ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA
As we neared Buffalo Gap a few days later, a deputy sheriff of Taylor
County, who resided at the Gap, rode out and met us. He brought an
urgent request from Hames to Flood to appear as a witness against the
rustlers, who were to be given a preliminary trial at Abilene the
following day. Much as he regretted to leave the herd for even a
single night, our foreman finally consented to go. To further his
convenience we made a long evening drive, camping for the night well
above Buffalo Gap, which at that time was little more than a landmark
on the trail. The next day we made an easy drive and passed Abilene
early in the afternoon, where Flood rejoined us, but refused any one
permission to go into town, with the exception of McCann with the
wagon, which was a matter of necessity. It was probably for the best,
for this cow town had the reputation of setting a pace that left the
wayfarer purseless and breathless, to say nothing about headaches.
Though our foreman had not reached those mature years in life when the
pleasures and frivolities of dissipation no longer allure, yet it was
but natural that he should wish to keep his men from the temptation of
the cup that cheers and the wiles of the siren. But when the wagon
returned that evening, it was evident that our foreman was human, for
with a box of cigars which were promised us were several bottles of
Old Crow.
After crossing the Clear Fork of the Brazos a few days later, we
entered a well-watered, open country, through which the herd made
splendid progress. At Abilene, we were surprised to learn that our
herd was the twentieth that had passed that point. The weather so far
on our trip had been exceptionally good; only a few showers had
fallen, and those during the daytime. But we were now nearing a
country in which rain was more frequent, and the swollen condition of
several small streams which have their headwaters in the Staked Plains
was an intimation to us of recent rains to the westward of our route.
Before reaching the main Brazos, we passed two other herds of yearling
cattle, and were warned of the impassable condition of that river for
the past week. Nothing daunted, we made our usual drive; and when the
herd camped that night, Flood, after scouting ahead to the river,
returned with the word that the Brazos had been unfordable for over a
week, five herds being waterbound.
As we were then nearly twenty miles south of the river, the next
morning we threw off the trail and turned the herd to the northeast,
hoping to strike the Brazos a few miles above Round Timber ferry. Once
the herd was started and their course for the day outlined to our
point men by definite landmarks, Flood and Quince Forrest set out to
locate the ferry and look up a crossing. Had it not been for our
wagon, we would have kept the trail, but as there was no ferry on the
Brazos at the crossing of the western trail, it was a question either
of waiting or of making this detour. Then all the grazing for several
miles about the crossing was already taken by the waterbound herds,
and to crowd up and trespass on range already occupied would have been
a violation of an unwritten law. Again, no herd took kindly to another
attempting to pass them when in traveling condition the herds were on
an equality. Our foreman had conceived the scheme of getting past
these waterbound herds, if possible, which would give us a clear field
until the next large watercourse was reached.
Flood and Forrest returned during the noon hour, the former having
found, by swimming, a passable ford near the mouth of Monday Creek,
while the latter reported the ferry in “apple-pie order.” No sooner,
then, was dinner over than the wagon set out for the ferry under
Forrest as pilot, though we were to return to the herd once the ferry
was sighted. The mouth of Monday Creek was not over ten miles below
the regular trail crossing on the Brazos, and much nearer our noon
camp than the regular one; but the wagon was compelled to make a
direct elbow, first turning to the eastward, then doubling back after
the river was crossed. We held the cattle off water during the day, so
as to have them thirsty when they reached the river. Flood had swum it
during the morning, and warned us to be prepared for fifty or sixty
yards of swimming water in crossing. When within a mile, we held up
the herd and changed horses, every man picking out one with a tested
ability to swim. Those of us who were expected to take the water as
the herd entered the river divested ourselves of boots and clothing,
which we intrusted to riders in the rear. The approach to crossing was
gradual, but the opposite bank was abrupt, with only a narrow
passageway leading out from the channel. As the current was certain to
carry the swimming cattle downstream, we must, to make due allowance,
take the water nearly a hundred yards above the outlet on the other
shore. All this was planned out in advance by our foreman, who now
took the position of point man on the right hand or down the
riverside; and with our saddle horses in the immediate lead, we
breasted the angry Brazos.
