Title: Cattle Brands: A Collection of Western Camp-Fire Stories
Author: Adams, Andy
Language: English
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CATTLE BRANDS

A Collection of Western Camp-fire Stories

by ANDY ADAMS


1906



TO MR. AND MRS. HENRY RUSSELL WRAY



Contents


 I. DRIFTING NORTH
 II. SEIGERMAN’S PER CENT
 III. “BAD MEDICINE”
 IV. A WINTER ROUND-UP
 V. A COLLEGE VAGABOND
 VI. THE DOUBLE TRAIL
 VII. RANGERING
 VIII. AT COMANCHE FORD
 IX. AROUND THE SPADE WAGON
 X. THE RANSOM OF DON RAMON MORA
 XI. THE PASSING OF PEG-LEG
 XII. IN THE HANDS OF HIS FRIENDS
 XIII. A QUESTION OF POSSESSION
 XIV. THE STORY OF A POKER STEER

“The Passing of Peg-Leg” and “A Question of Possession” appeared
originally in _Leslie’s Monthly_, and are here reprinted by permission
of the publishers of that magazine.

BRANDS

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CATTLE BRANDS



I
DRIFTING NORTH


It was a wet, bad year on the Old Western Trail. From Red River north
and all along was herd after herd waterbound by high water in the
rivers. Our outfit lay over nearly a week on the South Canadian, but we
were not alone, for there were five other herds waiting for the river
to go down. This river had tumbled over her banks for several days, and
the driftwood that was coming down would have made it dangerous
swimming for cattle.

We were expected to arrive in Dodge early in June, but when we reached
the North Fork of the Canadian, we were two weeks behind time.

Old George Carter, the owner of the herd, was growing very impatient
about us, for he had had no word from us after we had crossed Red River
at Doan’s crossing. Other cowmen lying around Dodge, who had herds on
the trail, could hear nothing from their men, but in their experience
and confidence in their outfits guessed the cause—it was water. Our
surprise when we came opposite Camp Supply to have Carter and a
stranger ride out to meet us was not to be measured. They had got
impatient waiting, and had taken the mail buckboard to Supply, making
inquiries along the route for the _Hat_ herd, which had not passed up
the trail, so they were assured. Carter was so impatient that he could
not wait, as he had a prospective buyer on his hands, and the delay in
the appearing of the herd was very annoying to him. Old George was as
tickled as a little boy to meet us all.

The cattle were looking as fine as silk. The lay-overs had rested them.
The horses were in good trim, considering the amount of wet weather we
had had. Here and there was a nigger brand, but these saddle galls were
unavoidable when using wet blankets. The cattle were twos and threes.
We had left western Texas with a few over thirty-two hundred head and
were none shy. We could have counted out more, but on some of them the
Hat brand had possibly faded out. We went into a cosy camp early in the
evening. Everything needful was at hand, wood, water, and grass. Cowmen
in those days prided themselves on their outfits, and Carter was a
trifle gone on his men.

With the cattle on hand, drinking was out of the question, so the only
way to show us any regard was to bring us a box of cigars. He must have
brought those cigars from Texas, for they were wrapped in a copy of the
Fort Worth “Gazette.” It was a month old and full of news. Every man in
the outfit read and reread it. There were several train robberies
reported in it, but that was common in those days. They had nominated
for Governor “The Little Cavalryman,” Sol Ross, and this paper
estimated that his majority would be at least two hundred thousand. We
were all anxious to get home in time to vote for him.

Theodore Baughman was foreman of our outfit. Baugh was a typical
trail-boss. He had learned to take things as they came, play the cards
as they fell, and not fret himself about little things that could not
be helped. If we had been a month behind he would never have thought to
explain the why or wherefore to old man Carter. Several years after
this, when he was scouting for the army, he rode up to a herd over on
the Chisholm trail and asked one of the tail men: “Son, have you seen
anything of about three hundred nigger soldiers?” “No,” said the
cowboy. “Well,” said Baugh, “I’ve lost about that many.”

That night around camp the smoke was curling upward from those cigars
in clouds. When supper was over and the guards arranged for the night,
story-telling was in order. This cattle-buyer with us lived in Kansas
City and gave us several good ones. He told us of an attempted robbery
of a bank which had occurred a few days before in a western town. As a
prelude to the tale, he gave us the history of the robbers.

“Cow Springs, Kansas,” said he, “earned the reputation honestly of
being a hard cow-town. When it became the terminus of one of the many
eastern trails, it was at its worst. The death-rate amongst its city
marshals—always due to a six-shooter in the hands of some man who never
hesitated to use it—made the office not over desirable. The office was
vacated so frequently in this manner that at last no local man could be
found who would have it. Then the city fathers sent to Texas for a man
who had the reputation of being a killer. He kept his record a vivid
green by shooting first and asking questions afterward.

“Well, the first few months he filled the office of marshal he killed
two white men and an Indian, and had the people thoroughly buffaloed.
When the cattle season had ended and winter came on, the little town
grew tame and listless. There was no man to dare him to shoot, and he
longed for other worlds to conquer. He had won his way into public
confidence with his little gun. But this confidence reposed in him was
misplaced, for he proved his own double both in morals and courage.

“To show you the limit of the confidence he enjoyed: the treasurer of
the Cherokee Strip Cattle Association paid rent money to that tribe, at
their capital, fifty thousand dollars quarterly. The capital is not
located on any railroad; so the funds in currency were taken in
regularly by the treasurer, and turned over to the tribal authorities.
This trip was always made with secrecy, and the marshal was taken along
as a trusted guard. It was an extremely dangerous trip to make, as it
was through a country infested with robbers and the capital at least a
hundred miles from the railroad. Strange no one ever attempted to rob
the stage or private conveyance, though this sum was taken in regularly
for several years. The average robber was careful of his person, and
could not be induced to make a target of himself for any money
consideration, where there was danger of a gun in the hands of a man
that would shoot rapidly and carelessly.

“Before the herds began to reach as far north, the marshal and his
deputy gave some excuse and disappeared for a few days, which was quite
common and caused no comment. One fine morning the good people of the
town where the robbery was attempted were thrown into an uproar by
shooting in their bank, just at the opening hour. The robbers were none
other than our trusted marshal, his deputy, and a cow-puncher who had
been led into the deal. When they ordered the officials of the bank to
stand in a row with hands up, they were nonplused at their refusal to
comply. The attacked party unearthed ugly looking guns and opened fire
on the hold-ups instead.

“This proved bad policy, for when the smoke cleared away the cashier, a
very popular man, was found dead, while an assistant was dangerously
wounded. The shooting, however, had aroused the town to the situation,
and men were seen running to and fro with guns. This unexpected refusal
and the consequent shooting spoiled the plans of the robbers, so that
they abandoned the robbery and ran to their horses.

“After mounting they parleyed with each other a moment and seemed
bewildered as to which way they should ride, finally riding south
toward what seemed a broken country. Very few minutes elapsed before
every man who could find a horse was joining the posse that was forming
to pursue them. Before they were out of sight the posse had started
after them. They were well mounted and as determined a set of men as
were ever called upon to meet a similar emergency. They had the decided
advantage of the robbers, as their horses were fresh, and the men knew
every foot of the country.

“The broken country to which the hold-ups headed was a delusion as far
as safety was concerned. They were never for a moment out of sight of
the pursuers, and this broken country ended in a deep coulee. When the
posse saw them enter this they knew that their capture was only a
matter of time. Nature seemed against the robbers, for as they entered
the coulee their horses bogged down in a springy rivulet, and they were
so hard pressed that they hastily dismounted, and sought shelter in
some shrubbery that grew about. The pursuing party, now swollen to
quite a number, had spread out and by this time surrounded the men.
They were seen to take shelter in a clump of wild plum brush, and the
posse closed in on them. Seeing the numbers against them, they came out
on demand and surrendered. Neither the posse nor themselves knew at
this time that the shooting in the bank had killed the cashier. Less
than an hour’s time had elapsed between the shooting and the capture.
When the posse reached town on their return, they learned of the death
of the cashier, and the identity of the prisoners was soon established
by citizens who knew the marshal and his deputy. The latter admitted
their identity.

“That afternoon they were photographed, and later in the day were given
a chance to write to any friends to whom they wished to say good-by.
The cow-puncher was the only one who availed himself of the
opportunity. He wrote to his parents. He was the only one of the trio
who had the nerve to write, and seemed the only one who realized the
enormity of his crime, and that he would never see the sun of another
day.

“As darkness settled over the town, the mob assembled. There was no
demonstration. The men were taken quietly out and hanged. At the final
moment there was a remarkable variety of nerve shown. The marshal and
deputy were limp, unable to stand on their feet. With piteous appeals
and tears they pleaded for mercy, something they themselves had never
shown their own victims. The boy who had that day written his parents
his last letter met his fate with Indian stoicism. He cursed the
crouching figures of his pardners for enticing him into this crime, and
begged them not to die like curs, but to meet bravely the fate which he
admitted they all deserved. Several of the men in the mob came forward
and shook hands with him, and with no appeal to man or his Maker, he
was swung into the great Unknown at the end of a rope. Such nerve is
seldom met in life, and those that are supposed to have it, when they
come face to face with their end, are found lacking that quality. It is
a common anomaly in life that the bad man with his record often shows
the white feather when he meets his fate at the hands of an outraged
community.”

We all took a friendly liking to the cattle-buyer. He was an
interesting talker. While he was a city man, he mixed with us with a
certain freedom and abandon that was easy and natural. We all regretted
it the next day when he and the old man left us.

“I’ve heard my father tell about those Cherokees,” said Port Cole.
“They used to live in Georgia, those Indians. They must have been
honest people, for my father told us boys at home, that once in the old
State while the Cherokees lived there, his father hired one of their
tribe to guide him over the mountains. There was a pass through the
mountains that was used and known only to these Indians. It would take
six weeks to go and come, and to attend to the business in view. My
father was a small boy at the time, and says that his father hired the
guide for the entire trip for forty dollars in gold. One condition was
that the money was to be paid in advance. The morning was set for the
start, and my grandfather took my father along on the trip.

“Before starting from the Indian’s cabin my grandfather took out his
purse and paid the Indian four ten-dollar gold pieces. The Indian
walked over to the corner of the cabin, and in the presence of other
Indians laid this gold, in plain sight of all, on the end of a log that
projected where they cross outside, and got on his horse to be gone six
weeks. They made the trip on time, and my father said his first
thought, on their return to the Indian village, was to see if the money
was untouched. It was. You couldn’t risk white folks that way.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said one of the boys. “Suppose you save your wages
this summer and try it next year when we start up the trail, just to
see how it will work.”

“Well, if it’s just the same to you,” replied Port, lighting a fresh
cigar, “I’ll not try, for I’m well enough satisfied as to how it would
turn out, without testing it.”

“Isn’t it strange,” said Bat Shaw, “that if you trust a man or put
confidence in him he won’t betray you. Now, that marshal—one month he
was guarding money at the risk of his life, and the next was losing his
life trying to rob some one. I remember a similar case down on the Rio
Grande. It was during the boom in sheep a few years ago, when every one
got crazy over sheep.

“A couple of Americans came down on the river to buy sheep. They
brought their money with them. It was before the time of any railroads.
The man they deposited their money with had lived amongst these
Mexicans till he had forgotten where he did belong, though he was a
Yankee. These sheep-buyers asked their banker to get them a man who
spoke Spanish and knew the country, as a guide. The banker sent and got
a man that he could trust. He was a swarthy-looking native whose
appearance would not recommend him anywhere. He was accepted, and they
set out to be gone over a month.

“They bought a band of sheep, and it was necessary to pay for them at a
point some forty miles further up the river. There had been some
robbing along the river, and these men felt uneasy about carrying the
money to this place to pay for the sheep. The banker came to the rescue
by advising them to send the money by the Mexican, who could take it
through in a single night. No one would ever suspect him of ever having
a dollar on his person. It looked risky, but the banker who knew the
nature of the native urged it as the better way, assuring them that the
Mexican was perfectly trustworthy. The peon was brought in, the
situation was explained to him, and he was ordered to be in readiness
at nightfall to start on his errand.

“He carried the money over forty miles that night, and delivered it
safely in the morning to the proper parties. This act of his aroused
the admiration of these sheep men beyond a point of safety. They paid
for the sheep, were gone for a few months, sold out their flocks to
good advantage, and came back to buy more. This second time they did
not take the precaution to have the banker hire the man, but did so
themselves, intending to deposit their money with a different house
farther up the river. They confided to him that they had quite a sum of
money with them, and that they would deposit it with the same merchant
to whom he had carried the money before. The first night they camped
the Mexican murdered them both, took the money, and crossed into
Mexico. He hid their bodies, and it was months before they were missed,
and a year before their bones were found. He had plenty of time to go
to the ends of the earth before his crime would be discovered.

“Now that Mexican would never think of betraying the banker, his old
friend and patron, his _muy bueno amigo_. There were obligations that
he could not think of breaking with the banker; but these fool sheep
men, supposing it was simple honesty, paid the penalty of their
confidence with their lives. Now, when he rode over this same road
alone, a few months before, with over five thousand dollars in money
belonging to these same men, all he would need to have done was to ride
across the river. When there were no obligations binding, he was
willing to add murder to robbery. Some folks say that Mexicans are good
people; it is the climate, possibly, but they can always be depended on
to assay high in treachery.”

“What guard are you going to put me on to-night?” inquired old man
Carter of Baugh.

“This outfit,” said Baugh, in reply, “don’t allow any tenderfoot around
the cattle,—at night, at least. You’d better play you’re company;
somebody that’s come. If you’re so very anxious to do something, the
cook may let you rustle wood or carry water. We’ll fix you up a bed
after a little, and see that you get into it where you can sleep and be
harmless.

“Colonel,” added Baugh, “why is it that you never tell that experience
you had once amongst the greasers?”

“Well, there was nothing funny in it to me,” said Carter, “and they say
I never tell it twice alike.”

“Why, certainly, tell us,” said the cattle-buyer. “I’ve never heard it.
Don’t throw off to-night.”

“It was a good many years ago,” began old man George, “but the incident
is very clear in my mind. I was working for a month’s wages then
myself. We were driving cattle out of Mexico. The people I was working
for contracted for a herd down in Chihuahua, about four hundred miles
south of El Paso. We sent in our own outfit, wagon, horses, and men,
two weeks before. I was kept behind to take in the funds to pay for the
cattle. The day before I started, my people drew out of the bank
twenty-eight thousand dollars, mostly large bills. They wired ahead and
engaged a rig to take me from the station where I left the railroad to
the ranch, something like ninety miles.

“I remember I bought a new mole-skin suit, which was very popular about
then. I had nothing but a small hand-bag, and it contained only a
six-shooter. I bought a book to read on the train and on the road out,
called ‘Other People’s Money.’ The title caught my fancy, and it was
very interesting. It was written by a Frenchman,—full of love and
thrilling situations. I had the money belted on me securely, and
started out with flying colors. The railroad runs through a dreary
country, not worth a second look, so I read my new book. When I arrived
at the station I found the conveyance awaiting me. The plan was to
drive halfway, and stay over night at a certain hacienda.

“The driver insisted on starting at once, telling me that we could
reach the Hacienda Grande by ten o’clock that night, which would be
half my journey. We had a double-seated buckboard and covered the
country rapidly. There were two Mexicans on the front seat, while I had
the rear one all to myself. Once on the road I interested myself in
‘Other People’s Money,’ almost forgetful of the fact that at that very
time I had enough of other people’s money on my person to set all the
bandits in Mexico on my trail. There was nothing of incident that
evening, until an hour before sundown. We reached a small ranchito,
where we spent an hour changing horses, had coffee and a rather light
lunch.

“Before leaving I noticed a Pinto horse hitched to a tree some distance
in the rear of the house, and as we were expecting to buy a number of
horses, I walked back and looked this one carefully over. He was very
peculiarly color-marked in the mane. I inquired for his owner, but they
told me that he was not about at present. It was growing dusk when we
started out again. The evening was warm and sultry and threatening
rain. We had been on our way about an hour when I realized we had left
the main road and were bumping along on a by-road. I asked the driver
his reason for this, and he explained that it was a cut-off, and that
by taking it we would save three miles and half an hour’s time. As a
further reason he expressed his opinion that we would have rain that
night, and that he was anxious to reach the hacienda in good time. I
encouraged him to drive faster, which he did. Within another hour I
noticed we were going down a dry arroyo, with mesquite brush on both
sides of the road, which was little better than a trail. My suspicions
were never aroused sufficiently to open the little hand-bag and belt on
the six-shooter. I was dreaming along when we came to a sudden stop
before what seemed a deserted jacal. The Mexicans mumbled something to
each other over some disappointment, when the driver said to me:—

“‘Here’s where we stay all night. This is the hacienda.’ They both got
out and insisted on my getting out, but I refused to do so. I reached
down and picked up my little grip and was in the act of opening it,
when one of them grabbed my arm and jerked me out of the seat to the
ground. I realized then for the first time that I was in for it in
earnest. I never knew before that I could put up such a fine defense,
for inside a minute I had them both blinded in their own blood. I
gathered up rocks and had them flying when I heard a clatter of hoofs
coming down the arroyo like a squadron of cavalry. They were so close
on to me that I took to the brush, without hat, coat, or pistol. Men
that pack a gun all their lives never have it when they need it; that
was exactly my fix. Darkness was in my favor, but I had no more idea
where I was or which way I was going than a baby. One thing sure, I was
trying to get away from there as fast as I could. The night was
terribly dark, and about ten o’clock it began to rain a deluge. I kept
going all night, but must have been circling.

“Towards morning I came to an arroyo which was running full of water.
My idea was to get that between me and the scene of my trouble, so I
took off my boots to wade it. When about one third way across, I either
stepped off a bluff bank or into a well, for I went under and dropped
the boots. When I came to the surface I made a few strokes swimming and
landed in a clump of mesquite brush, to which I clung, got on my feet,
and waded out to the opposite bank more scared than hurt. Right there I
lay until daybreak.

“The thing that I remember best now was the peculiar odor of the wet
mole-skin. If there had been a strolling artist about looking for a
picture of Despair, I certainly would have filled the bill. The sleeves
were torn out of my shirt, and my face and arms were scratched and
bleeding from the thorns of the mesquite. No one who could have seen me
then would ever have dreamed that I was a walking depositary of ‘Other
People’s Money.’ When it got good daylight I started out and kept the
shelter of the brush to hide me. After nearly an hour’s travel, I came
out on a divide, and about a mile off I saw what looked like a jacal.
Directly I noticed a smoke arise, and I knew then it was a habitation.
My appearance was not what I desired, but I approached it.

“In answer to my knock at the door a woman opened it about two inches
and seemed to be more interested in examination of my anatomy than in
listening to my troubles. After I had made an earnest sincere talk she
asked me, ‘No estay loco tu?’ I assured her that I was perfectly sane,
and that all I needed was food and clothing, for which I would pay her
well. It must have been my appearance that aroused her sympathy, for
she admitted me and fed me.

“The woman had a little girl of probably ten years of age. This little
girl brought me water to wash myself, while the mother prepared me
something to eat. I was so anxious to pay these people that I found a
five-dollar gold piece in one of my pockets and gave it to the little
girl, who in turn gave it to her mother. While I was drinking the
coffee and eating my breakfast, the woman saw me looking at a picture
of the Virgin Mary which was hanging on the adobe wall opposite me. She
asked me if I was a Catholic, which I admitted. Then she brought out a
shirt and offered it to me.

“Suddenly the barking of a dog attracted her to the door. She returned
breathless, and said in good Spanish: ‘For God’s sake, run! Fly! Don’t
let my husband and brother catch you here, for they are coming home.’
She thrust the shirt into my hand and pointed out the direction in
which I should go. From a concealed point of the brush I saw two men
ride up to the jacal and dismount. One of them was riding the Pinto
horse I had seen the day before.

“I kept the brush for an hour or so, and finally came out on the mesa.
Here I found a flock of sheep and a pastore. From this shepherd I
learned that I was about ten miles from the main road. He took the
sandals from his own feet and fastened them on mine, gave me
directions, and about night I reached the hacienda, where I was kindly
received and cared for. This ranchero sent after officers and had the
country scoured for the robbers. I was detained nearly a week, to see
if I could identify my drivers, without result. They even brought in
the owner of the Pinto horse, and no doubt husband of the woman who
saved my life.

“After a week’s time I joined our own outfit, and I never heard a
language that sounded so sweet as the English of my own tongue. I would
have gone back and testified against the owner of the spotted horse if
it hadn’t been for a woman and a little girl who depended on him,
robber that he was.”

“Now, girls,” said Baugh, addressing Carter and the stranger, “I’ve
made you a bed out of the wagon-sheet, and rustled a few blankets from
the boys. You’ll find the bed under the wagon-tongue, and we’ve
stretched a fly over it to keep the dew off you, besides adding privacy
to your apartments. So you can turn in when you run out of stories or
get sleepy.”

“Haven’t you got one for us?” inquired the cattle-buyer of Baugh. “This
is no time to throw off, or refuse to be sociable.”

“Well, now, that bank robbery that you were telling the boys about,”
said Baugh, as he bit the tip from a fresh cigar, “reminds me of a
hold-up that I was in up in the San Juan mining country in Colorado. We
had driven into that mining camp a small bunch of beef and had sold
them to fine advantage. The outfit had gone back, and I remained behind
to collect for the cattle, expecting to take the stage and overtake the
outfit down on the river. I had neglected to book my passage in
advance, so when the stage was ready to start I had to content myself
with a seat on top. I don’t remember the amount of money I had. It was
the proceeds of something like one hundred and fifty beeves, in a small
bag along of some old clothes. There wasn’t a cent of it mine, still I
was supposed to look after it.

“The driver answered to the name of South-Paw, drove six horses, and we
had a jolly crowd on top. Near midnight we were swinging along, and as
we rounded a turn in the road, we noticed a flickering light ahead some
distance which looked like the embers of a camp-fire. As we came nearly
opposite the light, the leaders shied at some object in the road in
front of them. South-Paw uncurled his whip, and was in the act of
pouring the leather into them, when that light was uncovered as big as
the head-light of an engine. An empty five-gallon oil-can had been cut
in half and used as a reflector, throwing full light into the road
sufficient to cover the entire coach. Then came a round of orders which
meant business. ‘Shoot them leaders if they cross that obstruction!’
‘Kill any one that gets off on the opposite side!’ ‘Driver, move up a
few feet farther!’ ‘A few feet farther, please.’ ‘That’ll do; thank
you, sir.’ ‘Now, every son-of-a-horse-thief, get out on this side of
the coach, please, and be quick about it!’

“The man giving these orders stood a few feet behind the lamp and out
of sight, but the muzzle of a Winchester was plainly visible and seemed
to cover every man on the stage. It is needless to say that we obeyed,
got down in the full glare of the light, and lined up with our backs to
the robber, hands in the air. There was a heavily veiled woman on the
stage, whom he begged to hold the light for him, assuring her that he
never robbed a woman. This veiled person disappeared at the time, and
was supposed to have been a confederate. When the light was held for
him, he drew a black cap over each one of us, searching everybody for
weapons. Then he proceeded to rob us, and at last went through the
mail. It took him over an hour to do the job; he seemed in no hurry.

“It was not known what he got out of the mail, but the passengers
yielded about nine hundred revenue to him, while there was three times
that amount on top the coach in my grip, wrapped in a dirty flannel
shirt. When he disappeared we were the cheapest lot of men imaginable.
It was amusing to hear the excuses, threats, and the like; but the fact
remained the same, that a dozen of us had been robbed by a lone
highwayman. I felt good over it, as the money in the grip had been
overlooked.

“Well, we cleared out the obstruction in the road, and got aboard the
coach once more. About four o’clock in the morning we arrived at our
destination, only two hours late. In the hotel office where the stage
stopped was the very man who had robbed us. He had got in an hour ahead
of us, and was a very much interested listener to the incident as
retold. There was an early train out of town that morning, and at a
place where they stopped for breakfast he sat at the table with several
drummers who were in the hold-up, a most attentive listener.

“He was captured the same day. He had hired a horse out of a livery
stable the day before, to ride out to look at a ranch he thought of
buying. The liveryman noticed that he limped slightly. He had collided
with lead in Texas, as was learned afterward. The horse which had been
hired to the ranch-buyer of the day before was returned to the corral
of the livery barn at an unknown hour during the night, and suspicion
settled on the lame man. When he got off the train at Pueblo, he walked
into the arms of officers. The limp had marked him clearly.

“In a grip which he carried were a number of sacks, which he supposed
contained gold dust, but held only taulk on its way to assayers in
Denver. These he had gotten out of the express the night before,
supposing they were valuable. We were all detained as witnesses. He was
tried for robbing the mails, and was the coolest man in the court room.
He was a tall, awkward-looking fellow, light complexioned, with a mild
blue eye. His voice, when not disguised, would mark him amongst a
thousand men. It was peculiarly mild and soft, and would lure a babe
from its mother’s arms.

“At the trial he never tried to hide his past, and you couldn’t help
liking the fellow for his frank answers.

“‘Were you ever charged with any crime before?’ asked the prosecution.
‘If so, when and where?’

“‘Yes,’ said the prisoner, ‘in Texas, for robbing the mails in ’77.’

“‘What was the result?’ continued the prosecution.

“‘They sent me over the road for ninety-nine years.’

“‘Then how does it come that you are at liberty?’ quizzed the attorney.

“‘Well, you see the President of the United States at that time was a
warm personal friend of mine, though we had drifted apart somewhat.
When he learned that the Federal authorities had interfered with my
liberties, he pardoned me out instantly.’

“‘What did you do then?’ asked the attorney.

“‘Well, I went back to Texas, and was attending to my own business,
when I got into a little trouble and had to kill a man. Lawyers down
there won’t do anything for you without you have money, and as I didn’t
have any for them, I came up to this country to try and make an honest
dollar.’

“He went over the road a second time, and wasn’t in the Federal prison
a year before he was released through influence. Prison walls were
never made to hold as cool a rascal as he was. Have you a match?”


It was an ideal night. Millions of stars flecked the sky overhead. No
one seemed willing to sleep. We had heard the evening gun and the
trumpets sounding tattoo over at the fort, but their warnings of the
closing day were not for us. The guards changed, the cattle sleeping
like babes in a trundle-bed. Finally one by one the boys sought their
blankets, while sleep and night wrapped these children of the plains in
her arms.



II
SEIGERMAN’S PER CENT


Towards the wind-up of the Cherokee Strip Cattle Association it became
hard to ride a chuck-line in winter. Some of the cattle companies on
the range, whose headquarters were far removed from the scene of active
operations, saw fit to give orders that the common custom of feeding
all comers and letting them wear their own welcome out must be stopped.
This was hard on those that kept open house the year round. There was
always a surplus of men on the range in the winter. Sometimes there
might be ten men at a camp, and only two on the pay-roll. These extra
men were called “chuck-line riders.” Probably eight months in the year
they all had employment. At many camps they were welcome, as they would
turn to and help do anything that was wanted done.

After a hard freeze it would be necessary to cut the ice, so that the
cattle could water. A reasonable number of guests were no drawback at a
time like this, as the chuck-line men would be the most active in
opening the ice with axes. The cattle belonging to those who kept open
house never got so far away that some one didn’t recognize the brand
and turn them back towards their own pasture. It was possible to cast
bread upon the waters, even on the range.

The new order of things was received with many protests. Late in the
fall three worthies of the range formed a combine, and laid careful
plans of action, in case they should get let out of a winter’s job.
“I’ve been on the range a good while,” said Baugh, the leader of this
trio, “but hereafter I’ll not ride my horses down, turning back the
brand of any hidebound cattle company.”

“That won’t save you from getting hit with a cheque for your time when
the snow begins to drift,” commented Stubb.

“When we make our grand tour of the State this winter,” remarked Arab
Ab, “we’ll get that cheque of Baugh’s cashed, together with our own.
One thing sure, we won’t fret about it; still we might think that
riding a chuck-line would beat footing it in a granger country, broke.”

“Oh, we won’t go broke,” said Baugh, who was the leader in the idea
that they would go to Kansas for the winter, and come back in the
spring when men are wanted.

So when the beef season had ended, the calves had all been branded up
and everything made snug for the winter, the foreman said to the boys
at breakfast one morning, “Well, lads, I’ve kept you on the pay-roll as
long as there has been anything to do, but this morning I’ll have to
give you your time. These recent orders of mine are sweeping, for they
cut me down to one man, and we are to do our own cooking. I’m sorry
that any of you that care to can’t spend the winter with us. It’s there
that my orders are very distasteful to me, for I know what it is to
ride a chuck-line myself. You all know that it’s no waste of affection
by this company that keeps even two of us on the pay-roll.”

While the foreman was looking up accounts and making out the time of
each, Baugh asked him, “When is the wagon going in after the winter’s
supplies?”

“In a day or two,” answered the foreman. “Why?”

“Why, Stubby, Arab, and myself want to leave our saddles and private
horses here with you until spring. We’re going up in the State for the
winter, and will wait and go in with the wagon.”

“That will be all right,” said the foreman. “You’ll find things right
side up when you come after them, and a job if I can give it to you.”

“Don’t you think it’s poor policy,” asked Stubb of the foreman, as the
latter handed him his time, “to refuse the men a roof and the bite they
eat in winter?”

“You may ask that question at headquarters, when you get your time
cheque cashed. I’ve learned not to think contrary to my employers; not
in the mouth of winter, anyhow.”

“Oh, we don’t care,” said Baugh; “we’re going to take in the State for
a change of scenery. We’ll have a good time and plenty of fun on the
side.”

The first snow-squall of the season came that night, and the wagon
could not go in for several days. When the weather moderated the three
bade the foreman a hearty good-by and boarded the wagon for town, forty
miles away. This little village was a supply point for the range
country to the south, and lacked that diversity of entertainment that
the trio desired. So to a larger town westward, a county seat, they
hastened by rail. This hamlet they took in by sections. There were the
games running to suit their tastes, the variety theatre with its
painted girls, and handbills announced that on the 24th of December and
Christmas Day there would be horse races. To do justice to all this
melted their money fast.

Their gay round of pleasure had no check until the last day of the
races. Heretofore they had held their own in the games, and the first
day of the races they had even picked several winners. But grief was in
store for Baugh the leader, Baugh the brains of the trio. He had named
the winners so easily the day before, that now his confidence knew no
bounds. His opinion was supreme on a running horse, though he cautioned
the others not to risk their judgment—in fact, they had better follow
him. “I’m going to back that sorrel gelding, that won yesterday in the
free-for-all to-day,” said he to Stubb and Arab, “and if you boys go in
with me, we’ll make a killing.”

“You can lose your money on a horse race too quick to suit me,” replied
Stubb. “I prefer to stick to poker; but you go ahead and win all you
can, for spring is a long ways off yet.”

“My observation of you as a poker player, my dear Stubby, is that you
generally play the first hand to win and all the rest to get even.”

They used up considerable time scoring for the free-for-all running
race Christmas Day, during which delay Baugh not only got all his money
bet, but his watch and a new overcoat. The race went off with the usual
dash, when there were no more bets in sight; and when it ended Baugh
buttoned up the top button of his coat, pulled his hat down over his
eyes, and walked back from the race track in a meditative state of
mind, to meet Stubb and Arab Ab.

“When I gamble and lose I never howl,” said Baugh to his friends, “but
I do love a run for my money, though I didn’t have any more chance
to-day than a rabbit. I’ll take my hat off to the man that got it,
however, and charge it up to my tuition account.”

“You big chump, you! if you hadn’t bet your overcoat it wouldn’t be so
bad. What possessed you to bet it?” asked Stubb, half reprovingly.

“Oh, hell, I’ll not need it. It’s not going to be a very cold winter,
nohow,” replied Baugh, as he threw up one eye toward the warm sun. “We
need exercise. Let’s walk back to town. Now, this is a little
unexpected, but what have I got you boy’s for, if you can’t help a
friend in trouble. There’s one good thing—I’ve got my board paid three
weeks in advance; paid it this morning out of yesterday’s winnings.
Lucky, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you’re powerful lucky. You’re alive, ain’t you?” said Stubb,
rubbing salt into his wounds.

“Now, my dear Stubby, don’t get gay with the leading lady; you may get
in a bad box some day and need me.”

This turn of affairs was looked upon by Stubb and Arab as quite a joke
on their leader. But it was no warning to them, and they continued to
play their favorite games, Stubb at poker, while Arab gave his
attention to monte. Things ran along for a few weeks in this manner,
Baugh never wanting for a dollar or the necessary liquids that cheer
the despondent. Finally they were forced to take an inventory of their
cash and similar assets. The result was suggestive that they would have
to return to the chuck-line, or unearth some other resource. The
condition of their finances lacked little of the red-ink line.

Baugh, who had been silent during this pow-wow, finally said, “My board
will have to be provided for in a few days, but I have an idea, struck
it to-day, and if she works, we’ll pull through to grass like four time
winners.”

“What is it?” asked the other two, in a chorus.

“There’s a little German on a back street here, who owns a bar-room
with a hotel attached. He has a mania to run for office; in fact,
there’s several candidates announced already. Now, the convention don’t
meet until May, which is in our favor. If my game succeeds, we will be
back at work before that time. That will let us out easy.”

As their finances were on a parity with Baugh’s, the others were
willing to undertake anything that looked likely to tide them over the
winter. “Leave things to me,” said Baugh. “I’ll send a friend around to
sound our German, and see what office he thinks he’d like to have.”

The information sought developed the fact that it was the office of
sheriff that he wanted. When the name was furnished, the leader of this
scheme wrote it on a card—Seigerman, Louie Seigerman,—not trusting to
memory. Baugh now reduced their finances further for a shave, while he
meditated how he would launch his scheme. An hour afterwards, he walked
up to the bar, and asked, “Is Mr. Seigerman in?”

“Dot ish my name, sir,” said the man behind the bar.

“Could I see you privately for a few minutes?” asked Baugh, who himself
could speak German, though his tongue did not indicate it.

“In von moment,” said Seigerman, as he laid off his white apron and
called an assistant to take his place. He then led the way to a back
room, used for a storehouse. “Now, mine frendt, vat ish id?” inquired
Louie, when they were alone.

“My name is Baughman,” said he, as he shook Louie’s hand with a hearty
grip. “I work for the Continental Cattle Company, who own a range in
the strip adjoining the county line below here. My people have suffered
in silence from several bands of cattle thieves who have headquarters
in this county. Heretofore we have never taken any interest in the
local politics of this community. But this year we propose to assert
ourselves, and try to elect a sheriff who will do his sworn duty, and
run out of this county these rustling cattle thieves. Mr. Seigerman, it
would surprise you did I give you the figures in round numbers of the
cattle that my company have lost by these brand-burning rascals who
infest this section.

“Now to business, as you are a business man. I have come to ask you to
consent to your name being presented to the county convention, which
meets in May, as a candidate for the office of sheriff of this county.”

As Louie scratched his head and was meditating on his reply, Baughman
continued: “Now, we know that you are a busy man, and have given this
matter no previous thought, so we do not insist on an immediate reply.
But think it over, and let me impress on your mind that if you consent
to make the race, you will have the support of every cattle-man in the
country. Not only their influence and support, but in a selfish
interest will their purses be at your command to help elect you. This
request of mine is not only the mature conclusion of my people, but we
have consulted others interested, and the opinion seems unanimous that
you are the man to make the race for this important office.”

“Mr. Baughman, vill you not haf one drink mit me?” said Seigerman, as
he led the way towards the bar.

“If you will kindly excuse me, Mr. Seigerman, I never like to indulge
while attending to business matters. I’ll join you in a cigar, however,
for acquaintance’ sake.”

When the cigars were lighted Baugh observed, “Why, do you keep hotel?
If I had known it, I would have put up with you, but my bill is paid in
advance at my hotel until Saturday. If you can give me a good room by
then, I’ll come up and stop with you.”

“You can haf any room in mine house, Mr. Baughman,” said Seigerman.

As Baugh was about to leave he once more impressed on Louie the nature
of his call. “Now, Mr. Seigerman,” said Baughman, using the German
language during the parting conversation, “let me have your answer at
the earliest possible moment, for we want to begin an active canvass at
once. This is a large county, and to enlist our friends in your behalf
no time should be lost.” With a profusion of “Leben Sie wohls” and well
wishes for each other, the “Zweibund” parted.

Stubb and Arab were waiting on a corner for Baugh. When he returned he
withheld his report until they had retreated to the privacy of their
own room. Once secure, he said to both: “If you would like to know what
an active, resourceful brain is, put your ear to my head,” tapping his
temple with his finger, “and listen to mine throb and purr. Everything
is working like silk. I’m going around to board with him Saturday. I
want you to go over with me to-morrow, Stubby, and give him a big game
about what a general uprising there is amongst the cowmen for an
efficient man for the office of sheriff, and make it strong. I gave him
my last whirl to-day in German. Oh, he’ll run all right; and we want to
convey the impression that we can rally the cattle interests to his
support. Put up a good grievance, mind you! You can both know that I
begged strong when I took this cigar in preference to a drink.”

“It’s certainly a bad state of affairs we’ve come to when you refuse
whiskey. Don’t you think so, Stubby?” said Arab, addressing the one and
appealing to the other. “You never refused no drink, Baugh, you know
you didn’t,” said Stubb reproachfully.

“Oh, you little sawed-off burnt-offering, you can’t see the policy that
we must use in handling this matter. This is a delicate play, that
can’t be managed roughshod on horseback. It has food, shelter, and
drink in it for us all, but they must be kept in the background. The
main play now is to convince Mr. Seigerman that he has a call to serve
his country in the office of sheriff. Bear down heavy on the emergency
clause. Then make him think that no other name but Louie Seigerman will
satisfy the public clamor. Now, my dear Stubby, I know that you are a
gifted and accomplished liar, and for that reason I insist that you
work your brain and tongue in this matter. Keep your own motive in the
background and bring his to the front. That’s the idea. Now, can you
play your part?”

“Well, as I have until to-morrow to think it over, I’ll try,” said
Stubb.

The next afternoon Baugh and Stubb sauntered into Louie’s place, and
received a very cordial welcome at the hands of the proprietor. Baugh
introduced Stubb as a friend of his whom he had met in town that day,
and who, being also interested in cattle, he thought might be able to
offer some practical suggestions. Their polite refusal to indulge in a
social glass with the proprietor almost hurt his feelings.

“Let us retire to the rear room for a few moments of conversation, if
you have the leisure,” said Baugh.

