper range markets. Everything moved out with the
grass as usual, and when the last of the company herds had crossed Red
River, I rode through to the new ranch. The north and east line of
fence was nearing completion, the western string was joined to the
original boundary, and, with the range fully inclosed, my ranch
foreman, the men, and myself looked forward to a prosperous future.

The herds arrived and were located, the usual round-up outfits were
sent out wherever there was the possibility of a stray, and we settled
down in pastoral security. The ranch outfit had held their own during
the winter just passed, had trailed down stolen cattle, and knew to a
certainty who the thieves were and where they came from. Except what
had been slaughtered, all the stock was recovered, and due notice given
to offenders that Judge Lynch would preside should any one suspected of
fence-cutting, starting incendiary fires, or stealing cattle be caught
within the boundaries of our leases. Fortunately the other cowmen were
tiring of paying tribute to the usurpers, and our determined stand
heartened holders of cattle on the reservation, many of whom were now
seeking leases direct from the tribes. I made it my business personally
to see every other owner of live stock occupying the country, and urge
upon them the securing of leases and making an organized fight for our
safety. Lessees in the Cherokee Strip had fenced as a matter of
convenience and protection, and I urged the same course on the Cheyenne
and Arapahoe reservation, offering the free use of our line fences to
any one who wished to adjoin our pastures. In the course of a month,
nearly every acre of the surrounding country was taken, only one or two
squaw-men holding out, and these claiming their ranges under Indian
rights. The movement was made so aggressive that the usurpers were
driven into obscurity, never showing their hand again until after the
presidential election that fall.

During the summer a deputation of Cheyennes and Arapahoes visited me at
ranch headquarters. On the last lease taken, and now inclosed in our
pasture, there were a number of wild plum groves, covering thousands of
acres, and the Indians wanted permission to gather the ripening fruit.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, in granting the request I made it
a point to fortify the friendly relations, not only with ourselves, but
with all other cattlemen on the reservation. Ten days’ permission was
given to gather the wild plums, camps were allotted to the Indians, and
when the fruit was all gathered, I barbecued five stray beeves in
parting with my guests. The Indian agent and every cowman on the
reservation were invited, and at the conclusion of the festival the
Quaker agent made the assembled chiefs a fatherly talk. Torpid from
feasting, the bucks grunted approval of the new order of things, and an
Arapahoe chief, responding in behalf of his tribe, said that the rent
from the grass now fed his people better than under the old buffalo
days. Pledging anew the fraternal bond, and appointing the gathering of
the plums as an annual festival thereafter, the tribes took up their
march in returning to their encampment.

I was called to Dodge but once during the summer of 1884. My steers had
gone to Ogalalla and were sold, the cows remaining at the lower market,
all of which had changed owners with the exception of one thousand
head. The demand had fallen off, and a dull close of the season was
predicted, but I shaded prices and closed up my personal holdings
before returning. Several of the firm’s steer herds were unsold at
Dodge, but on the approach of the shipping season I returned to my
task, and we began to move out our beeves with seven outfits in the
saddle. Four round trips were made to the crew, shipping out twenty
thousand double and half that number of single wintered cattle. The
grass had been fine that summer, and the beeves came up in prime
condition, always topping the market as range cattle at the markets to
which they were consigned. That branch of the work over, every energy
was centred in making the ranch snug for the winter. Extra fire-guards
were plowed, and the middles burned out, cutting the range into a dozen
parcels, and thus, as far as possible, the winter forage was secured
for our holdings of eighty thousand cattle. Hay and grain contracts had
been previously let, the latter to be freighted in from southern
Kansas, when the news reached us that the recent election had resulted
in a political change of administration. What effect this would have on
our holding cattle on Indian lands was pure conjecture, though our
enemies came out of hiding, gloating over the change, and swearing
vengeance on the cowmen on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe reservation.

The turn of the tide in cattle prices was noticeable at all the range
markets that fall. A number of herds were unsold at Dodge, among them
being one of ours, but we turned it southeast early in September and
wintered it on our range in the Outlet. The largest drive in the
history of the trail had taken place that summer, and the failure of
the West and Northwest to absorb the entire offerings of the drovers
made the old firm apprehensive of the future. There was a noticeable
shrinkage in our profits from trail operations, but with the
supposition that it was merely an off year, the matter was passed for
the present. It was the opinion of the directors of the new company
that no dividends should he declared until our range was stocked to its
full capacity, or until there was a comfortable surplus. This suited
me, and, returning home, I expected to spend the winter with my family,
now increased to four girls and six boys.

But a cowman can promise himself little rest or pleasure. After a
delightful week spent on my western ranch, I returned to the Clear
Fork, and during the latter part of November a terrible norther swept
down and caught me in a hunting-camp twenty-five miles from home. My
two oldest boys were along, a negro cook, and a few hands, and in spite
of our cosy camp, we all nearly froze to death. Nothing but a roaring
fire saved us during the first night of its duration, and the next
morning we saddled our horses and struck out for home, riding in the
face of a sleet that froze our clothing like armor. Norther followed
norther, and I was getting uneasy about the company ranch, when I
received a letter from Major Hunter, stating that he was starting for
our range in the Outlet and predicting a heavy loss of cattle.
Headquarters in the Indian Territory were fully two hundred and fifty
miles due north, and within an hour after receiving the letter, I
started overland on horseback, using two of my best saddlers for the
trip. To have gone by rail and stage would have taken four days, and if
fair weather favored me I could nearly divide that time by half.
Changing horses frequently, one day out I had left Red River in my
rear, but before me lay an uninhabited country, unless I veered from my
course and went through the Chickasaw Nation. For the sake of securing
grain for the horses, this tack was made, following the old Chisholm
trail for nearly one hundred miles. The country was in the grip of
winter, sleet and snow covering the ground, with succor for man and
horse far apart. Mumford Johnson’s ranch on the Washita River was
reached late the second night, and by daybreak the next morning I was
on the trail, making Quartermaster Creek by one o’clock that day.
Fortunately no storms were encountered en route, but King Winter ruled
the range with an iron hand, fully six inches of snow covering the
pasture, over which was a crusted sleet capable of carrying the weight
of a beef. The foreman and his men were working night and day to succor
the cattle. Between storms, two crews of the boys drifted everything
back from the south line of fence, while others cut ice and opened the
water to the perishing animals. Scarcity of food was the most serious
matter; being unable to reach the grass under its coat of sleet and
snow, the cattle had eaten the willows down to the ground. When a boy
in Virginia I had often helped cut down basswood and maple trees in the
spring for the cattle to browse upon, and, sending to the agency for
new axes, I armed every man on the ranch with one, and we began felling
the cottonwood and other edible timber along the creeks and rivers in
the pasture. The cattle followed the axemen like sheep, eating the
tender branches of the softer woods to the size of a man’s wrist, the
crash of a falling tree bringing them by the dozens to browse and stay
their hunger. I swung an axe with the men, and never did slaves under
the eye of a task-master work as faithfully or as long as we did in
cutting ice and falling timber in succoring our holding of cattle.
Several times the sun shone warm for a few days, melting the snow off
the southern slopes, when we took to our saddles, breaking the crust
with long poles, the cattle following to where the range was bared that
they might get a bit of grass. Had it not been for a few such sunny
days, our loss would have been double what it was; but as it was, with
the general range in the clutches of sleet and snow for over fifty
days, about twenty per cent, of our holdings were winter-killed,
principally of through cattle.

