by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or
SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING
OTHER WORKS BY CHARLES A. SIRINGO
A Cowboy Detective: A True Story of Twenty-Two Years with a World-Famous Detective Agency. Chicago: W.B. Conkey Company, 1912.
History of “Billy the Kid”: The True Life of the Most Daring Young Outlaw of the Age. Santa Fe, N. Mex.: Chas. A. Siringo, 1920.
A Lone Star Cowboy, Being Fifty Years Experience in the Saddle as Cowboy, Detective and New Mexico Ranger, on Every Cow Trail in the Wooly Old West. Santa Fe, N. Mex.: [Charles A. Siringo], 1919.
Riata and Spurs: The Story of a Lifetime Spent in the Saddle as Cowboy and Detective. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1927.
Riata and Spurs: The Story of a Lifetime Spent in the Saddle as Cowboy and Ranger. Rev. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1927. Greatly revised; nearly half the contents were changed after threat of suit from Pinkerton’s.
Two Evil Isms, Pinkertonism and Anarchism. By a Cowboy Detective Who Knows, as He Spent Twenty-Two Years in the Inner Circle of Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency. Chicago: Charles A. Siringo, Publisher, 1915.
WORKS ABOUT CHARLES A. SIRINGO
Adams, Clarence Siringo. “Charley Siringo—The Cowboy Detective.” New Mexico Magazine (October 1967): 18-19, 36-40.
________. “Fair Trial at Encinoso.” True West 13 (March-April 1966): 32-33, 50-51.
Burns, Walter Noble. The Saga of Billy the Kid. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Page, 1926.
Clark, Neil M. “Close Calls: An Interview with Charles A. Siringo.” American Magazine 107 (January 1929): 38-39, 130—31.
Dobie, J. Frank. “Charlie Siringo, Writer and Man,” in Charles A. Siringo, A Texas Cowboy. New York: William Sloan Associates, 1950.
Haley, J. Evetts. “Charles A. Siringo.” Dictionary of American Biography. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1936, 9: 191—92.
Hammond, John Hays. “Strong Men of the Wild West.” Scribner’s Magazine 77 (February-March 1925): 115—25, 246—56.
Hess, Chester Newton. “Sagebrush Sleuth, The Saga of Charlie Siringo.” Cattleman 41 (January 1955): 36—37, 64—82.
Horan, James D. The Pinkertons: The Detective Dynasty That Made History. New York: Crown Publishers, 1967.
Nagel, Stony. “When Siringo Was Marked for Death.” True West 18 (November-December 1970): 31, 68—69.
Nolen, O.W. “Charley Siringo, Old-Time Cowboy, Rancher, Detective, and Author.” Cattleman 38 (December 1951): 50—56.
Peavy, Charles D. Charles A. Siringo: A Texas Picaro. Southwest Writers Series. Austin, Tex.: Steck-Vaughn, 1967.
Pingenot, Ben E. “Charlie Siringo: New Mexico’s Lone Star Cowboy.” Cattleman 63 (November 1976): 56—57, 122—28.
_______. Siringo. College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1989.
Sawey, Orlan. Charles A. Siringo. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1981.
________. “Charlie Siringo, Reluctant Propagandist.” Western American Literature 7 (Fall 1972): 203—10.
Thorp, Raymond W. “Cowboy Charlie Siringo.” True West 12 (January-February 1965): 32-33, 59—62.
________. “ ‘Old Colt’s Forty-Five’: Letters of Charley Siringo.” Western Sportsman 5 (July 1940): 13—14, 40—41; (August 1940): 21—22, 32.
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
A Texas Cowboy was first published by M. Umbdenstock & Co., Publishers, Chicago, Illinois, 1885. The text used in this Penguin Classics edition reprints the second edition, 1886.
THE AUTHOR, IN COW BOT UNIFORM.
A TEXAS COW BOY
OR,
FIFTEEN YEARS
ON THE
HURRICANE DECK OF A SPANISH PONY.
TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE
BY
CHAS. A. SIRINGO,
AN OLD STOVE UP “COW PUNCHER,” WHO HAS SPENT
NEARLY TWENTY YEARS ON THE GREAT
WESTERN CATTLE RANGES.
SIRINGO & DOBSON, Publishers,
CHICAGO, ILL.
1886
To the memory of MR. and MRS. W. R. MYERS of New Orleans we affectionately inscribe the first 316 pages of this little volume.—And to that kind-hearted and outspoken gentleman, the HON. “BRICK” POMEROY of New York City, the Addenda is respectfully dedicated by
THE AUTHOR.
Preface.
MY EXCUSE FOR WRITING THIS BOOK is money—and lots of it.
I suppose the above would suffice, but as time is not very precious I will continue and tell how the idea of writing a book first got into my head:
While ranching on the Indian Territory line, close to Caldwell, Kansas, in the winter of ‘82 and ’83, we boys—there being nine of us—made an iron-clad rule that whoever was heard swearing or caught picking grey backs off and throwing them on the floor without first killing them, should pay a fine of ten cents for each and every offense. The proceeds to be used for buying choice literature—something that would have a tendency to raise us above the average cow-puncher. Just twenty-four hours after making this rule we had three dollars in the pot—or at least in my pocket, I having been appointed treasurer.
As I was going to town that night to see my Sunday girl, I proposed to the boys that, while up there, I send the money off for a years subscription to some good newspaper. The question then came up, what paper shall it be? We finally agreed to leave it to a vote—each man to write the one of his choice on a slip of paper and drop it in a hat. There being two young Texans present who could neither read nor write, we let them speak their choice after the rest of us got our votes deposited. At the word given them to cut loose they both yelled “Police Gazette”, and on asking why they voted for that wicked Sheet, they both replied as though with one voice: “Cause we can read the pictures.” We found, on counting the votes that the Police Gazette had won, so it was subscribed for.
With the first copy that arrived was the beginning of a continued story, entitled “Potts turning Paris inside out.” Mr. Potts, the hero, was an old stove-up New York preacher, who had made a raise of several hundred thousand dollars and was over in Paris blowing it in. I became interested in the story, and envied Mr. Potts very much. I wished for a few hundred thousand so I could do likewise; I lay awake one whole night trying to study up a plan by which I could make the desired amount. But, thinks I, what can an uneducated cow puncher do now-a-days to make such a vast sum? In trying to solve the question my mind darted back a few years, when, if I had taken time by the forelock, I might have now been wallowing in wealth with the rest of the big cattle kings—or to use a more appropriate name, cattle thieves. But alas! thought I, the days of honorable cattle stealing is past, and I must turn my mind into a healthier channel.
The next morning while awaiting breakfast I happened to pick up a small scrap of paper and read: “To the young man of high aims literature offers big inducements, providing he gets into an untrodden field.”
That night I lay awake again, trying to locate some “cussed” untrodden field, where, as an author, I might soar on high—to the extent of a few hundred thousand at least.
At last, just as our pet rooster, “Deacon Bates” was crowing for day, I found a field that I had never heard of any one trampling over—a “nigger” love story. So that night I launched out on my new novel, the title of which was, “A pair of two-legged coons.” My heroine, Miss Patsy Washington was one shade darker than the ace of spades, while her lover, Mr. Andrew Jackson, was three colors darker than herself. My plot was laid in African Bend on the Colorado river in Southern Texas.
Everything went on nicely, until about half way through the first chapter, when Mr. Jackson was convicted and sent to Huntsville for stealing a neighbors hog; and while I was trying to find a substitute for him, old Patsy flew the track and eloped with a Yankee carpet-bagger. That was more than I could endure, so picking up the manuscript I threw it into the fire. Thus ended my first attempt at Authorship.
I then began figuring up an easier field for my inexperienced pen, and finally hit upon the idea of writing a history of my
own short, but rugged life, which dear reader you have before you. But whether it will bring me in “shekels” enough to capsize Paris remains yet to be “disskivered” as the Negro says.