Once secure in the back room, Stubb opened his talk. “As my friend Mr.
Baughman has said, I’m local manager of the Ohio Cattle Company
operating in the Strip. I’m spending considerable time in your town at
present, as I’m overseeing the wintering of something like a hundred
saddle horses and two hundred and fifty of our thoroughbred bulls. We
worked our saddle stock so late last fall, that on my advice the
superintendent sent them into the State to be corn-fed for the winter.
The bulls were too valuable to be risked on the range. We had over
fifty stolen last season, that cost us over three hundred dollars a
head. I had a letter this morning from our superintendent, asking me to
unite with what seems to be a general movement to suppress this
high-handed stealing that has run riot in this county in the past. Mr.
Baughman has probably acquainted you with the general sentiment in
cattle circles regarding what should be done. I wish to assure you
further that my people stand ready to use their best endeavors to
nominate a candidate who will pledge himself to stamp out this
disgraceful brand-burning and cattle-rustling. The little protection
shown the livestock interests in this western country has actually
driven capital out of one of the best paying industries in the West.
But it is our own fault. We take no interest in local politics. Any one
is good enough for sheriff with us. But this year there seems to be an
awakening. It may be a selfish interest that prompts this uprising; I
think it is. But that is the surest hope in politics for us. The
cattle-men’s pockets have been touched, their interests have been
endangered. Mr. Seigerman, I feel confident that if you will enter the
race for this office, it will be a walk-away for you. Now consider the
matter fully, and I might add that there is a brighter future for you
politically than you possibly can see. I wish I had brought our
superintendent’s letter with me for you to read.

“He openly hints that if we elect a sheriff in this county this fall
who makes an efficient officer, he will be strictly in line for the
office of United States Marshal of western Kansas and all the Indian
Territory. You see, Mr. Seigerman, in our company we have as
stock-holders three congressmen and one United States senator. I have
seen it in the papers myself, and it is a common remark Down East, so
I’m told, that the weather is chilly when an Ohio man gets left. Now
with these men of our company interested in you, there would be no
refusing them the appointment. Why, it would give you the naming of
fifty deputies—good easy money in every one of them. You could sit back
in a well-appointed government office and enjoy the comforts of life.
Now, Mr. Seigerman, we will see you often, but let me suggest that your
acceptance be as soon as possible, for if you positively decline to
enter the race, we must look in some other quarter for an available
man.” Leaving these remarks for Seigerman’s reflections, he walked out
of the room.

As Seigerman started to follow, Baugh tapped him on the shoulder to
wait, as he had something to say to him. Baugh now confirmed everything
said, using the German language. He added, “Now, my friend Stubb is too
modest to admit who his people really are, but the Ohio Cattle Company
is practically the Standard Oil Company, but they don’t want it known.
It’s a confidence that I’m placing in you, and request you not to
repeat it. Still, you know what a syndicate they are and the influence
they carry. That very little man who has been talking to you has better
backing than any cow-boss in the West. He’s a safe, conservative fellow
to listen to.”

When they had rejoined Stubb in the bar-room, Baugh said to Seigerman,
“Don’t you think you can give us your answer by Friday next, so your
name can be announced in the papers, and an active canvass begun
without further loss of time?”

“Shentlemens, I’ll dry do,” said Louie, “but you will not dake a drink
mit me once again, aind it?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Seigerman,” replied Stubb.

“He gave me a very fine cigar yesterday; you’ll like them if you try
one,” said Baugh to Stubb. “Let it be a cigar to-day, Mr. Seigerman.”

As Baugh struck a match to light his cigar, he said to Stubb, “I’m
coming up to stop with Mr. Seigerman to-morrow. Why don’t you join us?”

“I vould be wery much bleased to haf you mine guest,” said Louie, every
inch the host.

“This is a very home-like looking place,” remarked Stubb. “I may come
up; I’ll come around Sunday and take dinner with you, anyhow.”

“Do, blease,” urged Louie.

There was a great deal to be said, and it required two languages to
express it all, but finally the “Dreibund” parted. The next day Baugh
moved into his new quarters, and the day following Stubb was so pleased
with his Sunday dinner that he changed at once.

“I’m expecting a man from Kansas City to-morrow,” said Baugh to Louie
on Sunday morning, “who will know the sentiment existing in cattle
circles in that city. He’ll be in on the morning train.”

Stubb, in the mean time, had coached Arab as to what he should say. As
Baugh and he had covered the same ground, it was thought best to have
Arab Ab the heeler, the man who could deliver the vote to order.

So Monday morning after the train was in, the original trio entered,
and Arab was introduced. The back room was once more used as a council
chamber where the “Fierbund” held an important session.

“I didn’t think there was so much interest being taken,” began Arab Ab,
“until my attention was called to it yesterday by the president and
secretary of our company in Kansas City. I want to tell you that the
cattle interests in that city are aroused. Why, our secretary showed me
the figures from his books; and in the ‘Tin Cup’ brand alone we shipped
out three hundred and twelve beeves short, out of twenty-nine hundred
and ninety-six bought two years ago. My employers, Mr. Seigerman, are
practical cowmen, and they know that those steers never left the range
without help. Nothing but lead or Texas fever can kill a beef. We
haven’t had a case of fever on our range for years, nor a winter in
five years that would kill an old cow. Why, our president told me if
something wasn’t done they would have to abandon this country and go
where they could get protection. His final orders were to do what I
could to get an eligible man as a candidate, which, I’m glad to hear
from my friends here, we have hopes of doing. Then when the election
comes off, we must drop everything and get every man to claim a
residence in this county and vote him here. I’ll admit that I’m no good
as a wire-puller, but when it comes to getting out the voters, there’s
where you will find me as solid as a bridge abutment.

“Why, Mr. Seigerman, when I was skinning mules for Creech & Lee,
contractors on the Rock Island, one fall, they gave me my orders, which
was to get every man on the works ready to ballot. I lined them up and
voted them like running cattle through a branding-chute to put on a
tally-mark or vent a brand. There were a hundred and seventy-five of
those dagoes from the rock-cut; I handled them like dipping sheep for
the scab. My friends here can tell you how I managed voting the bonds
at a little town east of here. I had my orders from the same people I’m
working for now, to get out the cow-puncher element in the Strip for
the bonds. The bosses simply told me that what they wanted was a
competing line of railroad. And as they didn’t expect to pay the
obligations, only authorize them,—the next generation could attend to
the paying of them,—we got out a full vote. Well, we ran in from four
to five hundred men from the Strip, and out of over seven hundred
ballots cast, only one against the bonds. We hunted the town all over
to find the man that voted against us; we wanted to hang him! The only
trouble I had was to make the boys think it was a straight up
Democratic play, as they were nearly all originally from Texas. Now, my
friends here have told me that they are urging you to accept the
nomination for sheriff. I can only add that in case you consent, my
people stand ready to give their every energy to this coming campaign.
As far as funds are concerned to prosecute the election of an
acceptable sheriff to the cattle interests, we would simply be flooded
with it. It would be impossible to use one half of what would be forced
on us. One thing I can say positively, Mr. Seigerman: they wouldn’t
permit you to contribute one cent to the expense of your election.
Cattle-men are big-hearted fellows—they are friends worth having, Mr.
Seigerman.”

Louie drew a long breath, and it seemed that a load had been lifted
from his mind by these last remarks of Arab’s.

“How many men are there in the Strip?” asked Arab of the others.

“On all three divisions of the last round-up there were something like
two thousand,” replied Baugh. “And this county adjoins the Cattle
Country for sixty miles on the north,” said Arab, still continuing his
musing, “or one third of the Strip. Well, gentlemen,” he went on,
waking out of his mental reverie and striking the table with his fist,
“if there’s that many men in the country below, I’ll agree to vote one
half of them in this county this fall.”

“Hold on a minute, aren’t you a trifle high on your estimate?” asked
Stubb, the conservative, protestingly.

“Not a man too high. Give them a week’s lay-off, with plenty to drink
at this end of the string, and every man will come in for fifty miles
either way. The time we voted the bonds won’t be a marker to this
election.”

“He’s not far wrong,” said Baugh to Stubb. “Give the rascals a chance
for a holiday like that, and they will come from the south line of the
Strip.”

“That’s right, Mr. Seigerman,” said Arab. “They’ll come from the west
and south to a man, and as far east as the middle of the next county. I
tell you they will be a thousand strong and a unit in voting. Watch my
smoke on results!”

“Well,” said Stubb, slowly and deliberately, “I think it’s high time we
had Mr. Seigerman’s consent to make the race. This counting of our
forces and the sinews of war is good enough in advance; but I must
insist on an answer from Mr. Seigerman. Will you become our candidate?”

“Shentlemens, how can I refuse to be one sheriff? The cattle-mens must
be protec. I accep.”

The trio now arose, and with a round of oaths that would have made the
captain of a pirate ship green with envy swore Seigerman had taken a
step he would never regret. After the hearty congratulation on his
acceptance, they reseated themselves, when Louie, in his gratitude,
insisted that on pleasant occasions like this he should be permitted to
offer some refreshments of a liquid nature.

“I never like to indulge at a bar,” said Stubb. “The people whom I work
for are very particular regarding the habits of their trusted men.”

“It might be permissible on occasions like this to break certain
established rules,” suggested Baugh, “besides, Mr. Seigerman can bring
it in here, where we will be unobserved.”

“Very well, then,” said Stubb, “I waive my objections for sociability’s
sake.”

When Louie had retired for this purpose, Baugh arose to his full
dignity and six foot three, and said to the other two, bowing, “Your
uncle, my dears, will never allow you to come to want. Pin your faith
to the old man. Why, we’ll wallow in the fat of the land until the
grass comes again, gentle Annie. Gentlemen, if you are gentlemen, which
I doubt like hell, salute the victor!” The refreshment was brought in,
and before the session adjourned, they had lowered the contents of a
black bottle of private stock by several fingers.

The announcement of the candidacy of Mr. Louis Seigerman in the next
week’s paper (by aid of the accompanying fiver which went with the
“copy”) encouraged the editor, that others might follow, to write a
short, favorable editorial. The article spoke of Mr. Seigerman as a
leading citizen, who would fill the office with credit to himself and
the community. The trio read this short editorial to Louie daily for
the first week. All three were now putting their feet under the table
with great regularity, and doing justice to the vintage on invitation.
The back room became a private office for the central committee of
four. They were able political managers. The campaign was beginning to
be active, but no adverse reports were allowed to reach the candidate’s
ears. He actually had no opposition, so the reports came in to the
central committee.

It was even necessary to send out Arab Ab to points on the railroad to
get the sentiments of this and that community, which were always
favorable. Funds for these trips were forced on them by the candidate.
The thought of presenting a board bill to such devoted friends never
entered mine host’s mind. Thus several months passed.

The warm sun and green blades of grass suggested springtime. The boys
had played the rôle as long as they cared to. It had served the purpose
that was intended. But they must not hurt the feelings of Seigerman, or
let the cause of their zeal become known to their benefactor and
candidate for sheriff. One day report came in of some defection and a
rival candidate in the eastern part of the county. All hands
volunteered to go out. Funds were furnished, which the central
committee assured their host would be refunded whenever they could get
in touch with headquarters, or could see some prominent cowman.

At the end of a week Mr. Seigerman received a letter. The excuses
offered at the rich man’s feast were discounted by pressing orders. One
had gone to Texas to receive a herd of cattle, instead of a few oxen,
one had been summoned to Kansas City, one to Ohio. The letter concluded
with the assurance that Mr. Seigerman need have no fear but that he
would be the next sheriff.

The same night that the letter was received by mine host, this tale was
retold at a cow-camp in the Strip by the trio. The hard winter was
over.

At the county convention in May, Seigerman’s name was presented. On
each of three ballots he received one lone vote. When the news reached
the boys in the Strip, they dubbed this one vote “Seigerman’s Per
Cent,” meaning the worst of anything, and that expression became a
byword on the range, from Brownsville, Texas, to the Milk River in
Montana.



III
“BAD MEDICINE”


The evening before the Cherokee Strip was thrown open for settlement, a
number of old timers met in the little town of Hennessey, Oklahoma.

On the next day the Strip would pass from us and our employers, the
cowmen. Some of the boys had spent from five to fifteen years on this
range. But we realized that we had come to the parting of the ways.

This was not the first time that the government had taken a hand in
cattle matters. Some of us in former days had moved cattle at the
command of negro soldiers, with wintry winds howling an accompaniment.

The cowman was never a government favorite. If the Indian wards of the
nation had a few million acres of idle land, “Let it lie idle,” said
the guardian. Some of these civilized tribes maintained a fine system
of public schools from the rental of unoccupied lands. Nations, like
men, revive the fable of the dog and the ox. But the guardian was
supreme—the cowman went. This was not unexpected to most of us. Still,
this country was a home to us. It mattered little if our names were on
the pay-roll or not, it clothed and fed us.

We were seated around a table in the rear of a saloon talking of the
morrow. The place was run by a former cowboy. It therefore became a
rendezvous for the craft. Most of us had made up our minds to quit
cattle for good and take claims.

“Before I take a claim,” said Tom Roll, “I’ll go to Minnesota and peon
myself to some Swede farmer for my keep the balance of my life. Making
hay and plowing fire guards the last few years have given me all the
taste of farming that I want. I’m going to Montana in the spring.”

“Why don’t you go this winter? Is your underwear too light?” asked Ace
Gee. “Now, I’m going to make a farewell play,” continued Ace. “I’m
going to take a claim, and before I file on it, sell my rights, go back
to old Van Zandt County, Texas, this winter, rear up my feet, and tell
it to them scarey. That’s where all my folks live.”

“Well, for a winter’s stake,” chimed in Joe Box, “Ace’s scheme is all
right. We can get five hundred dollars out of a claim for simply
staking it, and we know some good ones. That sized roll ought to winter
a man with modest tastes.”

“You didn’t know that I just came from Montana, did you, Tom?” asked
Ace. “I can tell you more about that country than you want to know.
I’ve been up the trail this year; delivered our cattle on the
Yellowstone, where the outfit I worked for has a northern range. When I
remember this summer’s work, I sometimes think that I will burn my
saddle and never turn or look a cow in the face again, nor ride
anything but a plow mule and that bareback.

“The people I was working for have a range in Tom Green County, Texas,
and another one in Montana. They send their young steers north to
mature—good idea, too!—but they are not cowmen like the ones we know.
They made their money in the East in a patent medicine—got scads of it,
too. But that’s no argument that they know anything about a cow. They
have a board of directors—it is one of those cattle companies. Looks
like they started in the cattle business to give their income a healthy
outlet from the medicine branch. They operate on similar principles as
those soap factory people did here in the Strip a few years ago. About
the time they learn the business they go broke and retire.

“Our boss this summer was some relation to the wife of some of the
medicine people Down East. As they had no use for him back there, they
sent him out to the ranch, where he would be useful.

“We started north with the grass. Had thirty-three hundred head of twos
and threes, with a fair string of saddle stock. They run the same brand
on both ranges—the broken arrow. You never saw a cow-boss have so much
trouble; a married woman wasn’t a circumstance to him, fretting and
sweating continually. This was his first trip over the trail, but the
boys were a big improvement on the boss, as we had a good outfit of men
along. My idea of a good cow-boss is a man that doesn’t boss any; just
hires a first-class outfit of men, and then there is no bossing to do.

“We had to keep well to the west getting out of Texas; kept to the west
of Buffalo Gap. From there to Tepee City is a dry, barren country. To
get water for a herd the size of ours was some trouble. This new
medicine man got badly worried several times. He used his draft book
freely, buying water for the cattle while crossing this stretch of
desert; the natives all through there considered him the softest snap
they had met in years. Several times we were without water for the
stock two whole days. That makes cattle hard to hold at night. They
want to get up and prowl—it makes them feverish, and then’s when they
are ripe for a stampede. We had several bobles crossing that strip of
country; nothing bad, just jump and run a mile or so, and then mill
until daylight. Then our boss would get great action on himself and
ride a horse until the animal would give out—sick, he called it. After
the first little run we had, it took him half the next day to count
them; then he couldn’t believe his own figures.

“A Val Verde County lad who counted with him said they were all
right—not a hoof shy. But the medicine man’s opinion was the reverse.
At this the Val Verde boy got on the prod slightly, and expressed
himself, saying, ‘Why don’t you have two of the other boys count them?
You can’t come within a hundred of me, or yourself either, for that
matter. I can pick out two men, and if they differ five head, it’ll be
a surprise to me. The way the boys have brought the cattle by us, any
man that can’t count this herd and not have his own figures differ more
than a hundred had better quit riding, get himself some sandals, and a
job herding sheep. Let me give you this pointer: if you are not anxious
to have last night’s fun over again, you’d better quit counting and get
this herd full of grass and water before night, or you will be cattle
shy as sure as hell’s hot.’

“‘When I ask you for an opinion,’ answered the foreman, somewhat
indignant, ‘such remarks will be in order. Until then you may keep your
remarks to yourself.’

“‘That will suit me all right, old sport,’ retorted Val Verde; ‘and
when you want any one to help you count your fat cattle, get some of
the other boys—one that’ll let you doubt his count as you have mine,
and if he admires you for it, cut my wages in two.’

“After the two had been sparring with each other some little time,
another of the boys ventured the advice that it would be easy to count
the animals as they came out of the water; so the order went forward to
let them hit the trail for the first water. We made a fine stream,
watering early in the afternoon. As they grazed out from the creek we
fed them through between two of the boys. The count showed no cattle
short. In fact, the Val Verde boy’s count was confirmed. It was then
that our medicine man played his cards wrong. He still insisted that we
were cattle out, thus queering himself with his men. He was gradually
getting into a lone minority, though he didn’t have sense enough to
realize it. He would even fight with and curse his horses to impress us
with his authority. Very little attention was paid to him after this,
and as grass and water improved right along nothing of interest
happened.

“While crossing ‘No-Man’s-Land’ a month later,—I was on herd myself at
the time, a bright moonlight night,—they jumped like a cat shot with
No. 8’s, and quit the bed-ground instanter. There were three of us on
guard at the time, and before the other boys could get out of their
blankets and into their saddles the herd had gotten well under headway.
Even when the others came to our assistance, it took us some time to
quiet them down. As this scare came during last guard, daylight was on
us before they had quit milling, and we were three miles from the
wagon. As we drifted them back towards camp, for fear that something
might have gotten away, most of the boys scoured the country for miles
about, but without reward. When all had returned to camp, had
breakfasted, and changed horses, the counting act was ordered by Mr.
Medicine. Our foreman naturally felt that he would have to take a hand
in this count, evidently forgetting his last experience in that line.
He was surprised, when he asked one of the boys to help him, by
receiving a flat refusal.

“‘Why won’t you count with me?’ he demanded.

“‘Because you don’t possess common cow sense enough, nor is the crude
material in you to make a cow-hand. You found fault with the men the
last count we had, and I don’t propose to please you by giving you a
chance to find fault with me. That’s why I won’t count with you.’

“‘Don’t you know, sir, that I’m in authority here?’ retorted the
foreman.

“‘Well, if you are, no one seems to respect your authority, as you’re
pleased to call it, and I don’t know of any reason why I should. You
have plenty of men here who can count them correctly. I’ll count them
with any man in the outfit but yourself.’

“‘Our company sent me as their representative with this herd,’ replied
the foreman, ‘while you have the insolence to disregard my orders. I’ll
discharge you the first moment I can get a man to take your place.’

“‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ answered the lad, as the foreman rode
away. He then tackled me, but I acted foolish, ’fessing up that I
couldn’t count a hundred. Finally he rode around to a quiet little
fellow, with pox-marks on his face, who always rode on the point, kept
his horses fatter than anybody, rode a San José saddle, and was called
Californy. The boss asked him to help him count the herd.

“‘Now look here, boss,’ said Californy, ‘I’ll pick one of the boys to
help me, and we’ll count the cattle to within a few head. Won’t that
satisfy you?’

“‘No, sir, it won’t. What’s got into you boys?’ questioned the foreman.

“‘There’s nothing the matter with the boys, but the cattle business has
gone to the dogs when a valuable herd like this will be trusted to
cross a country for two thousand miles in the hands of a man like
yourself. You have men that will pull you through if you’ll only let
them,’ said the point-rider, his voice mild and kind as though he were
speaking to a child.

“‘You’re just like the rest of them!’ roared the boss. ‘Want to act
contrary! Now let me say to you that you’ll help me to count these
cattle or I’ll discharge, unhorse, and leave you afoot here in this
country! I’ll make an example of you as a warning to others.’

“‘It’s strange that I should be signaled out as an object of your wrath
and displeasure,’ said Californy. ‘Besides, if I were you, I wouldn’t
make any examples as you were thinking of doing. When you talk of
making an example of me as a warning to others,’ said the pox-marked
lad, as he reached over, taking the reins of the foreman’s horse firmly
in his hand, ‘you’re a simpering idiot for entertaining the idea, and a
cowardly bluffer for mentioning it. When you talk of unhorsing and
leaving me here afoot in a country a thousand miles from nowhere, you
don’t know what that means, but there’s no danger of your doing it. I
feel easy on that point. But I’m sorry to see you make such a fool of
yourself. Now, you may think for a moment that I’m afraid of that
ivory-handled gun you wear, but I’m not. Men wear them on the range,
not so much to emphasize their demands with, as you might think. If it
were me, I’d throw it in the wagon; it may get you into trouble. One
thing certain, if you ever so much as lay your hand on it, when you are
making threats as you have done to-day, I’ll build a fire in your face
that you can read the San Francisco “Examiner” by at midnight. You’ll
have to revise your ideas a trifle; in fact, change your tactics.
You’re off your reservation bigger than a wolf, when you try to run
things by force. There’s lots better ways. Don’t try and make talk
stick for actions, nor use any prelude to the real play you wish to
make. Unroll your little game with the real thing. You can’t throw
alkaline dust in my eyes and tell me it’s snowing. I’m sorry to have to
tell you all this, though I have noticed that you needed it for a long
time.’

“As he released his grip on the bridle reins, he continued, ‘Now ride
back to the wagon, throw off that gun, tell some of the boys to take a
man and count these cattle, and it will be done better than if you
helped.’

“‘Must I continue to listen to these insults on every hand?’ hissed the
medicine man, livid with rage.

“‘First remove the cause before you apply the remedy; that’s in your
line,’ answered Californy. ‘Besides, what are you going to do about it?
You don’t seem to be gifted with enough cow-sense to even use a
modified amount of policy in your every-day affairs,’ said he, as he
rode away to avoid hearing his answer.

“Several of us, who were near enough to hear this dressing-down of the
boss at Californy’s hands, rode up to offer our congratulations, when
we noticed that old Bad Medicine had gotten a stand on one of the boys
called ‘Pink.’ After leaving him, he continued his ride towards the
wagon. Pink soon joined us, a broad smile playing over his homely
florid countenance.

“‘Some of you boys must have given him a heavy dose for so early in the
morning,’ said Pink, ‘for he ordered me to have the cattle counted, and
report to him at the wagon. Acted like he didn’t aim to do the trick
himself. Now, as I’m foreman,’ continued Pink, ‘I want you two
point-men to go up to the first little rise of ground, and we’ll put
the cattle through between you. I want a close count, understand.
You’re working under a boss now that will shove you through hell
itself. So if you miss them over a hundred, I’ll speak to the
management, and see if I can’t have your wages raised, or have you made
a foreman or something with big wages and nothing to do.’

“The point-men smiled at Pink’s orders, and one asked, ‘Are you ready
now?’

“‘All set,’ responded Pink. ‘Let the fiddlers cut loose.’

“Well, we lined them up and got them strung out in shape to count, and
our point-men picking out a favorite rise, we lined them through
between our counters. We fed them through, and as regularly as a watch
you could hear Californy call out to his pardner ‘tally!’ Alternately
they would sing out this check on the even hundred head, slipping a
knot on their tally string to keep the hundreds. It took a full half
hour to put them through, and when the rear guard of crips and dogies
passed this impromptu review, we all waited patiently for the verdict.
Our counters rode together, and Californy, leaning over on the pommel
of his saddle, said to his pardner, ‘What you got?’

“‘Thirty-three six,’ was the answer.

“‘Why, you can’t count a little bit,’ said Californy. ‘I got
thirty-three seven. How does the count suit you, boss?’

“‘Easy suited, gents,’ said Pink. ‘But I’m surprised to find such good
men with a common cow herd. I must try and have you appointed by the
government on this commission that’s to investigate Texas fever. You’re
altogether too accomplished for such a common calling as claims you at
present.’

“Turning to the rest of us, he said, ‘Throw your cattle on the trail,
you vulgar peons, while I ride back to order forward my wagon and
saddle stock. By rights, I ought to have one of those centre fire
cigars to smoke, to set off my authority properly on this occasion.’

“He jogged back to the wagon and satisfied the dethroned medicine man
that the cattle were there to a hoof. We soon saw the saddle horses
following, and an hour afterward Pink and the foreman rode by us, big
as fat cattle-buyers from Kansas City, not even knowing any one, so
absorbed in their conversation were they; rode on by and up the trail,
looking out for grass and water.

“It was over two weeks afterward when Pink said to us, ‘When we strike
the Santa Fé Railway, I may advise my man to take a needed rest for a
few weeks in some of the mountain resorts. I hope you all noticed how
worried he looks, and, to my judgment, he seems to be losing flesh. I
don’t like to suggest anything, but the day before we reach the
railroad, I think a day’s curlew shooting in the sand hills along the
Arkansas River might please his highness. In case he’ll go with me, if
I don’t lose him, I’ll never come back to this herd. It won’t hurt him
any to sleep out one night with the dry cattle.’

“Sure enough, the day before we crossed that road, somewhere near the
Colorado state line, Pink and Bad Medicine left camp early in the
morning for a curlew hunt in the sand hills. Fortunately it was a foggy
morning, and within half an hour the two were out of sight of camp and
herd. As Pink had outlined the plans, everything was understood. We
were encamped on a nice stream, and instead of trailing along with the
herd, lay over for that day. Night came and our hunters failed to
return, and the next morning we trailed forward towards the Arkansas
River. Just as we went into camp at noon, two horsemen loomed up in
sight coming down the trail from above. Every rascal of us knew who
they were, and when the two rode up, Pink grew very angry and demanded
to know why we had failed to reach the river the day before.

“The horse wrangler, a fellow named Joe George, had been properly
coached, and stepping forward, volunteered this excuse: ‘You all didn’t
know it when you left camp yesterday morning that we were out the wagon
team and nearly half the saddle horses. Well, we were. And what’s more,
less than a mile below on the creek was an abandoned Indian camp. I
wasn’t going to be left behind with the cook to look for the missing
stock, and told the _segundo_ so. We divided into squads of three or
four men each and went out and looked up the horses, but it was after
six o’clock before we trailed them down and got the missing animals. If
anybody thinks I’m going to stay behind to look for missing stock in a
country full of lurking Indians—well, they simply don’t know me.’

“The scheme worked all right. On reaching the railroad the next
morning, Bad Medicine authorized Pink to take the herd to Ogalalla on
the Platte, while he took a train for Denver. Around the camp-fire that
night, Pink gave us his experience in losing Mr. Medicine. ‘Oh, I lost
him late enough in the day so he couldn’t reach any shelter for the
night,’ said Pink. ‘At noon, when the sun was straight overhead, I
sounded him as to directions and found that he didn’t know straight up
or east from west. After giving him the slip, I kept an eye on him
among the sand hills, at the distance of a mile or so, until he gave up
and unsaddled at dusk. The next morning when I overtook him, I
pretended to be trailing him up, and I threw enough joy into my rapture
over finding him, that he never doubted my sincerity.’

“On reaching Ogalalla, a man from Montana put in an appearance in
company with poor old Medicine, and as they did business strictly with
Pink, we were left out of the grave and owly council of medicine men.
Well, the upshot of the whole matter was that Pink was put in charge of
the herd, and a better foreman I never worked under. We reached the
company’s Yellowstone range early in the fall, counted over and bade
our dogies good-by, and rode into headquarters. That night I talked
with the regular men on the ranch, and it was there that I found out
that a first-class cowhand could get in four months’ haying in the
summer and the same feeding it out in the winter. But don’t you forget
it, she’s a cow country all right. I always was such a poor hand afoot
that I passed up that country, and here I am a ‘boomer.’”

“Well, boom if you want,” said Tom Roll, “but do you all remember what
the governor of North Carolina said to the governor of South Carolina?”

“It is quite a long time between drinks,” remarked Joe, rising, “but I
didn’t want to interrupt Ace.”

As we lined up at the bar, Ace held up a glass two thirds full, and
looking at it in a meditative mood, remarked: “Isn’t it funny how
little of this stuff it takes to make a fellow feel rich! Why, four
bits’ worth under his belt, and the President of the United States
can’t hire him.”

As we strolled out into the street, Joe inquired, “Ace, where will I
see you after supper?”

“You will see me, not only after supper, but all during supper, sitting
right beside you.”



IV
A WINTER ROUND-UP


An hour before daybreak one Christmas morning in the Cherokee Strip,
six hundred horses were under saddle awaiting the dawn. It was a clear,
frosty morning that bespoke an equally clear day for the wolf _rodeo_.
Every cow-camp within striking distance of the Walnut Grove, on the
Salt Fork of the Cimarron, was a scene of activity, taxing to the
utmost its hospitality to man and horse. There had been a hearty
response to the invitation to attend the circle drive-hunt of this
well-known shelter of several bands of gray wolves. The cowmen had
suffered so severely in time past from this enemy of cattle that the
Cherokee Strip Cattle Association had that year offered a bounty of
twenty dollars for wolf scalps.

The lay of the land was extremely favorable. The Walnut Grove was a
thickety covert on the north first bottom of the Cimarron, and possibly
two miles wide by three long. Across the river, and extending several
miles above and below this grove, was the salt plain—an alkali desert
which no wild animal, ruminant or carnivorous, would attempt to cross,
instinct having warned it of its danger. At the termination of the
grove proper, down the river or to the eastward, was a sand dune bottom
of several miles, covered by wild plum brush, terminating in a perfect
horseshoe a thousand acres in extent, the entrance of which was about a
mile wide. After passing the grove, this plum-brush country could be
covered by men on horseback, though the chaparral undergrowth of the
grove made the use of horses impracticable. The Cimarron River, which
surrounds this horseshoe on all sides but the entrance, was probably
two hundred yards wide at an average winter stage, deep enough to swim
a horse, and cold and rolling.

Across the river, opposite this horseshoe, was a cut-bank twenty feet
high in places, with only an occasional cattle trail leading down to
the water. This cut-bank formed the second bottom on that side, and the
alkaline plain—the first bottom—ended a mile or more up the river. It
was an ideal situation for a drive-hunt, and legend, corroborated by
evidences, said that the Cherokees, when they used this outlet as a
hunting-ground after their enforced emigration from Georgia, had held
numerous circle hunts over the same ground after buffalo, deer, and
elk.

The rendezvous was to be at ten o’clock on Encampment Butte, a plateau
overlooking the entire hunting-field and visible for miles. An hour
before the appointed time the clans began to gather. All the camps
within twenty-five miles, and which were entertaining participants of
the hunt, put in a prompt appearance. Word was received early that
morning that a contingent from the Eagle Chief would be there, and
begged that the start be delayed till their arrival. A number of old
cowmen were present, and to them was delegated the duty of appointing
the officers of the day. Bill Miller, a foreman on the Coldwater Pool,
an adjoining range, was appointed as first captain. There were also
several captains over divisions, and an acting captain placed over
every ten men, who would be held accountable for any disorder allowed
along the line under his special charge.

The question of forbidding the promiscuous carrying of firearms met
with decided opposition. There was an element of danger, it was true,
but to deprive any of the boys of arms on what promised an exciting
day’s sport was contrary to their creed and occupation; besides, their
judicious use would be an essential and valuable assistance. To deny
one the right and permit another, would have been to divide their
forces against a common enemy; so in the interests of harmony it was
finally concluded to assign an acting captain over every ten men. “I’ll
be perfectly responsible for any of my men,” said Reese, a red-headed
Welsh cowman from over on Black Bear. “Let’s just turn our wild selves
loose, and those wolves won’t stand any more show than a coon in a bear
dance.”

“It would be fine satisfaction to be shot by a responsible man like you
or any of your outfit,” replied Hollycott, superintendent of the “LX.”
“I hope another Christmas Day to help eat a plum pudding on the banks
of the Dee, and I don’t want to be carrying any of your stray lead in
my carcass either. Did you hear me?”

“Yes; we’re going to have egg-nog at our camp to-night. Come down.”

The boys were being told off in squads of ten, when a suppressed shout
of welcome arose, as a cavalcade of horsemen was sighted coming over
the divide several miles distant. Before the men were allotted and
their captains appointed, the last expected squad had arrived, their
horses frosty and sweaty. They were all well known west end Strippers,
numbering fifty-four men and having ridden from the Eagle Chief,
thirty-five miles, starting two hours before daybreak.

With the arrival of this detachment, Miller gave his orders for the
day. Tom Cave was given two hundred men and sent to the upper end of
the grove, where they were to dismount, form in a half circle
skirmish-line covering the width of the thicket, and commence the drive
down the river. Their saddle horses were to be cut into two bunches and
driven down on either side of the grove, and to be in readiness for the
men when they emerged from the chaparral, four of the oldest men being
detailed as horse wranglers. Reese was sent with a hundred and fifty
men to left flank the grove, deploying his men as far back as the
second bottom, and close his line as the drive moved forward. Billy
Edwards was sent with twenty picked men down the river five miles to
the old beef ford at the ripples. His instructions were to cross and
scatter his men from the ending of the salt plain to the horseshoe, and
to concentrate them around it at the termination of the drive. He was
allowed the best ropers and a number of shotguns, to be stationed at
the cattle trails leading down to the water at the river’s bend. The
remainder, about two hundred and fifty men under Lynch, formed a long
scattering line from the left entrance of the horseshoe, extending back
until it met the advancing line of Reese’s pickets.

With the river on one side and this cordon of foot and horsemen on the
other, it seemed that nothing could possibly escape. The location of
the quarry was almost assured. This chaparral had been the breeding
refuge of wolves ever since the Cimarron was a cattle country. Every
rider on that range for the past ten years knew it to be the rendezvous
of El Lobo, while the ravages of his nightly raids were in evidence for
forty miles in every direction. It was a common sight, early in the
morning during the winter months, to see twenty and upward in a band,
leisurely returning to their retreat, logy and insolent after a night’s
raid. To make doubly sure that they would be at home to callers, the
promoters of this drive gathered a number of worthless lump-jawed
cattle two days in advance, and driving them to the edge of the grove,
shot one occasionally along its borders, thus, to be hoped, spreading
the last feast of the wolves.


By half past ten, Encampment Butte was deserted with the exception of a
few old cowmen, two ladies, wife and sister of a popular cowman, and
the captain, who from this point of vantage surveyed the field with a
glass. Usually a languid and indifferent man, Miller had so set his
heart on making this drive a success that this morning he appeared
alert and aggressive as he rode forward and back across the plateau of
the Butte. The dull, heavy reports of several shotguns caused him to
wheel his horse and cover the beef ford with his glass, and a moment
later Edwards and his squad were seen with the naked eye to scale the
bank and strike up the river at a gallop. It was known that the ford
was saddle-skirt deep, and some few of the men were strangers to it;
but with that passed safely he felt easier, though his blood coursed
quicker. It lacked but a few minutes to eleven, and Cave and his
detachment of beaters were due to move on the stroke of the hour. They
had been given one hundred rounds of six-shooter ammunition to the man
and were expected to use it. Edwards and his cavalcade were approaching
the horseshoe, the cordon seemed perfect, though scattering, when the
first faint sound of the beaters was heard, and the next moment the
barking of two hundred six-shooters was reëchoing up and down the
valley of the Salt Fork.

The drive-hunt was on; the long yell passed from the upper end of the
grove to the mouth of the horseshoe and back, punctuated with an
occasional shot by irrepressibles. The mounts of the day were the pick
of over five thousand cow-horses, and corn-fed for winter use, in the
pink of condition and as impatient for the coming fray as their riders.

Everything was moving like clockwork. Miller forsook the Butte and rode
to the upper end of the grove; the beaters were making slow but steady
progress, while the saddled loose horses would be at hand for their
riders without any loss of time. Before the beaters were one third over
the ground, a buck and doe came out about halfway down the grove,
sighted the horsemen, and turned back for shelter. Once more the long
yell went down the line. Game had been sighted. When about one half the
grove had been beat, a flock of wild turkeys came out at the lower end,
and taking flight, sailed over the line. Pandemonium broke out. Good
resolutions of an hour’s existence were converted into paving material
in the excitement of the moment, as every carbine or six-shooter in or
out of range rained its leaden hail at the flying covey. One fine bird
was accidentally winged, and half a dozen men broke from the line to
run it down, one of whom was Reese himself. The line was not
dangerously broken nor did harm result, and on their return Miller was
present and addressed this query to Reese: “Who is the captain of this
flank line?”

“He’ll weigh twenty pounds,” said Reese, ignoring the question and
holding the gobbler up for inspection.

“If you were a vealy tow-headed kid, I’d have something to say to you,
but you’re old enough to be my father, and that silences me. But try
and remember that this is a wolf hunt, and that there are enough wolves
in that brush this minute to kill ten thousand dollars’ worth of cattle
this winter and spring, and some of them will be your own. That turkey
might eat a few grasshoppers, but you’re cowman enough to know that a
wolf just loves to kill a cow while she’s calving.”

This lecture was interrupted by a long cheer coming up the line from
below, and Miller galloped away to ascertain its cause. He met Lynch
coming up, who reported that several wolves had been sighted, while at
the lower end of the line some of the boys had been trying their guns
up and down the river to see how far they would carry. What caused the
recent shouting was only a few fool cowboys spurting their horses in
short races. He further expressed the opinion that the line would hold,
and at the close with the cordon thickened, everything would be forced
into the pocket. Miller rode back down the line with him until he met a
man from his own camp, and the two changing horses, he hurried back to
oversee personally the mounting of the beaters when the grove had been
passed.

Reese, after the captain’s reproof, turned his trophy over to some of
the men, and was bringing his line down and closing up with the forward
movement of the drive. On Miller’s return, no fault could be found, as
the line was condensed to about a mile in length, while the beaters on
the points were just beginning to emerge from the chaparral and anxious
for their horses. Once clear of the grove, the beaters halted,
maintaining their line, while from either end the horse wranglers were
distributing to them their mounts. Again secure in their saddles, the
long yell circled through the plum thickets and reëchoed down the line,
and the drive moved forward at a quicker pace. “If you have any doubts
about hell,” said Cave to Miller, as the latter rode by, “just take a
little _pasear_ through that thicket once and you’ll come out a
defender of the faith.”