Our saddle stock, outside of what was stabled and grain-fed, braved the
winter, pawing away the snow and sleet in foraging for their
subsistence. A few weeks of fine balmy weather in January and February
followed the distressing season of wintry storms, the cattle taking to
the short buffalo-grass and rapidly recuperating. But just when we felt
that the worst was over, simultaneously half a dozen prairie fires
broke out in different portions of the pasture, calling every man to a
fight that lasted three days. Our enemies, not content with havoc
wrought by the elements, were again in the saddle, striking in the dark
and escaping before dawn, inflicting injuries on dumb animals in
harassing their owners. That it was the work of hireling renegades,
more likely white than red, there was little question; but the
necessity of preserving the range withheld us from trailing them down
and meting out a justice they so richly deserved. Dividing the ranch
help into half a dozen crews, we rode to the burning grass and began
counter-firing and otherwise resorting to every known method in
checking the consuming flames. One of the best-known devices, in short
grass and flank-fires, was the killing of a light beef, beheading and
splitting it open, leaving the hide to hold the parts together. By
turning the animal flesh side down and taking ropes from a front and
hind foot to the pommels of two saddles, the men, by riding apart,
could straddle the flames, virtually rubbing the fire out with the
dragging carcass. Other men followed with wet blankets and beat out any
remaining flames, the work being carried on at a gallop, with a change
of horses every mile or so, and the fire was thus constantly hemmed in
to a point. The variations of the wind sometimes entirely checked all
effort, between midnight and morning being the hours in which most
progress was accomplished. No sooner was one section of the fire
brought under control than we divided the forces and hastened to lend
assistance to the next nearest section, the cooks with commissaries
following up the firefighters. While a single blade of grass was
burning, no one thought of sleeping, and after one third of the range
was consumed, the last of the incendiary fires was stamped out, when we
lay down around the wagons and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

There was still enough range saved to bring the cattle safely through
until spring. Leaving the entire ranch outfit to ride the
fences—several lines of which were found cut by the renegades in
entering and leaving the pasture—and guard the gates, I took train and
stage for the Grove. Major Hunter had returned from the firm’s ranch in
the Strip, where heavy losses were encountered, though it then rested
in perfect security from any influence except the elements. With me,
the burning of the company range might be renewed at any moment, in
which event we should have to cut our own fences and let the cattle
drift south through an Indian country, with nothing to check them
except Red River. A climax was approaching in the company’s existence,
and the delay of a day or week might mean inestimable loss. In cunning
and craftiness our enemies were expert; they knew their control of the
situation fully, and nothing but cowardice would prevent their striking
the final, victorious blow. My old partner and I were a unit as to the
only course to pursue,—one which meant a dishonorable compromise with
our enemies, as the only hope of saving the cattle. A wire was
accordingly sent East, calling a special meeting of the stockholders.
We followed ourselves within an hour. On arriving at the national
capital, we found that all outside shareholders had arrived in advance
of ourselves, and we went into session with closed doors and the
committee on entertainment and banquets inactive. In as plain words as
the English language would permit, as general manager of the company, I
stated the cause for calling the meeting, and bluntly suggested the
only avenue of escape. Call it tribute, blackmail, or what you will, we
were at the mercy of as heartless a set of scoundrels as ever missed a
rope, whose mercenaries, like the willing hirelings that they were,
would cheerfully do the bidding of their superiors. Major Hunter, in
his remarks before the meeting, modified my rather radical statement,
with the more plausible argument that this tribute money was merely
insurance, and what was five or ten thousand dollars a year, where an
original investment of three millions and our surplus were in jeopardy?
Would any line—life, fire, or marine—carry our risk as cheaply? These
men had been receiving toll from our predecessors, and were then in a
position to levy tribute or wreck the company.

Notwithstanding our request for immediate action, an adjournment was
taken. A wire could have been sent to a friend in Fort Reno that night,
and all would have gone well for the future security of the Cheyenne
and Arapahoe Cattle Company. But I lacked authority to send it, and the
next morning at the meeting, the New England blood that had descended
from the Puritan Fathers was again in the saddle, shouting the old
slogans of no compromise while they had God and right on their side.
Major Hunter and I both keenly felt the rebuke, but personal friends
prevented an open rupture, while the more conservative ones saw
brighter prospects in the political change of administration which was
soon to assume the reins of government. A number of congressmen and
senators among our stockholders were prominent in the ascendant party,
and once the new régime took charge, a general shake-up of affairs in
and around Fort Reno was promised. I remembered the old maxim of a new
broom; yet in spite of the blandishments that were showered down in
silencing my active partner and me, I could almost smell the burning
range, see the horizon lighted up at night by the licking flames, hear
the gloating of our enemies, in the hour of their victory, and the
click of the nippers of my own men, in cutting the wire that the cattle
might escape and live.

I left Washington somewhat heartened. Major Hunter, ever inclined to
look on the bright side of things, believed that the crisis had passed,
even bolstering up my hopes in the next administration. It was the
immediate necessity that was worrying me, for it meant a summer’s work
to gather our cattle on Red River and in the intermediate country, and
bring them back to the home range. The mysterious absence of any report
from my foreman on my arrival at the Grove did not mislead me to
believe that no news was good news, and I accordingly hurried on to the
front. There was a marked respect shown me by the civilians located at
Fort Reno, something unusual; but I hurried on to the agency, where all
was quiet, and thence to ranch headquarters. There I learned that a
second attempt to burn the range had been frustrated; that one of our
boys had shot dead a white man in the act of cutting the east string of
fence; that the same night three fires had broken out in the pasture,
and that a squad of our men, in riding to the light, had run afoul of
two renegade Cheyennes armed with wire-nippers, whose remains then lay
in the pasture unburied. Both horses were captured and identified as
not belonging to the Indians, while their owners were well known.
Fortunately the wind veered shortly after the fires started, driving
the flames back against the plowed guards, and the attempt to burn the
range came to naught. A salutary lesson had been administered to the
hirelings of the usurpers, and with a new moon approaching its full, it
was believed that night marauding had ended for that winter. None of
our boys recognized the white man, there being no doubt but he was
imported for the purpose, and he was buried where he fell; but I
notified the Indian agent, who sent for the remains of the two
renegades and took possession of the horses. The season for the
beginning of active operations on trail and for ranch account was fast
approaching, and, leaving the boys to hold the fort during my absence,
I took my private horses and turned homeward.




