by Texas
When she started to protest this invasion, he said quietly: 'Emma, if the fort is ever to be a town, we must have people '
In this unstudied way Frank Yeager, his illiterate Alabama wife and their scrawny son Paul, aged three, moved into the house north of the commander's, and from the moment of their arrival Emma knew the Rusks were going to have trouble, for Yeager was a profane man and his wife a committed Baptist who felt it her duty to bring everyone she met under the moral protection of her church. One evening, after she argued loudly that Quakers were headed for hell because of their unorthodox beliefs, Farnshaw asked his wife: 'She's dead set on converting me, showing me the true way, yet she can't even discipline her own husband 7 '
Frank Yeager was a violent, difficult man, given to drunkenness and poker, when he could find partners. When his new landlord said austerely: 'I don't gamble,' Yeager said: 'You stay around me long enough, you'll learn.'
The Yeagers had been in residence only a short tune when Frank captured Emma's full support: 'A woman as gone pregnant as you ought to stop foolin' around with them wild mustangs Let s round up all the stray longlierns for fifty miles. Build us a real herd and drive it north to them new railheads in Kansas Let's earn real money.' Emma, who loved all animals and especiallv the wild cattle of the plains, replied with real excitement: 'We'll get the first batch this afternoon.' Two days later Farnshaw rode m to Jacksborough to invite the former soldier and his laundress wife to move into another of the houses at the fort, and the newcomers eagerly helped Yeager at the roundups, the woman riding as well as the men, and the Rusk herd grew
The presence of an extra woman was helpful when Emma had her baby, a chubby boy with a voracious appetite, because Farnshaw was useless both at the birth and during the first difficult days. In fact, he was so much in the way that the former laundress
snapped: 'Mr. Rusk, this would be a good time for you to ride in to Jacksborough and register your son with the authorities.'
During this trip Earnshaw learned of two Buffalo Soldiers from the 10th Cavalry who were approaching forced retirement, and when he found that one of them was the well-regarded John Jaxifer, he returned to Jacksborough and offered the two men a free house; so as Emma's herd of cattle increased, so did the population of Earnshaw's village.
Fort Garner now consisted of Emma Rusk and her longhorns, Earnshaw and his vision of a community, their son, Floyd, who grew daily, the Yeagers, who could do almost anything, the white soldier and his rough-and-ready wife, the two Negro cavalrymen, and lots of guns. Rusk hated guns; Emma respected their utility on a frontier. The other six were all practiced in arms; make that seven, because the Yeagers were already teaching their three-year-old how to handle a toy revolver. When Earnshaw protested, Yeager said: 'A Texan who can't handle a gun ain't fit to be a Texan.'
When Emma's longhorns were first rounded up at Fort Garner, Earnshaw was contemptuous of them, but when he awakened to the fact that they might provide the economic base not only for his family but also for the community he hoped to establish, he became more attentive. And when he seriously studied those lean Texas beasts with their excessive horns, his Quaker instincts began to operate and he longed to improve them. Very early he conceded that whereas they were admirably adapted to life on the open range, they were never going to produce much salable meat until they were crossed with the heavier, fatter cattle imported from England. When he proposed to Yeager that they purchase either the Angus or Hereford bulls which agricultural experts were recommending, the lanky herdsman, himself a human longhorn, with all muscle and no fat, protested.
The longhorn is Texas,' he grumbled. 'Change him, you kill his spirit.'
'Those horns. They're horrible.' When Earnshaw said this he was looking at one of the bulls with horns so wide they were ridiculous, more than six feet tip to tip. 'Look at him. All horns and legs. No meat.'
By ill fortune he was denigrating the longhorn in which Frank Yeager took greatest pride: 'You're speakin' of the best bull we got.'
'Why do you say that?'
'This is Mean Moses. He leads the others to the promised land.' And he explained how this big, ugly creature had nominated
himself to be king of this part of the Texas frontier: 'in spring he breeds the cows so they can produce calves big and tough like him. Those horns? He needs 'em to fend off the wolves. Those long legs? He needs 'em to cover the trail north to market without tirin'. Mr. Rusk
'We Quakers don't like titles. I'm Earnshaw.'
