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The Outlet

by Andy Adams · English · Gutenberg #1987 · 540,643 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Outlet

Author: Andy Adams


        
Release date: December 1, 1999 [eBook #1987]
                Most recently updated: June 29, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1987

Credits: Dianne Bean and David Widger


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[Illustration]




THE OUTLET

By Andy Adams




PREFACE


At the close of the civil war the need for a market for the surplus
cattle of Texas was as urgent as it was general. There had been
numerous experiments in seeking an outlet, and there is authority for
the statement that in 1857 Texas cattle were driven to Illinois. Eleven
years later forty thousand head were sent to the mouth of Red River in
Louisiana, shipped by boat to Cairo, Illinois, and thence inland by
rail. Fever resulted, and the experiment was never repeated. To the
west of Texas stretched a forbidding desert, while on the other hand,
nearly every drive to Louisiana resulted in financial disaster to the
drover. The republic of Mexico, on the south, afforded no relief, as it
was likewise overrun with a surplus of its own breeding. Immediately
before and just after the war, a slight trade had sprung up in cattle
between eastern points on Red River and Baxter Springs, in the
southeast corner of Kansas. The route was perfectly feasible, being
short and entirely within the reservations of the Choctaws and
Cherokees, civilized Indians. This was the only route to the north; for
farther to the westward was the home of the buffalo and the
unconquered, nomadic tribes. A writer on that day, Mr. Emerson Hough,
an acceptable authority, says: “The civil war stopped almost all plans
to market the range cattle, and the close of that war found the vast
grazing lands of Texas fairly covered with millions of cattle which had
no actual or determinate value. They were sorted and branded and herded
after a fashion, but neither they nor their increase could be converted
into anything but more cattle. The demand for a market became
imperative.”

This was the situation at the close of the ’50’s and meanwhile there
had been no cessation in trying to find an outlet for the constantly
increasing herds. Civilization was sweeping westward by leaps and
bounds, and during the latter part of the ’60’s and early ’70’s, a
market for a very small percentage of the surplus was established at
Abilene, Ellsworth, and Wichita, being confined almost exclusively to
the state of Kansas. But this outlet, slight as it was, developed the
fact that the transplanted Texas steer, after a winter in the north,
took on flesh like a native, and by being double-wintered became a
marketable beef. It should be understood in this connection that Texas,
owing to climatic conditions, did not mature an animal into marketable
form, ready for the butcher’s block. Yet it was an exceptional country
for breeding, the percentage of increase in good years reaching the
phenomenal figures of ninety-five calves to the hundred cows. At this
time all eyes were turned to the new Northwest, which was then looked
upon as the country that would at last afford the proper market.
Railroads were pushing into the domain of the buffalo and Indian; the
rush of emigration was westward, and the Texan was clamoring for an
outlet for his cattle. It was written in the stars that the Indian and
buffalo would have to stand aside.

Philanthropists may deplore the destruction of the American bison, yet
it was inevitable. Possibly it is not commonly known that the general
government had under consideration the sending of its own troops to
destroy the buffalo. Yet it is a fact, for the army in the West fully
realized the futility of subjugating the Indians while they could draw
subsistence from the bison. The well-mounted aborigines hung on the
flanks of the great buffalo herds, migrating with them, spurning all
treaty obligations, and when opportunity offered murdering the advance
guard of civilization with the fiendish atrocity of carnivorous
animals. But while the government hesitated, the hide-hunters and the
railroads solved the problem, and the Indian’s base of supplies was
destroyed.

Then began the great exodus of Texas cattle. The red men were easily
confined on reservations, and the vacated country in the Northwest
became cattle ranges. The government was in the market for large
quantities of beef with which to feed its army and Indian wards. The
maximum year’s drive was reached in 1884, when nearly eight hundred
thousand cattle, in something over three hundred herds, bound for the
new Northwest, crossed Red River, the northern boundary of Texas. Some
slight idea of this exodus can be gained when one considers that in the
above year about four thousand men and over thirty thousand horses were
required on the trail, while the value of the drive ran into millions.
The history of the world can show no pastoral movement in comparison.
The Northwest had furnished the market—the outlet for Texas.




CONTENTS

 PREFACE
 THE OUTLET
 CHAPTER I. OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
 CHAPTER II. ORGANIZING THE FORCES
 CHAPTER III. RECEIVING AT LOS LOBOS
 CHAPTER IV. MINGLING WITH THE EXODUS
 CHAPTER V. RED RIVER STATION
 CHAPTER VI. CAMP SUPPLY
 CHAPTER VII. WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK
 CHAPTER VIII. EN PASSANT
 CHAPTER IX. AT SHERIFF’S CREEK
 CHAPTER X. A FAMILY REUNION
 CHAPTER XI. ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK
 CHAPTER XII. MARSHALING THE FORCES
 CHAPTER XIII. JUSTICE IN THE SADDLE
 CHAPTER XIV. TURNING THE TABLES
 CHAPTER XV. TOLLESTON BUTTS IN
 CHAPTER XVI. CROSSING THE NIOBRARA
 CHAPTER XVII. WATER-BOUND
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE LITTLE MISSOURI
 CHAPTER XIX. IN QUARANTINE
 CHAPTER XX. ON THE JUST AND THE UNJUST
 CHAPTER XXI. FORT BUFORD
 CHAPTER XXII. A SOLDIER’S HONOR
 CHAPTER XXIII. KANGAROOED
 CHAPTER XXIV. THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT




THE OUTLET




CHAPTER I.
OPENING THE CAMPAIGN


“Well, gentlemen, if that is the best rate you can offer us, then we’ll
drive the cattle. My boys have all been over the trail before, and your
figures are no inducement to ship as far as Red River. We are fully
aware of the nature of the country, but we can deliver the herds at
their destination for less than you ask us for shipping them one third
of the distance. No; we’ll drive all the way.”

The speaker was Don Lovell, a trail drover, and the parties addressed
were the general freight agents of three railroad lines operating in
Texas. A conference had been agreed upon, and we had come in by train
from the ranch in Medina County to attend the meeting in San Antonio.
The railroad representatives were shrewd, affable gentlemen, and
presented an array of facts hard to overcome. They were well aware of
the obstacles to be encountered in the arid, western portion of the
state, and magnified every possibility into a stern reality. Unrolling
a large state map upon the table, around which the principals were
sitting, the agent of the Denver and Fort Worth traced the trail from
Buffalo Gap to Doan’s Crossing on Red River. Producing what was
declared to be a report of the immigration agent of his line, he showed
by statistics that whole counties through which the old trail ran had
recently been settled up by Scandinavian immigrants. The representative
of the Missouri, Kansas, and Texas, when opportunity offered,
enumerated every disaster which had happened to any herd to the
westward of his line in the past five years. The factor of the
International was equally well posted.

“Now, Mr. Lovell,” said he, dumping a bundle of papers on the table,
“if you will kindly glance over these documents, I think I can convince
you that it is only a question of a few years until all trail cattle
will ship the greater portion of the way. Here is a tabulated statement
up to and including the year ’83. From twenty counties tributary to our
line and south of this city, you will notice that in ’80 we practically
handled no cattle intended for the trail. Passing on to the next
season’s drive, you see we secured a little over ten per cent. of the
cattle and nearly thirty per cent. of the horse stock. Last year, or
for ’83, drovers took advantage of our low rates for Red River points,
and the percentage ran up to twenty-four and a fraction, or practically
speaking, one fourth of the total drive. We are able to offer the same
low rates this year, and all arrangements are completed with our
connecting lines to give live-stock trains carrying trail cattle a
passenger schedule. Now, if you care to look over this correspondence,
you will notice that we have inquiries which will tax our carrying
capacity to its utmost. The ‘Laurel Leaf’ and ‘Running W’ people alone
have asked for a rate on thirty thousand head.”

But the drover brushed the correspondence aside, and asked for the
possible feed bills. A blanket rate had been given on the entire
shipment from that city, or any point south, to Wichita Falls, with one
rest and feed. Making a memorandum of the items, Lovell arose from the
table and came over to where Jim Flood and I were searching for Fort
Buford on a large wall map. We were both laboring under the impression
that it was in Montana, but after our employer pointed it out to us at
the mouth of the Yellowstone in Dakota, all three of us adjourned to an
ante-room. Flood was the best posted trail foreman in Don Lovell’s
employ, and taking seats at the table, we soon reduced the proposed
shipping expense to a pro-rata sum per head. The result was not to be
considered, and on returning to the main office, our employer, as
already expressed, declined the proffered rate.

Then the freight men doubled on him, asking if he had taken into
consideration a saving in wages. In a two days’ run they would lay down
the cattle farther on their way than we could possibly drive in six
weeks, even if the country was open, not to say anything about the wear
and tear of horseflesh. But Don Lovell had not been a trail drover for
nearly fifteen years without understanding his business as well as the
freight agents did theirs. After going over a large lot of other
important data, our employer arose to take his leave, when the agent of
the local line expressed a hope that Mr. Lovell would reconsider his
decision before spring opened, and send his drive a portion of the way
by rail.

“Well, I’m glad I met you, gentlemen,” said the cowman at parting, “but
this is purely a business proposition, and you and I look at it from
different viewpoints. At the rate you offer, it will cost me one dollar
and seventy-five cents to lay a steer down on Red River. Hold on; mine
are all large beeves; and I must mount my men just the same as if they
trailed all the way. Saddle horses were worth nothing in the North last
year, and I kept mine and bought enough others around Dodge to make up
a thousand head, and sent them back over the trail to my ranch. Now, it
will take six carloads of horses for each herd, and I propose to charge
the freight on them against the cattle. I may have to winter my remudas
in the North, or drive them home again, and if I put two dollars a head
freight in them, they won’t bring a cent more on that account. With the
cattle it’s different; they are all under contract, but the horses must
be charged as general expense, and if nothing is realized out of them,
the herd must pay the fiddler. My largest delivery is a sub-contract
for Fort Buford, calling for five million pounds of beef on foot. It
will take three herds or ten thousand cattle to fill it. I was anxious
to give those Buford beeves an early start, and that was the main
reason in my consenting to this conference. I have three other earlier
deliveries at Indian agencies, but they are not as far north by several
hundred miles, and it’s immaterial whether we ship or not. But the
Buford contract sets the day of delivery for September 15, and it’s
going to take close figuring to make a cent. The main contractors are
all right, but I’m the one that’s got to scratch his head and figure
close and see that there’s no leakages. Your freight bill alone would
be a nice profit. It may cost us a little for water getting out of
Texas, but with the present outlet for cattle, it’s bad policy to
harass the herds. Water is about the best crop some of those settlers
along the trail have to sell, and they ought to treat us right.”

After the conference was over, we scattered about the city, on various
errands, expecting to take the night train home. It was then the middle
of February, and five of the six herds were already purchased. In spite
of the large numbers of cattle which the trail had absorbed in previous
years, there was still an abundance of all ages, anxious for a market.
The demand in the North had constantly been for young cattle, leaving
the matured steers at home. Had Mr. Lovell’s contracts that year called
for forty thousand five and six year old beeves, instead of twenty,
there would have been the same inexhaustible supply from which to pick
and choose. But with only one herd yet to secure, and ample offerings
on every hand, there was no necessity for a hurry. Many of the herds
driven the year before found no sale, and were compelled to winter in
the North at the drover’s risk. In the early spring of ’84, there was a
decided lull over the enthusiasm of the two previous years, during the
former of which the trail afforded an outlet for nearly seven hundred
thousand Texas cattle.

In regard to horses we were well outfitted. During the summer of ’83,
Don Lovell had driven four herds, two on Indian contract and two of
younger cattle on speculation. Of the latter, one was sold in Dodge for
delivery on the Purgatory River in southern Colorado, while the other
went to Ogalalla, and was disposed of and received at that point. In
both cases there was no chance to sell the saddle horses, and they
returned to Dodge and were sent to pasture down the river in the
settlements. My brother, Bob Quirk, had driven one of the other herds
to an agency in the Indian Territory. After making the delivery, early
in August, on his employer’s orders, he had brought his remuda and
outfit into Dodge, the horses being also sent to pasture and the men
home to Texas. I had made the trip that year to the Pine Ridge Agency
in Dakota with thirty-five hundred beeves, under Flood as foreman. Don
Lovell was present at the delivery, and as there was no hope of
effecting a sale of the saddle stock among the Indians, after
delivering the outfit at the nearest railroad, I was given two men and
the cook, and started back over the trail for Dodge with the remuda.
The wagon was a drawback, but on reaching Ogalalla, an emigrant outfit
offered me a fair price for the mules and commissary, and I sold them.
Lashing our rations and blankets on two pack-horses, we turned our
backs on the Platte and crossed the Arkansaw at Dodge on the seventh
day.

But instead of the remainder of the trip home by rail, as we fondly
expected, the programme had changed. Lovell and Flood had arrived in
Dodge some ten days before, and looking over the situation, had come to
the conclusion it was useless even to offer our remudas. As remnants of
that year’s drive, there had concentrated in and around that market
something like ten thousand saddle horses. Many of these were from
central and north Texas, larger and better stock than ours, even though
care had been used in selecting the latter. So on their arrival,
instead of making any effort to dispose of our own, the drover and his
foreman had sized up the congested condition of the market, and turned
buyers. They had bought two whole remudas, and picked over five or six
others until their purchases amounted to over five hundred head.
Consequently on our reaching Dodge with the Pine Ridge horses, I was
informed that they were going to send all the saddle stock back over
the trail to the ranch and that I was to have charge of the herd. Had
the trip been in the spring and the other way, I certainly would have
felt elated over my promotion. Our beef herd that year had been put up
in Dimmit County, and from there to the Pine Ridge Agency and back to
the ranch would certainly be a summer’s work to gratify an ordinary
ambition.

In the mean time and before our arrival, Flood had brought up all the
stock and wagons from the settlement, and established a camp on
Mulberry Creek, south of Dodge on the trail. He had picked up two
Texans who were anxious to see their homes once more, and the next day
at noon we started. The herd numbered a thousand and sixty head, twenty
of which were work-mules. The commissary which was to accompany us was
laden principally with harness; and waving Flood farewell, we turned
homeward, leaving behind unsold of that year’s drive only two wagons.
Lovell had instructed us never to ride the same horse twice, and
wherever good grass and water were encountered, to kill as much time as
possible. My employer was enthusiastic over the idea, and well he might
be, for a finer lot of saddle horses were not in the possession of any
trail drover, while those purchased in Dodge could have been resold in
San Antonio at a nice profit. Many of the horses had run idle several
months and were in fine condition. With the allowance of four men and a
cook, a draft-book for personal expenses, and over a thousand horses
from which to choose a mount, I felt like an embryo foreman, even if it
was a back track and the drag end of the season. Turning everything
scot free at night, we reached the ranch in old Medina in six weeks,
actually traveling about forty days.

But now, with the opening of the trail season almost at hand, the
trials of past years were forgotten in the enthusiasm of the present. I
had a distinct recollection of numerous resolves made on rainy nights,
while holding a drifting herd, that this was positively my last trip
over the trail. Now, however, after a winter of idleness, my worst fear
was that I might be left at home with the ranch work, and thus miss the
season’s outing entirely. There were new charms in the Buford contract
which thrilled me,—its numerical requirements, the sight of the
Yellowstone again, and more, to be present at the largest delivery of
the year to the government. Rather than have missed the trip, I would
have gladly cooked or wrangled the horses for one of the outfits.

On separating, Lovell urged his foreman and myself to be at the depot
in good time to catch our train. That our employer’s contracts for the
year would require financial assistance, both of us were fully aware.
The credit of Don Lovell was gilt edge, not that he was a wealthy
cowman, but the banks and moneyed men of the city recognized his
business ability. Nearly every year since he began driving cattle,
assistance had been extended him, but the promptness with which he had
always met his obligations made his patronage desirable.

Flood and I had a number of errands to look after for the boys on the
ranch and ourselves, and, like countrymen, reached the depot fully an
hour before the train was due. Not possessed of enough gumption to
inquire if the westbound was on time, we loitered around until some
other passengers informed us that it was late. Just as we were on the
point of starting back to town, Lovell drove up in a hack, and the
three of us paced the platform until the arrival of the belated train.

“Well, boys, everything looks serene,” said our employer, when we had
walked to the farther end of the depot. “I can get all the money I
need, even if we shipped part way, which I don’t intend to do. The
banks admit that cattle are a slow sale and a shade lower this spring,
and are not as free with their money as a year or two ago. My bankers
detained me over an hour until they could send for a customer who
claimed to have a very fine lot of beeves for sale in Lasalle County.
That he is anxious to sell there is no doubt, for he offered them to me
on my own time, and agrees to meet any one’s prices. I half promised to
come back next week and go down with him to Lasalle and look his cattle
over. If they show up right, there will be no trouble in buying them,
which will complete our purchases. It is my intention, Jim, to give you
the herd to fill our earliest delivery. Our next two occur so near
together that you will have to represent me at one of them. The Buford
cattle, being the last by a few weeks, we will both go up there and see
it over with. There are about half a dozen trail foremen anxious for
the two other herds, and while they are good men, I don’t know of any
good reason for not pushing my own boys forward. I have already decided
to give Dave Sponsilier and Quince Forrest two of the Buford herds, and
I reckon, Tom, the last one will fall to you.”

The darkness in which we were standing shielded my egotism from public
view. But I am conscious that I threw out my brisket several inches and
stood straight on my bow-legs as I thanked old man Don for the
foremanship of his sixth herd. Flood was amused, and told me afterward
that my language was extravagant. There is an old superstition that if
a man ever drinks out of the Rio Grande, it matters not where he roams
afterward, he is certain to come back to her banks again. I had watered
my horse in the Yellowstone in ’82, and ever afterward felt an itching
to see her again. And here the opportunity opened before me, not as a
common cow-hand, but as a trail boss and one of three in filling a five
million pound government beef contract! But it was dark and I was
afoot, and if I was a trifle “chesty,” there had suddenly come new
colorings to my narrow world.

On the arrival of the train, several other westward-bound cowmen
boarded it. We all took seats in the smoker, it being but a two hours’
run to our destination. Flood and I were sitting well forward in the
car, the former almost as elated over my good fortune as myself. “Well,
won’t old Quince be all puffed up,” said Jim to me, “when the old man
tells him he’s to have a herd. Now, I’ve never said a word in favor of
either one of you. Of course, when Mr. Lovell asked me if I knew
certain trail foremen who were liable to be idle this year, I intimated
that he had plenty of material in his employ to make a few of his own.
The old man may be a trifle slow on reaching a decision, but once he
makes up his mind, he’s there till the cows come home. Now, all you and
Quince need to do is to make good, for you couldn’t ask for a better
man behind you. In making up your outfit, you want to know every man
you hire, and give a preference to gray hairs, for they’re not so
liable to admire their shadow in sunny or get homesick in falling
weather. Tom, where you made a ten-strike with the old man was in
accepting that horse herd at Dodge last fall. Had you made a whine or
whimper then, the chances are you wouldn’t be bossing a herd this year.
Lovell is a cowman who likes to see a fellow take his medicine with a
smile.”




CHAPTER II.
ORGANIZING THE FORCES


Don Lovell and Jim Flood returned from Lasalle County on the last day
of February. They had spent a week along the Upper Nueces, and before
returning to the ranch closed a trade on thirty-four hundred five and
six year old beeves. According to their report, the cattle along the
river had wintered in fine condition, and the grass had already started
in the valley. This last purchase concluded the buying for trail
purposes, and all absent foremen were notified to be on hand at the
ranch on March 10, for the beginning of active operations. Only some
ten of us had wintered at headquarters in Medina County, and as about
ninety men would be required for the season’s work, they would have to
be secured elsewhere. All the old foremen expected to use the greater
portion of the men who were in their employ the year before, and could
summon them on a few days’ notice. But Forrest and myself were
compelled to hire entirely new outfits, and it was high time we were
looking up our help.

One of Flood’s regular outfit had married during the winter, and with
Forrest’s and my promotion, he had only to secure three new men. He had
dozens of applications from good cow-hands, and after selecting for
himself offered the others to Quince and me. But my brother Bob arrived
at the ranch, from our home in Karnes County, two days later, having
also a surplus of men at his command. Although he did not show any
enthusiasm over my promotion, he offered to help me get up a good
outfit of boys. I had about half a dozen good fellows in view, and on
Bob’s approval of them, he selected from his overplus six more as first
choice and four as second. It would take me a week of constant riding
to see all these men, and as Flood and Forrest had made up an outfit
for the latter from the former’s available list, Quince and I saddled
up and rode away to hire outfits. Forrest was well acquainted in
Wilson, where Lovell had put up several trail herds, and as it joined
my home county, we bore each other company the first day.