CHAPTER XXI
THE FRUITS OF CONSPIRACY


With a loss of fully fifteen thousand cattle staring me in the face, I
began planning to recuperate the fortunes of the company. The cattle
convention, which was then over, was conspicuous by the absence of all
Northern buyers. George Edwards had attended the meeting, was cautious
enough to make no contracts for the firm, and fully warned me of the
situation. I was in a quandary; with an idle treasury of over a
million, my stewardship would be subject to criticism unless I became
active in the interests of my company. On the other hand, a dangerous
cloud hung over the range, and until that was removed I felt like a man
who was sent for and did not want to go. The falling market in Texas
was an encouragement, but my experience of the previous winter had had
a dampening effect, and I was simply drifting between adverse winds.
But once it was known that I had returned home, my old customers
approached me by letter and personally, anxious to sell and contract
for immediate delivery. Trail drovers were standing aloof, afraid of
the upper markets, and I could have easily bought double my
requirements without leaving the ranch. The grass was peeping here and
there, favorable reports came down from the reservation, and still I
sat idle.

The appearance of Major Hunter acted like a stimulus. Reports about the
new administration were encouraging—not from our silent partner, who
was not in sympathy with the dominant party, but from other prominent
stockholders who were. The original trio—the little major, our segundo,
and myself—lay around under the shade of the trees several days and
argued the possibilities that confronted us on trail and ranch. Edwards
reproached me for my fears, referring to the time, nineteen years
before, when as common hands we fought our way across the Staked Plain
and delivered the cattle safely at Fort Sumner. He even taunted me with
the fact that our employers then never hesitated, even if half the
Comanche tribe were abroad, roving over their old hunting grounds, and
that now I was afraid of a handful of army followers, contractors, and
owners of bar concessions. Edwards knew that I would stand his censure
and abuse as long as the truth was told, and with the major acting as
peacemaker between us I was finally whipped into line. With a fortune
already in hand, rounding out my forty-fifth year, I looted the
treasury by contracting and buying sixty thousand cattle for my
company.

The surplus horses were ordered down from above, and the spring
campaign began in earnest. The old firm was to confine its operations
to fine steers, handling my personal contribution as before, while I
rallied my assistants, and we began receiving the contracted cattle at
once. Observation had taught me that in wintering beeves in the North
it was important to give the animals every possible moment of time to
locate before the approach of winter. The instinct of a dumb beast is
unexplainable yet unerring. The owner of a horse may choose a range
that seems perfect in every appointment, but the animal will spurn the
human selection and take up his abode on some flinty hills, and there
thrive like a garden plant. Cattle, especially steers, locate slowly,
and a good summer’s rest usually fortifies them with an inward coat of
tallow and an outward one of furry robe, against the wintry storms. I
was anxious to get the through cattle to the new range as soon as
practicable, and allowed the sellers to set their dates as early as
possible, many of them agreeing to deliver on the reservation as soon
as the middle of May. Ten wagons and a thousand horses came down during
the last days of March, and early in April started back with thirty
thousand cattle at company risk.

All animals were passed upon on the Texas range, and on their arrival
at the pasture there was little to do but scatter them over the ranch
to locate. I reached the reservation with the lead herd, and was glad
to learn from neighboring cowmen that a suggestion of mine, made the
fall before, had taken root. My proposition was to organize all the
cattlemen on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe reservation into an association
for mutual protection. By coöperation we could present a united front
to our enemies, the usurpers, and defy them in their nefarious schemes
of exacting tribute. Other ranges besides ours had suffered by fire and
fence-cutters during the winter just passed, and I returned to find my
fellow cowmen a unit for organization. A meeting was called at the
agency, every owner of cattle on the reservation responded, and an
association was perfected for our mutual interest and protection. The
reservation was easily capable of carrying half a million cattle, the
tribes were pleased with the new order of things, and we settled down
with a feeling of security not enjoyed in many a day.

But our tranquil existence received a shock within a month, when a
cowboy from a neighboring ranch, and without provocation, was shot down
by Indian police in a trader’s store at the agency. The young fellow
was a popular Texan, and as nearly all the men employed on the
reservation came from the South, it was with difficulty that our boys
were restrained from retaliating. Those from Texas had little or no
love for an Indian anyhow, and nothing but the plea of policy in
preserving peaceful relations with the tribes held them in check. The
occasional killing of cattle by Indians was overlooked, until they
became so bold as to leave the hides and heads in the pasture, when an
appeal was made to the agent. But the aborigine, like his white
brother, has sinful ways, and the influence of one evil man can readily
combat the good advice of half a dozen right-minded ones, and the
Quaker agent found his task not an easy one. Cattle were being killed
in remote and unfrequented places, and still we bore with it, the
better class of Indians, however, lending their assistance to check the
abuse. On one occasion two boys and myself detected a band of five
young bucks skinning a beef in our pasture, and nothing but my presence
prevented a clash between my men and the thieves. But it was near the
wild-plum season, and as we were making preparations to celebrate that
event, the killing of a few Indians might cause distrust, and we
dropped out of sight and left them to the enjoyment of their booty. It
was pure policy on my part, as we could shame or humble the Indian, and
if the abuse was not abated, we could remunerate ourselves by
with-holding from the rent money the value of cattle killed.

Our organization for mutual protection was accepted by our enemies as a
final defiance. A pirate fights as valiantly as if his cause were just,
and, through intermediaries, the gauntlet was thrown back in our faces
and notice served that the conflict had reached a critical stage. I
never discussed the issue direct with members of the clique, as they
looked upon me as the leader in resisting their levy of tribute, but
indirectly their grievances were made known. We were accused of having
taken the bread out of their very mouths, which was true in a sense,
but we had restored it tenfold where it was entitled to go,—among the
Indians. With the exception of an occasional bottle of whiskey, none of
the tribute money went to the tribes, but was divided among the
usurpers. They waxed fat in their calling and were insolent and
determined, while our replies to all overtures looking to peace were
firm and to the point. Even at that late hour I personally knew that
the clique had strength in reserve, and had I enjoyed the support of my
company, would willingly have stood for a compromise. But it was out of
the question to suggest it, and, trusting to the new administration, we
politely told them to crack their whips.

The _fiesta_ which followed the plum gathering was made a notable
occasion. All the cowmen on the reservation had each contributed a beef
to the barbecue, the agent saw to it that all the principal chiefs of
both tribes were present, and after two days of feasting, the agent
made a Quaker talk, insisting that the bond between the tribes and the
cowmen must be observed to the letter. He reviewed at length the
complaints that had reached him of the killing of cattle, traceable to
the young and thoughtless, and pointed out the patience of the
cattlemen in not retaliating, but in spreading a banquet instead to
those who had wronged them. In concluding, he warned them that the
patience of the white man had a limit, and, while they hoped to live in
peace, unless the stealing of beef was stopped immediately, double the
value of the cattle killed would be withheld from the next payment of
grass money. It was in the power of the chiefs present to demand this
observance of faith among their young men, if the bond to which their
signatures were attached was to be respected in the future. The leading
chiefs of both tribes spoke in defense, pleading their inability to
hold their young men in check as long as certain evil influences were
at work among their people. The love of gambling and strong drink was
yearly growing among their men, making them forget their spoken word,
until they were known as thieves and liars. The remedy lay in removing
these evil spirits and trusting the tribes to punish their own
offenders, as the red man knew no laws except his own.

