by Andy Adams
CHAPTER XVI. CROSSING THE NIOBRARA
The parting of the ways was reached. On the morning of July 12, thedifferent outfits in charge of Lovell's drive in '84 started on threeangles of the compass for their final destination. The Rosebud Agency,where Flood's herd was to be delivered on September 1, lay to thenortheast in Dakota. The route was not direct, and the herd would beforced to make quite an elbow, touching on the different forks of theLoup in order to secure water. The Rebel and my brother would follow upon the south side of the North Platte until near old Fort Laramie, whentheir routes would separate, the latter turning north for Montana,while Priest would continue along the same watercourse to within a shortdistance of his destination. The Buford herds would strike due northfrom the first tributary putting in from above, which we would interceptthe second morning out.
An early start was the order of the day. My beeves were pushed from thebed-ground with the first sign of dawn, and when the relief overtookthem, they were several miles back from the river and holding anorthwest course. My camp being the lowest one on the North Fork,Forrest and Sponsilier, also starting at daybreak, naturally took thelead, the latter having fully a five-mile start over my outfit. But aswe left the valley and came up on the mesa, there on an angle in ourfront, Flood's herd snailed along like an army brigade, anxious todispute our advance. The point-men veered our cattle slightly to theleft, and as the drag-end of Flood's beeves passed before us, standingin our stirrups we waved our hats in farewell to the lads, starting ontheir last tack for the Rosebud Agency. Across the river were the dimoutlines of two herds trailing upstream, being distinguishable fromnumerous others by the dust-clouds which marked the moving from thegrazing cattle. The course of the North Platte was southwest, and on thedirection which we were holding, we would strike the river again duringthe afternoon at a bend some ten or twelve miles above.
Near the middle of the forenoon we were met by Hugh Morris. He wasdiscouraged, as it was well known now that his cattle would be tenderedin competition with ours at Fort Buford. There was no comparison betweenthe beeves, ours being much larger, more uniform in weight, and inbetter flesh. He looked over both Forrest's and Sponsilier's herdsbefore meeting us, and was good enough judge of cattle to know thathis stood no chance against ours, if they were to be received on theirmerits. We talked matters over for fully an hour, and I advised himnever to leave Keith County until the last dollar in payment forhis beeves was in hand. Morris thought this was quite possible, asinformation had reached him that the buyers had recently purchased aremuda, and now, since they had failed to take possession of two ofLovell's herds, it remained to be seen what the next move would be. Hethought it quite likely, though, that a settlement could be effectedwhereby he would be relieved at Ogalalla. Mutually hoping that all wouldturn out well, we parted until our paths should cross again.
We intercepted the North Fork again during the afternoon, watering fromit for the last time, and the next morning struck the Blue River, theexpected tributary. Sponsilier maintained his position in the lead, butI was certain when we reached the source of the Blue, David would fallto the rear, as thenceforth there was neither trail nor trace, map norcompass. The year before, Forrest and I had been over the route to thePine Ridge Agency, and one or the other of us must take the leadacross a dry country between the present stream and tributaries of theNiobrara. The Blue possessed the attributes of a river in name only, andthe third day up it, Sponsilier crossed the tributary to allow eitherForrest or myself to take the lead. Quince professed a remarkableignorance and faulty memory as to the topography of the country betweenthe Blue and Niobrara, and threw bouquets at me regarding my abilityalways to find water. It is true that I had gone and returned acrossthis arid belt the year before, but on the back trip it was late in thefall, and we were making forty miles a day with nothing but a wagonand remuda, water being the least of my troubles. But a compromise waseffected whereby we would both ride out the country anew, leaving theherds to lie over on the head waters of the Blue River. There wereseveral shallow lakes in the intervening country, and on finding thefirst one sufficient to our needs, the herds were brought up, and wescouted again in advance. The abundance of antelope was accepted as anassurance of water, and on recognizing certain landmarks, I agreed totake the lead thereafter, and we turned back. The seventh day out fromthe Blue, the Box Buttes were sighted, at the foot of which ran acreek by the same name, and an affluent of the Niobrara. Contrary toexpectations, water was even more plentiful than the year before, andwe grazed nearly the entire distance. The antelope were unusually tame;with six-shooters we killed quite a number by flagging, or using agentle horse for a blind, driving the animal forward with the bridlereins, tacking frequently, and allowing him to graze up within pistolrange.
