 6 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 borrower stone had made their beds down some distance from the wagon, and the coyotes as they circled round the camp came near their beds, and in sniffing about awoke borrower stone. 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 campfire, 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 a certain portions of his letter, which was from his sister. Forrest's letter was from his 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. Borro Stone swagged around camp that evening in a new pair of boots, which had the lone stars set in filigree work in their red tops. At our last camp at the lakes, the Rebel and I, his partners, had been shamefully beaten in a game of seven-up by Bull Durham and John Officer, and we had demanded satisfaction in another trial around the fire that night. We borrowed McCann's lantern, and by the aid of it and the campfire 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, savvy 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 a tender passion, said Fox quarter-night to our horse wrangler, as he lighted his pipe with the brand from the fire. Now I have. That's the reason why I sympathize with these old bows 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 venerating 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 potluck with no telling which way the cat will hop. You can't play any system, and Merrick 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 quarter-night meditatively, and the scars have all healed, so I don't mind telling. I was born and raised on the border of the bluegrass 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. The 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 him 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 seventh heaven of delight and had me answered at once, except 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, spoiled 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. Quarter-Night inquired a very affable lady who received me? I knew I was one of Old Man Quarter-Night's seven boys, and admit it that that was my name, though it was the first time anyone had ever called me Mr. 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 with 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 I ever went against. Carpet that made you think you were going to bog down every step, springy like marshland. 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 beside me on one of these horse hair sofas. That album had a clasp on it, a buckle of pure silver, same as these $18 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, won 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 mama. There had been a quilting in the neighborhood on Saturday, and at this meet of the local gossips somewhat adhempted that there was liable to be a wedding as soon as school was out. Mama 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 at 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 the thirty years. Our teacher is one of old John Fox's boys, the Irish quarter-night, who lived up near the Salt Lick 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 felt like a bombshell on mama. She started a private investigation of her own. And her verdict was in that letter. It was a center 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 enough money to get the taxes 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'd been listening while playing cards. Didn't you ever see that 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 foxes remarked, honeyman, after a short silence, is almost similar to one I had. Before Loveland Flood adopted me, I worked for a horseman down on the Neuaces. 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 or 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 pretty strong, however, the 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 40 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 20 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 ready to go home, there was a Kaliman'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. The 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 swayed 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 at his duty, as his sister's protector, to hunt me up and inform me that if I ever spoke to a 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 or 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 reckoned 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 laud 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 brothers 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 irreverently, 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 Glenn, 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 the wind or weather, this was an ideal night, and we were laggard and seeking our blankets. Yarn followed yarn, for nearly every one of us, either from observation or from practical experience, had a slight acquaintance with a 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 and passing the fire, called out sociably. That mulely steer, the white four-year-old, didn't like the 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 tonight, 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, partner. I'll be back as soon as I pick at my horse. CHAPTER VII OF THE LOG OF A CALBOY BY ANDY ADAMS This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 travelling over that immense table-land 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-bran 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 priests 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 priests and I were on the point of returning to the herd, we almost overrode a bunch of 80 odd heads lying down in some broken country. They were gaunt and tired, and the rebellet once pronounced their stiffened movements the result of a stampede. We were drifting them back towards the trail when Nate 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 Hanson, 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 pealers and I are riding circle dot horses, as well as reaching the wagon in time for breakfast and lining our flues with levels of good chuck. It's too good luck to last, I'm afraid. I'm not hankering for the dramatic 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 doggies had van boost the ranch, and we're 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 20 miles to catch any drift one 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 someone didn't steal me when I was little. I can't help it. But someday I'll marry a banker's daughter, or fall air to a ranch as big as old McCullough 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 though 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 he 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 a half a dozen of us turned and lent a hand in counting Straw's herd, which proved to be over a hundred heads short, and nearly half his outfit was still out hunting cattle. Acting on Straw's advice, we camped that night five or six miles back from the river on the last divide. From the time the second guard went out 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 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 manners in general, as well as the stage of the water in the river ahead. The spokesmen 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 had 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 has 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 to 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 swingmen 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 her 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 the horses for the afternoon and were ready to mount, Flood asked our guests for their credentials as duly authorized trail-cutters. They replied they had none, but offered an explanation in 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 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 opt 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 brands at Flood, all you have to do is 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 of it, 