by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or
Nearly all the boys, the boss included, struck out for Wichita right away to take the train for Houston, Texas, the nearest rail-road point to their respective homes. Mr. Grimes paid their rail-road fares according to custom in those days. I concluded I would remain until fall.
Mr. Grimes had come around by rail, consequently he was on hand to receive us. He already had several thousand steers—be—sides our herd—on hand; some that he drove up the year before and others he bought around there. He had them divided up into several different herds—about eight hundred to the herd—and scattered out into different places, that is each camp off by itself, from five to ten miles from any other. With each herd or bunch would be a cook and “chuck” wagon, four riders, a “boss” included—and five horses to the rider. During the day two men would “herd” or watch the cattle until noon and the other two until time to “bed” them, which would be about dark. By “bedding” we mean take them to camp, to a certain high piece of ground suitable for a “bed ground” where they would all lie down until morning, unless disturbed by a storm or otherwise. The nights would be divided up into four equal parts—one man “on” at a time, unless storming, tormented with mosquitos or something of the kind, when every one except the cook would have to be “out” singing to them.
The herd I came up the trail with was split into three bunches and I was put with one of them under a man by the name of Phillups, but shortly afterwards changed and put with a Mr. Taylor.
I spent all my extra time when not on duty, visiting a couple of New York damsels, who lived with their parents five miles east of our camp. They were the only young ladies in the neighborhood, the country being very thinly settled then, therefore the boys thought I was very “cheeky”—getting on courting terms with them so quick. One of them finally “put a head on me”—or in grammatical words, gave me a black eye—which chopped my visits short off; she didn’t understand the Texas way of proposing for one’s hand in marriage, was what caused the fracas. She was cleaning roasting-ears for dinner when I asked her how she would like to jump into double harness and trot through life with me? The air was full of flying roasting-ears for a few seconds—one of them striking me over the left eye—and shortly afterwards a young Cow Puncher rode into camp with one eye in a sling. You can imagine the boys giving it to me about monkeying with civilized girls, etc.
After that I became very lonesome; had nothing to think of but my little Texas girl—the only one on earth I loved. While sitting “on herd” in the hot sun, or lounging around camp in the shade of the wagon—there being no trees in that country to supply us with shade—my mind would be on nothing but her. I finally concluded to write to her and find out just how I stood. As often as I had been with her I had never let her know my thoughts. She being only fourteen years of age, I thought there was plenty time. I wrote a long letter explaining everything and then waited patiently for an answer. I felt sure she would give me encouragement, if nothing more.
A month passed by and still no answer. Can it be possible that she don’t think enough of me to answer my letter? thought I. “No,” I would finally decide, “she is too much of an angel to be guilty of such.”
At last the supply wagon arrived from Wichita and among the mail was a letter for me. I was on herd that forenoon and when the other boys came out to relieve Collier and I, they told me about there being a letter in camp for me, written by a female, judging from the fine hand-writing on the envelope.
I was happy until I opened the letter and read a few lines. It then dropped from my fingers and I turned deathly pale. Mr. Collier wanted to know if some of my relations wasn’t dead? Suffice it to say that the object of my heart was married to my old playmate Billy Williams. The letter went on to state that she had given her love to another and that she never thought I loved her only as a friend, etc. She furthermore went on advising me to grin and bear it, as there were just as good fish in the sea as ever was caught.
I wanted some one to kill me, so concluded to go to the Black hills—as everyone was flocking there then. Mr. Collier, the same man I traded the crippled horse to—agreed to go with me. So we both struck out for Wichita to settle up with daddy Grimes. Mr. Collier had a good horse of his own and so did I; mine was a California pony that I had given fifty-five dollars for quite awhile before. My intention was to take him home and make a race horse of him; he was only three years old and according to my views a “lightning striker.”
After settling up, we, like other “locoed”1 Cow Punchers proceeded to take in the town, and the result was, after two or three days carousing around, we left there “busted” with the exception of a few dollars.
As we didn’t have money enough to take us to the Black hills, we concluded to pull for the Medicine river, one hundred miles west.
We arrived in Kiowa, a little one-horse town on the Medicine, about dark one cold and disagreeable evening.
We put up at the Davis House, which was kept by a man named Davis—by the way one of the whitest men that ever wore shoes. Collier made arrangements that night with Mr. Davis to board us on “tick” until we could get work. But I wouldn’t agree to that.
The next morning after paying my night’s lodging I had just one dollar left and I gave that to Mr. Collier as I bade him adieu. I then headed southwest across the hills, not having any destination in view; I wanted to go somewhere but didn’t care where. To tell the truth I was still somewhat rattled over my recent bad luck.
That night I lay out in the brush by myself and next morning changed my course to southeast, down a creek called Driftwood. About noon I accidently landed in Gus Johnson’s Cow camp at the forks of Driftwood and “Little Mule” creeks.
I remained there all night and next morning when I was fixing to pull out—God only knows where, the boss, Bill Hudson, asked me if I wouldn’t stay and work in his place until he went to Hutchison, Kansas and back? I agreed to do so finally if he would furnish “Whisky-peat,” my pony, all the corn he could eat—over and above my wages, which were to be twenty-five dollars a month. The outfit consisted of only about twenty-five hundred Texas steers, a chuck wagon, cook and five riders besides the boss.
