 CHAPTER XIV. Herds bound for points beyond the Yellow Stone in Montana, always considered Dodge, has the halfway landmark on the trail, though we had hardly covered half the distance to the destination of our circle dots. But with Dodge in our rear, all felt that the backbone of the drive was broken, and it was only the middle of June. In order to divide the night work more equitably for the remainder of the trip, the first and fourth guards changed, the second and third remaining as they were. We had begun to feel the scarcity of wood for cooking purposes sometime past, while crossing the plains of western Kansas, and were frequently forced to resort to the old bedgrounds of a year or two previous for cattle chips. These chips were a poor substitute, and we swung a cowskin under the reach of the wagon, so that when we encountered wood on creeks and rivers we could lay in a supply. Whenever our wagon was in the rear, the riders on either side of the herd were always on the skirmish for fuel, which they left alongside the wagon-track, and our cook was sure to stow it away underneath on the cowskin. In spite of any effort on our part, the length of the days made long drives to rule. The cattle could be depended on to leave the bedground at dawn and before the outfit could breakfast. Secure amounts, and overtake the herd, they would often have grazed forward two or three miles. Often we never threw them on the trail at all. Yet when it came time to bed them at night, we had covered twenty miles. They were long monotonous days, for we were always sixteen to eighteen hours in the saddle. While in emergencies we got the benefit of the limit. We frequently saw mirages, though we were never let astray by shady groves of timber or tempting lakes of water, but always kept within a mile or two of the trail. The evening of the third day after Forrest left us, he returned as we were bedding down the cattle at dusk, and on being assured that no officer had followed us, resumed his place with the herd. He had not even reached the Solomon River, but had stopped with a herd of millets on Big Boggy. The creek he reported has bottomless, and the millet herd has having lost between forty and fifty head of cattle in attempting to force it at the regular crossing the day before his arrival. They had scouted the creek both up and down since without finding a safe crossing. It seemed that there had been unusually heavy June rains through that section, which accounted for Boggy being in its dangerous condition. Millet's foreman had not considered it necessary to test such an insignificant stream until he got a couple of hundred head of cattle floundered in the mire. They had saved the greater portion of the mired cattle, but quite a number were trampled to death by the others, and now the regular crossing was not approachable for the stench of dead cattle. Flood knew the stream, and so did a number of our outfit, but none of them had any idea that it could get into such an impassable condition, as Forrest reported. The next morning Flood started to the east and prized to the west to look out a crossing, for we were then within half a day's drive of the creek. Big Boggy paralleled the Solomon River in our front, the two not being more than five miles apart. The confluence was far below in some settlements, and we must keep to the westward of all immigration on account of the growing crops in the fertile valley of the Solomon. On the westward had a favorable crossing been found, we would have almost had to turn our herd backwards, for we were already within half the circle which this creek described in our front. So after the two men left us, we allowed the herd to graze forward, keeping several miles to the westward of the trail, in order to get the benefit of the best grazing. Our herd, when left to itself, would graze from a mile to a mile and a half an hour, and by the middle of the forenoon the timber on Big Boggy and the Solomon beyond was sighted. Unreaching this last divide, someone sighted a herd about five or six miles to the eastward and nearly parallel with us. As they were three or four miles beyond the trail, we could easily see that they were grazing along like ourselves, and Forrest was appealed to know if it was the millet herd. He said not, and pointed out to the northeast about the location of the millet cattle, probably five miles in advance of the stranger on our right. When we overtook our wagon at noon, McCann, who had never left the trail, reported having seen the herd. They looked to him like heavy beef cattle, and had two yoke of oxen to their chuck wagon, which served further to proclaim them as strangers. Neither priest nor flood returned during the noon hour, and when the herd refused to lie down and rest longer, we grazed them forward to the fringe of the timber, which grew along the stream loomed up not a mile distant in our front. From the course we were traveling, we would strike the creek several miles above the regular crossing, and as Forrest reported that millet was holding below the old crossing, on a small rivulet all we could do was to hold our wagon in the rear, and await the return of our men out on scout for a ford. Priest was the first to return with word that he had ridden the creek out for twenty-five miles, and had found no crossing that would be safe for a mud turtle. On hearing this we left two men with the herd, and the rest of the outfit took the wagon, went on to Boggy and made camp. It was a deceptive-looking stream, not over fifty or sixty feet wide. In places the current barely moved, shallowing and deepening, from a few inches in places to several feet in others, with an occasional pool that would swim a horse. We probed it with poles until we were satisfied that we were up against a proposition different from anything we had yet encountered. While we were discussing the situation a stranger rode up on a fine-rown horse and inquired for our foreman. Forrest informed him that our boss was away looking for a crossing, but we were expecting his return at any time, and invited the stranger to dismount. He did so and threw himself down in the shade of our wagon. He was a small, boyish-looking fellow of sandy complexion, not much if any over twenty years old, and smiled continuously. My name is Pete Slaughter, said he, by way of introduction, and I've got a herd of twenty-eight hundred beef steers beyond the trail and a few miles back. I've been riding since daybreak down the creek, and I'm prepared to state that the chance of crossing is as good right here as anywhere. I wanted to see your foreman, and if he'll help, we'll bridge her. I've been down to see this other outfit, but they ridiculed the idea. Though I think they'll come around all right. I borrowed their axe, and tomorrow morning you'll see me with my outfit cutting timber to bridge Big Boggy. That's right, boys, it's the only thing to do. The trouble is I've only got eight men all told. I don't aim to travel over eight or ten miles a day, so I don't need a big outfit. You say your foreman's name is Flood? Well, if he don't return before I go, some of you tell him that he's wasting good time looking for a Ford. For there ain't none. In the conversation which followed, we learned that Slaughter was driving for his brother, Lum, a widely known cowman and rover whom we had seen in Dodge. He had started with the grass from North Texas, and by the time he reached the Plat, many of his herd would be fit to ship to market, and what were not would be in good demand as feeders in the corn belt of eastern Nebraska. He asked if we had seen his herd during the morning, and on hearing we had, got up and asked McCann to let him see our axe. This he gave a critical examination before he mounted his horse to go, and on leaving said, If your foreman don't want to help to build a bridge, I want to borrow that axe of yours. But you fellas talk to him. If any of you boys has ever been over on the Chisholm trail, you will remember the bridge on Rush Creek, south of the Washiita River. I built that bridge in a day, with an outfit of ten men. Why shucks, if these outfits would pull together, we could cross tomorrow evening. Lots of these old foremen don't like to listen to a cub like me, but holy snakes, I've been over the trail oftener than any of them. Why, when I wasn't big enough to make a hand with a herd, only ten years old, in the days when we drove the Abilene, they used to send me in the lead with an old cylinder gun to shoot at the buffalo and scare them off the trail. And I've made the trip every year since. So you tell Flood when he comes in, that Peter Slaughter was here, and that he's going to build a bridge, and would like to have him and his outfit help. Had it not been for his youth and perpetual smile, we might have taken Young Slaughter more seriously. For both Quince Forrest and the Rebel remembered the bridge on Rush Creek over on the Chisholm. Still there was an air of confident assurance in the young fellow, and the fact that he was the trusted foreman of Lum Slaughter, in charge of a valuable herd of cattle, carried weight with those who knew that drover. The most unwelcome thought in the project was that it required the swinging of an axe to fell trees and to cut them into the necessary lengths, and, as I have said before, the Texan never took kindly to manual labor. But priests looked favorably on the suggestion, and so enlisted my support, and even pointed out a spot where timber was most abundant has a suitable place to build the bridge. Hell's fire, said Joe Stalin's, with infinite contempt, there's thousands of places to build a bridge, and the timber's there, but the idea is to cut it, and his sentiments found a hardy approval in the majority of the outfit. Flood returned late that evening, having ridden as far down the creek as the first settlement. The Rebel, somewhat antagonized by the attitude of the majority, reported the visit and message left for him by Young Slaughter. Our foreman knew him by general reputation amongst trail bosses, and when priests vouched for him as the builder of the Rush Creek Bridge on that Chisholm Trail, Flood said, why I crossed my herd four years ago on that Rush Creek Bridge within a week after it was built, and wondered who it could be that had the nerve to undertake that task. Rush isn't over half as wide as Bayou Boggy, but she's a true little sister to this myery slough, so he's going to build a bridge anyhow, is he? The next morning Young Slaughter was at our camp before sunrise, and never once mentioning his business or waiting for the formality of an invitation proceeded to pour out a ten cup of coffee and otherwise provide himself with a substantial breakfast. There was something amusing in the audacity of the fellow, which all of us liked, though he was fifteen years the junior of our foreman. McCann pointed out Flood to him, and taking his well-loaded plate he went over and sat down by our foreman, and while he ate, talked rapidly to enlist our outfit in the building of the bridge. During breakfast the outfit listened to the two bosses as they discussed the feasibility of the project. Slaughter enthusiastic, Flood reserved, and asking