The water was shallow as we entered, and we reached nearly the middle
of the river before the loose saddle horses struck swimming water.
Honeyman was on their lee, and with the cattle crowding in their rear,
there was no alternative but to swim. A loose horse swims easily,
however, and our _remuda_ readily faced the current, though it was
swift enough to carry them below the passageway on the opposite side.
By this time the lead cattle were adrift, and half a dozen of us were
on their lower side, for the footing under the cutbank was narrow, and
should the cattle become congested on landing, some were likely to
drown. For a quarter of an hour it required cool heads to keep the
trail of cattle moving into the water and the passageway clear on the
opposite landing. While they were crossing, the herd represented a
large letter “U,” caused by the force of the current drifting the
cattle downstream, or until a foothold was secured on the farther
side. Those of us fortunate enough to have good swimming horses swam
the river a dozen times, and then after the herd was safely over, swam
back to get our clothing. It was a thrilling experience to us younger
lads of the outfit, and rather attractive; but the elder and more
experienced men always dreaded swimming rivers. Their reasons were
made clear enough when, a fortnight later, we crossed Red River, where
a newly made grave was pointed out to us, amongst others of men who
had lost their lives while swimming cattle.
Once the bulk of the cattle were safely over, with no danger of
congestion on the farther bank, they were allowed to loiter along
under the cutbank and drink to their hearts’ content. Quite a number
strayed above the passageway, and in order to rout them out, Bob
Blades, Moss Strayhorn, and I rode out through the outlet and up the
river, where we found some of them in a passageway down a dry arroyo.
The steers had found a soft, damp place in the bank, and were so busy
horning the waxy, red mud, that they hardly noticed our approach until
we were within a rod of them. We halted our horses and watched their
antics. The kneeling cattle were cutting the bank viciously with their
horns and matting their heads with the red mud, but on discovering our
presence, they curved their tails and stampeded out as playfully as
young lambs on a hillside.
“Can you sabe where the fun comes in to a steer, to get down on his
knees in the mud and dirt, and horn the bank and muss up his curls and
enjoy it like that?” inquired Strayhorn of Blades and me.
“Because it’s healthy and funny besides,” replied Bob, giving me a
cautious wink. “Did you never hear of people taking mud baths? You’ve
seen dogs eat grass, haven’t you? Well, it’s something on the same
order. Now, if I was a student of the nature of animals, like you are,
I’d get off my horse and imagine I had horns, and scar and otherwise
mangle that mud bank shamefully. I’ll hold your horse if you want to
try it--some of the secrets of the humor of cattle might be revealed
to you.”
The banter, though given in jest, was too much for this member of a
craft that can always be depended on to do foolish things; and when we
rejoined the outfit, Strayhorn presented a sight no sane man save a
member of our tribe ever would have conceived of.
The herd had scattered over several thousand acres after leaving the
river, grazing freely, and so remained during the rest of the evening.
Forrest changed horses and set out down the river to find the wagon
and pilot it in, for with the long distance that McCann had to cover,
it was a question if he would reach us before dark. Flood selected a
bed ground and camp about a mile out from the river, and those of the
outfit not on herd dragged up an abundance of wood for the night, and
built a roaring fire as a beacon to our absent commissary. Darkness
soon settled over camp, and the prospect of a supperless night was
confronting us; the first guard had taken the herd, and yet there was
no sign of the wagon. Several of us youngsters then mounted our night
horses and rode down the river a mile or over in the hope of meeting
McCann. We came to a steep bank, caused by the shifting of the first
bottom of the river across to the north bank, rode up this bluff some
little distance, dismounted, and fired several shots; then with our
ears to the earth patiently awaited a response. It did not come, and
we rode back again. “Hell’s fire and little fishes!” said Joe
Stallings, as we clambered into our saddles to return, “it’s not
supper or breakfast that’s troubling me, but will we get any dinner
to-morrow? That’s a more pregnant question.”
It must have been after midnight when I was awakened by the braying of
mules and the rattle of the wagon, to hear the voices of Forrest and
McCann, mingled with the rattle of chains as they unharnessed,
condemning to eternal perdition the broken country on the north side
of the Brazos, between Round Timber ferry and the mouth of Monday
Creek.