'Mr. Rusk, a longhorn bull is one of God's perfect engineerin' feats. You replace him with one of them fancy English breeds . . .' He spat. 'Mr. Rusk, long ago this frontier was occupied by three powerful things. The Comanche. The buffalo. The longhorn. Only the cattle is left. You replace 'em with fat and blubber, what in hell is Texas goin' to be?'
Earnshaw's desire to build a profitable ranching business received a bad jolt when he tried to sell off a few longhorns: 'I can't find buyers, not even at four dollars a head. That's less than it costs us to tend them.' But Yeager had a solution: if we can deliver them to the railhead at Dodge City, I know they'll bring forty dollars a head. Eastern markets are so hungry for beef, they'll take even longhorns.'
'How will we get them there?'
'Me and the boys will drove them.'
To this suggestion Rusk responded instantly: 'We'll not have our people making that trek to Kansas,' and when Yeager protested that it could be done easily, Rusk said firmly: 'I've heard about the Chisholm Trail into Abilene, Kansas, and the debauchery that goes with it. No hands from here will ever drove into Kansas.'
He was so adamant about this that Yeager surrendered: 'Tell you the truth, Mr. Rusk, it would be better to keep the hands here on the ranch, tendin' to things. We'll find us a reliable cattleman headin' north.'
Upon investigation, Rusk learned that the new cattle trail, called the Great Western, started down near the Rio Grande, swung northwest past San Antonio and Fredericksburg, then across empty land to Fort Griffin, passing not far to the west of Fort Garner. From there it lay due north to the Indian settlement at Camp Hope, then to remote Fort Supply in Indian Territory, followed by a relatively short stint into Dodge City, to which the Eastern railroads had recently penetrated. 'What goes on there,' he told his wife, 'I do not choose to know or dwell upon.'
It was Emma who first heard about R. J. Poteet, from a Mexican trail cook: 'The best. First day he told us: "No gambling in my crew. No fighting." And he meant it.'
The more she heard about R. ]. Poteet the more she liked him, and when in June the Mexican rode up to her door with the news:
'Mr. Poteet, he's watering at our tank tomorrow,' she saddled up and rode to the northern end of her land to meet him.
She found him in charge of more than two thousand head of longhorns accumulated from various owners during the long trail north. He had with him nine cowboys and a Mexican cook, plus a thirteen-year-old boy to herd the spare horses in the remuda. It was an orderly camp, supervised by an orderly man just turned fifty, tall, thin as a cypress and as dark, with a close-cropped mustache and a wide-brimmed hat. His boots were so pointed at the toe and so elevated at the heel that he walked much like a woman, but he was so rarely away from his horse that this was seldom noticeable. He had a deep, resonant voice, a strong Southern accent, and an elaborate courtesy where women or young boys were concerned. From the manner in which his men went about their duties it was clear that he needed to give few orders, for he respected the men's abilities, including those of two black crew members. He allowed no alcohol in camp except what he himself carried, and that he used only as medicine for others in times of crisis.
'R. }. Poteet, ma'am,' he said when Emma rode up. 'I've heard of your exploits with the Comanche, and I'm deeply respectful of your courage.'
'My husband and I have some two hundred good animals. Well fed.'
'These grasslands should see to that.'
'And the care we give them.'
'Longhorns
tend to care for themselves. Look at the condition of mine. Five hundred miles on the trail, some of them.'
'I've been told you give your animals extra care.'
'I try to, ma'am.' He spoke with an appealing directness, which encouraged her to trust him.
'Would you be able . . .' She hesitated. 'I mean, would you be interested? Looks like you're able to do pretty much as you wish.'
'I've been trail-drivin' north for some years, ma'am. And I judge you want me to carry your cattle to Dodge City?'
'Would you?'
'That's my job,' and before she was out of her saddle she was listening to his clearly defined terms: 'This is the tail end of the journey, ma'am, but the crucial part. I've got to get your cattle across the Red River, through the Indian lands, across the Canadian River and the Cimarron, and into Dodge. Find a buyer for them, make the proper deal, and bring you back your money. That's worth a fee, ma'am.'