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 the brand among Ellison's cattle, which had stampeded it 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 had been called on to name it, I'd have 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'd claim my own, if there are 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 Quarterknight refused to cut the animal. When that pair rode out the stranger accosted Flood, I noticed a cow of mine in there, said he, not in your road-brand, which I claim. Your man here refused 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. I'll throw her for you, coolly replied Fox, and bet you my saddle and six shooters on the side, that it isn't an O, and even if it was, you and all the thieves on the concho can't take her. I know a few of the simple principles of rustling myself. Do you want her thrown? That's what I asked for. Throw her then, said Flood, and don't let's parley. Fox rode back into the herd, and after some little delay, located the cow, and worked her out to the edge of the cattle. Dropping his rope, he cut her out clear of the herd, and as she circled around in an endeavor to re-enter, he rode close and made an easy cast of the rope about her horns. As he threw his horse back to check the cow, I rode to his assistance, my rope in hand, and as the cow turned ends, I healed her. A number of the outfit rode up and dismounted, and one of the boys, taken her by the tail, we threw the animal as humanely as possible. In order to get at the brand, which was on the side, we turned the cow over. When Flood took out his knife and cut the hair away, leaving the brand easily traceable. What has she, Jim, inquired Fox, as he sat his horse, holding the rope taunt? I'll let this man who claims her answer that question, replied Flood, as her claimant critically examined the brand to a satisfaction. I claim her as an O-Cow, said the stranger, facing Flood. Well, you claim more than you'll ever get, replied our foreman. Turn her loose, boys. The cow was free and turned back into the herd, but the claimant tried to argue the matter with Flood, claiming the branding iron had simply slipped, giving the appearance of a Q instead of an O, as it was intended to be. Our foreman paid little attention to the stranger, but when his persistence became annoying, checked his argument by saying, My Christian friend, there's no use arguing this matter. You asked to have the cow thrown, and we threw her. You might as well try to tell me that the cow is white as to claim her in any other brand than a Q. You may read brands as well as I do, but you're wasting your time arguing against the facts. You'd better take your window sash cattle and ride on. For you've cut all you're going to cut here today. But before you go, for fear I may never see you again, I'll take this occasion to say that I think you're common cow thieves. By this straight talk, our foreman stood several inches higher in our estimation as we sat our horses, grinning at the discomforture of the trail-cutters, while a dozen sick-shooters slouched languidly at our hips to give emphasis to his words. Before going, I'll take this occasion to say to you that you will see me again, replied the leader, riding up and confronting Flood. You haven't got near enough men to bluff me. As to calling me a cow thief, that's altogether too common a name to offend anyone. And from what I can gather, the name wouldn't miss you or your outfit over a thousand miles. Now, in taking my leave, I want to tell you that you'll see me before another day passes. And what's more, I'll bring an outfit with me and we'll cut your herd clean to your road-brand, if for no better reason, just to learn you not to be so insolent. After hanging up a threat, Flood said to him as he turned the ride away. Well, now, my young friend, you're bargaining for a whole lot of fun. I notice you carry a gun and quite naturally suppose you shoot a little, as occasion requires. Suppose when you and your outfit come back, you come a-shootin', so we'll know who you are. For I promise you, there's liable to be some powder burned when you cut this herd. Amid jeers of derision from our outfit, the trail-cutters drove off their three lonely, window-sash cattle. We had gained the point we wanted, and now, in case of any trouble, during inspection or at night, we had the river behind us to catch our herd. We paid little attention to the threat of our disappointed callers. But several times straw's remarks has to the character of the residents of those hills to the westward reoccurred to my mind. I was young but knew enough instead of asking foolish questions to keep mum, though my eyes and ears drank in everything. Before we had been on the trail over an hour, we met two men riding down the trail towards the river, meeting us they turned and rode along with our foreman. Some distance apart from the herd, for nearly an hour, and curiosity ran freely among us boys around the herd as to who they might be. Finally, Flood rode forward to the pointmen and gave the order to throw off the trail and make a short drive that afternoon. Then, in company with the two strangers, he rode forward to overtake our wagon, and we saw nothing more of him until we reached camp that evening. This much, however, our pointmen was able to gather from our foreman. That the two men were members of a detachment of rangers who had been sent as a result of information given by the first herd over the trail that year. This herd, which had passed some twenty days ahead of us, had met with a stampede below the river, and on reaching Abilene, had reported the presence of rustlers praying on through herds at the crossing of the Colorado. On reaching the camp that evening with a herd, we found ten of the rangers as our guests for the night. The detachment was under a corporal named Joe Haymes, who had detailed two of the men we had met during the afternoon to scout this crossing. Upon the information afforded by our foreman about the would-be trail-cutters, these scouts, accompanied by Flood, had turned back to advise the ranger squad, encamped in a secluded spot about ten miles northeast of the Colorado crossing. They had only arrived late the day before, and this was their first meeting with any trail herd to secure any definite information. Haymes at once assumed charge of the herd. Flood gladly rendering every assistance possible. We night heard it as usual, but during the two middle guards, Haymes sent out four of his rangers to scout the immediate outlying country, though as we expected they met with no adventure. At daybreak the rangers threw their packs into our wagon, and their loose stalk into our remuda, and riding up the trail a mile or more left us, keeping well out of sight. We were all hopeful now that the trail-cutters of the day before would make good their word and return. In this hope we killed time for several hours that morning grazing the cattle and holding the wagon in the rear. Sending the wagon ahead of the herd had been agreed on as the signal between our foreman and the Ranger Corporal at first sight of any posse behind us. We were beginning to despair of their coming when a dust cloud appeared several miles back down the trail. We at once hurried the wagon and remuda ahead to warn the rangers and allowed the cattle to string out nearly a mile in length. A fortunate rise in the trail gave us a glimpse of the cavalcade in our rear, which was entirely too large to be any portion of straw's outfit. And shortly we were overtaken by our trail-cutters of the day before, now increased to twenty-two mounted men. Flood was intentionally in the lead of the herd, and the entire outfit galloped forward to stop the cattle. When they had nearly reached the lead, Flood turned back and met the rustlers. Well, I'm as good as my word, said the leader, and I'm here to trim your herd, as I promised I would. Throw off and hold up your cattle, or I'll do it for you. Several of our outfit rode up at this juncture in time to hear Flood replying. If you think you're equal to the occasion, hold