A few days after Mr. Hudson left we experienced a terrible severe snow storm. We had to stay with the drifting herd night and day, therefore it went rough with us—myself especially, being from a warm climate and only clad in common garments, while the other boys were fixed for winter.
When Mr. Hudson came back from Hutchison he pulled up stakes and drifted south down into the Indian territory—our camp was then on the territory and Kansas line—in search of good winter quarters.
We located on the “Eagle Chief” river, a place where cattle had never been held before. Cattlemen in that section of country considered it better policy to hug the Kansas line on account of indians.
About the time we became settled in our new quarters, my month was up and Mr. Hudson paid me twenty-five dollars, telling me to make that my home all winter if I wished.
My “pile” now amounted to forty-five dollars, having won twenty dollars from one of the boys, Ike Berry, on a horse race. They had a race horse in camp called “Gray-dog,” who had never been beaten, so they said, but I and Whisky-peat done him up, to the extent of twenty dollars, in fine shape.
I made up my mind that I would build me a “dug-out” somewhere close to the Johnson camp and put in the winter hunting and trapping. Therefore as Hudson was going to Kiowa, with the wagon, after a load of provisions, etc., I went along to lay me in a supply also.
On arriving at Kiowa I found that my old “pard” Mr. Collier had struck a job with a cattleman whose ranch was close to town. But before spring he left for good “Hold Hengland” where a large pile of money was awaiting him; one of his rich relations had died and willed him everything he had. We suppose he is now putting on lots of “agony,” if not dead, and telling his green countrymen of his hair-breadth escapes on the wild Texas plains.
We often wonder if he forgets t
o tell of his experience with “old gray,” the pony I traded to him for the boat.
After sending mother twenty dollars by registered mail and laying in a supply of corn, provisions, ammunition, etc., I pulled back to Eagle Chief, to make war with wild animals—especially those that their hides would bring me in some money, such as gray wolves, coyotes, wild cats, buffaloes and bears. I left Kiowa with just three dollars in money.
The next morning after arriving in camp I took my stuff and moved down the river about a mile to where I had already selected a spot for my winter quarters.
I worked like a turk all day long building me a house out of dry poles—covered with grass. In the north end I built a “sod” chimney and in the south end, left an opening for a door. When finished it lacked about two feet of being high enough for me to stand up straight in.
It was almost dark and snowing terribly when I got it finished and a fire burning in the low, Jim Crow fire-place.2 I then fed Whisky-peat some corn and stepped out a few yards after an armful of good solid wood for morning. On getting about half an armful of wood gathered I heard something crackling and looking over my shoulder discovered my mansion in flames. I got there in time to save nearly everything in the shape of bedding, etc. Some of the grub, being next to the fire-place, was lost. I slept at Johnson’s camp that night.
The next morning I went about two miles down the river and located another camp. This time I built a dug-out right on the bank of the stream, in a thick bunch of timber.
I made the dug-out in a curious shape; started in at the edge of the steep bank and dug a place six feet long, three deep and three wide, leaving the end next to the creek open for a door. I then commenced at the further end and dug another place same size in an opposite direction, which formed an “L.” I then dug still another place, same size, straight out from the river which made the whole concern almost in the shape of a “Z.” In the end furthest from the stream I made a fire-place by digging the earth away—in the shape of a regular fire-place. And then to make a chimney I dug a round hole, with the aid of a butcher knife, straight up as far as I could reach; then commencing at the top and connecting the two holes. The next thing was to make it “draw,” and I did that by cutting and piling sods of dirt around the hole, until about two feet above the level.
I then proceeded to build a roof over my 3 x 18 mansion. To do that I cut green poles four feet long and laid them across the top, two or three inches apart. Then a layer of grass and finally, to finish it off, a foot of solid earth. She was then ready for business. My idea in making it so crooked was, to keep the indians, should any happen along at night, from seeing my fire. After getting established in my new quarters I put out quite a number of wolf baits and next morning in going to look at them found several dead wolves besides scores of skunks, etc. But they were frozen too stiff to skin, therefore I left them until a warmer day.
The next morning on crawling out to feed my horse I discovered it snowing terribly, accompanied with a piercing cold norther. I crawled back into my hole after making Whisky-peat as comfortable as possible and remained there until late in the evening, when suddenly disturbed by a horny visitor.
It was three or four o’clock in the evening, while humped up before a blazing fire, thinking of days gone by, that all at once, before I had time to think, a large red steer came tumbling down head first, just missing me by a few inches. In traveling ahead of the storm the whole Johnson herd had passed right over me, but luckily only one broke through.
Talk about your ticklish places! That was truly one of them; a steer jammed in between me and daylight, and a hot fire roasting me by inches.
I tried to get up through the roof—it being only a foot above my head—but failed. Finally the old steer made a terrible struggle, just about the time I was fixing to turn my wicked soul over to the Lord, and I got a glimpse of daylight under his flanks. I made a dive for it and by tight squeezing I saved my life.