CHAPTER I.
My Boyhood Days.
IT WAS A BRIGHT MORNING, on the 7th day of February 1855,1 as near as I can remember, that your humble Servant came prancing into this wide and wicked world.
By glancing over the map you will find his birthplace, at the extreme southern part of the Lone Star State, on the Peninsula of Matagorda, a narrow strip of land bordered by the Gulf of Mexico on the south and Matagorda Bay on the north.
This Peninsula is from one to two miles wide and seventy five miles long. It connects the mainland at Caney and comes to a focus at Deckrows Point or “Salura Pass.” About midway between the two was situated the “Dutch Settlement,”2 and in the centre of that Settlement, which contained only a dozen houses, stood the little frame cottage that first gave me shelter.
My father who died when I was only a year old, came from the sunny clime of Italy, while my dear old mother drifted from the Boggs of good “ould” Ireland. Am I not a queer conglomerate—a sweet-scented mixture indeed!
Our nearest neighbor was a kind old soul by the name of John Williams, whose family consisted of his wife and eleven children.
In the fall of 1859 I took my first lessons in school, my teacher being a Mr. Hale from Illinois.
The school house, a little old frame building, stood off by itself, about a mile from the Settlement, and we little tow-heads, sister and I, had to hoof it up there every morning, through the grassburrs, barefooted; our little sunbrowned feet had never been incased in shoe-leather up to that time.
To avoid the grassburrs, sometimes on getting an early start we would go around by the Gulf beach which was quite a distance out of our way. In taking this route though, I would generally be late at school, for there were so many little things to detain me—such as trying to catch the shadow of a flying sea gull, or trying to lasso sand crabs on my stick horse.
Crowds of Cow Boys used to come over to the Peninsula from the mainland and sometimes have occasion to rope wild steers in my presence—hence me trying to imitate them.
I remember getting into a scrape once by taking the beach route to school; sister who was a year older than I, was walking along the water edge picking up pretty shells while I was riding along on my stick horse taking the kinks out of my rope—a piece of fishline—so as to be ready to take in the first crab that showed himself. Those crabs went in large droves and sometimes ventured quite a distance out from the Gulf, but on seeing a person would break for the water.
It was not long before I spied a large drove on ahead, pulling their freight for the water. I put spurs to my pony and dashed after them. I managed to get one old fat fellow headed off and turned towards the prairie. I threw at him several times but he would always go through the loop before I could pull it up. He finally struck a hole and disappeared.
I was determined to get him out and take another whirl at him, so dropping my horse and getting down on all fours I began digging the sand away with my hands, dog fashion.
About that time sister came up and told me to come on as I would be late at school.
I think I told her to please go to Halifax, as I was going to rope that crab before I quit or “bust.” At any rate she went off, leaving me digging with all my might.
Every now and then I would play dog by sticking my snoot down in the hole to smell. But I rammed it down once too often. Mr. Crab was nearer the surface than I thought for. He was laying for me. I gave a comanche yell, jumped ten feet in the air and lit out for home at a 2:40 gait. One of his claws was fastened to my upper lip while the other clamped my nose with an iron-like grip.
I met Mr. William Berge coming out to the beach after a load of wood, and he relieved me of my uncomfortable burden. He had to break the crabs claws off to get him loose.
I arrived at school just as Mr. Hale was ringing the bell after recess. He called me up and wanted to know what was the matter with my face, it was so bloody. Being a little George W., minus the hatchet, I told him the truth. Suffice to say he laid me across his knee and made me think a nest of bumble bees were having a dance in the seat of my breeches—or at least where the seat should have been. I never had a pair of pants on up to that time. Had worn nothing but a long white shirt made of a flour sack after some of the “big bugs” in Matagorda had eaten the flour out.