them up yourselves. If I had, as big an outfit as you have, I wouldn't ask any man to help me. I want to watch a Colorado River outfit work a herd. I might learn something. My outfit will take a rest, or perhaps hold the cut or otherwise clerk for you. Be careful and don't claim anything that you are not certain is your own, for I reserve the right to look over your cut before you drive it away. The rustlers rode in a body to the lead, and when they had thrown the herd off the trail, about half of them rode back and drifted forward the rear cattle. Flood called our outfit to one side and gave us our instructions. The herd being entirely turned over to the rustlers. After they began cutting, we rode around and pretended to assist in holding the cut as the strays in our herd were being cut out. When the red cue-cow came out, Fox cut her back, which nearly precipitated a row, for she was promptly recut to the strays by the man who claimed her the day before. Not a man of us ever cast a glance up the trail or in the direction of the rangers. But when the work was over, Flood protested with the leader of the rustlers over some five or six head of dim branded cattle which actually belonged to our herd. But he was exultant and would listen to no protest, and attempted to drive away the cut, now numbering nearly fifty head. Then we rode across their front and stopped them. In this parley which ensued harsh words were passing, when one of our outfit blurted out in well-fane surprise, hello, who's that coming over there? A squad of men were riding leisurely through our abandoned herd, coming over to where the two outfits were disputing. What's the trouble here, gents? inquired Hames as he rode up. Who are you? And what might be your business, may I ask? inquired the leader of the rustlers. Personally, I'm nobody. But officially, I'm Corporal and Company B, Texas Rangers. Well, if there isn't Smiling Edwinters, the biggest cattle thief ever born in Medina County. Why, I've got papers for you for altering the brands of over fifty head of sea cattle into a G brand. Come here, dear, and give me that gun of yours. Come on, and no false moves or funny work, or I'll shoot the white out of your eye. Surround this layout, lads, and let's examine them more closely. At this command every man in our outfit whipped out a six-shooter, the Rangers leveling their carbenes on the rustlers, and in less than a minute's time they were disarmed, and as crestfallen a group of men as ever walked into a trap of their own setting. Hames got out a black book, and after looking the crowd over concluded to hold the entire cubby, as the description of the wanted seemed to include most of them. Some of the rustlers attempted to explain their presence, but Hames decided to hold the entire party. Just to learn them to be more careful of their company the next time, as he put it. The cut had drifted away into the herd again during the arrest, and about half our outfit took the cattle on to where the wagon camped for noon. McCann had anticipated an extra crowd for dinner, and was prepared for the emergency. When dinner was over and the Rangers had packed and were ready to leave, Hames said to Flood, Well, Flood, I'm powerful glad I met you and your outfit. This has been one of the biggest roundups for me in a long time. You don't know how proud I am over this bunch of beauties. Why, there's liable to be enough rewards out for this crowd to buy my girl a new pair of shoes. And say, when your wagon comes into Abilene, if I ain't there, just drive around to the Sheriff's office and leave those captured guns. I'm sorry to load your wagon down that way, but I'm short of pack mules, and it would be a great favor to me. Besides, these fellows are not liable to need any guns for some little time. I like your company and your Chuck, Flood, but you see how it is. The best of friends must part. And then I have an invitation to take dinner in Abilene by tomorrow noon. So I must be a-riding. Adios, everybody. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. On the Brazos and Wichitaal. As we neared Buffalo Gap a few days later, the deputy sheriff of Taylor County, who resided at the Gap, rode out and met us. He brought an urgent request from Hames to Flood to appear as a witness against the wrestlers, who were to be given a preliminary trial at Abilene the following day. Much as he regretted to leave the herd for even a single night, our foreman finally consented to go. To further his convenience we made a long evening drive, camping for the night well above Buffalo Gap, which at that time was little more than a landmark on the trail. The next day we made an easy drive and passed Abilene early in the afternoon, where Flood rejoined us, but refused any one permission to go into town, with the exception of McCann with the wagon, which was a matter of necessity. It was probably for the best, for this cow town had the reputation of setting a pace that left the Wayfarer purseless and breathless to say nothing about headaches. Though our foreman had not reached those mature years in life when the pleasures and frivolities of dissipation no longer allure, yet it was but natural that he should wish to keep his men from the temptation of the cup that cheers and the wiles of the Cyrene. But when the wagon returned that evening, it was evident that our foreman was human, for with a box of cigars which were promised us were several bottles of old crow. After crossing the clear fork of the Brassos a few days later we entered a well-watered, open country, through which the herd made splendid progress. At Abilene we were surprised to learn that our herd was the twentieth that had passed that point. The weather so far on our trip had been exceptionally good. Only a few showers had fallen and those during the daytime. But we were now nearing a country in which rain was more frequent, and the swollen condition of several small streams which had their headwaters in the staked plains was an intimation to us of recent rains to the westward of our route. Before reaching the main Brassos we passed two other herds of yearling cattle and were warned of the impassable condition of that river for the past week. Nothing daunted, we made our usual drive, and when the herd camped at that night, flood after scouting ahead to the river, returned with the word that the Brassos had been unfortable for over a week. Five herds being water bound. As we were then nearly twenty miles south of the river, the next morning we threw off the trail and turned the herd to the northeast, hoping to strike the Brassos a few miles above round timber ferry. Once the herd was started and their course for the day outlined to our appointment by definite landmarks, flood and quince forest set out to locate the ferry and look up a crossing. Had it not been for our wagon, we would have kept the trail, but as there was no ferry on the Brassos at the crossing of the western trail, it was a question either of waiting or making this detour. Then all the grazing for several miles about the crossing was already taken by the water bound herds, and to crowd up and trespass on range already occupied would have been a violation of an unwritten law. Again, no herd took kindly to another attempting to pass them when in traveling condition. The herds were on inequality. Our foreman had conceived the scheme of getting past these water bound herds if possible, which would give us a clear field until the next large water course was reached. Flood and forest returned during the noon hour, the former having found, by swimming a passable ford near the mouth of Monday Creek, while the latter reported the ferry in apple pie order. No sooner than was dinner over, than the wagon set out for the ferry under forest has pilot, though we were to return to the herd once the ferry was sighted. The mouth of Monday Creek was not over ten miles below the regular trail crossing on the Brassos, and much nearer our noon camp than the regular one. But the wagon was compelled to make a direct elbow, first turning to the eastward, then