A long ride brought us to the Atascosa, where we stayed all night. The
next morning we separated, Quince bearing due east for Floresville,
while I continued southeast towards my home near Cibollo Ford on the
San Antonio River. It had been over a year since I had seen the family,
and on reaching the ranch, my father gruffly noticed me, but my mother
and sisters received me with open arms. I was a mature man of
twenty-eight at the time, mustached, and stood six feet to a
plumb-line. The family were cognizant of my checkered past, and
although never mentioning it, it seemed as if my misfortunes had
elevated me in the estimation of my sisters, while to my mother I had
become doubly dear.

During the time spent in that vicinity, I managed to reach home at
night as often as possible. Constantly using fresh horses, I covered a
wide circle of country, making one ride down the river into Goliad
County of over fifty miles, returning the next day. Within a week I had
made up my outfit, including the horse-wrangler and cook. Some of the
men were ten years my senior, while only a few were younger, but I knew
that these latter had made the trip before and were as reliable as
their elders. The wages promised that year were fifty dollars a month,
the men to furnish only their own saddles and blankets, and at that
figure I picked two pastoral counties, every man bred to the
occupation. The trip promised six months’ work with return passage, and
I urged every one employed to make his appearance at headquarters, in
Medina, on or before the 15th of the month. There was no railroad
communication through Karnes and Goliad counties at that time, and all
the boys were assured that their private horses would have good
pasturage at the home ranch while they were away, and I advised them
all to come on horseback. By this method they would have a fresh horse
awaiting them on their return from the North with which to continue
their homeward journey. All the men engaged were unmarried, and taken
as a whole, I flattered myself on having secured a crack outfit.

I was in a hurry to get back to the ranch. There had been nothing said
about the remudas before leaving, and while we had an abundance of
horses, no one knew them better than I did. For that reason I wanted to
be present when their allotment was made, for I knew that every foreman
would try to get the best mounts, and I did not propose to stand behind
the door and take the culls. Many of the horses had not had a saddle on
them in eight months, while all of them had run idle during the winter
in a large mesquite pasture and were in fine condition with the opening
of spring. So bidding my folks farewell, I saddled at noon and took a
cross-country course for the ranch, covering the hundred and odd miles
in a day and a half. Reaching headquarters late at night, I found that
active preparations had been going on during my absence. There were new
wagons to rig, harness to oil, and a carpenter was then at work
building chuck-boxes for each of the six commissaries. A wholesale
house in the city had shipped out a stock of staple supplies, almost
large enough to start a store. There were whole coils of new rope of
various sizes, from lariats to corral cables, and a sufficient amount
of the largest size to make a stack of hobbles as large as a haycock.
Four new branding-irons to the wagon, the regulation “Circle Dot,”
completed the main essentials.

All the foremen had reported at the ranch, with the exception of
Forrest, who came in the next evening with three men. The division of
the horses had not even come up for discussion, but several of the boys
about headquarters who were friendly to my interests posted me that the
older foremen were going to claim first choice. Archie Tolleston, next
to Jim Flood in seniority in Lovell’s employ, had spent every day
riding among the horses, and had even boasted that he expected to claim
fifteen of the best for his own saddle. Flood was not so particular, as
his destination was in southern Dakota, but my brother Bob was again
ticketed for the Crow Agency in Montana, and would naturally expect a
good remuda. Tolleston was going to western Wyoming, while the Fort
Buford cattle were a two-weeks’ later delivery and fully five hundred
miles farther travel. On my return Lovell was in the city, but I felt
positive that if he took a hand in the division, Tolleston would only
run on the rope once.

A few days before the appointed time, the men began thronging into
headquarters. Down to the minutest detail about the wagons and mule
teams, everything was shipshape. The commissary department was stocked
for a month, and everything was ready to harness in and move. Lovell’s
headquarters was a stag ranch, and as fast as the engaged cooks
reported, they were assigned to wagons, and kept open house in
relieving the home cocinero. In the absence of our employer, Flood was
virtually at the head of affairs, and artfully postponed the division
of horses until the last moment. My outfit had all come in in good
time, and we were simply resting on our oars until the return of old
man Don from San Antonio. The men were jubilant and light-hearted as a
lot of school-boys, and with the exception of a feeling of jealousy
among the foremen over the remudas, we were a gay crowd, turning night
into day. But on the return of our employer, all frivolity ceased, and
the ranch stood at attention. The only unfinished work was the division
of the horses, and but a single day remained before the agreed time for
starting. Jim Flood had met his employer at the station the night
before, and while returning to the ranch, the two discussed the
apportionment of the saddle stock. The next morning all the foremen
were called together, when the drover said to his trail bosses:

“Boys, I suppose you are all anxious to get a good remuda for this
summer’s trip. Well, I’ve got them for you. The only question is, how
can we distribute them equitably so that all interests will be
protected. One herd may not have near the distance to travel that the
others have. It would look unjust to give it the best horses, and yet
it may have the most trouble. Our remudas last year were all picked
animals. They had an easy year’s work. With the exception of a few
head, we have the same mounts and in much better condition than last
year. This is about my idea of equalizing things. You four old foremen
will use your remudas of last year. Then each of you six bosses select
twenty-five head each of the Dodge horses,—turn and turn about. Add
those to your old remudas, and cull back your surplus, allowing ten to
the man, twelve to the foreman, and five extra to each herd in case of
cripples or of galled backs. By this method, each herd will have two
dozen prime saddlers, the pick of a thousand picked ones, and fit for
any man who was ever in my employ. I’m breaking in two new foremen this
year, and they shall have no excuse for not being mounted, and will
divide the remainder. Now, take four men apiece and round up the saddle
stock, and have everything in shape to go into camp to-night. I’ll be
present at the division, and I warn you all that I want no clashing.”

A ranch remuda was driven in, and we saddled. There were about thirty
thousand acres in the pasture, and by eleven o’clock everything was
thrown together. The private horses of all the boys had been turned
into a separate inclosure, and before the cutting out commenced, every
mother’s son, including Don Lovell, arrived at the round-up. There were
no corrals on the ranch which would accommodate such a body of animals,
and thus the work had to be done in the open; but with the force at
hand we threw a cordon around them, equal to a corral, and the cutting
out to the four quarters commenced.

The horses were gentle and handled easily. Forrest and I turned to and
helped our old foreman cut out his remuda of the year before. There
were several horses in my old mount that I would have liked to have
again, but I knew it was useless to try and trade Jim out of them, as
he knew their qualities and would have robbed me in demanding their
equivalent. When the old remudas were again separated, they were
counted and carefully looked over by both foremen and men, and were
open to the inspection of all who cared to look. Everything was passing
very pleasantly, and the cutting of the extra twenty-five began. Then
my selfishness was weighed in the balance and found to be full weight.
I had ridden over a hundred of the best of them, but when any one
appealed to me, even my own dear brother, I was as dumb as an oyster
about a horse. Tolleston, especially, cursed, raved, and importuned me
to help him get a good private mount, but I was as innocent as I was
immovable. The trip home from Dodge was no pleasure jaunt, and now I
was determined to draw extra pay in getting the cream of that horse
herd. There were other features governing my actions: Flood was
indifferent; Forrest, at times, was cruel to horses, and had I helped
my brother, I might have been charged with favoritism. Dave Sponsilier
was a good horseman, as his selections proved, and I was not wasting
any love and affection on Archie Tolleston that day, anyhow.

That no undue advantage should be taken, Lovell kept tally of every
horse cut out, and once each foreman had taken his number, he was waved
out of the herd. I did the selecting of my own, and with the assistance
of one man, was constantly waiting my turn. With all the help he could
use, Tolleston was over half an hour making his selections, and took
the only blind horse in the entire herd. He was a showy animal, a
dapple gray, fully fifteen hands high, bred in north Texas, and
belonged to one of the whole remudas bought in Dodge. At the time of
his purchase, neither Lovell nor Flood detected anything wrong, and no
one could see anything in the eyeball which would indicate he was
moon-eyed. Yet any horseman need only notice him closely to be
satisfied of his defect, as he was constantly shying from other horses
and objects and smelled everything which came within his reach. There
were probably half a dozen present who knew of his blindness, but not a
word was said until all the extras were chosen and the culling out of
the overplus of the various remudas began. It started in snickers, and
before the cutting back was over developed into peals of laughter, as
man after man learned that the dapple gray in Tolleston’s remuda was
blind.

Among the very last to become acquainted with the fact was the trail
foreman himself. After watching the horse long enough to see his
mistake, Tolleston culled the gray back and rode into the herd to claim
another. But the drover promptly summoned his foreman out, and, as they
met, Lovell said to his trail boss, “Arch, you’re no better than
anybody else. I bought that gray and paid my good money for him. No
doubt but the man who sold him has laughed about it often since, and if
ever we meet, I’ll take my hat off and compliment him on being the only
person who ever sold me a moon-eyed horse. I’m still paying my tuition,
and you needn’t flare up when the laugh’s on you. You have a good
remuda without him, and the only way you can get another horse out of
that herd is with the permission of Quince Forrest and Tom Quirk.”

“Well, if the permission of those new foremen is all I lack, then I’ll
cut all the horses I want,” retorted Tolleston, and galloped back
towards the herd. But Quince and I were after him like a flash,
followed leisurely by Lovell. As he slacked his mount to enter the mass
of animals, I passed him, jerking the bridle reins from his hand.
Throwing my horse on his haunches, I turned just as Forrest slapped
Tolleston on the back, and said: “Look-ee here, Arch; just because
you’re a little hot under the collar, don’t do anything brash, for fear
you may regret it afterward. I’m due to take a little pasear myself
this summer, and I always did like to be well mounted. Now, don’t get
your back up or attempt to stand up any bluffs, for I can whip you in
any sized circle you can name. You never saw me burn powder, did you?
Well, just you keep on acting the d—— fool if you want a little smoke
thrown in your face. Just fool with me and I’ll fog you till you look
like an angel in the clouds.”

But old man Don reached us, and raised his hand. I threw the reins back
over the horse’s head. Tolleston was white with rage, but before he
could speak our employer waved us aside and said, “Tom, you and Quince
clear right out of here and I’ll settle this matter. Arch, there’s your
remuda. Take it and go about your business or say you don’t want to.
Now, we know each other, and I’ll not mince or repeat any words with
you. Go on.”

“Not an inch will I move until I get another horse,” hissed Tolleston
between gasps. “If it lies between you and me, then I’ll have one in
place of that gray, or you’ll get another foreman. Now, you have my
terms and ticket.”

“Very well then, Archie; that changes the programme entirely,” replied
Lovell, firmly. “You’ll find your private horse in the small pasture,
and we’ll excuse you for the summer. Whenever a man in my employ gets
the impression that I can’t get along without him, that moment he
becomes useless to me. It seems that you are bloated with that idea,
and a season’s rest and quiet may cool you down and make a useful man
of you again. Remember that you’re always welcome at my ranch, and
don’t let this make us strangers,” he called back as he turned away.

Riding over with us to where a group were sitting on their horses, our
employer scanned the crowd without saying a word. Turning halfway in
his saddle, he looked over towards Flood’s remuda and said: “One of you
boys please ride over and tell Paul I want him.” During the rather
embarrassing interim, the conversation instantly changed, and we
borrowed tobacco and rolled cigarettes to kill time.

Priest was rather slow in making his appearance, riding leisurely, but
on coming up innocently inquired of his employer, “Did you want to see
me?”

“Yes. Paul, I’ve just lost one of my foremen. I need a good reliable
man to take a herd to Fort Washakie. It’s an Indian agency on the head
waters of the North Platte in Wyoming. Will you tackle the job?”

“A good soldier is always subject to orders,” replied The Rebel with a
military salute. “If you have a herd for delivery in Wyoming, give me
the men and horses, and I’ll put the cattle there if possible. You are
the commandant in the field, and I am subject to instructions.”

“There’s your remuda and outfit, then,” said Lovell, pointing to the
one intended for Tolleston, “and you’ll get a commissary at the ranch
and go into camp this evening. You’ll get your herd in Nueces County,
and Jim will assist in the receiving. Any other little details will all
be arranged before you get away.”

Calling for all the men in Tolleston’s outfit, the two rode away for
that remuda. Shortly before the trouble arose, our employer instructed
those with the Buford cattle to take ten extra horses for each herd.
There were now over a hundred and forty head to be culled back, and
Sponsilier was entitled to ten of them. In order to be sure of our
numbers, we counted the remaining band, and Forrest and I trimmed them
down to two hundred and fifty-four head. As this number was too small
to be handled easily in the open, we decided to take them into the
corrals for the final division. After the culling back was over, and
everything had started for the ranch, to oblige Sponsilier, I remained
behind and helped him to retrim his remuda. Unless one knew the horses
personally, it was embarrassing even to try and pick ten of the best
ones from the overplus. But I knew many of them at first hand, and at
Dave’s request, after picking out the extra ones, continued selecting
others in exchange for horses in his old band. We spent nearly an hour
cutting back and forth, or until we were both satisfied that his saddle
stock could not be improved from the material at hand.

The ranch headquarters were fully six miles from the round-up. Leaving
Sponsilier delighted with the change in his remuda, I rode to overtake
the undivided band which were heading for the ranch corrals. On coming
up with them, Forrest proposed that we divide the horses by a running
cut in squads of ten, and toss for choice. Once they were in the
corrals, this could have been easily done by simply opening a gate and
allowing blocks of ten to pass alternately from the main into smaller
inclosures. But I was expecting something like this from Quince, and
had entirely different plans of my own. Forrest and I were good
friends, but he was a foxy rascal, and I had never wavered in my
determination to get the pick of that horse herd. Had I accepted his
proposal, the chance of a spinning coin might have given him a decided
advantage, and I declined his proposition. I had a remuda in sight that
my very being had hungered for, and now I would take no chance of
losing it. But on the other hand, I proposed to Forrest that he might
have the assistance of two men in Flood’s outfit who had accompanied
the horse herd home from Dodge. In the selecting of Jim’s extra
twenty-five, the opinion of these two lads, as the chosen horses
proved, was a decided help to their foreman. But Quince stood firm, and
arguing the matter, we reached the corrals and penned the band.

The two top bunches were held separate and were left a mile back on the
prairie, under herd. The other remudas were all in sight of the ranch,
while a majority of the men were eating a late dinner. Still contending
for his point, Forrest sent a lad to the house to ask our employer to
come over to the corrals. On his appearance, accompanied by Flood, each
of us stated our proposition.

“Well, the way I size this up,” said old man Don, “one of you wants to
rely on his own judgment and the other don’t. It looks to me, Quince,
you want a gambler’s chance where you can’t lose. Tom’s willing to bank
on his own judgment, but you ain’t. Now, I like a man who does his own
thinking, and to give you a good lesson in that line, why, divide them,
horse and horse, turn about. Now, I’ll spin this coin for first pick,
and while it’s in the air, Jim will call the turn.... Tom wins first
choice.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Lovell,” said Quince, smilingly. “I just got the
idea that you wanted the remudas for the Buford herds to be equally
good. How can you expect it when Tom knows every horse and I never
saddled one of them. Give me the same chance, and I might know them as
well as the little boy knew his pap.”

“You had the same chance,” I put in, “but didn’t want it. You were
offered the Pine Ridge horses last year to take back to Dodge, and you
kicked like a bay steer. But I swallowed their dust to the Arkansaw,
and from there home we lived in clouds of alkali. You went home drunk
and dressed up, with a cigar in your mouth and your feet through the
car window, claiming you was a brother-in-law to Jay Gould, and simply
out on a tour of inspection. Now you expect me to give you the benefit
of my experience and rob myself. Not this summer, John Quincy.”

But rather than let Forrest feel that he was being taken advantage of,
I repeated my former proposition. Accepting it as a last resort, the
two boys were sent for and the dividing commenced. Remounting our
horses, we entered the large corral, and as fast as they were selected
the different outfits were either roped or driven singly through a
guarded gate. It took over an hour of dusty work to make the division,
but when it was finished I had a remuda of a hundred and fifty-two
saddle horses that would make a man willing to work for his board and
the privilege of riding them. Turning out of the corrals, Priest and I
accompanied the horses out on the prairie where our toppy ones were
being grazed. Paul was tickled over my outfit of saddle stock, but gave
me several hints that he was entitled to another picked mount. I
attempted to explain that he had a good remuda, but he still insisted,
and I promised him if he would be at my wagon the next morning when we
corralled, he should have a good one. I could well afford to be
generous with my old bunkie.

There now only remained the apportionment of the work-stock. Four mules
were allowed to the wagon, and in order to have them in good condition
they had been grain-fed for the past month. In their allotment the
Buford herds were given the best teams, and when mine was pointed out
by my employer, the outfit assisted the cook to harness in. Giving him
instructions to go into camp on a creek three miles south of
headquarters, my wagon was the second one to get away. Some of the
teams bolted at the start, and only for timely assistance Sponsilier’s
commissary would have been overturned in the sand. Two of the wagons
headed west for Uvalde, while my brother Bob’s started southeast for
Bee County. The other two belonging to Flood and The Rebel would camp
on the same creek as mine, their herds being also south. Once the
wagons were off, the saddle stock was brought in and corralled for our
first mounts. The final allotment of horses to the men would not take
place until the herds were ready to be received, and until then, they
would be ridden uniformly but promiscuously. With instructions from our
employer to return to the ranch after making camp, the remudas were
started after the wagons.

On our return after darkness, the ranch was as deserted as a
school-house on Saturday. A Mexican cook and a few regular ranch hands
were all that were left. Archie Tolleston had secured his horse and
quit headquarters before any one had even returned from the round-up.
When the last of the foremen came in, our employer delivered his final
messages. “Boys,” said he, “I’ll only detain you a few minutes. I’m
going west in the morning to Uvalde County, and will be present at the
receiving of Quince and Dave’s herds. After they start, I’ll come back
to the city and take stage to Oakville. But you go right ahead and
receive your cattle, Bob, for we don’t know what may turn up. Flood
will help Tom first, and then Paul, to receive their cattle. That will
give the Buford herds the first start, and I’ll be waiting for you at
Abilene when you reach there. And above all else, boys, remember that
I’ve strained my credit in this drive, and that the cattle must be A 1,
and that we must deliver them on the spot in prime condition. Now,
that’s all, but you’d better be riding so as to get an early start in
the morning.”

Our employer walked with us to the outer gate where our horses stood at
the hitch-rack. That he was reticent in his business matters was well
known among all his old foremen, including Forrest and myself. If he
had a confidant among his men, Jim Flood was the man—and there were a
few things he did not know. As we mounted our horses to return to our
respective camps, old man Don quietly took my bridle reins in hand and
allowed the others to ride away. “I want a parting word with you, Tom,”
said he a moment later. “Something has happened to-day which will
require the driving of the Buford herds in some road brand other than
the ‘Circle Dot.’ The first blacksmith shop you pass, have your irons
altered into ‘Open A’s,’ and I’ll do the same with Quince and Dave’s
brands. Of the why or wherefore of this, say nothing to any one, as no
one but myself knows. Don’t breathe a word even to Flood, for he don’t
know any more than he should. When the time comes, if it ever does,
you’ll know all that is necessary—or nothing. That’s all.”




CHAPTER III.
RECEIVING AT LOS LOBOS


The trip to Lasalle County was mere pastime. All three of the outfits
kept in touch with each other, camping far enough apart to avoid any
conflict in night-herding the remudas. The only incident to mar the
pleasure of the outing was the discovery of ticks in many of our
horses’ ears. The pasture in which they had wintered was somewhat
brushy, and as there had been no frost to kill insect life, myriads of
seed-ticks had dropped from the mesquite thickets upon the animals when
rubbing against or passing underneath them. As the inner side of a
horse’s ear is both warm and tender, that organ was frequently infested
with this pest, whose ravages often undermined the supporting
cartilages and produced the drooping or “gotch” ear. In my remuda over
one half the horses were afflicted with ticks, and many of them it was
impossible to bridle, owing to the inflamed condition of their ears.
Fortunately we had with us some standard preparations for blistering,
so, diluting this in axle-grease, we threw every animal thus affected
and thoroughly swabbed his ears. On reaching the Nueces River, near the
western boundary of Lasalle County, the other two outfits continued on
down that stream for their destination in the lower country. Flood
remained behind with me, and going into camp on the river with my
outfit, the two of us rode over to Los Lobos Ranch and announced
ourselves as ready to receive the cattle. Dr. Beaver, the seller of the
herd, was expecting us, and sending word of our arrival to neighboring
cowmen, we looked over the corrals before returning to camp. They had
built a new branding-chute and otherwise improved their facilities for
handling cattle. The main inclosure had been built of heavy palisades
in an early day, but recently several of smaller sized lumber had been
added, making the most complete corrals I had ever seen. An abundance
of wood was at hand for heating the branding-irons, and every little
detail to facilitate the work had been provided for. Giving notice that
we would receive every morning on the open prairie only, we declined an
invitation to remain at the ranch and returned to my wagon.