The Niobrara was a fine grazing country. Since we had over two months atour disposal, after leaving the North Platte, every advantage was giventhe cattle to round into form. Ten miles was a day's move, and thedifferent outfits kept in close touch with each other. We had planneda picnic for the crossing of the Niobrara, and on reaching that streamduring the afternoon, Sponsilier and myself crossed, camping a mileapart, Forrest remaining on the south side. Wild raspberries had beenextremely plentiful, and every wagon had gathered a quantity sufficientto make a pie for each man. The cooks had mutually agreed to meet atSponsilier's wagon and do the baking, and every man not on herd waspresent in expectation of the coming banquet. One of Forrest's boyshad a fiddle, and bringing it along, the festivities opened with a stagdance, the "ladies" being designated by wearing a horse-hobble looselyaround their necks. While the pies were baking, a slow process withDutch ovens, I sat on the wagon-tongue and played the violin by thehour. A rude imitation of the gentler sex, as we had witnessed indance-halls in Dodge and Ogalalla, was reproduced with open shirtfronts, and amorous advances by the sterner one.
The dancing ceased the moment the banquet was ready. The cooks hadexperienced considerable trouble in restraining some of the boys fromthe too free exercise of what they looked upon as the inalienable rightof man to eat his pie when, where, and how it best pleased him. ButSponsilier, as host, stood behind the culinary trio, and overawed theimpetuous guests. The repast barely concluded in time for the wranglersand first guard from Forrest's and my outfit to reach camp, catchnight-horses, bed the cattle, and excuse the herders, as supper wasserved only at the one wagon. The relieved ones, like eleventh-hourguests, came tearing in after darkness, and the tempting spread soonabsorbed them. As the evening wore on, the loungers gathered in severalcircles, and the raconteur held sway. The fact that we were in a countryin which game abounded suggested numerous stories. The delights ofcat-hunting by night found an enthusiast in each one present. Every dogin our memory, back to early boyhood, was properly introduced andhis best qualities applauded. Not only cat-hounds but coon-dogs had arespectful hearing.
"I remember a hound," said Forrest's wrangler, "which I owned when aboy back in Virginia. My folks lived in the foot-hills of the Blue RidgeMountains in that state. We were just as poor as our poorest neighbors.But if there was any one thing that that section was rich in it wasdogs, principally hounds. This dog of mine was four years old when Ileft home to go to Texas. Fine hound, swallow marked, and when he openedon a scent you could always tell what it was that he was running. Inever allowed him to run with packs, but generally used him in treeingcoon, which pestered the cornfields during roasting-ear season andin the fall. Well, after I had been out in Texas about five years, Iconcluded to go back on a little visit to the old folks. There wereno railroads within twenty miles of my home, and I had to hoof it thatdistance, so I arrived after dark. Of course my return was a greatsurprise to my folks, and we sat up late telling stories about thingsout West. I had worked with cattle all the time, and had made one tripover the trail from Collin County to Abilene, Kansas.
"My folks questioned me so fast that they gave me no show to make anyinquiries in return, but I finally eased one in and asked about my dogKeiser, and was tickle
d to hear that he was still living. I went out andcalled him, but he failed to show up, when mother explained his absenceby saying that he often went out hunting alone now, since there was noneof us boys at home to hunt with him. They told me that he was no accountany longer; that he had grown old and gray, and father said he was tooslow on trail to be of any use. I noticed that it was a nice damp night,and if my old dog had been there, I think I'd have taken a circle aroundthe fields in the hope of hearing him sing once more. Well, we went backinto the house, and after talking awhile longer, I climbed into theloft and went to bed. I didn't sleep very sound that night, and awakenedseveral times. About an hour before daybreak, I awoke suddenly andimagined I heard a hound baying faintly in the distance. Finally I gotup and opened the board window in the gable and listened. Say, boys,I knew that hound's baying as well as I know my own saddle. It was oldKeiser, and he had something treed about a mile from the house, acrossa ridge over in some slashes. I slipped on my clothes, crept downstairs,and taking my old man's rifle out of the rack, started to him.
"It was as dark as a stack of black cats, but I knew every path andbyway by heart. I followed the fields as far as I could, and later,taking into the timber, I had to go around a long swamp. An old beaverdam had once crossed the outlet of this marsh, and once I gained it,I gave a long yell to let the dog know that some one was coming. Heanswered me, and quite a little while before day broke I reached him.Did he know me? Why, he knew me as easy as the little boy knew his pap.Right now, I can't remember any simple thing in my whole life that movedme just as that little reunion of me and my dog, there in those woodsthat morning. Why, he howled with delight. He licked my face and handsand stood up on me with his wet feet and said just as plain as he couldthat he was glad to see me again. And I was glad to meet him, eventhough he did make me feel as mellow as a girl over a baby.