doubling back after the river was crossed. We held the cattle off water during the day, so as to have them thirsty when they reached the river. Flood had swum it during the morning, and warned us to be prepared for fifty or sixty yards of swimming water in crossing. When within a mile, we held up the herd and changed horses, every man picking out one with a test at ability to swim. Those of us who were expected to take the water as the herd entered the river divested ourselves of boots and clothing, which we entrusted to riders in the rear. The approach to the crossing was gradual, but the opposite bank was abrupt, with only a narrow passage weight leading out from the channel. As the current was certain to carry the swimming cattle downstream, we must, to make due allowance, take the water nearly a hundred yards above the outlet on the other shore. All this was planned out in advance by our foreman, who now took the position of Point Man on the right hand or down the riverside, and with our saddle horses in the immediate lead, we breasted the angry brassos. The water was shallow as we entered, and we reached nearly the middle of the river before the loose saddle horses struck swimming water. Honeyman was on their lee, and with cattle crowding in the rear, there was no alternative but to swim. A loose horse swims easily, however, and our remuda readily faced the current, though it was swift enough to carry them below the passageway on the opposite side. By this time the lead cattle were adrift, and a half a dozen of us were on their lower side, for the footing under the cut bank was narrow, and should the cattle become congested on landing, some were likely to drown. For a quarter of an hour it required cool heads to keep the trail of cattle moving into the water, and the passageway clear on the opposite landing. While they were crossing, the herd represented a large letter U, caused by the force of the current drifting the cattle downstream, or until a foothold was secured on the farther side. Those of us fortunate enough to have good swimming horses swam the river a dozen times, and then after the herd was safely over, swam back to get our clothing. It was a thrilling experience to us younger lads of the outfit, and rather attractive, but the elder and more experienced men always dread it swimming rivers. Their reasons were made clear enough when a fortnight later we crossed Red River where a newly made grave was pointed out to us, amongst the others of men who had lost their lives while swimming cattle. Once the bulk of the cattle were safely over, with no danger of congestion on the farther bank, they were allowed to loiter along under the cut bank and drink to their heart's content. Quite a number strayed above the passageway, and in order to route them out, Bob Blades, Moss Strayhorn and I rode out through the outlet and up the river, where we found some of them in a passageway down a dry arroyo. The steers had found a soft, damp place in the bank, and were so busy horning the waxy red mud that they hardly noticed our approach until we were within a rod of them. We halted our horses and watched their antics. The kneeling cattle were cutting the bank viciously with their horns and matting their heads with a red mud, but on discovering our presence they curved their tails and stampeded out as playfully as young lambs on a hillside. Can you sabby where the fun comes into a steer to get down on his knees in the mud and dirt and horn the bank and muss up his curls and enjoy it like that? Inquired Strayhorn of Blades and me? Because it's healthy and funny besides, replied Bob, giving me a cautious wink. Did you never hear of people taking mud baths? You've seen dogs eat grass, haven't you? Well, it's something on the same order. Now, if I was a student of the nature of animals like you are, I'd get off my horse and imagine I had horns and scar and otherwise mangle that mud bank shamefully. I'll hold your horse if you want to try it. Some of the secrets of the humor of cattle might be revealed to you. The banter, though given in jest, was too much for this member of a craft that can always be depended on to do foolish things, and when we rejoined the outfit, Strayhorn presented a sight no sane man save a member of our tribe ever would have conceived of. The herd had scattered over several thousand acres after leaving the river, grazing freely, and so remained during the rest of the evening. Forest changed horses and set out down the river to find the wagon and pilot it in. For, with the long distance that McCann had to cover, it was a question if he would reach us before dark. Flood selected a bedground and camp about a mile out from the river, and those of the outfit not on herd dragged up an abundance of wood for the night, and built a roaring fire as a beacon to our absent commissary. Darkness soon settled over camp, and the prospect of a supperless night was confronting us. The first guard had taken the herd, and yet there was no sign of the wagon. Several of us youngsters then mounted our night horses and rode down the river a mile or over in hope of meeting McCann. We came to a steep bank caused by the shifting of the first bottom of the river across to the North Bank. Road up this bluff some little distance, dismounted, and fired several shots. Then, with our ears to the earth patiently, awaited a response. It did not come, and we rode back again. Hell's fire and little fishes, said Joe Stallings, as we clambered into our saddles to return. It's not supper or breakfast that's troubling me, but will we get any dinner tomorrow? That's a more pregnant question. It must have been after midnight, when I was awakened by the brain of mules and the rattle of the wagon. To hear the voices of Forrest and McCann mingled with a rattle of chains as they unharnessed, condemning to internal perdition the broken country on the north side of the Brazos, between Round Timber Ferry and the mouth of Monday Creek. I think that when the Almighty made this country on the north side of the Brazos, said McCann the next morning at breakfast, the Creator must have grown careless, or else made it out of odds and ends. There's just a hundred and one of those dry arroyos that you can't see until you are right on to them. They wouldn't bother a man on horseback, but with a loaded wagon it's different. And I'll promise you all right now, that if Forrest hadn't come out and piloted me in, you might have tightened up your belts for breakfast, and drank out of cow tracks, and smoked cigarettes for nourishment. Well, it'll do you good. This high livin was liable to spoil some of you, but I noticed that you were all on your feed this morning. The blackstrap? Honeyman, get that molasses jug out of the wagon. It sits right in front of the chuck box. It does me good to see this outfit's taste once more going back to the good old staples of life. We made our usual early start, keeping well out from the river on a course almost due northward. The next river on our way was the Wichita, still several days drive from the mouth of Monday Creek. Flood's intention was to parallel the old trail until near the river, when, if its stage of water was not affordable, we would again seek a lower crossing in the hope of avoiding any waterbound herds on that watercourse. The second day out from the process it rained heavily during the day, and drizzled during the entire night. Not a hoof would bed down, requiring the guards to be doubled into two watches for the night. The next morning, as was usual, went off the trail. Flood scouted in advance, and near the middle of the afternoon's drive we came into the old trail. The weather in the meantime had fared off, which revived life and spirit in the outfit. For in trail work there is nothing that depresses the spirits of men, like falling weather. On coming into the trail we noticed that no herds had passed since the rain began. Shortly afterward our rear guard was overtaken by a horseman who belonged to a mixed herd, which was encamped some four or five miles below the point where we came into the old