'I'm sure it is.'
'You seem reluctant to state your fee, Mr. Poteet.'
i am, ma'am, because some owners, especially the ladies, always think it's too high. But there is much work to do, much responsibility.'
it's because you're known for reliability that I came.'
'Ma'am, I'd be obliged if you'd get these figures in your head. You owe me one dollar for every animal. I owe you five dollars for every one of your cattle I lose on the way, so I don't intend to lose any. If you want to ride with me to Dodge City to sell your beasts, do so, and I get nothing but my dollar a head. If I act as your agent, and I'm willing, you must rely upon me completely I'll do my best for you . . .'
'They say so, Mr. Poteet.'
'Reputations aren't earned on one drive.' He coughed, then completed his terms: if I arrange for the selling, and sometimes it takes three minutes, sometimes three weeks, I get five percent. Some will do it for less, but frankly, I don't recommend them.'
At the noon hour they joined the cowboys at the chuck wagon, that amazing monument to American ingenuity, that contraption on four wheels from which hung all kinds of utilitarian devices: can openers, bone saws, frying pans, crocks with wire handles for sugar, pie plates with holes in their edges so they could be strung on a nail, clotheslines, folding tables, an awning to protect the Mexican cook from the sun, a bin for charcoal, and two dozen other imaginative additions, including drawers of every dimension.
i took my first chuck wagon from Jacksborough across the Llano in 18 and 68,' Poteet said. Through Horsehead Crossing, all the way to Colorado.'
'The Estacado!' Emma said with awe. 'Even the Comanche stayed clear of that. What did you do for water?'
'We suffered. Next year, all the way to Montana. The chuck wagons in those days were simpler affairs. Everything you see on this wagon is in answer to some strong need. It's an invention of sheer intellectual brilliance, you could say.'
'Will your men run into trouble on the way to Dodge?'
'Now there's a misconception, ma'am. We do our very best to stay out of trouble. If Indians are runnin' wild, we head the other way. If a storm threatens, we try to lay low till it passes. Each of my men is armed, save the boy, but in the last five trips, not a shot fired in anger.'
'Why do you keep trailing, Mr. Poteet?'
Before he could respond, one of his cowboys interrupted: 'You
907
know, ma'am, that some time ago Mr. Poteet started a college in South Texas?'
i can believe it.'
'He makes so much and he pays us so little he had to do somethin' with his money.' The cowboy grinned.
Poteet made a pistol with his right forefinger and shot the cowboy dead, then turned suddenly to Emma: 'Ma'am, it's bold of me, and maybe it's wrong of me, but these are young men tryin' to learn about Texas. Would you have the courage to show them?' And the forthrightness with which he spoke—indeed, the dignity with which he conducted all his affairs—gave Emma the courage.
Raising her two hands to the sides of her face, she pushed back her hair to reveal the dreadfully scarred ears, and she could hear the cowboys gasp. Then, with her hands still in place, she unloosed the two white strands which controlled her wooden nose, and when it dropped, one of the men cried: 'Oh Jesus!'
'Texas wasn't won easy,' Poteet said.
'I'll have the longhorns gathered and counted this afternoon,' she said, but Poteet interrupted: 'We do the countin' together, ma'am.'
Earnshaw Rusk had always vowed to resist politics, for he had witnessed its lack of principle and its ruthlessness where personal interest was involved. Looking at what politics had done to him in the Indian Territory and to a fine man like General Grierson in Texas, he had concluded: Only a blind man or one whose moral sensibilities were numbed would dabble in it. But when he studied the situation dispassionately, he realized that the goal he sought to attain—the civilization of the West—could be achieved only if Texas had strong representatives in Washington, and as he interrogated various interested persons about whom the Texas legislature might send to the national Senate, the name of Somerset Cobb, the respected gentleman from Jefferson, kept surfacing. And when Cobb felt obligated to run for the U. S. Senate in order to represent the decent parts of the culture of the Old South, Rusk felt obligated to support him, actively.