In the valley the grass was well forward. We had traveled only some
twenty miles a day coming down, and our horses had fared well. But as
soon as we received any cattle, night-herding the remuda would cease,
and we must either hobble or resort to other measures. John Levering
was my horse-wrangler. He had made two trips over the trail with Fant’s
herds in the same capacity, was careful, humane, and an all-round
horseman. In employing a cook, I had given the berth to Neal Parent, an
old boyhood chum of mine. He never amounted to much as a cow-hand, but
was a lighthearted, happy fool; and as cooking did not require much
sense, I gave him the chance to make his first trip. Like a court
jester, he kept the outfit in fine spirits and was the butt of all
jokes. In entertaining company he was in a class by himself, and spoke
with marked familiarity of all the prominent cowmen in southern Texas.
To a stranger the inference might be easily drawn that Lovell was in
his employ.

As we were expecting to receive cattle on the third day, the next
morning the allotment of horses was made. The usual custom of giving
the foreman first choice was claimed, and I cut twelve of solid colors
but not the largest ones. Taking turns, the outfit roped out horse
after horse until only the ten extra ones were left. In order that
these should bear a fair share in the work, I took one of them for a
night-horse and allotted the others to the second, third, and last
guard in a similar capacity. This gave the last three watches two
horses apiece for night work, but with the distinct understanding that
in case of accident or injury to any horse in the remuda, they could be
recalled. There was little doubt that before the summer ended, they
would be claimed to fill vacancies in the regular mounts. Flood had
kept behind only two horses with which to overtake the other outfits,
and during his stay with us would ride these extras and loans from my
mount.

The entire morning was spent working with the remuda. Once a man knew
his mount, extra attention was shown each horse. There were witches’
bridles to be removed from their manes, extra long tails were thinned
out to the proper length, and all hoofs trimmed short. The horses were
fast shedding their winter coats, matting the saddle blankets with
falling hair, and unless carefully watched, galled backs would result.
The branding-irons had been altered en route, and about noon a vaquero
came down the river and reported that the second round-up of the day
would meet just over the county line in Dimmit. He belonged at Los
Lobos, and reported the morning rodeo as containing over five hundred
beeves, which would be ready for delivery at our pleasure. We made him
remain for dinner, after which Flood and I saddled up and returned with
him. We reached the round-up just as the cutting-out finished. They
were a fine lot of big rangy beeves, and Jim suggested that we pass
upon them at once. The seller agreed to hold them overnight, and Flood
and I culled back about one hundred and twenty which were under age or
too light. The round-up outfit strung the cattle out and counted them,
reporting a few over seven hundred head. This count was merely informal
and for the information of the seller; but in the morning the final one
would be made, in which we could take a hand.

After the cut had started in for the ranch, we loitered along, looking
them over, and I noticed several that might have been thrown out.
“Well, now,” said Flood, “if you are going to be so very choice as all
that, I might as well ride on. You can’t use me if that bunch needs any
more trimming. I call them a fine lot of beeves. It’s all right for Don
to rib the boys up and make them think that the cattle have to be
top-notchers. I’ve watched him receive too often; he’s about the
easiest man I know to ring in short ages on. Just so a steer looks
nice, it’s hard for the old man to turn one back. I’ve seen him
receiving three-year-olds, when one fourth of the cattle passed on were
short twos. And if you call his attention to one, he’ll just smile that
little smile of his, and say, ‘yes, he may be shy a few months, but
he’ll grow.’ But then that’s just old man Don’s weakness for cattle; he
can’t look a steer in the face without falling in love with him. Now,
I’ve received before when by throwing out one half the stock offered,
you couldn’t get as uniform a bunch of beeves as those are. But you go
right ahead, Tom, and be sure that every hoof you accept will dress
five hundred pounds at Fort Buford. I’ll simply sit around and clerk
and help you count and give you a good chance to make a reputation.”

Los Lobos was still an open range. They claimed to have over ten
thousand mixed cattle in the straight ranch brand. There had been no
demand for matured beeves for several years, and now on effecting this
sale they were anxious to deliver all their grown steers. Dr. Beaver
informed us that, previous to our arrival, his foreman had been
throwing everything in on the home range, and that he hoped to deliver
to us over two thousand head from his own personal holdings. But he was
liberal with his neighbors, for in the contingent just passed upon,
there must have been over a hundred head in various ranch brands.
Assuring him that we would be on hand in the morning to take possession
of the cattle, and requesting him to have a fire burning, on coming
opposite the camp, we turned off and rode for our wagon. It meant a big
day’s work to road-brand this first contingent, and with the first sign
of dawn, my outfit were riding for Los Lobos. We were encamped about
three miles from the corrals, and leaving orders for the cook to follow
up, the camp was abandoned with the exception of the remuda. It was
barely sun-up when we counted and took possession of the beeves. On
being relieved, the foreman of Los Lobos took the ranch outfit and
started off to renew the gathering. We penned the cattle without any
trouble, and as soon as the irons were ready, a chuteful were run in
and the branding commenced. This branding-chute was long enough to
chamber eight beeves. It was built about a foot wide at the bottom and
flared upward just enough to prevent an animal from turning round. A
heavy gate closed the exit, while bull-bars at the rear prevented the
occupant from backing out. A high platform ran along either side of the
branding-chute, on which the men stood while handling the irons.

Two men did the branding. “Runt” Pickett attended the fire, passing up
the heated irons, and dodging the cold branding-steel. A single iron
was often good for several animals, and sometimes a chuteful was
branded with two irons. It was necessary that the work should be well
done; not that a five months’ trip required it, but the unforeseen must
be guarded against. Many trail herds had met disaster and been
scattered to the four winds with nothing but a road brand to identify
them afterward. The cattle were changing owners, and custom decreed
that an abstract of title should be indelibly seared on their sides.
The first guard, Jake Blair, Morg Tussler, and Clay Zilligan, were
detailed to cut and drive the squads into the chute. These three were
the only mounted men, the others being placed so as to facilitate the
work. Cattle are as innocent as they are strong, and in this necessary
work everything was done quietly, care being taken to prevent them from
becoming excited. As fast as they were released from the chute, Dr.
Beaver took a list of the ranch brands, in order to bill of sale them
to Lovell and settle with his neighbors.

The work moved with alacrity. As one chuteful was being freed the next
one was entering. Gates closed in their faces and the bull-bars at the
rear locked them as in a vice. We were averaging a hundred an hour, but
the smoke from the burning hair was offensive to the lungs. During the
forenoon Burl Van Vedder and Vick Wolf “spelled” Flood and myself for
half an hour at a time, or until we could recover from the nauseous
fumes. When the cook called us to dinner, we had turned out nearly five
hundred branded cattle. No sooner was the midday meal bolted than the
cook was ordered back to camp with his wagon, the branded contingent of
cattle following in charge of the first guard. Less than half an hour
was lost in refreshing the inner man, and ordering “G—G” Cederdall, Tim
Stanley, and Jack Splann of the second guard into their saddles to take
the place of the relieved men, we resumed our task. The dust of the
corrals settled on us unheeded, the smoke of the fire mingled with that
of the singeing hair and its offensive odors, bringing tears to our
eyes, but the work never abated until the last steer had passed the
chute and bore the “Open A.”

The work over, a pretense was made at washing the dust and grime from
our faces. It was still early in the day, and starting the cattle for
camp, I instructed the boys to water and graze them as long as they
would stand up. The men all knew their places on guard, this having
been previously arranged; and joining Dr. Beaver, Jim and I rode for
the ranch about a mile distant. The doctor was a genial host, and
prescribed a series of mint-juleps, after which he proposed that we
ride out and meet the cattle gathered during the day. The outfit had
been working a section of country around some lagoons, south of the
ranch, and it was fully six o’clock when we met them, heading homeward.
The cattle were fully up to the standard of the first bunch, and
halting the herd we trimmed them down and passed on them. After Flood
rode out of this second contingent, I culled back about a dozen light
weights. On finishing, Jim gave me a quiet wink, and said something to
Dr. Beaver about a new broom. But I paid no attention to these remarks;
in a country simply teeming with prime beeves, I was determined to get
a herd to my liking. Dr. Beaver had assured Lovell that he and his
neighbors would throw together over four thousand beeves in making up
the herd, and now I was perfectly willing that they should. It would
take two days longer to gather the cattle on the Los Lobos range, and
then there were the outside offerings, which were supposed to number
fully two thousand. There was no excuse for not being choice.

On returning to Los Lobos about dusk, rather than offend its owner,
Flood consented to remain at the ranch overnight, but I rode for camp.
Darkness had fallen on my reaching the wagon, the herd had been bedded
down, and Levering felt so confident that the remuda was contented that
he had concluded to night-herd them himself until midnight, and then
turn them loose until dawn. He had belled a couple of the leaders, and
assured me that he would have them in hand before sun-up. The cook was
urging me to supper, but before unsaddling, I rode around both herd and
remuda. The cattle were sleeping nicely, and the boys assured me that
they had got a splendid fill on them before bedding down. That was the
only safe thing to do, and after circling the saddle stock on the
opposite side of camp, I returned to find that a stranger had arrived
during my brief absence. Parent had fully enlightened him as to who he
was, who the outfit were, the destination of the herd, the names of
both buyer and seller, and, on my riding in, was delivering a voluble
dissertation on the tariff and the possible effect on the state of
putting hides on the free list. And although in cow-camps a soldier’s
introduction is usually sufficient, the cook inquired the stranger’s
name and presented me to our guest with due formality. Supper being
waiting, the stranger was invited to take pot-luck with us, and before
the meal was over recognized me. He was a deputy cattle inspector for
Dimmit County, and had issued the certificate for Flood’s herd the year
before. He had an eye for the main chance, and informed me that fully
one half the cattle making up our herd belonged to Dimmit; that the
county line was only a mile up the river, and that if I would allow the
herd to drift over into his territory, he would shade the legal rate.
The law compelling the inspection of herds before they could be moved
out of the county, like the rain, fell upon the just and the unjust. It
was not the intent of the law to impose a burden on an honest drover.
Yet he was classed with the rustler, and must have in his possession a
certificate of inspection before he could move out a purchased herd, or
be subject to arrest. A list of brands was recorded, at the county
seat, of every herd leaving, and if occasion required could be referred
to in future years. No railroad would receive any consignment of hides
or live stock, unless accompanied by a certificate from the county
inspector. The legal rate was ten cents on the first hundred, and three
cents on all over that number, frequently making the office a lucrative
one.

Once the object of his call was made clear, I warmed to our guest. If
the rate allowed by law was enforced, it meant an expense of over a
hundred dollars for a certificate of inspection covering both herd and
saddle stock. We did not take out certificates in Medina on the remudas
as a matter of economy. By waiting until the herd was ready, the two
would be inspected as one, and the lower rate apply. So I urged the
deputy to make himself at home and share my blankets. Pretending that I
remembered him well, I made numerous inquiries about the ranch where we
received our herd the year before, and by the time to turn in, we were
on the most friendly terms. The next morning I offered him a horse from
our extras, assuring him that Flood would be delighted to renew his
acquaintance, and invited him to go with us for the day. Turning his
horse among ours, he accepted and rode away with us. The cattle passed
on the evening before had camped out several miles from the corrals and
were grazing in when we met them. Flood and the Doctor joined us
shortly afterward, and I had a quiet word with Jim before he and the
inspector met. After the count was over, Flood made a great ado over my
guest and gave him the glad hand as if he had been a long-lost brother.
We were a trifle short-handed the second day, and on my guest
volunteering to help, I assigned him to Runt Pickett’s place at the
fire, where he shortly developed a healthy sweat. As we did not have a
large bunch of beeves to brand that day, the wagon did not come over
and we branded them at a single shift. It was nearly one o’clock when
we finished, and instead of going in to Los Lobos, we left the third
guard, Wayne Outcault, “Dorg” Seay, and Owen Ubery, to graze the cattle
over to our camp.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in idleness and in the
entertainment of our guest. Official-like, he pretended he could hardly
spare the time to remain another night, but was finally prevailed on
and did so. After dark, I took him some distance from camp, and the two
of us had a confidential chat. I assured him if there was any object in
doing so, we could move camp right to or over the county line, and
frankly asked him what inducement he would offer. At first he thought
that throwing off everything over a hundred dollars would be about
right. But I assured him that there were whole families of inspectors
in Lasalle County who would discount that figure, and kindly advised
him, if he really wanted the fee, to meet competition at least. We
discussed the matter at length, and before returning to camp, he
offered to make out the certificate, covering everything, for fifty
dollars. As it was certain to be several days yet before we would
start, and there was a prospect of a falling market in certificates of
inspection, I would make no definite promises. The next morning I
insisted that he remain at some near-by ranch in his own territory,
and, if convenient, ride down every few days and note the progress of
the herd.

We were promised a large contingent of cattle for that day. The ranch
outfit were to make three rodeos down the river the day before, where
the bulk of their beeves ranged. Flood was anxious to overtake the
other outfits before they reached the lower country, and as he assured
me I had no further use for him, we agreed that after receiving that
morning he might leave us. Giving orders at camp to graze the received
beeves within a mile of the corrals by noon, and the wagon to follow,
we made an early start, Flood taking his own horses with him. We met
the cattle coming up the river a thousand strong. It was late when the
last round-up of the day before had finished, and they had camped for
the night fully five miles from the corrals. It took less than an hour
to cull back and count, excuse the ranch outfit, and start this
contingent for the branding-pens in charge of my boys. Flood was in a
hurry, and riding a short distance with him, I asked that he pass or
send word to the county seat, informing the inspector of hides and
animals that a trail herd would leave Los Lobos within a week. Jim knew
my motive in getting competition on the inspection, and wishing me luck
on my trip, I wrung his hand in farewell until we should meet again in
the upper country.

The sun was setting that night when we finished road-branding the last
of the beeves received in the morning. After dinner, when the wagon
returned to camp, I instructed Parent to move up the river fully a
mile. We needed the change, anyhow, and even if it was farther, the
next morning we would have the Los Lobos outfit to assist in the
branding, as that day would finish their gathering. The outside cattle
were beginning to report in small bunches, from three hundred upward.
Knowing that Dr. Beaver was anxious to turn in as many as possible of
his own, we delayed receiving from the neighboring ranches for another
day. But the next morning, as we were ironing-up the last contingent of
some four hundred Los Lobos beeves, a deputy inspector for Lasalle
arrived from the county seat. He was likewise officious, and professed
disappointment that the herd was not ready to pass upon. On his
arrival, I was handling the irons, and paid no attention to him until
the branding was over for the morning. When he introduced himself, I
cordially greeted him, but at the first intimation of disappointment
from his lips, I checked him.

Using the best diplomacy at my command, I said, “Well, I’m sorry to
cause you this long ride when it might have been avoided. You see, we
are receiving cattle from both this and Dimmit County. In fact, we are
holding our herd across the line just at present. On starting, we
expect to go up the river to the first creek, and north on it to the
Leona River. I have partially promised the work to an inspector from
Dimmit. He inspected our herd last year, and being a personal friend
that way, you couldn’t meet his figures. Very sorry to disappoint you,
but won’t you come over to the wagon and stay all night?”

But Dr. Beaver, who understood my motive, claimed the privilege of
entertaining the deputy at Los Lobos, and I yielded. We now had a few
over twenty-four hundred beeves, of which nineteen hundred were in the
Los Lobos brand, the others being mixed. There was a possibility of
fully a hundred more coming in with the neighboring cattle, and Dr.
Beaver was delighted over the ranch delivery. The outside contingents
were in four bunches, then encamped in different directions and within
from three to five miles of the ranch. Taking Vick Wolf with me for the
afternoon, I looked over the separate herds and found them numbering
more than fifteen hundred. They were the same uniform Nueces Valley
cattle, and as we lacked only a few over a thousand, the offerings were
extremely liberal. Making arrangements with three of the four herds to
receive the next day, Vick and I reached our camp on the county line
about sunset. The change was a decided advantage; wood, water, and
grass were plentiful, and not over a mile farther from the
branding-pens.

The next morning found us in our saddles at the usual early hour. We
were anxious to receive and brand every animal possible that day, so
that with a few hours’ work the next forenoon the herd would be ready
to start. After we had passed on the first contingent of the outside
cattle, and as we were nearing the corrals, Dr. Beaver overtook us.
Calling me aside, he said: “Quirk, if you play your cards right, you’ll
get a certificate of inspection for nothing and a chromo as a pelon.
I’ve bolstered up the Lasalle man that he’s better entitled to the work
than the Dimmit inspector, and he’ll wait until the herd is ready to
start. Now, you handle the one, and I’ll keep the other as my guest. We
must keep them apart and let them buck each other to their hearts’
content. Every hoof in your herd will be in a ranch brand of record;
but still the law demands inspection and you must comply with it. I’ll
give you a duplicate list of the brands, so that neither inspector need
see the herd, and if we don’t save your employer a hundred dollars,
then we are amateurs.”

Everything was pointing to an auspicious start. The last cattle on the
delivery were equal to the first, if not better. The sky clouded over,
and before noon a light shower fell, settling the dust in the corrals.
Help increased as the various bunches were accepted, and at the end of
the day only a few over two hundred remained to complete our numbers.
The last contingent were fully up to the standard; and rather than
disappoint the sellers, I accepted fifty head extra, making my herd at
starting thirty-four hundred and fifty. When the last beef had passed
the branding-chute, there was nothing remaining but to give a receipt
to the seller for the number of head received, in behalf of my
employer, pending a later settlement between them.

Meanwhile competition in the matter of inspection had been carefully
nursed. Conscious of each other’s presence, and both equally anxious
for the fee, the one deputy was entertained at my camp and the other at
Los Lobos. They were treated courteously, but given to understand that
in the present instance money talked. With but a small bunch of beeves
to brand on the starting day, the direction in which the herd was
allowed to leave the bed-ground would be the final answer. If west,
Dimmit had underbid Lasalle; if the contrary, then the departure of
this herd would be a matter of record in the latter county. Dr. Beaver
enjoyed the situation hugely, acting the intermediary in behalf of his
guest. Personally I was unconcerned, but was neutral and had little to
say.

My outfit understood the situation perfectly. Before retiring on the
night of our last camp on the county line, and in the presence of the
Dimmit inspector, the last relief received instructions, in the absence
of contrary orders, to allow the herd to drift back into Lasalle in the
morning. Matters were being conducted in pantomime, and the players
understood their parts. Our guest had made himself useful in various
ways, and I naturally felt friendly towards him. He had stood several
guards for the boys, and Burl Van Vedder, of the last watch, had secret
instructions to call him for that guard.

The next morning the camp was not astir as early as usual. On the
cook’s arousing us, in the uncertain light of dawn, the herd was slowly
rising, and from the position of a group of four horsemen, it was
plainly evident that our guest had shaded all competition. Our camp was
in plain view of Los Lobos, and only some five or six miles distant.
With the rising of the sun, and from the top of a windmill derrick, by
the aid of a field-glass, the Lasalle inspector had read his answer;
and after the work in the morning was over, and the final papers had
been exchanged, Dr. Beaver insisted that, in commiseration of his
departed guest, just one more mint-julep should be drunk standing.

When Don Lovell glanced over my expense account on our arrival at
Abilene, he said: “Look here, Tom, is this straight?—twenty dollars for
inspection?—the hell you say! Corrupted them, did you? Well, that’s the
cheapest inspection I ever paid, with one exception. Dave Sponsilier
once got a certificate for his herd for five dollars and a few drinks.
But he paid for it a month in advance of the starting of the herd. It
was dated ahead, properly sealed, and all ready for filling in the
brands and numbers. The herd was put up within a mile of where four
counties cornered, and that inspector was a believer in the maxim of
the early bird. The office is a red-tape one, anyhow, and little harm
in taking all the advantage you can.—This item marked ‘sundries’ was
DRY goods, I suppose? All right, Quirk; I reckon rattlesnakes were
rather rabid this spring.”