The festival was well worth while and augured hopefully for the future.
Clouds were hovering on the horizon, however, and, while at Ogalalla, I
received a wire that a complaint had been filed against us at the
national capital, and that the President had instructed the
Lieutenant-General of the Army to make an investigation. Just what the
inquiry was to be was a matter of conjecture; possibly to determine who
was supplying the Indians with whiskey, or probably our friends at
Washington were behind the movement, and the promised shake-up of army
followers in and around Fort Reno was materializing. I attended to some
unsettled business before returning, and, on my arrival at the
reservation, a general alarm was spreading among the cattle interests,
caused by the cock-sure attitude of the usurpers and a few casual
remarks that had been dropped. I was appealed to by my fellow cowmen,
and, in turn, wired our friends at Washington, asking that our
interests be looked after and guarded. Pending a report, General P.H.
Sheridan arrived with a great blare of trumpets at Fort Reno for the
purpose of holding the authorized investigation. The general’s brother,
Michael, was the recognized leader of the clique of army followers, and
was interested in the bar concessions under the sutler. Matters,
therefore, took on a serious aspect. All the cowmen on the reservation
came in, expecting to be called before the inquiry, as it was then
clear that a fight must be made to protect our interests. No
opportunity, however, was given the Indians or cattlemen to present
their side of the question, and when a committee of us cowmen called on
General Sheridan we were cordially received and politely informed that
the investigation was private. I believe that forty years have so
tempered the animosities of the Civil War that an honest opinion is
entitled to expression. And with due consideration to the record of a
gallant soldier, I submit the question, Were not the owners of half a
million cattle on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe reservation entitled to a
hearing before a report was made that resulted in an order for their
removal?

I have seen more trouble at a country dance, more bloodshed in a family
feud, than ever existed or was spilled on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
reservation. The Indians were pleased, the lessees were satisfied, yet
by artfully concealing the true cause of any and all strife, a report,
every word of which was as sweet as the notes of a flute, was made to
the President, recommending the removal of the cattle. It was found
that there had been a gradual encroachment on the liberties of the
tribes; that the rental received from the surplus pasture lands had a
bad tendency on the morals of the Indians, encouraging them in
idleness; and that the present system retarded all progress in
agriculture and the industrial arts. The report was superficial,
religiously concealing the truth, but dealing with broad generalities.
Had the report emanated from some philanthropical society, it would
have passed unnoticed or been commented on as an advance in the
interest of a worthy philanthropy but taken as a whole, it was a
splendid specimen of the use to which words can be put in concealing
the truth and cloaking dishonesty.

An order of removal by the President followed the report. Had we been
subjects of a despotic government and bowed our necks like serfs, the
matter would have ended in immediate compliance with the order. But we
prided ourselves on our liberties as Americans, and an appeal was to be
made to the first citizen of the land, the President of the United
States. A committee of Western men were appointed, which would be
augmented by others at the national capital, and it was proposed to lay
the bare facts in the chief executive’s hands and at least ask for a
modification of the order. The latter was ignorant in its conception,
brutal and inhuman in its intent, ending in the threat to use the
military arm of the government, unless the terms and conditions were
complied with within a given space of time. The Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Cattle Company, alone, not to mention the other members of our
association equally affected, had one hundred and twenty-five thousand
head of beeves and through steers on its range, and unless some relief
was granted, a wayfaring man though a fool could see ruin and death and
desolation staring us in the face. Fortunately Major Hunter had the
firm’s trail affairs so well in hand that Edwards could close up the
business, thus relieving my active partner to serve on the committee,
he and four others offering to act in behalf of our association in
calling on the President. I was among the latter, the only one in the
delegation from Texas, and we accordingly made ready and started for
Washington.

Meanwhile I had left orders to start the shipping with a vengeance. The
busy season was at hand on the beef ranges, and men were scarce; but I
authorized the foreman to comb the country, send to Dodge if necessary,
and equip ten shipping outfits and keep a constant string of cattle
moving to the markets. We had about sixty-five thousand single and
double wintered beeves, the greater portion of which were in prime
condition; but it was the through cattle that were worrying me, as they
were unfit to ship and it was too late in the season to relocate them
on a new range. But that blessed hope that springs eternal in the human
breast kept us hopeful that the President had been deceived into
issuing his order, and that he would right all wrongs. The more
sanguine ones of the Western delegation had matters figured down to a
fraction; they believed that once the chief executive understood the
true cause of the friction existing on the reservation, apologies would
follow, we should all be asked to remain for lunch, and in the most
democratic manner imaginable everything would be righted. I had no
opinions, but kept anticipating the worst; for if the order stood
unmodified, go we must and in the face of winter and possibly
accompanied by negro troops. To return to Texas meant to scatter the
cattle to the four winds; to move north was to court death unless an
open winter favored us.

On our arrival at Washington, all senators and congressmen shareholders
in our company met us by appointment. It was an inactive season at the
capital, and hopes were entertained that the President would grant us
an audience at once; but a delay of nearly a week occurred. In the mean
time several conferences were held, at which a general review of the
situation was gone over, and it was decided to modify our demands,
asking for nothing personally, only a modification of the order in the
interest of humanity to dumb animals. Before our arrival, a congressman
and two senators, political supporters of the chief executive, had
casually called to pay their respects, and incidentally inquired into
the pending trouble between the cattlemen and the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Indians. Reports were anything but encouraging; the well-known
obstinacy of the President was admitted; it was also known that he
possessed a rugged courage in pursuance of an object or purpose. Those
who were not in political sympathy with the party in power
characterized the President as an opinionated executive, and could see
little or no hope in a personal appeal.

However, the matter was not to be dropped. The arrival of a deputation
of cattlemen from the West was reported by the press, their purposes
fully, set forth, and in the interim of waiting for an appointment, all
of us made hay with due diligence. Major Hunter and I had a passing
acquaintance at both the War and Interior departments, and taking along
senators and representatives in political sympathy with the heads of
those offices, we called and paid our respects. A number of old
acquaintances were met, hold-overs from the former régime, and a
cordial reception was accorded us. Now that the boom in cattle was
over, we expressed a desire to resume our former business relations as
contractors with the government. At both departments, the existent
trouble on the Indian reservations was well known, and a friendly
inquiry resulted, which gave us an opportunity to explain our position
fully. There was a hopeful awakening to the fact that there had been a
conspiracy to remove us, and the most friendly advances of assistance
were proffered in setting the matter right. Public opinion is a strong
factor, and with the press of the capital airing our grievances daily,
sympathy and encouragement were simply showered down upon us.