all sorts of questions as to the mode of procedure. Young Peake met every question with promptness, and assured our foreman that the building of bridges was his long suit. After breakfast the two foremen rode off down the creek together, and within half an hour Slaughter's wagon and Remuda pulled up within sight of the regular crossing, and shortly afterwards our foreman returned and ordered our wagon to pull down to a clump of cotton woods, which grew about half a mile below our camp. Two men were detailed to look after our herd during the day, and the remainder of us returned with our foreman to the sites selected for the bridge. On our arrival three axes were swinging against as many cotton woods, and there was no doubt in any one's mind that we were going to be under a new foreman for that day at least. Slaughter had a big negro cook who swung an axe in a manner which bespoke him a job for the day, and McCann was instructed to provide dinner for the extra outfit. The site chosen for the bridge was a mirey bottom over which oozed three or four inches of water, where the width of the stream was about sixty feet, with solid banks on either side. To get good foundation was the most important matter, but the brush from the trees would supply the material for that, and within an hour brush began to arrive, dragged from the pommels of saddles, and was piled into the stream. About this time a call went out for a volunteer who could drive oxen, for the darky was too good an axman to be recalled. As I had driven oxen as a boy, I was going to offer my services when Joe Stallings eagerly volunteered in order to avoid using an axe. Slaughter had some extra chain, and our four mules were pressed into service as an extra team in snaking logs. As McCann was to provide for the inner man, the mule team fell to me, and putting my saddle on the nigh-wheeler, I rode jauntly past Mr. Stallings as he trudged alongside his two yoke of oxen. About ten o'clock in the morning George Jaclyn, the foreman of the mill at Herd, rode up with several of his men, and seeing the bridge taking shape turned in and assisted in dragging brush for the foundation. By the time all hands knocked off for dinner we had a foundation of brush twenty feet wide and four feet high, to say nothing about what had sunk in the mire. The logs were cut about fourteen feet long, and old Joe and I had snaked them up as fast as the axman could get them ready. Jaclyn returned to his wagon for dinner, and a change of horses, though slaughter, with plenty of assurance, had invited him to eat with us, and when he declined, had remarked, with no less confidence, well then you'll be back right after dinner, and say, bring all the men you can spare, and if you've got any gunny sacks or old tarplins, bring them, and by all means don't forget your spade. Pete Slaughter was a harsh master, considering he was working volunteer labour. But then we all fell to common interest in the bridge, for if Slaughter's beaves could cross, ours could, and so could Millet's. All the men dragging brush changed horses during dinner, for there was to be no pause in piling in a good foundation, as long as the material was at hand. Jaclyn and his outfit returned ten strong, and with thirty men at work the bridge grew. They began laying the logs on the brush after dinner, and the work of sodding the bridge went forward at the same time. The bridge stood about two feet above the water in the creek, but when near the middle of the stream was reached the foundation gave way, and for an hour ten horses were kept busy dragging brush to fill that sink hole until it would bear the weight of the logs. We had used all the acceptable timber on our side of the stream for a half mile either way, and yet there was not enough logs to complete the bridge. When we lacked only some ten or twelve logs, Slaughter had the boys sod a narrow strip across the remaining brush, and the horsemen led their mounts across to the farther side. Then the axmen crossed, felled the nearest trees, and the last logs were dragged up from the pommels of our saddles. It now only remained to sod over the dirt bridge thoroughly. With only three spades the work was slow, but we cut sod with axes, and after several hours' work had it finished. The two yoke of oxen were driven across and back for a test, and the bridge stood it nobly. Slaughter then brought up his remuda, and while the work of dirtying the bridge was still going on, crossed and recrossed his band of saddle horses twenty times. When the bridge looked completed to everyone else, young Peter advised laying stringers across on either side. So a number of small trees were felled, and guardrails strung across the ends of the logs and staked. Then more dirt was carried on in tarplands and in gunny sacks, and every chink and crevice filled with sod and dirt. It was now getting rather late in the afternoon, but during the finishing touches young Slaughter had dispatched his outfit to bring up his herd, and at the same time Flood had sent a number of our outfit to bring up our cattle. Now Slaughter and the rest of us took the oxen, which we had unyoked, and went out about a quarter of a mile to meet his herd coming up. Turning the oxen in the lead, young Peter took one point and Flood the other, and pointed in the lead cattle for the bridge. Unreaching it the cattle hesitated a moment, and it looked as though they were going to balk, but finally one of the oxen took the lead, and they began the cross in almost Indian file. They were big, four and five year old bees. Too many of them on the bridge at one time might have sunk it, but Slaughter rode back down the line of cattle and called to the men to hold them back. Don't crowd the cattle, he shouted. Give them all the time they want. We're in no hurry now. There's lots of time. They were a full half hour in crossing, the chain of cattle taking the bridge never for a moment being broken. Once all were over, his men rode to the lead and turned the herd up boggy in order to have it well out of the way of ours, which were then looming up in sight. Slaughter asked Flood if he wanted the oxen, and as our cattle had never seen a bridge in their lives, the foreman decided to use them. So we brought them back and met the herd, now strung out nearly a mile. Our cattle were naturally wild, but we turned the oxen in the lead, and the two bosses again taking the points moved the herd up to the bridge. The oxen were again slow to lead out in crossing, and several hundred head of cattle had congested in front of the new bridge, making us all rather nervous when a big white ox let off his mate following, and the herd began timidly to follow. Our cattle required careful handling, and not a word was spoken as we nursed them forward or rode through them to scatter large bunches. A number of times we cut the train of cattle off entirely as they were congesting at the bridge entrance, and in crossing shied and crowded so that several were forced off the bridge into the mire. Our herd crossed in considerably less time than did Slaughter's beaves, but we had five head to pull out. This, however, was considered nothing as they were light, and the mire was thin as soup. Our wagon and saddle horses crossed while we were pulling out the bogged cattle, and about half the outfit, taking the herd, drifted them forward towards the Solomon. Since Millet intended crossing that evening, herds were likely to be too thick for safety at night. The sun was hardly an hour high when the last herd came up to cross. The oxen were put in the lead, as with ours, and all four of the oxen took the bridge. But when the cattle reached the bridge, they made a decided balk and refused to follow the oxen. Not a hoof of the herd would even set foot on the bridge. The oxen were brought back several times, but in spite of all coaxing and nursing, and our best endeavors and devices, they would not risk it. We worked with them until dusk, when all three of the foremen decided it was useless to try longer. But both Slaughter and Flood promised to bring back part of their outfits in the morning, and make another effort. McCann's campfire piloted us to our wagon, at least three miles from the bridge, for he had laid in a good supply of wood during the day. And on our arrival our night horses were tied up, and everything made ready for the night. The next morning we started the herd, but Flood took four of us with him and went back to Big Boggy. The millet herd was nearly two miles back from the bridge, where we found Slaughter at Jacklin's wagon, and several more of his men were, we learned, coming over with the oxen at about ten o'clock. The hour was considered soon enough by the bosses, as the heat of the day would be on the herd by that time, which would make them lazy. When the oxen arrived at the bridge, we rode out twenty strong and lined the cattle up for another trial. They had grazed until they were full and sleepy, but the memory of some of them was too vivid of the hours they had spent in the slimy ooze of Big Boggy once on a time, and they began milling on sight of the stream. We took them back and brought them up a second time with the same results. We then brought them around in a circle, a mile in diameter, and as the rear end of the herd was passing, we turned the last hundred and throwing the oxen into their lead started them for the bridge, but they too sulked and would have none of it. It was now high noon, so we turned the herd and allowed them to graze back while we went to dinner. Millet's foreman was rather discouraged with the outlook. Slaughter said they must be crossed if he had to lay over a week and help. After dinner Jacklin asked us if we wanted a change of horses, and as we could see a twenty mile ride ahead of us in overtaking our herd, Flood accepted. When all was ready to start, Slaughter made a suggestion. Let's go out, he said, and bring them up slowly in a solid body, and when we get them opposite the bridge, round them in gradually as if we were going to bed them down. I'll take a long lariat to my white-wheeler, and when they have quiet it down perfectly, I'll lead old Blanco through them and across the bridge, and possibly they'll follow. There's no use in crowding them, for that only excites them, and if you ever start them milling the jigs up. They're a nice gentle cattle, but they've been balked once, and they haven't forgotten it. What we needed right then was a leader. For we were all ready to catch at a straw, and Slaughter's suggestion was welcome, for he had established himself in our good graces until we've preferred him to either of the other foremen as a leader. Writing out to the herd, which were lying down, we roused and started them back towards Boggy. While drifting them back, we covered a front a quarter mile in width, and as we neared the bridge we gave them perfect freedom. Slaughter had caught out as white ox, and we gradually worked them into a body covering perhaps ten acres in front of the bridge. Several small bunches attempted to mill, but some of us rode in and split them up, and after about half hours' wait they quieted it down. Then Slaughter rode in whistling and leading his white