The buck and doe came out within sight of the line once more, lower
down opposite the sand dunes, and again turned back, and a half hour
later all ears were strained listening to the rapid shooting from the
farther bank of the river. Rebuffed in their several attempts to force
the line, they had taken to the water and were swimming the river. From
several sand dunes their landing on the opposite bank near the ending
of the salt plain could be distinctly seen. As they came out of the
river, half a dozen six-shooters were paying them a salute in lead; but
the excitability of the horses made aim uncertain, and they rounded the
cut-bank at the upper end and escaped.

While the deer were making their escape, a band of antelope were
sighted sunning themselves amongst the sand dunes a mile below;
attracted by the shooting, they were standing at attention. Now when an
antelope scents danger, he has an unreasonable and unexplainable desire
to reach high ground, where he can observe and be observed—at a
distance. Once this conclusion has been reached, he allows nothing to
stop him, not even recently built wire fences or man himself, and like
the cat despises water except for drinking purposes. So when this band
of antelope decided to adjourn their _siesta_ from the warm, sunny
slope of a sand dune, they made an effort and did break the cordon, but
not without a protest.

As they came out of the sand dunes, heading straight for the line, all
semblance of control was lost in the men. Nothing daunted by the
yelling that greeted the antelope, once they came within range fifty
men were shooting at them without bringing one to grass. With guns
empty they loosened their ropes and met them. A dozen men made casts,
and Juan Mesa, a Mexican from the Eagle Chief, lassoed a fine buck,
while “Pard” Sevenoaks, from the J+H, fastened to the smallest one in
the band. He was so disgusted with his catch that he dismounted,
ear-marked the kid, and let it go. Mesa had made his cast with so large
a loop that one fore leg of the antelope had gone through, and it was
struggling so desperately that he was compelled to tie the rope in a
hard knot to the pommel of his saddle. His horse was a wheeler on the
rope, so Juan dismounted to pet his buck. While he held on to the rope
assisting his horse, an Eagle Chief man slipped up and cut the rope
through the knot, and the next moment a Mexican was burning the grass,
calling on saints and others to come and help him turn the antelope
loose. When the rope had burned its way through his gloved hands, he
looked at them in astonishment, saying, “That was one bravo buck. How
come thees rope untie?” But there was none to explain, and an antelope
was dragging thirty-five feet of rope in a frantic endeavor to overtake
his band.

The line had been closing gradually until at this juncture it had been
condensed to about five miles, or a horseman to every fifty feet.
Wolves had been sighted numerous times running from covert to covert,
but few had shown themselves to the flank line, being contented with
such shelter as the scraggy plum brush afforded. Whenever the beaters
would rout or sight a wolf, the yelling would continue up and down the
line for several minutes. Cave and his well-formed circle of beaters
were making good time; Reese on the left flank was closing and moving
forward, while the line under Lynch was as impatient as it was
hilarious. Miller made the circle every half hour or so; and had only
to mention it to pick any horse he wanted from the entire line for a
change.

By one o’clock the drive had closed to the entrance of the pocket, and
within a mile and a half of the termination. There was yet enough cover
to hide the quarry, though the extreme point of this horseshoe was a
sand bar with no shelter except driftwood trees. Edwards and his squad
were at their post across the river, in plain view of the advancing
line. Suddenly they were seen to dismount and lie down on the brink of
the cut-bank. A few minutes later chaos broke out along the line, when
a band of possibly twenty wolves left their cover and appeared on the
sand bar. A few rifle shots rang out from the opposite bank, when they
skurried back to cover.

Shooting was now becoming dangerous. In the line was a horseman every
ten or twelve feet. All the captains rode up and down begging the men
to cease shooting entirely. This only had a temporary effect, for
shortly the last bit of cover was passed, and there within four hundred
yards on the bar was a snarling, snapping band of gray wolves.

The line was halted. The unlooked-for question now arose how to make
the kill safe and effective. It would be impossible to shoot from the
opposite bank without endangering the line of men and horses. Finally a
small number of rifles were advanced on the extreme left flank to
within two hundred yards of the quarry, where they opened fire at an
angle from the watchers on the opposite bank. They proved poor
marksmen, overshooting, and only succeeded in wounding a few and
forcing several to take to the water, so that it became necessary to
recall the men to the line.

These men were now ordered to dismount and lie down, as the opposite
side would take a hand when the swimming wolves came within range of
shotguns and carbines, to say nothing of six-shooters. The current
carried the swimming ones down the river, but every man was in
readiness to give them a welcome. The fusillade which greeted them was
like a skirmish-line in action, but the most effective execution was
with buckshot as they came staggering and water-soaked out of the
water. Before the shooting across the river had ceased, a yell of alarm
surged through the line, and the next moment every man was climbing
into his saddle and bringing his arms into position for action. No
earthly power could have controlled the men, for coming at the line
less than two hundred yards distant was the corralled band of wolves
under the leadership of a monster dog wolf, evidently a leader of some
band, and every gun within range opened on them. By the time they had
lessened the intervening distance by one half, the entire band deserted
their leader and retreated, but unmindful of consequences he rushed
forward at the line. Every gun was belching fire and lead at him, while
tufts of fur floating in the air told that several shots were
effective. Wounded he met the horsemen, striking right and left in
splendid savage ferocity. The horses snorted and shrank from him, and
several suffered from his ugly thrusts. An occasional effective shot
was placed, but every time he forced his way through the cordon he was
confronted by a second line. A successful cast of a rope finally
checked his course; and as the roper wheeled his mount to drag him to
death, he made his last final rush at the horse, and, springing at the
flank, fastened his fangs into a stirrup fender, when a well-directed
shot by the roper silenced him safely at last.

During the excitement, there were enough cool heads to maintain the
line, so that none escaped. The supreme question now was to make the
kill with safety, and the line was ransacked for volunteers who could
shoot a rifle with some little accuracy. About a dozen were secured,
who again advanced on the extreme right flank to within a hundred and
fifty yards, and dismounting, flattened themselves out and opened on
the skurrying wolves. It was afterward attributed to the glaring of the
sun on the white sand, which made their marksmanship so shamefully
poor, but results were very unsatisfactory. They were recalled, and it
was decided to send in four shotguns and try the effect of buckshot
from horseback. This move was disastrous, though final.

They were ordinary double-barreled shotguns, and reloading was slow in
an emergency. Many of the wolves were wounded and had sought such cover
as the driftwood afforded. The experiment had barely begun, when a
wounded wolf sprang out from behind an old root, and fastened upon the
neck of one of the horses before the rider could defend himself, and
the next moment horse and rider were floundering on the ground. To a
man, the line broke to the rescue, while the horses of the two lady
spectators were carried into the mêlée in the excitement. The dogs of
war were loosed. Hell popped. The smoke of six hundred guns arose in
clouds. There were wolves swimming the river and wolves trotting around
amongst the horses, wounded and bewildered. Ropes swished through the
smoke, tying wounded wolves to be dragged to death or trampled under
hoof. Men dismounted and clubbed them with shotguns and
carbines,—anything to administer death. Horses were powder-burnt and
cried with fear, or neighed exultingly. There was an old man or two who
had sense enough to secure the horses of the ladies and lead them out
of immediate danger. Several wolves made their escape, and squads of
horsemen were burying cruel rowels in heaving flanks in an endeavor to
overtake and either rope or shoot the fleeing animals.

Disordered things as well as ordered ones have an end, and when sanity
returned to the mob an inventory was taken of the drive-hunt. By actual
count, the lifeless carcases of twenty-six wolves graced the sand bar,
with several precincts to hear from. The promoters of the hunt thanked
the men for their assistance, assuring them that the bounty money would
be used to perfect arrangements, so that in other years a banquet would
crown future hunts. Before the hunt dispersed, Edwards and his squad
returned to the brink of the cut-bank, and when hailed as to results,
he replied, “Why, we only got seven, but they are all _muy docil_.
We’re going to peel them and will meet you at the ford.”

“Who gets the turkey?” some one asked.

“The question is out of order,” replied Reese. “The property is not
present, because I sent him home by my cook an hour ago. If any of you
have any interest in that gobbler, I’ll invite you to go home with me
and help to eat him, for my camp is the only one in the Strip that will
have turkey and egg-nog to-night.”



V
A COLLEGE VAGABOND


The ease and apparent willingness with which some men revert to an
aimless life can best be accounted for by the savage or barbarian
instincts of our natures. The West has produced many types of the
vagabond,—it might be excusable to say, won them from every condition
of society. From the cultured East, with all the advantages which
wealth and educational facilities can give to her sons, they flocked;
from the South, with her pride of ancestry, they came; even the British
Isles contributed their quota. There was something in the primitive
West of a generation or more ago which satisfied them. Nowhere else
could it be found, and once they adapted themselves to existing
conditions, they were loath to return to former associations.

About the middle of the fifties, there graduated from one of our
Eastern colleges a young man of wealthy and distinguished family. His
college record was good, but close application to study during the last
year had told on his general health. His ambition, coupled with a
laudable desire to succeed, had buoyed up his strength until the final
graduation day had passed.

Alexander Wells had the advantage of a good physical constitution.
During the first year at college his reputation as an athlete had been
firmly established by many a hard fought contest in the college games.
The last two years he had not taken an active part in them, as his
studies had required his complete attention. On his return home, it was
thought by parents and sisters that rest and recreation would soon
restore the health of this overworked young graduate, who was now two
years past his majority. Two months of rest, however, failed to produce
any improvement, but the family physician would not admit that there
was immediate danger, and declared the trouble simply the result of
overstudy, advising travel. This advice was very satisfactory to the
young man, for he had a longing to see other sections of the country.

The elder Wells some years previously had become interested in western
and southern real estate, and among other investments which he had made
was the purchase of an old Spanish land grant on a stream called the
Salado, west of San Antonio, Texas. These land grants were made by the
crown of Spain to favorite subjects. They were known by name, which
they always retained when changing ownership. Some of these tracts were
princely domains, and were bartered about as though worthless, often
changing owners at the card-table.

So when travel was suggested to Wells, junior, he expressed a desire to
visit this family possession, and possibly spend a winter in its warm
climate. This decision was more easily reached from the fact that there
was an abundance of game on the land, and being a devoted sportsman,
his own consent was secured in advance. No other reason except that of
health would ever have gained the consent of his mother to a six
months’ absence. But within a week after reaching the decision, the
young man had left New York and was on his way to Texas. His route,
both by water and rail, brought him only within eighty miles of his
destination, and the rest of the distance he was obliged to travel by
stage.

San Antonio at this time was a frontier village, with a mixed
population, the Mexican being the most prominent inhabitant. There was
much to be seen which was new and attractive to the young Easterner,
and he tarried in it several days, enjoying its novel and picturesque
life. The arrival and departure of the various stage lines for the
accommodation of travelers like himself was of more than passing
interest. They rattled in from Austin and Laredo. They were sometimes
late from El Paso, six hundred miles to the westward. Probably a brush
with the Indians, or the more to be dreaded Mexican bandits (for these
stages carried treasure—gold and silver, the currency of the country),
was the cause of the delay. Frequently they carried guards, whose
presence was generally sufficient to command the respect of the average
robber.

Then there were the freight trains, the motive power of which was mules
and oxen. It was necessary to carry forward supplies and bring back the
crude products of the country. The Chihuahua wagon was drawn sometimes
by twelve, sometimes by twenty mules, four abreast in the swing, the
leaders and wheelers being single teams. For mutual protection trains
were made up of from ten to twenty wagons. Drivers frequently meeting a
chance acquaintance going in an opposite direction would ask, “What is
your cargo?” and the answer would be frankly given, “Specie.” Many a
Chihuahua wagon carried three or four tons of gold and silver,
generally the latter. Here was a new book for this college lad, one he
had never studied, though it was more interesting to him than some he
had read. There was something thrilling in all this new life. He liked
it. The romance was real; it was not an imitation. People answered his
few questions and asked none in return.

In this frontier village at a late hour one night young Wells overheard
this conversation: “Hello, Bill,” said the case-keeper in a faro game,
as he turned his head halfway round to see who was the owner of the
monster hand which had just reached over his shoulder and placed a
stack of silver dollars on a card, marking it to win, “I’ve missed you
the last few days. Where have you been so long?”

“Oh, I’ve just been out to El Paso on a little pasear guarding the
stage,” was the reply. Now the little pasear was a continuous night and
day round-trip of twelve hundred miles. Bill had slept and eaten as he
could. When mounted, he scouted every possible point of ambush for
lurking Indian or bandit. Crossing open stretches of country, he
climbed up on the stage and slept. Now having returned, he was anxious
to get his wages into circulation. Here were characters worthy of a
passing glance.

Interesting as this frontier life was to the young man, he prepared for
his final destination. He had no trouble in locating his father’s
property, for it was less than twenty miles from San Antonio. Securing
an American who spoke Spanish, the two set out on horseback. There were
several small ranchitos on the tract, where five or six Mexican
families lived. Each family had a field and raised corn for bread. A
flock of goats furnished them milk and meat. The same class of people
in older States were called squatters, making no claim to ownership of
the land. They needed little clothing, the climate being in their
favor.

The men worked at times. The pecan crop which grew along the creek
bottoms was beginning to have a value in the coast towns for shipment
to northern markets, and this furnished them revenue for their simple
needs. All kinds of game was in abundance, including waterfowl in
winter, though winter here was only such in name. These simple people
gave a welcome to the New Yorker which appeared sincere. They offered
no apology for their presence on this land, nor was such in order, for
it was the custom of the country. They merely referred to themselves as
“his people,” as though belonging to the land.

When they learned that he was the son of the owner of the grant, and
that he wanted to spend a few months hunting and looking about, they
considered themselves honored. The best jacal in the group was tendered
him and his interpreter. The food offered was something new, but the
relish with which his companion partook of it assisted young Wells in
overcoming his scruples, and he ate a supper of dishes he had never
tasted before. The coffee he declared was delicious.

On the advice of his companion they had brought along blankets. The
women of the ranchito brought other bedding, and a comfortable bed soon
awaited the Americanos. The owner of the jacal in the mean time
informed his guest through the interpreter that he had sent to a
near-by ranchito for a man who had at least the local reputation of
being quite a hunter. During the interim, while awaiting the arrival of
the man, he plied his guest with many questions regarding the outside
world, of which his ideas were very simple, vague, and extremely
provincial. His conception of distance was what he could ride in a
given number of days on a good pony. His ideas of wealth were no
improvement over those of his Indian ancestors of a century previous.
In architecture, the jacal in which they sat satisfied his ideals.

The footsteps of a horse interrupted their conversation. A few moments
later, Tiburcio, the hunter, was introduced to the two Americans with a
profusion of politeness. There was nothing above the ordinary in the
old hunter, except his hair, eyes, and swarthy complexion, which
indicated his Aztec ancestry. It might be in perfect order to remark
here that young Wells was perfectly composed, almost indifferent to the
company and surroundings. He shook hands with Tiburcio in a manner as
dignified, yet agreeable, as though he was the governor of his native
State or the minister of some prominent church at home. From this
juncture, he at once took the lead in the conversation, and kept up a
line of questions, the answers to which were very gratifying. He
learned that deer were very plentiful everywhere, and that on this very
tract of land were several wild turkey roosts, where it was no trouble
to bag any number desired. On the prairie portion of the surrounding
country could be found large droves of antelope. During drouthy periods
they were known to come twenty miles to quench their thirst in the
Salado, which was the main watercourse of this grant. Once Tiburcio
assured his young patron that he had frequently counted a thousand
antelope during a single morning. Then there was also the javeline or
peccary which abounded in endless numbers, but it was necessary to hunt
them with dogs, as they kept the thickets and came out in the open only
at night. Many a native cur met his end hunting these animals, cut to
pieces with their tusks, so that packs, trained for the purpose, were
used to bay them until the hunter could arrive and dispatch them with a
rifle. Even this was always done from horseback, as it was dangerous to
approach the javeline, for they would, when aroused, charge anything.

All this was gratifying to young Wells, and like a congenial fellow, he
produced and showed the old hunter a new gun, the very latest model in
the market, explaining its good qualities through his interpreter.
Tiburcio handled it as if it were a rare bit of millinery, but managed
to ask its price and a few other questions. Through his companion,
Wells then engaged the old hunter’s services for the following day; not
that he expected to hunt, but he wanted to acquaint himself with the
boundaries of the land and to become familiar with the surrounding
country. Naming an hour for starting in the morning, the two men shook
hands and bade each other good-night, each using his own language to
express the parting, though neither one knew a word the other said. The
first link in a friendship not soon to be broken had been forged.

Tiburcio was on hand at the appointed hour in the morning, and being
joined by the two Americans they rode off up the stream. It was
October, and the pecans, they noticed, were already falling, as they
passed through splendid groves of this timber, several times
dismounting to fill their pockets with nuts. Tiburcio frequently called
attention to fresh deer tracks near the creek bottom, and shortly
afterward the first game of the day was sighted. Five or six does and
grown fawns broke cover and ran a short distance, stopped, looked at
the horsemen, and then capered away.

Riding to the highest ground in the vicinity, they obtained a splendid
view of the stream, outlined by the foliage of the pecan groves that
lined its banks as far as the eye could follow either way. Tiburcio
pointed out one particular grove lying three or four miles farther up
the creek. Here he said was a cabin which had been built by a white man
who had left it several years ago, and which he had often used as a
hunting camp in bad weather. Feeling his way cautiously, Wells asked
the old hunter if he were sure that this cabin was on and belonged to
the grant. Being assured on both points, he then inquired if there was
anything to hinder him from occupying the hut for a few months. On the
further assurance that there was no man to dispute his right, he began
plying his companions with questions. The interpreter told him that it
was a very common and simple thing for men to batch, enumerating the
few articles he would need for this purpose.

They soon reached the cabin, which proved to be an improvement over the
ordinary jacal of the country, as it had a fireplace and chimney. It
was built of logs; the crevices were chinked with clay for mortar, its
floor being of the same substance. The only Mexican feature it
possessed was the thatched roof. While the Americans were examining it
and its surroundings, Tiburcio unsaddled the horses, picketing one and
hobbling the other two, kindled a fire, and prepared a lunch from some
articles he had brought along. The meal, consisting of coffee, chipped
venison, and a thin wafer bread made from corn and reheated over coals,
was disposed of with relish. The two Americans sauntered around for
some distance, and on their return to the cabin found Tiburcio enjoying
his siesta under a near-by pecan tree.

Their horses refreshed and rested, they resaddled, crossing the stream,
intending to return to the ranchito by evening. After leaving the
bottoms of the creek, Tiburcio showed the young man a trail made by the
javeline, and he was surprised to learn that an animal with so small a
foot was a dangerous antagonist, on account of its gregarious nature.
Proceeding they came to several open prairies, in one of which they saw
a herd of antelope, numbering forty to fifty, making a beautiful sight
as they took fright and ran away. Young Wells afterward learned that
distance lent them charms and was the greatest factor in their beauty.
As they rode from one vantage-point to another for the purpose of
sight-seeing, the afternoon passed rapidly.

Later, through the interpreter he inquired of Tiburcio if his services
could be secured as guide, cook, and companion for the winter, since he
had fully made up his mind to occupy the cabin. Tiburcio was overjoyed
at the proposition, as it was congenial to his tastes, besides carrying
a compensation. Definite arrangements were now made with him, and he
was requested to be on hand in the morning. On reaching the ranchito,
young Wells’s decision was announced to their host of the night
previous, much to the latter’s satisfaction. During the evening the two
Americans planned to return to the village in the morning for the
needed supplies. Tiburcio was on hand at the appointed time, and here
unconsciously the young man fortified himself in the old hunter’s
confidence by intrusting him with the custody of his gun, blankets, and
several other articles until he should return.

A week later found the young hunter established in the cabin with the
interpreter and Tiburcio. A wagon-load of staple supplies was snugly
stored away for future use, and they were at peace with the world. By
purchase Wells soon had several saddle ponies, and the old hunter
adding his pack of javeline dogs, they found themselves well equipped
for the winter campaign.

Hunting, in which the young man was an apt scholar, was now the order
of the day. Tiburcio was an artist in woodcraft as well as in his
knowledge of the habits of animals and birds. On chilly or disagreeable
days they would take out the pack of dogs and beat the thickets for the
javeline. It was exciting sport to bring to bay a drove of these
animals. To shoot from horseback lent a charm, yet made aim uncertain,
nor was it advisable to get too close range. Many a young dog made a
fatal mistake in getting too near this little animal, and the doctoring
of crippled dogs became a daily duty. All surplus game was sent to the
ranchito below, where it was always appreciated.

At first the young man wrote regularly long letters home, but as it
took Tiburcio a day to go to the post-office, he justified himself in
putting writing off, sometimes several weeks, because it ruined a whole
day and tired out a horse to mail a letter. Hardships were enjoyed.
They thought nothing of spending a whole night going from one turkey
roost to another, if half a dozen fine birds were the reward. They
would saddle up in the evening and ride ten miles, sleeping out all
night by a fire in order to stalk a buck at daybreak, having located
his range previously.

Thus the winter passed, and as the limit of the young man’s vacation
was near at hand, Wells wrote home pleading for more time, telling his
friends how fast he was improving, and estimating that it would take at
least six months more to restore him fully to his former health. This
request being granted, he contented himself by riding about the
country, even visiting cattle ranches south on the Frio River. Now and
then he would ride into San Antonio for a day or two, but there was
nothing new to be seen there, and his visits were brief. He had
acquired a sufficient knowledge of Spanish to get along now without an
interpreter.

When the summer was well spent, he began to devise some excuse to give
his parents for remaining another winter. Accordingly he wrote his
father what splendid opportunities there were to engage in cattle
ranching, going into detail very intelligently in regard to the grasses
on the tract and the fine opportunity presented for establishing a
ranch. The water privileges, the faithfulness of Tiburcio, and other
minor matters were fully set forth, and he concluded by advising that
they buy or start a brand of cattle on this grant. His father’s reply
was that he should expect his son to return as soon as the state of his
health would permit. He wished to be a dutiful son, yet he wished to
hunt just one more winter.

So he felt that he must make another tack to gain his point. Following
letters noted no improvement in his health. Now, as the hunting season
was near at hand, he found it convenient to bargain with a renegade
doctor, who, for the consideration offered, wrote his parents that
their son had recently consulted him to see if it would be advisable to
return to a rigorous climate in his present condition. Professionally
he felt compelled to advise him not to think of leaving Texas for at
least another year. To supplement this, the son wrote that he hoped to
be able to go home in the early spring. This had the desired effect.
Any remorse of conscience he may have felt over the deception resorted
to was soon forgotten in following a pack of hounds or stalking deer,
for hunting now became the order of the day. The antlered buck was
again in his prime. His favorite range was carefully noted. Very few
hunts were unrewarded by at least one or more shots at this noble
animal. With an occasional visitor, the winter passed as had the
previous one. Some congenial spirit would often spend a few days with
them, and his departure was always sincerely regretted.

The most peculiar feature of the whole affair was the friendship of the
young man for Tiburcio. The latter was the practical hunter, which
actual experience only can produce. He could foretell the coming of a
norther twenty-four hours in advance. Just which course deer would
graze he could predict by the quarter of the wind. In woodcraft he was
a trustworthy though unquoted authority. His young patron often showed
him his watch and explained how it measured time, but he had no use for
it. He could tell nearly enough when it was noon, and if the stars were
shining he knew midnight within a few minutes. This he had learned when
a shepherd. He could track a wounded deer for miles, when another could
not see a trace of where the animal had passed. He could recognize the
footprint of his favorite saddle pony among a thousand others. How he
did these things he did not know himself. These companions were
graduates of different schools, extremes of different nationalities.
Yet Alexander Wells had no desire to elevate the old hunter to his own
standard, preferring to sit at his feet.

But finally the appearance of blades of grass and early flowers warned
them that winter was gone and that spring was at hand. Their
occupation, therefore, was at an end. Now how to satisfy the folks at
home and get a further extension of time was the truant’s supreme
object. While he always professed obedience to parental demands, yet
rebellion was brewing, for he did not want to go East—not just yet.
Imperative orders to return were artfully parried. Finally remittances
were withheld, but he had no use for money. Coercion was bad policy to
use in his case. Thus a third and a fourth winter passed, and the young
hunter was enjoying life on the Salado, where questions of state and
nation did not bother him.

But this existence had an end. One day in the spring a conveyance drove
up to the cabin, and an elderly, well-dressed woman alighted. With the
assistance of her driver she ran the gauntlet of dogs and reached the
cabin door, which was open. There, sitting inside on a dry cow-skin
which was spread on the clay floor, was the object of her visit,
surrounded by a group of Mexican companions, playing a game called
monte. The absorbing interest taken in the cards had prevented the
inmates of the jacal from noticing the lady’s approach until she stood
opposite the door. On the appearance of a woman, the game instantly
ceased. Recognition was mutual, but neither mother nor son spoke a
word. Her eye took in the surroundings at a glance. Finally she spoke
with a half-concealed imperiousness of tone, though her voice was quiet
and kindly.

“Alexander, if you wish to see your mother, come to San Antonio, won’t
you, please?” and turning, she retraced her steps toward the carriage.

Her son arose from his squatting posture, hitching up one side of his
trousers, then the other, for he was suspenderless, and following at a
distance, scratching his head and hitching his trousers alternately, he
at last managed to say, “Ah, well—why—if you can wait a few moments
till I change my clothes, I’ll—I’ll go with you right now.”

This being consented to, he returned to the cabin, made the necessary
change, and stood before them a picture of health, bewhiskered and
bronzed like a pirate. As he was halfway to the vehicle, he turned
back, and taking the old black hands of Tiburcio in his own, said in
good Spanish, though there was a huskiness in his voice, “That lady is
my mother. I may never see you again. I don’t think I will. You may
have for your own everything I leave.”

There were tears in the old hunter’s eyes as he relinquished young
Wells’s hands and watched him fade from his sight. His mother, unable
to live longer without him, had made the trip from New York, and now
that she had him in her possession there was no escape. They took the
first stage out of the village that night on their return trip for New
York State.

But the mother’s victory was short-lived and barren. Within three years
after the son’s return, he failed in two business enterprises in which
his father started him. Nothing discouraged, his parents offered him a
third opportunity, it containing, however, a marriage condition. But
the voice of a siren, singing of flowery prairies and pecan groves on
the Salado, in which could be heard the music of hounds and the
clattering of horses’ hoofs at full speed following, filled every niche
and corner of his heart, and he balked at the marriage offer.

When the son had passed his thirtieth year, his parents became resigned
and gave their consent to his return to Texas. Long before parental
consent was finally obtained, it was evident to his many friends that
the West had completely won him; and once the desire of his heart was
secured, the languid son beamed with energy in outfitting for his
return. He wrung the hands of old friends with a new grip, and with
boyish enthusiasm announced his early departure.

On the morning of leaving, quite a crowd of friends and relatives
gathered at the depot to see him off. But when a former college chum
attempted to remonstrate with him on the social sacrifice which he was
making, he turned to the group of friends, and smilingly said, “That’s
all right. You are honest in thinking that New York is God’s country.
But out there in Texas also is, for it is just as God made it. Why, I’m
going to start a cattle ranch as soon as I get there and go back to
nature. Don’t pity me. Rather let me pity you, who think, act, and look
as if turned out of the same mill. Any social sacrifices which I make
in leaving here will be repaid tenfold by the freedom and advantages of
the boundless West.”



VI
THE DOUBLE TRAIL


Early in the summer of ’78 we were rocking along with a herd of Laurel
Leaf cattle, going up the old Chisholm trail in the Indian Territory.
The cattle were in charge of Ike Inks as foreman, and had been sold for
delivery somewhere in the Strip.

There were thirty-one hundred head, straight “twos,” and in the single
ranch brand. We had been out about four months on the trail, and all
felt that a few weeks at the farthest would let us out, for the day
before we had crossed the Cimarron River, ninety miles south of the
state line of Kansas.

The foreman was simply killing time, waiting for orders concerning the
delivery of the cattle. All kinds of jokes were in order, for we all
felt that we would soon be set free. One of our men had been taken
sick, as we crossed Red River into the Nations, and not wanting to
cross this Indian country short-handed, Inks had picked up a young
fellow who evidently had never been over the trail before.

He gave the outfit his correct name, on joining us, but it proved
unpronounceable, and for convenience some one rechristened him Lucy, as
he had quite a feminine appearance. He was anxious to learn, and was in
evidence in everything that went on.

The trail from the Cimarron to Little Turkey Creek, where we were now
camped, had originally been to the east of the present one, skirting a
black-jack country. After being used several years it had been
abandoned, being sandy, and the new route followed up the bottoms of
Big Turkey, since it was firmer soil, affording better footing to
cattle. These two trails came together again at Little Turkey. At no
place were they over two or three miles apart, and from where they
separated to where they came together again was about seven miles.

It troubled Lucy not to know why this was thus. Why did these routes
separate and come together again? He was fruitful with inquiries as to
where this trail or that road led. The boss-man had a vein of humor in
his make-up, though it was not visible; so he told the young man that
he did not know, as he had been over this route but once before, but he
thought that Stubb, who was then on herd, could tell him how it was; he
had been over the trail every year since it was laid out. This was
sufficient to secure Stubb an interview, as soon as he was relieved
from duty and had returned to the wagon. So Ike posted one of the men
who was next on guard to tell Stubb what to expect, and to be sure to
tell it to him scary.

A brief description of Stubb necessarily intrudes, though this nickname
describes the man. Extremely short in stature, he was inclined to be
fleshy. In fact, a rear view of Stubb looked as though some one had
hollowed out a place to set his head between his ample shoulders. But a
front view revealed a face like a full moon. In disposition he was very
amiable. His laugh was enough to drive away the worst case of the
blues. It bubbled up from some inward source and seemed perennial. His
worst fault was his bar-room astronomy. If there was any one thing that
he shone in, it was rustling coffin varnish during the early
prohibition days along the Kansas border. His patronage was limited
only by his income, coupled with what credit he enjoyed.

Once, about midnight, he tried to arouse a drug clerk who slept in the
store, and as he had worked this racket before, he coppered the play to
repeat. So he tapped gently on the window at the rear where the clerk
slept, calling him by name. This he repeated any number of times.
Finally, he threatened to have a fit; even this did not work to his
advantage. Then he pretended to be very angry, but there was no
response. After fifteen minutes had been fruitlessly spent, he went
back to the window, tapped on it once more, saying, “Lon, lie still,
you little son-of-a-sheep-thief,” which may not be what he said, and
walked away. A party who had forgotten his name was once inquiring for
him, describing him thus, “He’s a little short, fat fellow, sits around
the Maverick Hotel, talks cattle talk, and punishes a power of
whiskey.”

So before Stubb had even time to unsaddle his horse, he was approached
to know the history of these two trails.

“Well,” said Stubb somewhat hesitatingly, “I never like to refer to it.
You see, I killed a man the day that right-hand trail was made: I’ll
tell you about it some other time.”

“But why not now?” said Lucy, his curiosity aroused, as keen as a
woman’s.

“Some other day,” said Stubb. “But did you notice those three graves on
the last ridge of sand-hills to the right as we came out of the
Cimarron bottoms yesterday? You did? Their tenants were killed over
that trail; you see now why I hate to refer to it, don’t you? I was
afraid to go back to Texas for three years afterward.”

“But why not tell me?” said the young man.

“Oh,” said Stubb, as he knelt down to put a hobble on his horse, “it
would injure my reputation as a peaceable citizen, and I don’t mind
telling you that I expect to marry soon.”

Having worked up the proper interest in his listener, besides exacting
a promise that he would not repeat the story where it might do injury
to him, he dragged his saddle up to the camp-fire. Making a comfortable
seat with it, he riveted his gaze on the fire, and with a splendid
sang-froid reluctantly told the history of the double trail.

“You see,” began Stubb, “the Chisholm route had been used more or less
for ten years. This right-hand trail was made in ’73. I bossed that
year from Van Zandt County, for old Andy Erath, who, by the way, was a
dead square cowman with not a hide-bound idea in his make-up. Son, it
was a pleasure to know old Andy. You can tell he was a good man, for if
he ever got a drink too much, though he would never mention her
otherwise, he always praised his wife. I’ve been with him up beyond the
Yellowstone, two thousand miles from home, and you always knew when the
old man was primed. He would praise his wife, and would call on us boys
to confirm the fact that Mary, his wife, was a good woman.

“That year we had the better of twenty-nine hundred head, all steer
cattle, threes and up, a likely bunch, better than these we are
shadowing now. You see, my people are not driving this year, which is
the reason that I am making a common hand with Inks. If I was to lay
off a season, or go to the seacoast, I might forget the way. In those
days I always hired my own men. The year that this right-hand trail was
made, I had an outfit of men who would rather fight than eat; in fact,
I selected them on account of their special fitness in the use of
firearms. Why, Inks here couldn’t have cooked for my outfit that
season, let alone rode. There was no particular incident worth
mentioning till we struck Red River, where we overtook five or six
herds that were laying over on account of a freshet in the river. I
wouldn’t have a man those days who was not as good in the water as out.
When I rode up to the river, one or two of my men were with me. It
looked red and muddy and rolled just a trifle, but I ordered one of the
boys to hit it on his horse, to see what it was like. Well, he never
wet the seat of his saddle going or coming, though his horse was in
swimming water good sixty yards. All the other bosses rode up, and each
one examined his peg to see if the rise was falling. One fellow named
Bob Brown, boss-man for John Blocker, asked me what I thought about the
crossing. I said to him, ‘If this ferryman can cross our wagon for me,
and you fellows will open out a little and let me in, I’ll show you all
a crossing, and it’ll be no miracle either.’

“Well, the ferryman said he’d set the wagon over, so the men went back
to bring up the herd. They were delayed some little time, changing to
their swimming horses. It was nearly an hour before the herd came up,
the others opening out, so as to give us a clear field, in case of a
mill or balk. I never had to give an order; my boys knew just what to
do. Why, there’s men in this outfit right now that couldn’t have
greased my wagon that year.

“Well, the men on the points brought the herd to the water with a good
head on, and before the leaders knew it, they were halfway across the
channel, swimming like fish. The swing-men fed them in, free and
plenty. Most of my outfit took to the water, and kept the cattle from
drifting downstream. The boys from the other herds—good men, too—kept
shooting them into the water, and inside fifteen minutes’ time we were
in the big Injun Territory. After crossing the saddle stock and the
wagon, I swam my horse back to the Texas side. I wanted to eat dinner
with Blocker’s man, just to see how they fed. Might want to work for
him some time, you see. I pretended that I’d help him over if he wanted
to cross, but he said his dogies could never breast that water. I
remarked to him at dinner, ‘You’re feeding a mite better this year,
ain’t you?’ ‘Not that I can notice,’ he replied, as the cook handed him
a tin plate heaping with navy beans, ‘and I’m eating rather regular
with the wagon, too.’ I killed time around for a while, and then we
rode down to the river together. The cattle had tramped out his peg, so
after setting a new one, and pow-wowing around, I told him good-by and
said to him, ‘Bob, old man, when I hit Dodge, I’ll take a drink and
think of you back here on the trail, and regret that you are not with
me, so as to make it two-handed.’ We said our ‘so-longs’ to each other,
and I gave the gray his head and he took the water like a duck. He
could outswim any horse I ever saw, but I drowned him in the Washita
two weeks later. Yes, tangled his feet in some vines in a sunken
treetop, and the poor fellow’s light went out. My own candle came near
being snuffed. I never felt so bad over a little thing since I burned
my new red topboots when I was a kid, as in drownding that horse.

“There was nothing else worth mentioning until we struck the Cimarron
back here, where we overtook a herd of Chisholm’s that had come in from
the east. They had crossed through the Arbuckle Mountains—came in over
the old Whiskey Trail. Here was another herd waterbound, and the
boss-man was as important as a hen with one chicken. He told me that
the river wouldn’t be fordable for a week; wanted me to fall back at
least five miles; wanted all this river bottom for his cattle; said he
didn’t need any help to cross his herd, though he thanked me for the
offer with an air of contempt. I informed him that our cattle were sold
for delivery on the North Platte, and that we wanted to go through on
time. I assured him if he would drop his cattle a mile down the river,
it would give us plenty of room. I told him plainly that our cattle,
horses, and men could all swim, and that we never let a little thing
like swimming water stop us.

“No! No! he couldn’t do that; we might as well fall back and take our
turn. ‘Oh, well,’ said I, ‘if you want to act contrary about it, I’ll
go up to the King-Fisher crossing, only three miles above here. I’ve
almost got time to cross yet this evening.’

“Then he wilted and inquired, ‘Do you think I can cross if it swims
them any?’

“‘I’m not doing your thinking, sir,’ I answered, ‘but I’ll bring up
eight or nine good men and help you rather than make a six-mile elbow.’
I said this with some spirit and gave him a mean look.

“‘All right,’ said he, ‘bring up your boys, say eight o’clock, and we
will try the ford. Let me add right here,’ he continued, ‘and I’m a
stranger to you, young man, but my outfit don’t take anybody’s slack,
and as I am older than you, let me give you this little bit of advice:
when you bring your men here in the morning, don’t let them whirl too
big a loop, or drag their ropes looking for trouble, for I’ve got
fellows with me that don’t turn out of the trail for anybody.’

“‘All right, sir,’ I said. ‘Really, I’m glad to hear that you have some
good men, still I’m pained to find them on the wrong side of the river
for travelers. But I’ll be here in the morning,’ I called back as I
rode away. So telling my boys that we were likely to have some fun in
the morning, and what to expect, I gave it no further attention. When
we were catching up our horses next morning for the day, I ordered two
of my lads on herd, which was a surprise to them, as they were both
handy with a gun. I explained it to them all,—that we wished to avoid
trouble, but if it came up unavoidable, to overlook no bets—to copper
every play as it fell.

“We got to the river too early to suit Chisholm’s boss-man. He seemed
to think that his cattle would take the water better about ten o’clock.
To kill time my boys rode across and back several times to see what the
water was like. ‘Well, any one that would let as little swimming water
as that stop them must be a heap sight sorry outfit,’ remarked one-eyed
Jim Reed, as he rode out of the river, dismounting to set his saddle
forward and tighten his cinches, not noticing that this foreman heard
him. I rode around and gave him a look, and he looked up at me and
muttered, ‘Scuse me, boss, I plumb forgot!’ Then I rode back and
apologized to this boss-man: ‘Don’t pay any attention to my boys; they
are just showing off, and are a trifle windy this morning.’

“‘That’s all right,’ he retorted, ‘but don’t forget what I told you
yesterday, and let it be enough said.’

“‘Well, let’s put the cattle in,’ I urged, seeing that he was getting
hot under the collar. ‘We’re burning daylight, pardner.’