CHAPTER IV.
MINGLING WITH THE EXODUS


By noon the herd had grazed out five miles on its way. The boys were so
anxious to get off that on my return the camp was deserted with the
exception of the cook and the horse-wrangler, none even returning for
dinner. Before leaving I had lunched at Los Lobos with its owner, and
on reaching the wagon, Levering and I assisted the cook to harness in
and start the commissary. The general course of the Nueces River was
southeast by northwest, and as our route lay on the latter angle, the
herd would follow up the valley for the first day. Once outside the
boundaries of our camp of the past week, the grass matted the ground
with its rank young growth. As far as the eye could see, the mesas,
clothed in the verdure of spring, rolled in long swells away to the
divides. Along the river and in the first bottom, the timber and
mesquite thickets were in leaf and blossom, while on the outlying
prairies the only objects which dotted this sea of green were range
cattle and an occasional band of horses.

The start was made on the 27th of March. By easy drives and within a
week, we crossed the “Sunset” Railway, about thirty miles to the
westward of the ranch in Medina. On reaching the divide between the
Leona and Frio rivers, we sighted our first herd of trail cattle,
heading northward. We learned that some six herds had already passed
upward on the main Frio, while a number of others were reported as
having taken the east fork of that river. The latter stream almost
paralleled the line between Medina and Uvalde counties, and as we
expected some word from headquarters, we crossed over to the east fork.
When westward of and opposite the ranch, Runt Pickett was sent in for
any necessary orders that might be waiting. By leaving us early in the
evening he could reach headquarters that night and overtake us before
noon the next day. We grazed leisurely forward the next morning,
killing as much time as possible, and Pickett overtook us before the
wagon had even gone into camp for dinner. Lovell had not stopped on his
return from the west, but had left with the depot agent at the home
station a letter for the ranch. From its contents we learned that the
other two Buford herds had started from Uvalde, Sponsilier in the lead,
one on the 24th and the other the following day. Local rumors were
encouraging in regard to grass and water to the westward, and the
intimation was clear that if favorable reports continued, the two
Uvalde herds would intersect an old trail running from the head of
Nueces Canon to the Llano River. Should they follow this route there
was little hope of their coming into the main western trail before
reaching the Colorado River. Sponsilier was a daring fellow, and if
there was a possible chance to get through beyond the borders of any
settlement, he was certain to risk it.

The letter contained no personal advice. Years of experience in trail
matters had taught my employer that explicit orders were often harmful.
The emergencies to be met were of such a varied nature that the best
method was to trust to an outfit worming its way out of any situation
which confronted it. From the information disclosed, it was evident
that the other Buford herds were then somewhere to the northwest, and
possibly over a hundred miles distant. Thus freed from any restraint,
we held a due northward course for several days, or until we
encountered some rocky country. Water was plentiful and grass fairly
good, but those flinty hills must be avoided or sorefooted beeves would
be the result. I had seen trails of blood left by cattle from sandy
countries on encountering rock, and now the feet of ours were a second
consideration to their stomachs. But long before the herd reached this
menace, Morg Tussler and myself, scouting two full days in advance,
located a safe route to the westward. Had we turned to the other hand,
we should have been forced into the main trail below Fredericksburg,
and we preferred the sea-room of the boundless plain. From every
indication and report, this promised to be the banner year in the
exodus of cattle from the South to the then new Northwest. This latter
section was affording the long-looked-for outlet, by absorbing the
offerings of cattle which came up from Texas over the trail, and
marking an epoch barely covering a single decade.

Turning on a western angle, a week’s drive brought us out on a high
tableland. Veering again to the north, we snailed along through a
delightful country, rich in flora and the freshness of the season. From
every possible elevation, we scanned the west in the hope of sighting
some of the herd which had followed up the main Frio, but in vain.
Sweeping northward at a leisurely gait, the third week out we sighted
the Blue Mountains, the first familiar landmark on our course. As the
main western trail skirted its base on the eastward, our position was
easily established.

So far the cattle were well behaved, not a run, and only a single
incident occurring worth mention. About half an hour before dawn one
morning, the cook aroused the camp with the report that the herd was
missing. The beeves had been bedded within two hundred yards of the
wagon, and the last watch usually hailed the rekindling of the cook’s
fire as the first harbinger of day. But on this occasion the absence of
the usual salutations from the bed-ground aroused Parent’s suspicion.
He rushed into camp, and laboring under the impression that the cattle
had stampeded, trampled over our beds, yelling at the top of his lungs.
Aroused in the darkness from heavy sleep, bewildered by a bright fire
burning and a crazy man shouting, “The beeves have stampeded! the
herd’s gone! Get up, everybody!” we were almost thrown into a panic.
Many of the boys ran for their night-horses, but Clay Zilligan and I
fell on the cook and shook the statement out of him that the cattle had
left their beds. This simplified the situation, but before I could
recall the men, several of them had reached the bed-ground. As fast as
horses could be secured, others dashed through the lighted circle and
faded into the darkness. From the flickering of matches it was evident
that the boys were dismounting and looking for some sign of trouble.
Zilligan was swearing like a pirate, looking for his horse in the murky
night; but instead of any alarm, oaths and derision greeted our ears as
the men returned to camp. Halting their horses within the circle of the
fire, Dorg Seay said to the cook:

“Neal, the next time you find a mare’s nest, keep the secret to
yourself. I don’t begrudge losing thirty minutes’ beauty sleep, but I
hate to be scared out of a year’s growth. Haven’t you got cow-sense
enough to know that if those beeves had run, they’d have shook the
earth? If they had stampeded, that alarm clock of yours wouldn’t be a
circumstance to the barking of the boys’ guns. Why, the cattle haven’t
been gone thirty minutes. You can see where they got up and then
quietly walked away. The ground where they lay is still steaming and
warm. They were watered a little too soon yesterday and naturally got
up early this morning. The boys on guard didn’t want to alarm the
outfit, and just allowed the beeves to graze off on their course. When
day breaks, you’ll see they ain’t far away, and in the right direction.
Parent, if I didn’t sabe cows better than you do, I’d confine my
attention to a cotton patch.”

Seay had read the sign aright. When day dawned the cattle were in plain
view about a mile distant. On the return of the last guard to camp,
Vick Wolf explained the situation in a few words. During their watch
the herd had grown restless, many of the cattle arising; and knowing
that dawn was near at hand, the boys had pushed the sleepy ones off
their beds and started them feeding. The incident had little effect on
the irrepressible Parent, who seemed born to blunder, yet gifted with a
sunny disposition which atoned for his numerous mistakes.

With the Blue Mountains as our guiding star, we kept to the westward of
that landmark, crossing the Llano River opposite some Indian mounds. On
reaching the divide between this and the next water, we sighted two
dust-clouds to the westward. They were ten to fifteen miles distant,
but I was anxious to hear any word of Sponsilier or Forrest, and sent
Jake Blair to make a social call. He did not return until the next day,
and reported the first herd as from the mouth of the Pecos, and the
more distant one as belonging to Jesse Presnall. Blair had stayed all
night with the latter, and while its foreman was able to locate at
least a dozen trail herds in close proximity, our two from Uvalde had
neither been seen nor heard of. Baffled again, necessity compelled us
to turn within touch of some outfitting point. The staples of life were
running low in our commissary, no opportunity having presented itself
to obtain a new supply since we left the ranch in Medina over a month
before. Consequently, after crossing the San Saba, we made our first
tack to the eastward.

Brady City was an outfitting point for herds on the old western trail.
On coming opposite that frontier village, Parent and I took the wagon
and went in after supplies, leaving the herd on its course, paralleling
the former route. They had instructions to camp on Brady Creek that
night. On reaching the supply point, there was a question if we could
secure the simple staples needed. The drive that year had outstripped
all calculations, some half-dozen chuck-wagons being in waiting for the
arrival of a freight outfit which was due that morning. The nearest
railroad was nearly a hundred miles to the eastward, and all supplies
must be freighted in by mule and ox teams. While waiting for the
freight wagons, which were in sight several miles distant, I made
inquiry of the two outfitting stores if our Buford herds had passed. If
they had, no dealings had taken place on the credit of Don Lovell,
though both merchants knew him well. Before the freight outfit arrived,
some one took Abb Blocker, a trail foreman for his brother John, to
task for having an odd ox in his wheel team. The animal was a raw,
unbroken “7L” bull, surly and chafing under the yoke, and attracted
general attention. When several friends of Blocker, noticing the brand,
began joking him, he made this explanation: “No, I don’t claim him; but
he came into my herd the other night and got to hossing my steers
around. We couldn’t keep him out, and I thought if he would just go
along, why we’d put him under the yoke and let him hoss that
chuck-wagon to amuse himself. One of my wheelers was getting a little
tenderfooted, anyhow.”

On the arrival of the freight outfit, short shift was made in
transferring a portion of the cargo to the waiting chuck-wagons. As we
expected to reach Abilene, a railroad point, within a week, we took on
only a small stock of staple supplies. Having helped ourselves, the
only delay was in getting a clerk to look over our appropriation, make
out an itemized bill, and receive a draft on my employer. When finally
the merchant in person climbed into our wagon and took a list of the
articles, Parent started back to overtake the herd. I remained behind
several hours, chatting with the other foremen.

None of the other trail bosses had seen anything of Lovell’s other
herds, though they all knew him personally or by reputation, and
inquired if he was driving again in the same road brand. By general
agreement, in case of trouble, we would pick up each other’s cattle;
and from half a cent to a cent a head was considered ample remuneration
in buying water in Texas. Owing to the fact that many drovers had
shipped to Red River, it was generally believed that there would be no
congestion of cattle south of that point. All herds were then keeping
well to the westward, some even declaring their intention to go through
the Panhandle until the Canadian was reached.

Two days later we came into the main trail at the crossing of the
Colorado River. Before we reached it, several ominous dust-clouds hung
on our right for hours, while beyond the river were others, indicating
the presence of herds. Summer weather had already set in, and during
the middle of the day the glare of heat-waves and mirages obstructed
our view of other wayfarers like ourselves, but morning and evening we
were never out of sight of their signals. The banks of the river at the
ford were trampled to the level of the water, while at both approach
and exit the ground was cut into dust. On our arrival, the stage of
water was favorable, and we crossed without a halt of herd, horses, or
commissary. But there was little inducement to follow the old trail.
Washed into ruts by the seasons, the grass on either side eaten away
for miles, there was a look of desolation like that to be seen in the
wake of an army. As we felt under obligations to touch at Abilene
within a few days, there was a constant skirmish for grass within a
reasonable distance of the trail; and we were early, fully two thirds
of the drive being in our rear. One sultry morning south of Buffalo
Gap, as we were grazing past the foot of Table Mountain, several of us
rode to the summit of that butte. From a single point of observation we
counted twelve herds within a space of thirty miles both south and
north, all moving in the latter direction.

When about midway between the Gap and the railroad we were met at noon
one day by Don Lovell. This was his first glimpse of my herd, and his
experienced eye took in everything from a broken harness to the peeling
and legibility of the road brand. With me the condition of the cattle
was the first requisite, but the minor details as well as the more
important claimed my employer’s attention. When at last, after riding
with the herd for an hour, he spoke a few words of approbation on the
condition, weight, and uniformity of the beeves, I felt a load lifted
from my shoulders. That the old man was in a bad humor on meeting us
was evident; but as he rode along beside the cattle, lazy and large as
oxen, the cockles of his heart warmed and he grew sociable. Near the
middle of the afternoon, as we were in the rear, looking over the drag
steers, he complimented me on having the fewest tender-footed animals
of any herd that had passed Abilene since his arrival. Encouraged, I
ventured the double question as to how this one would average with the
other Buford herds, and did he know their whereabouts. As I recall his
reply, it was that all Nueces Valley cattle were uniform, and if there
was any difference it was due to carelessness in receiving. In regard
to the locality of the other herds, it was easily to be seen that he
was provoked about something.

“Yes, I know where they are,” said he, snappishly, “but that’s all the
good it does me. They crossed the railroad, west, at Sweetwater, about
a week ago. I don’t blame Quince, for he’s just trailing along, half a
day behind Dave’s herd. But Sponsilier, knowing that I wanted to see
him, had the nerve to write me a postal card with just ten words on it,
saying that all was well and to meet him in Dodge. Tom, you don’t know
what a satisfaction it is to me to spend a day or so with each of the
herds. But those rascals didn’t pay any more attention to me than if I
was an old woman. There was some reason for it—sore-footed cattle, or
else they have skinned up their remudas and didn’t want me to see them.
If I drive a hundred herds hereafter, Dave Sponsilier will stay at home
as far as I’m concerned. He may think it’s funny to slip past, but this
court isn’t indulging in any levity just at present. I fail to see the
humor in having two outfits with sixty-seven hundred cattle somewhere
between the Staked Plain and No-Man’s-Land, and unable to communicate
with them. And while my herds are all contracted, mature beeves have
broke from three to five dollars a head in price since these started,
and it won’t do to shout before we’re out of the woods. Those fool boys
don’t know that, and I can’t get near enough to tell them.”

I knew better than to ask further questions or offer any apologies for
others. My employer was naturally irritable, and his abuse or praise of
a foreman was to be expected. Previously and under the smile of
prosperity, I had heard him laud Sponsilier, and under an imaginary
shadow abuse Jim Flood, the most experienced man in his employ. Feeling
it was useless to pour oil on the present troubled waters, I excused
myself, rode back, and ordered the wagon to make camp ahead about four
miles on Elm Creek. We watered late in the afternoon, grazing thence
until time to bed the herd. When the first and second guards were
relieved to go in and catch night-horses and get their supper, my
employer remained behind with the cattle. While feeding during the
evening, we allowed the herd to scatter over a thousand acres. Taking
advantage of the loose order of the beeves, the old man rode back and
forth through them until approaching darkness compelled us to throw
them together on the bedground. Even after the first guard took charge,
the drover loitered behind, reluctant to leave until the last steer had
lain down; and all during the night, sharing my blankets, he awoke on
every change of guards, inquiring of the returning watch how the cattle
were sleeping.

As we should easily pass Abilene before noon, I asked him as a favor
that he take the wagon in and get us sufficient supplies to last until
Red River was reached. But he preferred to remain behind with the herd,
and I went instead. This suited me, as his presence overawed my outfit,
who were delirious to see the town. There was no telling how long he
would have stayed with us, but my brother Bob’s herd was expected at
any time. Remaining with us a second night, something, possibly the
placidness of the cattle, mellowed the old man and he grew amiable with
the outfit, and myself in particular. At breakfast the next morning,
when I asked him if he was in a position to recommend any special
route, he replied:

“No, Tom, that rests with you. One thing’s certain; herds are going to
be dangerously close together on the regular trail which crosses Red
River at Doan’s. The season is early yet, but over fifty herds have
already crossed the Texas Pacific Railway. Allowing one half the herds
to start north of that line, it gives you a fair idea what to expect.
When seven hundred thousand cattle left Texas two years ago, it was
considered the banner year, yet it won’t be a marker to this one. The
way prices are tumbling shows that the Northwest was bluffing when they
offered to mature all the cattle that Texas could breed for the next
fifty years. That’s the kind of talk that suits me, but last year there
were some forty herds unsold, which were compelled to winter in the
North. Not over half the saddle horses that came up the trail last
summer were absorbed by these Northern cowmen. Talk’s cheap, but it
takes money to buy whiskey. Lots of these men are new ones at the
business and may lose fortunes. The banks are getting afraid of cattle
paper, and conditions are tightening. With the increased drive this
year, if the summer passes without a slaughter in prices, the Texas
drovers can thank their lucky stars. I’m not half as bright as I might
be, but this is one year that I’m smooth enough not to have unsold
cattle on the trail.”

The herd had started an hour before, and when the wagon was ready to
move, I rode a short distance with my employer. It was possible that he
had something to say of a confidential nature, for it was seldom that
he acted so discouraged when his every interest seemed protected by
contracts. But at the final parting, when we both had dismounted and
sat on the ground for an hour, he had disclosed nothing. On the
contrary, he even admitted that possibly it was for the best that the
other Buford herds had held a westward course and thus avoided the
crush on the main routes. The only intimation which escaped him was
when we had remounted and each started our way, he called me back and
said, “Tom, no doubt but you’ve noticed that I’m worried. Well, I am.
I’d tell you in a minute, but I may be wrong in the matter. But I’ll
know before you reach Dodge, and then, if it’s necessary, you shall
know all. It’s nothing about the handling of the herds, for my foremen
have always considered my interests first. Keep this to yourself, for
it may prove a nightmare. But if it should prove true, then we must
stand together. Now, that’s all; mum’s the word until we meet. Drop me
a line if you get a chance, and don’t let my troubles worry you.”

While overtaking the herd, I mused over my employer’s last words. But
my brain was too muddy even to attempt to solve the riddle. The most
plausible theory that I could advance was that some friendly cowmen
were playing a joke on him, and that the old man had taken things too
seriously. Within a week the matter was entirely forgotten, crowded out
of mind by the demands of the hour. The next night, on the Clear Fork
of the Brazos, a stranger, attracted by our camp-fire, rode up to the
wagon. Returning from the herd shortly after his arrival, I recognized
in our guest John Blocker, a prominent drover. He informed us that he
and his associates had fifty-two thousand cattle on the trail, and that
he was just returning from overtaking two of their five lead herds.
Knowing that he was a well-posted cowman on routes and sustenance,
having grown up on the trail, I gave him the best our camp afforded,
and in return I received valuable information in regard to the country
between our present location and Doan’s Crossing. He reported the
country for a hundred miles south of Red River as having had a dry,
backward spring, scanty of grass, and with long dry drives; and
further, that in many instances water for the herds would have to be
bought from those in control.

The outlook was not to my liking. The next morning when I inquired of
our guest what he would advise me to do, his answer clearly covered the
ground. “Well, I’m not advising any one,” said he, “but you can draw
your own conclusions. The two herds of mine, which I overtook, have
orders to turn northeast and cross into the Nations at Red River
Station. My other cattle, still below, will all be routed by way of
Fort Griffin. Once across Red River, you will have the Chisholm Trail,
running through civilized tribes, and free from all annoyance of
blanket Indians. South of the river the grass is bound to be better
than on the western route, and if we have to buy water, we’ll have the
advantage of competition.”

With this summary of the situation, a decision was easily reached. The
Chisholm Trail was good enough for me. Following up the north side of
the Clear Fork, we passed about twenty miles to the west of Fort
Griffin. Constantly bearing east by north, a few days later we crossed
the main Brazos at a low stage of water. But from there to Red River
was a trial not to be repeated. Wire fences halted us at every turn.
Owners of pastures refused permission to pass through. Lanes ran in the
wrong direction, and open country for pasturage was scarce. What we
dreaded most, lack of drink for the herd, was the least of our
troubles, necessity requiring its purchase only three or four times.
And like a climax to a week of sore trials, when we were in sight of
Red River a sand and dust storm struck us, blinding both men and herd
for hours. The beeves fared best, for with lowered heads they turned
their backs to the howling gale, while the horsemen caught it on every
side. The cattle drifted at will in an uncontrollable mass. The air was
so filled with sifting sand and eddying dust that it was impossible to
see a mounted man at a distance of fifty yards. The wind blew a
hurricane, making it impossible to dismount in the face of it. Our
horses trembled with fear, unsteady on their feet. The very sky
overhead darkened as if night was falling. Two thirds of the men threw
themselves in the lead of the beeves, firing six-shooters to check
them, which could not even be heard by the ones on the flank and in the
rear. Once the herd drifted against a wire fence, leveled it down and
moved on, sullen but irresistible. Towards evening the storm abated,
and half the outfit was sent out in search of the wagon, which was
finally found about dark some four miles distant.

That night Owen Ubery, as he bathed his bloodshot eyes in a pail of
water, said to the rest of us: “Fellows, if ever I have a boy, and tell
him how his pa suffered this afternoon, and he don’t cry, I’ll cut a
switch and whip him until he does.”




CHAPTER V.
RED RIVER STATION


When the spirit of a man is once broken, he becomes useless. On the
trail it is necessary to have some diversion from hard work, long
hours, and exposure to the elements. With man and beast, from the
Brazos to Red River was a fire test of physical endurance. But after
crossing into the Chickasaw Nation, a comparatively new country would
open before us. When the strain of the past week was sorest, in buoying
up the spirits of my outfit, I had promised them rest and recreation at
the first possible opportunity.