The fall of 1861 Mr. Hale broke up school and left for Yankeedom to join the blue coats. And from that time on I had a regular picnic, doing nothing and studying mischief. Billy Williams was my particular chum; we were constantly together doing some kind of devilment. The old women used to say we were the meanest little imps in the Settlement, and that we would be hung before we were twenty-one. Our three favorite passtimes were, riding the milk calves, coon hunting and sailing play-boats down on the bay shore.
Shortly after school broke up I wore my first pair of breeches. Uncle “Nick” and aunt “Mary,” mothers’ brother and sister, who lived in Galveston, sent us a trunk full of clothes and among them was a pair of white canvas breeches for me.
The first Sunday after the goods arrived mother made me scour myself all over and try my new pants on. They were large enough for two kids of my size, but mother said I could wear them that day if I would be a good boy, and that she would take a few tucks in them before the next Sunday. So after getting me fixed up she told me not to leave the yard or she would skin me alive, etc.
Of course I should have been proud of the new addition to my wardrobe and like a good little boy obeyed my mother; but I wasn’t a good little boy and besides the glory of wearing white pants was insignificant compared to that of an exciting coon hunt with dogs through brush, bramble and rushes. You see I had promised Billy the evening before to go coon hunting with him that day.
I watched my chance and while mother was dressing sister in her new frock I tiptoed out of the house and skipped.
Billy was waiting for me with the four dogs and off we went for the Bay shore.
Arriving there the dogs disappeared in the tall rushes barking at every jump; we jumped right in after them, up to our waists in the mud. We had a genuine good all-day coon hunt, killing several coons and one wild cat.
We gave up the hunt about sundown, and I started for home, the glory of my new pants having departed. I was indeed a sorry looking sight, covered with mud from head to foot.
I entered the house with some fear and trembling, and well I might, for mother was “laying” for me with the old black strap. The result was I slept sound that night, but couldn’t sit down without pain for a week afterwards.
CHAPTER II.
My Introduction to the late war.
IT WAS MONDAY MORNING—a day that I despised. Need you wonder, for it was mother’s wash day and I had to carry wood from the Gulf beach to keep the “pot boiling.”
I tried to play off sick that morning but it would not work, for mother had noticed that I got away with two plates of mush besides three hard boiled eggs for breakfast.
Before starting out after my first load of wood, I hid the big old strap which hung by the door, for I felt it in my bones there was war in the air. I always did have a tough time of it on wash days, and I knew this Monday would bring the same old story.
At last mother got the fire started under the washpot which stood out in the yard and told me for about the twentieth time to go after an armful of wood. I hesitated, in hopes that she would take a notion to go herself, but when she stamped her foot and picked up a barrel stave I knew I had better be going, for when she got her Irish blood up it was dangerous to linger.
When I got out among the drift wood on the beach, I treed a cotton-tail rabbit up a hollow log, and I made up my mind to get Mr. cotton-tail out, wood or no wood.
I began digging the sand away from the log as fast as I could so as to be able to roll it down into the Gulf and drown the r
abbit out.
It was a very hot day and digging the heavy sand with only my hands and a stick was slow, tiresome work. The result was I fell asleep with my head under the log and my bare legs sticking out in the hot June sun. I dreamt I died and went to a dreadful hot country and Satan was there piling hot coals on me.
Finally the sun went under a cloud, or at least I suppose it did, for the burning pain left me and I began to dream of Heaven; I thought the Lord was there sitting upon His throne of gold in the midst of scores of happy children. Calling me up to him he pointed to a large pile of fence rails down in a beautiful valley and said: “my boy you go down and carry every one of those rails up here to me before you stop.”
His words landed up against my happy thoughts like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. I had been thinking of what a picnic I would have with the other children.
A walk of about one mile brought me to the pile of rails; there were more in the pile than I could count; I shouldered one of the lightest and struck out up the steep hill, thinking how I would like to be back with mother, even if I had to carry an armful of wood from the beach now and then.
When about half way up the hill I heard a terrible noise such as I had never heard before, it awakened me, and in trying to jump up I bumped my head against the log, and also filled my eyes full of sand.
