by Andy Adams
CHAPTER XXII
OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE
By early dawn the next morning we were astir at our last camp on SweetGrass, and before the horses were brought in, we had put on the wagonbox and reloaded our effects. The rainy season having ended in themountain regions, the stage of water in the Yellowstone would presentno difficulties in fording, and our foreman was anxious to make a longdrive that day so as to make up for our enforced lay-over. We hadbreakfasted by the time the horses were corralled, and when weovertook the grazing herd, the cattle were within a mile of the river.Flood had looked over the ford the day before, and took one point ofthe herd as we went down into the crossing. The water was quite chillyto the cattle, though the horses in the lead paid little attention toit, the water in no place being over three feet deep. A number ofspectators had come up from Frenchman's to watch the herd ford, thecrossing being about half a mile above the village. No one made anyinquiry for Priest, though ample opportunity was given them to seethat the gray-haired man was missing. After the herd had crossed, anumber of us lent a rope in assisting the wagon over, and when wereached the farther bank, we waved our hats to the group on the southside in farewell to them and to Frenchman's Ford.
The trail on leaving the river led up Many Berries, one of thetributaries of the Yellowstone putting in from the north side; and weparalleled it mile after mile. It was with difficulty that riderscould be kept on the right hand side of the herd, for along it grewendless quantities of a species of upland huckleberry, and, breakingoff branches, we feasted as we rode along. The grade up this creek wasquite pronounced, for before night the channel of the creek hadnarrowed to several yards in width. On the second day out the wildfruit disappeared early in the morning, and after a continued gradualclimb, we made camp that night on the summit of the divide withinplain sight of the Musselshell River. From this divide there was asplendid view of the surrounding country as far as eye could see. Toour right, as we neared the summit, we could see in that rarefiedatmosphere the buttes, like sentinels on duty, as they dotted theimmense tableland between the Yellowstone and the mother Missouri,while on our left lay a thousand hills, untenanted save by the deer,elk, and a remnant of buffalo. Another half day's drive brought us tothe shoals on the Musselshell, about twelve miles above the entranceof Flatwillow Creek. It was one of the easiest crossings we hadencountered in many a day, considering the size of the river and theflow of water. Long before the advent of the white man, these shoalshad been in use for generations by the immense herds of buffalo andelk migrating back and forth between their summer ranges and winterpasturage, as the converging game trails on either side indicated. Itwas also an old Indian ford. After crossing and resuming our afternoondrive, the cattle trail ran within a mile of the river, and had it notbeen for the herd of northern wintered cattle, and possibly others,which had passed along a month or more in advance of us, it would havebeen hard to determine which were cattle and which were game trails,the country being literally cut up with these pathways.
When within a few miles of the Flatwillow, the trail bore off to thenorthwest, and we camped that night some distance below the junctionof the former creek with the Big Box Elder. Before our watch had beenon guard twenty minutes that night, we heard some one whistling in thedistance; and as whoever it was refused to come any nearer the herd, athought struck me, and I rode out into the darkness and hailed him.
"Is that you, Tom?" came the question to my challenge, and the nextminute I was wringing the hand of my old bunkie, The Rebel. I assuredhim that the coast was clear, and that no inquiry had been even madefor him the following morning, when crossing the Yellowstone, by anyof the inhabitants of Frenchman's Ford. He returned with me to the bedground, and meeting Honeyman as he circled around, was almost unhorsedby the latter's warmth of reception, and Officer's delight on meetingmy bunkie was none the less demonstrative. For nearly half an hour herode around with one or the other of us, and as we knew he had hadlittle if any sleep for the last three nights, all of us begged him togo on into camp and go to sleep. But the old rascal loafed around withus on guard, seemingly delighted with our company and reluctant toleave. Finally Honeyman and I prevailed on him to go to the wagon, butbefore leaving us he said, "Why, I've been in sight of the herd forthe last day and night, but I'm getting a little tired of lying outwith the dry cattle these cool nights, and living on huckleberries andgrouse, so I thought I'd just ride in and get a fresh horse and asquare meal once more. But if Flood says stay, you'll see me at my oldplace on the point to-morrow."