trail. He reported the Wichita has having been unfortable for the past week. But at that time falling, and said that if the rain of the past few days had not extended as far west as the staked plains, the river would be affordable in a day or two. Before the stranger left us, Flood returned and confirmed this information, and reported further that there were two herds lying over at the Wichita Ford, expecting to cross the following day. With this outlook we grazed our herd up to within five miles of the river and camped for the night, and our visitor returned to his outfit with Flood's report of our expectation of crossing on the morrow. But with a fair weather and the prospects of an easy night, we encamped entirely too close to the trail, as we experienced to our sorrow. The grazing was good everywhere, the recent rains having washed away the dust, and we should have camped farther away. We were all sleepy that night, and no sooner was supper over than every mother's son of us was in his blankets. We slept so soundly that the guards were compelled to dismount when calling the relief, and shake the next guards on duty out of their slumber and see that they got up, for men would unconsciously answer in their sleep. The cattle were likewise tired, and slept as willingly as the men. About midnight, however, Fox Quarter-Night dashed in the camp firing his six-shooter and yelling like a demon. We tumbled out of our blankets in a dazed condition to hear that one of the herds camped near the river had stampeded. The heavy rumbling of the running herd and the shooting of their outfit now being distinctly audible. We lost no time in getting our horses, and in less than a minute were riding for our cattle, which had already got up, and were timidly listening to the approaching noise. Although we were a good quarter-mile from the trail, before we could drift our herd to the point of safety, the stampeding cattle swept down the trail like a cyclone, and our herd was absorbed into the maelstrom of the onrush, like leaves in whirlwind. It was then that our long-legged Mexican steers set us a pace that required a good horse to equal it, for they easily took the lead, the other herd having run between three and four miles before striking us, and being already well-winded. The other herd were Central Texas cattle, and numbered over 3500, but in running capacity were never any match for ours. Before they had run a mile past our camp, our outfit bunched well together on the left point, made the first effort to throw them out and off the trail, and try to turn them. But the waves of an angry ocean could as easily have been brought under subjection, as our terrorized herd during this first mad dash. Once we turned a few hundred of the leaders, and about the time we thought success was in our reach, another contingent of double the number had taken the lead. Then we had to abandon what few we had and again ride to the front. When we reached the lead there, within a half a mile ahead, burned the campfire of the herd of mixed cattle, which had moved up the trail that evening. They had had ample warning of impending trouble, just as we had, and before the running cattle reached them, about a half a dozen of their outfit rode to our assistance, when we made another effort to turn or hold the herds from mixing. None of the outfit of the first herd had kept in the lead with us, their horses fagging, and when the foreman of this mixed herd met us, not knowing that we were as innocent of the trouble as himself, he made some slighting remarks about our outfit and cattle. But it was no time to be sensitive, and with his outfit to help us, we threw our whole weight against the left point a second time, but only turned a few hundred, and before we could get into the lead again, their campfire had been passed, and their herd of over three thousand cattle more were in the run. As cows and calves predominated in this mixed herd, our own southerners were still leaders in the stampede. It is questionable if we would have turned the stampede before daybreak, had not the nature of the country come to our assistance. Something over two miles below the camp of the last herd was a deep creek, the banks of which were steep, and the passages few and narrow. Here we succeeded in turning the leaders, and about half the outfit of the mixed herd remained, guarding the crossing, and turning the lagging cattle in the run as they came up. With the leaders once turned, and no chance for the others to take a new lead, we had the entire run of cattle turned back within an hour and safely under control. The first outfit joined us during the interim, and when day broke, we had over forty men drifting about ten thousand cattle back up the trail. The different outfits were unfortunately at loggerheads, no one being willing to assume any blame. Flood hunted up the foreman of the mixed herd, and demanded an apology for his remarks on our abrupt meeting with him the night before. While it was granted it was plain that it was begrudged. The first herd disclaimed all responsibility, holding that the stampede was due to an unavoidable accident. Their cattle having grown restless during their enforced layover. The indifferent attitude of their foreman, whose name was Wilson, won the friendly regard of our outfit, and before the wagon of the mixed cattle was reached there was a compact, at least tacit, between their outfit and ours. Our foreman was not blameless, for had we taken the usual precaution and camped at least a mile off the trail, which was our custom when in close proximity to other herds, we might and probably would have missed this mix-up. For our herd was inclined to be very tractable. Flood, with all his experience, well knew that if stampeded cattle ever got into a known trail, there was certain to turn backwards over their course, and we were now paying the fiddler for the lack of proper precaution. Within an hour after day break, and before the cattle had reached the camp of the mixed herd, our saddle-horses were sighted coming over a slight divide about two miles up the trail, and a minute later, McCann's mules hove in sight, bringing up the rear. They had made a start with the first dawn, rightly reasoning, as there was no time to leave orders on our departure, that it was advisable for a Muhammad to go to the mountain. Flood complimented our cook and horse wrangler on their foresight, for the wagon was our base of subsidence, and there was little loss of time before Barney McCann was calling us to a hastily prepared breakfast. Flood asked Wilson to bring his outfit to our wagon for breakfast, and as fast as they were relieved from the herd, they also did ample justice to McCann's cooking. During breakfast I remember Wilson explaining to Flood what he believed was the cause of the stampede. It seems that there were a few remaining buffalo ranging north of the Wichita, and at night when they came into the river to drink, they had scented the cattle on the south side. The bellowing of buffalo bulls had been distinctly heard by his men on night heard for several nights past. The foreman stated it, as his belief, that a number of bulls had swum the river and had by stealth approached near the sleeping cattle, then on discovering the presence of the herders had themselves stampeded, throwing his herd into a panic. We had got a change of mounts during the breakfast hour, and when all was ready, Flood and Wilson rode over to the wagon of the mixed herd, the two outfits following, when Flood inquired of their foreman. Have you any suggestions to make in the cutting of these herds? No suggestions was the reply, but I intend to cut mine first and cut them northward on the trail. You intend to cut them northward, you mean? Provide it, there are no objections, which I'm positive there will be, said Flood. It takes me some little time to size up a man, and the more I see of you during our brief acquaintance, the more I think there's two or three things that you might learn to your advantage. I'll not enumerate them now, but when these herds are separated, if