Finally an audience with the President was granted. The Western
delegation was increased by senators and representatives until the
committee numbered an even dozen. Many of the latter were personal
friends and ardent supporters of the chief executive. The rangemen were
introduced, and we proceeded at once to the matter at issue. A
congressman from New York stated the situation clearly, not mincing his
words in condemning the means and procedure by which this order was
secured, and finally asking for its revocation, or a modification that
would permit the evacuation of the country without injury to the owners
and their herds. Major Hunter, in replying to a question of the
President, stated our position: that we were in no sense intruders,
that we paid our rental in advance, with the knowledge and sanction of
the two preceding Secretaries of the Interior, and only for lack of
precedent was their indorsement of our leases withheld. It soon became
evident that countermanding the order was out of the question, as to
vacillate or waver in a purpose, right or wrong, was not a
characteristic of the chief executive. Our next move was for a
modification of the order, as its terms required us to evacuate that
fall, and every cowman present accented the fact that to move cattle in
the mouth of winter was an act that no man of experience would
countenance. Every step, the why and wherefore, must be explained to
the President, and at the request of the committee, I went into detail
in making plain what the observations of my life had taught me of the
instincts and habits of cattle,—why in the summer they took to the
hills, mesas, and uplands, where the breezes were cooling and protected
them from insect life; their ability to foretell a storm in winter and
seek shelter in coulees and broken country. I explained that none of
the cattle on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe reservation were native to that
range, but were born anywhere from three to five hundred miles to the
south, fully one half of them having arrived that spring; that to
acquaint an animal with its new range, in cattle parlance to “locate”
them, was very important; that every practical cowman moved his herds
to a new range with the grass in the spring, in order that ample time
should be allowed to acclimate and familiarize them with such shelters
as nature provided to withstand the storms of winter. In concluding, I
stated that if the existent order could be so modified as to permit all
through cattle and those unfit for market to remain on their present
range for the winter, we would cheerfully evacuate the country with the
grass in the spring. If such relief could be consistently granted, it
would no doubt save the lives of hundreds and thousands of cattle.

The President evidently was embarrassed by the justice of our prayer.
He consulted with members of the committee, protesting that he should
be spared from taking what would be considered a backward step, and
after a stormy conference with intimate friends, lasting fully an hour,
he returned and in these words refused to revoke or modify his order:
“If I had known,” said he, “what I know now, I never would have made
the order; but having made it, I will stand by it.”

Laying aside all commercial considerations, we had made our entreaty in
behalf of dumb animals, and the President’s answer angered a majority
of the committee. I had been rebuked too often in the past by my
associates easily to lose my temper, and I naturally looked at those
whose conscience balked at paying tribute, while my sympathies were
absorbed for the future welfare of a quarter-million cattle affected by
the order. We broke into groups in taking our leave, and the only
protest that escaped any one was when the York State representative
refused the hand of the executive, saying, “Mr. President, I have my
opinion of a man who admits he is wrong and refuses to right it.” Two
decades have passed since those words, rebuking wrong in high places,
were uttered, and the speaker has since passed over to the silent
majority. I should feel that these memoirs were incomplete did I not
mention the sacrifice and loss of prestige that the utterance of these
words cost, for they were the severance of a political friendship that
was never renewed.

The autocratic order removing the cattle from the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
reservation was born in iniquity and bore a harvest unequaled in the
annals of inhumanity. With the last harbor of refuge closed against us,
I hastened back and did all that was human to avert the impending doom,
every man and horse available being pressed into service. Our one hope
lay in a mild winter, and if that failed us the affairs of the company
would be closed by the merciless elements. Once it was known that the
original order had not been modified, and in anticipation of a flood of
Western cattle, the markets broke, entailing a serious commercial loss.
Every hoof of single and double wintered beeves that had a value in the
markets was shipped regardless of price, while I besought friends in
the Cherokee Strip for a refuge for those unfit and our holding of
through cattle. Fortunately the depreciation in live stock and the
heavy loss sustained the previous winter had interfered with stocking
the Outlet to its fall capacity, and by money, prayers, and entreaty I
prevailed on range owners and secured pasturage for seventy-five
thousand head. Long before the shipping season ended I pressed every
outfit belonging to the firm on the Eagle Chief into service, and began
moving out the through cattle to their new range. Squaw winter and
snow-squalls struck us on the trail, but with a time-limit hanging over
our heads, and rather than see our cattle handled by nigger soldiers,
we bore our burdens, if not meekly, at least in a manner consistent
with our occupation. I have always deplored useless profanity, yet it
was music to my ears to hear the men arraign our enemies, high and low,
for our present predicament. When the last beeves were shipped, a final
round-up was made, and we started out with over fifty thousand cattle
in charge of twelve outfits. Storms struck us en route, but we
weathered them, and finally turned the herds loose in the face of a
blizzard.

The removed cattle, strangers in a strange land, drifted to the fences
and were cut to the quick by the biting blasts. Early in January the
worst blizzard in the history of the plains swept down from the north,
and the poor wandering cattle were driven to the divides and frozen to
death against the line fences. Of all the appalling sights that an
ordinary lifetime on the range affords, there is nothing to compare
with the suffering and death that were daily witnessed during the month
of January in the winter of 1885-86. I remained on the range, and left
men at winter camps on every pasture in which we had stock, yet we were
powerless to relieve the drifting cattle. The morning after the great
storm, with others, I rode to a south string of fence on a divide, and
found thousands of our cattle huddled against it, many frozen to death,
partially through and hanging on the wire. We cut the fences in order
to allow them to drift on to shelter, but the legs of many of them were
so badly frozen that, when they moved, the skin cracked open and their
hoofs dropped off. Hundreds of young steers were wandering aimlessly
around on hoofless stumps, while their tails cracked and broke like
icicles. In angles and nooks of the fence, hundreds had perished
against the wire, their bodies forming a scaling ladder, permitting
late arrivals to walk over the dead and dying as they passed on with
the fury of the storm. I had been a soldier and seen sad sights, but
nothing to compare to this; the moaning of the cattle freezing to death
would have melted a heart of adamant. All we could do was to cut the
fences and let them drift, for to halt was to die; and when the storm
abated one could have walked for miles on the bodies of dead animals.
No pen could describe the harrowing details of that winter; and for
years afterward, or until their remains had a commercial value, a
wayfarer could have traced the south-line fences by the bleaching bones
that lay in windrows, glistening in the sun like snowdrifts, to remind
us of the closing chapter in the history of the Cheyenne and Arapahoe
Cattle Company.