Had the owner of the herd suddenly appeared in camp, he could not havereceived such an ovation as was extended Priest the next morning whenhis presence became known. From the cook to the foreman, they gatheredaround our bed, where The Rebel sat up in the blankets and held aninformal reception; and two hours afterward he was riding on the rightpoint of the herd as if nothing had happened. We had a fair trail upBig Box Elder, and for the following few days, or until the source ofthat creek was reached, met nothing to check our course. Our foremanhad been riding in advance of the herd, and after returning to us atnoon one day, reported that the trail turned a due northward coursetowards the Missouri, and all herds had seemingly taken it. As we hadto touch at Fort Benton, which was almost due westward, he hadconcluded to quit the trail and try to intercept the military roadrunning from Fort Maginnis to Benton. Maginnis lay to the south of us,and our foreman hoped to strike the military road at an angle on asnear a westward course as possible.
Accordingly after dinner he set out to look out the country, and tookme with him. We bore off toward the Missouri, and within half anhour's ride after leaving the trail we saw some loose horses aboutthree miles distant, down in a little valley through which flowed acreek towards the Musselshell. We reined in and watched the horsesseveral minutes, when we both agreed from their movements that theywere hobbled. We scouted out some five or six miles, finding thecountry somewhat rough, but passable for a herd and wagon. Flood wasanxious to investigate those hobbled horses, for it bespoke the campof some one in the immediate vicinity. On our return, the horses werestill in view, and with no little difficulty, we descended from themesa into the valley and reached them. To our agreeable surprise, oneof them was wearing a bell, while nearly half of them were hobbled,there being twelve head, the greater portion of which looked like packhorses. Supposing the camp, if there was one, must be up in the hills,we followed a bridle path up stream in search of it, and soon cameupon four men, placer mining on the banks of the creek.
When we made our errand known, one of these placer miners, an elderlyman who seemed familiar with the country, expressed some doubts aboutour leaving the trail, though he said there was a bridle path withwhich he was acquainted across to the military road. Flood at onceoffered to pay him well if he would pilot us across to the road, ornear enough so that we could find our way. The old placermanhesitated, and after consulting among his partners, asked how we werefixed for provision, explaining that they wished to remain a month orso longer, and that game had been scared away from the immediatevicinity, until it had become hard to secure meat. But he found Floodready in that quarter, for he immediately offered to kill a beef andload down any two pack horses they had, if he would consent to pilotus over to within striking distance of the Fort Benton road. The offerwas immediately accepted, and I was dispatched to drive in theirhorses. Two of the placer miners accompanied us back to the trail,both riding good saddle horses and leading two others under packsaddles. We overtook the herd within a mile of the point where thetrail was to be abandoned, and after sending the wagon ahead, ourforeman asked our guests to pick out any cow or steer in the herd.When they declined, he cut out a fat stray cow which had come into theherd down on the North Platte, had her driven in after the wagon,killed and quartered. When we had laid the quarters on convenientrocks to cool and harden during the night, our future pilot timidlyinquired what we proposed to do with the hide, and on being informedthat he was welcome to it, seemed delighted, remarking, as I helped
him to stake it out where it would dry, that "rawhide was mighty handyrepairing pack saddles."
Our visitors interested us, for it is probable that not a man in ouroutfit had ever seen a miner before, though we had read of the lifeand were deeply interested in everything they did or said. They werevery plain men and of simple manners, but we had great difficulty ingetting them to talk. After supper, while idling away a couple ofhours around our camp-fire, the outfit told stories, in the hope thatour guests would become reminiscent and give us some insight intotheir experiences, Bob Blades leading off.
"I was in a cow town once up on the head of the Chisholm trail at atime when a church fair was being pulled off. There were lots of oldlong-horn cowmen living in the town, who owned cattle in that CherokeeStrip that Officer is always talking about. Well, there's lots offolks up there that think a nigger is as good as anybody else, andwhen you find such people set in their ways, it's best not to arguematters with them, but lay low and let on you think that way too.That's the way those old Texas cowmen acted about it.