“I think that when the Almighty made this country on the north side of
the Brazos,” said McCann the next morning at breakfast, “the Creator
must have grown careless or else made it out of odds and ends. There’s
just a hundred and one of these dry arroyos that you can’t see until
you are right onto them. They wouldn’t bother a man on horseback, but
with a loaded wagon it’s different. And I’ll promise you all right now
that if Forrest hadn’t come out and piloted me in, you might have
tightened up your belts for breakfast and drank out of cow tracks and
smoked cigarettes for nourishment. Well, it’ll do you good; this high
living was liable to spoil some of you, but I notice that you are all
on your feed this morning. The black strap? Honeyman, get that
molasses jug out of the wagon--it sits right in front of the chuck
box. It does me good to see this outfit’s tastes once more going back
to the good old staples of life.”
We made our usual early start, keeping well out from the river on a
course almost due northward. The next river on our way was the
Wichita, still several days’ drive from the mouth of Monday Creek.
Flood’s intention was to parallel the old trail until near the river,
when, if its stage of water was not fordable, we would again seek a
lower crossing in the hope of avoiding any waterbound herds on that
watercourse. The second day out from the Brazos it rained heavily
during the day and drizzled during the entire night. Not a hoof would
bed down, requiring the guards to be doubled into two watches for the
night. The next morning, as was usual when off the trail, Flood
scouted in advance, and near the middle of the afternoon’s drive we
came into the old trail. The weather in the mean time had faired off,
which revived life and spirit in the outfit, for in trail work there
is nothing that depresses the spirits of men like falling weather. On
coming into the trail, we noticed that no herds had passed since the
rain began. Shortly afterward our rear guard was overtaken by a
horseman who belonged to a mixed herd which was encamped some four or
five miles below the point where we came into the old trail. He
reported the Wichita as having been unfordable for the past week, but
at that time falling; and said that if the rain of the past few days
had not extended as far west as the Staked Plains, the river would be
fordable in a day or two.
Before the stranger left us, Flood returned and confirmed this
information, and reported further that there were two herds lying over
at the Wichita ford expecting to cross the following day. With this
outlook, we grazed our herd up to within five miles of the river and
camped for the night, and our visitor returned to his outfit with
Flood’s report of our expectation of crossing on the morrow. But with
the fair weather and the prospects of an easy night, we encamped
entirely too close to the trail, as we experienced to our sorrow. The
grazing was good everywhere, the recent rains having washed away the
dust, and we should have camped farther away. We were all sleepy that
night, and no sooner was supper over than every mother’s son of us was
in his blankets. We slept so soundly that the guards were compelled to
dismount when calling the relief, and shake the next guards on duty
out of their slumber and see that they got up, for men would
unconsciously answer in their sleep. The cattle were likewise tired,
and slept as willingly as the men.
About midnight, however, Fox Quarternight dashed into camp, firing his
six-shooter and yelling like a demon. We tumbled out of our blankets
in a dazed condition to hear that one of the herds camped near the
river had stampeded, the heavy rumbling of the running herd and the
shooting of their outfit now being distinctly audible. We lost no time
getting our horses, and in less than a minute were riding for our
cattle, which had already got up and were timidly listening to the
approaching noise. Although we were a good quarter mile from the
trail, before we could drift our herd to a point of safety, the
stampeding cattle swept down the trail like a cyclone and our herd was
absorbed into the maelstrom of the onrush like leaves in a whirlwind.
It was then that our long-legged Mexican steers set us a pace that
required a good horse to equal, for they easily took the lead, the
other herd having run between three and four miles before striking us,
and being already well winded. The other herd were Central Texas
cattle, and numbered over thirty-five hundred, but in running capacity
were never any match for ours.
Before they had run a mile past our camp, our outfit, bunched well
together on the left point, made the first effort to throw them out
and off the trail, and try to turn them. But the waves of an angry
ocean could as easily have been brought under subjection as our
terrorized herd during this first mad dash. Once we turned a few
hundred of the leaders, and about the time we thought success was in
reach, another contingent of double the number had taken the lead;
then we had to abandon what few we had, and again ride to the front.