"Well, when daybreak came, I shot a nice big fat Mr. Zip Coon out of anold pin-oak, and we started for home like old pardners. Old as he was,he played like a puppy around me, and when we came in sight of thehouse, he ran on ahead and told the folks what he had found. Yes, youbet he told them. He came near clawing all the clothing off them in hisdelight. That's one reason I always like a dog and a poor man--you can'tquestion their friendship."
A circus was in progress on the other side of the wagon. From a largerock, Jake Blair was announcing the various acts and introducing theactors and actresses. Runt Pickett, wearing a skirt made out of ablanket and belted with a hobble, won the admiration of all as the onlyliving lady lion-tamer. Resuming comfortable positions on our side ofthe commissary, a lad named Waterwall, one of Sponsilier's boys, took upthe broken thread where Forrest's wrangler had left off.
"The greatest dog-man I ever knew," said he, "lived on the GuadalupeRiver. His name was Dave Hapfinger, and he had the loveliest vagabondtemperament of any man I ever saw. It mattered nothing what he wasdoing, all you had to do was to give old Dave a hint that you knew wherethere was fish to be caught, or a bee-course to hunt, and he would stopthe plow and go with you for a week if necessary. He loved hounds betterthan any man I ever knew. You couldn't confer greater favor than togive him a promising hound pup, or, seeking the same, ask for one ofhis raising. And he was such a good fellow. If any one was sick in theneighborhood, Uncle Dave always had time to kill them a squirrel everyday; and he could make a broth for a baby, or fry a young squirrel, in amanner that would make a sick man's mouth water.
"When I was a boy, I've laid around many a camp-fire this way andlistened to old Dave tell stories. He was quite a humorist in his way,and possessed a wonderful memory. He could tell you the day of themonth, thirty years before, when he went to mill one time and found apeculiar bird's nest on the way. Colonel Andrews, owner of several largeplantations, didn't like Dave, and threatened to prosecute him once forcutting a bee-tree on his land. If the evidence had been strong enough,I reckon the Colonel would. No doubt Uncle Dave was guilty, but meresuspicion isn't sufficient proof.
"Colonel Andrews was a haughty old fellow, blue-blooded and proud as apeacock, and about the only way Dave could get even with him was in hisown mild, humorous way. One day at dinner at a neighboring log-rolling,when all danger of prosecution for cutting the bee-tree had passed,Uncle Dave told of a recent dream of his, a pure invention. 'I dreamt,'said he, 'that Colonel Andrews died and went to heaven. There was anunusually big commotion at St. Peter's gate on his arrival. A troopof angels greeted him, still the Colonel seemed displeased at hisreception. But the welcoming hosts humored him forward, and on nearingthe throne, the Almighty, recognizing the distinguished arrival, vacatedthe throne and came down to greet the Colonel personally. At this markof appreciation, he relaxed a trifle, and when the Almighty insistedthat he should take the throne seat, Colonel Andrews actually smiled forthe first time on earth or in heaven.'
"Uncle Dave told this story so often that he actually believed ithimself. But finally a wag friend of Colonel Andrews told of a dreamwhich he had had about old Dave, which the latter hugely enjoyed.According to this second vagary, the old vagabond had also died and goneto heaven. There was some trouble at St. Peter's gate, as they refusedto admit dogs, and Uncle Dave always had a troop of hounds at hisheels. When he found that it was useless to argue the matter, he finallyyielded the point and left the pack outside. Once inside the gate hestopped, bewildered at the scene before him. But after waiting insidesome little time unnoticed, he turned and was on the point of asking thegate-keeper to let him out, when an angel approached and asked him tostay. There was some doubt in Dave's mind if he would like the place,but the messenger urged that he remain and at least look the city over.The old hunter goodnaturedly consented, and as they started up one ofthe golden streets Uncle Dave recognized an old friend who had oncegiven him a hound pup. Excusing himself to the angel, he rushed over tohis former earthly friend and greeted him with warmth and cordiality.The two old cronies talked and talked about the things below, andfinally Uncle Dave asked if there was any hunting up there. The replywas disappointing.
"Meanwhile the angel kept urging Uncle Dave forward to salute thethrone. But he loitered along, meeting former hunting acquaintances,and stopping with each for a social chat. When they finally neared thethrone, the patience of the angel was nearly exhausted; and as old Davelooked up and saw Colonel Andrews occupying the throne, he rebelled andrefused to salute, when the angel wrathfully led him back to the gateand kicked him out among his dogs."