"Well, at this church fair there was to be voted a prize of a nicebaby wagon, which had been donated by some merchant, to the prettiestbaby under a year old. Colonel Bob Zellers was in town at the time,stopping at a hotel where the darky cook was a man who had once workedfor him on the trail. 'Frog,' the darky, had married when he quit thecolonel's service, and at the time of this fair there was a pickaninnyin his family about a year old, and nearly the color of a new saddle.A few of these old cowmen got funny and thought it would be a goodjoke to have Frog enter his baby at the fair, and Colonel Bob beingthe leader in the movement, he had no trouble convincing the darkythat that baby wagon was his, if he would only enter his youngster.Frog thought the world of the old Colonel, and the latter assured himthat he would vote for his baby while he had a dollar or a cow left.The result was, Frog gave his enthusiastic consent, and the Colonelagreed to enter the pickaninny in the contest.
"Well, the Colonel attended to the entering of the baby's name, andthen on the dead quiet went around and rustled up every cowman andpuncher in town, and had them promise to be on hand, to vote for theprettiest baby at ten cents a throw. The fair was being held in thelargest hall in town, and at the appointed hour we were all on hand,as well as Frog and his wife and baby. There were about a dozenentries, and only one blackbird in the covey. The list of contestantswas read by the minister, and as each name was announced, there was avigorous clapping of hands all over the house by the friends of eachbaby. But when the name of Miss Precilla June Jones was announced, theTexas contingent made their presence known by such a deafeningoutburst of applause that old Frog grinned from ear to ear--he sawhimself right then pushing that baby wagon.
"Well, on the first heat we voted sparingly, and as the vote was readout about every quarter hour, Precilla June Jones on the first turnwas fourth in the race. On the second report, our favorite had movedup to third place, after which the weaker ones were deserted, and allthe voting blood was centered on the two white leaders, with ourblackbird a close third. We were behaving ourselves nicely, and ourmoney was welcome if we weren't. When the third vote was announced,Frog's pickaninny was second in the race, with her nose lapped on theflank of the leader. Then those who thought a darky was as good as anyone else got on the prod in a mild form, and you could hear themvoicing their opinions all over the hall. We heard it all, but sat asnice as pie and never said a word.
"When the final vote was called for, we knew it was the home stretch,and every rascal of us got his weasel skin out and sweetened thevoting on Miss Precilla June Jones. Some of those old long-hornsdidn't think any more of a twenty-dollar gold piece than I do of awhite chip, especially when there was a chance to give those goodpeople a dose of their own medicine. I don't know how many votes wecast on the last whirl, but we swamped all opposition, and ourfavorite cantered under the wire an easy winner. Then you should haveheard the kicking, but we kept still and inwardly chuckled. Theminister announced the winner, and some of those good people didn'thave any better manners than to hiss and cut up ugly. We stayed untilFrog got the new baby wagon in his clutches, when we dropped outcasually and met at the Ranch saloon, where Colonel Zellers had takenpossession behind the bar and was dispensing hospitality in propercelebration of his victory."
Much to our disappointment, our guests remained silent and showed nodisposition to talk, except to answer civil questions which Floodasked regarding the trail crossing on the Missouri, and what thatriver was like in the vicinity of old Fort Benton. When the questionshad been answered, they again relapsed into silence. The fire wasreplenished, and after the conversation had touched on severalsubjects, Joe Stallings took his turn with a yarn.
"When my folks first came to Texas," said Joe, "they settled in EllisCounty, near Waxahachie. My father was one of the pioneers in thatcounty at a time when his nearest neighbor lived ten miles from hisfront gate. But after the war, when the country had settled up, theseold pioneers naturally hung together and visited and chummed with oneanother in preference to the new settlers. One spring when I was aboutfifteen years old, one of those old pioneer neighbors of ours died,and my father decided that he would go to the funeral or burst a hamestring. If any of you know anything about that black-waxy, hog-wallowland in Ellis County, you know that when it gets muddy in the spring awagon wheel will fill solid with waxy mud. So at the time of thisfuneral it was impossible to go on the road with any kind of avehicle, and my father had to go on horseback. He was an old man atthe time and didn't like the idea, but it was either go on horsebackor stay at home, and go he would.