Fortunately we had an easy ford. There was not even an indication that
there had been a freshet on the river that spring. This was tempering
the wind, for we were crippled, three of the boys being unable to
resume their places around the herd on account of inflamed eyes. The
cook had weathered the sand-storm better than any of us. Sheltering his
team, and fastening his wagon-sheet securely, he took refuge under it
until the gale had passed. Pressing him into the service the next
morning, and assigning him to the drag end of the herd, I left the
blind to lead the blind in driving the wagon. On reaching the river
about the middle of the forenoon, we trailed the cattle across in a
long chain, not an animal being compelled to swim. The wagon was
carried over on a ferryboat, as it was heavily loaded, a six weeks’
supply of provisions having been taken on before crossing. Once the
trail left the breaks, on the north side of the river, we drew off
several miles to the left and went into camp for the remainder of the
day. Still keeping clear of the trail, daily we moved forward the wagon
from three to five miles, allowing the cattle to graze and rest to
contentment. The herd recuperated rapidly, and by the evening of the
fourth day after crossing, the inflammation was so reduced in those
whose eyes were inflamed, that we decided to start in earnest the next
morning.

The cook was ordered to set out the best the wagon afforded, several
outside delicacies were added, and a feast was in sight. G—G Cederdall
had recrossed the river that day to mail a letter, and on his return
proudly carried a basket of eggs on his arm. Three of the others had
joined a fishing party from the Texas side, and had come in earlier in
the day with a fine string of fish. Parent won new laurels in the
supper to which he invited us about sundown. The cattle came in to
their beds groaning and satiated, and dropped down as if ordered. When
the first watch had taken them, there was nothing to do but sit around
and tell stories. Since crossing Red River, we had slept almost night
and day, but in that balmy May evening sleep was banished. The fact
that we were in the Indian country, civilized though the Indians were,
called forth many an incident. The raids of the Comanches into the
Panhandle country during the buffalo days was a favorite topic. Vick
Wolf, however, had had an Indian experience in the North with which he
regaled us at the first opportunity.

“There isn’t any trouble nowadays,” said he, lighting a cigarette,
“with these blanket Indians on the reservations. I had an experience
once on a reservation where the Indians could have got me easy enough
if they had been on the war-path. It was the first winter I ever spent
on a Northern range, having gone up to the Cherokee Strip to
avoid—well, no matter. I got a job in the Strip, not riding, but as a
kind of an all-round rustler. This was long before the country was
fenced, and they rode lines to keep the cattle on their ranges. One
evening about nightfall in December, the worst kind of a blizzard
struck us that the country had ever seen. The next day it was just as
bad, and BLOODY cold. A fellow could not see any distance, and to
venture away from the dugout meant to get lost. The third day she broke
and the sun came out clear in the early evening. The next day we
managed to gather the saddle horses, as they had not drifted like the
cattle.

“Well, we were three days overtaking the lead of that cattle drift, and
then found them in the heart of the Cheyenne country, at least on that
reservation. They had drifted a good hundred miles before the storm
broke. Every outfit in the Strip had gone south after their cattle.
Instead of drifting them back together, the different ranches rustled
for their own. Some of the foremen paid the Indians so much per head to
gather for them, but ours didn’t. The braves weren’t very much struck
on us on that account. I was cooking for the outfit, which suited me in
winter weather. We had a permanent camp on a small well-wooded creek,
from which we worked all the country round.

“One afternoon when I was in camp all alone, I noticed an Indian
approaching me from out of the timber. There was a Winchester standing
against the wagon wheel, but as the bucks were making no trouble, I
gave the matter no attention. Mr. Injun came up to the fire and
professed to be very friendly, shook hands, and spoke quite a number of
words in English. After he got good and warm, he looked all over the
wagon, and noticing that I had no sixshooter on, he picked up the
carbine and walked out about a hundred yards to a little knoll, threw
his arms in the air, and made signs.

“Instantly, out of the cover of some timber on the creek a quarter
above, came about twenty young bucks, mounted, and yelling like demons.
When they came up, they began circling around the fire and wagon. I was
sitting on an empty corn-crate by the fire. One young buck, seeing that
I was not scaring to suit him, unslung a carbine as he rode, and shot
into the fire before me. The bullet threw fire and ashes all over me,
and I jumped about ten feet, which suited them better. They circled
around for several minutes, every one uncovering a carbine, and they
must have fired a hundred and fifty shots into the fire. In fact they
almost shot it out, scattering the fire around so that it came near
burning up the bedding of our outfit. I was scared thoroughly by this
time. If it was possible for me to have had fits, I’d have had one
sure. The air seemed full of coals of fire and ashes. I got good
practical insight into what hell’s like. I was rustling the rolls of
bedding out of the circle of fire, expecting every moment would be my
last. It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed. Were they throwing lead? Well, I
should remark! You see the ground was not frozen around the fire, and
the bullets buried themselves in the soft soil.

“After they had had as much fun as they wanted, the leader gave a yell
and they all circled the other way once, and struck back into the
timber. Some of them had brought up the decoy Indian’s horse when they
made the dash at first, and he suddenly turned as wild as a Cheyenne
generally gets. When the others were several hundred yards away, he
turned his horse, rode back some little distance, and attracted my
attention by holding out the Winchester. From his horse he laid it
carefully down on the ground, whirled his pony, and rode like a scared
wolf after the others. I could hear their yells for miles, as they made
for their encampment over on the North Fork. As soon as I got the fire
under control, I went out and got the carbine. It was empty; the Indian
had used its magazine in the general hilarity. That may be an Indian’s
style of fun, but I failed to see where there was any in it for me.”

The cook threw a handful of oily fish-bones on the fire, causing it to
flame up for a brief moment. With the exception of Wayne Outcault, who
was lying prone on the ground, the men were smoking and sitting Indian
fashion around the fire. After rolling awhile uneasily, Outcault sat up
and remarked, “I feel about half sick. Eat too much? Don’t you think
it. Why, I only ate seven or eight of those fish, and that oughtn’t to
hurt a baby. There was only half a dozen hard-boiled eggs to the man,
and I don’t remember of any of you being so generous as to share yours
with me. Those few plates of prunes that I ate for dessert wouldn’t
hurt nobody—they’re medicine to some folks. Unroll our bed, pardner,
and I’ll thrash around on it awhile.”

Several trail stories of more or less interest were told, when Runt
Pickett, in order to avoid the smoke, came over and sat down between
Burl Van Vedder and me. He had had an experience, and instantly opened
on us at short range. “Speaking of stampedes,” said Runt, “reminds me
of a run I was in, and over which I was paid by my employer a very high
compliment. My first trip over the trail, as far north as Dodge, was in
’78. The herd sold next day after reaching there, and as I had an old
uncle and aunt living in middle Kansas, I concluded to run down and pay
them a short visit. So I threw away all my trail togs—well, they were
worn out, anyway—and bought me a new outfit complete. Yes, I even
bought button shoes. After visiting a couple of weeks with my folks, I
drifted back to Dodge in the hope of getting in with some herd bound
farther north—I was perfectly useless on a farm. On my return to Dodge,
the only thing about me that indicated a cow-hand was my Texas saddle
and outfit, but in toggery, in my visiting harness, I looked like a
rank tenderfoot.

“Well, boys, the first day I struck town I met a through man looking
for hands. His herd had just come in over the Chisholm Trail, crossing
to the western somewhere above. He was disgusted with his outfit, and
was discharging men right and left and hiring new ones to take their
places. I apologized for my appearance, showed him my outfit, and got a
job cow-punching with this through man. He expected to hold on sale a
week or two, when if unsold he would drift north to the Platte. The
first week that I worked, a wet stormy night struck us, and before ten
o’clock we lost every hoof of cattle. I was riding wild after little
squads of cattle here and there, guided by flashes of lightning, when
the storm finally broke. Well, there it was midnight, and I didn’t have
a HOOF OF CATTLE to hold and no one to help me if I had. The truth is,
I was lost. Common horse-sense told me that; but where the outfit or
wagon was was anybody’s guess. The horses in my mount were as good as
worthless; worn out, and if you gave one free rein he lacked the energy
to carry you back to camp. I ploughed around in the darkness for over
an hour, but finally came to a sudden stop on the banks of the muddy
Arkansaw. Right there I held a council of war with myself, the decision
of which was that it was at least five miles to the wagon.

“After I’d prowled around some little time, a bright flash of lightning
revealed to me an old deserted cabin a few rods below. To this shelter
I turned without even a bid, unsaddled my horse and picketed him, and
turned into the cabin for the night. Early the next morning I was out
and saddled my horse, and the question was, Which way is camp? As soon
as the sun rose clearly, I got my bearings. By my reasoning, if the
river yesterday was south of camp, this morning the wagon must be north
of the river, so I headed in that direction. Somehow or other I stopped
my horse on the first little knoll, and looking back towards the
bottom, I saw in a horseshoe which the river made a large bunch of
cattle. Of course I knew that all herds near about were through cattle
and under herd, and the absence of any men in sight aroused my
curiosity. I concluded to investigate it, and riding back found over
five hundred head of the cattle we had lost the night before. ‘Here’s a
chance to make a record with my new boss,’ I said to myself, and
circling in behind, began drifting them out of the bottoms towards the
uplands. By ten o’clock I had got them to the first divide, when who
should ride up but the owner, the old cowman himself—the sure enough
big auger.

“‘Well, son,’ said my boss, ‘you held some of them, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes,’
I replied, surly as I could, giving him a mean look, ‘I’ve nearly
ridden this horse to death, holding this bunch all night. If I had only
had a good man or two with me, we could have caught twice as many. What
kind of an outfit are you working, anyhow, Captain?’ And at dinner that
day, the boss pointed me out to the others and said, ‘That little
fellow standing over there with the button shoes on is the only man in
my outfit that is worth a ————.’”

The cook had finished his work, and now joined the circle. Parent began
regaling us with personal experiences, in which it was evident that he
would prove the hero. Fortunately, however, we were spared listening to
his self-laudation. Dorg Seay and Tim Stanley, bunkies, engaged in a
friendly scuffle, each trying to make the other get a firebrand for his
pipe. In the tussle which followed, we were all compelled to give way
or get trampled underfoot. When both had exhausted themselves in vain,
we resumed our places around the fire. Parent, who was disgusted over
the interruption, on resuming his seat refused to continue his story at
the request of the offenders, replying, “The more I see of you two
varmints the more you remind me of mule colts.”

Once the cook refused to pick up the broken thread of his story, John
Levering, our horse-wrangler, preempted the vacated post. “I was over
in Louisiana a few winters ago with a horse herd,” said John, “and had
a few experiences. Of all the simple people that I ever met, the
‘Cajin’ takes the bakery. You’ll meet darkies over there that can’t
speak a word of anything but French. It’s nothing to see a cow and mule
harnessed together to a cart. One day on the road, I met a man, old
enough to be my father, and inquired of him how far it was to the
parish centre, a large town. He didn’t know, except it was a long, long
ways. He had never been there, but his older brother, once when he was
a young man, had been there as a witness at court. The brother was dead
now, but if he was living and present, it was quite possible that he
would remember the distance. The best information was that it was a
very long ways off. I rode it in the mud in less than two hours; just
about ten miles.

“But that wasn’t a circumstance to other experiences. We had driven
about three hundred horses and mules, and after disposing of over two
thirds of them, my employer was compelled to return home, leaving me to
dispose of the remainder. I was a fair salesman, and rather than carry
the remnant of the herd with me, made headquarters with a man who owned
a large cane-brake pasture. It was a convenient stopping-place, and the
stock did well on the young cane. Every week I would drive to some
distant town eighteen or twenty head, or as many as I could handle
alone. Sometimes I would sell out in a few days, and then again it
would take me longer. But when possible I always made it a rule to get
back to my headquarters to spend Sunday. The owner of the cane-brake
and his wife were a simple couple, and just a shade or two above the
Arcadians. But they had a daughter who could pass muster, and she took
quite a shine to the ‘Texas-Hoss-Man,’ as they called me. I reckon you
understand now why I made that headquarters?—there were other reasons
besides the good pasturage.

“Well, the girl and her mother both could read, but I have some doubt
about the old man on that score. They took no papers, and the nearest
approach to a book in the house was an almanac three years old. The
women folks were ravenous for something to read, and each time on my
return after selling out, I’d bring them a whole bundle of illustrated
papers and magazines. About my fourth return after more horses,—I was
mighty near one of the family by that time,—when we were all seated
around the fire one night, the women poring over the papers and
admiring the pictures, the old man inquired what the news was over in
the parish where I had recently been. The only thing that I could
remember was the suicide of a prominent man. After explaining the
circumstances, I went on to say that some little bitterness arose over
his burial. Owing to his prominence it was thought permission would be
given to bury him in the churchyard. But it seems there was some
superstition about permitting a self-murderer to be buried in the same
field as decent folks. It was none of my funeral, and I didn’t pay
overmuch attention to the matter, but the authorities refused, and they
buried him just outside the grounds, in the woods.

“My host and I discussed the matter at some length. He contended that
if the man was not of sound mind, he should have been given his little
six feet of earth among the others. A horse salesman has to be a good
second-rate talker, and being anxious to show off before the girl, I
differed with her father. The argument grew spirited yet friendly, and
I appealed to the women in supporting my view. My hostess was absorbed
at the time in reading a sensational account of a woman shooting her
betrayer. The illustrations covered a whole page, and the girl was
simply burning, at short range, the shirt from off her seducer. The old
lady was bogged to the saddle skirts in the story, when I interrupted
her and inquired, ‘Mother, what do you think ought to be done with a
man who commits suicide?’ She lowered the paper just for an instant,
and looking over her spectacles at me replied, ‘Well, I think any man
who would do THAT ought to be made to support the child.’”

No comment was offered. Our wrangler arose and strolled away from the
fire under the pretense of repicketing his horse. It was nearly time
for the guards to change, and giving the last watch orders to point the
herd, as they left the bed-ground in the morning, back on an angle
towards the trail, I prepared to turn in. While I was pulling off my
boots in the act of retiring, Clay Zilligan rode in from the herd to
call the relief. The second guard were bridling their horses, and as
Zilligan dismounted, he said to the circle of listeners, “Didn’t I tell
you fellows that there was another herd just ahead of us? I don’t care
if they didn’t pass up the trail since we’ve been laying over, they are
there just the same. Of course you can’t see their camp-fire from here,
but it’s in plain view from the bed-ground, and not over four or five
miles away. If I remember rightly, there’s a local trail comes in from
the south of the Wichita River, and joins the Chisholm just ahead. And
what’s more, that herd was there at nine o’clock this morning, and they
haven’t moved a peg since. Well, there’s two lads out there waiting to
be relieved, and you second guard know where the cattle are bedded.”




CHAPTER VI.
CAMP SUPPLY


In gala spirits we broke camp the next morning. The herd had left the
bed-ground at dawn, and as the outfit rode away to relieve the last
guard, every mother’s son was singing. The cattle were a refreshing
sight as they grazed forward, their ragged front covering half a mile
in width. The rest of the past few days had been a boon to the few
tender-footed ones. The lay-over had rejuvenated both man and beast.
From maps in our possession we knew we were somewhere near the western
border of the Chickasaw Nation, while on our left was the reservation
of three blanket tribes of Indians. But as far as signs of occupancy
were concerned, the country was unmarked by any evidence of
civilization. The Chisholm Cattle Trail, which ran from Red River to
the Kansas line, had almost fallen into disuse, owing to encroachments
of settlements south of the former and westward on the latter. With the
advancement of immigration, Abilene and Ellsworth as trail terminals
yielded to the tide, and the leading cattle trace of the ’70’s was
relegated to local use in ’84.

The first guard was on the qui vive for the outfit whose camp-fire they
had sighted the night before. I was riding with Clay Zilligan on the
left point, when he sighted what we supposed was a small bunch of
cattle lying down several miles distant. When we reached the first rise
of ground, a band of saddle horses came in view, and while we were
trying to locate their camp, Jack Splann from the opposite point
attracted our attention and pointed straight ahead. There a large band
of cattle under herd greeted our view, compelling us to veer to the
right and intersect the trail sooner than we intended. Keeping a clear
half-mile between us, we passed them within an hour and exchanged the
compliments of the trail. They proved to be “Laurel Leaf” and “Running
W” cattle, the very ones for which the International Railway agent at
the meeting in February had so boastfully shown my employer the
application for cars. The foreman was cursing like a stranded pirate
over the predicament in which he found himself. He had left Santo
Gertrudo Ranch over a month before with a herd of three thousand
straight two-year-old steers. But in the shipment of some thirty-three
thousand cattle from the two ranches to Wichita Falls, six trains had
been wrecked, two of which were his own. Instead of being hundreds of
miles ahead in the lead of the year’s drive, as he expected, he now
found himself in charge of a camp of cripples. What few trains
belonging to his herd had escaped the ditch were used in filling up
other unfortunate ones, the injured cattle from the other wrecks
forming his present holdings.

“Our people were anxious to get their cattle on to the market early
this year,” said he, “and put their foot into it up to the knee.
Shipping to Red River was an experiment with them, and I hope they’ve
got their belly full. We’ve got dead and dying cattle in every pasture
from the falls to the river, while these in sight aren’t able to keep
out of the stench of those that croaked between here and the ford. Oh,
this shipping is a fine thing—for the railroads. Here I’ve got to rot
all summer with these cattle, just because two of my trains went into
the ditch while no other foreman had over one wrecked. And mind you,
they paid the freight in advance, and now King and Kennedy have brought
suit for damages amounting to double the shipping expense. They’ll get
it all right—in pork. I’d rather have a claim against a nigger than a
railroad company. Look at your beeves, slick as weasels, and from the
Nueces River. Have to hold them in, I reckon, to keep from making
twenty miles a day. And here I am—Oh, hell, I’d rather be on a
rock-pile with a ball and chain to my foot! Do you see those objects
across yonder about two miles—in that old grass? That’s where we bedded
night before last and forty odd died. We only lost twenty-two last
night. Oh, we’re getting in shape fast. If you think you can hold your
breakfast down, just take a ride through mine. No, excuse me—I’ve seen
them too often already.”

Several of the boys and myself rode into the herd some little distance,
but the sight was enough to turn a copper-lined stomach. Scarcely an
animal had escaped without more or less injury. Fully one half were
minus one or both horns, leaving instead bloody stumps. Broken bones
and open sores greeted us on every hand; myriads of flies added to the
misery of the cattle, while in many instances there was evidence of
maggots at work on the living animal. Turning from the herd in disgust,
we went back to our own, thankful that the rate offered us had been
prohibitory. The trials and vexations of the road were mere nothings to
be endured, compared to the sights we were then leaving. Even what we
first supposed were cattle lying down, were only bed-grounds, the
occupants having been humanely relieved by unwaking sleep. Powerless to
render any assistance, we trailed away, glad to blot from our sight and
memory such scenes of misery and death.

Until reaching the Washita River, we passed through a delightful
country. There were numerous local trails coming into the main one, all
of which showed recent use. Abandoned camp-fires and bed-grounds were
to be seen on every hand, silent witnesses of an exodus which was to
mark the maximum year in the history of the cattle movement from Texas.
Several times we saw some evidence of settlement by the natives, but as
to the freedom of the country, we were monarchs of all we surveyed. On
arriving at the Washita, we encountered a number of herds, laboring
under the impression that they were water-bound. Immediate entrance at
the ford was held by a large herd of young cattle in charge of a negro
outfit. Their stock were scattered over several thousand acres, and
when I asked for the boss, a middle-aged darky of herculean figure was
pointed out as in charge. To my inquiry why he was holding the ford,
his answer was that until to-day the river had been swimming, and now
he was waiting for the banks to dry. Ridiculing his flimsy excuse, I
kindly yet firmly asked him either to cross or vacate the ford by three
o’clock that afternoon. Receiving no definite reply, I returned to our
herd, which was some five miles in the rear. Beyond the river’s steep,
slippery banks and cold water, there was nothing to check a herd.

After the noonday halt, the wrangler and myself took our remuda and
went on ahead to the river. Crossing and recrossing our saddle stock a
number of times, we trampled the banks down to a firm footing. While we
were doing this work, the negro foreman and a number of his men rode up
and sullenly watched us. Leaving our horses on the north bank, Levering
and I returned, and ignoring the presence of the darky spectators,
started back to meet the herd, which was just then looming up in sight.
But before we had ridden any distance, the dusky foreman overtook us
and politely said, “Look-ee here, Cap’n; ain’t you-all afraid of losin’
some of your cattle among ours?” Never halting, I replied, “Not a
particle; if we lose any, you eat them, and we’ll do the same if our
herd absorbs any of yours. But it strikes me that you had better have
those lazy niggers throw your cattle to one side,” I called back, as he
halted his horse. We did not look backward until we reached the herd;
then as we turned, one on each side to support the points, it was
evident that a clear field would await us on reaching the river. Every
horseman in the black outfit was pushing cattle with might and main, to
give us a clean cloth at the crossing.

