THE START
On the morning of April 1, 1882, our Circle Dot herd started on its
long tramp to the Blackfoot Agency in Montana. With six men on each
side, and the herd strung out for three quarters of a mile, it could
only be compared to some mythical serpent or Chinese dragon, as it
moved forward on its sinuous, snail-like course. Two riders, known as
point men, rode out and well back from the lead cattle, and by riding
forward and closing in as occasion required, directed the course of
the herd. The main body of the herd trailed along behind the leaders
like an army in loose marching order, guarded by outriders, known as
swing men, who rode well out from the advancing column, warding off
range cattle and seeing that none of the herd wandered away or dropped
out. There was no driving to do; the cattle moved of their own free
will as in ordinary travel. Flood seldom gave orders; but, as a number
of us had never worked on the trail before, at breakfast on the
morning of our start he gave in substance these general directions:--
“Boys, the secret of trailing cattle is never to let your herd know
that they are under restraint. Let everything that is done be done
voluntarily by the cattle. From the moment you let them off the bed
ground in the morning until they are bedded at night, never let a cow
take a step, except in the direction of its destination. In this
manner you can loaf away the day, and cover from fifteen to twenty
miles, and the herd in the mean time will enjoy all the freedom of an
open range. Of course, it’s long, tiresome hours to the men; but the
condition of the herd and saddle stock demands sacrifices on our part,
if any have to be made. And I want to caution you younger boys about
your horses; there is such a thing as having ten horses in your
string, and at the same time being afoot. You are all well mounted,
and on the condition of the _remuda_ depends the success and safety of
the herd. Accidents will happen to horses, but don’t let it be your
fault; keep your saddle blankets dry and clean, for no better word can
be spoken of a man than that he is careful of his horses. Ordinarily a
man might get along with six or eight horses, but in such emergencies
as we are liable to meet, we have not a horse to spare, and a man
afoot is useless.”
And as all of us younger boys learned afterward, there was plenty of
good, solid, horse-sense in Flood’s advice; for before the trip ended
there were men in our outfit who were as good as afoot, while others
had their original mounts, every one fit for the saddle. Flood had
insisted on a good mount of horses, and Lovell was cowman enough to
know that what the mule is to the army the cow-horse is to the herd.
The first and second day out there was no incident worth mentioning.
We traveled slowly, hardly making an average day’s drive. The third
morning Flood left us, to look out a crossing on the Arroyo Colorado.
On coming down to receive the herd, we had crossed this sluggish bayou
about thirty-six miles north of Brownsville. It was a deceptive-looking
stream, being over fifty feet deep and between bluff banks. We ferried
our wagon and saddle horses over, swimming the loose ones. But the
herd was keeping near the coast line for the sake of open country, and
it was a question if there was a ford for the wagon as near the coast
as our course was carrying us. The murmurings of the Gulf had often
reached our ears the day before, and herds had been known, in former
years, to cross from the mainland over to Padre Island, the intervening
Laguna Madre being fordable.
We were nooning when Flood returned with the news that it would be
impossible to cross our wagon at any point on the bayou, and that we
would have to ford around the mouth of the stream. Where the fresh and
salt water met in the laguna, there had formed a delta, or shallow
bar; and by following its contour we would not have over twelve to
fourteen inches of water, though the half circle was nearly two miles
in length. As we would barely have time to cross that day, the herd
was at once started, veering for the mouth of the Arroyo Colorado. On
reaching it, about the middle of the afternoon, the foreman led the
way, having crossed in the morning and learned the ford. The wagon
followed, the saddle horses came next, while the herd brought up the
rear. It proved good footing on the sandbar, but the water in the
laguna was too salty for the cattle, though the loose horses lay down
and wallowed in it. We were about an hour in crossing, and on reaching
the mainland met a vaquero, who directed us to a large fresh-water
lake a few miles inland, where we camped for the night.
It proved an ideal camp, with wood, water, and grass in abundance, and
very little range stock to annoy us. We had watered the herd just
before noon, and before throwing them upon the bed ground for the
night, watered them a second time. We had a splendid camp-fire that
night, of dry live oak logs, and after supper was over and the first
guard had taken the herd, smoking and story telling were the order of
the evening. The camp-fire is to all outdoor life what the evening
fireside is to domestic life. After the labors of the day are over,
the men gather around the fire, and the social hour of the day is
spent in yarning. The stories told may run from the sublime to the
ridiculous, from a true incident to a base fabrication, or from a
touching bit of pathos to the most vulgar vulgarity.