"They raise good horses in Ellis County, and my father had raised someof the best of them--brought the stock from Tennessee. He liked goodblood in a horse, and was always opposed to racing, but he raised someboys who weren't. I had a number of brothers older than myself, andthey took a special pride in trying every colt we raised, to see whathe amounted to in speed. Of course this had to be done away from home;but that was easy, for these older brothers thought nothing of ridingtwenty miles to a tournament, barbecue, or round-up, and when awayfrom home they always tried their horses with the best in the country.At the time of this funeral, we had a crackerjack five year oldchestnut sorrel gelding that could show his heels to any horse in thecountry. He was a peach,--you could turn him on a saddle blanket andjump him fifteen feet, and that cow never lived that he couldn't cut.
"So the day of the funeral my father was in a quandary as to whichhorse to ride, but when he appealed to his boys, they recommended thebest on the ranch, which was the chestnut gelding. My old man had somedoubts as to his ability to ride the horse, for he hadn't been on ahorse's back for years; but my brothers assured him that the chestnutwas as obedient as a kitten, and that before he had been on the roadan hour the mud would take all the frisk and frolic out of him. Therewas nearly fifteen miles to go, and they assured him that he wouldnever get there if he rode any other horse. Well, at last he consentedto ride the gelding, and the horse was made ready, properly groomed,his tail tied up, and saddled and led up to the block. It took everymember of the family to get my father rigged to start, but at last heannounced himself as ready. Two of my brothers held the horse until hefound the off stirrup, and then they turned him loose. The chestnutdanced off a few rods, and settled down into a steady clip that wasgood for five or six miles an hour.
"My father reached the house in good time for the funeral services,but when the procession started for the burial ground, the horse wassomewhat restless and impatient from the cold. There was quite astring of wagons and other vehicles from the immediate neighborhoodwhich had braved the mud, and the line was nearly half a mile inlength between the house and the graveyard. There were also possibly ahundred men on horseback bringing up the rear of the procession; andthe chestnut, not understanding the solemnity of the occasion, wasright on his mettle. Surrounded as he was by other horses, he kept hisweather eye open for a race, for in coming home from dances andpicnics with my brothers, he had often been t
ried in short dashes ofhalf a mile or so. In order to get him out of the crowd of horses, myfather dropped back with another pioneer to the extreme rear of thefuneral line.
"When the procession was nearing the cemetery, a number of horsemen,who were late, galloped up in the rear. The chestnut, supposing a racewas on, took the bit in his teeth and tore down past the procession asthough it was a free-for-all Texas sweepstakes, the old man's whitebeard whipping the breeze in his endeavor to hold in the horse. Nordid he check him until the head of the procession had been passed.When my father returned home that night, there was a family round-up,for he was smoking under the collar. Of course, my brothers deniedhaving ever run the horse, and my mother took their part; but the oldgent knew a thing or two about horses, and shortly afterwards he goteven with his boys by selling the chestnut, which broke their heartsproperly."
The elder of the two placer miners, a long-whiskered, pock-marked man,arose, and after walking out from the fire some distance returned andcalled our attention to signs in the sky, which he assured us were asure indication of a change in the weather. But we were more anxiousthat he should talk about something else, for we were in the habit oftaking the weather just as it came. When neither one showed anydisposition to talk, Flood said to them,--
"It's bedtime with us, and one of you can sleep with me, while I 'vefixed up an extra bed for the other. I generally get out aboutdaybreak, but if that's too early for you, don't let my getting updisturb you. And you fourth guard men, let the cattle off the bedground on a due westerly course and point them up the divide. Now getto bed, everybody, for we want to make a big drive tomorrow."