The herd forded the Washita without incident. I remained on the south
bank while the cattle were crossing, and when they were about half over
some half-dozen of the darkies rode up and stopped apart, conversing
among themselves. When the drag cattle passed safely out on the farther
bank, I turned to the dusky group, only to find their foreman absent.
Making a few inquiries as to the ownership of their herd, its
destination, and other matters of interest, I asked the group to
express my thanks to their foreman for moving his cattle aside. Our
commissary crossed shortly afterward, and the Washita was in our rear.
But that night, as some of my outfit returned from the river, where
they had been fishing, they reported the negro outfit as having crossed
and encamped several miles in our rear.

“All they needed was a good example,” said Dorg Seay. “Under a white
foreman, I’ll bet that’s a good lot of darkies. They were just about
the right shade—old shiny black. As good cowhands as ever I saw were
nigs, but they need a white man to blow and brag on them. But it always
ruins one to give him any authority.”

Without effort we traveled fifteen miles a day. In the absence of any
wet weather to gall their backs, there was not a horse in our remuda
unfit for the saddle. In fact, after reaching the Indian Territory,
they took on flesh and played like lambs. With the exception of long
hours and night-herding, the days passed in seeming indolence as we
swept northward, crossing rivers without a halt which in previous years
had defied the moving herds. On arriving at the Cimarron River, in
reply to a letter written to my employer on leaving Texas behind us, an
answer was found awaiting me at Red Fork. The latter was an Indian
trading-post, located on the mail route to Fort Reno, and only a few
miles north of the Chisholm Crossing. The letter was characteristic of
my employer. It contained but one imperative order,—that I should
touch, either with or without the herd, at Camp Supply. For some
unexplained reason he would make that post his headquarters until after
the Buford herds had passed that point. The letter concluded with the
injunction, in case we met any one, to conceal the ownership of the
herd and its destination.

The mystery was thickening. But having previously declined to borrow
trouble, I brushed this aside as unimportant, though I gave my outfit
instructions to report the herd to every one as belonging to Omaha men,
and on its way to Nebraska to be corn-fed. Fortunately I had ridden
ahead of the herd after crossing the Cimarron, and had posted the
outfit before they reached the trading-station. I did not allow one of
my boys near the store, and the herd passed by as in contempt of such a
wayside place. As the Dodge cut-off left the Chisholm Trail some ten
miles above the Indian trading-post, the next morning we waved good-bye
to the old cattle trace and turned on a northwest angle. Our route now
lay up the Cimarron, which we crossed and recrossed at our pleasure,
for the sake of grazing or to avoid several large alkali flats. There
was evidence of herds in our advance, and had we not hurried past Red
Fork, I might have learned something to our advantage. But disdaining
all inquiry of the cut-off, fearful lest our identity be discovered, we
deliberately walked into the first real danger of the trip.

At low water the Cimarron was a brackish stream. But numerous
tributaries put in from either side, and by keeping above the river’s
ebb, an abundance of fresh water was daily secured from the river’s
affluents. The fifth day out from Red Rock was an excessively sultry
one, and suffering would have resulted to the herd had we not been
following a divide where we caught an occasional breeze. The river lay
some ten miles to our right, while before us a tributary could be
distinctly outlined by the cottonwoods which grew along it. Since early
morning we had been paralleling the creek, having nooned within sight
of its confluence with the mother stream, and consequently I had
considered it unnecessary to ride ahead and look up the water. When
possible, we always preferred watering the herd between three and four
o’clock in the afternoon. But by holding our course, we were certain to
intersect the creek at about the usual hour for the cattle’s daily
drink, and besides, as the creek neared the river, it ran through an
alkali flat for some distance. But before the time arrived to intersect
the creek on our course, the herd turned out of the trail, determined
to go to the creek and quench their thirst. The entire outfit, however,
massed on the right flank, and against their will we held them on their
course. As their thirst increased with travel, they made repeated
attempts to break through our cordon, requiring every man to keep on
the alert. But we held them true to the divide, and as we came to the
brow of a small hill within a quarter-mile of the water, a stench
struck us until we turned in our saddles, gasping for breath. I was
riding third man in the swing from the point, and noticing something
wrong in front, galloped to the brow of the hill. The smell was
sickening and almost unendurable, and there before us in plain view lay
hundreds of dead cattle, bloated and decaying in the summer sun.

I was dazed by the awful scene. A pretty, greenswarded little valley
lay before me, groups of cottonwoods fringed the stream here and there,
around the roots of which were both shade and water. The reeking stench
that filled the air stupefied me for the instant, and I turned my horse
from the view, gasping for a mouthful of God’s pure ozone. But our
beeves had been scenting the creek for hours, and now a few of the
leaders started forward in a trot for it. Like a flash it came to me
that death lurked in that water, and summoning every man within
hearing, I dashed to the lead of our cattle to turn them back over the
hill. Jack Splann was on the point, and we turned the leaders when
within two hundred yards of the creek, frequently jumping our horses
over the putrid carcasses of dead cattle. The main body of the herd
were trailing for three quarters of a mile in our rear, and none of the
men dared leave their places. Untying our slickers, Splann and I fell
upon the leaders and beat them back to the brow of the hill, when an
unfortunate breeze was wafted through that polluted atmosphere from the
creek to the cattle’s nostrils. Turning upon us and now augmented to
several hundred head, they sullenly started forward. But in the few
minutes’ interim, two other lads had come to our support, and
dismounting we rushed them, whipping our slickers into ribbons over
their heads. The mastery of man again triumphed over brutes in their
thirst, for we drove them in a rout back over the divide.

Our success, however, was only temporary. Recovering our horses we beat
the cattle back, seemingly inch by inch, until the rear came up, when
we rounded them into a compact body. They quieted down for a short
while, affording us a breathing spell, for the suddenness of this
danger had not only unnerved me but every one of the outfit who had
caught a glimpse of that field of death. The wagon came up, and those
who needed them secured a change of horses. Leaving the outfit holding
the herd, Splann and I took fresh mounts, and circling around, came in
on the windward side of the creek. As we crossed it half a mile above
the scene of disaster, each of us dipped a hand in the water and tasted
it. The alkali was strong as concentrated lye, blistering our mouths in
the experiment. The creek was not even running, but stood in long, deep
pools, clear as crystal and as inviting to the thirsty as a mountain
spring. As we neared the dead cattle, Splann called my attention to the
attitude of the animals when death relieved them, the heads of fully
two thirds being thrown back on their sides. Many, when stricken, were
unable to reach the bank, and died in the bed of the stream. Making a
complete circle of the ghastly scene, we returned to our own, agreeing
that between five and six hundred cattle had met their fate in those
death-dealing pools.

We were not yet out of the woods. On our return, many of the cattle
were lying down, while in the west thunder-clouds were appearing. The
North Fork of the Canadian lay on our left, which was now our only hope
for water, yet beyond our reach for the day. Keeping the slight divide
between us and the creek, we started the herd forward. Since it was
impossible to graze them in their thirsty condition, I was determined
to move them as far as possible before darkness overtook us. But within
an hour we crossed a country trail over which herds had passed on their
way northwest, having left the Chisholm after crossing the North Fork.
At the first elevation which would give me a view of the creek, another
scene of death and desolation greeted my vision, only a few miles above
the first one. Yet from this same hill I could easily trace the
meanderings of the creek for miles as it made a half circle in our
front, both inviting and defying us. Turning the herd due south, we
traveled until darkness fell, going into camp on a high, flat mesa of
several thousand acres. But those evening breezes wafted an invitation
to come and drink, and our thirsty herd refused to bed down. To add to
our predicament, a storm thickened in the west. Realizing that we were
confronting the most dangerous night in all my cattle experience, I
ordered every man into the saddle. The remuda and team were taken in
charge by the wrangler and cook, and going from man to man, I warned
them what the consequences would be if we lost the herd during the
night, and the cattle reached the creek.

The cattle surged and drifted almost at will, for we were compelled to
hold them loose to avoid milling. Before ten o’clock the lightning was
flickering overhead and around us, revealing acres of big beeves, which
in an instant might take fright, and then, God help us. But in that
night of trial a mercy was extended to the dumb brutes in charge. A
warm rain began falling, first in a drizzle, increasing after the first
hour, and by midnight we could hear the water slushing under our
horses’ feet. By the almost constant flashes of lightning we could see
the cattle standing as if asleep, in grateful enjoyment of the sheeting
downpour. As the night wore on, our fears of a stampede abated, for the
buffalo wallows on the mesa filled, and water was on every hand. The
rain ceased before dawn, but owing to the saturated condition
underfoot, not a hoof lay down during the night, and when the gray of
morning streaked the east, what a sense of relief it brought us. The
danger had passed.

Near noon that day, and within a few miles of the North Fork, we
rounded an alkaline plain in which this deadly creek had its source.
Under the influence of the season, alkali had oozed up out of the soil
until it looked like an immense lake under snow. The presence of range
cattle in close proximity to this creek, for we were in the Cherokee
Strip, baffled my reasoning; but the next day we met a range-rider who
explained that the present condition of the stream was unheard of
before, and that native cattle had instinct enough to avoid it. He
accounted for its condition as due to the dry season, there being no
general rains sufficient to flood the alkaline plain and thoroughly
flush the creek. In reply to an inquiry as to the ownership of the
unfortunate herds, he informed me that there were three, one belonging
to Bob Houston, another to Major Corouthers, and the third to a man
named Murphy, the total loss amounting to about two thousand cattle.

From this same range-man we also learned our location. Camp Supply lay
up the North Fork some sixty miles, while a plain trail followed up the
first bottom of the river. Wishing to avoid, if possible, intersecting
the western trail south of Dodge, the next morning I left the herd to
follow up, and rode into Camp Supply before noon. Lovell had sighted me
a mile distant, and after a drink at the sutler’s bar, we strolled
aside for a few minutes’ chat. Once I had informed him of the locality
of the herd and their condition, he cautioned me not to let my business
be known while in the post. After refreshing the inner man, my employer
secured a horse and started with me on my return. As soon as the flag
over Supply faded out of sight in our rear, we turned to the friendly
shade of the timber on the North Fork and dismounted. I felt that the
precaution exercised by the drover was premonitory of some revelation,
and before we arose from the cottonwood log on which we took seats, the
scales had fallen from my eyes and the atmosphere of mystery cleared.

“Tom,” said my employer, “I am up against a bad proposition. I am
driving these Buford cattle, you understand, on a sub-contract. I was
the second lowest bidder with the government, and no sooner was the
award made to The Western Supply Company than they sent an agent who
gave me no peace until they sublet their contract. Unfortunately for
me, when the papers were drawn, my regular attorney was out of town,
and I was compelled to depend on a stranger. After the articles were
executed, I submitted the matter to my old lawyer; he shook his head,
arguing that a loophole had been left open, and that I should have
secured an assignment of the original contract. After studying the
matter over, we opened negotiations to secure a complete relinquishment
of the award. But when I offered the company a thousand dollars over
and above what they admitted was their margin, and they refused it, I
opened my eyes to the true situation. If cattle went up, I was
responsible and would have to fill my contract; if they went down, the
company would buy in the cattle and I could go to hell in a hand-basket
for all they cared. Their bond to the government does me no good, and
beyond that they are irresponsible. Beeves have broken from four to
five dollars a head, and unless I can deliver these Buford herds on my
contract, they will lose me fifty thousand dollars.”

“Have you any intimation that they expect to buy in other cattle?” I
inquired.

“Yes. I have had a detective in my employ ever since my suspicions were
aroused. There are two parties in Dodge this very minute with the
original contract, properly assigned, and they are looking for cattle
to fill it. That’s why I’m stopping here and lying low. I couldn’t
explain it to you sooner, but you understand now why I drove those
Buford herds in different road brands. Tom, we’re up against it, and
we’ve got to fight the devil with fire. Henceforth your name will be
Tom McIndoo, your herd will be the property of the Marshall estate, and
their agent, my detective, will be known as Charles Siringo. Any money
or supplies you may need in Dodge, get in the usual form through the
firm of Wright, Beverly & Co.—they understand. Hold your herd out south
on Mulberry, and Siringo will have notice and be looking for you, or
you can find him at the Dodge House. I’ve sent a courier to Fort
Elliott to meet Dave and Quince, and once I see them, I’ll run up to
Ogalalla and wait for you. Now, until further orders, remember you
never knew a man by the name of Don Lovell, and by all means don’t
forget to use what wits Nature gave you.”




CHAPTER VII.
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK


It was late that night when I reached the herd. Before I parted with my
employer we had carefully reviewed the situation in its minutest
details. Since the future could not be foreseen, we could only watch
and wait. The Texan may have his shortcomings, but lack of fidelity to
a trust is not one of them, and relying on the metal of my outfit, I at
once put them in possession of the facts. At first their simple minds
could hardly grasp the enormity of the injustice to our employer, but
once the land lay clear, they would gladly have led a forlorn hope in
Don Lovell’s interests. Agitation over the matter was maintained at
white heat for several days, as we again angled back towards the
Cimarron. Around the camp-fires at night, the chicanery of The Western
Supply Company gave place to the best stories at our command. “There
ought to be a law,” said Runt Pickett, in wrathy indignation, “making
it legal to kill some people, same as rattlesnakes. Now, you take a
square gambler and I don’t think anything of losing my money against
his game, but one of these sneaking, under-dealing,
top-and-bottom-business pimps, I do despise. You can find them in every
honest calling, same as vultures hover round when cattle are dying.
Honest, fellows, I’d just dearly love to pull on a rope and watch one
of the varmints make his last kick.”

Several days of showery weather followed. Crossing the Cimarron, we
followed up its north slope to within thirty miles of the regular
western trail. Not wishing to intercept it until necessity compelled
us, when near the Kansas line we made our last tack for Dodge. The
rains had freshened the country and flushed the creeks, making our work
easy, and early in the month of June we reached the Mulberry. Traveling
at random, we struck that creek about twenty miles below the trail, and
moved up the stream to within a short distance of the old crossing. The
presence of a dozen other herds holding along it forced us into a
permanent camp a short half-day’s ride from the town. The
horse-wrangler was pressed into service in making up the first guard
that night, and taking Morg Tussler with me, I struck out for Dodge in
the falling darkness. On reaching the first divide, we halted long
enough to locate the camp-fires along the Mulberry to our rear, while
above and below and beyond the river, fires flickered like an Indian
encampment. The lights of Dodge were inviting us, and after making a
rough estimate of the camps in sight, we rode for town, arriving there
between ten and eleven o’clock. The Dodge House was a popular hostelry
for trail men and cattle buyers, and on our making inquiry of the night
clerk if a Mr. Siringo was stopping there, we were informed that he
was, but had retired. I put up a trivial excuse for seeing him, the
clerk gave me the number of his room, and Tussler and I were soon
closeted with him. The detective was a medium-sized, ordinary man,
badly pock-marked, with a soft, musical voice, and apparently as
innocent as a boy. In a brief preliminary conversation, he proved to be
a Texan, knowing every in and out of cattle, having been bred to the
occupation. Our relations to each other were easily established.
Reviewing the situation thoroughly, he informed me that he had
cultivated the acquaintance of the parties holding the assignment of
the Buford award. He had represented to them that he was the fiscal
agent of some six herds on the trail that year, three of which were
heavy beeves, and they had agreed to look them over, provided they
arrived before the 15th of the month. He further assured me that the
parties were mere figureheads of The Supply Company; that they were
exceedingly bearish on the market, gloating over the recent
depreciation in prices, and perfectly willing to fatten on the wreck
and ruin of others.

It was long after midnight when the consultation ended. Appointing an
hour for showing the herd the next day, or that one rather, Tussler and
I withdrew, agreeing to be out of town before daybreak. But the blaze
of gambling and the blare of dance-halls held us as in a siren’s
embrace until the lights dimmed with the breaking of dawn. Mounting our
horses, we forded the river east of town and avoided the herds, which
were just arising from their bed-grounds. On the divide we halted.
Within the horizon before us, it is safe to assert that one hundred
thousand cattle grazed in lazy contentment, all feeding against the
morning breeze. Save for the freshness of early summer, with its
background of green and the rarified atmosphere of the elevated plain,
the scene before us might be compared to a winter drift of buffalo, ten
years previous. Riding down the farther slope, we reached our camp in
time for a late breakfast, the fifteen-mile ride having whetted our
appetites. Three men were on herd, and sending two more with
instructions to water the cattle an hour before noon, Tussler and I
sought the shade of the wagon and fell asleep. It was some time after
midday when, on sighting the expected conveyance approaching our camp,
the cook aroused us. Performing a rather hasty ablution, I met the
vehicle, freshened, and with my wits on tap. I nearly dragged the
detective from the livery rig, addressing him as “Charley,” and we made
a rough ado over each other. Several of the other boys came forward
and, shaking hands, greeted him with equal familiarity. As two
strangers alighted on the opposite side, the detective took me around
and they were introduced as Mr. Field and Mr. Radcliff, prospective
beef buyers. The boys had stretched a tarpaulin, affording ample shade,
and Parent invited every one to dinner. The two strangers were rather
testy, but Siringo ate ravenously, repeatedly asking for things which
were usually kept in a well-stocked chuck-wagon, meanwhile talking with
great familiarity with Tussler and me.

The strangers said little, but were amused at the lightness of our
dinner chat. I could see at a glance that they were not cowmen. They
were impatient to see the cattle; and when dinner was over, I explained
to them that the men on herd would be relieved for dinner by those in
camp, and orders would be given, if it was their wish, to throw the
cattle compactly together. To this Siringo objected. “No, Mac,” said
he, “that isn’t the right way to show beeves. Here, Morg, listen to me;
I’m foreman for the time being. When you relieve the other lads, edge
in your cattle from an ordinary loose herd until you have them on two
or three hundred acres. Then we can slowly drive through them for an
hour or so, or until these gentlemen are satisfied. They’re not wild,
are they, Mac?”

I assured every one that the cattle were unusually gentle; that we had
not had a run so far, but urged caution in approaching them with a
conveyance. As soon as the relief started, I brought in the livery team
off picket, watered, and harnessed them into the vehicle. It was my
intention to accompany them on horseback, but Siringo hooted at the
idea, and Mr. Radcliff and I occupied the back seat, puffing splendid
cigars. We met the relieved men coming in, who informed us that the
herd was just over the hill on the south side of the creek. On reaching
the gentle rise, there below us grazed the logy, lazy beeves, while the
boys quietly rode round, silently moving them together as instructed.
Siringo drove to their lead, and halting, we allowed the cattle to
loiter past us on either side of the conveyance. It was an easy herd to
show, for the pounds avoirdupois were there. Numerous big steers, out
of pure curiosity, came up near the vehicle and innocently looked at us
as if expecting a dole or sweetmeat. A snap of the finger would turn
them, showing their rounded buttocks, and they would rejoin the guard
of honor. If eyes could speak, the invitation was timidly extended,
“Look at me, Mr. Buyer.” We allowed the herd to pass by us, then slowly
circled entirely around them, and finally drove back and forth through
them for nearly two hours, when the prospective buyers expressed
themselves as satisfied.

But the fiscal agent was not. Calling two of the boys, he asked for the
loan of their horses and insisted that the buyers ride the cattle over
and thoroughly satisfy themselves on the brands. The boys gladly
yielded, and as Mr. Field and Mr. Radcliff mounted to ride away, the
detective halted them long enough to say: “Now, gentlemen, I wish to
call your attention to the fact that over one half the herd are in the
single Marshall ranch brand. There are also some five hundred head in
the ‘8=8,’ that being an outside ranch, but belonging to the estate. I
am informed that the remainder of nearly a thousand were turned in by
neighboring ranchmen in making up the herd, and you’ll find those in
various mixed brands. If there’s a hoof among them not in the ‘Open A’
road, we’ll cut them out for fear of trouble to the buyer. I never sold
a man cattle in my life who wasn’t my customer ever afterward. You
gentlemen are strangers to me; and for that reason I conceal nothing.
Now look them over carefully, and keep a sharp lookout for
strays—cattle not in the road brand.”

