[Illustration: THE STAMPEDE]

                          THE LOG OF A COWBOY

                   A Narrative of the Old Trail Days

                             BY ANDY ADAMS

                    _ILLUSTRATED BY E. BOYD SMITH_

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

                  [Illustration: The Riverside Press]

          BOSTON AND NEW YORK: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,

                    The Riverside Press, Cambridge

                                _1903_.

            TO THE COWMEN AND BOYS OF THE OLD WESTERN TRAIL

                 THESE PAGES ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

                               CONTENTS

CHAP.

    I. UP THE TRAIL

   II. RECEIVING

  III. THE START

   IV. THE ATASCOSA

    V. A DRY DRIVE

   VI. A REMINISCENT NIGHT

  VII. THE COLORADO

 VIII. ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA

   IX. DOAN’S CROSSING

    X. NO MAN’S LAND

   XI. A BOGGY FORD

  XII. THE NORTH FORK

 XIII. DODGE

  XIV. SLAUGHTER’S BRIDGE

   XV. THE BEAVER

  XVI. THE REPUBLICAN

 XVII. OGALALLA

XVIII. THE NORTH PLATTE

  XIX. FORTY ISLANDS FORD

   XX. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE

  XXI. THE YELLOWSTONE

 XXII. OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE

XXIII. DELIVERY

 XXIV. BACK TO TEXAS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

     THE STAMPEDE

     MAP SHOWING THE TRAIL

     HEAT AND THIRST

     MEETING WITH INDIANS

     CELEBRATING IN DODGE

     STORY-TELLING

     SWIMMING THE PLATTE

THE LOG OF A COWBOY

CHAPTER I

UP THE TRAIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

RECEIVING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE START

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must all think that’s smart.”

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

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

CHAPTER IV

THE ATASCOSA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

A DRY DRIVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: HEAT AND THIRST]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

A REMINISCENT NIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How, gambling?” I inquired.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

THE COLORADO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The ‘Window Sash.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s her brand, Fox?” asked Flood.

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

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