When we reached the lead, there, within half a mile ahead, burned the
camp-fire of the herd of mixed cattle which had moved up the trail
that evening. They had had ample warning of impending trouble, just as
we had; and before the running cattle reached them about half a dozen
of their outfit rode to our assistance, when we made another effort to
turn or hold the herds from mixing. None of the outfit of the first
herd had kept in the lead with us, their horses fagging, and when the
foreman of this mixed herd met us, not knowing that we were as
innocent of the trouble as himself, he made some slighting remarks
about our outfit and cattle. But it was no time to be sensitive, and
with his outfit to help we threw our whole weight against the left
point a second time, but only turned a few hundred; and before we
could get into the lead again their campfire had been passed and their
herd of over three thousand cattle more were in the run. As cows and
calves predominated in this mixed herd, our own southerners were still
leaders in the stampede.
It is questionable if we would have turned this stampede before
daybreak, had not the nature of the country come to our assistance.
Something over two miles below the camp of the last herd was a deep
creek, the banks of which were steep and the passages few and narrow.
Here we succeeded in turning the leaders, and about half the outfit of
the mixed herd remained, guarding the crossing and turning the lagging
cattle in the run as they came up. With the leaders once turned and no
chance for the others to take a new lead, we had the entire run of
cattle turned back within an hour and safely under control. The first
outfit joined us during the interim, and when day broke we had over
forty men drifting about ten thousand cattle back up the trail. The
different outfits were unfortunately at loggerheads, no one being
willing to assume any blame. Flood hunted up the foreman of the mixed
herd and demanded an apology for his remarks on our abrupt meeting
with him the night before; and while it was granted, it was plain that
it was begrudged. The first herd disclaimed all responsibility,
holding that the stampede was due to an unavoidable accident, their
cattle having grown restless during their enforced lay-over. The
indifferent attitude of their foreman, whose name was Wilson, won the
friendly regard of our outfit, and before the wagon of the mixed
cattle was reached, there was a compact, at least tacit, between their
outfit and ours. Our foreman was not blameless, for had we taken the
usual precaution and camped at least a mile off the trail, which was
our custom when in close proximity to other herds, we might and
probably would have missed this mix-up, for our herd was inclined to
be very tractable. Flood, with all his experience, well knew that if
stampeded cattle ever got into a known trail, they were certain to
turn backward over their course; and we were now paying the fiddler
for lack of proper precaution.
Within an hour after daybreak, and before the cattle had reached the
camp of the mixed herd, our saddle horses were sighted coming over a
slight divide about two miles up the trail, and a minute later
McCann’s mules hove in sight, bringing up the rear. They had made a
start with the first dawn, rightly reasoning, as there was no time to
leave orders on our departure, that it was advisable for Mahomet to go
to the mountain. Flood complimented our cook and horse wrangler on
their foresight, for the wagon was our base of sustenance; and there
was little loss of time before Barney McCann was calling us to a
hastily prepared breakfast. Flood asked Wilson to bring his outfit to
our wagon for breakfast, and as fast as they were relieved from herd,
they also did ample justice to McCann’s cooking. During breakfast, I
remember Wilson explaining to Flood what he believed was the cause of
the stampede. It seems that there were a few remaining buffalo ranging
north of the Wichita, and at night when they came into the river to
drink they had scented the cattle on the south side. The bellowing of
buffalo bulls had been distinctly heard by his men on night herd for
several nights past. The foreman stated it as his belief that a number
of bulls had swum the river and had by stealth approached near the
sleeping cattle,--then, on discovering the presence of the herders,
had themselves stampeded, throwing his herd into a panic.
We had got a change of mounts during the breakfast hour, and when all
was ready Flood and Wilson rode over to the wagon of the mixed herd,
the two outfits following, when Flood inquired of their foreman,--
“Have you any suggestions to make in the cutting of these herds?”
“No suggestions,” was the reply, “but I intend to cut mine first and
cut them northward on the trail.”