I knew there were about twenty strays in the herd, and informed Siringo
to that effect, but the cattle buyers noticed only two, a red and a
roan, which again classed them as inexperienced men among cattle. We
returned to camp, not a word being said about trading, when the buyers
suggested returning to town. Siringo looked at his watch, asked if
there was anything further they wished to see or know, and expressed
himself like a true Texan, “that there was ample time.” I was the only
one who had alighted, and as they started to drive away, I said to
Siringo: “Charley, let me talk to you a minute first. You see how I’m
situated here—too many neighbors. I’m going to ride north of town
to-morrow, and if I can find a good camp on Saw Log, why I’ll move
over. We are nearly out of supplies, anyhow, and the wagon can go by
town and load up. There’s liable to be a mix-up here some night on the
Mulberry, and I’d rather be excused than present.”

“That’s all right, Mac; that’s just what I want you to do. If we trade,
we’ll make the deal within a day or two, and if not you can start right
on for Ogalalla. I’ve been selling cattle the last few years to the
biggest feeders in Nebraska, and I’m not a little bit afraid of placing
those ‘Open A’s.’ About four months full feed on corn will fit those
steers to go to any market. Drop into town on your way back from the
Saw Log to-morrow.”

That evening my brother Bob rode into camp. He had seen our employer at
Supply, and accordingly understood the situation. The courier had
returned from Fort Elliott and reported his mission successful; he had
met both Forrest and Sponsilier. The latter had had a slight run in the
Panhandle during a storm, losing a few cattle, which he recovered the
next day. For fear of a repetition, Forrest had taken the lead
thereafter, and was due at Supply within a day or two. Flood and Priest
had passed Abilene, Texas, in safety, but no word had reached our
employer since, and it was believed that they had turned eastward and
would come up the Chisholm Trail. Bob reported the country between
Abilene and Doan’s Crossing as cut into dust and barren of sustenance,
many weak cattle having died in crossing the dry belt. But the most
startling news, seriously disturbing us both, was that Archie Tolleston
was stationed at Doan’s Crossing on Red River as a trail-cutter. He had
come up from the south to Wichita Falls by train with trail cattle, and
finding no opening as a foreman, had accepted the position of inspector
for some Panhandle cattle companies. He and Bob had had a friendly
chat, and Archie admitted that it was purely his own hot-headedness
which prevented his being one of Lovell’s foremen on the present drive.
The disturbing feature was, that after leaving headquarters in Medina
County, he had gone into San Antonio, where he met a couple of
strangers who partially promised him a job as trail boss, in case he
presented himself in Dodge about June 15. They had intimated to him
that it was possible they would need a foreman or two who knew the
trail from the Arkansaw to the Yellowstone and Missouri River country.
Putting this and that together, the presence of Archie Tolleston in
Dodge was not at all favorable to the working out of our plans. “And
Arch isn’t the man to forget a humiliation,” concluded Bob, to which I
agreed.

The next morning I rode across to the Saw Log, and up that creek beyond
all the herds. The best prospect for a camp was nearly due north
opposite us, as the outfit lowest down the stream expected to start for
the Platte the next morning. Having fully made up my mind to move camp,
I rode for town, taking dinner on Duck Creek, which was also littered
with cattle and outfits. I reached town early in the afternoon, and
after searching all the hotels, located the fiscal agent in company
with the buyers at the Lone Star saloon. They were seated around a
table, and Mr. Field, noticing my entrance, beckoned me over and
offered a chair. As I took the proffered seat, both strangers turned on
me, and Mr. Radcliff said: “McIndoo, this agent of yours is the hardest
man I ever tried to trade with. Here we’ve wasted the whole morning
dickering, and are no nearer together than when we started. The only
concession which Mr. Siringo seems willing to admit is that cattle are
off from three to five dollars a head, while we contend that heavy
beeves are off seven dollars.”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said the fiscal agent, “but since you
have used the words HEAVY BEEVES, either one of you ask Mac, here, what
those ‘Open A’s’ will dress to-day, and what they ought to gain in the
next three months on good grass and water. There he sits; ask him.”

Mr. Field explained that they had also differed as to what the herd
would dress out, and invited my opinion. “Those beeves will dress off
from forty-five to fifty per cent.,” I replied. “The Texan being a
gaunt animal does not shrink like a domestic beef. Take that ‘Open A’
herd straight through and they will dress from four fifty to six
hundred pounds, or average better than five hundred all round. In three
months, under favorable conditions, those steers ought to easily put on
a hundred pounds of tallow apiece. Mr. Radcliff, do you remember
pointing out a black muley yesterday and saying that he looked like a
native animal? I’ll just bet either one of you a hundred dollars that
he’ll dress out over five hundred pounds; and I’ll kill him in your
presence and you can weigh his quarters with a steelyard.”

They laughed at me, Siringo joining in, and Mr. Field ordered the
drinks. “Mac,” said the detective, “these gentlemen are all right, and
you shouldn’t take any offense, for I don’t blame them for driving a
hard bargain. I’d probably do the same thing if I was the buyer instead
of the seller. And remember, Mac, if the deal goes through, you are to
drive the herd at the seller’s risk, and deliver it at any point the
buyer designates, they accepting without expense or reserve the cattle
only. It means over three months’ further expense, with a remuda thrown
back on your hands; and all these incidentals run into money fast.
Gentlemen, unless you increase the advance cash payment, I don’t see
how you can expect me to shade my offer. What’s your hurry, Mac?”

As it was growing late, I had arisen, and saying that I expected to
move camp to-morrow, invited the party to join me at the bar. I
informed the buyers, during the few minutes’ interim, that if they
wished to look the cattle over again, the herd would cross the river
below old Fort Dodge about noon the next day. They thanked me for the
information, saying it was quite possible that they might drive down,
and discussing the matter we all passed into the street. With the
understanding that the prospect of making a deal was not hopeless,
Siringo excused himself, and we strolled away together. No sooner was
the coast clear than I informed the detective of the arrival of my
brother, putting him in possession of every fact regarding Archie
Tolleston. He readily agreed with me that the recent break between the
latter and his former employer was a dangerous factor, and even went so
far as to say that Tolleston’s posing as a trail-cutter at Doan’s
Crossing was more than likely a ruse. I was giving the detective a
detailed description of Archie, when he stopped me and asked what his
special weaknesses were, if he had any. “Whiskey and women,” I replied.
“That’s good,” said he, “and I want you to send me in one of your best
men in the morning—I mean one who will drink and carouse. He can watch
the trains, and if this fellow shows up, we’ll keep him soaked and let
him enjoy himself. Send me one that’s good for a ten days’ protracted
drunk. You think the other herds will be here within a few days? That’s
all I want to know.”

I reached camp a little before dark, and learned that Bob’s herd had
dropped in just below us on the Mulberry. He expected to lie over a few
days in passing Dodge, and I lost no time in preparing to visit his
camp. While riding out that evening, I had made up my mind to send in
Dorg Seay, as he was a heady fellow, and in drinking had an oak-tan
stomach. Taking him with me, I rode down the Mulberry and reached the
lower camp just as my brother and his outfit were returning from
bedding-down the cattle. Bob readily agreed that the detective’s plans
were perfectly feasible, and offered to play a close second to Seay if
it was necessary. And if his own brother does say so, Bob Quirk never
met the man who could drink him under the table.

My herd started early for the Saw Log, and the wagon for town. Bob had
agreed to go into Dodge in the morning, so Dorg stayed with our outfit
and was to go in with me after crossing the river. We threaded our way
through the other herds, and shortly before noon made an easy ford
about a mile below old Fort Dodge. As we came down to the river, a
carriage was seen on the farther bank, and I dropped from the point
back to the drag end. Sure enough, as we trailed out, the fiscal agent
and the buyers were awaiting me. “Well, Mac, I sold your herd last
night after you left,” said Siringo, dejectedly. “It was a kind of
compromise trade; they raised the cash payment to thirty thousand
dollars, and I split the difference in price. The herd goes at $29 a
head all round. So from now on, Mac, you’re subject to these
gentlemen’s orders.”

Mr. Field, the elder of the two buyers, suggested that if a convenient
camp could be found, we should lie over a few days, when final
instructions would be given me. He made a memorandum of the number of
head that I claimed in our road brand, and asked me if we could hold up
the herd for a closer inspection. The lead cattle were then nearly a
mile away, and galloping off to overtake the point, I left the party
watching the saddle horses, which were then fording in our rear. But no
sooner had I reached the lead and held up the herd, than I noticed
Siringo on the wrangler’s horse, coming up on the opposite side of the
column of cattle from the vehicle. Supposing he had something of a
private nature to communicate, I leisurely rode down the line and met
him.

“Did you send that man in this morning?” he sternly demanded. I
explained that my brother had done, properly coached, and that Seay
would go in with me in the course of an hour.

“Give him any money you have and send him at once,” commanded the
detective. “Tolleston was due on the ten o’clock train, but it was an
hour late. Those buyers wanted me to wait for it, so he could come
along, but I urged the importance of catching you at the ford. Now,
send your man Seay at once, get Tolleston beastly drunk, and quarter
him in some crib until night.”

Unobserved by the buyers, I signaled Seay, and gave him the particulars
and what money I had. He rode back through the saddle stock, recrossed
the river, and after rounding the bend, galloped away. Siringo
continued: “You see, after we traded, they inquired if you were a safe
man, saying if you didn’t know the Yellowstone country, they had a man
in sight who did. That was last night, and it seems that this morning
they got a letter from Tolleston, saying he would be there on the next
train. They’re either struck on him, or else he’s in their employ. Mark
my words.”

When we had showed the herd to the satisfaction of the purchasers, they
expressed themselves as anxious to return to town; but the fiscal agent
of the Marshall estate wished to look over the saddle horses first.
Since they were unsold, and amounted to quite an item, he begged for
just a few minutes’ time to look them over carefully. Who could refuse
such a reasonable request? The herd had started on for the Saw Log,
while the remuda had wandered down the river about half a mile, and it
took us nearly an hour to give them a thorough inspection. Once by
ourselves, the detective said, with a chuckle: “All I was playing for
was to get as large a cash payment as possible. Those mixed brands were
my excuse for the money; the Marshall estate might wait for theirs, but
the small ranchmen would insist on an immediate settlement the moment
the cattle were reported sold. If it wasn’t for this fellow Tolleston,
I’d sell the other two Buford herds the day they arrive, and then we
could give The Western Supply Company the laugh. And say, when they
drew me a draft for thirty thousand dollars on a Washington City bank,
I never let the ink dry on it until I took it around to Wright, Beverly
& Co., and had them wire its acceptance. We’ll give Seay plenty of
time, and I think there’ll be an answer on the check when we get back
to town.”




CHAPTER VIII.
EN PASSANT


It was intentionally late in the day when we reached Dodge. My horse,
which I was leading, gave considerable trouble while returning,
compelling us to drive slow. The buyers repeatedly complained that
dinner would be over at their hotel, but the detective knew of a good
restaurant and promised all of us a feast. On reaching town, we drove
to the stable where the rig belonged, and once free of the horses,
Siringo led the way to a well-known night-and-day eating-house on a
back street. No sooner had we entered the place than I remembered
having my wagon in town, and the necessity of its reaching camp before
darkness made my excuse imperative. I hurried around to the outfitting
house and found the order filled and all ready to load into the wagon.
But Parent was missing, and in skirmishing about to locate him, I met
my brother Bob. Tolleston had arrived, but his presence had not been
discovered until after Seay reached town. Archie was fairly well
“organized” and had visited the hotel where the buyers were stopping,
leaving word for them of his arrival. My brother and Seay had told him
that they had met, down the trail that morning, two cattle buyers by
the name of Field and Radcliff; that they were inquiring for a herd
belonging to Tom Coleman, which was believed to be somewhere between
Dodge and the Cimarron River. The two had assured Tolleston that the
buyers might not be back for a week, and suggested a few drinks in
memory of old times. As Archie was then three sheets in the wind, his
effacement, in the hands of two rounders like Dorg Seay and Bob Quirk,
was an easy matter.

Once the wagon was loaded and started for camp, I returned to the
restaurant. The dinner was in progress, and taking the vacant seat, I
lifted my glass with great regularity as toast after toast was drunk.
Cigars were ordered, and with our feet on the table, the fiscal agent
said: “Gentlemen, this is a mere luncheon and don’t count. But if I’m
able to sell you my other two beef herds, why, I’ll give you a blow-out
right. We’ll make it six-handed—the three trail foremen and
ourselves—and damn the expense so long as the cattle are sold.
Champagne will flow like water, and when our teeth float, we’ll wash
our feet in what’s left.”

At a late hour the dinner ended. We were all rather unsteady on our
feet, but the pock-marked detective and myself formed a guard of honor
in escorting the buyers to their hotel, when an officious clerk
attempted to deliver Tolleston’s message. But anticipating it, I
interrupted his highness and informed him that we had met the party; I
was a thousand times obliged to him for his kindness, and forced on him
a fine cigar, which had been given me by Bob Wright of the outfitting
store. While Siringo and the buyers passed upstairs, I entertained the
office force below with an account of the sale of my herd, constantly
referring to my new employers. The fiscal agent returned shortly,
bought some cigars at the counter, asked if he could get a room for the
night, in case he was detained in town, and then we passed out of the
hotel. This afforded me the first opportunity to notify Siringo of the
presence of Tolleston, and I withheld nothing which was to his interest
to know. But he was impatient to learn if the draft had been accepted,
and asking me to bring my brother to his room within half an hour, he
left me.

It was growing late in the day. The sun had already set when I found my
brother, who was anxious to return to his camp for the night. But I
urged his seeing Siringo first, and after waiting in the latter’s room
some time, he burst in upon us with a merry chuckle. “Well, the draft
was paid all right,” said he; “and this is Bob Quirk. Boys, things are
coming nicely. This fellow Tolleston is the only cloud in the sky. If
we can keep him down for a week, and the other herds come in shortly, I
see nothing to thwart our plans. Where have you picketed Tolleston?”
“Around in Dutch Jake’s crib,” replied Bob.

“That’s good,” continued the fiscal agent, “and I’ll just drop in
to-night and see the madam. A little money will go a long way with her,
and in a case like this, the devil himself would be a welcome ally. You
boys stay in town as much as you can and keep Tolleston snowed deep,
and I’ll take the buyers down the trail in the morning and meet the
herds coming up.”

My brother returned to his camp, and Siringo and I separated for the
time being. In ’84 Dodge, the Port Said of the plains, was in the full
flower of her wickedness. Literally speaking, night was turned into day
in the old trail town, for with the falling of darkness, the streets
filled with people. Restaurants were crowded with women of the
half-world, bar-rooms thronged with the wayfaring man, while in
gambling and dance halls the range men congregated as if on special
invitation. The familiar bark of the six-shooter was a matter of almost
nightly occurrence; a dispute at the gaming table, a discourteous word
spoken, or the rivalry for the smile of a wanton was provocation for
the sacrifice of human life. Here the man of the plains reverted to and
gave utterance to the savagery of his nature, or, on the other hand,
was as chivalrous as in the days of heraldry.

I knew the town well, this being my third trip over the trail, and
mingled with the gathering throng. Near midnight, and when in the Lady
Gay dance-hall, I was accosted by Dorg Seay and the detective. They had
just left Dutch Jake’s, and reported all quiet on the Potomac. Seay had
not only proved himself artful, but a good fellow, and had unearthed
the fact that Tolleston had been in the employ of Field and Radcliff
for the past three months. “You see,” said Dorg, “Archie never knew me
except the few days that I was about headquarters in Medina before we
started. He fully believes that I’ve been discharged—and with three
months’ pay in my hip-pocket. The play now is that he’s to first help
me spend my wages, and then I’m to have a job under him with beeves
which he expects to drive to the Yellowstone. He has intimated that he
might be able to give me a herd. So, Tom, if I come out there and take
possession of your cattle, don’t be surprised. There’s only one thing
to beat our game—I can’t get him so full but what he’s over-anxious to
see his employers. But if you fellows furnish the money, I’ll try and
pickle him until he forgets them.”

The next morning Siringo and the buyers started south on the trail, and
I rode for my camp on the Saw Log. Before riding many miles I sighted
my outfit coming in a long lope for town. They reported everything
serene at camp, and as many of the boys were moneyless, I turned back
with them. An enjoyable day was before us; some drank to their hearts’
content, while all gambled with more or less success. I was anxious
that the outfit should have a good carouse, and showed the lights and
shadows of the town with a pride worthy of one of its founders. Acting
the host, I paid for our dinners; and as we sauntered into the street,
puffing vile cigars, we nearly ran amuck of Dorg Seay and Archie
Tolleston, trundling a child’s wagon between them up the street. We
watched them, keeping a judicious distance, as they visited saloon
after saloon, the toy wagon always in possession of one or the other.

While we were amusing ourselves at the antics of these two, my
attention was attracted by a four-mule wagon pulling across the bridge
from the south. On reaching the railroad tracks, I recognized the team,
and also the driver, as Quince Forrest’s. Here was news, and
accordingly I accosted him. Fortunately he was looking for me or my
brother, as his foreman could not come in with the wagon, and some one
was wanted to vouch for him in getting the needed supplies. They had
reached the Mulberry the evening before, but several herds had mixed in
a run during the night, though their cattle had escaped. Forrest was
determined not to risk a second night on that stream, and had started
his herd with the dawn, expecting to camp with his cattle that night
west on Duck Creek. The herd was then somewhere between the latter and
the main Arkansaw, and the cook was anxious to secure the supplies and
reach the outfit before darkness overtook him. Sponsilier was reported
as two days behind Forrest when the latter crossed the Cimarron, since
when there had been no word from his cattle. They had met the buyers
near the middle of the forenoon, and when Forrest admitted having the
widow Timberlake’s beef herd, they turned back and were spending the
day with the cattle.

The situation demanded instant action. Taking Forrest’s cook around to
our outfitting store, I introduced and vouched for him. Hurrying back,
I sent Wayne Outcault, as he was a stranger to Tolleston, to mix with
the two rascals and send Seay to me at once. Some little time was
consumed in engaging Archie in a game of pool, but when Dorg presented
himself I lost no time in explaining the situation. He declared that it
was no longer possible to interest Tolleston at Dutch Jake’s crib
during the day, and that other means of amusement must be resorted to,
as Archie was getting clamorous to find his employers. To my suggestion
to get a livery rig and take him for a ride, Dorg agreed. “Take him
down the river to Spearville,” I urged, “and try and break into the
calaboose if you can. Paint the town red while you’re about it, and if
you both land in the lock-up, all the better. If the rascal insists on
coming back to Dodge, start after night, get lost, and land somewhere
farther down the river. Keep him away from this town for a week, and
I’ll gamble that you boss a herd for old man Don next year.”

The afternoon was waning. The buyers might return at any moment, as
Forrest’s herd had no doubt crossed the river but a few miles above
town.

I was impatiently watching the boys, as Dorg and Wayne cautiously
herded Tolleston around to a livery stable, when my brother Bob rode
up. He informed me that he had moved his camp that day across to the
Saw Log; that he had done so to accommodate Jim Flood and The Rebel
with a camp; their herds were due on the Mulberry that evening. The
former had stayed all night at Bob’s wagon, and reported his cattle,
considering the dry season, in good condition. As my brother expected
to remain in town overnight, I proposed starting for my camp as soon as
Seay and his ward drove out of sight. They parleyed enough before going
to unnerve a saint, but finally, with the little toy wagon on
Tolleston’s knee and the other driving, they started. Hurrahing my lads
to saddle up, we rode past the stable where Seay had secured the
conveyance; and while I was posting the stable-keeper not to be uneasy
if the rig was gone a week, Siringo and the buyers drove past the barn
with a flourish. Taking a back street, we avoided meeting them, and
just as darkness was falling, rode into our camp some twelve miles
distant.

My brother Bob’s camp was just above us on the creek, and a few miles
nearer town. As his wagon expected to go in after supplies the next
morning, a cavalcade of fifteen men from the two outfits preceded it.
My horse-wrangler had made arrangements with the cook to look after his
charges, and in anticipation of the day before him, had our mounts
corralled before sun-up. Bob’s wrangler was also with us, and he and
Levering quarreled all the way in about the respective merits of each
one’s remuda. A match was arranged between the two horses which they
were riding, and on reaching a straight piece of road, my man won it
and also considerable money. But no matter how much we differed among
ourselves, when the interests of our employer were at stake, we were a
unit. On reaching town, our numbers were augmented by fully twenty more
from the other Lovell outfits, including the three foremen. My old
bunkie, The Rebel, nearly dragged me from my horse, while Forrest and I
forgot past differences over a social glass. And then there was Flood,
my first foreman, under whom I served my apprenticeship on the trail,
the same quiet, languid old Jim. The various foremen and their outfits
were aware of the impending trouble over the Buford delivery, and
quietly expressed their contempt for such underhand dealings. Quince
Forrest had spent the evening before in town, and about midnight his
herd of “Drooping T’s” were sold at about the same figures as mine,
except five thousand more earnest-money, and the privilege of the
buyers placing their own foreman in charge thereafter. Forrest further
reported that the fiscal agent and the strangers had started to meet
Sponsilier early that morning, and that the probability of all the
herds moving out in a few days was good.