“Have I ever told this outfit my experience with the vigilantes when I
was a kid?” inquired Bull Durham. There was a general negative
response, and he proceeded. “Well, our folks were living on the Frio
at the time, and there was a man in our neighborhood who had an outfit
of four men out beyond Nueces Cañon hunting wild cattle for their
hides. It was necessary to take them out supplies about every so
often, and on one trip he begged my folks to let me go along for
company. I was a slim slip of a colt about fourteen at the time, and
as this man was a friend of ours, my folks consented to let me go
along. We each had a good saddle horse, and two pack mules with
provisions and ammunition for the hunting camp. The first night we
made camp, a boy overtook us with the news that the brother of my
companion had been accidentally killed by a horse, and of course he
would have to return. Well, we were twenty miles on our way, and as it
would take some little time to go back and return with the loaded
mules, I volunteered, like a fool kid, to go on and take the packs
through.
“The only question was, could I pack and unpack. I had helped him at
this work, double-handed, but now that I was to try it alone, he
showed me what he called a squaw hitch, with which you can lash a pack
single-handed. After putting me through it once or twice, and
satisfying himself that I could do the packing, he consented to let me
go on, he and the messenger returning home during the night. The next
morning I packed without any trouble and started on my way. It would
take me two days yet, poking along with heavy packs, to reach the
hunters. Well, I hadn’t made over eight or ten miles the first
morning, when, as I rounded a turn in the trail, a man stepped out
from behind a rock, threw a gun in my face, and ordered me to hold up
my hands. Then another appeared from the opposite side with his gun
leveled on me. Inside of half a minute a dozen men galloped up from
every quarter, all armed to the teeth. The man on leaving had given me
his gun for company, one of these old smoke-pole, cap-and-ball
six-shooters, but I must have forgotten what guns were for, for I
elevated my little hands nicely. The leader of the party questioned me
as to who I was, and what I was doing there, and what I had in those
packs. That once, at least, I told the truth. Every mother’s son of
them was cursing and cross-questioning me in the same breath. They
ordered me off my horse, took my gun, and proceeded to verify my tale
by unpacking the mules. So much ammunition aroused their suspicions,
but my story was as good as it was true, and they never shook me from
the truth of it. I soon learned that robbery was not their motive, and
the leader explained the situation.
“A vigilance committee had been in force in that county for some time,
trying to rid the country of lawless characters. But lawlessness got
into the saddle, and had bench warrants issued and served on every
member of this vigilance committee. As the vigilantes numbered several
hundred, there was no jail large enough to hold such a number, so they
were released on parole for appearance at court. When court met, every
man served with a capias”--
“Hold on! hold your horses just a minute,” interrupted Quince Forrest,
“I want to get that word. I want to make a memorandum of it, for I may
want to use it myself sometime. Capias? Now I have it; go ahead.”
“When court met, every man served with a bench warrant from the judge
presiding was present, and as soon as court was called to order, a
squad of men arose in the court room, and the next moment the judge
fell riddled with lead. Then the factions scattered to fight it out,
and I was passing through the county while matters were active.
“They confiscated my gun and all the ammunition in the packs, but
helped me to repack and started me on my way. A happy thought struck
one of the men to give me a letter, which would carry me through
without further trouble, but the leader stopped him, saying, ‘Let the
boy alone. Your letter would hang him as sure as hell’s hot, before he
went ten miles farther.’ I declined the letter. Even then I didn’t
have sense enough to turn back, and inside of two hours I was rounded
up by the other faction. I had learned my story perfectly by this
time, but those packs had to come off again for everything to be
examined. There was nothing in them now but flour and salt and such
things--nothing that they might consider suspicious. One fellow in
this second party took a fancy to my horse, and offered to help hang
me on general principles, but kinder counsels prevailed. They also
helped me to repack, and I started on once more. Before I reached my
destination the following evening, I was held up seven different
times. I got so used to it that I was happily disappointed every
shelter I passed, if some man did not step out and throw a gun in my
face.