ox at the end of a thirty-five foot lariat, and as he rode through them they were so loggy that he had to court them out of the way. When he came to the bridge he stopped the white-wheeler until everything had quieted it down. Then he let old Blanco on again, but giving him all the time he needed and stopping every few feet. We held our breath as one or two of the herds started to follow him, but they shied and turned back, and our hopes of the moment were crushed. Slaughter detained the ox on the bridge for several minutes, but seeing it was useless he dismounted and drove him back into the herd. Again and again he tried the same ruse, but it was of no avail. Then we threw the herd back about half a mile, and on flood suggestion cut off possibly two hundred head, a bunch with which our numbers we ought to handle readily in spite of their will, and by putting their remuda of over a hundred saddle-horses in the immediate lead made the experiment of forcing them. We took the saddle-horses down and crossed and recrossed the bridge several times with them, and as the cattle came up turned the horses into the lead and headed for the bridge. With a cordon of twenty riders around them no animal could turn back, and the horses crossed the bridge on a trot, but the cattle turned tail and positively refused to have anything to do with it. We held them like a block in a vice so compactly that they could not even mill, but they would not cross the bridge. When it became evident that it was a fruitless effort, Jacqueline, usually a very quiet man, gave vent to a fit of profanity which would have put the army in Flanders to shame. Slaughter, somewhat to our amusement, reproved him. Don't fret, ma'am, this is nothing. I balked a herd once in crossing a railroad track, and after trying for two days to cross them, had to drive ten miles and put them under a culvert. You want to cultivate patience, young fellow, when you're handling dumb brutes. If Slaughter's darky cook had been thereabouts then and suggested a means of getting the herd to take the bridge, his suggestion would have been welcomed, for the bosses were at their wits' end. Jacqueline swore that he would bed the herd at the entrance and hold them there until they starved to death or crossed before he would let an animal turn back. But cooler heads were present, and the rebel mentioned a certain adage to the effect that when a bird or a girl, he didn't know which, could sing and wouldn't, she or it ought to be made to sing. He suggested that we hold the four oxen on the bridge, cut off fifteen head of cattle, and give them such a running start that they wouldn't know which end their heads were on when they reached the bridge. Militz Foreman approved of the idea, for he was nursing his wrath. The four oxen were accordingly cut out, and Slaughter and one of his men, taking them, started for the bridge with instructions to hold them on the middle. The rest of us took about a dozen head of light cattle, brought them within a hundred yards of the bridge, then with a yell, started them on a run from which they could not turn back. They struck the entrance squarely, and we had our first cattle on the bridge. Two men held the entrance, and we brought up another bunch in the same manner which filled the bridge. Now we thought if the herd could be brought up slowly and this bridge full let off in their lead, they might follow. To June a herd of cattle across in this manner would have been shameful, and the Foreman of the herd knew it as well as anyone present, but no one protested. So we left men to hold the entrance securely, and went back after the herd. When we got them within a quarter mile of the creek, we cut off about two hundred head of the leaders, and brought them around to the rear. For amongst these leaders were certain to be the ones which had been bogged, and we wanted to have new leaders in this trial. Slaughter was on the farther end of the bridge, and could be depended upon to let the oxen lead off at the opportune moment. We brought them up cautiously, and when the herd came within a few rods of the creek, the cattle on the bridge load to their mates in the herd, and Slaughter, considering the time favorable, opened out and allowed them to leave the bridge on the farther side. As soon as the cattle started leaving on the farther side, we dropped back, and the leaders of the herd, to the number of a dozen, after smelling the fresh dirt and seeing the others crossing, walked cautiously up on the bridge. It was a moment of extreme anxiety. None of us spoke a word, but the cattle crowding off the bridge at the farther end said it vibrating. That was enough. They turned as if panic-stricken, and rushed back to the body of the herd. I was almost afraid to look at Jacqueline. He could scarcely speak, but he rode over to me ashen with rage, and kept repeating, Well, wouldn't that beat hell? Slaughter rode back across the bridge, and the men came up and gathered around Jacqueline. We seemed to have run the full length of our rope. No one even had a suggestion in the offer, and if anyone had had, it needed to be a plausible one to find approval, for hope seemed to have vanished. While we were discussing the situation, a one-eyed pox-marked fellow, belonging to Slaughter's outfit, galloped up from the rear, and said almost breathlessly, Say, fellas, I see a cow on a calf in the herd. Let's rope the calf, and the cow is sure to follow. Get the rope around the calf's neck, and when it chokes him, he's liable to bellow, and that will call the steers. And if you never let up on the choking till you get the other side of the bridge, I think it'll work. Let's try it anyhow. We all approved, for we knew that next to the smell of blood, nothing will stir a range-cattle like the bellowing of a calf. At the mere suggestion, Jacqueline's men scattered into the herd, and within a few minutes we had a rope round the neck of the calf. As the roper came through the herd leading the calf, the frantic mother followed, with the train of excited steers at her heels, and as the calf was dragged bellowing across the bridge, it was followed by excited, struggling steers who never knew whether they were walking on a bridge or on terra firma. The excitement spread through the herd, and they thickened around the entrance until it was necessary to hold them back and only let enough pass to keep the chain unbroken. They were nearly a half hour in crossing, for it was fully as large a herd as ours, and when the last animal had crossed, Pete Slaughter stood up in his stirrups and led the long yell. The sun went down that day on nobody's wrath, for Jacqueline was so tickled that he offered to kill the fattest beef in his herd if we would stay overnight with him. All three of the herds were now over, but had not this herd balked on us the evening before, over nine thousand cattle would have crossed Slaughter's bridge the day it was built. It was now late in the evening, and we had to wait some little time to get our own horses. We stayed for supper. It was dark before we set out to overtake the herd, but the trail was plain, and letting our horses take their own time, we jollied along until after midnight. We might have missed the camp, but by the nearest chance, priests sited our campfire a mile off the trail, though it had burned to embers. On reaching camp we changed saddles to our night-horses, and, calling officer, we're ready for our watch. We were expecting the men on guard to call us any minute, and while priests was explaining to officer the trouble we had in crossing the mill at herd, I dozed off to sleep there as I sat by the rekindled embers. In that minute's sleep my mind wandered in a dream to my home on the San Antonio River, but the next moment I was aroused to the demands of the hour by the rebels shaking me and saying, Wake up, Tom, and take a new hold. They're calling us on guard. If you expect to follow the trail, son, you must learn to do your sleeping in the winter. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Beaver After leaving the country tributary to the Solomon River, we crossed a wide table land for nearly a hundred miles, and with the exception of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, without a landmark worthy of a name. Western Kansas was then classified, worthily too, as belonging to the great American Desert, and most of the country for the last five hundred miles of our course was entitled to a similar description. Once the freshness of spring had passed, the plane took on her natural sun-burnt color, and day after day, as far as the eye could reach, the monotony was unbroken, saved by the variations of the mirages on every hand. Except that morning and evening we were never out of sight of these optical illusions, sometimes miles away, and then again close up, when an antelope standing half a mile distance looked as tall as a giraffe. Frequently the lead of the herd would be an eclipse from these illusions. When to the men in the rear, the horsemen and cattle in the lead would appear like giants in an old fairy story. If the monotony of the sea can be charged with dulling men's sensibilities until they become pirates, surely this desolate arid plain might be equally charged with a wrong doing of not a few of our craft. On crossing the railroad at Grinnell, our foreman received a letter from Lovell, directing him to go to Colbertson, Nebraska, and there meet a man who was buying horses for a Montana ranch. Our employer had his business eye open for a possible purchase for our remuda, and if the horses could be sold for delivery after the herd had reached its destination, the opportunity was not to be overlooked. Accordingly, on reaching Beaver Creek, where we encamped, flood left us to ride through to the Republican River during the night. The trail crossed this river about twenty miles west of Colbertson, and if the Montana horse-buyer were yet there it would be no trouble to come up to the trail crossing and look at our horses. So after supper, while we were catching up our night horses, flood said to us, Now boys, I'm going to leave the outfit and herd under Joe Stallings as Segundo. It's hardly necessary to leave you under any one as foreman, for you all know your places. But someone must be made responsible, and one bad boss will do less harm than half a dozen that might not agree. So you can put honeymoon on guard in your place at night, Joe, if you don't want to stand your own watch. Now behave yourselves, and when I meet you on the Republican, I'll bring out a box of cigars, and have it charged up as axle grease when we get supplies at Ogolala. And don't sit up all night telling fool's stories. Now that's what I call a good cow boss, said Joe Stallings, as our foreman rode away in the twilight. Besides, he used passable good judgment in selecting a Segundo. Now, honeyman, you heard what he said, Billy dear. I won't rob you of this chance to stand a guard. McCann, have you got on your next list of supplies any jam and jelly for Sundays? You have? That's right, son, that saves you from standing a guard tonight. Officer, when you come off guard at three thirty in the morning, build the cook up a