you insist, it will cost you nothing but the asking of my opinion of you. This much you can depend on. When the cutting's over, you'll occupy the same position on the trail that you did before this accident happened. Wilson here has nothing but jaded horses, and his outfit will hold the herd while yours and mine cut their cattle. And instead of you cutting north, you can either cut south where you belong on the trail, or sulk in your camp, your own will and pleasure to govern. But if you are a cowman and willing to do your part, you'll have your outfit ready to work by the time we throw the cattle together. Not waiting for any reply, Flood turned away, and the double outfit circled around the grazing herd, and began throwing the Sea of Cattle into a compact body, ready to work. Rod Wheat and Ash Barrelstone were detailed to hold our cut, and the remainder of us, including Honeyman, entered the herd and began cutting. Shortly after we had commenced the work, the mixed outfit, finding themselves in a lonesome minority, joined us and began cutting out their cattle to the westward. When we had worked about a half an hour, Flood called us out, and with the larger portion of Wilson's men, we rode over and drifted the mixed cut around to the southward where they belonged. The mixed outfit pretending they meant no harm, and were politely informed that if they were sincere, they could show it more plainly. For nearly three hours we sent a steady stream of cattle out of the main herd into our cut, while our horses dripped with sweat. With our advantage in the start, as well as that of having the smallest herd, we finished our work first. While the mixed outfit were finishing their cutting, we changed mounts, and then were ready to work the separated herds. Wilson took about half his outfit, and after giving our herd a trimming, during which he recut about 20, the mixed outfit were given a similar chance, and found about half a dozen of their brand. These cattle of Wilson's and the other herd amongst ours were not to be wondered at, for we cut by a liberal rule. Often we would find a number of ours on the outside of the main herd, when two men would cut the squad in a bunch. And if there were a wrong brand amongst them, it was no matter. We knew our herd would have to be re-trimmed anyhow. And the other outfits might be disappointed if they found none of their cattle amongst ours. The mixed outfit were yet working our herd, when Wilson's wagon and saddle horses arrived. And while they were changing mounts, we cut the mixed herd of our brand, and picked up a number of strays which we had been nursing along. Though, when we first entered the main herd, strays had received our attention, being well known to us by ranch brands as well as flesh-marks. In gathering up this very natural floast of the trail, we cut nothing but what our herd had absorbed in its travels, showing due regard to a similar right of the other herds. Our work was finished first, and after Wilson had recut the mixed herd, we gave his herd one more looking over, in a farewell parting. Flood asked him if he wanted to lead. But Wilson waved his right, in his open, frank manner, saying, If I add as long-legged cattle as you have, I wouldn't ask no man for the privilege of passing. Why, you ought to out-travel horses. I'm glad to have met you and your outfit, personally, but regret the incident which has given you so much trouble. As I don't expect to go further than Dodge or Ogallala, at the most, you are more than welcome to the lead. And if you, or any of these rascals in your outfit, are ever in Coriel County, hunt up Frank Wilson of the Block Bar Ranch, and I'll promise you a drink of milk, or something stronger, if possible. We crossed the Wichita late that afternoon. There not being over fifty feet of swimming water for the cattle, our wagon gave us the only trouble, for the load could not well be lightened, and it was an imperative necessity to cross it the same day. Once the cattle were safely over, and a few men left the graze them forward, the remainder of the outfit collected all the ropes, and went back after the wagon. As mules are always unreliable in the water, flood concluded to swim them loose. We lashed the wagon box securely to the gearing, with ropes, arranged our bedding in the wagon, where it would be on top, and ran the wagon by hand into the water, as far as we dared, without flooding the wagon box. Two men, with guy ropes, fore and aft, were then left to swim with the wagon in order to keep it from toppling over, while the remainder of us recrossed to the farther side of the swimming-channel, and fastened our lariots to two long ropes from the end of the tongue. We took a wrap on the pommels of our saddles, with the loose ends, and when the word was given, our eight horses furnished abundant mode of power, and the wagon floated across, landing high and dry, amid the shouting of the outfit. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Dones Crossing It was a nice open country between the Wichita and Pease Rivers. On reaching the latter, we found an easy stage of water for crossing, though there was every evidence that the river had been on a recent rise. The debris of a late, freshet littering the cut-bank, while high watermark, could be easily noticed on the trees along the river-bottom. Summer had advanced until the June freshets were to be expected, and for the next month we should be fortunate if our advance was not checked by floods and falling weather. The fortunate stage of the Pease encouraged us, however, to hope that possibly Red River, two days' drive ahead, would be affordable. The day on which we expected to reach it, floods set out early to look up the Ford, which had then been in use but a few years, and which in later days was known as Dones Crossing on Red River. Our foreman returned before noon and reported a favorable stage of water for the herd, and a new ferry that had been established for wagons. With this good news we were determined to put that river behind us in as few hours as possible. For it was a common occurrence that a river which was fortable at night was the reverse by daybreak. McCann was sent ahead with a wagon, but we held the saddle-horses with us to serve as leaders in taking the water at the Ford. The cattle were strung out in trailing manner nearly a mile, and on reaching the river near the middle of the afternoon, we took the water without a halt, or even a change of horses. This boundary river on the northern border of Texas was a terror to trail-drovers, but on our reaching it it had shallowed down the flow of water following several small channels. One of these was swimming, with shallow bars intervening between the channels. But the majestic grandeur of the river was apparent on every hand. With its red bluff banks, the sediment of its red waters marking the timber along its course, while the driftwood, launched in trees and high on the banks, indicated what might be expected when she became sportive or angry. That she was merciless was evident, for although this crossing had been in use only a year or two when we forded, yet five graves, one of which was less than ten days made, attested her disregard for human life. It can be safely asserted that at this and lower trail crossings on Red River, the lives of more trailmen were lost by drowning than on all other rivers together. Just as we were nearing the river, an unknown horseman from the south overtook our herd. It was evident that he belonged to some through herd, and was looking out the crossing. He made himself useful by lending a hand, while our herd was fording, and, in a brief conversation with Flood, informed him that he was one of the hands with a running W herd. Gave the name of Bill Mann as their foreman. The number of cattle they were driving, and reported the herd as due to reach the river the next morning. He wasted little time with us, but recrossed the river, returning to his herd, while we grazed out four or five miles and camped for the night. I shall never forget the impression left in my mind of