If any proof was needed to show that this lanky Quaker was a man of principle, this action provided it, because on the surface Cobb represented everything Rusk opposed. Cobb had owned large numbers of slaves in both South Carolina and Texas; Rusk had risked his life to oppose slavery in North Carolina and Virginia. Cobb was a Democrat; Rusk, like most Philadelphia Quakers, was a Republican. Cobb had served in the Confederate army, rising to high rank; Rusk was a pacifist.
What was worse, Cobb had vigorously opposed Northern interference in Texas affairs, calling Reconstruction 'that bastard child of a vengeful legislature.' It was, he had preached, 'infamous in conception, cruel in execution, and in its final days a thing of scorn', Rusk had believed that the South, especially Texas, required stern discipline before it could be allowed free exercise of its powers within the Union.
Finally, Rusk knew that Cobb was a Southerner who refused to apologize for his service to the Confederacy, and had committed treason against the United States. Yet here he was, brazenly offering himself to the Texas legislature as a candidate for the U. S. Senate. Rusk had every reason to reject this man, or even work against him, but when it seemed that Cobb's opponent, also a military hero, might win the seat, Earnshaw knew that he must support the one-armed Cobb, so he left his ranch and harangued any members of the legislature he could encounter in the northern areas around Dallas.
Why did he do this quixotic thing? Why did this retiring and painfully bashful man plunge into the center of a political brawl? Because of what his wife had told him about Cobb's opponent, General Yancey Quimper: 'I was helping Mrs. Reed in the big house when General Quimper arrived to inspect what he called his fort. I was in the kitchen, of course . . .' She vaguely indicated her wooden nose. 'But I heard the three women talking.'
'What three?'
'Mrs. Reed. Mrs. Wetzel. Mrs. Quimper.'
'What did they say?'
'That General Quimper had not been a hero at San Jacinto, that he'd been a coward mainly. That he had never dueled Sam Houston or shot wide to spare Houston's life. That he had never been at Monterrey or been anywhere near the Bishop's Palace. That he had not defended the Texas lunette at Vicksburg. And that he was not entitled to the rank of general, because he simply gave himself that title.'
When Earnshaw heard this litany of deceit, he reacted as a Philadelphia Quaker and not as a Texan inured to such colorful imposture; he deemed it his duty to expose the lifelong fraud practiced by Quimper, and to this end he began pestering the Democratic leaders in Dallas. At first they laughed at him: 'You disqualify liars and frauds, you wouldn't have ten men in the United States Senate, nor six in the Texas.'
But he persisted in his crusade, and by chance he encountered one Texas state sena
tor who was eager to listen. He was Ernst Allerkamp, who represented the German districts around Freder-
icksburg, and when Rusk approached him regarding General Quimper, he listened: 'Are you sure what you say is true?'
'I've made the most careful inquiries.'
'Didn't you hear about the Nueces River affair?' When Rusk said no, the German sat him down on a tavern bench—Earnshaw had lemonade—and recounted the wretched affair in which General Quimper and his roving force had slain the escaping Germans: 'My father, my brother Emil, so many more. Singing in the night as they left for Mexico. Then they were murdered.'
Rusk was horrified by the brutality this onslaught represented, but he was numbed by what Senator Allerkamp revealed about the infamous hangings at the Red River: 'With no evidence or little, with no justification except supposed patriotism run wild . . .'He told of the first hangings, the revulsion, the next surge, the final excesses, and when he was through, Rusk said: 'We must drive this man out of public life.'
Since Rusk had never met Quimper, Allerkamp warned him: 'When you do, you'll like him. Most of the men in the legislature want to send him to the Senate. They say: "He's a real Texan."
Enraged, Rusk accompanied Allerkamp to Austin, where he continued his politicking among the other state legislators who alone had the right to elect men to serve in the national Senate. He revived so much old rumor detrimental to Quimper that a meeting was arranged with Rusk, Allerkamp, nine of their supporters and General Quimper himself. He appeared in a fine suit, white hair flowing, expensive boots and a big, warm smile that embraced even his enemies. 'Goodness,' Earnshaw whispered to Allerkamp when he first saw the general, 'he looks like a senator!'