good fire. Let me see. Yes. And I'll detail young Tom Quirk and the rebel to grease the wagon and harness your mules before starting in the morning. I want to impress it, on your mind, McCann, that I can appreciate a thoughtful cook. What's that, honeyman? No indeed, you can't ride my night horse. Love me, love my dog, my horse shares this snap. Now I don't want to be under the necessity of speaking to any of you first guard, but flop into your saddles, ready to take the herd. My turnip says it's eight o'clock now. Why, you missed your calling? You'd make a fine second mate on a river steamboat, driving niggers, called back at Quint's Forest, as the first guard rode away. When our guard returned, Officer intentionally walked across Stalin's bed, and catching his spur in the tarpolin fell heavily across our Segundo. Excuse me, said John Rising, but I was just nosing around, looking for the foreman. Oh, it's you, is it? I just wanted to ask if 4.30 wouldn't be plenty early to build up the fire. Well, it's a little scarce, but I'll burn the prairies, if you say so. That's all I wanted to know. You may lay down now, and go to sleep. Our campfire that night was a good one, and in the absence of flood, no one felt like going to bed until drowsiness compelled us. So he lounged around the fire, smoking the hours away, and in spite of the admonition of our foreman, told stories far into the night. During the early portion of the evening, dog stories occupied the boards. As the evening wore on, the subject of revisiting the old states came up for discussion. You all talk about going back to the old states, said Joe Stallings, but I don't take very friendly to the idea. I felt that way once, and went home to Tennessee. But I want to tell you, that after you live a few years in the sunny Southwest, and get on to her ways, you can't stand it back there, like you think you can. Now when I went back, and I reckoned my relations will average up pretty well, fought in the Confederate army, vote the Democratic ticket, and belong to the Methodist Church. They all seem to be rapidly getting low-code. Why, my uncles, when they think of planting the old buckfield, or the widow's acre, into any crop, they first go projecting around in the soil, and, as they say, analyze it to see what kind of fertilizer it will require to produce the best results. Back there, if one man raises ten acres of corn, and his neighbor raises twelve, the one raising twelve is sure to look upon the other, as though he lacked enterprise, or had modest ambitions. Now, up around that old cow-town, Abilene, Kansas, it's a common sight to see the cornfield stretch out like an ocean. And then their stock. They're all low-code about that. Why, I know people who will pay a hundred dollars for siring a colt, and if there's one drop of mongrel blood in that sire's veins, for ten generations back on either side of his ancestral tree, it condemns him, though he may be a good horse otherwise. They are strong on standard bred horses. But as for me, my mount is all right. I wouldn't trade with any man in this outfit. Without it would be flood, and there's none of them standard bred either. Why shucks, if you had to pick all the standard bred horses in Tennessee, you couldn't handle a herd of cattle like ours with them, without carrying a commissary with you to feed them. No, they would never fit here. It takes a range raised horse to run cattle, one that can rustle and live on grass. Another thing about those people, back in those old states, not one in ten I'll gamble, knows the teacher he sends his children to school to. But when he has a promising colt to be shod, the owner goes to the blacksmith's shop himself, and he and the smith will sit on the back sill of the shop, and they will discuss how to shoe that filly, so as to give her certain knee action, which she seems to need. Probably, says one, a little weight on her toe would give her reach. And there they will sit and pow wow, and make medicine for an hour or two. And while the blacksmith is shoeing her, the owner will tell him in confidence what a wonderful burst of speed she developed yesterday, while he was speeding her on the back stretch. And then, just as he turned her into the home stretch, she threw a shoe, and he had to check her in. But if there had been any one to catch her time, he was certain it was better than a two-ten clip. And that same colt you couldn't cut a lame cow out of the shade of a tree on her. A man back there, he's rich too, though his father made it, and gave a thousand dollars for a pair of dogs before they were born. The terms were warn half cash, and the balance when they were old enough to ship to him. And for fear they were not the proper mustard, he had the dog-man sue him in court for the balance, so as to make him prove the pedigree. Now Bob there thinks that old hound of his is the real stuff. But he wouldn't do now, almost every year, the style changes in dogs back in the old states. One year maybe it's a little white dog with red eyes, and the very next it's a long, benched, legged, black dog with a Dutch name that right now I disremember. Common old pothounds and everyday yellow dogs have gone out of style entirely. No, you can all go back that want to. But as long as I can hold a job with love and flood, I'll try and worry along in my own way. On finishing this little yarn, stallings arose saying, I must take a listen to my men on herd. It always threats me for fear my men will ride too near the cattle. A minute later he called us, and when several of us walked out to where he was listening, we recognized round tree's voice singing. Little black bull came down the hillside, down the hillside, down the hillside. Little black bull came down the hillside, long time ago. Whenever my men sing that song on guard, it tells me that everything is amply serene, remarked our Segundo, with the air of a field marshal, as we walked back to the fire. The evening had passed so rapidly it was now almost time for the second guard to be called, and when the lateness of the hour was announced, we scurried to our blankets like rabbits to their warrens. The second guard usually got an hour or two sleep before being called, but in the absence of our regular foreman the mice would play. When our guard was called at one o'clock, as usual, officer delayed us several minutes looking for his spurs, and I took the chance to ask the rebel why it was that he never wore spurs. It's because I'm superstitious, son," he answered. I own a fine pair of silver-plated spurs that have a history, and if you're ever at Lovell's Ranch, I'll show them to you. They were given to me by a mortally wounded federal officer. The day the battle of Lookout Mountain was fought. I was in orderly, carrying dispatches, and in passing through a wood from which the Union Army had been recently driven, this officer was sitting at the root of a tree, fatally wounded. He motioned me to him, and when I dismounted he said, Johnny Reb, please give a dying man a drink. I gave him my canteen, and after drinking from it he continued, I want you to have my spurs. Take them off. Listen to their history. As you have taken them off me today, so I took them off a Mexican general the day the American army entered the capital of Mexico. CHAPTER XVI. OF THE LOG OF A CALBOY. by Andy Adams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE REPUBLICAN. The outfit were awakened out of sleep the next morning. By shouts of, whoa, mule, whoa, you mongrel outcasts, catch them blankety-blank mules. Accompanied by a rattle of chain harnesses and quince forest bashed across our Segundo's bed, shaken a harness in each hand. We kicked the blankets off, and came to our feet in time to see the offender disappear behind the wagon. While stalling sat up, and yawning inquired, what other local fool has gotten funny. But the camp was awake, for the cattle were leisurely leaving the bed-ground, while honeymoon, who had been excused from the herd with the first sign of dawn, was wrestling up the horses in the valley of the beaver, below camp. With the understanding that the Republican River was a short three days drive from our present camp, the herd trailed out that first day with not an incident to break the monotony of eating and sleeping, grazing and guarding. But near noon of the second day we were overtaken by an old, long-whiskered man and a boy of possibly fifteen. They were riding in a light rickety vehicle, drawn by a small Spanish mule, and a rough but clean-limbed bay-mayor. The strangers appealed to our sympathy, for they were guileless in appearance, and asked so many questions, indicating that ours might have been the first herd of trail cattle they had ever seen. The old man was a free talker, and innocently allowed us to inveigle it out of him, that he had been down on the north beaver, looking up land to homestead, and was then on his way up to take a look at the lands along the Republican. We invited him and the boy to remain for dinner, for in that monotonous waste we would have been only too glad to entertain a bandit, or an angel for that matter, provide it he would talk about something else than cattle. In our guest, however, we found a good conversationalist, meaty with stories not eligible to the retired list, and in return the hospitality of our wagon was his and welcome. The travel-stained old rascal proved to be a good mixer, and before dinner was over he had won us to a man. Those stallings, in the capacity of foreman, felt it incumbent upon him to act the host in behalf of the outfit. In the course of conversation the old man managed to unearth the fact that our acting foreman was a native of Tennessee, and when he had got it down to town and county, claimed acquaintance-ship with a family of men in that locality who were famed as breeders of race-horses. Our guest admitted that he himself was a native of that state, and in his younger days had been a devotee of the race-course, with the name of every horseman in the Commonwealth as well as the bluegrass regions of Kentucky on his tongue's end. But adversity had come upon him, and now he was looking out a new country in which to begin life over again. After dinner, when our remuda was corraled to catch the fresh mounts, our guest bubbled over with admiration of our horses, and pointed out several has promising speed and action. We took his praise of our horse-flesh as quite a compliment, never suspecting flattery at the hands of this nomadic patriarch. He innocently inquired which was considered the fastest horse in the remuda. When Stallings pointed out a brown belonging to Flood's Mount as the best quarter horse in the band, he gave him a critical examination and confessed he never would have picked him for a horse possessing speed, though he admitted that he was unfamiliar with range-raised horses. This being his first visit in the West, Stallings offered to loan him a horse out of his mount, and as the old man had no saddle, our Segundo prevailed on McCann to loan his for the afternoon. I am inclined to think that there was a little jealousy among us that afternoon as to who was best entitled to entertain our company, and while he showed no