that first morning after we crossed Red River into the Indian lands. The country was as primitive as in the first day of its creation. The trail led up a divide between the Salt and North Forks of the Red River. To the eastward of the latter stream lay the reservation of the Apaches, Kiowas, and Comanches, the latter having been a terror to the inhabitants of western Texas. They were a war-like tribe, as the records of Texas Rangers and government troops will verify, but their last effective dressing down was given them in a fight at Adobe Walls by a party of buffalo hunters, whom they hoped to surprise. As we wormed our way up this narrow divide, there was revealed to us a panorama of green-swarded plain and timber-fringed water-course, with not a visible evidence that it had ever been invaded by civilized men, save Calamon with their herds. Antelope came up in bands and gratified their curiosity as to who these invaders might be, while old solitary buffalo bulls turned tail at our approach and lumbered away to points of safety. Very few herds have ever passed over this route, but buffalo trails leading downstream, deep-worn by generations of travel, were to be seen by hundreds on every hand. We were not there for a change of scenery or for our health, so we may have overlooked some of the beauties of the landscape, but we had a keen eye for the things of our craft. We could see almost back to the river, and several times that morning noticed clouds of dust on the horizon. Flood noticed him first. After some time the dust clouds rose clear and distinct, and we were satisfied that the running W herd had fought it and were behind us, not more than ten or twelve miles away. At dinner that noon, Flood said he had a notion to go back and pay man a visit. Why, I've not seen little-foot Bill Mann, said our foreman, as he helped himself to a third piece of fried chicken, bacon. Since we separated two years ago, up at Ogallala on the plat. I just like the best in the world to drop back and sleep in his blankets one night and complain of his chuck. Then I'd like to tell him how we had passed them. Starting ten days drives farther south, he must have been among those herds laying over on the brosses. Why don't you go then, said Fox Quarterknight. Half the outfit could hold the cattle now with the grass and water we're in at present. I'll go you one for luck, said our foreman. Wrangler, rustle in your horses the minute you're through eating. I'm going visiting. We all knew what horse he would ride, and when he dropped his rope on Alasanito, he had not only picked his own mount of twelve, but the top horse of the entire Remuda, a chestnut sorrel, fifteen hands and an inch in height, that drew his first breath on the prairies of Texas. No man who sat him once could ever forget him. Now, when the trail is a lost occupation, and reverie and reminiscence carry the mind back to that day, there are friends and faces that may be forgotten, but there are horses that never will be. There were emergencies in which the horse was everything, his rider merely the accessory. But together, man and horse, they were the force that made it possible to move the millions of cattle which passed up and over the various trails of the West. When we had caught our horses for the afternoon and flooded, saddled, and was ready to start, he said to us, You fellows just mosey along up the trail. I'll not be gone long. But when I get back I shall expect to find everything running smooth. An outfit that can't run itself without a boss ought to stay at home and do the milking. So long fellows. The country was well watered. And when rounded the cattle into bed-ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs gorged with grass and water. They went down into sleep like tired children. One man could have held them that night. We all felt good, and McCann got up an extra spread for supper. We even had dried apples for dessert. McCann had popped the storekeeper at Dones, where we got our last supplies out of some extras as a payload. Among them was a can of jam. He sprung this on us as a surprise. Bob Blades toyed with the empty can in mingled admiration and discussed over a picture on the paper label. It was a supper scene, every figure wearing full dress. Now that's General Grant, said he, pointing with his finger. And this is Tom Oka Tree. I can't quite make out this other duck, but I reckon he's some big auger, a senator or governor maybe. Them old girls have got their gall with them. That style of dress is what you call low and behold. The whole parcel ought to be ashamed, and they seem to be enjoying themselves, too. Though it was a lovely summer night, we had a fire, and supper over, the conversation ranged wide and free. As the wagon on the trail is home, naturally the fire is the hearthstone, so we gathered and lounged around it. The only way to enjoy such a fine night as this remarked Ash, is to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with your boots on. Between too much sleep and just enough, there's a happy medium which suits me. Officer, inquired Wyatt Roundtree, trailing into the conversation very innocently. Why is it that people who live among those Yankees always say be the remainder of their lives? What's the matter with the word, countered officer? Oh, nothing, I reckon. Only it sounds a little odd, and there's a tale to it. A story, you mean, said Officer, reprovingly? Well, I'll tell it to you, said Roundtree, and then you can call it to suit yourself. It was out of New Mexico where this happened. There was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working, dead broke. To make matters worse, he could do nothing. He wouldn't fit anywhere. Still, he was a nice fellow, and we all liked him. Must have had a good education, for he had good letters from people up north. He had worked in stores and had once clerked in a bank. At least the letter said so. Well, we put up a job to get him a place in a little town, out on the railroad. You know how clannish Kentuckians are. Let two meet who never saw each other before, and inside half an hour they'll be chewing tobacco from the same plug, and trying to loan each other money. That's just like them, interposed Fox Quarterknight. Well, there was an old man, lived in this town, who was the genuine blend of bluegrass and bourbon. If another Kentuckian came within twenty miles of him, and he found it out, he'd hunt him up, and they'd hold a two-handed reunion. We put up the job that this young man should play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old man would take him to his bosom, and give him something to do. So we took him into town one day, coached, and fully posted how to act and play his part. We met the old man in front of his place of business, and after the usual comments on the news over our way, weather, and other small talk, we were on the point of passing on when one of our crowd turned back and inquired, Uncle Henry, have you met that young Kentuckian who's in the country? No, said the old man, brightening with interest. Who is he, and where is he? He's in town somewhere, volunteered one of the boys. We pretended to survey the street from where we stood. When one of the boys blurted out, yonder he stands now, that fellow in front of the drugstore over there, with a hard-boiled hat on. The old man started for him, angling across the street, in disregard of sidewalks. We watched the meeting, thinking it was working all right. We were mistaken. We saw them shake hands, and when the old man turned and walked away, very haughtily, something had gone wrong. He took the sidewalk on his return, and when he came near enough to us, we could see that he was angry, and on the prod. When he came near enough to speak, he said, You think you're smart, don't you? He's a Kentuckian, is he? Hell's full of such Kentuckians. As he passed beyond hearing, he was muttering in perceptions on us. The young fellow joined us a minute later with a question. What kind of crank is that you ran me up against? He's as nice a man as there is in the country, said one