by Andy Adams
CHAPTER XII
THE NORTH FORK
There was never very much love lost between government soldiers andour tribe, so we swept past Camp Supply in contempt a few days later,and crossed the North Fork of the Canadian to camp for the night.Flood and McCann went into the post, as our supply of flour and navybeans was running rather low, and our foreman had hopes that he mightbe able to get enough of these staples from the sutler to last untilwe reached Dodge. He also hoped to receive some word from Lovell.
The rest of us had no lack of occupation, as a result of a chance findof mine that morning. Honeyman had stood my guard the night before,and in return, I had got up when he was called to help rustle thehorses. We had every horse under hand before the sun peeped over theeastern horizon, and when returning to camp with the _remuda_, as Irode through a bunch of sumach bush, I found a wild turkey's nest withsixteen fresh eggs in it. Honeyman rode up, when I dismounted, andputting them in my hat, handed them up to Billy until I could mount,for they were beauties and as precious to us as gold. There was an eggfor each man in the outfit and one over, and McCann threw a heap ofswagger into the inquiry, "Gentlemen, how will you have your eggs thismorning?" just as though it was an everyday affair. They were issuedto us fried, and I naturally felt that the odd egg, by rights, oughtto fall to me, but the opposing majority was formidable,--fourteen toone,--so I yielded. A number of ways were suggested to allot the oddegg, but the gambling fever in us being rabid, raffling or playingcards for it seemed to be the proper caper. Raffling had fewadvocates.
"It reflects on any man's raising," said Quince Forrest,contemptuously, "to suggest the idea of raffling, when we've got cardsand all night to play for that egg. The very idea of raffling for it!I'd like to see myself pulling straws or drawing numbers from a hat,like some giggling girl at a church fair. Poker is a science; thehighest court in Texas has said so, and I want some little show for myinterest in that speckled egg. What have I spent twenty years learningthe game for, will some of you tell me? Why, it lets me out if youraffle it." The argument remained unanswered, and the play for it gaveinterest to that night.
As soon as supper was over and the first guard had taken the herd, thepoker game opened, each man being given ten beans for chips. We hadonly one deck of cards, so one game was all that could be run at atime, but there were six players, and when one was frozen out anothersat in and took his place. As wood was plentiful, we had a good fire,and this with the aid of the cook's lantern gave an abundance oflight. We unrolled a bed to serve as a table, sat down on it Indianfashion, and as fast as one seat was vacated there was a man ready tofill it, for we were impatient for our turns in the game. The talkturned on an accident which had happened that afternoon. While we werecrossing the North Fork of the Canadian, Bob Blades attempted to rideout of the river below the crossing, when his horse bogged down. Heinstantly dismounted, and his horse after floundering around scrambledout and up the bank, but with a broken leg. Our foreman had ridden upand ordered the horse unsaddled and shot, to put him out of hissuffering.
While waiting our turns, the accident to the horse was referred toseveral times, and finally Blades, who was sitting in the game, turnedto us who were lounging around the fire, and asked, "Did you allnotice that look he gave me as I was uncinching the saddle? If he hadbeen human, he might have told what that look meant. Good thing he wasa horse and couldn't realize."
From then on, the yarning and conversation was strictly _horse_.
"It was always a mystery to me," said Billy Honeyman, "how a Mexicanor Indian knows so much more about a horse than any of us. I have seenthem trail a horse across a country for miles, riding in a long lope,with not a trace or sign visible to me. I was helping a horseman onceto drive a herd of horses to San Antonio from the lower Rio Grandecountry. We were driving them to market, and as there were norailroads south then, we had to take along saddle horses to ride homeon after disposing of the herd. We always took favorite horses whichwe didn't wish to sell, generally two apiece for that purpose. Thistime, when we were at least a hundred miles from the ranch, a Mexican,who had brought along a pet horse to ride home, thought he wouldn'thobble this pet one night, fancying the animal wouldn't leave theothers. Well, next morning his pet was missing. We scoured the countryaround and the trail we had come over for ten miles, but no horse. Asthe country was all open, we felt positive he would go back to theranch.
"Two days later and about forty miles higher up the road, the Mexicanwas riding in the lead of the herd, when suddenly he reined in hishorse, throwing him back on his haunches, and waved for some of us tocome to him, never taking his eyes off what he saw in the road. Theowner was riding on one point of the herd and I on the other. Wehurried around to him and both rode up at the same time, when thevaquero blurted out, 'There's my horse's track.'
"'What horse?' asked the owner.
"'My own; the horse we lost two days ago,' replied the Mexican.
"'How do you know it's your horse's track from the thousands of othersthat fill the road?' demanded his employer.
"'Don Tomas,' said the Aztec, lifting his hat, 'how do I know yourstep or voice from a thousand others?'
"We laughed at him. He had been a peon, and that made him respect ouropinions--at least he avoided differing with us. But as we drove onthat afternoon, we could see him in the lead, watching for thathorse's track. Several times he turned in his saddle and looked back,pointed to some track in the road, and lifted his hat to us. At campthat night we tried to draw him out, but he was silent.
"But when we were nearing San Antonio, we overtook a number of wagonsloaded with wool, lying over, as it was Sunday, and there among theirhorses and mules was our Mexican's missing horse. The owner of thewagons explained how he came to have the horse. The animal had come tohis camp one morning, back about twenty miles from where we had losthim, while he was feeding grain to his work stock, and being a petinsisted on being fed. Since then, I have always had a lot of respectfor a Greaser's opinion regarding a horse."
"Turkey eggs is too rich for my blood," said Bob Blades, rising fromthe game. "I don't care a continental who wins the egg now, forwhenever I get three queens pat beat by a four card draw, I havemisgivings about the deal. And old Quince thinks he can stack cards.He couldn't stack hay."