partiality, Stallings seemed to monopolize his countrymen to our disadvantage. Those two jollied along from point the rear and back again, and as they passed us riders in the swing, Stallings ignored us entirely, though the old man always had a pleasant word as he rode by. If we don't do something to wean our Segundo from that old man, said Fox Quarter Knight, as he rode up and overtook me, he's liable to quit the herd and follow that old fossil back to Tennessee or some other port. Just look at the two now, will you? Old Joe's putting on as much dog as though he were asking the colonel for his daughter. Between me and you and the gatepost, Quirk, I'm a little dubious about that old varmit. He talks too much. But I had warmed up to our guest and gave Fox's criticism very little weight, well knowing if any one of us had been left in charge he would have shown the old man similar courtesies. In this view I was correct, for when Stallings had ridden on ahead to look up water that afternoon, the very man that entirely monopolized our guest for an hour was Mr. John Fox Quarter Knight. Nor did he jar loose until we reached water, when Stallings cut him off by sending all the men on the right of the herd to hold the cattle from grazing away until every hoof had had ample time to drink. During the rest the old man circulated around asking questions as usual and when I informed him that with a half a mile of water front it would take a full hour to water the herd properly, he expressed an innocent amazement which seemed as simple as sincere. When the wagon and remuda came up I noticed the boy had tied his team behind our wagon and was riding one of Honeyman's horse's bareback, assisting the wrangler in driving the saddle stock. After the wagon had crossed the creek and the kegs had been filled and the teams watered, Stallings took the old man with him and the two rode away in lead of the wagon and remuda to select the camp and bed-ground for the night. The rest of us grazed the cattle, now thoroughly watered, forward until the wagon was sited, when, leaving the two men as usual to nurse them up to bed, the remainder of us struck out for camp. As I rode in I sought out my Bunky to get his opinion regarding our guest. But the rebel was resident as usual of his opinions of people, so my inquiries remained unanswered, which only served to increase my confidence in the old man. On arriving at camp we found Stallings and Honeyman entertaining our visitor in a little game of freeze-out for a dollar a corner, while McCann looked wistfully on, as if regretting that his culinary duties prevented his joining in. Our arrival should have been the signal to our wrangler for rounding in the remuda for night-horses, but Stallings was too absorbed in the game even to notice the lateness of the hour and order in the saddle-stock. Quarter-night, however, had a few dollars burning holes in his pocket, and he called our horse-wrestler's attention to the approaching twilight. Not that he was in any hurry, but if Honeyman vacated he saw an opportunity to get into the game. The foreman gave the necessary order, and quarter-night at once bargained for the wrangler's remaining beans, and sat into the game. While we were catching up our night-horses, Honeyman told us that the old man had been joking Stallings about the speed of Flood's brown. Even going so far has to intimate that he didn't believe that the Gelding could outrun that old bay-harness mayor which he was driving. He had confessed that he was too hard up to wager much on it, but he would risk a few dollars on his judgment, on a running horse any day. He also said that Stallings had come back at him more in earnest than in jest, that if he really thought his harness mayor could outrun the brown he could win every dollar the outfit had. They had caught at one another until Joe had shown some spirit. When the old man suggested they play a little game of cards for fun, but Stallings had insisted on stakes to make it interesting, and on the old homesteader pleading poverty they had agreed to make it for a dollar on the corner. After supper our Segundo wanted to renew the game. The old man protested that he was too unlucky and could not afford to lose, but was finally persuaded to play one more game, just to pass away the evening. Well, the evening passed, and within the short space of two hours they're also passed to the supposed lean purse of our guest some twenty dollars from the feverish pockets of the outfit. Then the old man felt too sleepy to play any longer, but loitered about some time and casually inquired of his boy if he had picketed their mayor where she would get a good bait of grass. This naturally brought up to propose race for discussion. If you really think that old Bay Palfrey of yours can outrun any horse in our remuda, said Stallings tauntingly, you're missing the chance of your life not to pick up a few honest dollars as you journey along. You stay with us tomorrow and when we meet our foreman at the Republican, if he'll loan me the horse, I'll give you a race for any sum you name, just to show you that I've got a few drops of sporting blood in me. And if your mayor can outrun a cow, you stand an easy chance to win some money. Our visitor met Joe's bantering in a timid manner. Before turning in, however, he informed us that he appreciated our hospitality, but that he expected to make an early drive in the morning to the Republican, where he might camp several days. With this the old man and the boy unrolled their blankets and both were soon sound asleep. Then our Segundo quietly took Fox Quarter-Night off to one side, and I heard the latter agree to call him when the third guard was aroused. Having notified Honeyman that he would stand his own watch that night, Stallings, with the rest of the outfit, soon joined the old man in the land of dreams. Instead of the rough shaking which was customary on arousing a guard, when we of the third watch were called, we were awakened in a manner so cautious as to be token something unusual in the air. The atmosphere of mystery soon cleared after reaching the herd, when Bob Blades informed us that it was the intention of Stallings and Quarter-Night to steal the old man's harness mare off the picket rope and run her against their night horses in a trial race. Like love and war, everything is fair in horse racing, but the audacity of this proposition almost passed belief. Both Blades and Durham remained on guard with us, and before we had circled the herd half a dozen times, the two conspirators came riding up to the bed-ground, leading the bay-mayor. There was a good moon that night, Quarter-Night exchanged mounts with John Officer, and the latter had a splendid night horse that had outstripped the outfit in every stampede so far, and our Segundo and the second guard rode out of hearing of both herd and camp to try out the horses. After an hour the quartet returned, and under solemn pledges of secrecy Stallings said, why that old bay harness mare can't run fast enough to keep up with the funeral. I rode her myself, and if she's got any run in her, Raul and Quirt won't bring it out. That chestnut of John's ran away from her as if she were hobbled and sidelined, while this coyote of mine threw dust in her face every jump in the road from the word go. If the old man isn't bluffing and will hack his mare, we'll get back our freeze-out money with good interest. Mind you now, we must keep it a dead secret from Flood that we tried the mare. He might get funny and tip the old man. We all swore great oaths that Flood should never hear a breath of it. The conspirators and their accomplices rode in the camp and we resumed our sentinel rounds. I had some money and figured that bedding in a cinch like this would be like finding money in the road. But the rebel when we were returning from guard said, Tom, keep out of this race the boys are trying to jump up. I've met a good many innocent men in my life, and there's something about this old man that reminds me of people who haven't axed the grind. Let the other fellows run on the rope if they want to. But you keep your money in your pocket. Take an older man's advice this once. And I'm going to round up John in the morning and try and beat a little sense into his head, for he thinks it's a dead, immortal cinch. I had made it a rule during our brief acquaintance never to argue matters with my monkey, well knowing that his years and experience in the ways of the world entitled his advice to my earnest consideration. So I kept silent, though secretly wishing he had not taken the trouble to throw cold water on my hopes. For I had built several air castles with the money which seemed within my grasp. We had been out then over four months, and I, like many of the other boys, was getting ragged, and with Ogolala within a week's drive, a town in which it took money to see properly, I thought it a burning shame to let this opportunity pass. When I awoke the next morning the camp was a stir, and my first look was in the direction of the harness-mayor, grazing peacefully on the picket rope where she had been tethered the night before. Breakfast was over. Our venerable visitor harnessed in his team, preparatory to starting. Stallings had made it a point to return to the herd for a parting word. Well, if you must go on ahead, said Joe to the old man, as the latter was ready to depart, remember that you can get action on your money if you still think that your bay-mayor can outrun the brown cow-horse which I pointed out to you yesterday. You needn't let your poverty interfere, for it will run to suit your purse, light or heavy. The herd will reach the river by the middle of the afternoon or a little later, and you be sure and stay overnight there, stay with us if you want to, and we'll make up little race for any sum you say, from marbles and chalk, to a hundred dollars. I may be as badly deceived in your mayors as I think you are in my horses, but if you're a Tennessean, here's your chance. But beyond giving stalling his word that he would see him again during the afternoon or evening, the old man would make no definite proposition and drove away. There was a difference of opinion amongst the outfit, some asserting that we would never see him again, while the larger portion of us were at least hopeful that we would. After our guest was well out of sight and before the wagon started, stallings corralled the remuda a second time, and taking out Flood's brown and officer's chestnut, tried the two horses for a short dash of about a hundred yards. The trial confirmed the general opinion of the outfit, for the brown outran the chestnut over four lengths, starting a half a neck in the rear. The general canvas of the outfit was taken, and to my surprise there was over three hundred dollars amongst us. I had over forty dollars, but I only promised to loan mine if it was needed, while priests refused flat-footed either to lend or bet his. I wanted to bet, and it would grieve me to the quick if there was any chance, and I didn't take it, but I was young then. Flood met us at noon about seven miles out from the Republican with the superintendent of a cattle company in Montana, and