CHAPTER XXII
IN CONCLUSION


The subsequent history of the ill-fated Cheyenne and Arapahoe Cattle
Company is easily told. Over ninety per cent of the cattle moved under
the President’s order were missing at the round-up the following
spring. What few survived were pitiful objects, minus ears and tails,
while their horns, both root and base, were frozen until they drooped
down in unnatural positions. Compared to the previous one, the winter
of 1885-86, with the exception of the great January blizzard, was the
less severe of the two. On the firm’s range in the Cherokee Strip our
losses were much lighter than during the previous winter, owing to the
fact that food was plentiful, there being little if any sleet or snow
during the latter year. Had we been permitted to winter in the Cheyenne
and Arapahoe country, considering our sheltered range and the cattle
fully located, ten per cent would have been a conservative estimate of
loss by the elements. As manager of the company I lost five valuable
years and over a quarter-million dollars. Time has mollified my
grievances until now only the thorn of inhumanity to dumb beasts
remains. Contrasted with results, how much more humane it would have
been to have ordered out negro troops from Fort Reno and shot the
cattle down, or to have cut the fences ourselves, and, while our
holdings were drifting back to Texas, trusted to the mercy of the
Comanches.

I now understand perfectly why the business world dreads a political
change in administration. Whatever may have been the policy of one
political party, the reverse becomes the slogan of the other on its
promotion to power. For instance, a few years ago, the general
government offered a bounty on the home product of sugar, stimulating
the industry in Louisiana and also in my adopted State. A change of
administration followed, the bounty was removed, and had not the
insurance companies promptly canceled their risks on sugar mills, the
losses by fire would have been appalling. Politics had never affected
my occupation seriously; in fact I profited richly through the
extravagance and mismanagement of the Reconstruction régime in Texas,
and again met the defeat of my life at the hands of the general
government.

With the demand for trail cattle on the decline, coupled with two
severe winters, the old firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co. was ripe for
dissolution. We had enjoyed the cream of the trade while it lasted, but
conditions were changing, making it necessary to limit and restrict our
business. This was contrary to our policy, though the spring of 1886
found us on the trail with sixteen herds for the firm and four from my
own ranches, one half of which were under contract. A dry summer
followed, and thousands of weak cattle were lost on the trail, while
ruin and bankruptcy were the portion of a majority of the drovers. We
weathered the drouth on the trail, selling our unplaced cattle early,
and before the beef-shipping season began, our range in the Outlet,
including good will, holding of beeves, saddle horses, and general
improvements, was sold to a Kansas City company, and the old firm
passed out of existence. Meanwhile I had closed up the affairs of the
Cheyenne and Arapahoe Company, returning a small pro rata of the
original investment to shareholders, charging my loss to tuition in
rounding out my education as a cowman.

The productive capacity of my ranches for years past safely tided me
over all financial difficulties. With all outside connections severed,
I was then enabled to give my personal attention to ranching in Texas.
I was fortunate in having capable ranch foremen, for during my almost
continued absence there was a steady growth, together with thorough
management of my mixed cattle. The improved herd, now numbering over
two thousand, was the pride of my operations in live stock, while my
quarter and three-eighths blood steers were in a class by themselves.
We were breeding over a thousand half and three-quarters blood bulls
annually, and constantly importing the best strains to the head of the
improved herd. Results were in evidence, and as long as the trail
lasted, my cattle were ready sellers in the upper range markets. For
the following few years I drove my own growing of steers, usually
contracting them in advance. The days of the trail were numbered; 1889
saw the last herd leave Texas, many of the Northern States having
quarantined against us, and we were afterward compelled to ship by rail
in filling contracts on the upper ranges.

When Kansas quarantined against Texas cattle, Dodge was abandoned as a
range market. The trail moved West, first to Lakin and finally to Trail
City, on the Colorado line. In attempting to pass the former point with
four Pan-Handle herds in the spring of 1888, I ran afoul of a
quarantine convention. The cattle were under contract in Wyoming, and
it was my intention not even to halt the herds, but merely to take on
supplies in passing. But a deputation met us south of the river,
notifying me that the quarantine convention was in session, and
requesting me not to attempt to cross the Arkansas. I explained that my
cattle were from above the dead line in Texas, had heretofore gone
unmolested wherever they wished, and that it was out of my way to turn
west and go up through Colorado. The committee was reasonable, looked
over the lead herd, and saw that I was driving graded cattle, and
finally invited me in to state my case before the convention. I
accompanied the men sent to warn me away, and after considerable parley
I was permitted to address the assembly. In a few brief words I stated
my destination, where I was from, and the quality of cattle making up
my herds, and invited any doubters to accompany me across the river and
look the stock over. Fortunately a number of the cattlemen in the
convention knew me, and I was excused while the assembly went into
executive session to consider my case. Prohibition was in effect at
Lakin, and I was compelled to resort to diplomacy in order to cross the
Arkansas River with my cattle. It was warm, sultry weather in the
valley, and my first idea was to secure a barrel of bottled beer and
send it over to the convention, but the town was dry. I ransacked all
the drug stores, and the nearest approach to anything that would cheer
and stimulate was Hostetter’s Bitters. The prohibition laws were being
rigidly enforced, but I signed a “death warrant” and ordered a case,
which the druggist refused me until I explained that I had four outfits
of men with me and that we had contracted malaria while sleeping on the
ground. My excuse won, and taking the case of bitters on my shoulder, I
bore it away to the nearest livery stable, where I wrote a note, with
my compliments, and sent both by a darkey around to the rear door of
the convention hall.

On adjournment for dinner, my case looked hopeless. There was a strong
sentiment against admitting any cattle from Texas, all former
privileges were to be set aside, and the right to quarantine against
any section or state was claimed as a prerogative of a free people. The
convention was patiently listening to all the oratorical talent
present, and my friends held out a slender hope that once the different
speakers had relieved their minds they might feel easier towards me,
and possibly an exception would be made in my case. During the
afternoon session I received frequent reports from the convention, and
on the suggestion of a friend I began to skirmish around for a second
case of bitters. There were only three drug stores in the town, and as
I was ignorant of the law, I naturally went back to the druggist from
whom I secured the first case. To my surprise he refused to supply my
wants, and haughtily informed me that one application a day was all the
law permitted him to sell to any one person. Rebuffed, I turned to
another drug store, and was greeted by the proprietor, who formerly ran
a saloon in Dodge. He recognized me, calling me by name; and after we
had pledged our acquaintance anew behind the prescription case, I was
confidentially informed that I could have his whole house and welcome,
even if the State of Kansas did object and he had to go to jail. We
both regretted that the good old days in the State were gone, but I
sent around another case of bitters and a box of cigars, and sat down
patiently to await results. With no action taken by the middle of the
afternoon, I sent around a third installment of refreshments, and an
hour later called in person at the door of the convention. The
doorkeeper refused to admit me, but I caught his eye, which was glassy,
and received a leery wink, while a bottle of bitters nestled cosily in
the open bosom of his shirt. Hopeful that the signs were favorable, I
apologized and withdrew, but was shortly afterwards sent for and
informed that an exception had been made in my favor, and that I might
cross the river at my will and pleasure. In the interim of waiting, in
case I was successful, I had studied up a little speech of thanks, and
as I arose to express my appreciation, a chorus of interruptions
greeted me: “G’ on, Reed! G’ on, you d——d old cow-thief! Git out of
town or we’ll hang you!”