“‘Well, I’m going to cross my wagon first,’ said he.

“‘That’s a good idea,’ I answered. ‘Bring her up.’ Their cook seemed to
have a little sense, for he brought up his wagon in good shape. We tied
some guy ropes to the upper side, and taking long ropes from the end of
the tongue to the pommels of our saddles, the ease with which we set
that commissary over didn’t trouble any one but the boss-man, whose
orders were not very distinct from the distance between banks. It was a
good hour then before he would bring up his cattle. The main trouble
seemed to be to devise means to keep their guns and cartridges dry, as
though that was more important than getting the whole herd of nearly
thirty-five hundred cattle over. We gave them a clean cloth until they
needed us, but as they came up we divided out and were ready to give
the lead a good push. If a cow changed his mind about taking a swim
that morning, he changed it right back and took it. For in less than
twenty minutes’ time they were all over, much to the surprise of the
boss and his men; besides, their weapons were quite dry; just the
splash had wet them.

“I told the boss that we would not need any help to cross ours, but to
keep well out of our way, as we would try and cross by noon, which
ought to give him a good five-mile start. Well, we crossed and nooned,
lying around on purpose to give them a good lead, and when we hit the
trail back in these sand-hills, there he was, not a mile ahead, and you
can see there was no chance to get around. I intended to take the Dodge
trail, from this creek where we are now, but there we were, blocked in!
I was getting a trifle wolfish over the way they were acting, so I rode
forward to see what the trouble was.

“‘Oh, I’m in no hurry. You’re driving too fast. This is your first
trip, isn’t it?’ he inquired, as he felt of a pair of checked pants
drying on the wagon wheel.

“‘Don’t you let any idea like that disturb your Christian spirit, old
man,’ I replied with some resentment. ‘But if you think I am driving
too fast, you might suggest some creek where I could delude myself with
the idea, for a week or so, that it was not fordable.’

“Assuming an air of superiority he observed, ‘You seem to have forgot
what I said to you yesterday.’

“‘No, I haven’t,’ I answered, ‘but are you going to stay all night
here?’

“‘I certainly am, if that’s any satisfaction to you,’ he answered.

“I got off my horse and asked him for a match, though I had plenty in
my pocket, to light a cigarette which I had rolled during the
conversation. I had no gun on, having left mine in our wagon, but
fancied I’d stir him up and see how bad he really was. I thought it
best to stroke him with and against the fur, try and keep on neutral
ground, so I said,—

“‘You ain’t figuring none that in case of a run to-night we’re a trifle
close together for cow-herds. Besides, my men on a guard last night
heard gray wolves in these sand-hills. They are liable to show up
to-night. Didn’t I notice some young calves among your cattle this
morning? Young calves, you know, make larruping fine eating for grays.’

“‘Now, look here, Shorty,’ he said in a patronizing tone, as though he
might let a little of his superior cow-sense shine in on my darkened
intellect, ‘I haven’t asked you to crowd up here on me. You are
perfectly at liberty to drop back to your heart’s content. If wolves
bother us to-night, you stay in your blankets snug and warm, and
pleasant dreams of old sweethearts on the Trinity to you. We won’t need
you. We’ll try and worry along without you.’

“Two or three of his men laughed gruffly at these remarks, and threw
leer-eyed looks at me. I asked one who seemed bad, what calibre his gun
was. ‘Forty-five ha’r trigger,’ he answered. I nosed around over their
plunder purpose. They had things drying around like Bannock squaws
jerking venison.

“When I got on my horse, I said to the boss, ‘I want to pass your
outfit in the morning, as you are in no hurry and I am.’

“‘That will depend,’ said he.

“‘Depend on what?’ I asked.

“‘Depend on whether we are willing to let you,’ he snarled.

“I gave him as mean a look as I could command and said tauntingly,
‘Now, look here, old girl: there’s no occasion for you to tear your
clothes with me this way. Besides, I sometimes get on the prod myself,
and when I do, I don’t bar no man, Jew nor Gentile, horse, mare or
gelding. You may think different, but I’m not afraid of any man in your
outfit, from the gimlet to the big auger. I’ve tried to treat you
white, but I see I’ve failed. Now I want to give it out to you straight
and cold, that I’ll pass you to-morrow, or mix two herds trying. Think
it over to-night and nominate your choice—be a gentleman or a hog. Let
your own sweet will determine which.’

“I rode away in a walk, to give them a chance to say anything they
wanted to, but there were no further remarks. My men were all hopping
mad when I told them, but I promised them that to-morrow we would fix
them plenty or use up our supply of cartridges if necessary. We dropped
back a mile off the trail and camped for the night. Early the next
morning I sent one of my boys out on the highest sand dune to Injun
around and see what they were doing. After being gone for an hour he
came back and said they had thrown their cattle off the bed-ground up
the trail, and were pottering around like as they aimed to move.
Breakfast over, I sent him back again to make sure, for I wanted yet to
avoid trouble if they didn’t draw it on. It was another hour before he
gave us the signal to come on. We were nicely strung out where you saw
those graves on that last ridge of sand-hills, when there they were
about a mile ahead of us, moseying along. This side of Chapman’s, the
Indian trader’s store, the old route turns to the right and follows up
this black-jack ridge. We kept up close, and just as soon as they
turned in to the right,—the only trail there was then,—we threw off the
course and came straight ahead, cross-country style, same route we came
over to-day, except there was no trail there; we had to make a new one.

“Now they watched us a plenty, but it seemed they couldn’t make out our
game. When we pulled up even with them, half a mile apart, they tumbled
that my bluff of the day before was due to take effect without further
notice. Then they began to circle and ride around, and one fellow went
back, only hitting the high places, to their wagon and saddle horses,
and they were brought up on a trot. We were by this time three quarters
of a mile apart, when the boss of their outfit was noticed riding out
toward us. Calling one of my men, we rode out and met him halfway.
‘Young man, do you know just what you are trying to do?’ he asked.

“‘I think I do. You and myself as cowmen don’t pace in the same class,
as you will see, if you will only watch the smoke of our tepee. Watch
us close, and I’ll pass you between here and the next water.’

“‘We will see you in hell first!’ he said, as he whirled his horse and
galloped back to his men. The race was on in a brisk walk. His wagon,
we noticed, cut in between the herds, until it reached the lead of his
cattle, when it halted suddenly, and we noticed that they were cutting
off a dry cowskin that swung under the wagon. At the same time two of
his men cut out a wild steer, and as he ran near their wagon one of
them roped and the other heeled him. It was neatly done. I called Big
Dick, my boss roper, and told him what I suspected,—that they were
going to try and stampede us with a dry cowskin tied to that steer’s
tail they had down. As they let him up, it was clear I had called the
turn, as they headed him for our herd, the flint thumping at his heels.
Dick rode out in a lope, and I signaled for my crowd to come on and we
would back Dick’s play. As we rode out together, I said to my boys,
‘The stuff’s off, fellows! Shoot, and shoot to hurt!’

“It seemed their whole outfit was driving that one steer, and turning
the others loose to graze. Dick never changed the course of that steer,
but let him head for ours, and as they met and passed, he turned his
horse and rode onto him as though he was a post driven in the ground.
Whirling a loop big enough to take in a yoke of oxen, he dropped it
over his off fore shoulder, took up his slack rope, and when that steer
went to the end of the rope, he was thrown in the air and came down on
his head with a broken neck. Dick shook the rope off the dead steer’s
forelegs without dismounting, and was just beginning to coil his rope
when those varmints made a dash at him, shooting and yelling.

“That called for a counter play on our part, except our aim was low,
for if we didn’t get a man, we were sure to leave one afoot. Just for a
minute the air was full of smoke. Two horses on our side went down
before you could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ but the men were unhurt, and soon
flattened themselves on the ground Indian fashion, and burnt the grass
in a half-circle in front of them. When everybody had emptied his gun,
each outfit broke back to its wagon to reload. Two of my men came back
afoot, each claiming that he had got his man all right, all right. We
were no men shy, which was lucky. Filling our guns with cartridges out
of our belts, we rode out to reconnoitre and try and get the boys’
saddles.

“The first swell of the ground showed us the field. There were the dead
steer, and five or six horses scattered around likewise, but the grass
was too high to show the men that we felt were there. As the opposition
was keeping close to their wagon, we rode up to the scene of carnage.
While some of the boys were getting the saddles off the dead horses, we
found three men taking their last nap in the grass. I recognized them
as the boss-man, the fellow with the ha’r-trigger gun, and a fool kid
that had two guns on him when we were crossing their cattle the day
before. One gun wasn’t plenty to do the fighting he was hankering for;
he had about as much use for two guns as a toad has for a stinger.

“The boys got the saddles off the dead horses, and went flying back to
our men afoot, and then rejoined us. The fight seemed over, or there
was some hitch in the programme, for we could see them hovering near
their wagon, tearing up white biled shirts out of a trunk and bandaging
up arms and legs, that they hadn’t figured on any. Our herd had been
overlooked during the scrimmage, and had scattered so that I had to
send one man and the horse wrangler to round them in. We had ten men
left, and it was beginning to look as though hostilities had ceased by
mutual consent. You can see, son, we didn’t bring it on. We turned over
the dead steer, and he proved to be a stray; at least he hadn’t their
road brand on. One-eyed Jim said the ranch brand belonged in San Saba
County; he knew it well, the X—2. Well, it wasn’t long until our men
afoot got a remount and only two horses shy on the first round. We
could stand another on the same terms in case they attacked us. We rode
out on a little hill about a quarter-mile from their wagon, scattering
out so as not to give them a pot shot, in case they wanted to renew the
unpleasantness.

“When they saw us there, one fellow started toward us, waving his
handkerchief. We began speculating which one it was, but soon made him
out to be the cook; his occupation kept him out of the first round.
When he came within a hundred yards, I rode out and met him. He offered
me his hand and said, ‘We are in a bad fix. Two of our crowd have bad
flesh wounds. Do you suppose we could get any whiskey back at this
Indian trader’s store?’

“‘If there is any man in this territory can get any I can if they have
it,’ I told him. ‘Besides, if your lay-out has had all the satisfaction
fighting they want, we’ll turn to and give you a lift. It seems like
you all have some dead men over back here. They will have to be
planted. So if your outfit feel as though you had your belly-full of
fighting for the present, consider us at your service. You’re the cook,
ain’t you?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ he answered. ‘Are all three dead?’ he then inquired.

“‘Dead as heck,’ I told him.

“‘Well, we are certainly in a bad box,’ said he meditatingly. ‘But
won’t you all ride over to our wagon with me? I think our fellows are
pacified for the present.’

“I motioned to our crowd, and we all rode over to their wagon with him.
There wasn’t a gun in sight. The ragged edge of despair don’t describe
them. I made them a little talk; told them that their boss had cashed
in, back over the hill; also if there was any segundo in their outfit,
the position of big augur was open to him, and we were at his service.

“There wasn’t a man among them that had any sense left but the cook. He
told me to take charge of the killed, and if I could rustle a little
whiskey to do so. So I told the cook to empty out his wagon, and we
would take the dead ones back, make boxes for them, and bury them at
the store. Then I sent three of my men back to the store to have the
boxes ready and dig the graves. Before these three rode away, I said,
aside to Jim, who was one of them, ‘Don’t bother about any whiskey;
branch water is plenty nourishing for the wounded. It would be a sin
and shame to waste good liquor on plafry like them.’

“The balance of us went over to the field of carnage and stripped the
saddles off their dead horses, and arranged the departed in a row,
covering them with saddle blankets, pending the planting act. I sent
part of my boys with our wagon to look after our own cattle for the
day. It took us all the afternoon to clean up a minute’s work in the
morning.

“I never like to refer to it. Fact was, all the boys felt gloomy for
weeks, but there was no avoiding it. Two months later, we met old man
Andy, way up at Fort Laramie on the North Platte. He was tickled to
death to meet us all. The herd had come through in fine condition. We
never told him anything about this until the cattle were delivered, and
we were celebrating the success of that drive at a near-by town.

“Big Dick told him about this incident, and the old man feeling his
oats, as he leaned with his back against the bar, said to us with a
noticeable degree of pride, ‘Lads, I’m proud of every one of you. Men
who will fight to protect my interests has my purse at their command.
This year’s drive has been a success. Next year we will drive twice as
many. I want every rascal of you to work for me. You all know how I
mount, feed, and pay my men, and as long as my name is Erath and I own
a cow, you can count on a job with me.’”

“But why did you take them back to the sand-hills to bury them?” cut in
Lucy.

“Oh, that was Big Dick’s idea. He thought the sand would dig easier,
and laziness guided every act of his life. That was five years ago,
son, that this lower trail was made, and for the reasons I have just
given you. No, I can’t tell you any more personal experiences to-night;
I’m too sleepy.”



VII
RANGERING


No State in the Union was ever called upon to meet and deal with the
criminal element as was Texas. She was border territory upon her
admission to the sisterhood of States.

An area equal to four ordinary States, and a climate that permitted of
outdoor life the year round, made it a desirable rendezvous for
criminals. The sparsely settled condition of the country, the flow of
immigration being light until the seventies, was an important factor.
The fugitives from justice of the older States with a common impulse
turned toward this empire of isolation. Europe contributed her quota,
more particularly from the south, bringing with them the Mafia and
vendetta. Once it was the Ultima Thule of the criminal western world.
From the man who came for not building a church to the one who had
taken human life, the catalogue of crime was fully represented.

Humorous writers tell us that it was a breach of good manners to ask a
man his name, or what State he was from, or to examine the brand on his
horse very particularly. It can be safely said that there was a great
amount of truth mingled with the humor. Some of these fugitives from
justice became good citizens, but the majority sooner or later took up
former callings.

Along with this criminal immigration came the sturdy settler, the man
intent on building a home and establishing a fireside. Usually
following lines of longitude, he came from other Southern States. He
also brought with him the fortitude of the pioneer that reclaims the
wilderness and meets any emergency that confronts him. To meet and deal
with this criminal element as a matter of necessity soon became an
important consideration. His only team of horses was frequently stolen.
His cattle ran off their range, their ear-marks altered and brands
changed. Frequently it was a band of neighbors, together in a posse,
who followed and brought to bay the marauders. It was an unlucky moment
for a horse-thief when he was caught in possession of another man’s
horse. The impromptu court of emergency had no sentiment in regard to
passing sentence of death. It was a question of guilt, and when that
was established, Judge Lynch passed sentence.

As the State advanced, the authorities enlisted small companies of men
called Rangers. The citizens’ posse soon gave way to this organized
service. The companies, few in number at first, were gradually
increased until the State had over a dozen companies in the field.
These companies numbered anywhere from ten to sixty men. It can be said
with no discredit to the State that there were never half enough
companies of men for the work before them.

There was a frontier on the south and west of over two thousand miles
to be guarded. A fair specimen of the large things in that State was a
shoe-string congressional district, over eleven hundred miles long. To
the Ranger, then, is all credit due for guarding this western frontier
against the Indians and making life and the possession of property a
possibility. On the south was to be met the bandit, the smuggler, and
every grade of criminal known to the code.

A generation had come and gone before the Ranger’s work was fairly
done. The emergency demanded brave men. They were ready. Not
necessarily born to the soil, as a boy the guardian of the frontier was
expert in the use of firearms, and in the saddle a tireless rider. As
trailers many of them were equal to hounds. In the use of that arbiter
of the frontier, the six-shooter, they were artists. As a class, never
before or since have their equals in the use of that arm come forward
to question this statement.

The average criminal, while familiar with firearms, was as badly
handicapped as woman would be against man. The Ranger had no equal. The
emergency that produced him no longer existing, he will never have a
successor. Any attempt to copy the original would be hopeless
imitation. He was shot at at short range oftener than he received his
monthly wage. He admired the criminal that would fight, and despised
one that would surrender on demand. He would nurse back to life a
dead-game man whom his own shot had brought to earth, and give a coward
the chance to run any time if he so desired.

He was compelled to lead a life in the open and often descend to the
level of the criminal. He had few elements in his makeup, and but a
single purpose; but that one purpose—to rid the State of crime—he
executed with a vengeance. He was poorly paid for the service rendered.
Frequently there was no appropriation with which to pay him; then he
lived by rewards and the friendship of ranchmen.

The Ranger always had a fresh horse at his command,—no one thought of
refusing him this. Rust-proof, rugged, and tireless, he gave the State
protection for life and property. The emergency had produced the man.

“Here, take my glass and throw down on that grove of timber yonder, and
notice if there is any sign of animal life to be seen,” said Sergeant
“Smoky” C——, addressing “Ramrod,” a private in Company X of the Texas
Rangers. The sergeant and the four men had been out on special duty,
and now we had halted after an all night’s ride looking for shade and
water,—the latter especially. We had two prisoners, (horse-thieves),
some extra saddle stock, and three pack mules.

It was an hour after sun-up. We had just come out of the foothills,
where the Brazos has its source, and before us lay the plains, dusty
and arid. This grove of green timber held out a hope that within it
might be found what we wanted. Eyesight is as variable as men, but
Ramrod’s was known to be reliable for five miles with the naked eye,
and ten with the aid of a good glass. He dismounted at the sergeant’s
request, and focused the glass on this oasis, and after sweeping the
field for a minute or so, remarked languidly, “There must be water
there. I can see a band of antelope grazing out from the grove. Hold
your mules! Something is raising a dust over to the south. Good! It’s
cattle coming to the water.”

While he was covering the field with his glass, two of the boys were
threatening with eternal punishment the pack mules, which showed an
energetic determination to lie down and dislodge their packs by
rolling.

“Cut your observations short as possible there, Ramrod, or there will
be re-packing to do. Mula, you hybrid son of your father, don’t you
dare to lie down!”

But Ramrod’s observations were cut short at sight of the cattle, and we
pushed out for the grove, about seven miles distant. As we rode this
short hour’s ride, numerous small bands of antelope were startled, and
in turn stood and gazed at us in bewilderment.

“I’m not tasty,” said Sergeant Smoky, “but I would give the preference
this morning to a breakfast of a well-roasted side of ribs of a nice
yearling venison over the salt hoss that the Lone Star State furnishes
this service. Have we no hunters with us?”

“Let me try,” begged a little man we called “Cushion-foot.” What his
real name was none of us knew. The books, of course, would show some
name, and then you were entitled to a guess. He was as quiet as a
mouse, as reliable as he was quiet, and as noiseless in his movements
as a snake. One of the boys went with him, making quite a detour from
our course, but always remaining in sight. About two miles out from the
grove, we sighted a small band of five or six antelope, who soon took
fright and ran to the nearest elevation. Here they made a stand about
half a mile distant. We signaled to our hunters, who soon spotted them
and dismounted. We could see Cushion sneaking through the short grass
like a coyote, “Conajo” leading the horses, well hidden between them.
We held the antelopes’ attention by riding around in a circle, flagging
them. Several times Cushion lay flat, and we thought he was going to
risk a long shot. Then he would crawl forward like a cat, but finally
came to his knee. We saw the little puff, the band squatted, jumping to
one side far enough to show one of their number down and struggling in
the throes of death.

“Good long shot, little man,” said the sergeant, “and you may have the
choice of cuts, just so I get a rib.”

We saw Conajo mount and ride up on a gallop, but we held our course for
the grove. We were busy making camp when the two rode in with a fine
two-year-old buck across the pommel of Cushion’s saddle. They had only
disemboweled him, but Conajo had the heart as a trophy of the accuracy
of the shot, though Cushion hadn’t a word to say. It was a splendid
heart shot. Conajo took it over and showed it to the two Mexican
prisoners. It was an object lesson to them. One said to the other, “Es
un buen tirador.”

We put the prisoners to roasting the ribs, and making themselves useful
in general. One man guarded them at their work, while all the others
attended to the hobbling and other camp duties.

It proved to be a delightful camp. We aimed to stay until sunset, the
days being sultry and hot. Our appetites were equal to the breakfast,
and it was a good one.

“To do justice to an occasion like this,” said Smoky as he squatted
down with about four ribs in his hand, “a man by rights ought to have
at least three fingers of good liquor under his belt. But then we can’t
have all the luxuries of life in the far West; sure to be something
lacking.”

“I never hear a man hanker for liquor,” said Conajo, as he poured out a
tin cup of coffee, “but I think of an incident my father used to tell
us boys at home. He was sheriff in Kentucky before we moved to Texas.
Was sheriff in the same county for twelve years. Counties are very
irregular back in the old States. Some look like a Mexican brand. One
of the rankest, rabid political admirers my father had lived away out
on a spur of this county. He lived good thirty miles from the county
seat. Didn’t come to town over twice a year, but he always stopped,
generally over night, at our house. My father wouldn’t have it any
other way. Talk about thieves being chummy; why, these two we have here
couldn’t hold a candle to that man and my father. I can see them
parting just as distinctly as though it was yesterday. He would always
abuse my father for not coming to see him. ‘Sam,’ he would say,—my
father’s name was Sam,—‘Sam, why on earth is it that you never come to
see me? I’ve heard of you within ten miles of my plantation, and you
have never shown your face to us once. Do you think we can’t entertain
you? Why, Sam, I’ve known you since you weren’t big enough to lead a
hound dog. I’ve known you since you weren’t knee to a grasshopper.’

“‘Let me have a word,’ my father would put in, for he was very mild in
speaking; ‘let me have a word, Joe. I hope you don’t think for a moment
that I wouldn’t like to visit you; now do you?’

“‘No, I don’t think so, Sam, but you don’t come. That’s why I’m
complaining. You never have come in the whole ten years you’ve been
sheriff, and you know that we have voted for you to a man, in our neck
of the woods.’ My father felt this last remark, though I think he never
realized its gravity before, but he took him by one hand, and laying
the other on his shoulder said, ‘Joe, if I have slighted you in the
past, I’m glad you have called my attention to it. Now, let me tell you
the first time that my business takes me within ten miles of your place
I’ll make it a point to reach your house and stay all night, and longer
if I can.’

“‘That’s all I ask, Sam,’ was his only reply. Now I’ve learned lots of
the ways of the world since then. I’ve seen people pleasant to each
other, and behind their backs the tune changed. But I want to say to
you fellows that those two old boys were not throwing off on each
other—not a little bit. They meant every word and meant it deep. It was
months afterwards, and father had been gone for a week when he came
home. He told us about his visit to Joe Evans. It was winter time, and
mother and us boys were sitting around the old fireplace in the
evening. ‘I never saw him so embarrassed before in my life,’ said
father. ‘I did ride out of my way, but I was glad of the chance. Men
like Joe Evans are getting scarce.’ He nodded to us boys. ‘It was
nearly dark when I rode up to his gate. He recognized me and came down
to the gate to meet me. “Howdy, Sam,” was all he said. There was a
troubled expression in his face, though he looked well enough, but he
couldn’t simply look me in the face. Just kept his eye on the ground.
He motioned for a nigger boy and said to him, “Take his horse.” He
started to lead the way up the path, when I stopped him. “Look here,
Joe,” I said to him. “Now, if there’s anything wrong, anything likely
to happen in the family, I can just as well drop back on the pike and
stay all night with some of the neighbors. You know I’m acquainted all
around here.” He turned in the path, and there was the most painful
look in his face I ever saw as he spoke: “Hell, no, Sam, there’s
nothing wrong. We’ve got plenty to eat, plenty of beds, no end of
horse-feed, but by G——, Sam, there isn’t a drop of whiskey on the
place!”’

“You see it was hoss and cabello, and Joe seemed to think the hoss on
him was an unpardonable offense. Salt? You’ll find it in an empty
one-spoon baking-powder can over there. In those panniers that belong
to that big sorrel mule. Look at Mexico over there burying his fangs in
the venison, will you?”

Ramrod was on guard, but he was so hungry himself that he was good
enough to let the prisoners eat at the same time, although he kept them
at a respectable distance. He was old in the service, and had gotten
his name under a baptism of fire. He was watching a pass once for
smugglers at a point called Emigrant Gap. This was long before he had
come to the present company. At length the man he was waiting for came
along. Ramrod went after him at close quarters, but the fellow was game
and drew his gun. When the smoke cleared away, Ramrod had brought down
his horse and winged his man right and left. The smuggler was not far
behind on the shoot, for Ramrod’s coat and hat showed he was calling
for him. The captain was joshing the prisoner about his poor shooting
when Ramrod brought him into camp and they were dressing his wounds.
“Well,” said the fellow, “I tried to hard enough, but I couldn’t find
him. He’s built like a ramrod.”

After breakfast was over we smoked and yarned. It would be two-hour
guards for the day, keeping an eye on the prisoners and stock, only one
man required; so we would all get plenty of sleep. Conajo had the first
guard after breakfast. “I remember once,” said Sergeant Smoky, as he
crushed a pipe of twist with the heel of his hand, “we were camped out
on the ‘Sunset’ railway. I was a corporal at the time. There came a
message one day to our captain, to send a man up West on that line to
take charge of a murderer. The result was, I was sent by the first
train to this point. When I arrived I found that an Irishman had killed
a Chinaman. It was on the railroad, at a bridge construction camp, that
the fracas took place. There were something like a hundred employees at
the camp, and they ran their own boarding-tent. They had a Chinese cook
at this camp; in fact, quite a number of Chinese were employed at
common labor on the road.

“Some cavalryman, it was thought, in passing up and down from Fort
Stockton to points on the river, had lost his sabre, and one of this
bridge gang had found it. When it was brought into camp no one would
have the old corn-cutter; but this Irishman took a shine to it, having
once been a soldier himself. The result was, it was presented to him.
He ground it up like a machette, and took great pride in giving
exhibitions with it. He was an old man now, the storekeeper for the
iron supplies, a kind of trusty job. The old sabre renewed his youth to
a certain extent, for he used it in self-defense shortly afterwards.
This Erin-go-bragh—his name was McKay, I think—was in the habit now and
then of stealing a pie from the cook, and taking it into his own tent
and eating it there. The Chink kept missing his pies, and got a helper
to spy out the offender. The result was they caught the old man
red-handed in the act. The Chink armed himself with the biggest
butcher-knife he had and went on the warpath. He found the old fellow
sitting in his storeroom contentedly eating the pie. The old man had
his eyes on the cook, and saw the knife just in time to jump behind
some kegs of nuts and bolts. The Chink followed him with murder in his
eye, and as the old man ran out of the tent he picked up the old sabre.
Once clear of the tent he turned and faced him, made only one pass, and
cut his head off as though he were beheading a chicken. They hadn’t yet
buried the Chinaman when I got there. I’m willing to testify it was an
artistic job. They turned the old man over to me, and I took him down
to the next station, where an old alcalde lived,—Roy Bean by name. This
old judge was known as ‘Law west of the Pecos,’ as he generally
construed the law to suit his own opinion of the offense. He wasn’t
even strong on testimony. He was a ranchman at this time, so when I
presented my prisoner he only said, ‘Killed a Chinese, did he? Well, I
ain’t got time to try the case to-day. Cattle suffering for water, and
three windmills out of repair. Bring him back in the morning.’ I took
the old man back to the hotel, and we had a jolly good time together
that day. I never put a string on him, only locked the door, but we
slept together. The next morning I took him before the alcalde. Bean
held court in an outhouse, the prisoner seated on a bale of flint
hides. Bean was not only judge but prosecutor, as well as counsel for
the defense. ‘Killed a Chinaman, did you?’

“‘I did, yer Honor,’ was the prisoner’s reply.

“I suggested to the court that the prisoner be informed of his rights,
that he need not plead guilty unless he so desired.

“‘That makes no difference here,’ said the court. ‘Gentlemen, I’m busy
this morning. I’ve got to raise the piping out of a two-hundred-foot
well to-day,—something the matter with the valve at the bottom. I’ll
just glance over the law a moment.’

“He rummaged over a book or two for a few moments and then said, ‘Here,
I reckon this is near enough. I find in the revised statute before me,
in the killing of a nigger the offending party was fined five dollars.
A Chinaman ought to be half as good as a nigger. Stand up and receive
your sentence. What’s your name?’

“‘Jerry McKay, your Honor.’

“Just then the court noticed one of the vaqueros belonging to the ranch
standing in the door, hat in hand, and he called to him in Spanish,
‘Have my horse ready, I’ll be through here just in a minute.’

“‘McKay,’ said the court as he gave him a withering look, ‘I’ll fine
you two dollars and a half and costs. Officer, take charge of the
prisoner until it’s paid!’ It took about ten dollars to cover
everything, which I paid, McKay returning it when he reached his camp.
Whoever named that alcalde ‘Law west of the Pecos’ knew his man.”

“I’ll bet a twist of dog,” said Ramrod, “that prisoner with the black
whiskers sabes English. Did you notice him paying strict attention to
Smoky’s little talk? He reminds me of a fellow that crouched behind his
horse at the fight we had on the head of the Arroyo Colorado and
plugged me in the shoulder. What, you never heard of it? That’s so,
Cushion hasn’t been with us but a few months. Well, it was in ’82, down
on the river, about fifty miles northwest of Brownsville. Word came in
one day that a big band of horse-thieves were sweeping the country of
every horse they could gather. There was a number of the old Cortina’s
gang known to be still on the rustle. When this report came, it found
eleven men in camp. We lost little time saddling up, only taking five
days’ rations with us, for they were certain to recross the river
before that time in case we failed to intercept them. Every Mexican in
the country was terrorized. All they could tell us was that there was
plenty of ladrones and lots of horses, ‘muchos’ being the qualifying
word as to the number of either.

“It was night before we came to their trail, and to our surprise they
were heading inland, to the north. They must have had a contract to
supply the Mexican army with cavalry horses. They were simply sweeping
the country, taking nothing but gentle stock. These they bucked in
strings, and led. That made easy trailing, as each string left a
distinct trail. The moon was splendid that night, and we trailed as
easily as though it had been day. We didn’t halt all night long on
either trail, pegging along at a steady gait, that would carry us
inland some distance before morning. Our scouts aroused every ranch
within miles that we passed on the way, only to have reports
exaggerated as usual. One thing we did learn that night, and that was
that the robbers were led by a white man. He was described in the
superlatives that the Spanish language possesses abundantly; everything
from the horse he rode to the solid braid on his sombrero was described
in the same strain. But that kind of prize was the kind we were looking
for.

“On the head of the Arroyo Colorado there is a broken country
interspersed with glades and large openings. We felt very sure that the
robbers would make camp somewhere in that country. When day broke the
freshness of the trail surprised and pleased us. They couldn’t be far
away. Before an hour passed, we noticed a smoke cloud hanging low in
the morning air about a mile ahead. We dismounted and securely tied our
horses and pack stock. Every man took all the cartridges he could use,
and was itching for the chance to use them. We left the trail, and to
conceal ourselves took to the brush or dry arroyos as a protection
against alarming the quarry. They were a quarter of a mile off when we
first sighted them. We began to think the reports were right, for there
seemed no end of horses, and at least twenty-five men. By dropping back
we could gain one of those dry arroyos which would bring us within one
hundred yards of their camp. A young fellow by the name of Rusou, a
crack shot, was acting captain in the absence of our officers. As we
backed into the arroyo he said to us, ‘If there’s a white man there,
leave him to me.’ We were all satisfied that he would be cared for
properly at Rusou’s hands, and silence gave consent.

“Opposite the camp we wormed out of the arroyo like a skirmish line,
hugging the ground for the one remaining little knoll between the
robbers and ourselves. I was within a few feet of Rusou as we sighted
the camp about seventy-five yards distant. We were trying to make out a
man that was asleep, at least he had his hat over his face, lying on a
blanket with his head in a saddle. We concluded he was a white man, if
there was one. Our survey of their camp was cut short by two shots
fired at us by two pickets of theirs posted to our left about one
hundred yards. No one was hit, but the sleeping man jumped to his feet
with a six-shooter in each hand. I heard Rusou say to himself, ‘You’re
too late, my friend.’ His carbine spoke, and the fellow fell forward,
firing both guns into the ground at his feet as he went down.

“Then the stuff was off and she opened up in earnest. They fought all
right. I was on my knee pumping lead for dear life, and as I threw my
carbine down to refill the magazine, a bullet struck it in the heel of
the magazine with sufficient force to knock me backward. I thought I
was hit for an instant, but it passed away in a moment. When I tried to
work the lever I saw that my carbine was ruined. I called to the boys
to notice a fellow with black whiskers who was shooting from behind his
horse. He would shoot over and under alternately. I thought he was
shooting at me. I threw down my carbine and drew my six-shooter. Just
then I got a plug in the shoulder, and things got dizzy and dark. It
caught me an inch above the nipple, ranging upward,—shooting from
under, you see. But some of the boys must have noticed him, for he
decorated the scene badly leaded, when it was over. I was unconscious
for a few minutes, and when I came around the fight had ended.

“During the few brief moments that I was knocked out, our boys had
closed in on them and mixed it with them at short range. The thieves
took to such horses as they could lay their hands on, and one fellow
went no farther. A six-shooter halted him at fifty yards. The boys
rounded up over a hundred horses, each one with a fiber grass halter
on, besides killing over twenty wounded ones to put them out of their
misery.

“It was a nasty fight. Two of our own boys were killed and three were
wounded. But then you ought to have seen the other fellows; we took no
prisoners that day. Nine men lay dead. Horses were dead and dying all
around, and the wounded ones were crying in agony.

“This white man proved to be a typical dandy, a queer leader for such a
gang. He was dressed in buckskin throughout, while his sombrero was as
fine as money could buy. You can know it was a fine one, for it was
sold for company prize money, and brought three hundred and fifty
dollars. He had nearly four thousand dollars on his person and in his
saddle. A belt which we found on him had eleven hundred in bills and
six hundred in good old yellow gold. The silver in the saddle was
mixed, Mexican and American about equally.

“He had as fine a gold watch in his pocket as you ever saw, while his
firearms and saddle were beauties. He was a dandy all right, and a
fine-looking man, over six feet tall, with swarthy complexion and hair
like a raven’s wing. He was too nice a man for the company he was in.
We looked the ‘Black Book’ over afterward for any description of him.
At that time there were over four thousand criminals and outlaws
described in it, but there was no description that would fit him. For
this reason we supposed that he must live far in the interior of
Mexico.

“Our saddle stock was brought up, and our wounded were bandaged as best
they could be. My wound was the worst, so they concluded to send me
back. One of the boys went with me, and we made a fifty-mile ride
before we got medical attention. While I was in the hospital I got my
divvy of the prize money, something over four hundred dollars.”

When Ramrod had finished his narrative, he was compelled to submit to a
cross-examination at the hands of Cushion-foot, for he delighted in a
skirmish. All his questions being satisfactorily answered, Cushion-foot
drew up his saddle alongside of where Ramrod lay stretched on a
blanket, and seated himself. This was a signal to the rest of us that
he had a story, so we drew near, for he spoke so low that you must be
near to hear him. His years on the frontier were rich in experience,
though he seldom referred to them.

Addressing himself to Ramrod, he began: “You might live amongst these
border Mexicans all your life and think you knew them; but every day
you live you’ll see new features about them. You can’t calculate on
them with any certainty. What they ought to do by any system of
reasoning they never do. They will steal an article and then give it
away. You’ve heard the expression ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul.’ Well, my
brother played the rôle of Paul once himself. It was out in Arizona at
a place called Las Palomas. He was a stripling of a boy, but could
palaver Spanish in a manner that would make a Mexican ashamed of his
ancestry. He was about eighteen at this time and was working in a
store. One morning as he stepped outside the store, where he slept, he
noticed quite a commotion over around the custom-house. He noticed that
the town was full of strangers, as he crossed over toward the crowd. He
was suddenly halted and searched by a group of strange men. Fortunately
he had no arms on him, and his ability to talk to them, together with
his boyish looks, ingratiated him in their favor, and they simply made
him their prisoner. Just at that moment an alcalde rode up to the group
about him, and was ordered to halt. He saw at a glance they were
revolutionists, and whirling his mount attempted to escape, when one of
them shot him from his horse. The young fellow then saw what he was
into.

“They called themselves Timochis. They belonged in Mexico, and a year
or so before they refused to pay taxes that the Mexican government
levied on them, and rebelled. Their own government sent soldiers after
them, resulting in about eight hundred soldiers being killed, when they
dispersed into small bands, one of which was paying Las Palomas a
social call that morning. Along the Rio Grande it is only a short step
at best from revolution to robbery, and either calling has its
variations.

“Well, they took my brother with them to act as spokesman in looting
the town. The custom-house was a desired prize, and when my brother
interpreted their desires to the collector, he consented to open the
safe, as life had charms for him, even in Arizona. Uncle Sam’s
strong-box yielded up over a thousand dobes. They turned their
attention to the few small stores of the town, looting them of the
money and goods as they went. There was quite a large store kept by a
Frenchman, who refused to open, when he realized that the Timochi was
honoring the town with his presence. They put the boy in the front and
ordered him to call on the Frenchman to open up. He said afterward that
he put in a word for himself, telling him not to do any shooting
through the door. After some persuasion the store was opened and proved
to be quite a prize. Then they turned their attention to the store
where the boy worked. He unlocked it and waved them in. He went into
the cellar and brought up half a dozen bottles of imported French
Cognac, and invited the chief bandit and his followers to be good
enough to join him. In the mean time they had piled up on the counters
such things as they wanted. They made no money demand on him, the chief
asking him to set a price on the things they were taking. He made a
hasty inventory of the goods and gave the chief the figures, about one
hundred and ten dollars. The chief opened a sack that they had taken
from the custom-house and paid the bill with a flourish.

“The chief then said that he had a favor to ask: that my brother should
cheer for the revolutionists, to identify him as a friend. That was
easy, so he mounted the counter and gave three cheers of ‘Viva los
Timochis!’ He got down off the counter, took the bandit by the arm, and
led him to the rear, where with glasses in the air they drank to ‘Viva
los Timochis!’ again. Then the chief and his men withdrew and recrossed
the river. It was the best day’s trade he had had in a long time. Now,
here comes in the native. While the boy did everything from compulsion
and policy, the native element looked upon him with suspicion. The
owners of the store, knowing that this suspicion existed, advised him
to leave, and he did.”

The two prisoners were sleeping soundly. Sleep comes easily to tired
men, and soon all but the solitary guard were wrapped in sleep, to
fight anew in rangers’ dreams scathless battles!


There was not lacking the pathetic shade in the redemption of this
State from crime and lawlessness. In the village burying-ground of
Round Rock, Texas, is a simple headstone devoid of any lettering save
the name “Sam Bass.” His long career of crime and lawlessness would
fill a good-sized volume. He met his death at the hands of Texas
Rangers. Years afterward a woman, with all the delicacy of her sex, and
knowing the odium that was attached to his career, came to this town
from her home in the North and sought out his grave. As only a woman
can, when some strong tie of affection binds, this woman went to work
to mark the last resting-place of the wayward man. Concealing her own
identity, she performed these sacred rites, clothing in mystery her
relation to the criminal. The people of the village would not have
withheld their services in well-meant friendship, but she shrank from
them, being a stranger.

