by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or
Of course I joined the mob, being in search of excitement and had a gay old time drinking kill-me-quick whisky and swinging the pretty indian maidens.
After breakfast next morning the whole crowd, ladies and all, went down the river five miles to witness a “big” horse race at “Kickapoo” flat.
After the “big” race—which was for several thousand dollars—was over the day was spent in running pony races and drinking whisky. By night the whole mob were gloriously drunk, your humble servant included. There were several fights and fusses took place during the day, but no one seriously hurt.
It being against the laws of the United States to sell, or have whisky in the Indian territory, you might wonder where it came from: A man by the name of Bill Anderson—said to have been one of Quantrell’s men during the war—did the selling.
He defied the United States marshalls and it was said that he had over a hundred indictments against him. He sold it at ten dollars a gallon, therefore you see he could afford to run quite a risk.
The next day on my way down the river to Paul’s valley I got rid of my extra pony; I came across two apple peddlers who were on their way to Fort Sill with a load of apples and who had had the misfortune of losing one of their horses by death, the night before, thereby leaving them on the prairie helpless, unable to move on. They had no money to buy another horse with, having spent all their surplus wealth in Arkansas for the load of apples. When I gave them the pony, they felt very happy judging from their actions. On taking my departure one of them insisted on my taking his silver watch as a token of friendship. I afterwards had the watch stolen from me.
Well, patient reader, I will now drop the curtain for awhile. Just suffice it to say I had a tough time of it during the rest of the winter and came out carrying two bullet wounds. But I had some gay times as well as tough and won considerable money running Whisky-peat.
The following May I landed in Gainesville, Texas, “right side up with care” and from there went to Saint Joe on the Chisholm trail, where I succeeded in getting a job with a passing herd belonging to Capt. Littlefield of Gonzales. The boss’ name was “Jim” Wells and the herd contained thirty-five hundred head of stock cattle. It being a terribly wet season we experienced considerable hardships, swimming swollen streams, etc. We also had some trouble with indians.
We arrived in Dodge City, Kansas on the third day of July and that night I quit and went to town to “whoop ’em up Liza Jane.”
I met an old friend that night by the name of “Wess” Adams and we both had a gay time, until towards morning when he got severely stabbed in a free-to-all fight.
On the morning of July fifth I hired to David T. Beals—or the firm of Bates & Beals,2 as the outfit was commonly called—to help drive a herd of steers, twenty-five hundred head, to the Panhandle of Texas, where he intended starting a new ranch.
The next morning we struck out on the “Old Fort Bascom” trail, in a southwesterly direction.
The outfit consisted of eight men besides the boss, Bill Allen, and “Deacon” Bates, one of Mr. Beals’ silent partners, who was going along to locate the new range and O. M. Johnson, the whole-souled ex-rebel cook. We had six extra good horses apiece, my six being named as follows: Comanche, Allisan, Last Chance, Creeping Moses, Damfido and Beat-and-be-damned. The last named was afterwards shot full of arrows because he wouldn’t hurry while being driven off by a band of indians who had made a raid on the camp.
CHAPTER XVI.
My first experience roping a Buffalo.
ABOUT THE SIXTH DAY OUT from Dodge we crossed the Cimeron and that evening I had a little excitement chasing a herd of buffaloes.
After crossing the river about noon, we drove out to the divide, five or six miles and made a “dry” camp. It was my evening to lay in camp, or do anything else I wished. Therefore concluded I would saddle my little indian mare—one I had traded for from an indian—and take a hunt.
About the time I was nearly ready to go Mr. Bates, seeing some of the cattle slipping off into a bunch of sand hills which were near the herd, asked me if I wouldn’t ride out and turn them back. I went, leaving my pistol and gun in camp, thinking of course that I would be back in a few minutes. But instead of that I didn’t get back until after dinner the next day.
Just as I was starting back to camp, after turning the cattle, a large herd of buffaloes dashed by camp headed west. The boys all ran out with their guns and began firing. I became excited and putting spurs to my pony, struck out to overtake and kill a few of them, forgetting that I didn’t have anything to shoot with. As they had over a mile the start it wasn’t an easy matter to overtake them. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon and terribly hot; which of course cut off my pony’s wind and checked her speed to a great extent.
About sundown I overtook them. Their tongues were sticking out a yard. I took down my rope from the saddle-horn, having just missed my shooting irons a few minutes before, and threw it onto a yearling heifer. When the rope tightened the yearling began to bleat and its mammy broke back out of the herd and took after me. I tried to turn the rope loose so as to get out of the way, but couldn’t, as it was drawn very tight around the saddle-horn. To my great delight, after raking some of the surplus hair from my pony’s hind quarters, she turned and struck out after the still fleeing herd.