With the trail a thing of the past, I settled down to the peaceful
pursuits of a ranchman. The fencing of ranges soon became necessary,
the Clear Fork tract being first inclosed, and a few years later owners
of pastures adjoining the Double Mountain ranch wished to fence, and I
fell in with the prevailing custom. On the latter range I hold title to
a little over one million acres, while there are two hundred sections
of school land included in my western pasture, on which I pay a nominal
rental for its use. All my cattle are now graded, and while no effort
is made to mature them, the advent of cotton-seed oil mills and other
sources of demand have always afforded me an outlet for my increase. I
have branded as many as twenty-five thousand calves in a year, and to
this source of income alone I attribute the foundation of my present
fortune. As a source of wealth the progeny of the cow in my State has
proven a perennial harvest, with little or no effort on the part of the
husbandman. Reversing the military rule of moving against the lines of
least resistance, experience has taught me to follow those where Nature
lends its greatest aid. Mine being strictly a grazing country, by
preserving the native grasses and breeding only the best quality of
cattle, I have always achieved success. I have brought up my boys to
observe these economics of nature, and no plow shall ever mar the
surface where my cows have grazed, generation after generation, to the
profit and satisfaction of their owner. Where once I was a buyer in
carload lots of the best strains of blood in the country, now I am a
seller by hundreds and thousands of head, acclimated and native to the
soil. One man to his trade and another to his merchandise, and the
mistakes of my life justly rebuke me for dallying in paths remote from
my legitimate calling.

There is a close relationship between a cowman and his herds. My
insight into cattle character exceeds my observation of the human
family. Therefore I wish to confess my great love for the cattle of the
fields. When hungry or cold, sick or distressed, they express
themselves intelligently to my understanding, and when dangers of night
and storm and stampede threaten their peace and serenity, they
instinctively turn to the refuge of a human voice. When a herd was
bedded at night, and wolves howled in the distance, the boys on guard
easily calmed the sleeping cattle by simply raising their voices in
song. The desire of self-preservation is innate in the animal race, but
as long as the human kept watch and ward, the sleeping cattle had no
fear of the common enemy. An incident which I cannot explain, but was
witness to, occurred during the war. While holding cattle for the
Confederate army we received a consignment of beeves from Texas. One of
the men who accompanied the herd through called my attention to a steer
and vouchsafed the statement that the animal loved music,—that he could
be lured out of the herd with singing. To prove his assertion, the man
sang what he termed the steer’s favorite, and to the surprise of every
soldier present, a fine, big mottled beef walked out from among a
thousand others and stood entranced over the simple song. In my younger
days my voice was considered musical; I could sing the folk-songs of my
country better than the average, and when the herdsmen left us, I was
pleased to see that my vocal efforts fascinated the late arrival from
Texas. Within a week I could call him out with a song, when I fell so
deeply in love with the broad-horn Texan that his life was spared
through my disloyalty. In the daily issue to the army we kept him back
as long as possible; but when our supply was exhausted, and he would
have gone to the shambles the following day, I secretly cut him out at
night and drove him miles to our rear, that his life might be spared.
Within a year he returned with another consignment of beef; comrades
who were in the secret would not believe me; but when a quartette of us
army herders sang “Rock of Ages,” the steer walked out and greeted us
with mute appreciation. We enjoyed his company for over a month, I
could call him with a song as far as my voice reached, and when death
again threatened him, we cut him to the rear and he was never spoken
again. Loyal as I was to the South, I would have deserted rather than
have seen that steer go to the shambles.

In bringing these reminiscences to a close, I wish to bear testimony in
behalf of the men who lent their best existence that success should
crown my efforts. Aside from my family, the two pleasantest
recollections of my life are my old army comrades and the boys who
worked with me on the range and trail. When men have roughed it
together, shared their hardships in field and by camp-fire like true
comrades, there is an indescribable bond between them that puts to
shame any pretense of fraternal brotherhood. Among the hundreds, yes,
the thousands, of men who worked for our old firm on the trail, all
feel a pride in referring to former associations. I never leave home
without meeting men, scattered everywhere, many of them prosperous, who
come to me and say, “Of course you don’t remember me, but I made a trip
over the trail with your cattle,—from San Saba County in ’77. Jake de
Poyster was foreman. By the way, is your old partner, the little Yankee
major, still living?” The acquaintance, thus renewed by chance, was
always a good excuse for neglecting any business, and many a happy hour
have I spent, living over again with one of my old boys the experiences
of the past.

I want to say a parting word in behalf of the men of my occupation.
Sterling honesty was their chief virtue. A drover with an established
reputation could enter any trail town a month in advance of the arrival
of his cattle, and any merchant or banker would extend him credit on
his spoken word. When the trail passed and the romance of the West was
over, these same men were in demand as directors of banks or custodians
of trust funds. They were simple as truth itself, possessing a rugged
sense of justice that seemed to guide and direct their lives. On one
occasion a few years ago, I unexpectedly dropped down from my Double
Mountain ranch to an old cow town on the railroad. It was our regular
business point, and I kept a small bank account there for current ranch
expenses. As it happened, I needed some money, but on reaching the
village found the banks closed, as it was Labor Day. Casually meeting
an old cowman who was a director in the bank with which I did business,
I pretended to take him to task over my disappointment, and wound up my
arraignment by asking, “What kind of a jim-crow bank are you running,
anyhow?”

“Well, now, Reed,” said he in apology, “I really don’t know why the
bank should close to-day, but there must be some reason for it. I don’t
pay much attention to those things, but there’s our cashier and
bookkeeper,—you know Hank and Bill,—the boys in charge of the bank.
Well, they get together every once in a while and close her up for a
day. I don’t know why they do it, but those old boys have read history,
and you can just gamble your last cow that there’s good reasons for
closing.”

The fraternal bond between rangemen recalls the sad end of one of my
old trail bosses. The foreman in question was a faithful man, working
for the firm during its existence and afterwards in my employ. I would
have trusted my fortune to his keeping, my family thought the world of
him, and many was the time that he risked his life to protect my
interests. When my wife overlooks the shortcomings of a man, it is safe
to say there is something redeemable in him, even though the offense is
drinking. At idle times and with convivial company, this man would
drink to excess, and when he was in his cups a spirit of harmless
mischief was rampant in him, alternating with uncontrollable flashes of
anger. Though he was usually as innocent as a kitten, it was a deadly
insult to refuse drinking with him, and one day he shot a circle of
holes around a stranger’s feet for declining an invitation. A complaint
was lodged against him, and the sheriff, not knowing the man,
thoughtlessly sent a Mexican deputy to make the arrest. Even then, had
ordinary courtesy been extended, the unfortunate occurrence might have
been avoided. But an undue officiousness on the part of the officer
angered the old trail boss, who flashed into a rage, defying the
deputy, and an exchange of shots ensued. The Mexican was killed at the
first fire, and my man mounted his horse unmolested, and returned to
the ranch. I was absent at the time, but my wife advised him to go in
and surrender to the proper authorities, and he obeyed her like a
child.