After getting out and shaking myself I made a vow that I would leave that God-forsaken country in less than twenty-four hours; and I did so.
CHAPTER XV.
A Lonely trip down the Cimeron.
THE NEXT MORNING after the steer racket I pulled out for Kiowa, Kansas. It was then sleeting from the north, consequently I had to face it.
About three oclock in the evening I changed my notion and concluded to head for Texas. So I turned east, down the Eagle Chief, to where it emptied into the Cimeron, and thence down that stream; knowing that I was bound to strike the Chisholm trail1—the one I came up on, the spring before.
I camped that night at the mouth of Eagle Chief and went to roost on an empty stomach, not having brought any grub with me. I was then in the western edge of what is known as the Blawk-jack country, which extends east far beyond the Chisholm trail.
The next morning I continued down the Cimeron, through Black-jack timber and sand hills. To avoid the sand hills, which appeared fewer on the opposite side, I undertook to cross the river, but bogged down in the quicksand and had to turn back.
That night I camped between two large sand hills and made my bed in a tall bunch of blue-stem grass. I went to bed as full as a tick, as I had just eaten a mule-eared rabbit, one I had slipped up onto and killed with a club. I was afraid to shoot at the large droves of deer and turkeys, on account of the country being full of fresh indian signs.
I crawled out of my nest next morning almost frozen. I built a roaring big fire on the south edge of the bunch of tall grass so as to check the cold piercing norther. After enjoying the warm fire a few moments, I began to get thirsty and there being no water near at hand, I took my tin cup and walked over to a large snow-drift a short distance off, to get it full of clean snow, which I intended melting by the fire to quench my burning thirst.
While filling the cup I heard a crackling noise behind me and looking over my shoulder discovered a blaze of fire twenty feet in the air and spreading at a terrible rate. I arrived on the scene just in time to save Whisky-peat from a horrible death. He was tied to a tree, the top limbs of which were already in a blaze. I also managed to save my saddle and an old piece of saddle blanket, they being out under the tree that Whisky-peat was tied to. I didn’t mind losing my leather leggins, saddle blankets, etc., so much as I did the old dilapidated overcoat that contained a little silver-plated match box in one of the pockets.
That day I traveled steady, but not making very rapid progress, on account of winding around sand hills, watching for indians and going around the heads of boggy sloughs. I was certain of striking the Chisholm trail before night, but was doomed to disappointment.
I pitched camp about nine o’clock that night and played a single-handed game of freeze-out until morning, not having any matches to make a fire with.
I hadn’t gone more than two miles next morning when I came across a camp-fire, which looked as though it had been used a few hours before; on examination I found it had been an indian camp, just vacated that morning. The trail, which contained the tracks of forty or fifty head of horses, led down the river. After warming myself I struck right out on their trail, being very cautious not to run onto them. Every now and then I would dismount and crawl to the top of a tall sand hill to see that the road was clear ahead.
About noon I came to a large creek, which proved to be “Turkey Creek.” The reds had made a good crossing by digging the banks down and breaking the ice.
After crossing, I hadn’t gone but a short distance when I came in sight of the Chisholm trail. I never was so glad to see anything before—unless it was the little streak of daylight under the steer’s flanks.
The indians on striking the trail had struck south on it; and after crossing the Cimeron I came in sight of them, about five miles ahead of me. I rode slow so as to let them get out of sight. I didn’t care to come in contact with them for fear they might want my horse and possibly my scalp.
About dark that evening I rode into a large camp of Government freighters, who informed me that the
fifty indians who had just passed—being on their way back to the reservation—were Kiowas who had been on a hunting expedition.
I fared well that night, got a good supper and a warm bed to sleep in—besides a good square meal of corn and oats for my horse.
The next morning before starting on my journey, an old irish teamster by the name of “Long Mike” presented me with a pair of pants—mine being almost in rags—and a blue soldier coat, which I can assure you I appreciated very much.
About dusk that evening, I rode into Cheyenne Agency and that night slept in a house for the first time since leaving Kiowa—in fact I hadn’t seen a house since leaving there.
The next morning I continued south and that night put up at “Bill” Williams’ ranch on the “South Canadian” river.
Shortly after leaving the Williams ranch next morning I met a crowd of Chickasaw indians who bantered me for a horse race. As Whisky-peat was tired and foot-sore, I refused; but they kept after me until finally I took them up. I put up my saddle and pistol against one of their ponies. The pistol I kept buckled around me for fear they might try to swindle me. The saddle I put up and rode the race bare-back. I came out ahead, but not enough to brag about. They gave up the pony without a murmer, but tried to persuade me to run against one of their other ponies, a much larger and finer looking one. I rode off thanking them very kindly for what they had already done for me.
That night I put up at a ranch on the Washita river and next morning before leaving swapped my indian pony off for another one and got ten dollars to-boot.
That morning I left the Chisholm trail and struck down the Washita river, in search of a good, lively place where I might put in the balance of the winter.
I landed in Erin Springs late that evening and found a grand ball in full bloom at Frank Murry’s mansion. The dancers were a mixed crowd, the ladies being half-breeds and the men, mostly americans and very tough citizens.