Now the question arose in my mind, “how are you going to kill your buffalo?” Break her neck was the only way I could think of; after trying it several times by running “against” the rope at full speed, I gave it up as a failure. I then concluded to cut the rope and let her go, so getting out my old frog-sticker—an old pocket knife I had picked up a few days before and which I used to clean my pipe—I went to work trying to open the little blade it being the only one that would cut hot butter. The big blade was open when I found it, consequently it was nothing but a sheet of rust. The little blade had become rusted considerably, which made it hard to open. Previous to that I always used my bowie knife, which at that time was hanging to my pistol belt, in camp, to open it with. After working a few minutes I gave up the notion of opening the little blade and went to work sawing at the rope with the big one. But I soon gave that up also, as I could have made just as much headway by cutting with my finger. At last I dismounted and went to him, or at least her, with nothing but my muscle for a weapon.
I finally managed to get her down by getting one hand fastened to her under jaw and the other hold of one horn and then twisting her neck. As some of you might wonder why I had so much trouble with this little animal, when it is a known fact that one man by himself can tie down the largest domestic bull that ever lived, I will say that the difference between a buffalo and a domestic bull is, that the latter when you throw him hard against the ground two or three times, will lie still long enough to give you a chance to jump aboard of him, while the former will raise to his feet, instantly, just as long as there’s a bit of life left.
After getting her tied down with my “sash,” a silk concern that I kept my breeches up with, I went to work opening the little blade of my knife. I broke the big one off and then used it for a pry to open the other with.
When I got her throat cut I concluded it a good idea to take the hide along, to show the boys that I didn’t have my run for nothing, so went to work skinning, which I found to be a tedious job with such a small knife-blade.
It was pitch dark when I started towards camp with the hide and a small chunk of meat tied behind my saddle.
After riding east about a mile, I abandoned the idea of going to camp and turned south facing the cool breeze in hopes of finding water, my pony and I both being nearly dead for a drink.
It was at least twenty miles to camp over a level, dry plain, therefore I imagined it an impossibility to go that distance without water. As the streams all lay east and west in that country, I knew by going south I was bound to strike one sooner or later.
About midnight I began to get sleepy, so, pulling the bridle off my pony so she cou
ld graze, I spread the buffalo hide down, hair up, and after wrapping the end of the rope, that my pony was fastened to around my body once or twice so she couldn’t get loose without me knowing it, fell asleep.
I hadn’t slept long when I awoke, covered from head to foot with ants. The fresh hide had attracted them.
After freeing myself of most of the little pests I continued my journey in search of water.
About three o’clock in the morning I lay down again, but this time left the hide on my saddle.
I think I must have been asleep about an hour when all at once my pony gave a tremendous snort and struck out at full speed, dragging me after her.
You see I had wrapped the rope around my body as before and it held me fast some way or another; I suppose by getting tangled. Luckily for me though it came loose after dragging me about a hundred yards.
You can imagine my feelings on gaining my feet, and finding myself standing on the broad prairie afoot. I felt just like a little boy does when he lets a bird slip out of his hand accidently—that is—exceedingly foolish.
The earth was still shaking and I could hear a roaring noise like that of distant thunder. A large herd of buffaloes had just passed.
While standing scratching my head a faint noise greeted my ear; it was my pony snorting. A tramp of about three hundred yards brought me to her. She was shaking as though she had a chill. I mounted and continued my journey south, determined on not stopping any more that night.
About ten o’clock next morning I struck water on the head of Sharp’s creek, a tributary to “Beaver” or head of North Canadian.
When I got to camp—it having been moved south about twenty miles from where I left it—the boys had just eaten dinner and two of them were fixing to go back and hunt me up, thinking some sad misfortune had befallen me.
When we got to Blue Creek, a tributary to South Canadian, camp was located for awhile, until a suitable location could be found for a permanent ranch.
Mr. Bates struck out across the country to the Canadian river, taking me along, to hunt the range—one large enough for at least fifty thousand cattle.
After being out three days we landed in Tascosa,1 a little mexican town on the Canadian. There were only two americans there, Howard & Reinheart, who kept the only store in town. Their stock of goods consisted of three barrels of whisky and half a dozen boxes of soda crackers.
From there we went down the river twenty-five miles where we found a little trading point, consisting of one store and two mexican families. The store, which was kept by a man named Pitcher, had nothing in it but whisky and tobacco. His customers were mostly transient buffalo hunters, they being mostly indians and mexicans. He also made a business of dealing in robes, furs, etc., which he shipped to Fort Lyons, Colorado, where his partner, an officer in the United States Army lived. There were three hundred Apache indians camped right across the river from “Cold Springs,” as Pitcher called his ranch.
A few miles below where the little store stood Mr. Bates decided on being the center of the “L. X.” range; and right there, Wheeler post-office now stands. And that same range, which was then black with buffaloes, is now stocked with seventy-five thousand fine blooded cattle, and all fenced in. So you see time makes changes, even out here in the “western wilds.”
CHAPTER XVII.
An exciting trip after thieves.
AFTER ARRIVING on our newly located ranch we counted the cattle and found the herd three hundred head short.
Bill Allen, the boss, struck back to try and find their trail. He found it leading south from the “rifle pits.” The cattle had stolen out of the herd without anyone finding it out; and of course finding themselves free, they having come from southern Texas, they headed south across the Plains.
Allen came back to camp and taking me and two horses apiece, struck down the river to head them off. We made our headquarters at Fort Elliott and scoured the country out for a hundred miles square.