"Speaking about Mexicans and Indians," said Wyatt Roundtree, "I've gotmore use for a good horse than I have for either of those grades ofhumanity. I had a little experience over east here, on the cut offfrom the Chisholm trail, a few years ago, that gave me all the Injun Iwant for some time to come. A band of renegade Cheyennes had hungalong the trail for several years, scaring or begging passing herdsinto giving them a beef. Of course all the cattle herds had more orless strays among them, so it was easier to cut out one of these thanto argue the matter. There was plenty of herds on the trail then, sothis band of Indians got bolder than bandits. In the year I'm speakingof, I went up with a herd of horses belonging to a Texas man, who wasin charge with us. When we came along with our horses--only six menall told--the chief of the band, called Running Bull Sheep, got on thebluff bigger than a wolf and demanded six horses. Well, that Texanwasn't looking for any particular Injun that day to give six of hisown dear horses to. So we just drove on, paying no attention to Mr.Bull Sheep. About half a mile farther up the trail, the chief overtookus with all his bucks, and they were an ugly looking lot. Well, thistime he held up four fingers, meaning that four horses would beacceptable. But the Texan wasn't recognizing the Indian levy oftaxation that year. When he refused them, the Indians never parleyed amoment, but set up a 'ki yi' and began circling round the herd ontheir ponies, Bull Sheep in the lead.
"As the chief passed the owner, his horse on a run, he gave a specialshrill 'ki yi,' whipped a short carbine out of its scabbard, and shottwice into the rear of the herd. Never for a moment consideringconsequences, the Texan brought his six-shooter into action. It was along, purty shot, and Mr. Bull Sheep threw his hands in the air andcame off his horse backward, hard hit. This shoo
ting in the rear ofthe horses gave them such a scare that we never checked them short ofa mile. While the other Indians were holding a little powwow overtheir chief, we were making good time in the other direction,considering that we had over eight hundred loose horses. Fortunatelyour wagon and saddle horses had gone ahead that morning, but in therun we overtook them. As soon as we checked the herd from its scare,we turned them up the trail, stretched ropes from the wheels of thewagon, ran the saddle horses in, and changed mounts just a littlequicker than I ever saw it done before or since. The cook had a saddlein the wagon, so we caught him up a horse, clapped leather on him, andtied him behind the wagon in case of an emergency. And you can justbet we changed to our best horses. When we overtook the herd, we wereat least a mile and a half from where the shooting occurred, and therewas no Indian in sight, but we felt that they hadn't given it up. Wehadn't long to wait, though we would have waited willingly, before weheard their yells and saw the dust rising in clouds behind us. We quitthe herd and wagon right there and rode for a swell of ground aheadthat would give us a rear view of the scenery. The first view wecaught of them was not very encouraging. They were riding after uslike fiends and kicking up a dust like a wind storm. We had nothingbut six-shooters, no good for long range. The owner of the horsesadmitted that it was useless to try to save the herd now, and if ourscalps were worth saving it was high time to make ourselves scarce.
"Cantonment was a government post about twenty-five miles away, so werode for it. Our horses were good Spanish stock, and the Indians'little bench-legged ponies were no match for them. But not satisfiedwith the wagon and herd falling into their hands, they followed usuntil we were within sight of the post. As hard luck would have it,the cavalry stationed at this post were off on some escort duty, andthe infantry were useless in this case. When the cavalry returned afew days later, they tried to round up those Indians, and the Indianagent used his influence, but the horses were so divided up andscattered that they were never recovered."
"And did the man lose his horses entirely?" asked Flood, who hadanteed up his last bean and joined us.
"He did. There was, I remember, a tin horn lawyer up about Dodge whothought he could recover their value, as these were agency Indians andthe government owed them money. But all I got for three months' wagesdue me was the horse I got away on."
McCann had been frozen out during Roundtree's yarn, and had joined thecrowd of story-tellers on the other side of the fire. Forrest wasfeeling quite gala, and took a special delight in taunting thevanquished as they dropped out.
"Is McCann there?" inquired he, well knowing he was. "I just wanted toask, would it be any trouble to poach that egg for my breakfast andserve it with a bit of toast; I'm feeling a little bit dainty. You'llpoach it for me, won't you, please?"
McCann never moved a muscle as he replied, "Will you please go tohell?"
The story-telling continued for some time, and while Fox Quarternightwas regaling us with the history of a little black mare that aneighbor of theirs in Kentucky owned, a dispute arose in the card gameregarding the rules of discard and draw.
"I'm too old a girl," said The Rebel, angrily, to Forrest, "to allow apullet like you to teach me this game. When it's my deal, I'll discardjust when I please, and it's none of your business so long as I keepwithin the rules of the game;" which sounded final, and the gamecontinued.
Quarternight picked up the broken thread of his narrative, and thefirst warning we had of the lateness of the hour was Bull Durhamcalling to us from the game, "One of you fellows can have my place,just as soon as we play this jack pot. I've got to saddle my horse andget ready for our guard. Oh, I'm on velvet, anyhow, and before thisgame ends, I'll make old Quince curl his tail; I've got him goingsouth now."
It took me only a few minutes to lose my chance at the turkey egg, andI sought my blankets. At one A.M., when our guard was called, thebeans were almost equally divided among Priest, Stallings, and Durham;and in view of the fact that Forrest, whom we all wanted to seebeaten, had met defeat, they agreed to cut the cards for the egg,Stallings winning. We mounted our horses and rode out into the night,and the second guard rode back to our camp-fire, singing:--
"Two little niggers upstairs in bed, One turned ober to de oder an' said, 'How 'bout dat short'nin' bread, How 'bout dat short'nin' bread?'"