before we started the herd after dinner had sold our remuda, wagon, and mules for delivery at the nearest railroad point to the Blackfoot Agency sometime during September. This cattle company, so we afterwards learned from Flood, had headquarters at Helena, while the ranges were somewhere on the headwaters of the Missouri. But the sale of the horses seemed to us an insignificant matter compared with the race, which was on the tapas, and when stallings had made the ablest talk of his life for the loan of the brown, Flood asked a new owner, a Texan himself, if he had any objections. Certainly not, said he, let the boys have a little fun. I'm glad to know that the remuda has fast horses in it. Why didn't you tell me, Flood? I might have paid you extra if I had known I was buying race horses. Be sure and have the race come off this evening, for I want to see it. And he was not only good enough to give us consent, but added a word of advice. There's a deadfall down here on the river, said he, that robs a man going and coming. They've got booze to sell you that would make a pet rabbit fight a wolf. And if you can't stand the whiskey, why they have skin games running to fleece you as fast as you can get your money to the center? Be sure lads and let both their whiskey and their cards alone. While changing mounts after dinner, stallings called out the brown horse and tied him behind the wagon, while Flood and the horse-spire returned to the river in the conveyance, our foreman having left his horse at the ford. When we reached the Republican with the herd about two hours before sundown, and while we were crossing and watering, who should ride up on the Spanish mule but our Tennessee friend. If anything, he was a trifle more topative and boastful than before, which was easily accounted for as it was evident that he was drinking, and producing a large bottle which had a few drinks left in it insisted on everyone taking a drink with him. He said he was encamped half a mile down the river, and that he would race his mayor against our horses for fifty dollars, that if we were in earnest, and would go back with him and post our money at the tent, he would cover it. Then stallings, in turn, became crafty and diplomatic, and after asking a number of unimportant questions regarding conditions, returned to the joint with the old man, taking Fox quarter-night. To the rest of us it looked as though there was going to be no chance to bet a dollar even. But after the herd had been watered, and we had grazed out some distance from the river, the two worthys returned. They had posted their money, and all the conditions were agreed upon. The race was to take place at sundown over at the saloon and gambling joint. In reply to an earnest inquiry by Bob Blades, the outfit were informed that we might get some side bets with the gamblers. But the money already posted was theirs, win or lose. This selfishness was not looked upon very favorably, and some harsh comments were made. But stallings and quarter-night were immovable. We had an early supper, and pressing in McCann to assist the rebel in grazing the herd until our return, the cavalcade set out. Flood on the horse-spire with us. My bunky urged me to let him keep my money, but under the pretense of some of the outfit wanting to borrow it, I took it with me. The race was to be catch-weights, and as Rod Wheat was the lightest in our outfit, the riding fell to him. On the way over I worked Bull Durham out to one side, and after explaining the jacketing I had got from Priest, and the partial promise I had made not to bet gave him my forty dollars to wager for me if he got a chance. Bull and I were good friends, and on the understanding that it was to be a secret, I intimated that some of the velvet would line his purse. On reaching the tent, we found about half a dozen men loitering around, among them the old man, who promptly invited us all to have a drink with him. A number of us accepted, and took a chance against the vintage of this canvas road-house, though the warnings of the Montana horse-spire were fully justified by the quality of the goods dispensed. While taking the drink the old man was lamenting his poverty, which kept him from betting more money, and after we had gone outside the saloon-keeper came, and said to him in a burst of generous feeling, Old Sport you're a stranger to me, but I can see at a glance that you're a dead game man. Now if you need any more money just give me a bill of sale on your mayor and mule, and I'll advance you a hundred. Of course I know nothing about the merits of the two horses, but I notice your team has you drove up today, and if you can use any more money just ask for it. The old man jumped at the proposition, in delighted surprise. The two re-entered the tent, and after killing considerable time in writing out a bill of sale, the old gray-beard came out shaking a roll of bills at us. He was promptly accommodated. Bulldorm, making the first bet of fifty, and as I caught his eye I walked away shaking hands with myself over my crafty scheme. When the old man's money was all taken the hangers on of the place became enthusiastic over the betting, and took every bet while there was a dollar in sight amongst our crowd, the horse-buyer even making a wager. When we were out of money they offered the bet against our saddles, six-shooters, and watches. Flood warned us not to bet our saddles, but quarter-night installings had already wagered theirs, and were stripping them from their horses to turn them over to the saloon-keeper as stakeholder. I managed to get a ten-dollar bet on my six-shooter, though it was worth double the money, and a similar amount on my watch. When the betting ended every watch and six-shooter in the outfit was in the hands of the stakeholder, and had it not been for flood our saddles would have been in the same hands. It was to be a three-hundred-yard race, with an ask-and-answer start between the riders. Installings and the old man stepped off the course parallel with the river, and laid a rope on the ground to mark the start and the finish. The sun had already set and twilight was deepening when the old man signaled to his boy in the distance to bring up the mayor. Weak was slowly walking the brown horse over the course. When the boy came up cantering the mayor, blanketed with an old government blanket over the imaginary track also. These preliminaries thrilled us, like the tuning of a fiddle for a dance. Installings and the old homesteader went out to the starting point to give the riders the terms of the race, while the remainder of us congregated at the finish. It was getting dusk when the blankets was stripped from the mayor, and the riders began jockeying for a start. In that twilight stillness we could hear the question, are you ready? And the answer, no, as the two jockeys came up to the starting rope. But finally there was an affirmative answer, and the two horses were coming through like arrows in their flight. My heart stood still for the time being, and when the bay mayor crossed a rope at the outcome an easy winner I was speechless. Such a crest-falling-looking lot of men as we were would be hard to conceive. We had been beaten, and not only felt it, but looked it. Flood brought us to our senses by calling our attention to the approaching darkness, and setting off in a gallop toward the herd. The rest of us trailed along silently after him in threes and fours. After the herd had been bedded and we had gone into the wagon, my spirits were slightly lightened at the sight of the two arch-conspirators, stallings and quarter-night, meekly riding in bareback. I enjoyed the laughter of the rebel and the can at their plight, but when my monkey noticed my six-shooter missing, and I admit it having bedded, he turned the laugh on me. That's right, sonny said. And don't you take anybody's advice? You're young yet, but you'll learn. And when you learn it for yourself, you'll remember it that much better. That night when we were on guard together, I eased my conscience by making a clean breast of a whole affair to my monkey, which resulted in him loaning me ten dollars, with which to redeem my six-shooter in the morning. But the other boys, with the exception of officer, had no banker to call on as we had, and when quarter-night and stallings asked the foreman what they were to do for saddles, the latter suggested that one of them could use the cooks while the other could take it bareback or ride in the wagon. But the Montana man interceded in their behalf, and Flood finally gave in and advanced them enough to redeem their saddles. Our foreman had no great amount of money with him, but McCann and the horse spire came to the rescue for what they had, and the guns were redeemed, not that they were needed, but we would have been so lonesome without them. I had worn one so long I didn't trim well without it, but toppled forward and couldn't maintain my balance. But the most cruel exposure of the whole affair occurred when that straw, riding in ahead of us heard, overtook us one day, out from Ogolala. I met old Cezai Littlefield, said Nat, back at the Fort of the Republican, and he tells me that they won over five hundred dollars off this circle-dot outfit on a horse-race. He showed me a whole basketful of your watches. I used to meet old Cezai over on the Chisholm Trail, and he's a foxy old innocent. He told me that he put tar on his harness mare's back to see if you fellows had stolen the nag off the picket-rope at night, and when he found you had, he robbed you to a finish. He knew you fool Texans would bet your last dollar on such a cinch. That's one of his tricks. You see, the mare you tried wasn't the one you ran the race against. I've seen them both, and they look as much alike as two pint-bottles. My but you fellows are easy fish. And then Jim Flood laid down on the grass and laughed until tears came into his eyes, and we understood that there were tricks in other trades than ours. End of CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII. OF THE LOG OF A CALBOY. BY ANDY ADAMS. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O'GALALLA. From the head of stinking water to the south plat was a waterless stretch of forty miles. But by watering the herd about the middle of one four noon after grazing we could get water again the following evening. With the exception of the meeting with Nat Straw the drive was featureless. But the night that Nat stayed with us he regaled us with his experiences in which he was as lucky as ever. Where we had lost three days on the Canadian with bogged cattle he had crossed it within fifteen minutes after reaching it. His herd was sold before reaching Dodge so that he lost no time there. And on reaching Slaughter's bridge he was only two days behind our herd. His cattle were then in route for delivery on the crazy woman in Wyoming and as he put it any herd was liable to travel faster when it had a new owner. Flood had heard from our employer at Culbertson learning that he would not meet us at O'GALALLA as his last herd was due in Dodge about that time. My brother Bob's herd had crossed the Arkansas a week behind us and was then possibly a hundred and fifty miles in our rear. We all regret it not being able to see old man Don for he believed that nothing was too good for his men and we all remembered the good time he had shown us in Dodge. The smoke of passing trains hung for hours in signal clouds in our front during the afternoon of the second day's dry drive but we finally scaled the last divide and there below us in the valley of the south plat nestled O'GALALLA the Gomora of the cattle trail. From amongst its half-hundred buildings no church spire pointed upward but instead three-fourths of its business houses were dance halls, gambling houses and saloons. We all knew the town by reputation while the larger part of our outfit had been in it before. It was there that Joe Collins and his outfit rendezvoused when they robbed the Union Pacific train in October seventy-seven. Collins had driven a herd of cattle for his father and brother and after selling them in the black hills gambled away the proceeds. Some five or six of his outfit returned to O'GALALLA with him and being moneyless concluded to recoup their losses at the expense of the railway company. Going eighteen miles up the river to Big Springs seven of them robbed the express and passengers the former yielding sixty-thousand dollars in gold. The next morning they were in O'GALALLA paying debts and getting their horses shod. In Collins' outfit was Sam Bass and under his leadership until he met his death the following spring at the hands of Texas Rangers the course of the outfit southward was marked by a series of derian bank and train robberies. We reached the river late that evening and after watering grazed until dark and camped for the night. But it was not to be a night for rest and sleep for the lights were twinkling across the river in town and Cook horse wrangler and all with the exception of the first guard rode across the river after the herd had been bedded. Flood had quit us while we were watering the herd and gone in ahead to get a draft cashed for he was as moneyless as the rest of us. But his letter of credit was good anywhere on the trail where money was to be had and on reaching town he took us into a general outfitting store and paid us twenty-five dollars apiece. After warning us to be on hand at the wagon to stand our watches he left us and we scattered like lost sheep. Officer and I paid our loans to the rebel and the three of us wandered around for several hours in company with that straw. When we were in Dodge my Bunky had shown no inclination to gamble. But now he was the first one to suggest that we make up a cow and let him try his luck at Monty. Straw and officer were both willing and though in rags I willingly consented and contributed my five to the general fund. Every gambling house ran from two to three Monty layouts as it was a favorite game of cowmen especially when they were from the far southern country. Priests soon found a game to his liking and after watching his play through several bills officer and I left him with the understanding that he would start for camp promptly at midnight. There was much to be seen though it was a small place for the ends of the earth's iniquity had gathered in Ogallala. We wondered through the various gambling houses drinking moderately meeting an occasional acquaintance from Texas and in the course of our rounds landed in the do drop in dance hall. Here might be seen the frailty of women in every grade and condition. From girls and their teens launching out on a life of shame to the adventurous who had once had youth and beauty in her favor but was now discarded and ready for the final dose of opium and the corners verdict all were there in tinsel and paint practicing a careless exposure of their charms in a town which had no night the hours pass rapidly and before we were aware midnight was upon us returning to the gambling house where we had left priest we found him over a hundred dollars winner and calling his attention to the hour persuaded him to cash in and join us we felt positively rich as he counted out to each partner his share of the winnings straw was missing to receive his but we knew he could be found on the morrow and after a round of drinks we fought at the river as we rode along my bunk he said I'm superstitious and I can't help it but I felt for a day or so that I was in luck and I want you lands in with me if my warning was true I never was afraid to go into battle but once and just as we were ordered into action a shell killed my horse under me and I was left behind I've had lots of such warnings good and bad and I'm influenced by them if we get off tomorrow and I'm in the mood I'll go back there and make some Monte bank look sick we reached the wagon in good time to be called on our guard and after it was over secured a few hours sleep before the foreman aroused us in the morning with herds above and below us we would either have to graze contrary to our course or cross the river the South Platte was a wide sandy river with numerous channels and as easily crossed as an alkali flat of equal width so as far as water was concerned the sun was not an hour high when we crossed passing within 200 yards of the business section of the town which lay under a hill the valley on the north side of the river and beyond the railroad was not over a half mile wide and as we angled across it the town seemed as dead as those that slept in the graveyard on the first hill beside the trail finding good grass about a mile further on we threw the herd off the trail and leaving orders to graze until noon the foreman with the first and second guard returned to town it was only about 10 miles over to the north Platte where water was certain and in hope that we would be permitted to revisit the village during the afternoon we who were on guard through riders in the lead of the grazing cattle in order not to be too far away should permission be granted us that was a long morning for us of the third and fourth guards with nothing to do but let the cattle feed while easy money itched in our pockets behind us lay Ogallala and our craft did dearly love to break the monotony of our work by getting into town but by the middle of the four noon the wagon and saddle horses overtook us and ordering McCann into camp a scant mile in our lead we allowed the cattle to lie down they having grazed to contentment leaving two men on guard the remainder of us rode into the wagon and lightened with an hour's sleep in its shade the time which hung heavy on our hands we were aroused by a horse wrangler who had sighted a camelcade down to trail which from the color of their horses he knew to be our outfit returning as they came nearer and their numbers could be made out it was evident that our foreman was not with them and our hopes rose on coming up they informed us that we were to have a half holiday while they would take the herd over to the North River during the afternoon then emergency orders rang out to Honeyman and McCann and as soon as a change of mounts could be secured our dinners bolted and the herders relieved we were ready to go two of the six who returned had shed their rags and swaggered about in new cheap suits the rest although they had money simply had not had time to buy clothes in a place with so many attractions when the herders came in deft hands transferred their saddles to waiting mounts while they swallowed a hasty dinner and we set out for Ogallala happy as city urchins in an orchard we were less than five miles from the burg and struck a free gate in riding in where we found several hundred of our craft holding high jinx a number of herds had paid off their outfits and we're sending them home while from the herds for sale holding along the river every man not on day heard was paying his respects to the town we had not been there five minutes when a horse race was run through the main street net straw and gym flood acting as judges on the outcome the officers of Ogallala were a different crowd from what we had encountered at dodge and everything went the place suited us straw had entirely forgotten our cow of the night before and when the rebel handed him his share of the winnings he tucked it away in the watch pocket of his trousers without counting but he had arranged the fiddling match between a darky cook of one of the returning outfits and a local white man a mendicant of the place and invited us to be present straw knew the foreman of the outfit to which the darky belonged and the two had fixed it up to pit the two in a contest under the pretense that a large wager had been made on which was the better fiddler the contest was to take place at once in the corral of the lone star livery stable and promised to be humorous if nothing more so after the race was over the next number on the program was the fiddling match and we followed the crowd the rebel had given us the slip during the race though none of us cared as we knew he was hungering for a Monty game it was a motley crowd which had gathered in the corral and all seemed to know the farce to be enacted though the Texas outfit to which the darky belonged were flashing their money on their dusky cook as the best fiddler that ever crossed Red River with a cowherd oh I don't know that your man is such an old bull is all that said Matt straw I just got a hundred posted which says he can't even play a decent second to my man and if we can get a competent set of judges to decide the contest I'll wager a little more on the white against the black though I know your man is a cracker jack a canvas of the crowd was made for judges but as nearly everyone claimed to be interested in the result having made wagers or was incompetent to sit in judgment on a musical contest there was some little delay finally Joe Stalin's went to net straw and told him that I was a fiddler whereupon he instantly appointed me as judge and the other side selected a red-headed fellow belonging to one of Dillard fans herds between the two of us we selected has the third judge a bartender whom I had met the night before the conditions governing the contest were given us and two Chuck wagons were drawn up alongside each other in one of which were seated the contestants and in the other the judges the gravity of the crowd was only broken has some enthusiast cheered his favorite or defiantly offered to wager on the man of his choice numerous sham bets were being made when the red-headed judge arose and announced the conditions and urged the crowd to remain quiet that the contestants might have equal justice each fiddler selected his own piece the first number was a waltz on the conclusion of which partisanship ran high each faction cheering its favorite to the echo the second number was a jig and as the dark he drew his bow several times across the string tentatively his foreman who stood six inches taller than any man in a crowd of tall men tapped himself on the breasts with one finger and with the other pointed at his dusky champion saying keep your eye on me price we're going home together remember you black rascal you can make a mockingbird ashamed of itself if you try you know I've sworn by you through thick and thin now win this money pay no attention to anyone else keep