A year passed, and she came again. This time she brought the stone
which marks his last resting-place. The chivalry of this generous
people was aroused in admiration of a woman that would defy the calumny
attached to an outlaw. While she would have shrunk from kindness, had
she been permitted, such devotion could not go unchallenged. So she
disclosed her identity.

She was his sister.

Bass was Northern born, and this sister was the wife of a respectable
practicing physician in Indiana. Womanlike, her love for a wayward
brother followed him beyond his disgraceful end. With her own hands she
performed an act that has few equals, as a testimony of love and
affection for her own.

For many years afterward she came annually, her timidity having worn
away after the generous reception accorded her at the hands of a
hospitable people.



VIII
AT COMANCHE FORD


“There’s our ford,” said Juan,—our half-blood trailer,—pointing to the
slightest sag in a low range of hills distant twenty miles.

We were Texas Rangers. It was nearly noon of a spring day, and we had
halted on sighting our destination,—Comanche Ford on the Concho River.
Less than three days before, we had been lounging around camp, near
Tepee City, one hundred and seventy-five miles northeast of our present
destination. A courier had reached us with an emergency order, which
put every man in the saddle within an hour after its receipt.

An outfit with eight hundred cattle had started west up the Concho.
Their destination was believed to be New Mexico. Suspicion rested on
them, as they had failed to take out inspection papers for moving the
cattle, and what few people had seen them declared that one half the
cattle were brand burnt or blotched beyond recognition. Besides, they
had an outfit of twenty heavily armed men, or twice as many as were
required to manage a herd of that size.

Our instructions were to make this crossing with all possible haste,
and if our numbers were too few, there to await assistance before
dropping down the river to meet the herd. When these courier orders
reached us at Tepee, they found only twelve men in camp, with not an
officer above a corporal. Fortunately we had Dad Root with us, a man
whom every man in our company would follow as though he had been our
captain. He had not the advantage in years that his name would
indicate, but he was an exceedingly useful man in the service. He could
resight a gun, shoe a horse, or empty a six-shooter into a tree from
the back of a running horse with admirable accuracy. In dressing a
gun-shot wound, he had the delicate touch of a woman. Every man in the
company went to him with his petty troubles, and came away delighted.
Therefore there was no question as to who should be our leader on this
raid; no one but Dad was even considered.

Sending a brief note to the adjutant-general by this same courier,
stating that we had started with twelve men, we broke camp, and in less
than an hour were riding southwest. One thing which played into our
hands in making this forced ride was the fact that we had a number of
extra horses on hand. For a few months previous we had captured quite a
number of stolen horses, and having no chance to send into the
settlements where they belonged, we used them as extra riding horses.
With our pack mules light and these extra saddlers for a change, we
covered the country rapidly. Sixteen hours a day in the saddle makes
camp-fires far apart. Dad, too, could always imagine that a few miles
farther on we would find a fine camping spot, and his views were law to
us.

We had been riding hard for an hour across a tableland known as Cibollo
Mesa, and now for the first time had halted at sighting our
destination, yet distant three hours’ hard riding. “Boys,” said Dad,
“we’ll make it early to-day. I know a fine camping spot near a big pool
in the river. After supper we’ll all take a swim, and feel as fresh as
pond-lilies.”

“Oh, we swim this evening, do we?” inquired Orchard. “That’s a
Christian idea, Dad, cleanliness, you know. Do we look as though a swim
would improve our good looks?” The fact that, after a ride like the one
we were near finishing, every man of us was saturated with fine
alkaline dust, made the latter question ludicrous.

For this final ride we changed horses for the last time on the trip,
and after a three hours’ ride under a mid-day torrid sun, the shade of
Concho’s timber and the companionship of running water were ours. We
rode with a whoop into the camp which Dad had had in his mind all
morning, and found it a paradise. We fell out of our saddles, and tired
horses were rolling and groaning all around us in a few minutes. The
packs were unlashed with the same alacrity, while horses, mules, and
men hurried to the water. With the exception of two horses on picket,
it was a loose camp in a few moments’ time. There was no thought of
eating now, with such inviting swimming pools as the spring freshets
had made.

Dad soon located the big pool, for he had been there before, and
shortly a dozen men floundered and thrashed around in it like a school
of dolphins. On one side of the pool was a large sloping rock, from
which splendid diving could be had. On this rock we gathered like kid
goats on a stump, or sunned ourselves like lizards. To get the benefit
of the deepest water, only one could dive at a time. We were so bronzed
from the sun that when undressed the protected parts afforded a
striking contrast to the brown bands about our necks. Orchard was
sitting on the rock waiting for his turn to dive, when Long John,
patting his naked shoulder, said admiringly,—

“Orchard, if I had as purty a plump shoulder as you have, I’d have my
picture taken kind of half careless like—like the girls do sometimes.
Wear one of those far-away looks, roll up your eyes, and throw up your
head like you was listening for it to thunder. Then while in that
attitude, act as if you didn’t notice and let all your clothing fall
entirely off your shoulder. If you’ll have your picture taken that way
and give me one, I’ll promise you to set a heap of store by it, old
man.”

Orchard looked over the edge of the rock at his reflection in the
water, and ventured, “Wouldn’t I need a shave? and oughtn’t I to have a
string of beads around my swan-like neck, with a few spangles on it to
glitter and sparkle? I’d have to hold my right hand over this old gun
scar in my left shoulder, so as not to mar the beauty of the picture.
Remind me of it, John, and I’ll have some taken, and you shall have
one.”

A few minutes later Happy Jack took his place on the rim of the rock to
make a dive, his magnificent physique of six feet and two hundred
pounds looming up like a Numidian cavalryman, when Dad observed, “How
comes it, Jack, that you are so pitted in the face and neck with
pox-marks, and there’s none on your body?”

“Just because they come that way, I reckon,” was the answer vouchsafed.
“You may think I’m funning, lads, but I never felt so supremely happy
in all my life as when I got well of the smallpox. I had one hundred
and ninety dollars in my pocket when I took down with them, and only
had eight left when I got up and was able to go to work.” Here, as he
poised on tiptoe, with his hands gracefully arched over his head for a
dive, he was arrested in the movement by a comment of one of the boys,
to the effect that he “couldn’t see anything in that to make a man so
_supremely happy_.”

He turned his head halfway round at the speaker, and never losing his
poise, remarked, “Well, but you must recollect that there was five of
us taken down at the same time, and the other four died,” and he made a
graceful spring, boring a hole in the water, which seethed around him,
arising a moment later throwing water like a porpoise, as though he
wouldn’t exchange his position in life, humble as it was, with any one
of a thousand dead heroes.

After an hour in the water and a critical examination of all the old
gun-shot wounds of our whole squad, and the consequent verdict that it
was simply impossible to kill a man, we returned to camp and began
getting supper. There was no stomach so sensitive amongst us that it
couldn’t assimilate bacon, beans, and black coffee.

When we had done justice to the supper, the twilight hours of the
evening were spent in making camp snug for the night. Every horse or
mule was either picketed or hobbled. Every man washed his saddle
blankets, as the long continuous ride had made them rancid with sweat.
The night air was so dry and warm that they would even dry at night.
There was the usual target practice and the never-ending cleaning of
firearms. As night settled over the camp, everything was in order. The
blankets were spread, and smoking and yarning occupied the time until
sleep claimed us.

“Talking about the tight places,” said Orchard, “in which a man often
finds himself in this service, reminds me of a funny experience which I
once had, out on the head-waters of the Brazos. I’ve smelt powder at
short range, and I’m willing to admit there’s nothing fascinating in
it. But this time I got buffaloed by a bear.

“There are a great many brakes on the head of the Brazos, and in them
grow cedar thickets. I forget now what the duty was that we were there
on, but there were about twenty of us in the detachment at the time.
One morning, shortly after daybreak, another lad and myself walked out
to unhobble some extra horses which we had with us. The horses had
strayed nearly a mile from camp, and when we found them they were
cutting up as if they had been eating loco weed for a month. When we
came up to them, we saw that they were scared. These horses couldn’t
talk, but they told us that just over the hill was something they were
afraid of.

“We crept up the little hill, and there over in a draw was the cause of
their fear,—a big old lank Cinnamon. He was feeding along, heading for
a thicket of about ten acres. The lad who was with me stayed and
watched him, while I hurried back, unhobbled the horses, and rushed
them into camp. I hustled out every man, and they cinched their hulls
on those horses rapidly. By the time we had reached the lad who had
stayed to watch him, the bear had entered the thicket, but unalarmed.
Some fool suggested the idea that we could drive him out in the open
and rope him. The lay of the land would suggest such an idea, for
beyond this motte of cedar lay an impenetrable thicket of over a
hundred acres, which we thought he would head for if alarmed. There was
a ridge of a divide between these cedar brakes, and if the bear should
attempt to cross over, he would make a fine mark for a rope.

“Well, I always was handy with a rope, and the boys knew it, so I and
three others who could twirl a rope were sent around on this divide, to
rope him in case he came out. The others left their horses and made a
half-circle drive through the grove, beating the brush and burning
powder as though it didn’t cost anything. We ropers up on the divide
scattered out, hiding ourselves as much as we could in the broken
places. We wanted to get him out in the clear in case he played nice.
He must have been a sullen old fellow, for we were beginning to think
they had missed him or he had holed, when he suddenly lumbered out
directly opposite me and ambled away towards the big thicket.

“I was riding a cream-colored horse, and he was as good a one as ever
was built on four pegs, except that he was nervous. He had never seen a
bear, and when I gave him the rowel, he went after that bear like a cat
after a mouse. The first sniff he caught of the bear, he whirled
quicker than lightning, but I had made my cast, and the loop settled
over Mr. Bear’s shoulders, with one of his fore feet through it. I had
tied the rope in a hard knot to the pommel, and the way my horse
checked that bear was a caution. It must have made bruin mad. My horse
snorted and spun round like a top, and in less time than it takes to
tell it, there was a bear, a cream-colored horse, and a man sandwiched
into a pile on the ground, and securely tied with a three-eighths-inch
rope. The horse had lashed me into the saddle by winding the rope, and
at the same time windlassed the bear in on top of us. The horse cried
with fear as though he was being burnt to death, while the bear grinned
and blew his breath in my face. The running noose in the rope had cut
his wind so badly, he could hardly offer much resistance. It was a good
thing he had his wind cut, or he would have made me sorry I enlisted. I
didn’t know it at the time, but my six-shooter had fallen out of the
holster, while the horse was lying on my carbine.

“The other three rode up and looked at me, and they all needed killing.
Horse, bear, and man were so badly mixed up, they dared not shoot. One
laughed till he cried, another one was so near limp he looked like a
ghost, while one finally found his senses and, dismounting, cut the
rope in half a dozen places and untied the bundle. My horse floundered
to his feet and ran off, but before the bear could free the noose, the
boys got enough lead into him at close quarters to hold him down. The
entire detachment came out of the thicket, and their hilarity knew no
bounds. I was the only man in the crowd who didn’t enjoy the bear
chase. Right then I made a resolve that hereafter, when volunteers are
called for to rope a bear, my accomplishments in that line will remain
unmentioned by me. I’ll eat my breakfast first, anyhow, and think it
over carefully.”

“Dogs and horses are very much alike about a bear,” said one of the
boys. “Take a dog that never saw a bear in his life, and let him get a
sniff of one, and he’ll get up his bristles like a javeline and tuck
his tail and look about for good backing or a clear field to run.”

Long John showed symptoms that he had some yarn to relate, so we
naturally remained silent to give him a chance, in case the spirit
moved in him. Throwing a brand into the fare after lighting his
cigarette, he stretched himself on the ground, and the expected
happened.

“A few years ago, while rangering down the country,” said he, “four of
us had trailed some horse-thieves down on the Rio Grande, when they
gave us the slip by crossing over into Mexico. We knew the thieves were
just across the river, so we hung around a few days, in the hope of
catching them, for if they should recross into Texas they were our
meat. Our plans were completely upset the next morning, by the arrival
of twenty United States cavalrymen on the cold trail of four deserters.
The fact that these deserters were five days ahead and had crossed into
Mexico promptly on reaching the river, did not prevent this squad of
soldiers from notifying both villages on each side of the river as to
their fruitless errand. They couldn’t follow their own any farther, and
they managed to scare our quarry into hiding in the interior. We waited
until the soldiers returned to the post, when we concluded we would
take a little _pasear_ over into Mexico on our own account.

“We called ourselves horse-buyers. The government was paying like
thirty dollars for deserters, and in case we run across them, we
figured it would pay expenses to bring them out. These deserters were
distinguishable wherever they went by the size of their horses;
besides, they had two fine big American mules for packs. They were
marked right for that country. Everything about them was _muy grande_.
We were five days overtaking them, and then at a town one hundred and
forty miles in the interior. They had celebrated their desertion the
day previous to our arrival by getting drunk, and when the horse-buyers
arrived they were in jail. This last condition rather frustrated our
plans for their capture, as we expected to kidnap them out. But now we
had red tape authorities to deal with.

“We found the horses, mules, and accoutrements in a corral. They would
be no trouble to get, as the bill for their keep was the only concern
of the corral-keeper. Two of the boys who were in the party could
palaver Spanish, so they concluded to visit the alcalde of the town,
inquiring after horses in general and incidentally finding out when our
deserters would be released. The alcalde received the boys with great
politeness, for Americans were rare visitors in his town, and after
giving them all the information available regarding horses, the subject
innocently changed to the American prisoners in jail. The alcalde
informed them that he was satisfied they were deserters, and not
knowing just what to do with them he had sent a courier that very
morning to the governor for instructions in the matter. He estimated it
would require at least ten days to receive the governor’s reply. In the
mean time, much as he regretted it, they would remain prisoners. Before
parting, those two innocents permitted their host to open a bottle of
wine as an evidence of the friendly feeling, and at the final
leave-taking, they wasted enough politeness on each other to win a
woman.

“When the boys returned to us other two, we were at our wits’ end. We
were getting disappointed too often. The result was that we made up our
minds that rather than throw up, we would take those deserters out of
jail and run the risk of getting away with them. We had everything in
readiness an hour before nightfall. We explained, to the satisfaction
of the Mexican hostler who had the stock in charge, that the owners of
these animals were liable to be detained in jail possibly a month, and
to avoid the expense of their keeping, we would settle the bill for our
friends and take the stock with us. When the time came every horse was
saddled and the mules packed and in readiness. We had even moved our
own stock into the same corral, which was only a short distance from
the jail.

“As night set in we approached the _carsel_. The turnkey answered our
questions very politely through a grated iron door, and to our request
to speak with the prisoners, he regretted that they were being fed at
that moment, and we would have to wait a few minutes. He unbolted the
door, however, and offered to show us into a side room, an invitation
we declined. Instead, we relieved him of his keys and made known our
errand. When he discovered that we were armed and he was our prisoner,
he was speechless with terror. It was short work to find the men we
wanted and march them out, locking the gates behind us and taking
jailer and keys with us. Once in the saddle, we bade the poor turnkey
good-by and returned him his keys.

“We rode fast, but in less than a quarter of an hour there was a
clanging of bells which convinced us that the alarm had been given. Our
prisoners took kindly to the rescue and rode willingly, but we were
careful to conceal our identity or motive. We felt certain there would
be pursuit, if for no other purpose, to justify official authority. We
felt easy, for we were well mounted, and if it came to a pinch, we
would burn powder with them, one round at least.

“Before half an hour had passed, we were aware that we were pursued. We
threw off the road at right angles and rode for an hour. Then, with the
North Star for a guide, we put over fifty miles behind us before
sunrise. It was impossible to secrete ourselves the next day, for we
were compelled to have water for ourselves and stock. To conceal the
fact that our friends were prisoners, we returned them their arms after
throwing away their ammunition. We had to enter several ranches during
the day to secure food and water, but made no particular effort to
travel.

“About four o’clock we set out, and to our surprise, too, a number of
horsemen followed us until nearly dark. Passing through a slight
shelter, in which we were out of sight some little time, two of us
dropped back and awaited our pursuers. As they came up within hailing
distance, we ordered them to halt, which they declined by whirling
their horses and burning the earth getting away. We threw a few rounds
of lead after them, but they cut all desire for our acquaintance right
there.

“We reached the river at a nearer point than the one at which we had
entered, and crossed to the Texas side early the next morning. We
missed a good ford by two miles and swam the river. At this ford was
stationed a squad of regulars, and we turned our prizes over within an
hour after crossing. We took a receipt for the men, stock, and
equipments, and when we turned it over to our captain a week
afterwards, we got the riot act read to us right. I noticed, however,
the first time there was a division of prize money, one item was for
the capture of four deserters.”

“I don’t reckon that captain had any scruples about taking his share of
the prize money, did he?” inquired Gotch.

“No, I never knew anything like that to happen since I’ve been in the
service.”

“There used to be a captain in one of the upper country companies that
held religious services in his company, and the boys claimed that he
was equally good on a prayer, a fight, or holding aces in a poker
game,” said Gotch, as he filled his pipe.

Amongst Dad’s other accomplishments was his unfailing readiness to tell
of his experiences in the service. So after he had looked over the camp
in general, he joined the group of lounging smokers and told us of an
Indian fight in which he had participated.

“I can’t imagine how this comes to be called Comanche Ford,” said Dad.
“Now the Comanches crossed over into the Panhandle country annually for
the purpose of killing buffalo. For diversion and pastime, they were
always willing to add horse-stealing and the murdering of settlers as a
variation. They used to come over in big bands to hunt, and when ready
to go back to their reservation in the Indian Territory, they would
send the squaws on ahead, while the bucks would split into small bands
and steal all the good horses in sight.

“Our old company was ordered out on the border once, when the Comanches
were known to be south of Red River killing buffalo. This meant that on
their return it would be advisable to look out for your horses or they
would be missing. In order to cover as much territory as possible, the
company was cut in three detachments. Our squad had twenty men in it
under a lieutenant. We were patrolling a country known as the Tallow
Cache Hills, glades and black-jack cross timbers alternating. All kinds
of rumors of Indian depredations were reaching us almost daily, yet so
far we had failed to locate or see an Indian.

“One day at noon we packed up and were going to move our camp farther
west, when a scout, who had gone on ahead, rushed back with the news
that he had sighted a band of Indians with quite a herd of horses
pushing north. We led our pack mules, and keeping the shelter of the
timber started to cut them off in their course. When we first sighted
them, they were just crossing a glade, and the last buck had just left
the timber. He had in his mouth an arrow shaft, which he was turning
between his teeth to remove the sap. All had guns. The first warning
the Indians received of our presence was a shot made by one of the men
at this rear Indian. He rolled off his horse like a stone, and the next
morning when we came back over their trail, he had that unfinished
arrow in a death grip between his teeth. That first shot let the cat
out, and we went after them.

“We had two big piebald calico mules, and when we charged those
Indians, those pack mules outran every saddle horse which we had, and
dashing into their horse herd, scattered them like partridges. Nearly
every buck was riding a stolen horse, and for some cause they couldn’t
get any speed out of them. We just rode all around them. There proved
to be twenty-two Indians in the band, and one of them was a squaw. She
was killed by accident.

“The chase had covered about two miles, when the horse she was riding
fell from a shot by some of our crowd. The squaw recovered herself and
came to her feet in time to see several carbines in the act of being
leveled at her by our men. She instantly threw open the slight covering
about her shoulders and revealed her sex. Some one called out not to
shoot, that it was a squaw, and the carbines were lowered. As this
squad passed on, she turned and ran for the protection of the nearest
timber, and a second squad coming up and seeing the fleeing Indian,
fired on her, killing her instantly. She had done the very thing she
should not have done.

“It was a running fight from start to finish. We got the last one in
the band about seven miles from the first one. The last one to fall was
mounted on a fine horse, and if he had only ridden intelligently, he
ought to have escaped. The funny thing about it was he was overtaken by
the dullest, sleepiest horse in our command. The shooting and smell of
powder must have put iron into him, for he died a hero. When this last
Indian saw that he was going to be overtaken, his own horse being
recently wounded, he hung on one side of the animal and returned the
fire. At a range of ten yards he planted a bullet squarely in the
leader’s forehead, his own horse falling at the same instant. Those two
horses fell dead so near that you could have tied their tails together.
Our man was thrown so suddenly, that he came to his feet dazed, his
eyes filled with dirt. The Indian stood not twenty steps away and fired
several shots at him. Our man, in his blindness, stood there and beat
the air with his gun, expecting the Indian to rush on him every moment.
Had the buck used his gun for a club, it might have been different, but
as long as he kept shooting, his enemy was safe. Half a dozen of us,
who were near enough to witness his final fight, dashed up, and the
Indian fell riddled with bullets.

“We went into camp after the fight was over with two wounded men and
half a dozen dead or disabled horses. Those of us who had mounts in
good fix scoured back and gathered in our packs and all the Indian and
stolen horses that were unwounded. It looked like a butchery, but our
minds were greatly relieved on that point the next day, when we found
among their effects over a dozen fresh, bloody scalps, mostly women and
children. There’s times and circumstances in this service that make the
toughest of us gloomy.”

“How long ago was that?” inquired Orchard.

“Quite a while ago,” replied Dad. “I ought to be able to tell exactly.
I was a youngster then. Well, I’ll tell you; it was during the
reconstruction days, when Davis was governor. Figure it out yourself.”

“Speaking of the disagreeable side of this service,” said Happy Jack,
“reminds me of an incident that took all the nerve out of every one
connected with it. When I first went into the service, there was a
well-known horse-thief and smuggler down on the river, known as El
Lobo. He operated on both sides of the Rio Grande, but generally stole
his horses from the Texas side. He was a night owl. It was nothing for
him to be seen at some ranch in the evening, and the next morning be
met seventy-five or eighty miles distant. He was a good judge of
horse-flesh, and never stole any but the best. His market was well in
the interior of Mexico, and he supplied it liberally. He was a typical
dandy, and like a sailor had a wife in every port. That was his weak
point, and there’s where we attacked him.

“He had made all kinds of fun of this service, and we concluded to have
him at any cost. Accordingly we located his women and worked on them.
Mexican beauty is always over-rated, but one of his conquests in that
line came as near being the ideal for a rustic beauty as that
nationality produces. This girl was about twenty, and lived with a
questionable mother at a ranchito back from the river about thirty
miles. In form and feature there was nothing lacking, while the
smouldering fire of her black eyes would win saint or thief alike. Born
in poverty and ignorance, she was a child of circumstance, and fell an
easy victim to El Lobo, who lavished every attention upon her. There
was no present too costly for him, and on his periodical visits he
dazzled her with gifts. But infatuations of that class generally have
an end, often a sad one.

“We had a half-blood in our company, who was used as a rival to El Lobo
in gathering any information that might be afloat, and at the same
time, when opportunity offered, in sowing the wormwood of jealousy.
This was easy, for we collected every item in the form of presents he
ever made her rival señoritas. When these forces were working, our
half-blood pushed his claims for recognition. Our wages and prize money
were at his disposal, and in time they won. The neglect shown her by El
Lobo finally turned her against him, apparently, and she agreed to
betray his whereabouts the first opportunity—on one condition. And that
was, that if we succeeded in capturing him, we were to bring him before
her, that she might, in his helplessness, taunt him for his perfidy
towards her. We were willing to make any concession to get him, so this
request was readily granted.

“The deserted condition of the ranchito where the girl lived was to our
advantage as well as his. The few families that dwelt there had their
flocks to look after, and the coming or going of a passer-by was
scarcely noticed. Our man on his visits carefully concealed the fact
that he was connected with this service, for El Lobo’s lavish use of
money made him friends wherever he went, and afforded him all the
seclusion he needed.

“It was over a month before the wolf made his appearance, and we were
informed of the fact. He stayed at an outside pastor’s camp, visiting
the ranch only after dark. A corral was mentioned, where within a few
days’ time, at the farthest, he would pen a bunch of saddle horses.
There had once been wells at this branding pen, but on their failing to
furnish water continuously they had been abandoned. El Lobo had friends
at his command to assist him in securing the best horses in the
country. So accordingly we planned to pay our respects to him at these
deserted wells.

“The second night of our watch, we were rewarded by having three men
drive into these corrals about twenty saddle horses. They had barely
time to tie their mounts outside and enter the pen, when four of us
slipped in behind them and changed the programme a trifle. El Lobo was
one of the men. He was very polite and nice, but that didn’t prevent us
from ironing him securely, as we did his companions also.

“It was almost midnight when we reached the ranchito where the girl
lived. We asked him if he had any friends at this ranch whom he wished
to see. This he denied. When we informed him that by special request a
lady wished to bid him farewell, he lost some of his bluster and
bravado. We all dismounted, leaving one man outside with the other two
prisoners, and entered a small yard where the girl lived. Our
half-blood aroused her and called her out to meet her friend, El Lobo.
The girl delayed us some minutes, and we apologized to him for the
necessity of irons and our presence in meeting his Dulce Corazon. When
the girl came out we were some distance from the jacal. There was just
moonlight enough to make her look beautiful.

“As she advanced, she called him by some pet name in their language,
when he answered her gruffly, accusing her of treachery, and turned his
back upon her. She approached within a few feet, when it was noticeable
that she was racked with emotion, and asked him if he had no kind word
for her. Turning on her, he repeated the accusation of treachery, and
applied a vile expression to her. That moment the girl flashed into a
fiend, and throwing a shawl from her shoulders, revealed a pistol,
firing it twice before a man could stop her. El Lobo sank in his
tracks, and she begged us to let her trample his lifeless body. Later,
when composed, she told us that we had not used her any more than she
had used us, in bringing him helpless to her. As things turned out it
looked that way.

“We lashed the dead thief on his horse and rode until daybreak, when we
buried him. We could have gotten a big reward for him dead or alive,
and we had the evidence of his death, but the manner in which we got it
made it undesirable. El Lobo was missed, but the manner of his going
was a secret of four men and a Mexican girl. The other two prisoners
went over the road, and we even reported to them that he had attempted
to strangle her, and we shot him to save her. Something had to be
said.”

The smoking and yarning had ended. Darkness had settled over the camp
but a short while, when every one was sound asleep. It must have been
near midnight when a number of us were aroused by the same disturbance.
The boys sat bolt upright and listened eagerly. We were used to being
awakened by shots, and the cause of our sudden awakening was believed
to be the same,—a shot. While the exchange of opinion was going the
round, all anxiety on that point was dispelled by a second shot, the
flash of which could be distinctly seen across the river below the
ford.

As Dad stood up and answered it with a shrill whistle, every man
reached for his carbine and flattened himself out on the ground. The
whistle was answered, and shortly the splash of quite a cavalcade could
be heard fording the river. Several times they halted, our fire having
died out, and whistles were exchanged between them and Root. When they
came within fifty yards of camp and their outlines could be
distinguished against the sky line in the darkness, they were ordered
to halt, and a dozen carbines clicked an accompaniment to the order.

“Who are you?” demanded Root.

“A detachment from Company M, Texas Rangers,” was the reply.

“If you are Rangers, give us a maxim of the service,” said Dad.

“_Don’t wait for the other man to shoot first_,” came the response.

“Ride in, that passes here,” was Dad’s greeting and welcome.

They were a detachment of fifteen men, and had ridden from the Pecos on
the south, nearly the same distance which we had come. They had similar
orders to ours, but were advised that they would meet our detachment at
this ford. In less than an hour every man was asleep again, and quiet
reigned in the Ranger camp at Comanche Ford on the Concho.



IX
AROUND THE SPADE WAGON


It was an early spring. The round-up was set for the 10th of June. The
grass was well forward, while the cattle had changed their shaggy
winter coats to glossy suits of summer silk. The brands were as
readable as an alphabet.

It was one day yet before the round-up of the Cherokee Strip. This
strip of leased Indian lands was to be worked in three divisions. We
were on our way to represent the Coldwater Pool in the western
division, on the annual round-up. Our outfit was four men and thirty
horses. We were to represent a range that had twelve thousand cattle on
it, a total of forty-seven brands. We had been in the saddle since
early morning, and as we came out on a narrow divide, we caught our
first glimpse of the Cottonwoods at Antelope Springs, the rendezvous
for this division. The setting sun was scarcely half an hour high, and
the camp was yet five miles distant. We had covered sixty miles that
day, traveling light, our bedding lashed on gentle saddle horses. We
rode up the mesa quite a little distance to avoid some rough broken
country, then turned southward toward the Springs. Before turning off,
we could see with the naked eye signs of life at the meeting-point. The
wagon sheets of half a dozen chuck-wagons shone white in the dim
distance, while small bands of saddle horses could be distinctly seen
grazing about.

When we halted at noon that day to change our mounts, we sighted to the
northward some seven miles distant an outfit similar to our own. We
were on the lookout for this cavalcade; they were supposed to be the
“Spade” outfit, on their way to attend the round-up in the middle
division, where our pasture lay. This year, as in years past, we had
exchanged the courtesies of the range with them. Their men on our
division were made welcome at our wagon, and we on theirs were extended
the same courtesy. For this reason we had hoped to meet them and
exchange the chronicle of the day, concerning the condition of cattle
on their range, the winter drift, and who would be captain this year on
the western division, but had traveled the entire day without meeting a
man.

Night had almost set in when we reached the camp, and to our
satisfaction and delight found the Spade wagon already there, though
their men and horses would not arrive until the next day. To hungry men
like ourselves, the welcome of their cook was hospitality in the
fullest sense of the word. We stretched ropes from the wagon wheels,
and in a few moments’ time were busy hobbling our mounts. Darkness had
settled over the camp as we were at this work, while an occasional
horseman rode by with the common inquiry, “Whose outfit is this?” and
the cook, with one end of the rope in his hand, would feel the host in
him sufficiently to reply in tones supercilious, “The Coldwater Pool
men are with us this year.”

Our arrival was heralded through the camp with the same rapidity with
which gossip circulates, equally in a tenement alley or the upper crust
of society. The cook had informed us that we had been inquired for by
some Panhandle man; so before we had finished hobbling, a stranger sang
out across the ropes in the darkness, “Is Billy Edwards here?”
Receiving an affirmative answer from among the horses’ feet, he added,
“Come out, then, and shake hands with a friend.”

Edwards arose from his work, and looking across the backs of the circle
of horses about him, at the undistinguishable figure at the rope,
replied, “Whoever you are, I reckon the acquaintance will hold good
until I get these horses hobbled.”

“Who is it?” inquired “Mouse” from over near the hind wheel of the
wagon, where he was applying the hemp to the horses’ ankles.

“I don’t know,” said Billy, as he knelt among the horses and resumed
his work,—“some geranium out there wants me to come out and shake
hands, pow-wow, and make some medicine with him; that’s all. Say, we’ll
leave Chino for picket, and that Chihuahua cutting horse of Coon’s, you
have to put a rope on when you come to him. He’s too touchy to sabe
hobbles if you don’t.”

When we had finished hobbling, and the horses were turned loose, the
stranger proved to be “Babe” Bradshaw, an old chum of Edwards’s. The
Spade cook added an earthly laurel to his temporal crown with the
supper to which he shortly invited us. Bradshaw had eaten with the
general wagon, but he sat around while we ate. There was little
conversation during the supper, for our appetites were such and the
spread so inviting that it simply absorbed us.

“Don’t bother me,” said Edwards to his old chum, in reply to some
inquiry. “Can’t you see that I’m occupied at present?”

We did justice to the supper, having had no dinner that day. The cook
even urged, with an earnestness worthy of a motherly landlady, several
dishes, but his browned potatoes and roast beef claimed our attention.
“Well, what are you doing in this country anyhow?” inquired Edwards of
Bradshaw, when the inner man had been thoroughly satisfied.

“Well, sir, I have a document in my pocket, with sealing wax but no
ribbons on it, which says that I am the duly authorized representative
of the Panhandle Cattle Association. I also have a book in my pocket
showing every brand and the names of its owners, and there is a whole
raft of them. I may go to St. Louis to act as inspector for my people
when the round-up ends.”

“You’re just as windy as ever, Babe,” said Billy. “Strange I didn’t
recognize you when you first spoke. You’re getting natural now, though.
I suppose you’re borrowing horses, like all these special inspectors
do. It’s all right with me, but good men must be scarce in your section
or you’ve improved rapidly since you left us. By the way, there is a
man or four lying around here that also represents about forty-seven
brands. Possibly you’d better not cut any of their cattle or you might
get them cut back on you.”

“Do you remember,” said Babe, “when I dissolved with the ‘Ohio’ outfit
and bought in with the ‘LX’ people?”

“When you what?” repeated Edwards.

“Well, then, when I was discharged by the ‘Ohio’s’ and got a job
ploughing fire-guards with the ‘LX’s.’ Is that plain enough for your
conception? I learned a lesson then that has served me since to good
advantage. Don’t hesitate to ask for the best job on the works, for if
you don’t you’ll see some one get it that isn’t as well qualified to
fill it as you are. So if you happen to be in St. Louis, call around
and see me at the Panhandle headquarters. Don’t send in any card by a
nigger; walk right in. I might give you some other pointers, but you
couldn’t appreciate them. You’ll more than likely be driving a
chuck-wagon in a few years.”

These old cronies from boyhood sparred along in give-and-take repartee
for some time, finally drifting back to boyhood days, while the
harshness that pervaded their conversation before became mild and
genial.

“Have you ever been back in old San Saba since we left?” inquired
Edwards after a long meditative silence.

“Oh, yes, I spent a winter back there two years ago, though it was hard
lines to enjoy yourself. I managed to romance about for two or three
months, sowing turnip seed and teaching dancing-school. The girls that
you and I knew are nearly all married.”

“What ever became of the O’Shea girls?” asked Edwards. “You know that I
was high card once with the eldest.”

“You’d better comfort yourself with the thought,” answered Babe, “for
you couldn’t play third fiddle in her string now. You remember old
Dennis O’Shea was land-poor all his life. Well, in the land and cattle
boom a few years ago he was picked up and set on a pedestal. It’s
wonderful what money can do! The old man was just common bog Irish all
his life, until a cattle syndicate bought his lands and cattle for
twice what they were worth. Then he blossomed into a capitalist. He
always was a trifle hide-bound. Get all you can and can all you get,
took precedence and became the first law with your papa-in-law. The old
man used to say that the prettiest sight he ever saw was the smoke
arising from a ‘Snake’ branding-iron. They moved to town, and have been
to Europe since they left the ranch. Jed Lynch, you know, was smitten
on the youngest girl. Well, he had the nerve to call on them after
their return from Europe. He says that they live in a big house, their
name’s on the door, and you have to ring a bell, and then a nigger
meets you. It must make a man feel awkward to live around a wagon all
his days, and then suddenly change to style and put on a heap of dog.
Jed says the red-headed girl, the middle one, married some fellow, and
they live with the old folks. He says the other girls treated him
nicely, but the old lady, she has got it bad. He says that she just
languishes on a sofa, cuts into the conversation now and then, and
simply swells up. She don’t let the old man come into the parlor at
all. Jed says that when the girls were describing their trip through
Europe, one of them happened to mention Rome, when the old lady
interrupted: ‘Rome? Rome? Let me see, I’ve forgotten, girls. Where is
Rome?’

“‘Don’t you remember when we were in Italy,’ said one of the girls,
trying to refresh her memory.

“‘Oh, yes, now I remember; that’s where I bought you girls such nice
long red stockings.’

“The girls suddenly remembered some duty about the house that required
their immediate attention, and Jed says that he looked out of the
window.”

“So you think I’ve lost my number, do you?” commented Edwards, as he
lay on his back and fondly patted a comfortable stomach.

“Well, possibly I have, but it’s some consolation to remember that that
very good woman that you’re slandering used to give me the glad hand
and cut the pie large when I called. I may be out of the game, but I’d
take a chance yet if I were present; that’s what!”

They were singing over at one of the wagons across the draw, and after
the song ended, Bradshaw asked, “What ever became of Raneka Bill
Hunter?”

“Oh, he’s drifting about,” said Edwards. “Mouse here can tell you about
him. They’re old college chums.”

“Raneka was working for the ‘-BQ’ people last summer,” said Mouse, “but
was discharged for hanging a horse, or rather he discharged himself. It
seems that some one took a fancy to a horse in his mount. The last man
to buy into an outfit that way always gets all the bad horses for his
string. As Raneka was a new man there, the result was that some excuse
was given him to change, and they rung in a spoilt horse on him in
changing. Being new that way, he wasn’t on to the horses. The first
time he tried to saddle this new horse he showed up bad. The horse
trotted up to him when the rope fell on his neck, reared up nicely and
playfully, and threw out his forefeet, stripping the three upper
buttons off Bill’s vest pattern. Bill never said a word about his
intentions, but tied him to the corral fence and saddled up his own
private horse. There were several men around camp, but they said
nothing, being a party to the deal, though they noticed Bill riding
away with the spoilt horse. He took him down on the creek about a mile
from camp and hung him.

“How did he do it? Why, there was a big cottonwood grew on a bluff bank
of the creek. One limb hung out over the bluff, over the bed of the
creek. He left the running noose on the horse’s neck, climbed out on
this overhanging limb, taking the rope through a fork directly over the
water. He then climbed down and snubbed the free end of the rope to a
small tree, and began taking in his slack. When the rope began to choke
the horse, he reared and plunged, throwing himself over the bluff. That
settled his ever hurting any one. He was hung higher than Haman. Bill
never went back to the camp, but struck out for other quarters. There
was a month’s wages coming to him, but he would get that later or they
might keep it. Life had charms for an old-timer like Bill, and he
didn’t hanker for any reputation as a broncho-buster. It generally
takes a verdant to pine for such honors.

“Last winter when Bill was riding the chuck line, he ran up against a
new experience. It seems that some newcomer bought a range over on
Black Bear. This new man sought to set at defiance the customs of the
range. It was currently reported that he had refused to invite people
to stay for dinner, and preferred that no one would ask for a night’s
lodging, even in winter. This was the gossip of the camps for miles
around, so Bill and some juniper of a pardner thought they would make a
call on him and see how it was. They made it a point to reach his camp
shortly after noon. They met the owner just coming out of the dug-out
as they rode up. They exchanged the compliments of the hour, when the
new man turned and locked the door of the dug-out with a padlock. Bill
sparred around the main question, but finally asked if it was too late
to get dinner, and was very politely informed that dinner was over.
This latter information was, however, qualified with a profusion of
regrets. After a confession of a hard ride made that morning from a
camp many miles distant, Bill asked the chance to remain over night.
Again the travelers were met with serious regrets, as no one would be
at camp that night, business calling the owner away; he was just
starting then. The cowman led out his horse, and after mounting and
expressing for the last time his sincere regrets that he could not
extend to them the hospitalities of his camp, rode away.