Seay and his charge were still absent, and the programme, as outlined,
was working out nicely. With the exception of Forrest and myself, the
other foremen were busy looking after their outfits, while Bob Quirk
had his wagon to load and start on its return. Quince confided to me
that though he had stayed on Duck Creek the night before, his herd
would noon that day on Saw Log, and camp that evening on the next creek
north. When pressed for his reasons, he shrugged his shoulders, and
with a quiet wink, said: “If this new outfit put a man over me, just
the minute we get out of the jurisdiction of this county, off his horse
he goes and walks back. If it’s Tolleston, the moment he sees me and
recognizes my outfit as belonging to Lovell, he’ll raise the long yell
and let the cat out. When that happens, I want to be in an unorganized
country where a six-shooter is the highest authority.” The idea was a
new one to me, and I saw the advantage of it, but could not move
without Siringo’s permission, which Forrest had. Accordingly about
noon, Quince summoned his men together, and they rode out of town.
Looking up a map of Ford County, I was delighted to find that my camp
on Saw Log was but a few miles below the north line.

Among the boys the day passed in riotousness. The carousing was a
necessary stimulant after the long, monotonous drive and exposure to
the elements. Near the middle of the forenoon, Flood and The Rebel
rounded up their outfits and started south for the Mulberry, while Bob
Quirk gathered his own and my lads preparatory to leaving for the Saw
Log. I had agreed to remain on guard for that night, for with the
erratic turn on Tolleston’s part, we were doubly cautious. But when my
outfit was ready to start, Runt Pickett, the feisty little rascal, had
about twenty dollars in his possession which he insisted on gambling
away before leaving town. Runt was comfortably drunk, and as Bob urged
humoring him, I gave my consent, provided he would place it all at one
bet, to which Pickett agreed. Leaving the greater part of the boys
holding the horses, some half-dozen of us entered the nearest
gambling-house, and Runt bet nineteen dollars “Alce” on the first card
which fell in a monte lay-out. To my chagrin, he won. My brother was
delighted over the little rascal’s luck, and urged him to double his
bet, but Pickett refused and invited us all to have a drink. Leaving
this place, we entered the next gaming-hall, when our man again bet
nineteen dollars alce on the first card. Again he won, and we went the
length of the street, Runt wagering nineteen dollars alce on the first
card for ten consecutive times without losing a bet. In his groggy
condition, the prospect of losing Pickett’s money was hopeless, and my
brother and I promised him that he might come back the next morning and
try to get rid of his winnings.

Two whole days passed with no report from either Seay or the buyers.
Meanwhile Flood and The Rebel threaded their way through the other
herds, crossing the Arkansaw above town, their wagons touching at Dodge
for new supplies, never halting except temporarily until they reached
the creek on which Forrest was encamped. The absence of Siringo and the
buyers, to my thinking, was favorable, for no doubt when they came in,
a deal would have been effected on the last of the Buford herds. They
returned some time during the night of the third day out, and I failed
to see the detective before sunrise the next morning. When I did meet
him, everything seemed so serene that I felt jubilant over the outlook.
Sponsilier’s beeves had firmly caught the fancy of the buyers, and the
delay in closing the trade was only temporary. “I can close the deal
any minute I want to,” said Siringo to me, “but we mustn’t appear too
anxious. Old man Don’s idea was to get about one hundred thousand
dollars earnest-money in hand, but if I can get five or ten more, it
might help tide us all over a hard winter. My last proposition to the
buyers was that if they would advance forty-five thousand dollars on
the ‘Apple’ beeves—Sponsilier’s cattle—they might appoint, at the
seller’s expense, their own foreman from Dodge to the point of
delivery. They have agreed to give me an answer this morning, and after
sleeping over it, I look for no trouble in closing the trade.”

The buyers were also astir early. I met Mr. Field in the post-office,
where he was waiting for it to open. To his general inquiries I
reported everything quiet, but suggested we move camp soon or the
cattle would become restless. He listened very attentively, and
promised that within a few days permission would be given to move out
for our final destination. The morning were the quiet hours of the
town, and when the buyers had received and gone over their large and
accumulated mail, the partners came over to the Dodge House, looking
for the fiscal agent, as I supposed, to close the trade on Sponsilier’s
cattle. Siringo was the acme of indifference, but listened to a
different tale. A trusted man, in whom they had placed a great deal of
confidence, had failed to materialize. He was then overdue some four or
five days, and foul play was suspected. The wily detective poured oil
on the troubled waters, assuring them if their man failed to appear
within a day or two, he would gladly render every assistance in looking
him up. Another matter of considerable moment would be the arrival that
morning of a silent partner, the financial man of the firm from
Washington, D.C. He was due to arrive on the “Cannon Ball” at eight
o’clock, and we all sauntered down to meet the train from the East. On
its arrival, Siringo and I stood back among the crowd, but the buyers
pushed forward, looking for their friend. The first man to alight from
the day coach, coatless and with both eyes blackened, was Archie
Tolleston; he almost fell into the arms of our cattle buyers. I
recognized Archie at a glance, and dragging the detective inside the
waiting-room, posted him as to the arrival with the wild look and
blood-shot optics. Siringo cautioned me to go to his room and stay
there, promising to report as the day advanced.

Sponsilier had camped the night before on the main river, and as I
crossed to the hotel, his commissary pulled up in front of Wright,
Beverly & Co.’s outfitting store. Taking the chances of being seen, I
interviewed Dave’s cook, and learned that his foreman had given him an
order for the supplies, and that Sponsilier would not come in until
after the herd had passed the Saw Log. As I turned away, my attention
was attracted by the deference being shown the financial man of the
cattle firm, as the party wended their way around to the Wright House.
The silent member of the firm was a portly fellow, and there was no one
in the group but did him honor, even the detective carrying a light
grip, while Tolleston lumbered along with a heavy one.

My effacement was only temporary, as Siringo appeared at his room
shortly afterward. “Well, Quirk,” said he, with a smile, “I reckon my
work is all done. Field and Radcliff didn’t feel like talking business
this morning, at least until they had shown the financial member their
purchases, both real and prospective. Yes, they took the fat Colonel
and Tolleston with them and started for your camp with a two-seated
rig. From yours they expect to drive to Forrest’s camp, and then meet
Sponsilier on the way coming back. No; I declined a very pressing
invitation to go along—you see my mixed herds might come in any minute.
And say, that man Tolleston was there in a hundred places with the big
conversation; he claims to have been kidnapped, and was locked up for
the last four days. He says he whipped your man Seay, but couldn’t
convince the authorities of his innocence until last night, when they
set him free. According to his report, Seay’s in jail yet at a little
town down the road called Kinsley. Now, I’m going to take a conveyance
to Spearville, and catch the first train out of there East. Settle my
bill with this hotel, and say that I may be out of town for a few days,
meeting a herd which I’m expecting. When Tolleston recognizes all three
of those outfits as belonging to Don Lovell—well, won’t there be hell
to pay? Yes, my work is all done.”

I fully agreed with the detective that Archie would recognize the
remudas and outfits as Lovell’s, even though the cattle were
road-branded out of the usual “Circle Dot.” Siringo further informed me
that north of Ford County was all an unorganized country until the
Platte River was reached at Ogalalla, and advised me to ignore any
legal process served outside those bounds. He was impatient to get
away, and when he had put me in possession of everything to our
advantage, we wrung each other’s hands in farewell. As the drive
outlined by the cattle buyers would absorb the day, I felt no necessity
of being in a hurry. The absence of Dorg Seay was annoying, and the
fellow had done us such valiant service, I felt in honor bound to
secure his release. Accordingly I wired the city marshal at Kinsley,
and received a reply that Seay had been released early that morning,
and had started overland for Dodge. This was fortunate, and after
settling all bills, I offered to pay the liveryman in advance for the
rig in Seay’s possession, assuring him by the telegram that it would
return that evening. He refused to make any settlement until the
condition of both the animal and the conveyance had been passed upon,
and fearful lest Dorg should come back moneyless, I had nothing to do
but await his return. I was growing impatient to reach camp, there
being no opportunity to send word to my outfit, and the passing hours
seemed days, when late in the afternoon Dorg Seay drove down the main
street of Dodge as big as a government beef buyer. The liveryman was
pleased and accepted the regular rate, and Dorg and I were soon
galloping out of town. As we neared the first divide, we dropped our
horses into a walk to afford them a breathing spell, and in reply to my
fund of information, Seay said:

“So Tolleston’s telling that he licked me. Well, that’s a good one on
this one of old man Seay’s boys. Archie must have been crazy with the
heat. The fact is that he had been trying to quit me for several days.
We had exhausted every line of dissipation, and when I decided that it
was no longer possible to hold him, I insulted and provoked him into a
quarrel, and we were both arrested. Licked me, did he? He couldn’t lick
his upper lip.”




CHAPTER IX.
AT SHERIFF’S CREEK


The sun had nearly set when we galloped into Bob Quirk’s camp. Halting
only long enough to advise my brother of the escape of Tolleston and
his joining the common enemy, I asked him to throw any pursuit off our
trail, as I proposed breaking camp that evening. Seay and myself put
behind us the few miles between the two wagons, and dashed up to mine
just as the outfit were corralling the remuda for night-horses. Orders
rang out, and instead of catching our regular guard mounts, the boys
picked the best horses in their strings. The cattle were then nearly a
mile north of camp, coming in slowly towards the bed-ground, but a
half-dozen of us rushed away to relieve the men on herd and turn the
beeves back. The work-mules were harnessed in, and as soon as the
relieved herders secured mounts, our camp of the past few days was
abandoned. The twilight of evening was upon us, and to the rattling of
the heavily loaded wagon and the shouting of the wrangler in our rear
were added the old herd songs. The cattle, without trail or trace to
follow, and fit ransom for a dozen kings in pagan ages, moved north as
if imbued with the spirit of the occasion.

A fair moon favored us. The night was an ideal one for work, and about
twelve o’clock we bedded down the herd and waited for dawn. As we
expected to move again with the first sign of day, no one cared to
sleep; our nerves were under a high tension with expectation of what
the coming day might bring forth. Our location was an unknown quantity.
All agreed that we were fully ten miles north of the Saw Log, and, with
the best reasoning at my command, outside the jurisdiction of Ford
County. The regular trail leading north was some six or eight miles to
the west, and fearful that we had not reached unorganized territory, I
was determined to push farther on our course before veering to the
left. The night halt, however, afforded us an opportunity to compare
notes and arrive at some definite understanding as to the programme of
the forthcoming day. “Quirk, you missed the sight of your life,” said
Jake Blair, as we dismounted around the wagon, after bedding the
cattle, “by not being there when the discovery was made that these
‘Open A’s’ were Don Lovell’s cattle. Tolleston, of course, made the
discovery; but I think he must have smelt the rat in advance. Archie
and the buyers arrived for a late dinner, and several times Tolleston
ran his eye over one of the boys and asked, ‘Haven’t I met you
somewhere?’ but none of them could recall the meeting. Then he got to
nosing around the wagon and noticing every horse about camp. The
road-brand on the cattle threw him off the scent just for a second, but
when he began reading the ranch-brands, he took a new hold. As he
looked over the remuda, the scent seemed to get stronger, and when he
noticed the ‘Circle Dot’ on those work-mules, he opened up and bayed as
if he had treed something. And sure enough he had; for you know, Tom,
those calico lead mules belonged in his team last year, and he swore
he’d know them in hell, brand or no brand. When Archie announced the
outfit, lock, stock, and barrel, as belonging to Don Lovell, the old
buyers turned pale as ghosts, and the fat one took off his hat and
fanned himself. That act alone was worth the price of admission. But
when we boys were appealed to, we were innocent and likewise ignorant,
claiming that we always understood that the herd belonged to the
Marshall estate, but then we were just common hands and not supposed to
know the facts in the case. Tolleston argued one way, and we all pulled
the other, so they drove away, looking as if they hoped it wasn’t true.
But it was the sight of your life to see that fat fellow fan himself as
he kept repeating, ‘I thought you boys hurried too much in buying these
cattle.’”

The guards changed hourly. No fire was allowed, but Parent set out all
the cold food available, and supplementing this with canned goods, we
had a midnight lunch. Dorg Seay regaled the outfit with his recent
experience, concealing nothing, and regretfully admitting that his
charge had escaped before the work was finished. A programme was
outlined for the morrow, the main feature of which was that, in case of
pursuit, we would all tell the same story. Dawn came between three and
four on those June mornings, and with the first streak of gray in the
east we divided the outfit and mounted our horses, part riding to push
the cattle off their beds and the others to round in the remuda. Before
the herd had grazed out a half-mile, we were overtaken by half the
outfit on fresh mounts, who at once took charge of the herd. When the
relieved men had secured horses, I remained behind and assisted in
harnessing in the team and gathering the saddle stock, a number of
which were missed for lack of proper light. With the wagon once
started, Levering and myself soon had the full remuda in hand and were
bringing up the rear in a long, swinging trot. Before the sun peeped
over the eastern horizon, we passed the herd and overtook the wagon,
which was bumping along over the uneven prairie. Ordering the cook to
have breakfast awaiting us beyond a divide which crossed our front, I
turned back to the herd, now strung out in regular trailing form. The
halt ahead would put us full fifteen miles north of our camp on the Saw
Log. An hour later, as we were scaling the divide, one of the point-men
sighted a posse in our rear, coming after us like fiends. I was riding
in the swing at the time, the herd being strung out fully a mile, and
on catching first sight of the pursuers, turned and hurried to the
rear. To my agreeable surprise, instead of a sheriff’s posse, my
brother and five of his men galloped up and overtook us.

“Well, Tom, it’s a good thing you moved last night,” said Bob, as he
reined in his reeking horse. “A deputy sheriff and posse of six men had
me under arrest all night, thinking I was the Quirk who had charge of
Don Lovell’s ‘Open A’ herd. Yes, they came to my camp about midnight,
and I admitted that my name was Quirk and that we were holding Lovell’s
cattle. They guarded me until morning,—I slept like an innocent babe
myself,—when the discovery was made that my herd was in a ‘Circle Dot’
road-brand instead of an ‘Open A,’ which their warrant called for.
Besides, I proved by fourteen competent witnesses, who had known me for
years, that my name was Robert Burns Quirk. My outfit told the posse
that the herd they were looking for were camped three miles below, but
had left during the afternoon before, and no doubt were then beyond
their bailiwick. I gave the posse the horse-laugh, but they all went
down the creek, swearing they would trail down that herd of Lovell’s.
My cattle are going to follow up this morning, so I thought I’d ride on
ahead and be your guest in case there is any fun to-day.”

The auxiliary was welcomed. The beeves moved on up the divide like
veterans assaulting an intrenchment. On reaching a narrow mesa on the
summit, a northwest breeze met the leaders, and facing it full in the
eye, the herd was allowed to tack westward as they went down the
farther slope. This watershed afforded a fine view of the surrounding
country, and from its apex I scanned our rear for miles without
detecting any sign of animate life. From our elevation, the plain
dipped away in every direction. Far to the east, the depression seemed
as real as a trough in the ocean when seen from the deck of a ship. The
meanderings of this divide were as crooked as a river, and as we
surveyed its course one of Bob’s men sighted with the naked eye two
specks fully five miles distant to the northwest, and evidently in the
vicinity of the old trail. The wagon was in plain view, and leaving
three of my boys to drift the cattle forward, we rode away with
ravenous appetites to interview the cook. Parent maintained his
reputation as host, and with a lofty conversation reviewed the legal
aspect of the situation confronting us. A hasty breakfast over, my
brother asked for mounts for himself and men; and as we were corralling
our remuda, one of the three lads on herd signaled to us from the
mesa’s summit. Catching the nearest horses at hand, and taking our
wrangler with us, we cantered up the slope to our waiting sentinel.

“You can’t see them now,” said Burl Van Vedder, our outlook; “but wait
a few minutes and they’ll come up on higher ground. Here, here, you are
looking a mile too far to the right—they’re not following the cattle,
but the wagon’s trail. Keep your eyes to the left of that shale
outcropping, and on a line with that lone tree on the Saw Log. Hold
your horses a minute; I’ve been watching them for half an hour before I
called you; be patient, and they’ll rise like a trout. There! there
comes one on a gray horse. See those two others just behind him. Now,
there come the others—six all told.” Sure enough, there came the
sleuths of deputy sheriffs, trailing up our wagon. They were not over
three miles away, and after patiently waiting nearly an hour, we rode
to the brink of the slope, and I ordered one of the boys to fire his
pistol to attract their attention. On hearing the report, they halted,
and taking off my hat I waved them forward. Feeling that we were on
safe territory, I was determined to get in the first bluff, and as they
rode up, I saluted the leader and said:

“Good-morning, Mr. Sheriff. What are you fooling along on our wagon
track for, when you could have trailed the herd in a long lope? Here
we’ve wasted a whole hour waiting for you to come up, just because the
sheriff’s office of Ford County employs as deputies ‘nesters’ instead
of plainsmen. But now since you are here, let us proceed to business,
or would you like to breakfast first? Our wagon is just over the other
slope, and you-all look pale around the gills this morning after your
long ride and sleepless night. Which shall it be, business or
breakfast?”

Haughtily ignoring my irony, the leader of the posse drew from his
pocket several papers, and first clearing his throat, said in an
imperious tone, “I have a warrant here for the arrest of Tom Quirk,
alias McIndoo, and a distress warrant for a herd of ‘Open A’—”

“Old sport, you’re in the right church, but the wrong pew,” I
interrupted. “This may be the state of Kansas, but at present we are
outside the bailiwick of Ford County, and those papers of yours are
useless. Let me take those warrants and I’ll indorse them for you, so
as to dazzle your superiors on their return without the man or
property. I was deputized once by a constable in Texas to assist in
recovering some cattle, but just like the present case they got out of
our jurisdiction before we overtook them. The constable was a lofty,
arrogant fellow like yourself, but had sense enough to keep within his
rights. But when it came to indorsing the warrant for return, we were
all up a stump, and rode twenty miles out of our way so as to pass
Squire Little’s ranch and get his advice on the matter. The squire had
been a justice in Tennessee before coming to our state, and knew just
what to say. Now let me take those papers, and I’ll indorse them ‘Non
est inventus,’ which is Latin for SCOOTED, BY GOSH! Ain’t you going to
let me have them?”

“Now, look here, young man,” scornfully replied the chief deputy,
“I’ll—”

“No, you won’t,” I again interrupted. “Let me read you a warrant from a
higher court. In the name of law, you are willing to prostitute your
office to assist a gang of thieves who have taken advantage of an
opportunity to ruin my employer, an honest trail drover. The warrant
I’m serving was issued by Judge Colt, and it says he is supreme in
unorganized territory; that your official authority ceases the moment
you step outside your jurisdiction, and you know the Ford County line
is behind us. Now, as a citizen, I’ll treat you right, but as an
official, I won’t even listen to you. And what’s more, you can’t arrest
me or any man in my outfit; not that your hair’s the wrong color, but
because you lack authority. I’m the man you’re looking for, and these
are Don Lovell’s cattle, but you can’t touch a hoof of them, not even a
stray. Now, if you want to dispute the authority which I’ve sighted,
all you need to do is pull your guns and open your game.”

“Mr. Quirk,” said the deputy, “you are a fugitive from justice, and I
can legally take you wherever I find you. If you resist arrest, all the
worse, as it classes you an outlaw. Now, my advice is—”

But the sentence was never finished, for coming down the divide like a
hurricane was a band of horsemen, who, on sighting us, raised the long
yell, and the next minute Dave Sponsilier and seven of his men dashed
up. The boys opened out to avoid the momentum of the onslaught, but the
deputies sat firm; and as Sponsilier and his lads threw their horses
back on their haunches in halting, Dave stood in his stirrups, and
waving his hat shouted, “Hurrah for Don Lovell, and to hell with the
sheriff and deputies of Ford County!” Sponsilier and I were great
friends, as were likewise our outfits, and we

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