“You intend to cut them northward, you mean, provided there are no
objections, which I’m positive there will be,” said Flood. “It takes
me some little time to size a man up, and the more I see of you during
our brief acquaintance, the more I think there’s two or three things
that you might learn to your advantage. I’ll not enumerate them now,
but when these herds are separated, if you insist, it will cost you
nothing but the asking for my opinion of you. This much you can depend
on: when the cutting’s over, you’ll occupy the same position on the
trail that you did before this accident happened. Wilson, here, has
nothing but jaded horses, and his outfit will hold the herd while
yours and mine cut their cattle. And instead of you cutting north, you
can either cut south where you belong on the trail or sulk in your
camp, your own will and pleasure to govern. But if you are a cowman,
willing to do your part, you’ll have your outfit ready to work by the
time we throw the cattle together.”
Not waiting for any reply, Flood turned away, and the double outfit
circled around the grazing herd and began throwing the sea of cattle
into a compact body ready to work. Rod Wheat and Ash Borrowstone were
detailed to hold our cut, and the remainder of us, including Honeyman,
entered the herd and began cutting. Shortly after we had commenced the
work, the mixed outfit, finding themselves in a lonesome minority,
joined us and began cutting out their cattle to the westward. When we
had worked about half an hour, Flood called us out, and with the
larger portion of Wilson’s men, we rode over and drifted the mixed cut
around to the southward, where they belonged. The mixed outfit
pretended they meant no harm, and were politely informed that if they
were sincere, they could show it more plainly. For nearly three hours
we sent a steady stream of cattle out of the main herd into our cut,
while our horses dripped with sweat. With our advantage in the start,
as well as that of having the smallest herd, we finished our work
first. While the mixed outfit were finishing their cutting, we changed
mounts, and then were ready to work the separated herds. Wilson took
about half his outfit, and after giving our herd a trimming, during
which he recut about twenty, the mixed outfit were given a similar
chance, and found about half a dozen of their brand. These cattle of
Wilson’s and the other herd amongst ours were not to be wondered at,
for we cut by a liberal rule. Often we would find a number of ours on
the outside of the main herd, when two men would cut the squad in a
bunch, and if there was a wrong brand amongst them, it was no
matter,--we knew our herd would have to be retrimmed anyhow, and the
other outfits might be disappointed if they found none of their cattle
amongst ours.
The mixed outfit were yet working our herd when Wilson’s wagon and
saddle horses arrived, and while they were changing mounts, we cut the
mixed herd of our brand and picked up a number of strays which we had
been nursing along, though when we first entered the main herd, strays
had received our attention, being well known to us by ranch brands as
well as flesh marks. In gathering up this very natural flotsam of the
trail, we cut nothing but what our herd had absorbed in its travels,
showing due regard to a similar right of the other herds. Our work was
finished first, and after Wilson had recut the mixed herd, we gave his
herd one more looking over in a farewell parting. Flood asked him if
he wanted the lead, but Wilson waived his right in his open, frank
manner, saying, “If I had as long-legged cattle as you have, I
wouldn’t ask no man for the privilege of passing. Why, you ought to
out-travel horses. I’m glad to have met you and your outfit,
personally, but regret the incident which has given you so much
trouble. As I don’t expect to go farther than Dodge or Ogalalla at the
most, you are more than welcome to the lead. And if you or any of
these rascals in your outfit are ever in Coryell County, hunt up Frank
Wilson of the Block Bar Ranch, and I’ll promise you a drink of milk or
something stronger if possible.”
We crossed the Wichita late that afternoon, there being not over fifty
feet of swimming water for the cattle. Our wagon gave us the only
trouble, for the load could not well be lightened, and it was an
imperative necessity to cross it the same day. Once the cattle were
safely over and a few men left to graze them forward, the remainder of
the outfit collected all the ropes and went back after the wagon. As
mules are always unreliable in the water, Flood concluded to swim them
loose. We lashed the wagon box securely to the gearing with ropes,
arranged our bedding in the wagon where it would be on top, and ran
the wagon by hand into the water as far as we dared without flooding
the wagon box. Two men, with guy ropes fore and aft, were then left to
swim with the wagon in order to keep it from toppling over, while the
remainder of us recrossed to the farther side of the swimming channel,
and fastened our lariats to two long ropes from the end of the tongue.
We took a wrap on the pommels of our saddles with the loose end, and
when the word was given our eight horses furnished abundant motive
power, and the wagon floated across, landing high and dry amid the
shoutings of the outfit.