“Bill and his pardner moseyed in an opposite direction a short distance
and held a parley. Bill was so nonplussed at the reception that it took
him some little time to collect his thoughts. When it thoroughly dawned
on him that the courtesies of the range had been trampled under foot by
a rank newcomer and himself snubbed, he was aroused to action.

“‘Let’s go back,’ said Bill to his pardner, ‘and at least leave our
card. He might not like it if we didn’t.’

“They went back and dismounted about ten steps from the door. They shot
every cartridge they both had, over a hundred between them, through the
door, fastened a card with their correct names on it, and rode away.
One of the boys that was working there, but was absent at the time,
says there was a number of canned tomato and corn crates ranked up at
the rear of the dug-out, in range with the door. This lad says that it
looked as if they had a special grievance against those canned goods,
for they were riddled with lead. That fellow lost enough by that act to
have fed all the chuck-line men that would bother him in a year.

“Raneka made it a rule,” continued Mouse, “to go down and visit the
Cheyennes every winter, sometimes staying a month. He could make a good
stagger at speaking their tongue, so that together with his knowledge
of the Spanish and the sign language he could converse with them
readily. He was perfectly at home with them, and they all liked him.
When he used to let his hair grow long, he looked like an Indian. Once,
when he was wrangling horses for us during the beef-shipping season, we
passed him off for an Indian on some dining-room girls. George Wall was
working with us that year, and had gone in ahead to see about the cars
and find out when we could pen and the like. We had to drive to the
State line, then, to ship. George took dinner at the best hotel in the
town, and asked one of the dining-room girls if he might bring in an
Indian to supper the next evening. They didn’t know, so they referred
him to the landlord. George explained to that auger, who, not wishing
to offend us, consented. There were about ten girls in the dining-room,
and they were on the lookout for the Indian. The next night we penned a
little before dark. Not a man would eat at the wagon; every one rode
for the hotel. We fixed Bill up in fine shape, put feathers in his
hair, streaked his face with red and yellow, and had him all togged out
in buckskin, even to moccasins. As we entered the dining-room, George
led him by the hand, assuring all the girls that he was perfectly
harmless. One long table accommodated us all. George, who sat at the
head with our Indian on his right, begged the girls not to act as
though they were afraid; he might notice it. Wall fed him pickles and
lump sugar until the supper was brought on. Then he pushed back his
chair about four feet, and stared at the girls like an idiot. When
George ordered him to eat, he stood up at the table. When he wouldn’t
let him stand, he took the plate on his knee, and ate one side dish at
a time. Finally, when he had eaten everything that suited his taste, he
stood up and signed with his hands to the group of girls, muttering,
‘Wo-haw, wo-haw.’

“‘He wants some more beef,’ said Wall. ‘Bring him some more beef.’
After a while he stood up and signed again, George interpreting his
wants to the dining-room girls: ‘Bring him some coffee. He’s awful fond
of coffee.’

“That supper lasted an hour, and he ate enough to kill a horse. As we
left the dining-room, he tried to carry away a sugar-bowl, but Wall
took it away from him. As we passed out George turned back and
apologized to the girls, saying, ‘He’s a good Injun. I promised him he
might eat with us. He’ll talk about this for months now. When he goes
back to his tribe he’ll tell his squaws all about you girls feeding
him.’”

“Seems like I remember that fellow Wall,” said Bradshaw, meditating.

“Why, of course you do. Weren’t you with us when we voted the bonds to
the railroad company?” asked Edwards.

“No, never heard of it; must have been after I left. What business did
you have voting bonds?”

“Tell him, Coon. I’m too full for utterance,” said Edwards.

“If you’d been in this country you’d heard of it,” said Coon Floyd.
“For a few years everything was dated from that event. It was like
‘when the stars fell,’ and the ‘surrender’ with the old-time darkies at
home. It seems that some new line of railroad wanted to build in, and
wanted bonds voted to them as bonus. Some foxy agent for this new line
got among the long-horns, who own the cattle on this Strip, and showed
them that it was to their interests to get a competing line in the
cattle traffic. The result was, these old long-horns got owly, laid
their heads together, and made a little medicine. Every mother’s son of
us in the Strip was entitled to claim a home somewhere, so they put it
up that we should come in and vote for the bonds. It was believed it
would be a close race if they carried, for it was by counties that the
bonds were voted. Towns that the road would run through would vote
unanimously for them, but outlying towns would vote solidly against the
bonds. There was a big lot of money used, wherever it came from, for we
were royally entertained. Two or three days before the date set for the
election, they began to head for this cow-town, every man on his top
horse. Everything was as free as air, and we all understood that a new
railroad was a good thing for the cattle interests. We gave it not only
our votes, but moral support likewise.

“It was a great gathering. The hotels fed us, and the liveries cared
for our horses. The liquid refreshments were provided by the
prohibition druggists of the town and were as free as the sunlight.
There was an underestimate made on the amount of liquids required, for
the town was dry about thirty minutes; but a regular train was run
through from Wichita ahead of time, and the embarrassment overcome.
There was an opposition line of railroad working against the bonds, but
they didn’t have any better sense than to send a man down to our town
to counteract our exertions. Public sentiment was a delicate matter
with us, and while this man had no influence with any of us, we didn’t
feel the same toward him as we might. He was distributing his tickets
around, and putting up a good argument, possibly, from his point of
view, when some of these old long-horns hinted to the boys to show the
fellow that he wasn’t wanted. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ said one old cow-man to
this same Wall, ‘but give him a scare, so he will know that we don’t
indorse him a little bit. Let him know that this town knows how to vote
without being told. I’ll send a man to rescue him, when things have
gone far enough. You’ll know when to let up.’

“That was sufficient. George went into a store and cut off about fifty
feet of new rope. Some fellows that knew how tied a hangman’s knot. As
we came up to the stranger, we heard him say to a man, ‘I tell you,
sir, these bonds will pauperize unborn gener—’ But the noose dropped
over his neck, and cut short his argument. We led him a block and a
half through the little town, during which there was a pointed argument
between Wall and a “Z——” man whether the city scales or the stockyards
arch gate would be the best place to hang him. There were a hundred men
around him and hanging on to the rope, when a druggist, whom most of
them knew, burst through the crowd, and whipping out a knife cut the
rope within a few feet of his neck. ‘What in hell are you varments
trying to do?’ roared the druggist. ‘This man is a cousin of mine.
Going to hang him, are you? Well, you’ll have to hang me with him when
you do.’

“‘Just as soon make it two as one,’ snarled George. ‘When did you get
the chips in this game, I’d like to know? Oppose the progress of the
town, too, do you?’

“‘No, I don’t,’ said the druggist, ‘and I’ll see that my cousin here
doesn’t.’

“‘That’s all we ask, then,’ said Wall; ‘turn him loose, boys. We don’t
want to hang no man. We hold you responsible if he opens his mouth
again against the bonds.’

“‘Hold me responsible, gentlemen,’ said the druggist, with a profound
bow. ‘Come with me, Cousin,’ he said to the Anti.

“The druggist took him through his store, and up some back stairs; and
once he had him alone, this was his advice, as reported to us later:
‘You’re a stranger to me. I lied to those men, but I saved your life.
Now, I’ll take you to the four-o’clock train, and get you out of this
town. By this act I’ll incur the hatred of these people that I live
amongst. So you let the idea go out that you are my cousin. Sabe? Now,
stay right here and I’ll bring you anything you want, but for Heaven’s
sake, don’t give me away.’

“‘Is—is—is the four o’clock train the first out?’ inquired the new
cousin.

“‘It is the first. I’ll see you through this. I’ll come up and see you
every hour. Take things cool and easy now. I’m your friend, remember,’
was the comfort they parted on.

“There were over seven hundred votes cast, and only one against the
bonds. How that one vote got in is yet a mystery. There were no hard
drinkers among the boys, all easy drinkers, men that never refused to
drink. Yet voting was a little new to them, and possibly that was how
this mistake occurred. We got the returns early in the evening. The
county had gone by a handsome majority for the bonds. The committee on
entertainment had provided a ball for us in the basement of the Opera
House, it being the largest room in town. When the good news began to
circulate, the merchants began building bonfires. Fellows who didn’t
have extra togs on for the ball got out their horses, and in squads of
twenty to fifty rode through the town, painting her red. If there was
one shot fired that night, there were ten thousand.

“I bought a white shirt and went to the ball. To show you how general
the good feeling amongst everybody was, I squeezed the hand of an
alfalfa widow during a waltz, who instantly reported the affront
offered to her gallant. In her presence he took me to task for the
offense. ‘Young man,’ said the doctor, with a quiet wink,’ this lady is
under my protection. The fourteenth amendment don’t apply to you nor
me. Six-shooters, however, make us equal. Are you armed?’

“‘I am, sir.’

“‘Unfortunately, I am not. Will you kindly excuse me, say ten minutes?’

“‘Certainly, sir, with pleasure.’

“‘There are ladies present,’ he observed. ‘Let us retire.’

“On my consenting, he turned to the offended dame, and in spite of her
protests and appeals to drop matters, we left the ballroom, glaring
daggers at each other. Once outside, he slapped me on the back, and
said, ‘Say, we’ll just have time to run up to my office, where I have
some choice old copper-distilled, sent me by a very dear friend in
Kentucky.’

“The goods were all he claimed for them, and on our return he asked me
as a personal favor to apologize to the lady, admitting that he was
none too solid with her himself. My doing so, he argued, would fortify
him with her and wipe out rivals. The doctor was a rattling good
fellow, and I’d even taken off my new shirt for him, if he’d said the
word. When I made the apology, I did it on the grounds that I could not
afford to have any difference, especially with a gentleman who would
willingly risk his life for a lady who claimed his protection.

“No, if you never heard of voting the bonds you certainly haven’t kept
very close tab on affairs in this Strip. Two or three men whom I know
refused to go in and vote. They ain’t working in this country now. It
took some of the boys ten days to go and come, but there wasn’t a word
said. Wages went on just the same. You ain’t asleep, are you, Don
Guillermo?”

“Oh, no,” said Edwards, with a yawn, “I feel just like the nigger did
when he eat his fill of possum, corn bread, and new molasses: pushed
the platter away and said, ‘Go way, ’lasses, you done los’ yo’
sweetness.’”

Bradshaw made several attempts to go, but each time some thought would
enter his mind and he would return with questions about former
acquaintances. Finally he inquired, “What ever became of that little
fellow who was sick about your camp?”

Edwards meditated until Mouse said, “He’s thinking about little St.
John, the fiddler.”

“Oh, yes, Patsy St. John, the little glass-blower,” said Edwards, as he
sat up on a roll of bedding. “He’s dead long ago. Died at our camp. I
did something for him that I’ve often wondered who would do the same
for me—I closed his eyes when he died. You know he came to us with the
mark on his brow. There was no escape; he had consumption. He wanted to
live, and struggled hard to avoid going. Until three days before his
death he was hopeful; always would tell us how much better he was
getting, and every one could see that he was gradually going. We always
gave him gentle horses to ride, and he would go with us on trips that
we were afraid would be his last. There wasn’t a man on the range who
ever said ‘No’ to him. He was one of those little men you can’t help
but like; small physically, but with a heart as big as an ox’s. He
lived about three years on the range, was welcome wherever he went, and
never made an enemy or lost a friend. He couldn’t; it wasn’t in him. I
don’t remember now how he came to the range, but think he was advised
by doctors to lead an outdoor life for a change.

“He was born in the South, and was a glass-blower by occupation. He
would have died sooner, but for his pluck and confidence that he would
get well. He changed his mind one morning, lost hope that he would ever
get well, and died in three days. It was in the spring. We were going
out one morning to put in a flood-gate on the river, which had washed
away in a freshet. He was ready to go along. He hadn’t been on a horse
in two weeks. No one ever pretended to notice that he was sick. He was
sensitive if you offered any sympathy, so no one offered to assist,
except to saddle his horse. The old horse stood like a kitten. Not a
man pretended to notice, but we all saw him put his foot in the stirrup
three different times and attempt to lift himself into the saddle. He
simply lacked the strength. He asked one of the boys to unsaddle the
horse, saying he wouldn’t go with us. Some of the boys suggested that
it was a long ride, and it was best he didn’t go, that we would hardly
get back until after dark. But we had no idea that he was so near his
end. After we left, he went back to the shack and told the cook he had
changed his mind,—that he was going to die. That night, when we came
back, he was lying on his cot. We all tried to jolly him, but each got
the same answer from him, ‘I’m going to die.’ The outfit to a man was
broke up about it, but all kept up a good front. We tried to make him
believe it was only one of his bad days, but he knew otherwise. He
asked Joe Box and Ham Rhodes, the two biggest men in the outfit,
six-footers and an inch each, to sit one on each side of his cot until
he went to sleep. He knew better than any of us how near he was to
crossing. But it seemed he felt safe between these two giants. We kept
up a running conversation in jest with one another, though it was empty
mockery. But he never pretended to notice. It was plain to us all that
the fear was on him. We kept near the shack the next day, some of the
boys always with him. The third evening he seemed to rally, talked with
us all, and asked if some of the boys would not play the fiddle. He was
a good player himself. Several of the boys played old favorites of his,
interspersed with stories and songs, until the evening was passing
pleasantly. We were recovering from our despondency with this
noticeable recovery on his part, when he whispered to his two big
nurses to prop him up. They did so with pillows and parkers, and he
actually smiled on us all. He whispered to Joe, who in turn asked the
lad sitting on the foot of the cot to play Farewell, my Sunny Southern
Home.’ Strange we had forgotten that old air,—for it was a general
favorite with us,—and stranger now that he should ask for it. As that
old familiar air was wafted out from the instrument, he raised his
eyes, and seemed to wander in his mind as if trying to follow the
refrain. Then something came over him, for he sat up rigid, pointing
out his hand at the empty space, and muttered, ‘There
stands—mother—now—under—the—oleanders. Who is—that with—her? Yes, I
had—a sister. Open—the—windows. It—is—getting—dark—dark—dark.’

“Large hands laid him down tenderly, but a fit of coughing came on. He
struggled in a hemorrhage for a moment, and then crossed over to the
waiting figures among the oleanders. Of all the broke-up outfits, we
were the most. Dead tough men bawled like babies. I had a good one
myself. When we came around to our senses, we all admitted it was for
the best. Since he could not get well, he was better off. We took him
next day about ten miles and buried him with those freighters who were
killed when the Pawnees raided this country. Some man will plant corn
over their graves some day.”

As Edwards finished his story, his voice trembled and there were tears
in his eyes. A strange silence had come over those gathered about the
camp-fire. Mouse, to conceal his emotion, pretended to be asleep, while
Bradshaw made an effort to clear his throat of something that would
neither go up nor down, and failing in this, turned and walked away
without a word. Silently we unrolled the beds, and with saddles for
pillows and the dome of heaven for a roof, we fell asleep.



X
THE RANSOM OF DON RAMON MORA


On the southern slope of the main tableland which divides the waters of
the Nueces and Rio Grande rivers in Texas, lies the old Spanish land
grant of “Agua Dulce,” and the rancho by that name. Twice within the
space of fifteen years was an appeal to the sword taken over the
ownership of the territory between these rivers. Sparsely settled by
the descendants of the original grantees, with an occasional American
ranchman, it is to-day much the same as when the treaty of peace gave
it to the stronger republic.

This frontier on the south has undergone few changes in the last half
century, and no improvements have been made. Here the smuggler against
both governments finds an inviting field. The bandit and the robber
feel equally at home under either flag. Revolutionists hatch their
plots against the powers that be; sedition takes on life and finds
adherents eager to bear arms and apply the torch.

Within a dozen years of the close of the century just past, this
territory was infested by a band of robbers, whose boldness has had few
equals in the history of American brigandage. The Bedouins of the
Orient justify their freebooting by accounting it a religious duty,
looking upon every one against their faith as an Infidel, and therefore
common property. These bandits could offer no such excuse, for they
plundered people of their own faith and blood. They were Mexicans, a
hybrid mixture of Spanish atrocity and Indian cruelty. They numbered
from ten to twenty, and for several months terrorized the Mexican
inhabitants on both sides of the river. On the American side they were
particular never to molest any one except those of their own
nationality. These they robbed with impunity, nor did their victims
dare to complain to the authorities, so thoroughly were they terrified
and coerced.

The last and most daring act of these marauders was the kidnapping of
Don Ramon Mora, owner of the princely grant of Agua Dulce. Thousands of
cattle and horses ranged over the vast acres of his ranch, and he was
reputed to be a wealthy man. No one ever enjoyed the hospitality of
Agua Dulce but went his way with an increased regard for its owner and
his estimable Castilian family. The rancho lay back from the river
probably sixty miles, and was on the border of the chaparral, which was
the rendezvous of the robbers. Don Ramon had a pleasant home in one of
the river towns. One June he and his family had gone to the ranch,
intending to spend a few weeks there. He had notified cattle-buyers of
this vacation, and had invited them to visit him there either on
business or pleasure.

One evening an unknown vaquero rode up to the rancho and asked for Don
Ramon. That gentleman presenting himself, the stranger made known his
errand: a certain firm of well-known drovers, friends of the ranchero,
were encamped for the night at a ranchita some ten miles distant. They
regretted that they could not visit him, but they would be pleased to
see him. They gave as an excuse for not calling that they were driving
quite a herd of cattle, and the corrals at this little ranch were
unsafe for the number they had, so that they were compelled to hold
outside or night-herd. This very plausible story was accepted without
question by Don Ramon, who well understood the handling of herds.
Inviting the messenger to some refreshment, he ordered his horse
saddled and made preparation to return with this pseudo vaquero.
Telling his family that he would be gone for the night, he rode away
with the stranger.

There were several thickety groves, extending from the main chaparral
out for considerable distance on the prairie, but not of as rank a
growth as on the alluvial river bottoms. These thickets were composed
of thorny underbrush, frequently as large as fruit trees and of a
density which made them impenetrable, except by those thoroughly
familiar with the few established trails. The road from Agua Dulce to
the ranchita was plain and well known, yet passing through several arms
of the main body of the chaparral. Don Ramon and his guide reached one
of these thickets after nightfall. Suddenly they were surrounded by a
dozen horsemen, who, with oaths and jests, told him that he was their
prisoner. Relieving Don Ramon of his firearms and other valuables, one
of the bandits took the bridle off his horse, and putting a rope around
the animal’s neck, the band turned towards the river with their
captive. Near morning they went into one of their many retreats in the
chaparral, fettering their prisoner. What the feelings of Don Ramon
Mora were that night is not for pen to picture, for they must have been
indescribable.

The following day the leader of these bandits held several
conversations with him, asking in regard to his family, his children in
particular, their names, number, and ages. When evening came they set
out once more southward, crossing the Rio Grande during the night at an
unused ford. The next morning found them well inland on the Mexican
side, and encamped in one of their many chaparral rendezvous. Here they
spent several days, sometimes, however, only a few of the band being
present. The density of the thickets on the first and second bottoms of
this river, extending back inland often fifty miles, made this camp and
refuge almost inaccessible. The country furnished their main
subsistence; fresh meat was always at hand, while their comrades,
scouting the river towns, supplied such comforts as were lacking.

Don Ramon’s appeals to his captors to know his offense and what his
punishment was to be were laughed at until he had been their prisoner a
week. One night several of the party returned, awoke him out of a
friendly sleep, and he was notified that their chief would join them by
daybreak, and then he would know what his offense had been. When this
personage made his appearance, he ordered Don Ramon released from his
fetters. Every one in camp showed obeisance to him. After holding a
general conversation with his followers, he approached Don Ramon, the
band forming a circle about the prisoner and their chief.

“Don Ramon Mora,” he began, with mock courtesy, “doubtless you consider
yourself an innocent and abused person. In that you are wrong. Your
offense is a political one. Your family for three generations have
opposed the freedom of Mexico. When our people were conquered and
control was given to the French, it was through the treachery of such
men as you. Treason is unpardonable, Señor Mora. It is useless to
enumerate your crimes against human liberty. Living as you do under a
friendly government, you have incited the ignorant to revolution and
revolt against the native rulers. Secret agents of our common country
have shadowed you for years. It is useless to deny your guilt. Your
execution, therefore, will be secret, in order that your co-workers in
infamy shall not take alarm, but may meet a similar fate.”

Turning to one of the party who had acted as leader at the time of his
capture, he gave these instructions: “Be in no hurry to execute these
orders. Death is far too light a sentence to fit his crime. He is
beyond a full measure of justice.” There was a chorus of “bravos” when
the bandit chief finished this trumped-up charge. As he turned from the
prisoner, Don Ramon pleadingly begged, “Only take me before an
established court that I may prove my innocence.”

“No! sentence has been passed upon you. If you hope for mercy, it must
come from there,” and the chief pointed heavenward. One of the band led
out the arch-chief’s horse, and with a parting instruction to “conceal
his grave carefully,” he rode away with but a single attendant.

As they led Don Ramon back to his blanket and replaced the fetters, his
cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Oddly enough the leader, since
sentence of death had been pronounced upon his victim, was the only one
of the band who showed any kindness. The others were brutal in their
jeers and taunts. Some remarks burned into his sensitive nature as
vitriol burns into metal. The bandit leader alone offered little
kindnesses.

Two days later, the acting chief ordered the irons taken from the
captive’s feet, and the two men, with but a single attendant, who kept
a respectful distance, started out for a stroll. The bandit chief
expressed his regret at the sad duty which had been allotted him, and
assured Don Ramon that he would gladly make his time as long as was
permissible.

“I thank you for your kindness,” said Don Ramon, “but is there no
chance to be given me to prove the falsity of these charges? Am I
condemned to die without a hearing?”

“There is no hope from that source.”

“Is there any hope from any source?”

“Scarcely,” replied the leader, “and still, if we could satisfy those
in authority over us that you had been executed as ordered, and if my
men could be bribed to certify the fact if necessary, and if you pledge
us to quit the country forever, who would know to the contrary? True,
our lives would be in jeopardy, and it would mean death to you if you
betrayed us.”

“Is this possible?” asked Don Ramon excitedly.

“The color of gold makes a good many things possible.”

“I would gladly give all I possess in the world for one hour’s peace in
the presence of my family, even if in the next my soul was summoned to
the bar of God. True, in lands and cattle I am wealthy, but the money
at my command is limited, though I wish it were otherwise.”

“It is a fortunate thing that you are a man of means. Say nothing to
your guards, and I will have a talk this very night with two men whom I
can trust, and we will see what can be done for you. Come, señor, don’t
despair, for I feel there is some hope,” concluded the bandit.

The family of Don Ramon were uneasy but not alarmed by his failure to
return to them the day following his departure. After two days had
passed, during which no word had come from him, his wife sent an old
servant to see if he was still at the ranchita. There the man learned
that his master had not been seen, nor had there been any drovers there
recently. Under the promise of secrecy, the servant was further
informed that, on the very day that Don Ramon had left his home, a band
of robbers had driven into a corral at a ranch in the _monte_ a remudo
of ranch horses, and, asking no one’s consent, had proceeded to change
their mounts, leaving their own tired horses. This they did at noonday,
without so much as a hand raised in protest, so terrified were the
people of the ranch.

On the servant’s return to Agua Dulce, the alarm and grief of the
family were pitiful, as was their helplessness. When darkness set in
Señora Mora sent a letter by a peon to an old family friend at his home
on the river. The next night three men, for mutual protection, brought
back a reply. From it these plausible deductions were made:—

That Don Ramon had been kidnapped for a ransom; that these bandits no
doubt were desperate men who would let nothing interfere with their
plans; that to notify the authorities and ask for help might end in his
murder; and that if kidnapped for a ransom, overtures for his
redemption would be made in due time. As he was entirely at the mercy
of his captors, they must look for hope only from that source. If
reward was their motive, he was worth more living than dead. This was
the only consolation deduced. The letter concluded by advising them to
meet any overture in strict confidence. As only money would be
acceptable in such a case, the friend pledged all his means in behalf
of Don Ramon should it be needed.

These were anxious days and weary nights for this innocent family. The
father, no doubt, would welcome death itself in preference to the rack
on which he was kept by his captors. Time is not considered valuable in
warm climates, and two weary days were allowed to pass before any
conversation was renewed with Don Ramon.

Then once more the chief had the fetters removed from his victim’s
ankles, with the customary guard within call. He explained that many of
the men were away, and it would be several days yet before he could
know if the outlook for his release was favorable. From what he had
been able to learn so far, at least fifty thousand dollars would be
necessary to satisfy the band, which numbered twenty, five of whom were
spies. They were poor men, he further explained, many of them had
families, and if they accepted money in a case like this,
self-banishment was the only safe course, as the political society to
which they belonged would place a price on their heads if they were
detected.

“The sum mentioned is a large one,” commented Don Ramon, “but it is
nothing to the mental anguish that I suffer daily. If I had time and
freedom, the money might be raised. But as it is, it is doubtful if I
could command one fifth of it.”

“You have a son,” said the chief, “a young man of twenty. Could he not
as well as yourself raise this amount? A letter could be placed in his
hands stating that a political society had sentenced you to death, and
that your life was only spared from day to day by the sufferance of
your captors. Ask him to raise this sum, tell him it would mean freedom
and restoration to your family. Could he not do this as well as you?”

“If time were given him, possibly. Can I send him such a letter?”
pleaded Don Ramon, brightening with the hope of this new opportunity.

“It would be impossible at present. The consent of all interested must
first be gained. Our responsibility then becomes greater than yours. No
false step must be taken. To-morrow is the soonest that we can get a
hearing with all. There must be no dissenters to the plan or it fails,
and then—well, the execution has been delayed long enough.”

Thus the days wore on.

The absence of the band, except for the few who guarded the prisoner,
was policy on their part. They were receiving the news from the river
villages daily, where the friends of Don Ramon discussed his absence in
whispers. Their system of espionage was as careful as their methods
were cruel and heartless. They even got reports from the ranch that not
a member of the family had ventured away since its master’s capture.
The local authorities were inactive. The bandits would play their cards
for a high ransom.

Early one morning after a troubled night’s rest, Don Ramon was awakened
by the arrival of the robbers, several of whom were boisterously drunk.
It was only with curses and drawn arms that the chief prevented these
men from committing outrages on their helpless captive.

After coffee was served, the chief unfolded his plot to them, with Don
Ramon as a listener to the proceedings. Addressing them, he said that
the prisoner’s offense was not one against them or theirs; that at best
they were but the hirelings of others; that they were poorly paid, and
that it had become sickening to him to do the bloody work for others.
Don Ramon Mora had gold at his command, enough to give each more in a
day than they could hope to receive for years of this inhuman
servitude. He could possibly pay to each two thousand dollars for his
freedom, guaranteeing them his gratitude, and pledging to refrain from
any prosecution. Would they accept this offer or refuse it? As many as
were in favor of granting his life would deposit in his hat a leaf from
the mesquite; those opposed, a leaf from the wild cane which surrounded
their camp.

The vote asked for was watched by the prisoner as only a man could
watch whose life hung in the balance. There were eight cane leaves to
seven of the mesquite. The chief flew into a rage, cursed his followers
for murderers for refusing to let the life blood run in this man, who
had never done one of them an injury. He called them cowards for
attacking the helpless, even accusing them of lack of respect for their
chief’s wishes. The majority hung their heads like whipped curs. When
he had finished his harangue, one of their number held up his hand to
beg the privilege of speaking.

“Yes, defend your dastardly act if you can,” said the chief.

“Capitan,” said the man, making obeisance and tapping his breast,
“there is an oath recorded here, in memory of a father who was hanged
by the French for no other crime save that he was a patriot to the land
of his birth. And you ask me to violate my vow! To the wind with your
sympathy! To the gallows with our enemies!” There was a chorus of
“bravos” and shouts of “Vivi el Mejico,” as the majority congratulated
the speaker.

When the chief led the prisoner back to his blanket, he spoke hopefully
to Don Ramon, explaining that it was the mescal the men had drunk which
made them so unreasonable and defiant. Promising to reason with them
when they were more sober, he left Don Ramon with his solitary guard.
The chief then returned to the band, where he received the
congratulations of his partners in crime on his mock sympathy. It was
agreed that the majority should be won over at the next council, which
they would hold that evening.

The chief returned to his prisoner during the day, and expressed a hope
that by evening, when his followers would be perfectly sober, they
would listen to reason. He doubted, however, if the sum first named
would satisfy them, and insisted that he be authorized to offer more.
To this latter proposition Don Ramon made answer, “I am helpless to
promise you anything, but if you will only place me in correspondence
with my son, all I possess, everything that can be hypothecated shall
go to satisfy your demands. Only let it be soon, for this suspense is
killing me.”

An hour before dark the band was once more summoned together, with Don
Ramon in their midst. The chief asked the majority if they had any
compromise to offer to his proposition of the morning, and received a
negative answer. “Then,” said he, “remember that a trusting wife and
eight children, the eldest a lad of twenty, the youngest a toddling tot
of a girl, claim a husband and a father’s love at the hands of the
prisoner here. Are you such base ingrates that you can show no mercy,
not even to the innocent?”

The majority were abashed, and one by one fell back in the distance.
Finally a middle-aged man came forward and said, “Give us five thousand
dollars in gold apiece, the money to be in hand, and the prisoner may
have his liberty, all other conditions made in the morning to be
binding.”

“Your answer to that, Don Ramon?” asked the chief.

“I have promised my all. I ask nothing but life. I may have friends who
will assist. Give me an opportunity to see what can be done.”

“You shall have it,” replied the chief, “and on its success depends
your liberty or the consequences.”

Going amongst the band, he ordered them to meet again in three days at
one of their rendezvous near Agua Dulce; to go by twos, visit the river
towns on the way, to pick up all items of interest, and particularly to
watch for any movement of the authorities.

Retaining two of his companions to act as guards, the others saddled
their horses and dispersed by various routes. The chief waited until
the moon was well up, then abandoned their camp of the last ten days
and set out towards Agua Dulce. To show his friendship for his victim,
he removed all irons, but did not give freedom to Don Ramon’s horse,
which was led, as before.

It was after midnight when they recrossed the river to the American
side, using a ford known to but a few smugglers. When day broke they
were well inland and secure in the chaparral. Another night’s travel,
and they were encamped in the place agreed upon. Reports which the
members of the band brought to the chief showed that the authorities
had made no movement as yet, so evidently this outrage had never been
properly reported.

Don Ramon was now furnished paper and pencil, and he addressed a letter
to his son and family. The contents can easily be imagined. It
concluded with an appeal to secrecy, and an order to observe in
confidence and honor any compact made, as his life and liberty depended
on it. When this missive had passed the scrutiny of the bandits, it was
dispatched by one of their number to Señora Mora. It was just two weeks
since Don Ramon’s disappearance, a fortnight of untold anguish and
uncertainty to his family.

The messenger reached Agua Dulce an hour before midnight, and seeing a
light in the house, warned the inmates of his presence by the usual
“Ave Maria,” a friendly salutation invoking the blessings of the saints
on all within hearing. Supposing that some friend had a word for them,
the son went outside, meeting the messenger.

“Are you the son of Don Ramon Mora?” asked the bandit.

“I am,” replied the young man; “won’t you dismount?”

“No. I bear a letter to you from your father. One moment, señor! I have
within call half a dozen men. Give no alarm. Read his instructions to
you. I shall expect an answer in half an hour. The letter, señor.”

The son hastened into the house to read his father’s communication. The
bandit kept a strict watch over the premises to see that no
demonstration was made against him. When the half hour was nearly up,
the son came forward and tendered the answer. Passing the compliments
of the moment, the man rode away as airily as though the question were
of hearts instead of life. The reply was first read by Don Ramon, then
turned over to the chief. It would require a second letter, which was
to be called for in four days. Things were now nearing the danger
point. They must be doubly vigilant; so all but the chief and two
guards scattered out and watched every movement. Two or three towns on
the river were to have special care. Friends of the family lived in
these towns. They must be watched. The officers of the law were the
most to be feared. Every bit of conversation overheard was carefully
noted, with its effects and bearing.

At the appointed time, another messenger was sent to the ranch, but
only a part of the band returned to know the result. The sum which the
son reported at his command was very disappointing. It would not
satisfy the leaders, and there would be nothing for the others. It was
out of the question to consider it. The chief cursed himself for
letting his sympathy get the better of him. Why had he not listened to
the majority and been true to an accepted duty? He called himself a
woman for having acted as he had—a man unfit to be trusted.

Don Ramon heard these self-reproaches of the chief with a heavy heart,
and when opportunity occurred, he pleaded for one more chance. He had
many friends. There had not been time enough to see them all. His lands
and cattle had not been hypothecated. Give him one more chance. Have
mercy.

“I was a fool,” said the chief, “to listen to a condemned man’s hopes,
but having gone so far I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
Turning to Don Ramon, he said, “Write your son that if twice the sum
named in his letter is not forthcoming within a week, it will be too
late.”

The chief now became very surly, often declaring that the case was
hopeless; that the money could never be raised. He taunted his captive
with the fact that he had always considered himself above his
neighbors, and that now he could not command means enough to purchase
the silence and friendship of a score of beggars! His former kindness
changed to cruelty at every opportunity; and he took delight in hurling
his venom on his helpless victim.

Dispatching the letter, he ordered the band to scatter as before,
appointing a meeting place a number of days hence. After the return of
the messenger, he broke camp in the middle of the night, not forgetting
to add other indignities to the heavy irons already on his victim.
During the ensuing time they traveled the greater portion of each
night. To the prisoner’s questions as to where they were he received
only insulting replies. His inquiries served only to suggest other
cruelties. One night they set out unusually early, the chief saying
that they would recross the river before morning, so that if the ransom
was not satisfactory, the execution might take place at once. On this
night the victim was blindfolded. After many hours of riding—it was
nearly morning when they halted—the bandage was removed from his eyes,
and he was asked if he knew the place.

“Yes, it is Agua Dulce.”

The moon shone over its white stone buildings, quietly sleeping in the
still hours of the night, as over the white, silent slabs of a country
churchyard. Not a sound could be heard from any living thing. They
dismounted and gagged their prisoner. Tying their horses at a
respectable distance, they led their victim toward his home. Don Ramon
was a small man, and could offer no resistance to his captors. They
cautioned him that the slightest resistance would mean death, while
compliance to their wishes carried a hope of life.

Cautiously and with a stealthy step, they advanced like the thieves
they were, their victim in the iron grasp of two strong guards, while a
rope with a running noose around his neck, in the hands of the chief,
made their gag doubly effective. A garden wall ran within a few feet of
the rear of the house, and behind it they crouched. The only sound was
the labored breathing of their prisoner. Hark! the cry of a child is
heard within the house. Oh, God! it is his child, his baby girl.
Listen! The ear of the mother has heard it, and her soothing voice has
reached his anxious ear. His wife—the mother of his children—is now
bending over their baby’s crib. The muscles of Don Ramon’s arms turn to
iron. His eyes flash defiance at the grinning fiends who exult at his
misery. The running noose tightens on his neck, and he gasps for
breath. As they lead him back to his horse, his brain seems on fire; he
questions his own sanity, even the mercy of Heaven.

When the sun arose that morning, they were far away in one of the
impenetrable thickets in which the country abounded. Since his capture
Don Ramon had suffered, but never as now. Death would have been
preferable, not that life had no claims upon him, but that he no longer
had hopes of liberty. The uncertainty was unbearable. The bandits
exercised caution enough to keep all means of self-destruction out of
his reach. Hardened as they were, they noticed that their last racking
of the prisoner had benumbed even hope.

Sleep alone was kind to him, though he usually awoke to find his dreams
a mockery. That night the answer to the second demand would arrive. A
number of the band came in during the day and brought the rumor that
the governor of the State had been notified of their high-handed
actions. It was thought that a company of Texas Rangers would be
ordered to the Rio Grande. This meant action, and soon. When the reply
came from the son of Don Ramon, he was notified to have the money ready
at a certain abandoned ranchita, though the amount, now increased, was
not as large as was expected. It required two days longer for the
delivery, which was to be made at midnight, and to be accompanied by
not over two messengers.

At this juncture, a squad of ten Texas Rangers disembarked at the
nearest point on the railroad to this river village. The emergency
appeal, which had finally reached the governor’s ear, was acted upon
promptly, and though the men seemed very few in number, they were
tried, experienced, fearless Rangers, from the crack company of the
State. There was no waste of time after leaving the train. The little
command set out apparently for the river home of Don Ramon, distant
nearly a hundred miles. After darkness had set in, the captain of the
squad cut his already small command in two, sending a lieutenant with
four men to proceed by way of Agua Dulce ranch, the remainder
continuing on to the river. The captain refused them even pack horse or
blanket, allowing them only their arms. He instructed them to call
themselves cowboys, and in case they met any Mexicans, to make
inquiries for a well-known American ranch which was located in the
chaparral. With a few simple instructions from his superior, the
lieutenant and squad rode away into the darkness of a June night.

It was in reality the dark hour before dawn when they reached Agua
Dulce. As secretly as possible the lieutenant aroused Don Ramon’s wife
and sought an interview with her. Speaking Spanish fluently, he
explained his errand and her duty to put him in possession of all the
facts in the case. Bewildered, as any gentlewoman would be under the
circumstances, she reluctantly told the main facts. This officer
treated Señora Mora with every courtesy, and was eventually rewarded
when she requested him and his men to remain her guests until her son
should return, which would be before noon. She explained that he would
bring a large sum of money with him, which was to be the ransom price
of her husband, and which was to be paid over at midnight within twenty
miles of Agua Dulce. This information was food and raiment to the
Ranger.

The señora of Agua Dulce sent a servant to secrete the Ranger’s horses
in a near-by pasture, and with saddles hidden inside the house, before
the people of the ranch or the sun arose, five Rangers were sleeping
under the roof of the _Casa primero_.

It was late in the day when the lieutenant awoke to find Don Ramon,
Jr., ready to welcome and join in furnishing any details unknown to his
mother. The commercial instincts of the young man sided with the
Rangers, but the mother—thank God!—knew no such impulses and thought of
nothing save the return of her husband, the father of her brood. The
officer considered only duty—being an unknown quantity to him. He
assured his hostess that if she would confide in them, her husband
would be returned to her with all dispatch. Concealing such things as
he considered advisable from both mother and son, he outlined his
plans. At the appointed time and place the money should be paid over
and the compact adhered to to the letter. He reserved to himself and
company, however, to furnish any red light necessary.