of the crowd. What did you say to him? Nothing. He came up to me, extended his hand, saying, my young friend, I understand that you're from Kentucky. I'd be, sir, I replied, when he looked me in the eyes and said, you're a G.D. liar, and turned and walked away. Why, he must have wanted to insult me. And then we all knew why our little scheme had failed. There was food and rain in it for him, but he would use the little word be. Did any of you notice my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed this last creek this afternoon, inquired Rod Wheat? No, what made him lie down, asked several of the boys. Oh, he just found a gopher hole and stuck his forefeet into it one at a time, and then tried to pull them both out at once. When they couldn't do it, he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and lay down. Then you've seen sheep die, said the horse wrangler. Of course I have. A sheep can die any time he makes up his mind to by simply shutting both eyes. Then he's a goner. Quince Forrest, who had brought in his horse to go out with a second watch. He and Bob Lades, having taken advantage of the foreman's absent to change places on guard for the night, had been listening to the latter part of Wyatt's yarn very attentively. We all hoped that he would mount and ride out to the herd. For though he was a good storyteller and meaty with personal experiences, where he thought they would pass muster, he was inclined to over-color his statements. We usually gave him respectful attention, but were frequently compelled to regard him as a cheerful, harmless liar. So when he showed no disposition to go, we knew we were in for one from him. When I was a boss bull-walker, he began, for a big army subtler in Fort Concho, I used to make two round trips a month with my train. It was a hundred miles to wagon from the freight-point where we got our supplies. I had ten teams, six and seven yoke to the team, and trail wagons to each. I was furnished a night-herder and a cook, saddle-horses for both night-herder and myself. You hear me? It was a slam-up, fine layout. We could handle three or four tons to the team, and with the whole train we could chamber two carloads of anything. One day we were nearing the fort with a mixed cargo of freight when a messenger came out and met us with an order from the subtler. He wanted us to make the fort that night and unload. The male buck-board had reported us to the subtler has camped out back on a little creek about ten miles. We were always entitled to a day to unload and drive back to camp, which gave us good grass for the oxen. But under the orders the whips popped merrily that afternoon. And when they all got well strung out, I wrote in ahead to see what was up. Well, it seems that four companies of infantry from Fort McCavitt, which were out for field practice, were going to be brought into this post to be paid three months wages. This, with the troops stationed at Concho, would turn loose quite a wad of money. The subtler called me into his office when I reached the fort, and when he had produced a black bottle used for cutting the alkali in your drinking water. He said, Jack, he called me Jack, my full name is John Quincy Forrest. Jack, can you make the round trip and bring in two cars of bottled beer that will be on track waiting for you and get back by payday the tenth? I figured the time in my mind. It was twelve days. There's five extra in it for each man for the trip, and I'll make it right with you, he added, as he noticed my hesitation, though I was only making a mental calculation. Well, I certainly, Captain, I said, what's the fable about the jackrabbit and the land tyrepen? He didn't know, and I didn't either, so I said to illustrate the point. Put your freight on a bull train, and it always goes through on time. A racehorse can't beat an ox on a hundred miles, and repeat to a freight wagon. Well, we unloaded before night, and it was pitch dark before we made camp. I explained the situation to the men. We planned to go in empty in five days, which would give us seven to come back loaded. We made every camp on time, like clockwork. The fifth morning we were anxious to get a daybreak start, so we could load at night. The night herder had his orders to bring in the oxen, the first sign of day, and I called the cook an hour before light. When the oxen were brought in, the men were up and ready to go to the yoking. But the nigh-wheeler, and Joe Jank's team, a big brindle, muley ox, a regular pet steer, was missing. I saw him myself, Joe saw him, and the night herder swore he came in with a rest. Well, we looked high and low for that Mr. Ox, but he had vanished. While the men were eating their breakfast, I got on my horse, and the night herder and I scoured and circled that country for miles around, but no ox. The country was so bare and level that a jackrabbit needed to carry a fly for a shade. I was worried, for we needed every ox and every moment of time. I ordered Joe to tie his mate behind the trail wagon, and pull out one ox shy. Well, fellas, the thing worried me powerful. Half the teamsters, good, honest, truthful men, has ever popped a whip, swore they saw that ox when they came in. Well, it served a strong argument that a man can be positive and yet be mistaken. We nooned ten miles from our night camp that day. Jerry Wilkins happened to mention it at dinner that he believed his trail needed greasing. Why, said Jerry, you think that I was loaded, the way my team kept their chains taut. I noticed Joe get up from dinner before he had finished, as if an idea had struck him. He went over and opened the sheet in Jerry's trail wagon, and a smile spread over his countenance. Come here, fellas, was all he said. We ran over to the wagon and there. The boys turned their back with indistinct mutterings of disgust. You all don't need to believe this, if you don't want to. But there was that missing ox coiled up and sleeping like a bear in the wagon. He had even Jerry's roll of bedding for a pillow. You see, the wagon sheet was open in the front, and he had hopped up under the trail tongue, and crept in there to steal a ride. Joe climbed into the wagon, and gave him a few swift kicks in the short ribs. When he opened his eyes, he awed, got up, and jumped out. Bull was rolling a cigarette before starting, while Fox's night horse was hard to bridle, which hindered them. With this slight delay, Forrest turned his horse back and continued. That same ox on the next trip, one night when we had the wagon sparked in a corral, got away from the herder, tiptoed over the men's bed in the gate, stood on its hind legs long enough to eat four fifty pound sacks of flour out of the rear end of a wagon, got down on the side, warmed his way under the wagon back into the herd without being detected or waking a man. As they rode away to relieve the first guard, McCann said, isn't he a muzzle-loading daisy? If I loved a liar, I'd hug that man to death. The absence of our foreman made no difference. We all knew our place is on guard. Experience told us that there would be no trouble that night. After Wyatt Roundtree and Moss Strayhorn had made down their bed and got into it, Wyatt remarked, Did you ever notice, old Sidi, how hard this ground is? Oh yes said Moss as he turned over, hunting for a soft spot. It is hard, but we'll forget all that when this trip ends, brother. Dear, just think of those long slings with red cherries floating around in them that we'll be drinking, and picture us smoking cigars in a blaze. That thought alone ought to make a hard bed soft and warm. Then the think will ride all the way home on the cars. McCann banked this fire and the first guard, wheat stallings, and borrowed stone, rode in from the herd, all singing an old chorus that had been composed with little regard for music or sense, about a hotel where they had stopped the year before. Sure it's one cent for coffee and two cents for bread, three for a steak and five for a bed. Sea breeze from the gutter wafts a saltwater smell to the festive cowboy in the southwestern hotel. End of chapter nine