We all looked upon him as one of the family, and I employed the best of
counsel. The circumstances were against him, however, and in spite of
an able defense he received a sentence of ten years. No one questioned
the justice of the verdict, the law must be upheld, and the poor fellow
was taken to the penitentiary to serve out the sentence. My wife and I
concealed the facts from the younger children, who were constantly
inquiring after his return, especially my younger girls, with whom he
was a great favorite. The incident was worse than a funeral; it would
not die out, as never a day passed but inquiry was made after the
missing man; the children dreamed about him, and awoke from their sleep
to ask if he had come and if he had brought them anything. The matter
finally affected my wife’s nerves, the older boys knew the truth, and
the younger children were becoming suspicious of the veracity of their
parents. The truth was gradually leaking out, and after he had served a
year in prison, I began a movement with the view of securing his
pardon. My influence in state politics was always more or less courted,
and appealing to my friends, I drew up a petition, which was signed by
every prominent politician in that section, asking that executive
clemency be extended in behalf of my old foreman. The governor was a
good friend of mine, anxious to render me a service, and through his
influence we managed to have the sentence so reduced that after serving
two years the prisoner was freed and returned to the ranch. He was the
same lovable character, tolerated by my wife and fondled by the
children, and he refused to leave home for over a year. Ever cautious
to remove temptation from him, both my wife and I hoped that the lesson
would last him through life, but in an unguarded hour he took to drink,
and shot to death his dearest friend.

For the second offense he received a life sentence. My regret over
securing his pardon, and the subsequent loss of human life, affected me
as no other event has ever done in my career. This man would have died
for me or one of mine, and what I thought to be a generous act to a man
in prison proved a curse that haunted me for many years. But all is
well now between us. I make it a point to visit him at least once a
year; we have talked the matter over and have come to the conclusion
that the law is just and that he must remain in confinement the
remainder of his days. That is now the compact, and, strange to say,
both of us derive a sense of security and peace from our covenant such
as we had never enjoyed during the year of his liberty. The wardens
inform me that he is a model prisoner, perfectly content in his
restraint; and I have promised him that on his death, whether it occurs
before or after mine, his remains will be brought back to the home
ranch and be given a quiet grave in some secluded spot.

For any success that I may have achieved, due acknowledgment must be
given my helpmate. I was blessed with a wife such as falls to the lot
of few men. Once children were born to our union and a hearthstone
established, the family became the magnet of my life. It mattered not
where my occupation carried me, or how long my absence from home, the
lodestar of a wife and family was a sustaining help. Our first cabin,
long since reduced to ashes, lives in my memory as a palace. I was
absent at the time of its burning, but my wife’s father always enjoyed
telling the story on his daughter. The elder Edwards was branding
calves some five miles distant from the home ranch, but on sighting the
signal smoke of the burning house, he and his outfit turned the cattle
loose, mounted their horses, and rode to the rescue at a break-neck
pace. When they reached the scene our home was enveloped in flames, and
there was no prospect of saving any of its contents. The house stood
some distance from the other ranch buildings, and as there was no
danger of the fire spreading, there was nothing that could be done and
the flames held undisputed sway. The cause of the fire was unknown, my
wife being at her father’s house at the time; but on discovering the
flames, she picked up the baby and ran to the burning cabin, entered it
and rescued the little tin trunk that held her girlhood trinkets and a
thousand certificates of questionable land scrip. When the men dashed
up, my wife was sitting on the tin trunk, surrounded by the children,
all crying piteously, fully unconscious of the fact that she had saved
the foundation of my present landed holdings. The cabin had cost two
weeks’ labor to build, its contents were worthless, but I had no record
of the numbers of the certificates, and to my wife’s presence of mind
or intuition in an emergency all credit is given for saving the land
scrip. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them
all. The compiling of these memoirs has been a pleasant task. In this
summing-up of my active life, much has been omitted; and then again,
there seems to have been a hopeless repetition with the recurring
years, for seedtime and harvest come to us all as the seasons roll
round. Four of my boys have wandered far afield, forging out for
themselves, not content to remain under the restraint of older brothers
who have assumed the active management of my ranches. One bad general
is still better than two good ones, and there must be a head to a ranch
if it is to be made a success. I still keep an eye over things, but the
rough, hard work now falls on younger shoulders, and I find myself
delegated to amuse and be amused by the third generation of the
Anthonys. In spite of my years, I still enjoy a good saddle horse,
scarcely a day passing but I ride from ten to twenty miles. There is a
range maxim that “the eyes of the boss make a fat horse,” and at
deliveries of cattle, rounds-ups, and branding, my mere presence makes
things move with alacrity. I can still give the boys pointers in
handling large bodies of cattle, and the ranch outfits seem to know
that we old-time cowmen have little use for the modern picturesque
cowboy, unless he is an all-round man and can deliver the goods in any
emergency.

With but a few years of my allotted span yet to run, I find myself in
the full enjoyment of all my faculties, ready for a romp with my
grandchildren or to crack a joke with a friend. My younger girls are
proving splendid comrades, always ready for a horseback ride or a trip
to the city. It has always been a characteristic of the Anthony family
that they could ride a horse before they could walk, and I find the
third generation following in the footsteps of their elders. My
grandsons were all expert with a rope before they could read, and it is
one of the evidences of a merciful providence that their lives have
been spared, as it is nearly impossible to keep them out of mischief
and danger. To forbid one to ride a certain dangerous horse only serves
to heighten his anxiety to master the outlaw, and to banish him from
the branding pens means a prompt return with or without an excuse. On
one occasion, on the Double Mountain ranch, with the corrals full of
heavy cattle, I started down to the pens, but met two of my grandsons
coming up the hill, and noticed at a glance that there had been
trouble. I stopped the boys and inquired the cause of their tears, when
the youngest, a barefooted, chubby little fellow, said to me between
his sobs, “Grandpa, you’d—you’d—you’d better keep away from those
corrals. Pa’s as mad as a hornet, and—and—and he quirted us—yes, he
did. If you fool around down there, he’ll—he’ll—he’ll just about wear
you out.”

Should this transcript of my life ever reach the dignity of
publication, the casual reader, in giving me any credit for success,
should bear in mind the opportunities of my time. My lot was cast with
the palmy days of the golden West, with its indefinable charm, now past
and gone and never to return. In voicing this regret, I desire to add
that my mistakes are now looked back to as the chastening rod, leading
me to an appreciation of higher ideals, and the final testimony that
life is well worth the living.






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