An hour after dark, a messenger, Don Ramon, Jr., and five Rangers set
out to fulfill all contracts pending and understood. The abandoned
ranchita in the _monte_—the meeting point—had been at one time a stone
house of some pretensions, where had formerly lived its builder, a
wealthy, eccentric recluse. It had in previous years, however, been
burned, so that now only crumbling walls remained, a gloomy, isolated,
though picturesque ruin, standing in an opening several acres in
extent, while trails, once in use, led to and from it.

When the party arrived within two miles of the meeting point, an hour
in advance of the appointed time, a halt was called. Under the
direction of the lieutenant, the son and his companion were to proceed
by an old trail, forsaking the regular pathway leading from Agua Dulce
to the old ranch. The Ranger squad tied their horses and followed a
respectful distance behind, near enough, however, to hear in case any
guards might halt them. They were carefully cautioned not even to let
Don Ramon, if he were present, know that rescue from another quarter
was at hand. When the two sighted the ruin they noticed a dim light
within the walls. Then, without a single challenge, they dashed up to
the old house, amid a clatter of hoofs, and shouts of welcome from the
bandits.

The messengers were unarmed, and once inside the house were made
prisoners, ironed, and ordered into a corner, where crouched Don Ramon
Mora, now enfeebled by mental racking and physical abuse. The meeting
of father and son will be spared the reader, yet in the young man’s
heart was a hope that he dared not communicate.

The night was warm. A fire flickered in the old fireplace, and around
its circle gathered nine bandits to count and gloat over the blood
money of their victim, as a miser might over his bags of gold. The
bottle passed freely round the circle, and with toast and taunt and
jeer the counting of the money was progressing. Suddenly, and with as
little warning as if they had dropped down from among the stars, five
Texas Rangers sprang through windows and doors, and without a word a
flood of fire frothed from the mouths of ten six-shooters, hurling
death into the circle about the fire. There was no cessation of the
rain of lead until every gun was emptied, when the men sprang back,
each to his window or door, where a carbine, carefully left, awaited
his hand to complete the work of death. In the few moments that
elapsed, the smoke arose and the fire burned afresh, revealing the
accuracy of their aim. As they reëntered to review their work, two of
the bandits were found alive and untouched, having thrown themselves in
a corner amid the confusion of smoke in the onslaught. Thus they were
spared the fate of the others, though the ghastly sight of seven of
their number, translated from life into death, met their terrorized
gaze. Human blood streamed across the once peaceful hearth, while
brains bespattered life-sized figures in bas-relief of the Virgin Mary
and Christ Child which adorned the broad columns on either side of the
ample fireplace. In the throes of death, one bandit had floundered
about until his hand rested in the fire, producing a sickening smell
from the burning flesh.

As Don Ramon was released, he stood for a few moments half dazed,
looking in bewilderment at the awful spectacle before him. Then as the
truth gradually dawned upon him,—that this sacrifice of blood meant
liberty to himself,—he fell upon his knees among the still warm bodies
of his tormentors, his face raised to the Virgin in exultation of joy
and thanksgiving.



XI
THE PASSING OF PEG-LEG


In the early part of September, ’91, the eastern overland express on
the Denver and Rio Grande was held up and robbed at Texas Creek. The
place is little more than a watering-station on that line, but it was
an inviting place for hold-ups.

Surrounded by the fastnesses of the front range of the Rockies, Peg-Leg
Eldridge and his band selected this lonely station as best fitted for
the transaction in hand. To the southwest lay the Sangre de Cristo
range, in which the band had rendezvoused and planned this robbery.
Farther to the southwest arose the snow-capped peaks of the Continental
Divide, in whose silent solitude an army might have taken refuge and
hidden.

It was an inviting country to the robber. These mountains offered
retreats that had never known the tread of human footsteps. Emboldened
by the thought that pursuit would be almost a matter of impossibility,
they laid their plans and executed them without a single hitch.

About ten o’clock at night, as the train slowed up as usual to take
water, the engineer and fireman were covered by two of the robbers. The
other two—there were only four—cut the express car from the train, and
the engineer and fireman were ordered to decamp. The robbers ran the
engine and express car out nearly two miles, where, by the aid of
dynamite, they made short work of a through safe that the messenger
could not open. The express company concealed the amount of money lost
to the robbers, but smelters, who were aware of certain retorts in
transit by this train, were not so silent. These smelter products were
in gold retorts of such a size that they could be made away with as
easily as though they had reached the mint and been coined.

There was scarcely any excitement among the passengers, so quickly was
it over. While the robbery was in progress the wires from this station
were flashing the news to headquarters. At a division of the railroad
one hundred and fifty-six miles distant from the scene of the robbery,
lived United States Marshal Bob Banks, whose success in pursuing
criminals was not bounded by the State in which he lived. His
reputation was in a large measure due to the successful use of
bloodhounds. This officer’s calling compelled him to be both plainsman
and mountaineer. He had the well-deserved reputation of being as
unrelenting in the pursuit of criminals as death is in marking its
victims.

Within half an hour after the robbery was reported at headquarters, an
engine had coupled to a caboose at the division where the marshal
lived. He was equally hasty. To gather his arms and get his dogs aboard
the caboose required but a few moments’ time.

Everything ready, they pulled out with a clear track to their
destination. Heavy traffic in coal had almost ruined the road-bed, but
engine and caboose flew over it regardless of its condition. Halfway to
their destination the marshal was joined by several officials, both
railway and express. From there the train turned westward, up the
valley of the Arkansas. Here was a track and an occasion that gave the
most daring engineer license to throw the throttle wide open.

The climax of this night’s run was through the Grand Cañon of the
Arkansas. Into this gash in the earth’s surface plunged the engineer,
as though it were an easy stretch of down-grade prairie. As the engine
rounded turns, the headlight threw its rays up serried columns of
granite half a mile high,—columns that rear their height in grotesque
form and Gothic arch, polished by the waters of ages.

As the officials agreed, after a full discussion with the marshal of
every phase and possibility of capture, the hope of this night’s work
and the punishment of the robbers rested almost entirely on three dogs
lying on the floor, and, as the rocking of the car disturbed them,
growling in their dreams. In their helplessness to cope with this
outrage, they turned to these dumb animals as a welcome ally. Under the
guidance of their master they were an aid whose value he well
understood. Their sense of smell was more reliable than the sense of
seeing in man. You can believe the dog when you doubt your own eyes.
His opinion is unquestionably correct.

As the train left the cañon it was but a short run to the scene of the
depredation. During the night the few people who resided at this
station were kept busy getting together saddle-horses for the officer’s
posse. This was not easily done, as there were few horses at the
station, while the horses of near-by ranches were turned loose in the
open range for the night. However, upon the arrival of the train, Banks
and the express people found mounts awaiting them to carry them to the
place of the hold-up.

After the robbers had finished their work during the fore part of the
night, the train crew went out and brought back to the station the
engine and express car. The engine was unhurt, but the express car was
badly shattered, and the through safe was ruined by the successive
charges of dynamite that were used to force it to yield up its
treasure. The local safe was unharmed, the messenger having opened it
in order to save it from the fate of its larger and stronger brother.
The train proceeded on its way, with the loss of a few hours’ time and
the treasure of its express.

Day was breaking in the east as the posse reached the scene. The
marshal lost no time circling about until the trail leaving was taken
up. Even the temporary camp of the robbers was found in close proximity
to the chosen spot. The experienced eye of this officer soon determined
the number of men, though they led several horses. It was a cool,
daring act of Peg-Leg and three men. Afterward, when his past history
was learned, his leadership in this raid was established.

Peg-Leg Eldridge was a product of that unfortunate era succeeding the
civil war. During that strife the herds of the southwest were neglected
to such an extent that thousands of cattle grew to maturity without
ear-mark or brand to identify their owner. A good mount of horses, a
rope and a running-iron in the hands of a capable man, were better than
capital. The good old days when an active young man could brand
annually fifteen calves—all better than yearlings—to every cow he
owned, are looked back to to this day, from cattle king to the humblest
of the craft, in pleasant reminiscence, though they will come no more.
Eldridge was of that time, and when conditions changed, he failed to
change with them. This was the reason that, under the changed condition
of affairs, he frequently got his brand on some other man’s calf. This
resulted in his losing a leg from a gunshot at the hands of a man he
had thus outraged. Worse, it branded him for all time as a cattle
thief, with every man’s hand against him. Thus the steps that led up to
this September night were easy, natural, and gradual. This child of
circumstances, a born plainsman like the Indian, read in plain, forest,
and mountain, things which were not visible to other eyes. The stars
were his compass by night, the heat waves of the plain warned him of
the tempting mirage, while the cloud on the mountain’s peak or the wind
in the pines which sheltered him alike spoke to him and he understood.

The robbers’ trail was followed but a few miles, when their course was
well established. They were heading into the Sangre de Cristo
Mountains. Several hours were lost here by the pursuing party, as they
were compelled to await the arrival of a number of pack horses; so when
the trail was taken up in earnest they were at least twelve hours
behind the robbers.

In the ascent of the foot-hills the dogs led the posse, six in number,
a merry chase. As they gradually rose to higher altitudes the trail of
the robbers was more compact and easy to follow, except for the
roughness of the mountain slope. Frequently the trail was but a single
narrow path. Old game trails, where the elk and deer, drifting in the
advance of winter, crossed the range, had been followed by the robbers.
These game trails were certain to lead to the passes in the range.
Thus, by the instinct given to the deer and elk against the winter’s
storm, the humblest of His creatures had blazed for these train robbers
an unerring pathway to the mountain’s pass.

Along these paths the trail was so distinct that the dogs were an
unnecessary adjunct to the pursuing party. These hounds, one of which
was a veteran in the service, while the other two, being younger, were
without that practice which perfects, showed an exuberance of energy
and ambition in following the trail. The ancestry of the dogs was
Russian. Hounds of this breed never give mouth, thus warning the hunted
of their approach. Man-hunting is exciting sport. The possibility,
though the trail may look hours old, that any turn of the trail may
disclose the fugitives, keeps at the highest tension every nerve of the
pursuer.

All day long the marshal and posse climbed higher and higher on the
rugged mountainside. Night came on as they reached the narrow plateau
that formed the crest of the mountain, on which they found several
small parks. Here they made the first halt since the start in the
morning. The necessity of resting their saddle stock was very apparent
to Banks, though he would gladly have pushed on. The only halt he could
expect of the robbers was to save their own horses, and he must do the
same. Forcing a tired horse an extra hour has left many an amateur
rider afoot. He realized this. Knowing the necessity of being well
mounted, the robbers had no doubt splendid horses. This was a
reasonable supposition.

Near midnight the marshal and posse set out once more on the trail. He
was compelled to take it afoot now, depending on his favorite dog,
which was under leash, the posse following with the mounts. The dogs
led them several miles southward on this mountain crest. Here was where
the dogs were valuable. The robbers had traveled in some places an
entire mile over lava beds, not leaving as much as a trace which the
eye could detect. Having the advantage of daylight, the robbers
selected a rocky cliff, over which they began the descent of the
western slope of this range. The ingenuity displayed by them to throw
pursuit from their trail marked Peg-Leg as an artist in his calling.
But with the aid of dogs and the dampness of night, their trail was as
easily followed as though it had been made in snow.

This declivity was rough, and in places every one was compelled to
dismount. Progress was extremely slow, and when the rising sun tipped
the peaks of the Continental Range, before them lay the beautiful
landscape where the Rio Grande in a hundred mountain streams has her
fountain-head. With only a few hours’ rest for men and animals during
the day, night fell upon them before they had reached the mesa at the
foot-hills on the western slope. An hour before nightfall they came
upon the first camp or halt of the robbers. They had evidently spent
but a short time here, there being no indication that they had slept.
Criminals are inured to all kinds of hardship. They have been known to
go for days without sleep, while smugglers, well mounted, have put a
hundred miles of country behind them in a single night.

The marshal and party pushed forward during the night, the country
being more favorable. When morning came they had covered many a mile,
and it was believed they had made time, as the trail seemed fresher.
There were several ranches along the main stream in the valley, which
the robbers had avoided with well-studied caution, showing that they
had passed through in the daytime. There are several lines of railroad
running through this valley section. These they crossed at points
between stations, where observation would be almost impossible either
by day or night. Inquiries at ranches failed on account of the lack of
all accurate means of description. The posse was maintaining a due
southwest course that was carrying them into the fastnesses of the main
range of the western continent. Another full day of almost constant
advance, and the trail had entered the undulating hills forming the
approach of this second range of mountains. Physical exertion was
beginning to tell on the animals, and they were compelled to make
frequent halts in the ascent of this range.

The fatigue was showing in the two younger dogs. Their feet had been
cut in several places in crossing the first range of mountains. During
the past nights in the valley, though their master was keeping a sharp
lookout, they encountered several places where sand-burrs were
plentiful. These burrs in the tender inner part of a dog’s foot, if not
removed at once, soon lame it. Many times had the poor creatures lain
down, licking their paws in anguish. On examination during the previous
night, their feet were found to be webbed with this burr. Now, on
climbing this second mountain, they began to show the lameness which
their master so much feared, until it was almost impossible to make
them take any interest in the trail. The old dog, however, seemed
nothing the worse for his work.

On reaching the first small park near the summit of this range, the
pursuers were so exhausted that they lay down and took their first
sleep, having been over three days and a half on the trail. The marshal
himself slept several hours, but he was the last to go to sleep and the
first to awake. Before going to sleep, and on arising, he was
particular to bathe the dogs’ feet. The nearest approach to a liniment
that he possessed was a lubricating tube for guns, which he fortunately
had with him. This afforded relief.

It was daybreak when the pursuers took up the trail. The plateau on the
crest of this range was in places several miles wide, having a
luxuriant growth of grass upon it. The course of the robbers continued
to the southwest. The pursuers kept this plateau for several miles, and
before descending the western slope of the range an abandoned camp was
found, where the pursued had evidently made their first bunks.
Indications of where horses had been picketed for hours, and where both
men and horses had slept were evident. The trail where it left this
deserted camp was in no wise encouraging to the marshal, as it looked
at least thirty-six hours old. As the pursuers began the descent, they
could see below them where the San Juan River meanders to the west
until her waters, mingling with others, find their outlet into the
Pacific. It was a trial of incessant toil down the mountain slope,
wearisome alike to man and beast. Near the foot-hill of this mountain
they were rewarded by finding a horse which the robbers had abandoned
on account of an accident. He was an extremely fine horse, but so lame
in the shoulders, apparently owing to a fall, that it was impossible to
move him. The trail of the robbers kept in the foot-hills, finally
doubling back an almost due east course. Now and then ranches were
visible out on the mesa, but in all instances they were carefully
avoided by the pursued.

Spending a night in these hills, the posse prepared to make an early
start. Here, however, they met their first serious trouble. Both of the
younger dogs had feet so badly swollen that it was impossible to make
them take any interest in the trail. After doing everything possible
for them, their owner sent them to a ranch which was in sight several
miles below in the valley. Several hours were lost to the party by this
incident, though they were in no wise deterred in following the trail,
still having the veteran dog. Late that afternoon they met a _pastor_
who gave them a description of the robbers.

“Yesterday morning,” said the shepherd, in broken Spanish, “shortly
after daybreak, four men rode into my camp and asked for breakfast. I
gave them coffee, but as I had no meat in my quarters, they tried to
buy a lamb, which I have no right to sell. After drinking the coffee
they tendered me money, which I refused. On leaving, one of their
number rode into my flock and killed a kid. Taking it with him, he rode
away with the others.”

A good description of the robbers was secured from this simple
shepherd,—a full description of men, horses, colors, and condition of
pack. The next day nothing of importance developed, and the posse
hugged the shelter of the hills skirting the mountain range, crossing
into New Mexico. It was late that night when they went into camp on the
trail. They had pushed forward with every energy, hoping to lessen the
intervening distance between them and the robbers. The following
morning on awakening, to the surprise and mortification of everybody,
the old dog was unable to stand upon his feet. While this was felt to
be a serious drawback, it did not necessarily check the chase.

In bringing to bay over thirty criminals, one of whom had paid the
penalty of his crime on the gallows, master and dog had heretofore been
an invincible team. Old age and physical weakness had now overtaken the
dog in an important chase, and the sympathy he deserved was not
withheld, nor was he deserted. Tenderly as a mother would lift a sick
child, Banks gathered him in his arms and lifted him to one of the
posse on his horse. To the members of the posse it was a touching
scene: they remembered him but a few months before pursuing a flying
criminal, when the latter—seeing that escape was impossible and turning
to draw his own weapon upon the officer, whose six-shooter had been
emptied at the fugitive, but who with drawn knife was ready to close
with him in the death struggle—immediately threw down his weapon and
pleaded for his life.

Yet this same officer could not keep back the tears that came into his
eyes as he lifted this dumb comrade of other victories to a horse. With
an earnest oath he brushed the incident away by assuring his posse that
unless the earth opened and swallowed up the robbers they could not
escape. A few hours after taking up the trail, a ranch was sighted and
the dog was left, the instructions of the Good Samaritan being
repeated. At this ranch they succeeded in buying two fresh horses,
which proved a valuable addition to their mounts.

Now it became a hunt of man by man. To an experienced trailer like the
marshal there was little difficulty in keeping the trail. That the
robbers kept to the outlying country was an advantage. Yet the latter
traveled both night and day, while pursuit must of necessity be by day
only. With the fresh horses secured, they covered a stretch of country
hardly credible.

During the day they found a place where the robbers had camped for at
least a full day. A trail made by two horses had left this camp, and
returned. The marshal had followed it to a rather pretentious Mexican
rancho, where there was a small store kept. Here a second description
of the two men was secured, though neither one was Peg-Leg. He was so
indelibly marked that he was crafty enough to keep out of sight of so
public a place as a store. These two had tried unsuccessfully to buy
horses at this rancho.

The next morning the representative of the express company left the
posse to report progress. He was enabled to give such an exact
description of the robbers that the company, through their detective
system, were not long in locating the leader. The marshal and posse
pushed on with the same unremitting energy. The trail was now almost
due east. The population of the country was principally Mexican, and
even Mexicans the robbers avoided as much as possible. They had,
however, bought horses at several ranches, and were always liberal in
the use of money, but very exacting in regard to the quality of
horseflesh they purchased; the best was none too good for them. They
passed north of old Santa Fé town, and entering a station on the line
of railway by that name late at night, they were liberal patrons of the
gaming tables that the town tolerated. The next morning they had
disappeared.

At no time did the pursuers come within two days of them. This was
owing to the fact that they traveled by night as well as day. At the
last-mentioned point messages were exchanged with the express company
with little loss of time. Banks had asked that certain points on the
railway be watched in the hope of capture while crossing the country,
but the effort was barren of results. In following the trail the
marshal had recrossed the continuation of the first range of mountains
which they had crossed to the west ten days before, or the morning
after the robbery, three hundred miles southward. There was nothing
difficult in the passage of this range of mountains, and now before
them stretched the endless prairie to the eastward. Here Banks
seriously felt the loss of his dogs. This was a country that they could
be used in to good advantage. It would then be a question of endurance
of men and horses. As it was, he could work only by day. Two lines of
railway were yet to be crossed if the band held its course. The same
tactics were resorted to as formerly, yet this vigilance and precaution
availed nothing, as Peg-Leg crossed them carefully between two of the
watched places. Owing to his occupation, he knew the country better by
night than day.

Banks was met by the officials of the express company on one of these
lines of railroad. The exhaustive amount of information that they had
been able to collect regarding this interesting man with the wooden leg
was astonishing. From out of the abundance of the data there were a few
items that were of interest to the officer. Several of Eldridge’s
haunts when not actively engaged in his profession were located. In one
of these haunts was a woman, and toward this one he was heading, though
it was many a weary mile distant.

At the marshal’s request the express people had brought bloodhounds
with them. The dogs proved worthless, and the second day were
abandoned. When the trail crossed the Gulf Railway the robbers were
three days ahead. The posse had now been fourteen days on the trail.
Banks followed them one day farther, himself alone, leaving his tired
companions at a station near the line of the Panhandle of Texas. This
extra day’s ride was to satisfy himself that the robbers were making
for one of their haunts. They kept, as he expected, down between the
two Canadians.

After following the trail until he was thoroughly satisfied of their
destination, the marshal retraced his steps and rejoined his posse. The
first train carried him and the posse back to the headquarters of the
express company.

Two weeks later, at a country store in the Chickasaw Nation, there was
a horse race of considerable importance. The country side were gathered
to witness it. The owners of the horses had made large wagers on the
race. Outsiders wagered money and livestock to a large amount. There
were a number of strangers present, which was nothing unusual. As the
race was being run and every eye was centred on the outcome, a stranger
present put a six-shooter to a very interested spectator’s ear, and
informed him that he was a prisoner. Another stranger did the same
thing to another spectator. They also snapped handcuffs on both of
them. One of these spectators had a peg-leg. They were escorted to a
waiting rig, and when they alighted from it were on the line of a
railroad forty miles distant. One of these strangers was a United
States marshal, who for the past month had been very anxious to meet
these same gentlemen.

Once safe from the rescue of friends of these robbers, the marshal
regaled his guest with the story of the chase, which had now
terminated. He was even able to give Eldridge a good part of his
history. But when he attempted to draw him out as to the whereabouts of
the other two, Peg was sullenly ignorant of anything. They were never
captured, having separated before reaching the haunt of Mr. Eldridge.
Eldridge was tried in a Federal court in Colorado and convicted of
train robbery. He went over the road for a term of years far beyond the
lease of his natural life. He, with the companion captured at the same
time, was taken by an officer of the court to Detroit for confinement.
When within an hour’s ride of the prison—his living grave—he raised his
ironed hands, and twisting from a blue flannel shirt which he wore a
large pearl button, said to the officer in charge:—

“Will you please take this button back and give it, with my
compliments, to that human bloodhound, and say to him that I’m sorry
that I didn’t anticipate meeting him? If I had, it would have saved you
this trip with me. He might have got me, but I wouldn’t have needed a
trial when he did.”



XII
IN THE HANDS OF HIS FRIENDS


There was a painting at the World’s Fair at Chicago named “The Reply,”
in which the lines of two contending armies were distinctly outlined.
One of these armies had demanded the surrender of the other. The reply
was being written by a little fellow, surrounded by grim veterans of
war. He was not even a soldier. But in this little fellow’s countenance
shone a supreme contempt for the enemy’s demand. His patriotism beamed
out as plainly as did that of the officer dictating to him. Physically
he was debarred from being a soldier; still there was a place where he
could be useful.

So with Little Jack Martin. He was a cripple and could not ride, but he
could cook. If the way to rule men is through the stomach, Jack was a
general who never knew defeat. The “J+H” camp, where he presided over
the kitchen, was noted for good living. Jack’s domestic tastes followed
him wherever he went, so that he surrounded himself at this camp with
chickens, and a few cows for milk. During the spring months, when the
boys were away on the various round-ups, he planted and raised a fine
garden. Men returning from a hard month’s work would brace themselves
against fried chicken, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables. After drinking
alkali water for a month and living out of tin cans, who wouldn’t love
Jack? In addition to his garden, he always raised a fine patch of
watermelons. This camp was an oasis in the desert. Every man was Jack’s
friend, and an enemy was an unknown personage. The peculiarity about
him, aside from his deformity, was his ability to act so much better
than he could talk. In fact he could barely express his simplest wants
in words.

Cripples are usually cross, irritable, and unpleasant companions. Jack
was the reverse. His best qualities shone their brightest when there
were a dozen men around to cook for. When they ate heartily he felt he
was useful. If a boy was sick, Jack could make a broth, or fix a cup of
beef tea like a mother or sister. When he went out with the wagon
during beef-shipping season, a pot of coffee simmered over the fire all
night for the boys on night herd. Men going or returning on guard liked
to eat. The bread and meat left over from the meals of the day were
always left convenient for the boys. It was the many little things that
he thought of which made him such a general favorite with every one.

Little Jack was middle-aged when the proclamation of the President
opening the original Oklahoma was issued. This land was to be thrown
open in April. It was not a cow-country then, though it had been once.
There was a warning in this that the Strip would be next. The dominion
of the cowman was giving way to the homesteader. One day Jack found
opportunity to take Miller, our foreman, into his confidence. They had
been together five or six years. Jack had coveted a spot in the section
which was to be thrown open, and he asked the foreman to help him get
it. He had been all over the country when it was part of the range, and
had picked out a spot on Big Turkey Creek, ten miles south of the Strip
line. It gradually passed from one to another of us what Jack wanted.
At first we felt blue about it, but Miller, who could see farther than
the rest of us, dispelled the gloom by announcing at dinner, “Jack is
going to take a claim if this outfit has a horse in it and a man to
ride him. It is only a question of a year or two at the farthest until
the rest of us will be guiding a white mule between two corn rows, and
glad of the chance. If Jack goes now, he will have just that many years
the start of the rest of us.”

We nerved ourselves and tried to appear jolly after this talk of the
foreman. We entered into quite a discussion as to which horse would be
the best to make the ride with. The ranch had several specially good
saddle animals. In chasing gray wolves in the winter those qualities of
endurance which long races developed in hunting these enemies of
cattle, pointed out a certain coyote-colored horse, whose color marks
and “Dead Tree” brand indicated that he was of Spanish extraction.
Intelligently ridden with a light rider he was First Choice on which to
make this run. That was finally agreed to by all. There was no trouble
selecting the rider for this horse with the zebra marks. The lightest
weight was Billy Edwards. This qualification gave him the preference
over us all.

Jack described the spot he desired to claim by an old branding-pen
which had been built there when it had been part of the range. Billy
had ironed up many a calf in those same pens himself. “Well, Jack,”
said Billy, “if this outfit don’t put you on the best quarter section
around that old corral, you’ll know that they have throwed off on you.”

It was two weeks before the opening day. The coyote horse was given
special care from this time forward. He feasted on corn, while others
had to be content with grass. In spite of all the bravado that was
being thrown into these preparations, there was noticeable a deep
undercurrent of regret. Jack was going from us. Every one wanted him to
go, still these dissolving ties moved the simple men to acts of boyish
kindness. Each tried to outdo the others, in the matter of a parting
present to Jack. He could have robbed us then. It was as bad as a
funeral. Once before we felt similarly when one of the boys died at
camp. It was like an only sister leaving the family circle.

Miller seemed to enjoy the discomfiture of the rest of us. This
creedless old Christian had fine strata in his make-up. He and Jack
planned continually for the future. In fact they didn’t live in the
present like the rest of us. Two days before the opening, we loaded up
a wagon with Jack’s effects. Every man but the newly installed cook
went along. It was too early in the spring for work to commence. We all
dubbed Jack a boomer from this time forward. The horse so much depended
on was led behind the wagon.

On the border we found a motley crowd of people. Soldiers had gathered
them into camps along the line to prevent “sooners” from entering
before the appointed time. We stopped in a camp directly north of the
claim our little boomer wanted. One thing was certain, it would take a
better horse than ours to win the claim away from us. No sooner could
take it. That and other things were what all of us were going along
for.

The next day when the word was given that made the land public domain,
Billy was in line on the coyote. He held his place to the front with
the best of them. After the first few miles, the others followed the
valley of Turkey Creek, but he maintained his course like wild fowl,
skirting the timber which covered the first range of hills back from
the creek. Jack followed with the wagon, while the rest of us rode
leisurely, after the first mile or so. When we saw Edwards bear
straight ahead from the others, we argued that a sooner only could beat
us for the claim. If he tried to out-hold us, it would be six to one,
as we noticed the leaders closely when we slacked up. By not following
the valley, Billy would cut off two miles. Any man who could ride
twelve miles to the coyote’s ten with Billy Edwards in the saddle was
welcome to the earth. That was the way we felt. We rode together,
expecting to make the claim three quarters of an hour behind our man.
When near enough to sight it, we could see Billy and another horseman
apparently protesting with one another. A loud yell from one of us
attracted our man’s attention. He mounted his horse and rode out and
met us. “Well, fellows, it’s the expected that’s happened this time,”
said he. “Yes, there’s a sooner on it, and he puts up a fine bluff of
having ridden from the line; but he’s a liar by the watch, for there
isn’t a wet hair on his horse, while the sweat was dripping from the
fetlocks of this one.”

“If you are satisfied that he is a sooner,” said Miller, “he has to
go.”

“Well, he is a lying sooner,” said Edwards.

We reined in our horses and held a short parley. After a brief
discussion of the situation, Miller said to us: “You boys go down to
him,—don’t hurt him or get hurt, but make out that you’re going to hang
him. Put plenty of reality into it, and I’ll come in in time to save
him and give him a chance to run for his life.”

We all rode down towards him, Miller bearing off towards the right of
the old corral,—rode out over the claim noticing the rich soil thrown
up by the mole-hills. When we came up to our sooner, all of us
dismounted. Edwards confronted him and said, “Do you contest my right
to this claim?”

“I certainly do,” was the reply.

“Well, you won’t do so long,” said Edwards. Quick as a flash Mouse
prodded the cold steel muzzle of a six-shooter against his ear. As the
sooner turned his head and looked into Mouse’s stern countenance, one
of the boys relieved him of an ugly gun and knife that dangled from his
belt. “Get on your horse,” said Mouse, emphasizing his demand with an
oath, while the muzzle of a forty-five in his ear made the order
undebatable. Edwards took the horse by the bits and started for a large
black-jack tree which stood near by. Reaching it, Edwards said, “Better
use Coon’s rope; it’s manilla and stronger. Can any of you boys tie a
hangman’s knot?” he inquired when the rope was handed him.

“Yes, let me,” responded several.

“Which limb will be best?” inquired Mouse.

“Take this horse by the bits,” said Edwards to one of the boys, “till I
look.” He coiled the rope sailor fashion, and made an ineffectual
attempt to throw it over a large limb which hung out like a yard-arm,
but the small branches intervening defeated his throw. While he was
coiling the rope to make a second throw, some one said, “Mebby so he’d
like to pray.”

“What! him pray?” said Edwards. “Any prayer that he might offer
couldn’t get a hearing amongst men, let alone above, where liars are
forbidden.”

“Try that other limb,” said Coon to Edwards; “there’s not so much brush
in the way; we want to get this job done sometime to-day.” As Edwards
made a successful throw, he said, “Bring that horse directly
underneath.” At this moment Miller dashed up and demanded, “What in
hell are you trying to do?”

“This sheep-thief of a sooner contests my right to this claim,” snapped
Edwards, “and he has played his last cards on this earth. Lead that
horse under here.”

“Just one moment,” said Miller. “I think I know this man—think he
worked for me once in New Mexico.” The sooner looked at Miller
appealingly, his face blanched to whiteness. Miller took the bridle
reins out of the hands of the boy who was holding the horse, and
whispering something to the sooner said to us, “Are you all ready?”

“Just waiting on you,” said Edwards. The sooner gathered up the reins.
Miller turned the horse halfway round as though he was going to lead
him under the tree, gave him a slap in the flank with his hand, and the
sooner, throwing the rowels of his spurs into the horse, shot out from
us like a startled deer. We called to him to halt, as half a dozen
six-shooters encouraged him to go by opening a fusillade on the fleeing
horseman, who only hit the high places while going. Nor did we let up
fogging him until we emptied our guns and he entered the timber. There
was plenty of zeal in this latter part, as the lead must have zipped
and cried near enough to give it reality. Our object was to shoot as
near as possible without hitting.

Other horsemen put in an appearance as we were unsaddling and preparing
to camp, for we had come to stay a week if necessary. In about an hour
Jack joined us, speechless as usual, his face wreathed in smiles. The
first step toward a home he could call his own had been taken. We told
him about the trouble we had had with the sooner, a story which he
seemed to question, until Miller confirmed it. We put up a tent among
the black-jacks, as the nights were cool, and were soon at peace with
all the world.

At supper that evening Edwards said: “When the old settlers hold their
reunions in the next generation, they’ll say, ‘Thirty years ago Uncle
Jack Martin settled over there on Big Turkey,’ and point him out to
their children as one of the pioneer fathers.”

No one found trouble in getting to sleep that night, and the next day
arts long forgotten by most of us were revived. Some plowed up the old
branding-pen for a garden. Others cut logs for a cabin. Every one did
two ordinary days’ work. The getting of the logs together was the
hardest. We sawed and chopped and hewed for dear life. The first few
days Jack and one of the boys planted a fine big garden. On the fourth
day we gave up the tent, as the smoke curled upward from our own
chimney, in the way that it does in well-told stories. The last night
we spent with Jack was one long to be remembered. A bright fire snapped
and crackled in the ample fireplace. Every one told stories. Several of
the boys could sing “The Lone Star Cow-trail,” while “Sam Bass” and
“Bonnie Black Bess” were given with a vim.

The next morning we were to leave for camp. One of the boys who would
work for us that summer, but whose name was not on the pay-roll until
the round-up, stayed with Jack. We all went home feeling fine, and
leaving Jack happy as a bird in his new possession. As we were saddling
up to leave, Miller said to Jack, “Now if you’re any good, you’ll
delude some girl to keep house for you ’twixt now and fall. Remember
what the Holy Book says about it being hard luck for man to be alone.
You notice all your boomer neighbors have wives. That’s a hint to you
to do likewise.”

We were on the point of mounting, when the coyote horse began to act up
in great shape. Some one said to Edwards, “Loosen your cinches!” “Oh,
it’s nothing but the corn he’s been eating and a few days’ rest,” said
Miller. “He’s just running a little bluff on Billy.” As Edwards went to
put his foot in the stirrup a second time, the coyote reared like a
circus horse. “Now look here, colty,” said Billy, speaking to the
horse, “my daddy rode with Old John Morgan, the Confederate cavalry
raider, and he’d be ashamed of any boy he ever raised that couldn’t
ride a bad horse like you. You’re plum foolish to act this way. Do you
think I’ll walk and lead you home?” He led him out a few rods from the
others and mounted him without any trouble. “He just wants to show Jack
how it affects a cow-horse to graze a few days on a boomer’s
claim,—that’s all,” said Edwards, when he joined us.

“Now, Jack,” said Miller, as a final parting, “if you want a cow, I’ll
send one down, or if you need anything, let us know and we’ll come
a-running. It’s a bad example you’ve set us to go booming this way, but
we want to make a howling success out of you, so we can visit you next
winter. And mind what I told you about getting married,” he called back
as he rode away.

We reached camp by late noon. Miller kept up his talk about what a fine
move Jack had made; said that we must get him a stray beef for his next
winter’s meat; kept figuring constantly what else he could do for Jack.
“You come around in a few years and you’ll find him as cosy as a coon,
and better off than any of us,” said Miller, when we were talking about
his farming. “I’ve slept under wet blankets with him, and watched him
kindle a fire in the snow, too often not to know what he’s made of.
There’s good stuff in that little rascal.”

About the ranch it seemed lonesome without Jack. It was like coming
home from school when we were kids and finding mother gone to the
neighbor’s. We always liked to find her at home. We busied ourselves
repairing fences, putting in flood-gates on the river, doing anything
to keep away from camp. Miller himself went back to see Jack within ten
days, remaining a week. None of us stayed at the home ranch any more
than we could help. We visited other camps on hatched excuses, until
the home round-ups began. When any one else asked us about Jack, we
would blow about what a fine claim he had, and what a boost we had
given him. When we buckled down to the summer’s work the gloom
gradually left us. There were men to be sent on the eastern, western,
and middle divisions of the general round-up of the Strip. Two men were
sent south into the Cheyenne country to catch anything that had
winter-drifted. Our range lay in the middle division. Miller and one
man looked after it on the general round-up.

It was a busy year with us. Our range was full stocked, and by early
fall was rich with fat cattle. We lived with the wagon after the
shipping season commenced. Then we missed Jack, although the new cook
did the best he knew how. Train after train went out of our pasture,
yet the cattle were never missed. We never went to camp now; only the
wagon went in after supplies, though we often came within sight of the
stabling and corrals in our work.

One day, late in the season, we were getting out a train load of “Barb
Wire” cattle, when who should come toddling along on a plow nag but
Jack himself. Busy as we were, he held quite a levee, though he didn’t
give down much news, nor have anything to say about himself or the
crops. That night at camp, while the rest of us were arranging the
guards for the night, Miller and Jack prowled off in an opposite
direction from the beef herd, possibly half a mile, and afoot, too. We
could all see that something was working. Some trouble was bothering
Jack, and he had come to a friend in need, so we thought. They did not
come back to camp until the moon was up and the second guard had gone
out to relieve the first. When they came back not a word was spoken.
They unrolled Miller’s bed and slept together.

The next morning as Jack was leaving us to return to his claim, we
overheard him say to Miller, “I’ll write you.” As he faded from our
sight, Miller smiled to himself, as though he was tickled about
something. Finally Billy Edwards brought things to a head by asking
bluntly, “What’s up with Jack? We want to know.”

“Oh, it’s too good,” said Miller. “If that little game-legged rooster
hasn’t gone and deluded some girl back in the State into marrying him,
I’m a horse-thief. You fellows are all in the play, too. Came here
special to see when we could best get away. Wants every one of us to
come. He’s built another end to his house, double log style, floored
both rooms and the middle. Says he will have two fiddlers, and promises
us the hog killingest time of our lives. I’ve accepted the invitation
on behalf of the ‘J+H’s’ without consulting any one.”

“But supposing we are busy when it takes place,” said Mouse, “then
what?”

“But we won’t be,” answered Miller. “It isn’t every day that we have a
chance at a wedding in our little family, and when we get the word,
this outfit quits then and there. Ordinary callings in life, like
cattle matters, must go to the rear until important things are attended
to. Every man is expected to don his best togs, and dance to the centre
on the word. If it takes a week to turn the trick properly, good
enough. Jack and his bride must have a blow-out right. This outfit must
do themselves proud. It will be our night to howl, and every man will
be a wooly wolf.”

We loaded the beeves out the next day, going back after two trains of
“Turkey Track” cattle. While we were getting these out, Miller cut out
two strays and a cow or two, and sent them to the horse pasture at the
home camp. It was getting late in the fall, and we figured that a few
more shipments would end it. Miller told the owners to load out what
they wanted while the weather was fit, as our saddle horses were
getting worn out fast. As we were loading out the last shipment of
mixed cattle of our own, the letter came to Miller. Jack would return
with his bride on a date only two days off, and the festivities were
set for one day later. We pulled into headquarters that night, the
first time in six weeks, and turned everything loose. The next morning
we overhauled our Sunday bests, and worried around trying to pick out
something for a wedding present.