We succeeded in getting about two hundred head of them; some had become wild and were mixed up with large herds of buffalo, while others had been taken up by ranchmen around the Fort and the brands disfigured. We got back to camp after being absent a month.
About the first of October four more herds arrived; three from Dodge and one from Grenada, Colorado, where Bates & Beals formerly had a large ranch. We then turned them all loose on the river and established “Sign” camps around the entire range, which was about forty miles square. The camps were stationed from twenty-five to thirty miles apart. There were two men to the camp and their duty was to see that no cattle drifted outside of the line—on their “ride,” which was half way to the next camp on each side, or in plainer words one man would ride south towards the camp in that direction, while his pard would go north until he met the man from the next camp, which would generally be on a hill, as near half way as possible. If any cattle had crossed over the line during the night they would leave a trail of course, and this the rider would follow up until he overtook them. He would then bring them back inside of the line; sometimes though they would come out so thick that half a dozen men couldn’t keep them back, for instance, during a bad storm. Under such circumstances he would have to do the best he could until he got a chance to send to the “home ranch” for help.
A young man by the name of John Robinson and myself were put in a Sign camp ten miles south of the river, at the foot of the Staked Plains.1 It was the worst camp in the whole business, for three different reasons, the first one being, cattle naturally want to drift south in the winter, and secondly, the cold storms always came from the north, and the third and most objectionable cause was, if any happened to get over the line onto the Staked plains during a bad snow storm they were considered gone, as there were no “breaks” or anything to check them for quite a distance. For instance, drifting southwest they would have nothing but a level plain to travel over for a distance of three hundred miles to the Pecos river near the old Mexico line.
John and I built a small stone house on the head of “Bonetta” Canyon and had a hog killing time all by ourselves. Hunting was our delight at first, until it became old. We always had four or five different kinds of meat in camp. Buffalo meat was way below par with us, for we could go a few hundred yards from camp any time of day and kill any number of the woolly brutes. To give you an idea how thick buffaloes were around there that fall will say, at one time when we first located our camp on the Bonetta, there was a solid string of them, from one to three miles wide, going south, which took three days and nights to cross the Canadian river. And at other times I have seen them so thick on the plains that the country would look black just as far as the eye could reach.
Late that fall we had a change in bosses. Mr. Allen went home to Corpus Christi, Texas, and a man by the name of Moore2 came down from Colorado and took his place.
About Christmas we had a little excitement, chasing some mexican thieves, who robbed Mr. Pitcher of everything he had in his little Jim Crow store. John and I were absent from our camp, six days on this trip. There were nine of us in the persuing party, headed by Mr. Moore, our boss. We caught the outfit, which consisted of five men, all well armed and three women, two of them being pretty maidens, on the staked plains, headed for Mexico. It was on this trip that I swore off getting drunk, and I have stuck to it—with the exception of once and that was over the election of President Cleveland—It happened thus:
We rode into Tascosa about an hour after dark, having been in the saddle and on a hot trail all day without food or water. Supper being ordered we passed off the time waiting, by sampling Howard and Reinheart’s bug juice.
Supper was called and the boys all rushed to the table—a few sheepskins spread on the dirt floor. When about through they missed one of their crowd—a fellow about my size. On searching far and near he was found lying helplessly drunk under his horse, Whisky-peet—who was tied to a rack in front of the store. A few glasses of salty water administered by Mr. Moore brought me to my ri
ght mind. Moore then after advising me to remain until morning, not being able to endure an all night ride as he thought, called, “come on, fellers!” And mounting their tired horses they dashed off at almost full speed.
There I stood leaning against the rack not feeling able to move. Whisky-peet was rearing and prancing in his great anxiety to follow the crowd. I finally climbed into the saddle, the pony still tied to the rack. I had sense enough left to know that I couldn’t get on him if loose, in the fix I was in. Then pulling out my bowie knife I cut the rope and hugged the saddle-horn with both hands. I overtook and stayed with the crowd all night, but if ever a mortal suffered it was me. My stomach felt as though it was filled with scorpions, wild cats and lizards. I swore if God would forgive me for getting on that drunk I would never do so again. But the promise was broken, as I stated before, when I received the glorious news of Cleveland’s election.
After New Year’s, Moore took Jack Ryan, Vandozen and myself and went on an exploring expedition south, across the Staked plains, with a view of learning the country.
The first place we struck was Canyon Paladuro, head of Red river. The whole country over there was full of indians and mexicans. We laid over two days in one of their camps, watching them lance buffaloes. From there we went to Mulberry where we put in three or four days hunting. When we pulled out again our pack-pony was loaded down with fat bear meat.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Seven weeks among Indians.
ON OUR ARRIVAL back to the ranch, Moore rigged up a scouting outfit to do nothing but drift over the Plains in search of strayed cattle.
The outfit consisted of a well-filled chuck-wagon, a number one good cook, Mr. O. M. Johnson, and three warriors, Jack Ryan, Vanduzen and myself. We had two good horses apiece, that is, all but myself, I had three counting Whisky-peet.