Jack Splann told a yarn about the friendship of a pet lamb and dog whichhe owned when a boy. It was so unreasonable that he was interrupted onnearly every assertion. Long before he had finished, Sponsilier checkedhis narrative and informed him that if he insisted on doling out fictionhe must have some consideration for his listeners, and at least tell itwithin reason. Splann stopped right there and refused to concludehis story, though no one but myself seemed to regret it. I had a trueincident about a dog which I expected to tell, but the audience hadbecome too critical, and I kept quiet. As it was evident that no moredog stories would be told, the conversation was allowed to drift atwill. The recent shooting on the North Platte had been witnessed bynearly every one present, and was suggestive of other scenes.
"I have always contended," said Dorg Seay, "that the man who can controlhis temper always shoots the truest. You take one of these fellows thatcan smile and shoot at the same time--they are the boys that I want tostand in with. But speaking of losing the temper, did any of you eversee a woman real angry,--not merely cross, but the tigress in her ragingand thirsting to tear you limb from limb? I did only once, but I havenever forgotten the occasion. In supreme anger the only superior to thiswoman I ever witnessed was Captain Cartwright when he shot the slayer ofhis only son. He was as cool as a cucumber, as his only shot proved, butyears afterward when he told me of the incident, he lost all controlof himself, and fire flashed from his eyes like from the muzzle of asix-shooter. 'Dorg,' said he, unconsciously shaking me like a terrierdoes a rat, his blazing eyes not a foot from my face, '
Dorg, when I shotthat cowardly ---- -- -- ----, I didn't miss the centre of his foreheadthe width of my thumb nail.'
"But this woman defied a throng of men. Quite a few of the crowd hadassisted the night before in lynching her husband, and this meetingoccurred at the burying-ground the next afternoon. The woman's husbandwas a well-known horse-thief, a dissolute, dangerous character, and hadbeen warned to leave the community. He lived in a little village, andafter darkness the evening before, had crept up to a window and shota man sitting at the supper-table with his family. The murderer hadharbored a grudge against his victim, had made threats, and before hecould escape, was caught red-handed with the freshly fired pistol inhis hand. The evidence of guilt was beyond question, and a vigilancecommittee didn't waste any time in hanging him to the nearest tree.
"The burying took place the next afternoon. The murdered man was apopular citizen, and the village and country turned out to pay theirlast respects. But when the services were over, a number of us lingeredbehind, as it was understood that the slayer as well as his victim wouldbe interred in the same grounds. A second grave had been prepared, andwithin an hour a wagon containing a woman, three small children, andseveral Mexicans drove up to the rear side of the inclosure. There wasno mistaking the party, the coffin was carried in to the open grave,when every one present went over to offer friendly services. But as weneared the little group the woman picked up a shovel and charged onus like a tigress. I never saw such an expression of mingled anger andanguish in a human countenance as was pictured in that woman's face. Weshrank from her as if she had been a lioness, and when at last she foundher tongue, every word cut like a lash. Livid with rage, the spittlefrothing from her mouth, she drove us away, saying:
"'Oh, you fiends of hell, when did I ask your help? Like the curs youare, you would lick up the blood of your victim! Had you been friends tome or mine, why did you not raise your voice in protest when they werestrangling the life out of the father of my children? Away, you cowardlyhounds! I've hired a few Mexicans to help me, and I want none of yoursympathy in this hour. Was it your hand that cut him down from the treethis morning, and if it was not, why do I need you now? Is my shame notenough in your eyes but that you must taunt me further? Do my innocentchildren want to look upon the faces of those who robbed them of afather? If there is a spark of manhood left in one of you, show itby leaving me alone! And you other scum, never fear but that you willclutter hell in reward for last night's work. Begone, and leave me withmy dead!'"
The circus had ended. The lateness of the hour was unobserved by any oneuntil John Levering asked me if he should bring in my horse. It lackedless than half an hour until the guards should change, and it was hightime our outfit was riding for camp. The innate modesty of my wrangler,in calling attention to the time, was not forgotten, but instead ofpermitting him to turn servant, I asked him to help our cook look afterhis utensils. On my return to the wagon, Parent was trying to quiet anervous horse so as to allow him to carry the Dutch oven returning.But as Levering was in the act of handing up the heavy oven, one ofForrest's men, hoping to make the animal buck, attempted to place abriar stem under the horse's tail. Sponsilier detected the movement intime to stop it, and turning to the culprit, said: "None of that, mybully boy. I have no objection to killing a cheap cow-hand, but thesecooks have won me, hands down. If ever I run across a girl who can makeas good pies as we had for supper, she can win the affections of myyoung and trusting heart."