Miller gave the happy pair a little “Flower Pot” cow, which he had
rustled in the Cheyenne country on the round-up a few years before.
Edwards presented him with a log chain that a bone-picker had lost in
our pasture. Mouse gave Jack a four-tined fork which the hay outfit had
forgotten when they left. Coon Floyd’s compliments went with five
cow-bells, which we always thought he rustled from a boomer’s wagon
that broke down over on the Reno trail. It bothered some of us to
rustle something for a present, for you know we couldn’t buy anything.
We managed to get some deer’s antlers, a gray wolf’s skin for the
bride’s tootsies, and several colored sheepskins, which we had bought
from a Mexican horse herd going up the trail that spring. We killed a
nice fat little beef, the evening before we started, hanging it out
over night to harden. None of the boys knew the brand; in fact, it’s
bad taste to remember the brand on anything you’ve beefed. No one
troubles himself to notice it carefully. That night a messenger brought
a letter to Miller, ordering him to ship out the remnant of “Diamond
Tail” cattle as soon as possible. They belonged to a northwest Texas
outfit, and we were maturing them. The messenger stayed all night, and
in the morning asked, “Shall I order cars for you?”

“No, I have a few other things to attend to first,” answered Miller.

We took the wagon with us to carry our bedding and the other plunder,
driving along with us a cow and a calf of Jack’s, the little “Flower
Pot” cow, and a beef. Our outfit reached Jack’s house by the middle of
the afternoon. The first thing was to be introduced to the bride. Jack
did the honors himself, presenting each one of us, and seemed just as
proud as a little boy with new boots. Then we were given introductions
to several good-looking neighbor girls. We began to feel our own
inferiority.

While we were hanging up the quarters of beef on some pegs on the north
side of the cabin, Edwards said, whispering, “Jack must have pictured
this claim mighty hifalutin to that gal, for she’s a way up
good-looker. Another thing, watch me build to the one inside with the
black eyes. I claimed her first, remember. As soon as we get this beef
hung up I’m going in and sidle up to her.”

“We won’t differ with you on that point,” remarked Mouse, “but if she
takes any special shine to a runt like you, when there’s boys like the
rest of us standing around, all I’ve got to say is, her tastes must be
a heap sight sorry and depraved. I expect to dance with the bride—in
the head set—a whirl or two myself.”

“If I’d only thought,” chimed in Coon, “I’d sent up to the State and
got me a white shirt and a standing collar and a red necktie. You
galoots out-hold me on togs. But where I was raised, back down in Palo
Pinto County, Texas, I was some punkins as a ladies’ man myself—you
hear me.”

“Oh, you look all right,” said Edwards. “You would look all right with
only a cotton string around your neck.”

After tending to our horses, we all went into the house. There sat
Miller talking to the bride just as if he had known her always, with
Jack standing with his back to the fire, grinning like a cat eating
paste. The neighbor girls fell to getting supper, and our cook turned
to and helped. We managed to get fairly well acquainted with the
company by the time the meal was over. The fiddlers came early, in
fact, dined with us. Jack said if there were enough girls, we could run
three sets, and he thought there would be, as he had asked every one
both sides of the creek for five miles. The beds were taken down and
stowed away, as there would be no use for them that night.

The company came early. Most of the young fellows brought their best
girls seated behind them on saddle horses. This manner gave the girl a
chance to show her trustful, clinging nature. A horse that would carry
double was a prize animal. In settling up a new country, primitive
methods crop out as a matter of necessity.

Ben Thorn, an old-timer in the Strip, called off. While the company was
gathering, the fiddlers began to tune up, which sent a thrill through
us. When Ben gave the word, “Secure your pardners for the first
quadrille,” Miller led out the bride to the first position in the best
room, Jack’s short leg barring him as a participant. This was the
signal for the rest of us, and we fell in promptly. The fiddles struck
up “Hounds in the Woods,” the prompter’s voice rang out “Honors to your
pardner,” and the dance was on.

Edwards close-herded the black-eyed girl till supper time. Not a one of
us got a dance with her even. Mouse admitted next day, as we rode home,
that he squeezed her hand several times in the grand right and left,
just to show her that she had other admirers, that she needn’t throw
herself away on any one fellow, but it was no go. After supper Billy
corralled her in a corner, she seeming willing, and stuck to her until
her brother took her home nigh daylight.

Jack got us boys pardners for every dance. He proved himself clean
strain that night, the whitest little Injun on the reservation. We
knocked off dancing about midnight and had supper,—good coffee with no
end of way-up fine chuck. We ate as we danced, heartily. Supper over,
the dance went on full blast. About two o’clock in the morning, the
wire edge was well worn off the revelers, and they showed signs of
weariness. Miller, noticing it, ordered the Indian war-dance as given
by the Cheyennes. That aroused every one and filled the sets instantly.
The fiddlers caught the inspiration and struck into “Sift the Meal and
save the Bran.” In every grand right and left, we ki-yied as we had
witnessed Lo in the dance on festive occasions. At the end of every
change, we gave a war-whoop, some of the girls joining in, that would
have put to shame any son of the Cheyennes.

It was daybreak when the dance ended and the guests departed. Though we
had brought our blankets with us, no one thought of sleeping. Our cook
and one of the girls got breakfast. The bride offered to help, but we
wouldn’t let her turn her hand. At breakfast we discussed the incidents
of the night previous, and we all felt that we had done the occasion
justice.



XIII
A QUESTION OF POSSESSION


Along in the 80’s there occurred a question of possession in regard to
a brand of horses, numbering nearly two hundred head. Courts had
figured in former matters, but at this time they were not appealed to,
owing to the circumstances. This incident occurred on leased Indian
lands unprovided with civil courts,—in a judicial sense,
“No-Man’s-Land.” At this time it seemed that _might_ graced the
woolsack, while on one side Judge Colt cited his authority, only to be
reversed by Judge Parker, breech-loader, short-barreled, a full-choke
ten bore. The clash of opinions between these two eminent western
authorities was short, determined, and to the point.

A man named Gray had settled in one of the northwest counties in Texas
while it was yet the frontier, and by industry and economy of himself
and family had established a comfortable home. As a ranchman he had
raised the brand of horses in question. The history of this man is
somewhat obscured before his coming to Texas. But it was known and
admitted that he was a bankrupt, on account of surety debts which he
was compelled to pay for friends in his former home in Kentucky. Many a
good man had made similar mistakes before him. His neighbors spoke well
of him in Texas, and he was looked upon as a good citizen in general.

Ten years of privation and hardship, in their new home, had been met
and overcome, and now he could see a ray of hope for the better. The
little prosperity which was beginning to dawn upon himself and family
met with a sudden shock, in the form of an old judgment, which he
always contended his attorneys had paid. In some manner this judgment
was revived, transferred to the jurisdiction of his district, and an
execution issued against his property. Sheriff Ninde of this county was
not as wise as he should have been. When the execution was placed in
his hands, he began to look about for property to satisfy the judgment.
The exemption laws allowed only a certain number of gentle horses, and
as any class of range horses had a cash value then, this brand of
horses was levied on to satisfy the judgment.

The range on which these horses were running was at this time an open
one, and the sheriff either relied on his reputation as a bad man, or
probably did not know any better. The question of possession did not
bother him. Still this stock was as liable to range in one county as
another. There is one thing quite evident: the sheriff had overlooked
the nature of this man Gray, for he was no weakling, inclined to sit
down and cry. It was thought that legal advice caused him to take the
step he did, and it may be admitted, with no degree of shame, that
advice was often given on lines of justice if not of law, in the Lone
Star State. There was a time when the decisions of Judge Lynch in that
State had the hearty approval of good men. Anyhow, Gray got a few of
his friends together, gathered his horses without attracting attention,
and within a day’s drive crossed into the Indian Territory, where he
could defy all the sheriffs in Texas.

When this cold fact first dawned on Sheriff Ninde, he could hardly
control himself. With this brand of horses five or six days ahead of
him he became worried. The effrontery of any man to deny his
authority—the authority of a duly elected sheriff—was a reflection on
his record. His bondsmen began to inquire into the situation; in case
the property could not be recovered, were they liable as bondsmen?
Things looked bad for the sheriff.

The local papers in supporting his candidacy for this office had often
spoken of him and his chief deputy as human bloodhounds,—a terror to
evil doers. Their election, they maintained, meant a strict enforcement
of the laws, and assured the community that a better era would dawn in
favor of peace and security of life and property. Ninde was resourceful
if anything. He would overtake those horses, overpower the men if
necessary, and bring back to his own bailiwick that brand of
horse-stock. At least, that was his plan. Of course Gray might object,
but that would be a secondary matter. Sheriff Ninde would take time to
do this. Having made one mistake, he would make another to right it.

Gray had a brother living in one of the border towns of Kansas, and it
was thought he would head for this place. Should he take the horses
into the State, all the better, as they could invoke the courts of
another State and get other sheriffs to help.

Sixty years of experience with an uncharitable world had made Gray
distrustful of his fellow man, though he did not wish to be so. So when
he reached his brother in Kansas without molestation, he exercised
caution enough to leave the herd of horses in the territory. The courts
of this neutral strip were Federal, and located at points in adjoining
States, but there was no appeal to them in civil cases. United States
marshals looked after the violators of law against the government.

Sheriff Ninde sent his deputy to do the Sherlock act for him as soon as
the horses were located. This the deputy had no trouble in doing, as
this sized bunch of horses could not well be hidden, nor was there any
desire on the part of Gray to conceal them.

The horses were kept under herd day and night in a near-by pasture.
Gray usually herded by day, and two young men, one his son, herded by
night. Things went on this way for a month. In the mean time the deputy
had reported to the sheriff, who came on to personally supervise the
undertaking. Gray was on the lookout, and was aware of the deputy’s
presence. All he could do was to put an extra man on herd at night, arm
his men well, and await results.

The deputy secretly engaged seven or eight bad men of the long-haired
variety, such as in the early days usually graced the frontier towns
with their presence. This brand of human cattle were not the disturbing
element on the border line of civilization that writers of that period
depicted, nor the authors of the bloodcurdling drama portrayed. The
average busy citizen paid little attention to them, considering them
more ornamental than useful. But this was about the stripe that was
wanted and could be secured for the work in hand. A good big bluff was
considered sufficient for the end in view. This crowd was mounted,
armed to the teeth, and all was ready. Secrecy was enjoined on every
one. Led by the sheriff and his deputy, they rode out about midnight to
the pasture and found the herd and herders.

“What do you fellows want here?” demanded young Gray, as Ninde and his
posse rode up.

“We want these horses,” answered the sheriff.

“On what authority?” demanded Gray.

“This is sufficient authority for you,” said the sheriff, flashing a
six-shooter in young Gray’s face. All the heelers to the play now
jumped their horses forward, holding their six-shooters over their
heads, ratcheting the cylinders of their revolvers by cocking and
lowering the hammers, as if nothing but a fight would satisfy their
demand for gore.

“If you want these horses that bad,” said young Gray, “I reckon you can
get them for the present. But I want to tell you one thing—there are
sixty head of horses here under herd with ours, outside the ’96’ brand.
They belong to men in town. If you take them out of this pasture
to-night, they might consider you a horse-thief and deal with you
accordingly. You know you are doing this by force of arms. You have no
more authority here than any other man, except what men and guns give
you. Good-night, sir, I may see you by daylight.”

Calling off his men, they let little grass grow under their feet as
they rode to town. The young man roused his father and uncle, who in
turn went out and asked their friends to come to their assistance.
Together with the owners of the sixty head, by daybreak they had
eighteen mounted and armed men.

The sheriff paid no attention to the advice of young Gray, but when day
broke he saw that he had more horses than he wanted, as there was a
brand or two there he had no claim on, just or unjust, and they must be
cut out or trouble would follow. One of the men with Ninde knew of a
corral where this work could be done, and to this corral, which was at
least fifteen miles from the town where the rescue party of Gray had
departed at daybreak, they started. The pursuing posse soon took the
trail of the horses from where they left the pasture, and as they
headed back toward Texas, it was feared it might take a long, hard ride
to overtake them. The gait was now increased to the gallop, not fast,
probably covering ten miles an hour, which was considered better time
than the herd could make under any circumstances.

After an hour’s hard riding, it was evident, from the trail left, that
they were not far ahead. The fact that they were carrying off with them
horses that were the private property of men in the rescue party did
not tend to fortify the sheriff in the good opinion of any of the
rescuers. It was now noticed that the herd had left the trail in the
direction of a place where there had formerly been a ranch house, the
corrals of which were in good repair, as they were frequently used for
branding purposes. On coming in sight of these corrals, Gray’s party
noticed that some kind of work was being carried on, so they approached
it cautiously. The word came back that it was the horses.

Gray said to his party, “Keep a short distance behind me. I’ll open the
ball, if there is any.” To the others of his party, it seemed that the
supreme moment in the old man’s life had come. Over his determined
features there spread a smile of the deepest satisfaction, as though
some great object in life was about to be accomplished. Yet in that
determined look it was evident that he would rather be shot down like a
dog than yield to what he felt was tyranny and the denial of his
rights. When his party came within a quarter of a mile of the corrals,
it was noticed that Ninde and his deputies ceased their work, mounted
their horses, and rode out into the open, the sheriff in the lead, and
halted to await the meeting.

Gray rode up to within a hundred feet of Ninde’s posse, and dismounting
handed the reins of his bridle to his son. He advanced with a steady,
even stride, a double-barreled shotgun held as though he expected to
flush a partridge. At this critical juncture, his party following him
up, it seemed that reputations as bad men were due to get action, or
suffer a discount at the hands of heretofore peaceable men. Every man
in either party had his arms where they would be instantly available
should the occasion demand it. When Gray came within easy hailing
distance, his challenge was clear and audible to every one. “What in
hell are you doing with my horses?”

“I’ve got to have these horses, sir,” answered Ninde.

“Do you realize what it will take to get them?” asked Gray, as he
brought his gun, both barrels at full cock, to his shoulder. “Bat an
eye, or crook your little finger if you dare, and I’ll send your soul
glimmering into eternity, if my own goes to hell for it.” There was
something in the old man’s voice that conveyed the impression that
these were not idle words. To heed them was the better way, if human
life had any value.

“Well, Mr. Gray,” said the sheriff, “put down your gun and take your
horses. This has been a bad piece of business for us—take your horses
and go, sir. My bondsmen can pay that judgment, if they have to.”

Gray’s son rode around during the conversation, opened the gate, and
turned out the horses. One or two men helped him, and the herd was soon
on its way to the pasture.

As the men of his party turned to follow Gray, who had remounted, he
presented a pitiful sight. His still determined features, relaxed from
the high tension to which he had been nerved, were blanched to the
color of his hair and beard. It was like a drowning man—with the
strength of two—when rescued and brought safely to land, fainting
through sheer weakness. A reprieve from death itself or the blood of
his fellow man upon his hands had been met and passed. It was some
little time before he spoke, then he said: “I reckon it was best, the
way things turned out, for I would hate to kill any man, but I would
gladly die rather than suffer an injustice or quietly submit to what I
felt was a wrong against me.”

It was some moments before the party became communicative, as they all
had a respect for the old man’s feelings. Ninde was on the uneasy seat,
for he would not return to the State, though his posse returned
somewhat crestfallen. It may be added that the sheriff’s bondsmen, upon
an examination into the facts in the case, concluded to stand a suit on
the developments of some facts which their examination had uncovered in
the original proceedings, and the matter was dropped, rather than fight
it through in open court.



XIV
THE STORY OF A POKER STEER


He was born in a chaparral thicket, south of the Nueces River in Texas.
It was a warm night in April, with a waning moon hanging like a
hunter’s horn high overhead, when the subject of this sketch drew his
first breath. Ushered into a strange world in the fulfillment of
natural laws, he lay trembling on a bed of young grass, listening to
the low mooings of his mother as she stood over him in the joy and
pride of the first born. But other voices of the night reached his
ears; a whippoorwill and his mate were making much ado over the
selection of their nesting-place on the border of the thicket. The
tantalizing cry of a coyote on the nearest hill caused his mother to
turn from him, lifting her head in alarm, and uneasily scenting the
night air.

On thus being deserted, and complying with an inborn instinct of fear,
he made his first attempt to rise and follow, and although unsuccessful
it caused his mother to return and by her gentle nosings and lickings
to calm him. Then in an effort to rise he struggled to his knees, only
to collapse like a limp rag. But after several such attempts he finally
stood on his feet, unsteady on his legs, and tottering like one
drunken. Then his mother nursed him, and as the new milk warmed his
stomach he gained sufficient assurance of his footing to wiggle his
tail and to butt the feverish caked udder with his velvety muzzle.
After satisfying his appetite he was loath to lie down and rest, but
must try his legs in toddling around to investigate this strange world
into which he had been ushered. He smelled of the rich green leaves of
the mesquite, which hung in festoons about his birth chamber, and
trampled underfoot the grass which carpeted the bower.

After several hours’ sleep he was awakened by a strange twittering
above him. The moon and stars, which were shining so brightly at the
moment of his birth, had grown pale. His mother was the first to rise,
but heedless of her entreaties he lay still, bewildered by the
increasing light. Animals, however, have their own ways of teaching
their little ones, and on the dam’s first pretense of deserting him he
found his voice, and uttering a plaintive cry, struggled to his feet,
which caused his mother to return and comfort him.

Later she enticed him out of the thicket to enjoy his first sun bath.
The warmth seemed to relieve the stiffness in his joints, and after
each nursing during the day he attempted several awkward capers in his
fright at a shadow or the rustle of a leaf. Near the middle of the
afternoon, his mother being feverish, it was necessary that she should
go to the river and slake her thirst. So she enticed him to a place
where the grass in former years had grown rank, and as soon as he lay
down she cautioned him to be quiet during her enforced absence, and
though he was a very young calf he remembered and trusted in her. It
was several miles to the river, and she was gone two whole hours, but
not once did he disobey. A passing ranchero reined in and rode within
three feet of him, but he did not open an eye or even twitch an ear to
scare away a fly.

The horseman halted only long enough to notice the flesh-marks. The
calf was a dark red except for a white stripe which covered the right
side of his face, including his ear and lower jaw, and continued in a
narrow band beginning on his withers and broadening as it extended
backward until it covered his hips. Aside from his good color the
ranchman was pleased with his sex, for a steer those days was better
than gold. So the cowman rode away with a pleased expression on his
face, but there is a profit and loss account in all things.

When the calf’s mother returned she rewarded her offspring for his
obedience, and after grazing until dark, she led him into the chaparral
thicket and lay down for the night. Thus the first day of his life and
a few succeeding ones passed with unvarying monotony. But when he was
about a week old his mother allowed him to accompany her to the river,
where he met other calves and their dams. She was but a three-year-old,
and he was her first baby; so, as they threaded their way through the
cattle on the river-bank the little line-back calf was the object of
much attention. The other cows were jealous of him, but one old
grandmother came up and smelled of him benignantly, as if to say,
“Suky, this is a nice baby boy you have here.”

Then the young cow, embarrassed by so much attention, crossed the
shallow river and went up among some hills where she had once ranged
and where the vining mesquite grass grew luxuriantly. There they spent
several months, and the calf grew like a weed, and life was one long
summer day. He could have lived there always and been content, for he
had many pleasures. Other cows, also, brought their calves up to the
same place, and he had numerous playmates in his gambols on the
hillsides. Among the other calves was a speckled heifer, whose dam was
a great crony of his own mother. These two cows were almost inseparable
during the entire summer, and it was as natural as the falling of a
mesquite bean that he should form a warm attachment for his speckled
playmate.

But this June-time of his life had an ending when late in the fall a
number of horsemen scoured the hills and drove all the cattle down to
the river. It was the first round-up he had ever been in, so he kept
very close to his mother’s side, and allowed nothing to separate him
from her. When the outriders had thrown in all the cattle from the
hills and had drifted all those in the river valley together, they
moved them back on an open plain and began cutting out. There were many
men at the work, and after all the cows and calves had been cut into a
separate herd, the other cattle were turned loose. Then with great
shoutings the cows were started up the river to a branding-pen several
miles distant. Never during his life did the line-back calf forget that
day. There was such a rush and hurrah among these horsemen that long
before they reached the corrals the line-back’s tongue lolled out, for
he was now a very fat calf. Only once did he even catch sight of his
speckled playmate, who was likewise trembling like a fawn.

Inside the corral he rested for a short time in the shade of the
palisades. His mother, however, scented with alarm a fire which was
being built in the middle of the branding-pen. Several men, who seemed
to be the owners, rode through the corralled cows while the cruel irons
were being heated. Then the man who directed the work ordered into
their saddles a number of swarthy fellows who spoke Spanish, and the
work of branding commenced.

The line-back calf kept close to his mother’s side, and as long as
possible avoided the ropers. But in an unguarded moment the noose of a
rope encircled one of his hind feet, and he was thrown upon his side,
and in this position the mounted man dragged him up to the fire. His
mother followed him closely, but she was afraid of the men, and could
only stand at a distance and listen to his piteous crying. The roper,
when asked for the brand, replied, “Bar-circle-bar,” for that was the
brand his mother bore. A tall quiet man who did the branding called to
a boy who attended the fire to bring him two irons; with one he stamped
the circle, and with the other he made a short horizontal bar on either
side of it. Then he took a bloody knife from between his teeth and cut
an under-bit from the calf’s right ear, inquiring of the owner as he
did so, “Do you want this calf left for a bull?”

“No; yearlings will be worth fourteen dollars next spring. He’s a first
calf—his mother’s only a three-year-old.”

As he was released he edged away from the fire, forlorn looking. His
mother coaxed him over into a corner of the corral, where he dropped
exhausted, for with his bleeding ear, his seared side, and a hundred
shooting pains in his loins, he felt as if he must surely die. His dam,
however, stood over him until the day’s work was ended, and kept the
other cows from trampling him. When the gates were thrown open and they
were given their freedom, he cared nothing for it; he wanted to die. He
did not attempt to leave the corral until after darkness had settled
over the scene. Then with much persuasion he arose and limped along
after his mother. But before he could reach the river, which was at
least half a mile away, he sank down exhausted. If he could only slake
his terrible thirst he felt he might possibly survive, for the pain had
eased somewhat. With every passing breeze of the night he could scent
the water, and several times in his feverish fancy he imagined he could
hear it as it gurgled over its pebbly bed.

Just at sunrise, ere the heat of the day fell upon him, he struggled to
his feet, for he felt it was a matter of life and death with him to
reach the river. At last he dragged his pain-racked body down to the
rippling water and lowered his head to drink, but it seemed as if every
exertion tended to reopen those seared scars, and with the one thing
before him that he most desired, he moaned in misery. A little farther
away was a deep pool. This he managed to crawl to, and there he
remained for a long time, for the water laved his wounds, and he drank
and drank. The sun now beat down on him fiercely, and he must seek some
shady place for the day, but he started reluctantly to leave, and when
he reached the shallows, he turned back to the comfort of the pool and
drank again.

A thickety motte of chaparral which grew back from the scattering
timber on the river afforded him the shelter and seclusion he wanted,
for he dared not trust himself where the grown cattle congregated for
the day’s siesta. During all his troubles his mother had never forsaken
him, and frequently offered him the scanty nourishment of her udder,
but he had no appetite and could scarcely raise his eyes to look at
her. But time heals all wounds, and within a week he followed his dam
back into the hills where grew the succulent grama grass which he
loved. There they remained for more than a month, and he met his
speckled playmate again.

One day a great flight of birds flew southward, and amidst the cawing
of crows and the croaking of ravens the cattle which ranged beyond came
down out of the hills in long columns, heading southward. The line-back
calf felt a change himself in the pleasant day’s atmosphere. His mother
and the dam of the speckled calf laid their heads together, and after
scenting the air for several minutes, they curved their tails—a thing
he had never seen sedate cows do before—and stampeded off to the south.
Of course the line-back calf and his playmate went along, outrunning
their mothers. They traveled far into the night until they reached a
chaparral thicket, south of the river, much larger than the one in
which he was born. It was well they sought its shelter, for two hours
before daybreak a norther swept across the range, which chilled them to
the bone. When day dawned a mist was falling which incrusted every twig
and leaf in crystal armor.

There were many such northers during the first winter. The one
mysterious thing which bothered him was, how it was that his mother
could always foretell when one was coming. But he was glad she could,
for she always sought out some cosy place; and now he noticed that his
coat had thickened until it was as heavy as the fur on a bear, and he
began to feel a contempt for the cold. But springtime came very early
in that southern clime, and as he nibbled the first tender blades of
grass, he felt an itching in his wintry coat and rubbed off great tufts
of hair against the chaparral bushes. Then one night his mother,
without a word of farewell, forsook him, and it was several months
before he saw her again. But he had the speckled heifer yet for a
companion, when suddenly her dam disappeared in the same inexplicable
manner as had his own.

He was a yearling now, and with his playmate he ranged up and down the
valley of the Nueces for miles. But in June came a heavy rain, almost a
deluge, and nearly all the cattle left the valley for the hills, for
now there was water everywhere. The two yearlings were the last to go,
but one morning while feeding the line-back got a ripe grass burr in
his mouth. Then he took warning, for he despised grass burrs, and that
evening the two cronies crossed the river and went up into the hills
where they had ranged as calves the summer before Within a week, at a
lake which both well remembered, they met their mothers face to face.
The steer was on the point of upbraiding his maternal relative for
deserting him, when a cream-colored heifer calf came up and nourished
itself at the cow’s udder. That was too much for him. He understood now
why she had left him, and he felt that he was no longer her baby.
Piqued with mortification he went to a near-by knoll where the ground
was broken, and with his feet pawed up great clouds of dust which
settled on his back until the white spot was almost obscured. The next
morning he and the speckled heifer went up higher into the hills where
the bigger steer cattle ranged. He had not been there the year before,
and he had a great curiosity to see what the upper country was like.

In the extreme range of the hills back from the river, the two spent
the entire summer, or until the first norther drove them down to the
valley. The second winter was much milder than the first one, snow and
ice being unknown. So when spring came again they were both very fat,
and together they planned—as soon as the June rains came—to go on a
little pasear over north on the Frio River. They had met others of
their kind from the Frio when out on those hills the summer before, and
had found them decently behaved cattle.

But though the outing was feasible and well planned, it was not to be.
For after both had shed their winter coats, the speckled heifer was as
pretty a two-year-old as ever roamed the Nueces valley or drank out of
its river, and the line-back steer had many rivals. Almost daily he
fought other steers of his own age and weight, who were paying
altogether too marked attention to his crony. Although he never
outwardly upbraided her for it, her coquetry was a matter of no small
concern with him. At last one day in April she forced matters to an
open rupture between them. A dark red, arch-necked, curly-headed animal
came bellowing defiance across their feeding-grounds. Without a
moment’s hesitation the line-back had accepted the challenge and had
locked horns with this Adonis. Though he fought valiantly the battle is
ever with the strong, and inch by inch he was forced backward. When he
realized that he must yield, he turned to flee, and his rival with one
horn caught him behind the fore shoulder, cutting a cruel gash nearly a
foot in length. Reaching a point of safety he halted, and as he
witnessed his adversary basking in the coquettish, amorous advances of
her who had been his constant companion since babyhood, his wrath was
uncontrollable. Kneeling, he cut the ground with his horns, throwing up
clouds of dust, and then and there he renounced kith and kin, the
speckled heifer and the Nueces valley forever. He firmly resolved to
start at once for the Frio country. He was a proud two-year-old and had
always held his head high. Could his spirit suffer the humiliation of
meeting his old companions after such defeat? No! Hurling his bitterest
curses on the amorous pair, he turned his face to the northward.

On reaching the Nueces, feverish in anger, he drank sparingly, kneeling
against the soft river’s bank, cutting it with his horns, and matting
his forehead with red mud. It was a momentous day in his life. He
distinctly remembered the physical pain he had suffered once in a
branding-pen, but that was nothing compared to this. Surely his years
had been few and full of trouble. He hardly knew which way to turn.
Finally he concluded to lie down on a knoll and rest until nightfall,
when he would start on his journey to the Frio. Just how he was to
reach that country troubled him. He was a cautious fellow; he knew he
must have water on the way, and the rains had not yet fallen.

Near the middle of the afternoon an incident occurred which changed the
whole course of his after-life. From his position on the knoll he
witnessed the approach of four horsemen who apparently were bent on
driving all the cattle in that vicinity out of their way. To get a
better view he arose, for it was evident they had no intention of
disturbing him. When they had drifted away all the cattle for a mile on
both sides of the river, one of the horsemen rode back and signaled to
some one in the distance. Then the line-back steer saw something new,
for coming over the brow of the hill was a great column of cattle. He
had never witnessed such a procession of his kind before. When the
leaders had reached the river, the rear was just coming over the brow
of the hill, for the column was fully a mile in length. The line-back
steer classed them as strangers, probably bound for the Frio, for that
was the remotest country in his knowledge. As he slowly approached the
herd, which was then crowding into the river, he noticed that they were
nearly all two-year-olds like himself. Why not accompany them? His
resolution to leave the Nueces valley was still uppermost in his mind.
But when he attempted to join in, a dark-skinned man on a horse chased
him away, cursing him in Spanish as he ran. Then he thought they must
be exclusive, and wondered where they came from.

But when the line-back steer once resolved to do anything, the
determination became a consuming desire. He threw the very intensity of
his existence into his resolution of the morning. He would leave the
Nueces valley with those cattle—or alone, it mattered not. So after
they had watered and grazed out from the river, he followed at a
respectful distance. Once again he tried to enter the herd, but an
outrider cut him off. The man was well mounted, and running his horse
up to him he took up his tail, wrapped the brush around the pommel of
his saddle, and by a dexterous turn of his horse threw him until he
spun like a top. The horseman laughed. The ground was sandy, and while
the throwing frightened him, never for an instant did it shake his
determination.

So after darkness had fallen and the men had bedded their cattle for
the night, he slipped through the guard on night-herd and lay down
among the others. He complimented himself on his craftiness, but never
dreamed that this was a trail herd, bound for some other country three
hundred miles beyond his native Texas. The company was congenial; it
numbered thirty-five hundred two-year-old steers like himself, and
strangely no one ever noticed him until long after they had crossed the
Frio. Then a swing man one day called his foreman’s attention to a
stray, line-backed, bar-circle-bar steer in the herd. The foreman only
gave him a passing glance, saying, “Let him alone; we may get a jug of
whiskey for him if some trail cutter don’t claim him before we cross
Red River.”

Now Red River was the northern boundary of his native State, and though
he was unconscious of his destination, he was delighted with his new
life and its constant change of scene. He also rejoiced that every hour
carried him farther and farther from the Nueces valley, where he had
suffered so much physical pain and humiliation. So for several months
he traveled northward with the herd. He swam rivers and grazed in
contentment across flowery prairies, mesas and broken country. Yet it
mattered nothing to him where he was going, for his every need was
satisfied. These men with the herd were friendly to him, for they
anticipated his wants by choosing the best grazing, so arranging
matters that he reached water daily, and selecting a dry bed ground for
him at night. And when strange copper-colored men with feathers in
their hair rode along beside the herd he felt no fear.

The provincial ideas of his youth underwent a complete change within
the first month of trail life. When he swam Red River with the leaders
of the herd, he not only bade farewell to his native soil, but burned
all bridges behind him. To the line-back steer, existence on the Nueces
had been very simple. But now his views were broadening. Was not he a
unit of millions of his kind, all forging forward like brigades of a
king’s army to possess themselves of some unconquered country? These
men with whom he was associated were the vikings of the Plain. The Red
Man was conquered, and, daily, the skulls of the buffalo, his
predecessors, stared vacantly into his face.

By the middle of summer they reached their destination, for the cattle
were contracted to a cowman in the Cherokee Strip, Indian Territory.
The day of delivery had arrived. The herd was driven into a pasture
where they met another outfit of horsemen similar to their own. The
cattle were strung out and counted. The men agreed on the numbers. But
watchful eyes scanned every brand as they passed in review, and the men
in the receiving outfit called the attention of their employer to the
fact that there were several strays in the herd not in the road brand.
One of these strays was a line-back, bar-circle-bar, two-year-old
steer. There were also others; when fifteen of them had been cut out
and the buyer asked the trail foreman if he was willing to include them
in the bill of sale, the latter smilingly replied: “Not on your life,
Captain. You can’t keep them out of a herd. Down in my country we call
strays like them _poker steers_.”

And so there were turned loose in the Coldwater Pool, one of the large
pastures in the Strip, fifteen strays. That night, in a dug-out on that
range, the home outfit of cowboys played poker until nearly morning.
There were seven men in the camp entitled to share in this flotsam on
their range, the extra steer falling to the foreman. Mentally they had
a list of the brands, and before the game opened the strays were
divided among the participants. An animal was represented by ten beans.
At the beginning the boys played cautiously, counting every card at its
true worth in a hazard of chance. But as the game wore on and the more
fortunate ones saw their chips increase, the weaker ones were gradually
forced out. At midnight but five players remained in the game. By three
in the morning the foreman lost his last bean, and ordered the men into
their blankets, saying they must be in their saddles by dawn, riding
the fences, scattering and locating the new cattle. As the men
yawningly arose to obey, Dick Larkin defiantly said to the winners,
“I’ve just got ten beans left, and I’ll cut high card with any man to
see who takes mine or I take one of his poker steers.”

“My father was killed in the battle of the Wilderness,” replied Tex,
“and I’m as game a breed as you are. I’ll match your beans and pit you
my bar-circle-bar steer.”

“My sire was born in Ireland and is living yet,” retorted Bold Richard.
“Cut the cards, young fellow.”

“The proposition is yours—cut first yourself.”

The other players languidly returned to the table. Larkin cut a five
spot of clubs and was in the act of tearing it in two, when Tex turned
the tray of spades. Thus, on the turn of a low card, the line-back
steer passed into the questionable possession of Dick Larkin. The
Cherokee Strip wrought magic in a Texas steer. One or two winters in
its rigorous climate transformed the gaunt long-horn into a marketable
beef. The line-back steer met the rigors of the first winter and by
June was as glossy as a gentleman’s silk tile. But at that spring
round-up there was a special inspector from Texas, and no sooner did
his eye fall upon the bar-circle-bar steer than he opened his book and
showed the brand and his authority to claim him. When Dick Larkin asked
to see his credentials, the inspector not only produced them, but gave
the owner’s name and the county in which the brand was a matter of
record. There was no going back on that, and the Texas man took the
line-back steer. But the round-up stayed all night in the Pool pasture,
and Larkin made it his business to get on second guard in night-herding
the cut. He had previously assisted in bedding down the cattle for the
night, and made it a point to see that the poker three-year-old lay
down on the outer edge of the bed ground. The next morning the
line-back steer was on his chosen range in the south end of the
pasture. How he escaped was never known; there are ways and ways in a
cow country.

At daybreak the round-up moved into the next pasture, the wagons, cut
and saddle horses following. The special inspector was kept so busy for
the next week that he never had time to look over the winter drift and
strays, which now numbered nearly two thousand cattle. When the work
ended the inspector missed the line-back steer. He said nothing,
however, but exercised caution enough to take what cattle he had
gathered up into Kansas for pasturage.

When the men who had gone that year on the round-up on the western
division returned, there was a man from Reece’s camp in the Strip, east
on Black Bear, who asked permission to leave about a dozen cattle in
the Pool. He was alone, and, saying he would bring another man with him
during the shipping season, he went his way. But when Reece’s men came
back after their winter drift during the beef-gathering season, Bold
Richard Larkin bantered the one who had left the cattle for a poker
game, pitting the line-back three-year-old against a white poker cow
then in the Pool pasture and belonging to the man from Black Bear. It
was a short but spirited game. At its end the bar-circle-bar steer went
home with Reece’s man. There was a protective code of honor among
rustlers, and Larkin gave the new owner the history of the steer. He
told him that the brand was of record in McMullen County, Texas, warned
him of special inspectors, and gave him other necessary information.

The men from the Coldwater Pool, who went on the eastern division of
the round-up next spring, came back and reported having seen a certain
line-back poker steer, but the bar-circle-bar had somehow changed,
until now it was known as the _pilot wheel_. And, so report came back,
in the three weeks’ work that spring, the line-back pilot-wheel steer
had changed owners no less than five times. Late that fall word came
down from Fant’s pasture up west on the Salt Fork to send a man or two
up there, as Coldwater Pool cattle had been seen on that range. Larkin
and another lad went up to a beef round-up, and almost the first steer
Bold Richard laid his eyes on was an under-bit, line-back, once a
bar-circle-bar but now a pilot-wheel beef. Larkin swore by all the
saints he would know that steer in Hades. Then Abner Taylor called Bold
Richard aside and told him that he had won the steer about a week
before from an Eagle Chief man, who had also won the beef from another
man east on Black Bear during the spring round-up. The explanation
satisfied Larkin, who recognized the existing code among rustlers.

The next spring the line-back steer was a five-year-old. Three winters
in that northern climate had put the finishing touches on him. He was a
beauty. But Abner Taylor knew he dared not ship him to a market, for
there he would have to run a regular gauntlet of inspectors. There was
another chance open, however. Fant, Taylor’s employer, had many Indian
contracts. One contract in particular required three thousand northern
wintered cattle for the Fort Peck Indian Reservation in northeast
Montana. Fant had wintered the cattle with which to fill this contract
on his Salt Fork range in the Cherokee Strip. When the cowman cast
about for a foreman on starting the herd for Fort Peck, the fact that
Abner Taylor was a Texan was sufficient recommendation with Fant. And
the line-back beef and several other poker steers went along.

The wintered herd of beeves were grazed across to Fort Peck in little
less than three months. On reaching the agency, the cattle were in fine
condition and ready to issue to the Indian wards of our Christian
nation. In the very first allotment from this herd the line-back beef
was cut off with thirty others. It was fitting that he should die in
his prime. As the thirty head were let out of the agency corral, a
great shouting arose among the braves who were to make the kill. A
murderous fire from a hundred repeaters was poured into the running
cattle. Several fell to their knees, then rose and struggled on. The
scene was worthy of savages. As the cattle scattered several Indians
singled out the line-back poker steer. One specially well-mounted brave
ran his pony along beside him and pumped the contents of his carbine
into the beef’s side. With the blood frothing from his nostrils, the
line-back turned and catching the horse with his horn disemboweled him.
The Indian had thrown himself on the side of his mount to avoid the
sudden thrust, and, as the pony fell, he was pinned under him. With
admirable tenacity of life the pilot-wheel steer staggered back and
made several efforts to gore the dying horse and helpless rider, but
with a dozen shots through his vitals, he sank down and expired. A
destiny, over which he had no seeming control, willed that he should
yield to the grim reaper nearly three thousand miles from his
birthplace on the sunny Nueces.

Abner Taylor, witnessing the incident, rode over to a companion and
inquired: “Did you notice my line-back poker steer play his last trump?
From the bottom of my heart I wish he had killed the Indian instead of
the pony.”





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Cattle Brands: A Collection of Western Camp-Fire Stories" ***


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