your eye on me straw not to be outdone in encouragement cheered his man with promises of reward and his faction of supporters raised such a din that fans man arose and demand it quiet so the contest could proceed the boisterous the crowd was good-tempered and after the second number was disposed of the final test was announced which was to be in sacred music on this announcement the tall foreman waited through the crowd and drawn the darky to him whispered something in his ear and then fell back to his former position the dusky artist's countenance brightened and with a few preliminaries he struck into the Arkansas traveler throwing so many contortions in its execution that it seemed as if life and liberty depended on his exertions the usual applause greeted him on its conclusion when that straw climbed up on the wagon wheel and likewise whispered something to his champion the little old wheezing mendicant took his cue and cut into the irish washerwoman with a great flourish and in the refrain chanted an unintelligible gibberish like the yelping of a coyote which the audience so cheered that he repeated it several times the crowd now gathered round the wagon and clamored for the decision and after consulting amongst ourselves some little time and knowing that a neutral or indefinite verdict was desired we delegated the bartender to announce our conclusion taking off his hat he arose and after requesting quietness pretended to read our decision the gentleman he began your judges feel a delicacy in passing on the merits of such distinguished artists but in the first number the decision is unanimously in favor of the darky while the second is clearly in favor of the white contestant in regard to the last test your judges cannot reach any decision has the selections rendered failed to qualify under the head of but two shots rang out and rapid succession across the street and the crowd including the judges and fiddlers rushed away to witness the new excitement the shooting had occurred in a restaurant and quite a mob gathered around the door when the sheriff emerged from the building it's nothing said he just a couple of punchers who had been drinking little and were eating a snack and one of them asked for a second dish of prunes when the waiter got gay and told him that he couldn't have them that he was full of prunes now so the lad took a couple shots at him just to learn him to be more courteous to strangers there was no harm done as the puncher was too unsteady as the crowd dispersed from the restaurant i returned to the livery stable where straw and several of our outfit were explaining to the old mendicant that he had simply outplayed his opponent and it was too bad that they were not better posted in sacred music under straw's leadership a purse was being made up amongst them and the old man's eyes brightened as he received several crisp bills and a handful of silver straw was urging the old fiddler to post himself in regard to sacred music and he would get up another match for the next day when rod week came up and breathlessly informed officer and myself that the rebel wanted us over at the black elephant gambling hall as we turned to accompany him we eagerly inquired if there were any trouble we'd informed us there was not but that priest was playing in one of the biggest streaks of luck that ever happened why the old man is just wallowing in velvet said rod as we hurried along and the dealer has lowered the limit from a hundred to fifty for old paul is playing them as high as a cat's attack he isn't drinking a drop and is as cool as a cucumber i don't know what he wants with you fellows but he begged me to hunt you up and send you to him the black elephant was about a block from the livery and as we entered a large crowd of bystanders were watching the plane around one of the three monti games which were running elbowing our way through the crowd we reached my monkey whom officer slapped on the back and inquired what he wanted why i want you and quirk to bet a little money for me he replied my luck is with me today and when i try to crowd it this layout gets foxy and pinches the limit down the fifty here take this money and cover both those other games call out as they fall the layouts and i'll pick the card to bet the money on and better carelessly boys for she's velvet as he spoke he gave officer and myself each a handful of uncounted money and we proceeded to carry out his instructions i knew the game perfectly having spent several years earnings on my tuition and was past master in the technical spanish terms of the game while officer was equally informed john took the table to the right while i took the one on the left and waiting for a new deal called the cards as they fell i inquired the limit of the dealer and was politely informed that it was fifty today at first our director ordered a number of small bets made as though feeling his way for cards will turn but as he found that old luck was still with him he gradually increased them to the limit after the first few deals i caught on to his favorite cards which were the queen and seven and on these we bet the limit aces and a face against an ace were also favorite bets of the rebels but for smaller sums during the first hour of my playing to show the luck of the cards the queen won five consecutive times once against the favorite at the conclusion of a deal my judgment was to take up this bet but priest ordered otherwise for it was one of his principles never to doubt a card as long as it won for you the play had run along some time and as i was absorbed with watching someone behind me laid a friendly hand on my shoulder having every card in the layout covered with a bet at the time and supposing it to be some of our outfit i never looked around when there came a slap on my back which nearly loosened my teeth turning to see who was making so free with me when i was absorbed my eye fell upon my brother zack but i had not time even to shake hands with him for two cards one in succession and the dealer was paying me while the queen and seven were covered to the limit and were yet to be drawn for when the deal ended and while the dealer was shuffling i managed to get a few words with my brother and learned that he had come through with a herd belonging to one armed jim reed and that they were holding about ten miles up the river he had met flood who told him that i was in town but as he was working on first guard with the herd it was high time he was writing the dealer was waiting for me to cut the cards and stopping only to ring zack's hand in farewell i turned again to the monday layout officer was not so fortunate as i was partly by reason of delays the dealer in his game changing decks on almost every deal and under priest's orders we counted the cards with every change of the deck a gambler would rather burn money than lose to a citizen and every hoodoo which the superstition of the craft could invoke to turn the run of the cards was used to check us several hours passed and the lamps were lighted but we constantly added to the good to the discomforture of the owners of the games dealers changed but our vigilance never relaxed for a moment suddenly an altercation sprang up between officer and the dealer of his game the seven had proved the most lucky card the john which fact was explained to the dealer has to the player but the dealer by slipping one seven out of the pack after it had been counted which was possible in the hands of an adept in spite of all vigilance through the percentage against the favorite card and in favor of the bank officer had suspected something wrong for the seven had been looser during several deals when with a seven king layout two cards of each class yet in the pack the dealer drew down until there was less than a dozen cards left when the king came which lost the fifty dollar bet on the seven officer latest hand on the money and as was his privilege said to the dealer let me look over the remainder of those cards if there's two sevens in there you have one if there isn't don't offer to touch this bet but the gambler declined the request and officer repeated his demand laying a blue-barreled six shooter across the bet with a remark well if you expect the rake in this bet you have my terms evidently the demand would not have stood the test for the dealer bunched the deck amongst the past cards and officer quietly raked in the money when i want a skin game said john his ear rose i'll come back and see you you saw me take this money did you well if you've got anything to say now's your time to spit it out but his calling had made the gambler discreet and he deigned no reply to the length texan who chafing under the attempt to cheat and slowly returned a six shooter to its holster although holding my own in my game i was anxious to have it come to a close but neither of us cared to suggest it to the rebel it was his money but officer passed outside the house shortly afterwards and soon returned with jim flood and that strong as our foreman approached the table at which priest was playing he laid his hand on the rebel's shoulder and said come on paul we're all ready to go to camp where's quirk priest looked up in innocent amazement as though he had been awakened out of a deep sleep for in the absorption of the game he had taken no note of the passing hours and did not know that the lamps were burning my bunkie obeyed us promptly as though the orders had been given by don lovell in person and delight it with the turn of affairs i withdrew with him once in the street not straw threw an arm around the rebel's neck and said to him my dear sir the secret of successful gambling is the quit when you're a winner and before luck turns you may think this is a low down trick but we're your friends and when we heard that you were a big winner we were determined to get you out of there if we had the rope and drag you out how much are you winner before the question could be correctly answered we sat down on the sidewalk and the three of us disgorged our winnings so that flood and straw could count priest was the largest winner officer the smallest while i never will know the amount of mine as i had no idea what i started with but the teller's report showed over fourteen hundred dollars among the three of us my bunkie consented to allow flood to keep it for him and the latter attempted to hurrah us off the camp but john officer protested hold on a minute jim said officer wearing rags we need some clothes we've been in town long enough and we've got the price but it's been such a busy afternoon with us that we simply haven't had the time straw took our part and flood giving in we entered a general outfitting store from which we emerged within a quarter of an hour wearing cheap new suits the color of which we never knew until the next day then bidding straw a hardy farewell we rode for the north plat on which the herd would encamp as we scaled the bluffs we halted for our last glimpse of the lights of oglala and the rebel remarked boys i've traveled some in my life but that little hole back there could give natchez under the hill cards and spades and then outholder has a tough town end of chapter 17