“I had trouble to convince the cattle hunters of my experiences, but
the absence of any ammunition, which they needed worst, at last led
them to give credit to my tale. I was expected home within a week, as
I was to go down on the Nueces on a cow hunt which was making up, and
I only rested one day at the hunters’ camp. On their advice, I took a
different route on my way home, leaving the mules behind me. I never
saw a man the next day returning, and was feeling quite gala on my
good fortune. When evening came on, I sighted a little ranch house
some distance off the trail, and concluded to ride to it and stay
overnight. As I approached, I saw that some one lived there, as there
were chickens and dogs about, but not a person in sight. I dismounted
and knocked on the door, when, without a word, the door was thrown
wide open and a half dozen guns were poked into my face. I was ordered
into the house and given a chance to tell my story again. Whether my
story was true or not, they took no chances on me, but kept me all
night. One of the men took my horse to the stable and cared for him,
and I was well fed and given a place to sleep, but not a man offered a
word of explanation, from which I took it they did not belong to the
vigilance faction. When it came time to go to bed, one man said to me,
‘Now, sonny, don’t make any attempt to get away, and don’t move out of
your bed without warning us, for you’ll be shot as sure as you do. We
won’t harm a hair on your head if you’re telling us the truth; only do
as you’re told, for we’ll watch you.’
“By this time I had learned to obey orders while in that county, and
got a fair night’s sleep, though there were men going and coming all
night. The next morning I was given my breakfast; my horse, well
cuffed and saddled, was brought to the door, and with this parting
advice I was given permission to go: ‘Son, if you’ve told us the
truth, don’t look back when you ride away. You’ll be watched for the
first ten miles after leaving here, and if you’ve lied to us it will
go hard with you. Now, remember, don’t look back, for these are times
when no one cares to be identified.’ I never questioned that man’s
advice; it was ‘die dog or eat the hatchet’ with me. I mounted my
horse, waved the usual parting courtesies, and rode away. As I turned
into the trail about a quarter mile from the house, I noticed two men
ride out from behind the stable and follow me. I remembered the story
about Lot’s wife looking back, though it was lead and not miracles
that I was afraid of that morning.
“For the first hour I could hear the men talking and the hoofbeats of
their horses, as they rode along always the same distance behind me.
After about two hours of this one-sided joke, as I rode over a little
hill, I looked out of the corner of my eye back at my escort, still
about a quarter of a mile behind me. One of them noticed me and raised
his gun, but I instantly changed my view, and the moment the hill hid
me, put spurs to my horse, so that when they reached the brow of the
hill, I was half a mile in the lead, burning the earth like a canned
dog. They threw lead close around me, but my horse lengthened the
distance between us for the next five miles, when they dropped
entirely out of sight. By noon I came into the old stage road, and by
the middle of the afternoon reached home after over sixty miles in the
saddle without a halt.”
Just at the conclusion of Bull’s story, Flood rode in from the herd,
and after picketing his horse, joined the circle. In reply to an
inquiry from one of the boys as to how the cattle were resting, he
replied,--
“This herd is breaking into trail life nicely. If we’ll just be
careful with them now for the first month, and no bad storms strike us
in the night, we may never have a run the entire trip. That last drink
of water they had this evening gave them a night-cap that’ll last them
until morning. No, there’s no danger of any trouble to-night.”
For fully an hour after the return of our foreman, we lounged around
the fire, during which there was a full and free discussion of
stampedes. But finally, Flood, suiting the action to the word by
arising, suggested that all hands hunt their blankets and turn in for
the night. A quiet wink from Bull to several of the boys held us for
the time being, and innocently turning to Forrest, Durham inquired,--
“Where was--when was--was it you that was telling some one about a run
you were in last summer? I never heard you tell it. Where was it?”
“You mean on the Cimarron last year when we mixed two herds,” said
Quince, who had taken the bait like a bass and was now fully embarked
on a yarn. “We were in rather close quarters, herds ahead and behind
us, when one night here came a cow herd like a cyclone and swept right
through our camp. We tumbled out of our blankets and ran for our
horses, but before we could bridle”--
Bull had given us the wink, and every man in the outfit fell back, and
the snoring that checked the storyteller was like a chorus of rip saws
running through pine knots. Forrest took in the situation at a glance,
and as he arose to leave, looked back and remarked,--
“You must all think that’s smart.”
Before he was out of hearing, Durham said to the rest of us,--
“A few doses like that will cure him of sucking eggs and acting smart,
interrupting folks.”